Read Online Immortal Muse by Stephen Leigh - Free Book Online Page B

Madame Flamel,” the Provost said as he took her hand. “You look wonderful as always, and that necklace is gorgeous. You and Monsieur Flamel are a shining example of marriage for all of us. How is Verdette?”
    â€œShe’s very well, Provost. Thank you for asking.”
    â€œShe’s a beautiful child. Beautiful,” he said, still holding her hand and smiling, though his gaze slid across her face to Nicolas, speaking with Madame Marcel. “I smile every time I have the opportunity to see her. And she deserves to live in a world that values what you and your husband best represent. Let us look forward to that day, Madame Flamel.”
    â€œThat is my one great wish, Provost,” she answered. He inclined his head and she curtsied to him, passing into the hall as Nicolas made his own greetings to the man. Most of the diners were already there and seated: the bourgeoisie mostly—the wealthy merchants of the city. There was a heavy buzz of conversation in the hall, but few of the faces seemed to be smiling, and those few smiles were fleeting. She noticed that the minor nobles among the bourgeoisie were conspicuously absent, and none of those loyal to the Dauphin were in attendance at all. The air held a decided tension despite the brilliance of the hall and the festive draperies around the room—no doubt furnished by the Provost’s own workshops. The hall might glitter and gleam, but those within were inhabited by a darker mood.
    She felt Nicolas alongside her; she took his arm and they descended the few steps into the hall as servants pulled out the assigned chairs.
    They were seated next to Benoît Picot and his wife Yvette, well down the table from the head where the Provost would be seated. Yvette was dressed in the latest fashion, her surcoat fully open at the sides to expose the lavishly embroidered underdress. She wore a pearl-laden choker and her shoulders were nearly bare, the low décolletage of the underdress and surcoat both frothing with lace.
    It seemed to Perenelle that the others at the table kept glancing toward them—toward Nicolas. For his part, Nicolas seemed at ease, sitting back in his chair with the knob of his oak staff under his hand. The long table was laden with fine china and silver; Perenelle wondered where the Provost had come by such rich settings. Yvette noticed her looking at the silver, and she leaned over to Perenelle, her sweeping headdress touching Perenelle’s own. “Navarre silver,” she whispered. “Or worse, English.”
    Perenelle nodded. She stroked the silver handle of the knife; it was cold under her fingertip.
    The Provost had finished greeting the guests, and now he and his wife moved to their seats at the head of the table, two of the wait staff pulling back their chairs. One of the deacons from Notre Dame stood and intoned the blessing. As the diners crossed themselves and the priest sat again, there was a flurry of activity around the hall as the food was brought in. The fare was as lavish as the setting, which given the uncertain state of the city, was in itself another display of the Provost Marcel’s influence. Steaming plates of grilled vegetables came out first, arranged so that the vegetables formed images of well-known Parisian buildings. Roasted swans and peacocks were set on the table, reconstructed with their feathers and beaks, and stuffed with an assortment of meats, which the wait staff proceeded to serve. Platters of breads and pastries were set close to hand. Wine was poured into crystalline goblets. For a time, the diners concerned themselves only with eating.
    Some time later, a bell was rung, and Provost Marcel stood as a silence moved slowly down the table. “My friends, my compatriots, my allies,” the Provost began, “the last few years have seen a great diminishment of our country and our city. The shameful performance of our army at Poitiers and the capture of King Jean were