The Nostradamus Prophecy

by Theresa Breslin

  Giorgio bent his head. ‘Madame,’ he said.

  ‘We must be extra careful,’ Mistress Anne went on in an attempt to justify her brusqueness. ‘With the Plague in the town the religious tension has become worse. Both sides say it is God’s vengeance for the other side’s heresies and misdeeds. Outbreaks of violence are increasing and you know these fanatics seek the slightest excuse to attack someone. The workshop where our almanacs are produced had the windows broken and the roof set on fire. The printer said the Duke of Marcy’s henchman, Bertrand, told him that printing warnings of coming disasters caused them to happen.’

  ‘That’s always the way,’ Giorgio answered her in a neutral tone. He did not appear to have taken offence at her rude manner. But with Giorgio it was never obvious what he was thinking. ‘When fearful, people often strike out at those nearest to them. Even at those who would help them if they could.’

  Two spots of colour appeared on Mistress Anne’s cheeks as she absorbed the full meaning of Giorgio’s words.

  ‘You could help me now, Giorgio, if you would,’ she said stiffly. ‘My husband, who is scarcely able to stand up by himself, went out yesterday evening to attend to the canal lock keeper at his house beside the Avignon Gate. When he returned he worked late preparing some remedies which he says he has left ready to be delivered.’ She pointed to a small bottle and a package sitting on the workbench. ‘Would you be good enough to take them there, please?’

  Giorgio picked up the bottle quickly and left the shop, limping more than usual. I thought of how precarious were his living conditions here. With his broken body there was little else he could do to earn his keep.

  ‘I will wait in the shop with you until Giorgio returns,’ said Mistress Anne. ‘As my husband is becoming increasingly infirm I should spend more time here, and acquaint myself with what goes on.’ She wandered to the sinks and work tables. Then she tutted. ‘In his haste Giorgio has gone without the poultice that is part of the remedy.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ I offered. ‘I know the way to the Avignon Gate.’

  She hesitated. ‘I don’t want to put you in any danger.’

  ‘I won’t be in danger. I trust Master Nostradamus and he says he believes that the Plague is not spread through the air but by uncleanliness and vermin.’

  ‘The lock keeper is a special friend of my husband,’ said Mistress Anne. ‘He came here last night for help because his child was ill and no doctor would go near his end of the town for fear of Plague. Master Nostradamus says his child does not have Plague, only a lung condition.’

  I lifted the parcel. ‘If I run I’ll catch up with Giorgio before he has walked very far.’

  ‘If you do get near to the canal you must cover your mouth and nose with your apron,’ she called after me.

  I only got to the next street before my progress was blocked by two men in the livery of the Duke of Marcy.

  ‘This street is closed for the Penitents’ Procession,’ one of them told me.

  ‘And you should be at home, waiting for it to pass,’ the other said menacingly. ‘Those are the duke’s orders.’

  The first soldier looked at me with suspicion. ‘Are you a Huguenot?’

  ‘I hardly think so,’ I said, pointing at my bright blue headscarf.

  I backed away quickly and went along a lane and across an open square. But when I emerged at the other side my way was cut off again. This time I saw the duke’s men before they saw me and I dodged down another lane. I began to track back, hoping that I could loop round behind the procession. Now I could hear the rhythmic beating of side drums and the harsh racket of wooden clappers, and a vision of that other procession I’d seen as a child in Spain jumped into my mind. There was sickness in my throat. I turned and hurried along an alleyway, coming out the other end directly into the path of the procession.

  Advancing towards me was a terrifying figure dressed all in black. He wore a monk’s habit and a high conical hood which concealed most of his face, apart from the cut-out eye sockets. His body was draped in chains which trailed onto the ground and he dragged these along, painfully putting one foot before the other, while moaning and crying out to Heaven for forgiveness. Behind him, in lines of two, were a dozen barefoot men wearing black breeches, stripped naked to the waist. They carried small whips made of knotted cords and beat their bare backs with these.

  ‘Get out of the way!’ a woman standing watching at the roadside advised me.

  I backed against the wall. The street was packed. Old people on balconies and at windows, men and women kneeling in their doorways, children being held up to witness the spectacle and be blessed by the priests.

  As they came level with me I saw the men’s backs. They were already scarred and bleeding from their mortification. The knots on their whips were flecked with their own blood. The monks who followed also wore black and had the cowls of their habits drawn close about their faces. Then came another group, less soberly dressed, with blue and white sashes in the colours of the Virgin. They carried her image in a large statue borne up on a wide wooden platform bedecked with ribbons and flowers. They prayed and sang and chanted litanies as they coiled past.

  I went into a side street and managed to get further behind the procession where it was quieter. I stood while the remainder of the penitents walked past until I saw a break in the ranks. Then I took my chance and skipped across the street through the gap.

  ‘You, girl!’ A hand grabbed my arm. I recognized Bertrand, the Duke of Marcy’s henchman. ‘Why did you do such a sacrilegious thing?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I stammered.

  ‘You should kneel as the procession passes. Not show disrespect by running across in front of the penitents.’

  ‘I’m carrying medicine for a sick child,’ I explained.

  ‘What is it?’ He snatched the package from my hands. ‘Who made this medicine?’

  ‘It’s a poultice from Master Nostradamus—’ I began.

  ‘Aha!’ he said in triumph. ‘A magical preparation from the sorcerer himself!’

  ‘It is not,’ I protested. ‘The child is sick and needs help. Let me go through.’

  ‘If the child is sick then it needs God’s grace. As do you.’ He pushed me down roughly. ‘You should be kneeling, as everyone was told to do by the Duke of Marcy.’

  I tried to pull myself free from him and I was beginning to succeed. His grip was loosening for he was not strong, this Bertrand, and I was equally as tall as him. ‘You witch,’ he spat at me as we struggled. ‘The duke himself is at the other end of the street. He can deal with you himself,’ and he bawled out Marcy’s name.

  ‘Help me,’ I called out in turn to a woman standing in her doorway. She responded by going inside and closing her door.

  Now I was truly frightened, for the street had emptied as the tail end of the procession went by. I would be here alone, an unprotected girl, with this man and the Duke of Marcy, who had a reputation for arresting people who were never seen again.

  I broke free and ran up the alley with Bertrand screeching curses behind me. But there was no way out at the top, for it led to a street where I could see some more of the duke’s men stationed. So I took a left fork down another lane. I could hear the thud of boots behind me. Now I was sweating and desperate, and my breath was coming in terrified gulps. But there was the side door of a church. It was open. I ran inside.

  Bertrand was close behind me and almost immediately after him, his master, the Duke of Marcy.

  ‘Sanctuary,’ I gasped. I ran to the front and climbed the steps of the altar. ‘I claim the sanctuary of a holy place.’ I turned to face them. ‘You cannot touch me here.’

  Bertrand hesitated, but the duke did not. While pretending to be a devout Catholic he did not respect the life that God gave to His creation. He seized my shoulders and, hustling me from the steps, he pressed me against a pillar. With the unyielding stone at my back I felt the force of him against me.

  ‘Let me go,’ I ple
aded. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I’ll judge whether that is true or not.’ He grinned. ‘But first I’ll have to question you.’ He put his hand on my headscarf and pulled it down from my head. ‘That’s better. Now we can see what you look like.’ He studied my face.

  My heart was rattling so loudly inside my chest I thought he might hear it.

  ‘Why hide such beauty away?’ he said. ‘Most girls would want to display—’

  His voiced choked in his throat as an arm came round his neck and pulled him off me.

  It was an elderly priest who had thrust Bertrand aside and come to aid me. His outrage had given him strength. ‘How dare you desecrate a church with your violence!’ he thundered.

  ‘Get off me, you black crow!’ the duke yelled in anger at being thwarted. He swivelled round and pushed the priest in the chest with both hands.

  ‘You will respect the house of God and that girl who has come here for sanctuary,’ the priest commanded him.

  ‘That girl has connections with those who practise the dark arts,’ the duke replied in fury. ‘And I will deal with her as I see fit.’

  ‘You are not the law,’ the priest told him. ‘And if you do not leave this church forthwith I will report you to the man who is the law, Lord Thierry.’

  At the mention of the name of his hated enemy the duke went into a rage. He drew his sword and hacked at the priest with a long sloping swing aimed at his shoulder. The priest ducked his head away. With a sucking crunch the sword bit deep into the side of his neck. The priest gave a great groan of agony as a huge spurt of blood gushed out of him.

  ‘You have killed him!’ Bertrand shouted in dismay.

  I screamed. The priest fell hard onto the tiles of the nave.

  The duke stepped backwards. His bloodied sword clattered from his hand.

  Bertrand rushed forward and knelt down. The priest was breathing but his face was the face of a dead man. ‘Thierry will have you hanged for this!’ Bertrand cried out.

  The duke looked around wildly. ‘We can dump the body and conceal this somehow.’

  ‘There is too much blood,’ said Bertrand. He was shaking and trembling at the same time. ‘There’s blood on the carpet and the altar cloths.’

  And on my hands too, I saw. Some drops of blood had spattered onto me. I held them out in front of me as far away from my body as I could.

  ‘What to do?’ the duke was shouting at Bertrand. ‘What to do? Think of something.’ He went forward and kicked his henchman viciously. ‘It’s what I keep you for, you dog. Think what to do.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Bertrand shouted back at him. ‘Murder before the altar of God is sacrilege. Even the bishop, who favours you, will not support you on this.’

  ‘Then if we cannot conceal this act we must blame someone else.’ Marcy began to recover himself. ‘We’ll say we saw a Huguenot running from the church.’ He strode to the altar and knocked over the candlesticks. ‘Let’s smash some things. Then when the priest’s body is discovered every loyal Catholic will believe it was the work of heretics. Apart from us there’s no one to tell what really happened here.’

  In the long seconds it took them to remember me, I gathered my skirts and ran. Down the aisle and out of the door. Back through the lanes and alleyways I raced. Terror of being murdered like the priest made me run as I had never run before. Never once did I look behind me, hoping that their armour would slow them, and I being more nimble would reach the shop before they caught me.

  Giorgio was already returned ahead of me. ‘What’s wrong?’ He lifted his head, startled, as I banged the shop door behind me. ‘You act as though a demon was chasing you.’

  I ran behind the counter without answering him, making for the door that led to the house. With surprising swiftness Giorgio moved to intercept me.

  ‘Who has harmed you?’

  I shook my head and tried to push him aside.

  ‘No one,’ I said. ‘No one.’

  ‘There’s blood on your hands.’ A note of real fear and concern was in his voice.

  Outside a loud clanging noise rent the air. We both stopped to listen.

  The alarum bell of the town was ringing.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  ‘WHAT HAS HAPPENED?’

  Giorgio held my wrists with an unyielding grip. ‘If I’m to help you, then you must tell me.’

  I gabbled out my story of the Duke of Marcy and the murder of the priest.

  ‘Jesu.’ Giorgio’s eyes stretched wide. ‘This is a disaster.’

  ‘I didn’t know that crossing in front of the procession would anger them so much,’ I sobbed.

  ‘That’s not the real reason they picked on you. You’re more attractive than you know, child, despite wearing frumpy clothes and keeping your head and half your face covered up.’

  Giorgio released my wrists and cocked his ear towards the house. Then he pressed his eye to the spy hole. ‘Here comes Mistress Anne.’ He gave me a push towards the sinks. ‘Fix your kerchief on your head and wash your hands. Say nothing of this until I think what’s best to do.’

  I was bent over the sink scrubbing my fingers when Mistress Anne whirled into the room.

  ‘Don’t you hear the alarum bell, Giorgio? We should put the shutters up.’

  ‘I hear it, mistress.’ Giorgio opened a drawer and took out a bunch of keys.

  ‘Lisette’ – Mistress Anne caught sight of me – ‘assist Giorgio. The sooner the windows are boarded the better. There must be something serious gone wrong if they are ringing the bell.’

  ‘I do not want to go into the street,’ I whispered to Giorgio when she had left.

  ‘There’s no need for you to help me,’ he said. ‘But stay in the shop. We need to talk after I have done this.’

  I watched from a window as he shuffled outside and began to fold over each shutter, slide its metal rod between the spars, and lock it in place. He had just reached the last one when a group of young men came down the street.

  One of them called out loudly, ‘Heyo! It’s Giorgio!’ They began to caper about behind him, imitating his hunched posture and his limping walk.

  He ignored them but they came closer and began to nudge and poke at him.

  ‘He’s Italian, don’t you know,’ said another one. ‘Like the queen regent, Catherine de’ Medici, the one who is supposed to be Catholic but sides with the Huguenots, the sly Italian maggot!’ This man grabbed Giorgio by the ears and spun him round so that he staggered and fell to the ground.

  ‘He’s like a beetle on its back!’ Giorgio’s tormentor crowed.

  ‘And like a beetle, should be crushed.’ The first man came forward and lifted his heavy-booted foot to bring it down on Giorgio’s face.

  I was outside in the street before I knew what I was doing. They were so intent on their cruel deed they neither saw nor heard me and so I was able to slip between them. I seized the metal rod of the window shutter where it had fallen onto the ground and I swung it before me in an arc.

  ‘Stand away!’ I cried. ‘Stand away, and depart from here!’

  They scattered, but as soon as they saw that I was a girl they began to laugh.

  ‘A firebrand!’ Giorgio’s chief tormentor cried. ‘Now this is better amusement for us than a crippled old man!’

  Giorgio got to his knees. ‘Go into the shop,’ he implored me.

  But it was impossible for me to do that.

  The men moved into a half-circle, forcing Giorgio and me to back ourselves against the window. They began to advance towards us, watching for a chance to rush in. One of them jumped near in a feinting move and I jabbed the rod at him. It struck him in the stomach and he doubled up, winded. But immediately one of his companions grasped the end of the rod. And now I was grappling with a man much stronger than myself and the rest of them came round us, laughing at the sport. I knew this man was playing with me, that he could wrest my weapon from me in an instant. I could see the broken teeth in his mouth as he grinne
d, and said, ‘Little lady, I think I prefer to be closer when we tussle like this.’

  And he pulled the rod and me to him while his companions caught hold of Giorgio, who had tried to help me.

  ‘Beware the Sixth Extinction! Leave off thy abominable deeds!’

  A voice boomed out above our heads.

  We all looked up. High above us Nostradamus stood on the roof platform of his house.

  ‘It’s the necromancer,’ one of the men said in a fearful tone.

  ‘Leave off thy abominable deeds!’ Nostradamus repeated. He raised his hands high above his head and the sleeves of his coat slid down and hung like wings on either side of his body. ‘Fire will pour down upon your head!’ he roared. ‘The seas will rise and the earth will flood. The sun will burn with a thousand fires! By man’s own hand will this be done!’

  The gang of men drew away from us. Even the boldest one let go his hold on the metal shutter rod.

  ‘A thousand suns will scorch the earth! The green land will dry like the barren desert!’

  Into the heat of the June noonday spiralled a thin yellow mist. It came from the paving stones at our feet, insinuated itself around our legs, then came creeping higher, causing us to cough and choke.

  ‘Do you see that?’ one of the men asked in a quaking voice.

  But his friends did not answer. They were already fleeing along the street.

  Giorgio too looked shaken. And I don’t believe it was the cruelty of the men that affected his composure. It was what Nostradamus had said that struck his soul, as it had mine. No doubt the ruffian youths thought that the prophet was threatening them. But what we had witnessed was not empty blustering. The words of Nostradamus were a prophecy of happenings to come:

  Fire will pour down upon your head.

  The seas will rise and the earth will flood.

  The sun will burn with a thousand fires!

  By man’s own hand will this be done!

  What was the meaning of his mysterious warning for the world to beware the Sixth Extinction?