Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) by Dawn MacTavish Page A

are blind. When my riderless horse returns in full view of the cardinal and the rest, they will assume that I, too, have died in that battle. My blood ison the beast, and on his trappings. Come with me quickly, while they are occupied. I know of a place where we will both be safe until I rest my wounds awhile and form another plan. Hurry! We must reach it by dawn, or we will surely be seen.”
    “But—”
    “Be still now, child, and pray that I remember how to find it.”

Eight
    T
he birds had begun to twitter awake, and the cock to crow
as the fugitives reached the ruins. The rain had stopped falling, and an eerie, predawn mist hovered over the land in its place, all but hiding the wounded castle ruins from view. The attached smokehouse was the only viable option offering shelter and seclusion. They entered cautiously, for it, too, was strewn with rubble, and it would be awhile yet before first light illuminated the pitfalls.
    Exhausted, Robert sank down on the moldy straw that carpeted the place, and groaned in response to the searing pain he had thus far put aside owing to the urgency of the journey. Now, having freed himself of the helm in Violette ‘s blind presence, he indulged in the sheer pleasure of that groan, and lay still while her small, soft hands attended its cause.
    “God, but you have a gentle touch,” he told her, surrendering to it.
    “You have lost much blood,” she said. “This is no simple gash. A sword has cut deeply in. You are in grave need of a physician, my lord, and I know not where or how to fetch one.”
    “One is already fetched, little flower,” said a shadowy shape emerging from the blackness.
    Startled, Violette cried out, and Robert’s narrowed eyes strained the first hint of dawn diluting the darkness astonished, as the flowing gown and angular headdress of Michel de Nostredame bled into focus.
    “D-Doctor Nostradamus!” he murmured. “What are you doing here?”
    “Awaiting you,” the healer replied flatly.
    “You are indeed a sorcerer. How could you know that I—that
we
—would come here, when I did not know myself, until the very last?”
    Strolling closer, Nostradamus smiled. “It doesn’t take a sorcerer to fathom what a cornered rat will do. But there is a certain facet of…perception afoot in all this. It was I who introduced you to this haven if you recall? And I told you we would meet again somewhat…abruptly, did I not? Some of that might well be deemed sorcery, but, for the most part, is pure logic; nothing more.”
    “Well, logic, accident, or black arts, I am glad, indeed, for the sight of you, sir.”
    “You have been wounded,” the healer said, “and I see you have found our Violette.”
    “When I did not seek her, as you foretold,” Robert realized.
    “So I did. And you, child,” said Nostradamus, scrutinizing Violette in his inimitable manner. “How did you come to be among the apostates? Surely, you have not converted?” he urged, his voice grown stern at the prospect. “That would be unwise.”
    “No, Doctor Nostradamus,” she murmured demurely. “They gave me food and lodging in exchange for honest work among the beasts in their keeping.”
    “Ahhh,” the healer said, clearly relieved, for it was well known that he would have no truck with Huguenots. “But you look a fright, girl. Are you in need of my unctions, also?”
    “No, sir,” she said. “I am in his lordship’s debt over my good health, but he is gravely injured. Much blood has been lost, and the wound wants cleaning badly.”
    “Mmm,” Nostradamus grunted. “Can you stand, young ram?”
    “If I must,” Robert replied.
    The healer reached the brickwork that had once enclosed the ovens in two shuffling strides, and pressed heavily on a brick at the back of it. With that, a slab moved in the floor until a hole appeared at his feet.
    “Come,” he charged. “You cannot stay here. These old walls are far too pervious. Any façade that will let in the rays of dawn