The End of the World is Nigh

by Tony Moyle

  Philibert had now correctly predicted two events that he’d been quite prepared to falsify. In his attempts to con people into believing he was a powerful force in the world of future telling, he’d inadvertently done just that. The day after the incident with the King, the Queen had summoned Phil to see her. And this time there was no entourage to accompany him.

  On arriving at the palace he was shepherded through a series of magnificently decorated reception rooms, each one suffocated by a collection of priceless objects inside their colourful walls. Decadence also oozed through the architraves and upholstery in a vulgar attempt to prove the royal family’s wealth and class. Phil was torn between disgust and jealousy. Although he appreciated the hours of artistry and craft that had been poured into creating such wonderful pieces, he couldn’t escape his anger that each one had been paid for by money that might be better spent on simpler pleasures, such as food and warmth for citizens whom the royals were supposed to protect.

  Catherine stood alone on the terrace, covered in cosy layers and gazing out over vast gardens currently hibernating under winter’s duvet. Phil bowed out of habit, even though she had her head turned away from him. He moved forward so he was standing next to her, but not close enough for it to feel uncomfortable. Her expression had a more fragile quality than it had done at their last meeting when circumstances were different.

  “Do you know how it feels to be an outsider?” she said solemnly.

  “I do, your majesty,” he replied without an ounce of irony.

  “When I first married my husband, Henry, I was a stranger here. I’d never even been to Paris before and all of a sudden it was my home. No one cared how I was feeling. I was simply here because I was a princess and the prince needed an heir. Not a wife, that was an inconvenience for the real need, a legitimate heir.”

  “And you provided him with many, your majesty.”

  “Eventually yes. But at first I was unable to bear him one,” she said, her voice trembling under the emotion. It was rare for her to let her real self sneak out from behind her tightly fitting mask, and she only did so with those she trusted. “We tried of course, when the King wasn’t in the arms of his mistress. Do you know what I had to do?”

  “No.”

  “Everything,” she snapped. “Doctors suggested all manner of untested therapies to boost the chances of conception. They made me drink mule’s urine and told me to place antlers on my ‘source of life’ in a ridiculous attempt to improve my fertility. But no children. When his brother died suddenly and he ascended to the throne they even suggested that I be replaced. Can you imagine how that feels?”

  “Lonely,” replied Philibert.

  “And through all of this personal embarrassment the main cause for my situation turned out to be an abnormality with him.”

  Philibert listened intently, and just a little awkwardly, as the Queen talked about her late husband’s tackle.

  “These are the great lengths I have been through to have my children and I will do everything in my power to protect them and their legacy, do you understand?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “My forced alienation made me determined to succeed where lesser men had failed, and how do they reward me? They call me a witch,” she said, turning to face her subject, a tear in her eye. “Yet you, Philibert Lesage, who clearly possesses great affinity with the dark arts, they call you a prophet. How can that be fair?”

  “It isn’t, your majesty. The world isn’t.”

  “Your prophecy about the King has come to pass,” she said casually.

  “I wasn’t aware,” he lied.

  “Word for word.”

  “Really? Because even I was slightly uncertain about the part about German saints,” he replied.

  “That was the really impressive part. I had already decided to gather the nobles together next month at Saint-Germain here in Paris to heal the wounds of division. Very few others knew of this decision. Now that the discontent over the King’s behaviour is growing, I must stamp my authority over the nobles even more. But I cannot foresee their reactions.”

  Phil knew that was where he came in.

  “I am appointing you my Royal Seer,” said Catherine.

  “I am flattered, your majesty, but I’m not really in the market for a…”

  “You’re not being asked, Lesage. You either accept the position with honour or lose your head with trauma.”

  Phil hadn’t predicted this, which was annoying, really, given his recent successes. He’d never wanted a permanent arrangement within the court, only to use it to remove himself from the clutches of Claude and his family. Now they both had control over him, and control was something he cherished above all other privileges.

  “Then I cordially accept,” replied Phil.

  “Good. Now tell me what I need to know.”

  The letter from Annabelle was brief and lacked detail, but it was enough to make some predictions of what might happen. Whatever Catherine agreed between the two sides of nobles during the Edict of Saint-Germain it might not survive what was being planned in a month or so from now. But even Philibert couldn’t predict where it would happen. He told Catherine as much as he knew, dispensing with any need to hide it within the text of a quatrain. She took note of the potential disruption to her plans and advised Phil to keep her briefed on any further information. Whatever involvement Annabelle was planning to have, Philibert would have to beat her to it.

  *****

  It was a day of many firsts for Annabelle. The first time she’d worn male clothes. She wasn’t a fan. The leggings were so tight they cut off the blood flow to the crotch area, presumably, she thought, in the vain attempt to enlarge everything. It was the first time she’d ridden a horse unaccompanied. Ladies didn’t ride alone. They couldn’t be trusted with anything as complicated as making a large mammal move in the right direction. She knew how to ride of course. It wasn’t skill that stopped her, it was invariably men.

  It was also the first time that she’d stolen a horse, although she liked to think of it as an unapproved lease. After adding a few hundred miles on the clock she was definitely planning to return it in reasonable working order sometime in the near future. And the first time she’d been to the town of Vassy, although nothing identified it as such, to her it was just another town called poverty. It must be a town of significance because it was here that Jacques had unknowingly led her. The location that she’d failed to hear from his conversation.

  Always riding far enough behind, to avoid her husband or any of his men noticing her following them, it had taken three days of hard riding to reach the town. Whatever Jacques was planning it was serious enough to require the entire company, which meant leaving her alone. She was glad of it, too. It allowed her the ideal circumstances to ensure she wasn’t missed.

  Not long after arriving, Jacques and his group had slipped into town to blend in with the locals, dispensing with their normal clothing and dressing as commoners. Intrigued by this, Annabelle tied up her borrowed horse and did her best to follow them.

  Vassy had few sights of merit. A few peasants rolled around in the mud engaged in a fierce argument over a woman called Nelly. An inn was on fire, although it didn’t seem to be halting normal business, as everyone continued enjoying the hospitality without being overly distracted. Even though it was late winter most patrons sat outside on benches, the inside being a little too toasty.

  Annabelle wondered why this town was even known by the nobles, let alone a place of interest. After searching the streets for most of the morning she noticed that a large number of people were moving stealthily in one direction. She followed them to the outskirts of the town where they entered a huge barn. It looked very much like any other barn. Wooden structure, surrounded by livestock, simple farming equipment leaning idly against the sides. But once she’d ventured inside she knew the structure was doubling as a church.

  It wasn’t much of a church. Location was one of the downsides of being a
Protestant, something Annabelle knew only too well. The Catholics had spent centuries building mighty monoliths in which to praise their idea of God. There was plenty of choice, too. Every city, town and village had their own version, the scale of the effort to build it often in stark contrast to the limited size of its likely congregation. But this was not true for the new religious doctrine. If you were Protestant anywhere would do, and in Vassy this was it.

  By lunchtime around six hundred worshippers had gathered secretly in this simple place of prayer in the knowledge that no rules had been broken. The recent Edict of Saint-Germain, although not yet ratified by Parliament, had clearly stated that all religions had the right to practise freely, as long as they did so in rural locations and not to the detriment of the other. This rule only applied to them of course: the Catholics could keep doing whatever they wanted to. But at least it was a start, a compromise that finally gave legitimacy to their faith even if it wasn’t altogether equitable. Perhaps the fated war against each side might yet be averted.

  Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she stood at the back of the barn and watched the service commence. There were hymns, prayers and Bible readings, just like a Catholic service with only one crucial difference. There was a lot less doom. The Catholics needed a big, healthy dollop of the stuff and usually still went back for seconds. Almost anything a member of the congregation had done since the previous Sunday was likely to be doomworthy. Ploughed the wrong field, doom. Wore the wrong-coloured hat, doom. Exhaled noisily in church, doom. Complained of a headache, doom. Smiled at someone kindly, doom. Woke up next to three random naked women having drunk nineteen bottles of wine the night before…actually that was doom in both religions.

  Midway through the service, as the pastor was giving his address, a loud thump bellowed through the wood of the closed barn door. It was largely ignored until several more fists rained down upon it, furiously seeking attention. Finally, after none of the six hundred people seemed eager to open it, someone on the outside took it upon themselves to force it open. Annabelle watched from the shadows as two dozen heavily armed men appeared at the doorway behind a skinny man dressed from head to foot in black other than the single white feather that poked through his hat. He puffed out his chest and stroked his wispy blonde goatee beard before addressing the congregation, who did their best to crane there necks around to see him.

  “Not much of a church, is it?” he said, kicking the straw under his feet. “To think that you would give up the one true faith in order to praise our Lord in a barn only suitable for swine. Is that how you would offer Him reverence? Come to our church, pray for God’s grace and honour Him in the shit and dust,” he said in mock announcement.

  “We have done nothing wrong, and you are not welcome here, Catholic,” said the pastor in the loudest booming voice he could muster.

  Francis, the Duke of Guise, chuckled to himself. He despised anyone who had succumbed to the Calvinist brainwashing that had kidnapped their minds from the one true religion. But other than taunts there was little he could do. Unless he was given cause to do so, he would have to leave them be at the behest of the Queen’s decision to allow the sacrilegious Edict of Saint-Germain.

  “You are right, my blasphemous friend. You have broken no laws. But everything you do here is wrong. I ride to Paris, and when I get there I will impress upon Her Majesty her own misguidance and lack of judgement. And if she does not bow to this pressure I will take all action necessary to wipe this phoney religion from the fields and,” he chuckled again, “barns of France.”

  As his small band of soldiers turned to leave a man stood up in the crowd defiantly. It was Jacques and he was holding a large stone in his hand. Annabelle knew that this was the flashpoint he’d been planning. There was no way she could get close enough, quick enough to stop him. Everyone watched helplessly as he wound up his right arm to launch the rock in the direction of the Duke. But before he released it someone caught hold of his wrist. It was Philibert.

  A minor and rather one-sided fight broke out in the middle of the congregation as Philibert tried vainly to wrestle the rock from the hand of his enemy. Jacques’ greater strength prevailed and Phil was knocked to the ground. His attempt to foil the plan had failed and he was forced to witness the rock, hurled with great precision, strike Francis Guise on the back of the neck. The Duke was immediately knocked to the floor in a state of semi-consciousness, blood gushing from the wound. His band of soldiers drew their swords and bows to defend their leader. And everyone knows that the best form of defence is attack.

  The first arrow struck an elderly gentleman in the chest and like a Mexican wave the panic spread from the back of the church to the front. The crowd of worshippers were totally defenceless: they’d come for communion not confrontation. More arrows pierced flesh and bone as the people tried desperately to locate a protected space or alternative exit. There were none. The only way out was through the flying arrows and shiny blades, and the only safe place was to cower behind another body.

  Annabelle’s concern rested with only one of these people. She scurried around the side of the chaos so she could cut in through the crowd to find the place where Jacques and Philibert had fought. Bodies fell in her path as they were struck by projectiles that whizzed through the air. An arrow struck a barrel just as she ducked in behind it. It wobbled precariously in the wood and she instinctively pulled it out to use as a meagre weapon if she had to protect herself. Within the mass of bodies, some alive and some dead or close to it, Jacques had Philibert pinned to the floor with a massive hand on his throat. No con or prophecy would extricate him from this.

  “What more proof do I need?” growled Jacques as Phil desperately struggled to release himself from the stronger man’s grip. “A Catholic spy just as Nostradamus said.”

  “No. I’m not even religious, I just didn’t want to see these innocent people killed in cold blood,” he replied through broken gulps of air as the breath was squeezed from his airways.

  “This is war, my friend, that’s what they’re supposed to do. Now you will join them and the good news is it’ll look like it was done by your own people. It’ll be on Guise’s head, not mine.”

  Jacques raised his hunting knife with his free hand, poised to strike the fatal blow. “Any final words, traitor?”

  “Yes,” Phil gasped, “I think your wife wants you.”

  “What?”

  He followed Phil’s eyes through the commotion and came face to face with a figure kneeling in the sawdust behind him.

  “Hello, Jacques.”

  A million emotions flooded through her in a fraction of a second. All the times he’d hurt her physically and emotionally. The way he’d destroyed her confidence and made her feel small. All the times he’d summoned her, dragged her, beat her, abused her and humiliated her were all rolled up into one single compulsion. Annabelle thrust the point of the arrow into his eye. Jacques fell to the floor and immediately released his grip from Phil’s neck as he lay motionless on the ground.

  “Annabelle,” said Philibert, trying to break concentration, transfixed on the scene she’d created.

  “I’ve…killed…him,” she mumbled.

  “No more than he deserved.”

  “Help me,” she trembled. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “We need to get out of here before we end up joining him,” Philibert said assertively as the arrows continued to rain down around them. “Come on, I know a way.”

  On their bellies they scrambled through upturned benches and passed wounded victims. All around them the sound of battle ensued, even though there was only one side fighting. Terrible, ear-splitting screams echoed around the high-vaulted roof unable to escape, much like their owners. When they reached one side of the structure Phil searched around for the route out. A broken panel had been his means of entry and he hoped it would offer the same ease of exit. It did.

  On the other side of the barn there was an odd sense of tranquillity as if the mas
sacre inside had occurred in another dimension entirely. Still they moved a good distance away in case Guise’s men decided to spread their menace further. How many had been killed in the melee was unclear. But when you had a motivated foe, a cul-de-sac and limited resistance, it was safe to assume that dozens would have fallen.

  “Looks like Jacques has his war,” said Phil. “Even if he won’t be there to witness it. Are you ok?”

  “I’m not sure,” replied Annabelle, her exposed skin paler than normal.

  “It’s over for you now. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “No, it isn’t over. There will be others. Father will not accept a daughter out of wedlock: he’ll soon have me hitched again, you’ll see. I can’t go back, Phil, let me stay here with you.”

  “You must. I can’t hide you here. Go back to Marseille, tell your father that Jacques was killed here. When the time is right I’ll come for you, I promise.”

  “Really? You’d do that for me.”

  “Yes. But only once everything is in place and we can be together without interference.”

  “What about Chambard?”

  “I don’t really think he fancies you,” said Phil with a chuckle.

  Under the enormity of the last hour she just about managed to force a smile as she looked around surprised to see that Chambard was nowhere to be seen. “Where is he?”

  “He wasn’t up to the journey. Not fit enough. I have to accept that Chambard’s time is coming to an end and I need to prepare myself for a life without him. I need a replacement. Want to apply?”

  - Chapter 27 -

  The Search for Mario

  Most people only understand a tiny proportion of the equipment they use every day. How many people knew how a TV works? Not many. How much of the average computers do people actually use? Ten or twenty percent maximum. It was the same with the internet. The vast majority didn’t even know what it was capable of, let alone use its full capacity. Banking, shopping, locations on maps, funny pictures of cats and naughty videos were easy enough to find. But what if someone wanted more from it?