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Nostradamus.
    She pored over the strange allusions of muted rhymes and meditated on the divination charts alleged to forecast the triumph or doom of her sons based upon the signs of the zodiac.
    She smiled at the favor bestowed by the planetary system upon her favorite little son Anjou, drummed her fingers and scowled over Mad Charles, and narrowed her gaze thoughtfully over the present young king, Francis II. Soon, however, she set this portion aside, for it was the secret disclosure on one messire in particular, her enemy, that she had desired and negotiated to gain. And here it was! The dark forecast held her breathless and engrossed.
    Ah yes, yes . . . I see it. Blood and darkness ahead . . . now is the time to act. Ah yes, I must not step back in timidity. Here at last is the death sign — she tapped her finger on the drawing — his bright star is dimming, it is falling, it is going out. If this knowledge is acted upon, he will die, the readings tell his fall. That noisome plague, Duc de Guise, is going to die!
    She considered the plans stirring in her mind and the personal consequences to her and Anjou. King Philip of Spain, her opponent, could prove to be a danger. If Spain should come to believe she had a personal hand in the duc’s death, Philip could invade France, and with a quiet nod from the pope, remove her and her sons from the throne and put a Guise in their place. She must save the throne of France for her sons, especially her Anjou.
    If only I could use poison.
    But not on this occasion. She dare not bring suspicion to her door. Not with a monsieur as beloved in Spain and Rome as Ducde Guise. The Spanish ambassador had already sent lettres to his master Philip accusing her of using poison against her personal foes at court. If the duc died by poison, they would turn on her like starving wolves. As for his popularity, all Paris cheered when the duc rode his horse down the street, calling out, “A Guise for a king!” Those same citizens, however, whispered their dislike and distrust of that “Italian woman.”
    There must not be even a hint of suspicion suggesting her involvement. Both the pope and King Philip had accused her of protecting the heretics and were looking for reasons to remove her from power, though the Huguenots would mock any claim of her protection. Daily across France, the religious burnings continued unabated upon orders from the cardinal, another Guise.
    Someone other than herself must be used to remove the duc. It was essential she remain shielded from the murky details. She rolled up the parchment, convinced this was the most favorable time to arrange for her plan to be carried out. Using a key on her wrist, she unlocked a large drawer concealed in the wall and placed the parchment inside. She left her closet and entered her main chamber.
    Spies had already sent word that Marquis Fabien had taken the Macquinet couturière from Paris and escaped with her to the Bourbon castle at Vendôme. She retrieved her sealed lettre from the desk and struck her gong.
    Her servant girl, Madalenna, appeared and bowed.
    “Yes, Madame?”
    “Take this to the dwarves to deliver at once.”

    AT VENDÔME, MARQUIS FABIEN left Rachelle in her chamber and went back down the stairs to the grand salle. He frowned, caught up his hat and coat, and went through the archway into the courtyard.
    The rain had temporarily ceased, while the sky was awash with wind-tossed clouds. Lightning flashed over the forest and the trees bent before the irate wind. It was a night for trouble.
    Gallaudet was waiting for him in the shadows as planned and came quietly to him.
    “We will handle this ourselves,” Fabien said. “Where is he now?”
    “He is in his bungalow.”
    “Under whose watch?”
    “Julot is near at hand.”
    Fabien would trust Julot with his life. “Come.”
    During his absence at sea, Fabien had left the security of the Bourbon estate under the command of the captain of the castle guard. Only those