The Nostradamus Prophecy

by Theresa Breslin

  I thought about what he said and replied, ‘Yet the duke is headstrong and will constantly seek a way to overcome this setback.’

  Lord Thierry regarded me. ‘You are observant and accurate in your assessment of character,’ he said. ‘What else are you?’

  ‘My lord?’ I replied.

  ‘I have done my best for you. What will you tell me of yourself?’

  ‘There is nothing to tell,’ I said, my heart’s pace beginning to quicken. ‘I am a plain girl from the countryside.’

  ‘That you are not,’ he interrupted me. ‘I made enquiries in the area you claim to come from. There is no one of your name, nor ever has been. It’s true that Mistress Anne, the wife of Nostradamus, does have cousins living there. But none of them knew of anybody with the name of Lisette. There is no record of your birth in the church’s baptismal certificates.’

  I shook my head. ‘That cannot be, sire,’ I said. ‘I lived on a farm in that area. Perhaps you looked in the wrong parish?’

  He waved his hand impatiently. ‘We both know that is nonsense. You’ve never worked on a farm in your life. That fact alone is obvious. Look at me,’ he commanded.

  I raised my eyes and looked at a face, weather-beaten by the elements, not unlike the mien of the huntsmen who worked for the king. Tanned and healthy, the countenance of a person who had been outdoors most of his life.

  ‘You have not spent hours in the fields tending crops or watching cattle,’ he stated firmly.

  ‘Sir, I came to work at the house of Nostradamus. I am a cousin to his wife. I am Lisette.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, not a farm girl. Nor an apothecary’s assistant.’ He glanced at the door then he leaned forward and with a sudden swift movement he flung back the black material on his desk.

  My mandolin lay there.

  I gasped.

  Lord Thierry smiled in triumph,

  ‘There is no doubt in my mind. I know you for what you are.’ He paused, and then he added,

  ‘My friend, the minstrel.’

  Chapter Forty-six

  I COULD NOT speak, only stare as he rose from his chair and approached me.

  He stood in front of me and my face was almost in line with his. When he spoke his breath smelled of cinnamon.

  ‘You are the mandolin player. The minstrel boy who came to Salon on spring market day and was embroiled in a row outside a tavern with the Duke of Marcy.’

  He took my hands in his own and turned them, palms up.

  ‘Look at your fingers; they are calloused at the tip. No maidservant has such marks.’

  ‘I did not serve Mistress Anne as an ordinary servant.’ My voice trembled. ‘I worked in the apothecary shop.’

  He shook his head and smiled. The lines around his eyes creased, with the effect of making his face appear less severe.

  ‘I agree the skin of your hands has some wear on it, no doubt with preparing the potions and handling the medical components of medicines. But your fingers are those of a musician, in particular a mandolin player.’

  My eyes strayed to where the mandolin lay on his desk. The instrument seemed to murmur to me. I saw the gleam of the polished wood, the harmonious rise of the fretwork, the gloss of the pearl inlay. My fingers tingled to touch the strings, to feel the instrument thrum as it nestled against my cheek.

  ‘You long to touch it, don’t you?’

  His voice had sympathy. I felt myself waver. But I must not be seduced by his kind manner. ‘I don’t understand you, sir,’ I replied.

  He walked away then to a shelf in one of his bookcases. What was he up to now? He reached up and took down a book.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said in a casual way. ‘In one of my old music manuscripts, there is an illustration of a lady sitting in a tower. She is playing a mandolin. This folio contains the work of a woman named as Cecily d’Anbriese. She was very gifted and talented. Did you know her fame spread throughout Europe? It is a pity there were not more like her.’

  ‘But there were,’ I said. ‘France was famed for its women troubadours.’

  He turned swiftly and I saw his delight in catching me out so easily.

  I put my hands to my face. I felt heat and knew that my cheeks were red.

  ‘I have no wish to humble you,’ he said. ‘Yet . . . you were the mandolin player, were you not?’

  ‘It was necessary.’ I spoke slowly while my mind sifted rapidly through a number of reasons that I could offer him which he might believe, but would not reveal my true identity.

  ‘In what way necessary?’

  ‘My father was killed, and I was left on my own,’ I improvised. ‘I had been promised to a local squire, but . . . but I did not wish to marry him, so I ran away.’

  He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘You are an impossible liar. Apart from the fact that I have already made enquiries as to who you might be, it is also plainly obvious that you are unskilled in deception.’

  I hung my head.

  ‘Oh, don’t be upset about that. I’d mark it as a virtue, and a rare one in the world we live in. There are too many women and men who are accomplished liars. Indeed they tell untruths with such ease that they begin to believe their own stories.’

  He put down the book and came close to me again. He studied me. ‘I would say that you were not one of those. But now is the time you must tell me your true history.’

  I hung my head.

  He leaned back and sat on the edge of his desk. Near enough for me to be aware of his physical presence but not looming so close as to intimidate me too much. This man calculated his moves very carefully.

  His voice had hardened when he next spoke. ‘Let me give you some information of which I think you should take account.’ He paused. ‘Know this, my overlord for this region is the Count de Ferignay.’

  A cold quiver ran over my skin.

  ‘Ah, I see that you have heard of him. Now, if I am troubled or perturbed by any event in my own domain I am obliged to report it to the Count de Ferignay. Do you think this case warrants such action?’

  I glanced at him in fear.

  He tilted his head to one side. ‘I wonder if the said Count de Ferignay would be at all interested in a wandering minstrel, with no name. That is, more specifically, a girl, with some skill in singing and mandolin playing. One who will not divulge her past history. What do you think?’

  He knew very well that his words had unsettled me. But I would not give in to him.

  ‘Also,’ he went on, ‘let me tell you that if I did send word to the Count de Ferignay and he wished you brought to him for questioning, I don’t think it would be the count himself who came personally to escort a prisoner to his presence. Most likely he would send his own bodyguard for such an important errand. You may know of him. A man called Jauffré.’

  I raised my head in alarm.

  ‘If I am to help you then you must be absolutely honest with me.’ Lord Thierry went and sat down behind his desk.

  ‘What is your true name?’ he asked me briskly.

  ‘Mélisande,’ I whispered.

  ‘Mélisande.’ He repeated my name in the accents of the south and made it sound like water flowing among river reeds.

  ‘Mélisande. Yes, that is a good name for a minstrel. And how is it that you have chosen to spend part of your life going by a different name, Mélisande, and’ – he raised an eyebrow – ‘by a different sex?’

  I felt myself blush under his scrutiny.

  ‘I do not mean to shame you,’ he said. ‘It’s only that I am intrigued.’

  And quite suddenly I was tired. My emotions and my brain were exhausted with everything that had happened to me, and I felt myself rebel against the way this man was manipulating me. I no longer cared if I was captured or not. At least if I was taken and imprisoned I might see my father again. If Lord Thierry chose to report me, then so be it.

  ‘Do your worst, sir,’ I said. ‘Send for Jauffré. Let him take me from here. I no longer have the
strength to cope with all this. And if I survive the journey north with him, then let me be conducted into the presence of your overlord the Count de Ferignay.’

  Chapter Forty-seven

  THERE WAS A silence in the room.

  Then Lord Thierry raised his hands and let them fall upon his desk.

  ‘You have outmanoeuvred me,’ he declared. ‘And, I must concede, in the most skilful way.’ He raised his hand as I opened my mouth to protest. ‘I do realize that it was not by guile or deviousness. Your innocence shines through, Mélisande. It is one of your most attractive qualities.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘But what am I to do with you?’ He was speaking half to himself. ‘You are safe enough here as long as Marcy does not find out that the only other witness to his foul deed, apart from Bertrand, is still alive.’ He glanced at me. ‘I have to tell you that I let it be known in Salon that on the night of the prophet’s death you fled the house of Nostradamus, taking some of the family silverware with you.’

  I gazed at him, aghast.

  ‘It means,’ he added, ‘that you cannot adopt the persona of the farm girl Lisette ever again.’

  ‘You are an underhand and cunning man,’ I said angrily.

  He blinked. It was the first time I had ever seen him discomfited. ‘I am unsure whether to take that as a compliment, and therefore thank you for it,’ he said formally.

  I realized that I’d offended him, and although I was not comfortable with his displeasure, some part of me was glad that I had at last scored a point against him.

  ‘It was a difficult matter to deal with and it was all I could think of,’ he explained. ‘Mistress Anne was in accord with me. It was she who then gave me your mandolin to return to you. She would not reveal any information about you or anything you had told her. But she did agree that for your own safety it was best that your absence was covered in this way. Don’t you see? There needed to be a reason for your sudden disappearance from the house. And it’s a story that Marcy will believe. He would think you were terrified by the incident in the church so it’s a likely thing for you to do. To steal what you could and run as far away from Salon as possible. If he thought anything else, believe me, he would not rest until he had hunted you down.’

  I absorbed the sense of his words. Then I gave my head a quick nod.

  ‘Good,’ said Lord Thierry dryly. ‘We are at least agreed on that.’

  He paused. ‘I would suggest that you also agree to remain in Valbonnes and accept my hospitality. As I go about my domain trying to keep the peace I can report back to you as to when it may be safe for you to leave.’

  The words that Nostradamus spoke to me on the night he died echoed in my head:

  ‘You will quit this house tonight, Mélisande, and go to a place of safety. There you will wait until the time comes when you must act.’

  Lord Thierry was awaiting my answer. I nodded again, whereupon he reached down and opened a drawer in his desk. He took something out and laid it on the table beside my mandolin. It was the chamois leather bag.

  ‘I looked after this as though it was my own,’ he said. ‘Please take both these things and, and . . .’ – I looked at him in surprise as he fumbled with the words – ‘be content here until such time as we can work out the best thing to do for your future.’

  I moved forward. With shaking hands I lifted my mandolin. I opened the drawstring of the bag and placed it inside.

  I fancied it sighed as it settled there again.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  SO AT LEAST I had my mandolin to sustain me in my years of waiting.

  And while outside the castle religious wars of attrition ravaged France, inside the walls of Valbonnes I found a kind of peace.

  I played old tunes on my mandolin. The ones that required little thought or effort; my fingers mechanically stroking the strings, my mind hardly aware of the notes. But I was experiencing an emptiness of spirit. My thoughts turned to Melchior and the leopard. I knew that by this time they would be far away in the kingdom of Navarre, where I would most likely never see them again. Within me my soul stretched as bleak as the flat land around the castle, hardened with frost and pitted with puddles of ice.

  I needed new music. In the past, composing words and tunes would send me soaring, but now when I searched inside myself there was nothing there. One evening, after a day of deepening melancholy, it came to me that I might find inspiration in Lord Thierry’s library. I remembered the book he had shown me of the woman troubadour, Cecily d’Anbriese. I would enjoy reading her poems even if I was not stimulated to write any of my own. I knew that Lord Thierry had left the castle that morning. It was likely that he would not return for a few days.

  As soon as I told Marianne of my intention she sent a servant to light the lamps and build a fire in the grate. I took my mandolin with me and as I browsed among his books I felt that I was gaining an insight into the man who had collected them. I found the bookcase with the music book and took down the one he had shown me. I opened it up and brought the page close to the lamp to read, when the door of the library opened and Lord Thierry strode in. He had reached the centre of the room and thrown his gloves upon his desk before he noticed me.

  ‘I didn’t think you were returning today.’ I hurriedly put the book down and edged towards the door.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Don’t let me disturb you. I will go. I need to change from these riding clothes and eat something.’

  He shivered as he spoke. I saw how cold he was, so I said, ‘The fire is here. Why don’t you go close and take some warmth?’

  ‘Would you play for me?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Trying to keep peace between these opposing sides is exhausting. Some music would be a balm to my troubled mind.’

  How could I refuse? He’d saved my life and kept me well fed and cared for. And besides, I had not played my music to an audience for a long time.

  He lifted my mandolin and as he handed it to me his fingers brushed mine. I felt again the current between us that I’d experienced when he’d first touched me in Nostradamus’s rooms in Salon. Immediately he looked into my face. Had he felt it too?

  I played him a song of the south. It was a traditional song, a song from the time when this land had been free.

  ‘Gather in the grapes, gather up the olive fruit,

  Sing as we tramp out the juice,

  Sing as we press out the oil.

  ‘Reapers in the early morn, sickles swinging in the fields,

  Sing as we stack up the ricks,

  Sing as we mill down the grain.’

  ‘That song has another level of meaning,’ he observed when I had finished.

  ‘It’s a song of freedom,’ I agreed. ‘Of people being able to exist happily under the protection of a benign overlord.’

  ‘As I strive to be,’ he replied.

  ‘You are following the example set by your ancestors?’ I asked him.

  ‘My grandfather’s grandfather was a Templar Knight,’ he replied. ‘As a boy I loved to hear tales of their time in the Holy Land. How they guarded the Temple there, and how they protected pilgrims as they journeyed to see the holy places. My mind was fired with stories of the battles fought, the many deeds of honour, acts of bravery, of the respect, even friendship, between Saracen and Christian. I was desperate to grow up and go and live the life my ancestors had.’

  ‘So you are not a Huguenot?’ I asked him.

  ‘I am not.’ He paused. ‘Although I have sympathy for their beliefs.’

  ‘How is it then that people think you are?’

  ‘Because the concept of tolerance is extremely challenging. It is something that many people never learn.’

  ‘How have you learned it?’

  ‘By having to deal with the aftermath of intolerance. Every day I see the result of man’s inhumanity on the lives of my people.’

  Chapter Forty-nine

  A CURIOSITY ABOUT the women troubadours of France, coupled with my own needs for an outlet for my music, pro
mpted me to return to the castle library each day.

  And if Lord Thierry was at home he would come there in the evening and stay and talk for a little while.

  I found that I looked forward to his visits and was disappointed if duty or politeness kept him away for more than a few days. I welcomed his interest and his knowledge, for it was so long since I’d spoken of music to anyone. Nostradamus had been concerned only with his visions. Mistress Anne, his wife, was kindly, but her appreciation of music was to the extent of how much it helped soothe her fractious child. I was bereft of my sister and my father, with no one to appreciate how the lilting patter of rainfall or the soft sweep of snow upon the hills could be translated into a combination of sympathetic sounds.

  I began to transcribe some of the old songs and music. One night Lord Thierry asked me if I needed help with the language.

  ‘I am not so very familiar with Provençal,’ I replied, ‘but my father made sure that we were taught to read French, English and Latin.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘I had a sister.’ I stopped. Tears were brimming in my eyes.

  He looked at me but did not speak. He neither pressed me to continue nor hastened to make me quiet in the way some men do at the sight of women’s tears.

  ‘Her name was Chantelle,’ I said at last.

  ‘She is dead?’

  ‘She is dead.’

  My tears flowed then, but again he said nothing

  After a few minutes had elapsed he went to his desk and poured a glass of wine. The dark red claret was like blood in the glass. He held it out to me and I took it and drank some. He poured another glass for himself and went and sat on one side of the chimney breast. The fire shifted, a log fell and sparks flew up.

  So then, halting at parts, and in my own time, I told Lord Thierry of the circumstances of my sister’s death and how my father had been arrested. I came to the part where Melchior had helped me escape and his eyes widened as I described how I had hidden in the cage of the leopard.