When he arrives to fetch him from the dungeon,’ she said, her eyes shining, ‘all will be put to rights. That is why I pray that you delay my son’s dying as long as possible . . . Use the magic in the grimoire of King Solomon to counteract the poison of Pope Honorius.’
Chavigny’s master was long quiet. ‘If I am successful in using white magic against black it will only work for a time. The king will suffer, your majesty: terrible headaches; vomiting; fevers; diarrhoea; convulsions – all of these will visit him before the madness takes him. It is a horrible thing to behold. Not even the plague makes a man suffer more.’
She observed his words. ‘And yet, he is a king,’ she said, looking at Nostradamus a little too dispassionately, ‘and kings are born to suffer, is this not so? Do what you can to keep him alive.’ She considered her words and nodded. ‘Tonight we celebrate his improving health. After all, he is sitting up and is eating a bowl of gruel . . .’ She looked about her as if she had misplaced something of herself in this conversation. ‘Tonight, Master Nostradamus, you must use all your powers and I pray that your magic works.’ She left the royal chamber in a rustle of black silk.
Nostradamus rolled up his sleeves. He put a hand to the king’s brow.
‘What will you do?’
The old man squinted to look at Chavigny. ‘Do?’
‘Will you prolong the king’s agony with magic?’
He shook his head. ‘It is not always successful, and we must retire to our chamber to consult the books.’
Later, in the apartment provided for them, Nostradamus sat down, impassive, anxious. Chavigny had never seen him like this.
‘What was that book the Queen Mother mentioned, master?’
Nostradamus looked up from his thoughts. ‘What? Oh, yes, that book. It is the most infamous of all grimoires. Now, be quiet and unpack those bags. Perhaps you can prevent yourself from disturbing my thoughts.’
Chastened, Chavigny went to the great trunk and took from it firstly the great brass astrolabe by which one could calculate the position of celestial bodies, some charts, and those Arabian instruments used for mathematical calculations, which he lay carefully one beside the other on a table. There was a great collection of simples in small bottles that were stoppered with wax, as well as glass ampoules for alchemical experiments, and his master had not forgotten his mirouer ardent, nor that other treasure he never spoke of, which Chavigny knew lived inside a red velvet bag encased in a box of polished wood.
‘How long have you been with me now, Chavigny?’ his master said.
‘Ten years or thereabouts,’ Chavigny answered.
‘How many hurdles did Dorat place in your way, when you said you wanted to be my pupil?’
‘It took me near a year to convince him and then he gave me no letters of introduction.’
‘That’s right, and you made the two-month journey south to my home and arrived empty-handed at my door. And what did I tell you then?’
‘That if I intended to become a student of the mystic arts, I would have to be prepared to do those tasks you set me.’
Nostradamus nodded.
‘But in all this time you have set me no tasks and there has been no instruction!’
‘Really?’ Nostradamus raised one bushy brow. ‘No tasks and no instructions? Well, you have not been very attentive, then. Bring me that box.’
Nostradamus opened it and took out the velvet pouch; what lay inside it looked ancient. ‘When I was given this I was sworn to never divulge what I saw except to an acolyte who would one day replace me. Circumstances have now precipitated what should not have come so soon. And so, my dear Chavigny, I must ask you before all else, to take an oath.’
Chavigny, who had been listening without taking a breath, gasped. This was the moment he had been waiting for! But he told himself not to be hasty. The wrong answer could cost him his privilege.
‘Perhaps I’m not ready. Perhaps I am, as you have said, too vain and unwise . . .’
Nostradamus raised a brow and looked at him serenely. ‘Come now, Jean, will you have me believe that after ten years you are not ready for what I am offering to share with you? Will you not swear the oath to be my loyal student?’
Chavigny felt a momentary confusion, unsure if he was swearing an oath of silence or one of loyalty, and there was a very fine but important distinction. ‘What exactly am I swearing I will do?’
‘Listen to me, I don’t have time now to go into all of it with you except to say that you will learn everything as we go along. Right now I need you to swear to me that you will not read it. I have not shown it to any man since I myself received it.’