The Nostradamus Prophecy

by Theresa Breslin

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘This is very important. In addition to the castle you are guarding this lady’s presence.’

  Robert glanced at me. I bent my head.

  ‘Furthermore,’ Lord Thierry said, very distinctly, ‘no one is to be allowed to leave.’

  There was a pause, and then Robert said, ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Make sure that this rule is kept.’

  ‘I will, my lord.’

  We arrived in the great hall, where already Marianne had kitchen staff scurrying with boards of bread and cheese. She herself was pouring out wine from a flagon. I sat down on a bench and she brought me a cup and gave me a sympathetic look. ‘Drink this. It will restore the colour to your cheeks.’

  Lord Thierry came and stood before me. ‘I must go to my library and write various orders. This matter is complicated and therefore it may take a long time to resolve. You will remain here until I return.’

  I saw that this was a command, not a request. And I saw also that he had allowed me to hear his conversation with Robert so that I would not attempt to leave. But now I was so weary with the events of the previous day and my gruelling and uncomfortable ride from Salon that I had no urge to argue. I only wanted to lie down and rest.

  ‘Marianne will take good care of you,’ he said. ‘Now I must get back to Salon and put a curb into the mouth of the Duke of Marcy.’

  PART THREE

  THE CASTLE AT VALBONNES

  Chapter Forty-three

  HIGH SUMMER PASSED and the reapers in the far fields began to gather in the harvest, yet no news of Lord Thierry’s doings came back to Valbonnes.

  During this time Robert, captain of the guards, kept the castle locked tight. This was a hardship for someone like me who was used to wandering through the countryside, but I knew better than to suggest that I might take a walk or ride a horse outside the walls. I had to be content with gazing out from the battlements or turret windows and imagining what life was unfolding beyond the castle gates.

  In front of the castle there stretched a plain with a river and the rim of trees of a forest. Beside and behind the castle was a wide swamp where at night the darkness was pierced by the glow of fireflies and other insects. Occasionally an eerie greenish mist would settle in the evening and lie just above ground level, only dispersing as the sun climbed into the sky next day. When this happened the old nurse, Marianne, would cross herself and say a prayer. Then she would relate to me a tale of the doings of the evil spirits who collected there to plot mischief for the human race.

  These things did not disturb me as much as they might once have done. Nostradamus had explained to me how certain elements take the insubstantial form of the air we breathe, and although we cannot see them, they exist as much as if they were solid wood or rock, and have colours and smells of their own. In particular he’d told me of marsh gas. Salon itself had a similar marsh near the town where, like this one, it was dangerous to venture. Unwary travellers who wandered there vanished from sight. Grass tussocks which appeared solid gave way under the weight of a man or woman and the poor unfortunate sank without ever being seen again.

  Marianne had many stories to tell, some legend, some factual. She was delighted with my presence in the castle, and glad to have another woman to chat to, or sit with and sew in happy companionship.

  Lord Thierry had left written instructions. Marianne showed them to me. I was to be treated as an honoured guest. I was to eat the best food, drink the finest wine, and use any dressmaking materials as I wished. Apart from leaving the castle, no restriction was to be made on my movements. I was allowed free access to all public rooms, including the library.

  ‘Such an honour,’ said Marianne. ‘Rarely is anyone allowed into his library, especially if Lord Thierry is not present.’

  Bit by bit she gave me his life story. Marianne had never married. She had been brought to the castle as a young girl by Lord Thierry’s grandfather to look after his son. So she had nursed Lord Thierry’s father, and then Lord Thierry himself. Being her only charge, he had had all her affection lavished upon him. It was clear that she adored him, though she admitted he had been a difficult and troublesome child.

  ‘Strong-willed,’ she told me. ‘He always liked to have his own way and would get it by force or by guile.’

  He had little changed in that, I thought.

  But according to her, Lord Thierry had altered greatly since his youth. He no longer resembled the wilful boy who had stormed from his father’s house at the age of twenty to go away and seek his own fortune. At that time he had not wanted to be schooled in the management of the castle or the lordship of his domain. So he had fallen out with his father and run off to see the Holy Land in the manner of the Holy Crusaders.

  ‘His grandsire was one of the original founders of the order of the knighted men who guarded the Temple of Jerusalem,’ she informed me.

  ‘A Knight Templar?’ I asked in surprise.

  Marianne nodded and chattered on.

  ‘They became so powerful that the ministers who ruled the Church feared their strength and sought to destroy them. Branded as heretics, they were hunted down and killed.’

  Most people in the south of France had heard tales of these holy knights who had guarded pilgrims on their way to visit the shrines and places of the Holy Land. But the Pope of that time, growing wary of their power and riches, banned the Templar Order and cast out the members. He claimed they indulged in sacrilegious practices.

  ‘Did they hold strange ceremonies here within this castle?’ I asked Marianne.

  She told me that she was not old enough to recall this.

  ‘But perhaps there were stories?’ I prodded her mind for more information.

  ‘There are always stories,’ she replied. ‘And at least half of them have a basis in fact.’

  ‘But despite his noble ancestors this Lord Thierry decided to leave his lands and castle?’ I asked.

  ‘Just a normal tempestuous youth,’ she defended him. ‘But now he has learned to control those outbursts and become more considered and thoughtful.’

  ‘Very considered,’ I agreed. And as I did, I wondered how he was faring in dealing with the scheming Duke of Marcy and his henchman, Bertrand. The Lord Thierry would need an agile mind to outwit them.

  ‘But then he tired of his wanderings,’ Marianne went on. ‘The old man, his father, died just before he returned. And although the place had fallen into disrepair Lord Thierry did not move his headquarters to one of his towns. He remained here and worked hard to make the castle of Valbonnes wind- and watertight again.’

  When I was not sitting with Marianne sewing new clothes for myself or walking in the gardens or on the walls, I spent time in the library. Mainly I read his books and manuscripts, although Lord Thierry owned a collection of musical instruments, including a zither and also a mandolin. It was not as fine an instrument as mine, but when I first saw it lying there on one of the tables my hands strayed towards it. I lightly touched the strings and heard a sound like tumbling cherry blossom.

  Ah! How my soul ached for my precious mandolin left behind in my flight from Salon. I wanted to lift this one and cradle it to me. I craved the solace of music to comfort me as I mourned the loss of my family and every friend I’d known in my short life: Melchior and Paladin, Nostradamus, Giorgio and Mistress Anne. Was it to be my fate to be always torn away from those who cared for me? But I did not dare take up this mandolin to play upon it. The music would be heard and, I did not doubt, would be reported to Lord Thierry. I hoped that if I could but keep my identity secret I might yet go free from here without anyone knowing who I was. If only it was possible to settle the trouble of the priest’s murder.

  Yet I could not imagine how Lord Thierry might deal with the Duke of Marcy without rousing the whole countryside. He could not execute a duke without permission from the king. The Duke of Marcy’s father, according to Marianne, was a very powerful man at court and would raise a petition to
prevent this, and might even unseat Lord Thierry in the process. But if an innocent Huguenot were hanged then the strong local forces of Protestantism would rise against him.

  Marianne seemed unconcerned. ‘Don’t fret,’ she told me. ‘He will find a way out of this maze. He is a clever boy, always was.’

  Chapter Forty-four

  BUT I BECAME more anxious as each week passed and we had no news.

  And then, as the first frost was riming the windows in the early morning, two messages arrived at Valbonnes.

  Marianne examined them and declared them to be written in Lord Thierry’s own hand so we were able to believe the contents. They were addressed to Robert but with a separate packet to me so that I also might know what was happening. And for this consideration I was very grateful.

  They gave a clear account of events in the outside world.

  The young Huguenot arrested for the murder of the priest had been released due to the fact that a prominent Catholic nobleman had stepped forward and declared he had seen the boy in his father’s shop at the time of the murder.

  ‘Aha!’ Marianne declared when I told her the name of the nobleman. ‘He is one of my Lord Thierry’s friends. Perhaps Lord Thierry prevailed upon him to do this to prevent civil strife.’

  Lord Thierry had instigated his own investigation and had issued a warrant for the arrest of the man, Bertrand, an aide of the Duke of Marcy, on suspicion of the murder of the priest. There had been a witness to him abducting a girl. This witness was a woman who had been standing at the door of her house.

  I knew who this was. The woman who had turned away from me when I had cried out for help. Lord Thierry must have visited her and persuaded her to be a witness. She had made a statement that she had seen a girl struggling against Bertrand.

  Soon another witness came forward to say that he had seen Bertrand chasing me into the church. Bertrand was seized and imprisoned in the dungeon of the Château Emperi, closely guarded by Lord Thierry’s men. He was to be put to the rack to elicit his confession. However, this questioning would take place at Lord Thierry’s pleasure, and he would wait to decide a suitable time to do this.

  What devious plan was this? I thought as I read this part of his letter. There must be a reason why he delayed torturing a confession from Bertrand.

  Then a gang of ruffians tried to break into the château in Salon to help Bertrand escape. More likely their intention was to assassinate him, for when the rescue attempt failed, arrows had been fired through the bars of the cell where Bertrand was imprisoned.

  On at least two occasions after this, poison had been put in the prisoner’s food but those who had done it were unaware that a portion of Bertrand’s meals were first fed to stray dogs before he received them. Several of these hapless curs had died yowling in utmost agony within hearing of the prisoner. Now it was rumoured that Bertrand had declared himself ready to tell all he knew of the murder of the priest.

  Lord Thierry had written to the Duke of Marcy to sympathize with him at having such a base companion. It was rumoured that on receiving the letter the duke had smiled a glassy smile, knowing that it would not be long before Bertrand told all to save himself from torture and death.

  Thus at the beginning of December Salon awoke to discover that the Duke of Marcy had departed abruptly to go to his country estate. He had stated that his mother was unwell and he had gone to attend her.

  I saw then how clever Lord Thierry was. Following my conversations with Marianne and the knowledge I had of this man’s character, I also sensed that all of these occurrences might not have been happenstance. Had he been so artful as to construct the failed rescue attempt and fake the poisonings? It was those two incidents that had prompted Bertrand’s willingness to testify. To begin with he would have been terrified to say anything, knowing that Marcy would kill him if he did. But now, with the delay, and his life in jeopardy, Bertrand would reckon that he would die if he didn’t speak out. He probably hoped that if he gave evidence and Marcy was arrested, then he might be able to flee somewhere and save his own life.

  And so it would not be Lord Thierry who had accused Marcy but another man, his own henchman, Bertrand, in fact.

  Now Lord Thierry could sit and wait and hold the peace of the region in his hands.

  The other letter that Lord Thierry sent gave news of the funeral of Master Nostradamus. It had been a massive affair with a huge turnout of people and many dignitaries travelling long distances to attend. The queen regent, Catherine de’ Medici, had sent her personal envoy. She was reported to be troubled at the death of the prophet and to have asked anxiously if he had left no final message for her. She lamented his passing, declaring that no longer would she be able to seek his insight and assistance in the troubles that beset her.

  For myself I experienced a similar emotion. Having Nostradamus’s death confirmed in writing made me brutally aware that I was now on my own. I was left, utterly alone, to determine what might be the best course of action to take regarding the prophecies he’d made just before his death.

  That night I took out the papers Nostradamus had given me from the hem of my cloak. I unrolled them and re-read the lines he’d written. His last prophecy made no sense to me at all. I was glad that it was not the one that I was supposed to act upon, for its words had a strange deadly inevitability, as if no one person could avert the course predicted therein.

  The prophecy that pertained to me I now knew by rote:

  With fire and heartless hangings

  The treachery of royal line holds sway

  Deeds done by stealth will come to light and all but one consumed

  Safe from the sword, saved only by the word.

  And then I puzzled over the second quatrain:

  This is your destiny, Mélisande.

  You are the one who,

  In the way known to you, can save

  The king who must be saved.

  The king who must be saved. Saved from what? What could be the terrible danger facing King Charles? What grisly fate awaited him if I did not prevent it happening?

  In the way known to you. What did that mean? I was no skilled physician that I could save lives. Like any other young girl, when growing up, I’d learned some folk remedies for headache and stomach upset. And in my time in the apothecary shop I’d learned more advanced recipes for curing certain sicknesses, but despite that, I had none of the doctoring knowledge of Master Nostradamus or Giorgio.

  The obscurity of the lines unsettled me deeply. If Nostradamus, the greatest seer in all the world, could not divine my part in this, then how was I supposed to ascertain it?

  Another chill thought entered my mind. Catherine de’ Medici had specifically enquired if there was anything among the effects of the prophet that pertained to the royal house of France. Therefore any last message from Nostradamus would be of enormous interest to her.

  The very thing that I held in my hand.

  I, Mélisande, had the papers of Nostradamus. Papers that Catherine de’ Medici sought. Catherine de’ Medici, the Queen Regent of France, who was known to ruthlessly eliminate anyone who stood in her way.

  Chapter Forty-five

  THE MONTH OF January brought weather of bitter cold.

  Marianne had sewn me a new dress of thick wool with a matching fur hat and I wore these to wander in the garden. If I could not play my music there was nothing to stop me composing, so I sat among the trees and plants as the colours faded through burnished autumn to the monochrome of winter. The restricted palette chimed with my emotions. Yet the stillness of the atmosphere was absolute purity and the fretwork of frost on the plants as crisp as new-starched lace. I inhaled deeply, and as I breathed out I fancied that the notes and the words tinkled and sparkled into the air before me.

  Clear and light

  Snowy night

  My delight . . .

  I had taken pen and paper from the castle library and I began to write. But it was not fluid; the words jarred with the music. I’d
crossed it out to write again when there was a shout from the guard room, and almost immediately afterwards a gong sounded.

  I dropped pen and paper and ran with all the others to the battlements. A column of men rode towards Valbonnes, too far away to distinguish their colours. But there was no mistaking the bearing of the man at the head of the group and the dignified tread of his charger.

  Lord Thierry had come home.

  He made me wait two days before he summoned me to his presence.

  Marianne told me that he was conducting his business from the library so I avoided going there. As soon as I knew for sure that it was him returning I kept to the rooms that had been allocated to me, taking my meals there and walking for exercise upon my own terrace.

  He was seated behind his desk as I came into the library. Documents were piled up to one side, packets of letters and official papers tied with cord and closed with his official seal. On the other side of his desk a black cloth covered a bulky object.

  I held my head high to try to indicate that I was not afraid, but my breathing was rapid. He nodded at me abruptly in greeting.

  ‘You have been treated well?’ he asked.

  ‘Very well,’ I replied quietly. ‘I thank you for your kindness.’

  ‘You read the letters I sent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So the matter that troubled you, the murder of the priest, is settled as well as it can be. As long as I hold Bertrand I can keep the Duke of Marcy in check and he knows this.’