The End of the World is Nigh

by Tony Moyle

  Philibert didn’t even hear that part. He was far too preoccupied with his search of the Tower. The item he needed had to be small, valuable and easily concealed. And most importantly of all it had to be anonymous, to avoid any obvious link to its original owner. Anything that connected owner and object would pinpoint him to this place, at this time and lead to an untimely and excoriating death, witnessed no doubt by his own kind who would flock to the only entertainment they were allowed, public execution.

  Stealthily he passed from room to room like a phantom; observing, surveying, even fondling the items contained inside, but never leaving the slightest trace of his presence. He breezed through the music room, full of fragile instruments including ancient lutes, beautifully crafted flutes and a massive golden harp. None were small. In another, huge bookcases were stuffed with delicate manuscripts, eye-catching works of art and exceptionally valuable antiquities. None were easily concealed about his person. Philibert stopped momentarily to marvel at the contents of both rooms, longing to spend more time amongst the Enlightenment, in the hope that they might quench his insatiable desire for self-improvement. Not today. No time. To him these objects had a value beyond financial measure and removing any would only be for his personal pleasure. But if he found and sold something of great worth, that would fit neatly in his pocket: maybe one day he might afford his own collection.

  Climbing a winding staircase, that Phil correctly guessed led to the highest level of the tower, a series of doors protected private chambers. In the centre of the first room a four-poster bed, adorned with colourful, embroidered fabrics, was encircled by beautiful tapestries hung on the walls to conceal cold, natural stone. A fire crackled in the hearth as its embers took their last gasps of life. Smoke danced through the unlatched window kidnapping the sweet-smelling fragrance from a bowl of jasmine flowers on its wispy fingers.

  A mahogany trunk with intricate carvings nestled partly concealed next to and behind the overhanging drapes of the bed. On closer examination it was locked firmly and there was no evidence that any key had been left visible. It wouldn’t cause an issue. Renaissance innovation had not advanced to the level of designing a truly foolproof security system.

  Not from an expert at least.

  Wherever there is desperation you will find people who are forced to break the rules in the pursuit of survival. If your death from hunger was certain there was little jeopardy in stealing to avoid it. Getting caught would simply put you back in death’s path, but at least you’d die quickly. Success, though, might keep you from death’s door for one more day at least. Thievery in the sixteenth century was almost as popular as adultery, and it didn’t matter what Moses had to say about it. Most thieves, however, were amateurs. Opportunistic hit-and-run merchants who lacked detailed planning or skilled execution.

  Philibert removed a long, thin blade from under his tunic and started to work on the lock. In seconds it clicked open and the contents were at his mercy. The glistening gold, silver and gems shimmered like stars in the dimness of the firelit room. There were plenty of treasures inside that met his criteria, but Chambard had always taught him against greed. The clever thief played with the owner’s mind, creating the illusion that the object might have been misplaced rather than stolen. If you possessed items of value, being robbed was not something you anticipated. Fear for the rich existed in more obvious forms like an army marching towards your castle, or a deviously planned assassination attempt.

  Amongst the many fine pieces of jewellery an intricate locket with an exceptionally interesting design caught his attention. At the end of a long, silver chain was a pendant in the shape of a ram: a cluster of pearls set on a gold base gave the impression of the animal’s woollen coat. He examined it closely. The cavity inside the pendant was empty but it was such a lovely piece. Would it be missed? Did it conceal any evidence of its real owner? It wasn’t easy to know, but Chambard would expect some prize to work with.

  Without warning a woman crashed through the door, and slammed it behind her. In one movement she threw herself onto the bed and wept loudly. In her distress to escape whatever circumstances placed her in this state, she was oblivious to the man currently crouched on his knees, riffling through her most prized possessions. Phil’s brain sent out an urgent message to any part of his body that might be capable of sound. The response was immediate. The air was compressed from his throat and stored somewhere deep inside him. His heart did its best to stop beating more than was absolutely necessary and any part of his body that was capable of movement froze solid.

  Two feet away from him, just above his head and behind the drapes that hung firmly from the top of the bed and down to the floor, Annabelle de Savoie was crying uncontrollably, head buried deep in her pillow.

  ‘What do I do now?’ thought Phil.

  For months he and Chambard had meticulously schemed to place Phil here. A single event in a series of countless endeavours, each one more dangerous and lucrative than the last. Every one had taken guile, planning, wits, teamwork and just a pinch of luck. But neither of them could have foreseen, or discussed, possible exit strategies to a situation like this. Philibert had precisely twelve seconds to choose his next move before he ran out of breath and his gasping for air set off the cavalry charge. Retreat seemed the only sensible option.

  He slowly and carefully placed the locket back in the trunk and lowered the lid. It would be impossible to lock without making excessive noise. He gently raised his body to a standing position, in a motion best described as a reverse bow in extreme slow motion. As he completed it his lungs exploded and fresh air rescued him from a permanent blue-faced asphyxiation.

  “What?”

  “Hello!” said Phil lamely, adding a pathetic little wave for good measure.

  “How dare you! What are you doing in my bedroom?” shouted Annabelle as she turned her head and sat bolt upright from the shock of seeing a relative stranger standing above her bed and bowing so only the top of this head was visible. Fortunately for Philibert it appeared the shock of his presence had averted her attention from the unlocked trunk out of place next to her bed.

  “I was…looking for…the toilet.”

  “The toilet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mean the garderobe?”

  “Oh yes…that. That’s exactly what I was looking for. A go-de-rube,” he replied, horribly mispronouncing it.

  “You don’t know what a garderobe is, do you?” suggested Annabelle.

  “Yes, of course I do. It’s a room used to store cloaks. I was looking for mine as I thought I’d left my purse in it.”

  “What did you need your purse for?”

  “Um…I was making a wager with Captain Fourvière…about the…about the…wingspan of the average goose.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, that’s fair enough.”

  “A minute ago you said you were looking for the toilet.”

  “Um…yes, I did say that.”

  “But we don’t have a toilet, only a garderobe. People tend to do their ‘business’ in there.”

  “Doesn’t that rather ruin all the cloaks?”

  “Something’s not right here. Who are you really?”

  “I told you I’m Philibert Montmorency.”

  “The Montmorency family is one of the most famous and powerful families in all of France and in my experience they do not drink mead, they know what a garderobe is, and every one of them knows what Anne de Montmorency looks like.”

  “You can’t accuse me of being an imposter based on that, all of which I can explain, by the way,” said Phil desperately trying to convince his brain to stop the sweating process building up in his pores.

  “Go on, then, explain it.”

  “Wine triggers my hives, we don’t call it a garderobe in Languedoc we call it a cloakroom, and I do know what Anne de Montmorency looks like.”

  “And…”

  “She’s a really plump woman, about forty, terribl
e teeth, always wears a hat and has a tendency to call everyone she meets ‘Melvyn’ as a consequence of her extremely poor memory.”

  “How interesting! What a unique picture you present of the current Constable of France,” she replied, delight spreading across her face. “I knew you were an imposter the moment you referred to him as a ‘her’ and now you’ve proven it. How very exciting.”

  “Anne de Montmorency isn’t a man,” said Phil confidently.

  “Then clearly you’ve never met him. I have. And he didn’t call me Melvyn.”

  Annabelle wiped her eyes and sat forward on the bed. Her initial impression of Phil was morphing into something altogether different. The rather naïve and predictable character she’d met in the hall had revealed himself to be a rebel with absolutely no right to exist amongst her normal company, and yet he’d used his wits and charm to get as far as her bedroom. Most men just grabbed her and dragged her there.

  “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” said Phil, his forlorn expression desperate for her understanding.

  “I guess that depends on your story, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t have time for stories. If they find me in here I’m done for.”

  “I wouldn’t worry, they’ll be too busy celebrating my marriage.”

  “Your marriage…then why are you up here crying?”

  “Because I don’t want to marry Jacques. He’s an idiot with the personality of a broken window. I don’t want to marry anyone my father approves of, I want to marry someone different, someone charming, dangerous and mysterious. The sort of man who can con his way into a party of noblemen under a false name.” She smiled and twiddled her hair.

  ‘Is she flirting with me?’ thought Philibert. No, she couldn’t be. She was young, pretty and confident, very unlike the women he got involved with who had a tendency to be old, ugly and mad. It wasn’t possible. She wasn’t in his league. It was impossible for a man of his background to be with a woman of status and standing. They just didn’t allow it.

  “I’m sorry you don’t like your father’s choice, I’m sure he has your best interests at heart.”

  “Ha, he’s not interested in my welfare, he’s interested in his legacy, land and politics. I’m just a pawn in that game. An asset to be traded.”

  “Look, I really am sorry about your predicament, but I must go back to the banquet before people notice I’m missing.”

  “Oh really, that’s a shame. You could just come over here on the bed with me for a while. I don’t bite,” she purred and shuffled her dress so it rolled off her shoulders.

  ‘OH MY GOD, she’s definitely flirting with me!’ Phil’s brain shouted internally so that it shook from the sound waves bouncing off his internal organs. This had got out of hand. It was time to act like a lovestruck teenager, panic and run away. In a bizarre and contradictory signal he shook his head and stuck his thumb up at the same time before rushing like a scared lamb towards the door. Before he had the opportunity to open it and bolt for his life down the stairs, a firm knock came from the other side. His blood, which had been getting increasingly warm, completely evaporated, sending his body limp and collapsing his legs in a heap behind the door.

  “My dearest,” came a creepy, eccentric voice through the panels of oak, “are you alright?”

  “Go away, Jacques. I don’t want to see you.”

  Philibert made the sign of throat cutting with his finger.

  “But we are now betrothed, my love, you must obey me,” replied Jacques, his voice becoming sterner and more menacing.

  “Jacques, you’re an ox’s arse and I will never obey you as long as you live.”

  Like a champagne cork the door burst open and crashed against the wall, narrowly missing the crumpled heap of the man cowering behind it. A red-faced Jacques stormed into the bedroom occasionally stumbling from a night of too much drinking. Annabelle stood to face him defiantly, but was soon forced back on the bed by a fierce slap across her face that was administered by her husband-to-be.

  “How dare you speak to me like that! I demand your obedience. You are nothing but a stupid woman, and you will learn your place.”

  Another slap was followed by a shrill scream and Annabelle’s desperate pleas for him to stop. Her initial character assassination of Jacques had not included cruelty and abuse, but the marks on her face would firmly remind her of it in the future. As a soldier Jacques was a physically intimidating man who’d been trained to kill, or be killed. As a nobleman he’d been bred to believe he was entitled to take whatever he wanted. What he wanted now was a young and complicit wallflower that he could use to extend his lineage and boost his standing. She had been chosen for him, and she would not resist.

  The door to the stairwell remained open and the light from its torches beckoned Philibert to leave the discomfort of his predicament. It was at most three steps away. Maybe two if he went for a lunge. Three steps from escape and the opportunity to regroup with the evening’s damage only limited. He had no responsibility for this girl. Nothing he could say or do would remove her from her father’s choice. His involvement would not stop it, and everything he’d fought to achieve over the past fifteen years would be lost.

  This was not his world.

  If a lord, betrothed through the proper channels, wanted to beat the living daylights out of his wife-to-be, who was he to challenge it? Who was he to say what was right or wrong for their kind? Yet that interference didn’t work in the opposite direction. It was the nobility who decided how his kind should live. When they fought, how they worked, what taxes they paid, how they worshipped, and what information they were allowed to access. Morals weren’t the divine right of those in power. Why shouldn’t he intervene? After all, he was meant to be one of them.

  Almost unconsciously Phil stood up and placed his hands on his hips in what he hoped was his most intimidating pose but just came across as desperately camp, before letting out a gruff, assertive cough. Jacques turned with surprise and rage in his eyes.

  “I command you to stop,” said Phil, not certain why he’d chosen the word ‘command’ and hoping it was forceful enough to work but not forceful enough to start a fight.

  Jacques drew a blade from his belt and advanced slowly on the unwelcomed guest. To protect himself, Phil spontaneously drew the only blade that he carried, a now slightly bent, short and blunt lock-picking knife. If it came to actual swordplay his weapon was a raspberry against a watermelon.

  *****

  “And you say you found him in Annabelle’s room?” said Claude from the other side of a small, one-man cell in the basement of the tower.

  “Yes, my lord,” replied Jacques.

  “And my daughter, is she safe?”

  “Yes, my lord, I’d never allow any harm to come to her.”

  Phil snorted, and forgetting the current state of his face managed to cover most of his chin with blood.

  Claude peered through the bars where Phil was slumped in a heap. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “It’s all just a massive misunderstanding,” he stammered. “Just wait until my aunt hears about this.”

  “My lord, this man was intent on robbing your daughter of her purity.”

  “That’s not true,” mumbled Phil who was struggling to speak on account of the heavy beating he’d just received initially at the hands of Jacques and subsequently from a number of the guards who liked nothing more than getting in on the action. The blood loss had mostly been soaked up by his similarly coloured clothing, but there was no hiding his fat lip and bruised face.

  “He must be punished,” demanded Jacques. “Only death is good enough.”

  “Let’s not be hasty, Jacques. Remember he’s a Montmorency and in the current state of play I think it would be unwise to kill someone with powerful Catholic connections.”

  Of all of Phil’s facial features that had recently be redesigned by fists, his ears had fortunately escaped almost unscathed. This information was useful. It mean
t he finally knew which side of the religious war they were on and more importantly that Annabelle had not given away his false identity.

  “The war is coming here anyway,” replied Jacques sternly. “There’s no stopping it. Who cares if we kill one of theirs before the start. I’m ready for retaliation.”

  “Queen Catherine is still negotiating a treaty: it would be rash of us to put that in jeopardy.”

  “Then what is your will?” huffed Jacques.

  “Send him to the Château de Marignane.”

  “Yes, my liege, if that really is your decision.”

  “It is. Put him in with Michel, it’s about time he had some company and a mind like his might just help us learn more.”

  A young stable boy hurried down the steps, chest heaving from the exertion of whatever task he’d been given. Even though his eager demeanour suggested he was desperate to offload news, he stood next to his masters and waited patiently to be noticed.

  “Well,” said Jacques barking at the young boy.

  “I’ve looked everywhere, sir, but there’s no sign of the old squire with the heavy eyebrows who arrived with him.”

  “He must have ridden off.”

  “Pardon me, sir, but I don’t think so. His horse is still here although it’s a little distressed.”

  “Distressed?”

  “Yes,” said the boy. “I’m not surprised. It’s got two human bite marks on its arse.”

  - Chapter 4 -

  Conspiracy Theories

  The exact method of mankind’s forecasted downfall was totally dependent on where you looked. If you watched the television news then most of the assessments were based on a reasonable and reserved assessment of the facts as they knew them. Experts made reference to the discovery in Lyon of the new prophecy in a way that lacked histrionics. It was part a national broadcaster’s responsibility after all to offer the public balance. In most countries it was against the law to televise anything uneven that might be biased towards one side of the argument. All mainstream opinions had to be offered to the viewer. Viewer, singular, was about right these days.