privateers against Spain would take place in some locale near the coast of La Rochelle, a Huguenot stronghold.
Andelot believed the meeting would have occurred by now. The marquis could even be on his way to Calais to cross the channel to England, where a privateer of the English queen had arranged for the marquis to buy a ship.
Was it too late to join the marquis? The bay would surely get him there, but was there time? What would the marquis do if he showed up with a sword he could but clumsily wield? Perhaps I could help the cook or serve the marquis in some way.
Across the chamber, the fire glowed in the hearth. The wind from off the river Seine, which ran beneath portions of the palais with its prison, remained chill and damp.
His boots made no sound as he walked toward the warmth. The red coals hissed and glared at him. Was the illness of Grandmère and Madeleine the beginning of a judgment from heaven that would soon scourge the whole of Paris?
He recalled from his studies at the monastery school how great sicknesses in the past had struck many kingdoms, leaving uncounted masses dead. There were so many bodies, the authorities had been forced to burn them in great fires in the village squares. At the time, traveling monks on pilgrimages across Europe spoke out as prophets, attributing the plagues to judgment sent by the saints for failure to worship and give to the Church. They had urged more reverence for relics and the need to embark on pilgrimages to burial sites. They carried bags of saintly fetishes on their donkeys, which they sold for blessing and protection.
Andelot reached beneath his tunic and removed a small, well-worn cross and kissed it. He had received the object years ago from a traveling monk passing through Paris on his way to the Holy Land on pilgrimage.
This cross was special. The monk had told him it was prayed over and anointed with holy ointment from the eternal city of Rome itself, the city built on seven hills. The cross would protect him from plague. Andelot kissed it once more to make certain before replacing it inside his tunic next to his skin. One could not be too cautious, having entered the chambers where sudden sickness had struck its curse.
He frowned back at the sizzling coals. Yes, it was wholly possible that a new plague was breaking forth. Voices were sounding in protest against the blasphemous teaching of Luther, Calvin, Beza, and against that wicked city, Geneva. Judgments were pronounced on France for not doing enough to silence the devilish teaching of these heretics and their followers.
Andelot ran his fingers through his brown locks and shook his head.
These pronouncements heightened his uneasiness after what he had witnessed at Amboise. The flames of religious rhetoric crackled with devilish propaganda. Whom should he believe?
Frustration drove him back to the window again, this time drawing his gaze in the direction of the wharf with its many shops.
Yes, the quay . . . what was it about the quay he wanted to remember?
Ill since Thursday . . . five days ago . . . very ill, the maid had said — due to last autumn’s apples.
Odd, that. Apples? Could one become this sick on apples?
A priest strode across the courtyard with a rolled parchment in hand and his robe swirling about his ankles, drawing Andelot’s mind to the night before when the cardinal had sent for him to appear in his chamber. After handing him the scarlet-edged missive to deliver to Duchesse Dushane, the cardinal had risen from his chair behind the desk and faced him with a thin curling smile, his almond-shaped gray eyes showing amused contempt.
“So! You are a child full of pranks at heart. You hid under the vines tumbling from a cherub planter to spy on the beheadings of the rebel heretics! Such puerile behavior. Non! Do not try to explain that you were trapped. Such a tale is preposterous.”
The lashing words had stung and remembering them again now brought a burning heat to Andelot’s
Andelot believed the meeting would have occurred by now. The marquis could even be on his way to Calais to cross the channel to England, where a privateer of the English queen had arranged for the marquis to buy a ship.
Was it too late to join the marquis? The bay would surely get him there, but was there time? What would the marquis do if he showed up with a sword he could but clumsily wield? Perhaps I could help the cook or serve the marquis in some way.
Across the chamber, the fire glowed in the hearth. The wind from off the river Seine, which ran beneath portions of the palais with its prison, remained chill and damp.
His boots made no sound as he walked toward the warmth. The red coals hissed and glared at him. Was the illness of Grandmère and Madeleine the beginning of a judgment from heaven that would soon scourge the whole of Paris?
He recalled from his studies at the monastery school how great sicknesses in the past had struck many kingdoms, leaving uncounted masses dead. There were so many bodies, the authorities had been forced to burn them in great fires in the village squares. At the time, traveling monks on pilgrimages across Europe spoke out as prophets, attributing the plagues to judgment sent by the saints for failure to worship and give to the Church. They had urged more reverence for relics and the need to embark on pilgrimages to burial sites. They carried bags of saintly fetishes on their donkeys, which they sold for blessing and protection.
Andelot reached beneath his tunic and removed a small, well-worn cross and kissed it. He had received the object years ago from a traveling monk passing through Paris on his way to the Holy Land on pilgrimage.
This cross was special. The monk had told him it was prayed over and anointed with holy ointment from the eternal city of Rome itself, the city built on seven hills. The cross would protect him from plague. Andelot kissed it once more to make certain before replacing it inside his tunic next to his skin. One could not be too cautious, having entered the chambers where sudden sickness had struck its curse.
He frowned back at the sizzling coals. Yes, it was wholly possible that a new plague was breaking forth. Voices were sounding in protest against the blasphemous teaching of Luther, Calvin, Beza, and against that wicked city, Geneva. Judgments were pronounced on France for not doing enough to silence the devilish teaching of these heretics and their followers.
Andelot ran his fingers through his brown locks and shook his head.
These pronouncements heightened his uneasiness after what he had witnessed at Amboise. The flames of religious rhetoric crackled with devilish propaganda. Whom should he believe?
Frustration drove him back to the window again, this time drawing his gaze in the direction of the wharf with its many shops.
Yes, the quay . . . what was it about the quay he wanted to remember?
Ill since Thursday . . . five days ago . . . very ill, the maid had said — due to last autumn’s apples.
Odd, that. Apples? Could one become this sick on apples?
A priest strode across the courtyard with a rolled parchment in hand and his robe swirling about his ankles, drawing Andelot’s mind to the night before when the cardinal had sent for him to appear in his chamber. After handing him the scarlet-edged missive to deliver to Duchesse Dushane, the cardinal had risen from his chair behind the desk and faced him with a thin curling smile, his almond-shaped gray eyes showing amused contempt.
“So! You are a child full of pranks at heart. You hid under the vines tumbling from a cherub planter to spy on the beheadings of the rebel heretics! Such puerile behavior. Non! Do not try to explain that you were trapped. Such a tale is preposterous.”
The lashing words had stung and remembering them again now brought a burning heat to Andelot’s
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