The End of the World is Nigh

by Tony Moyle

  “Yes, I did. Clouds of lobsters, locusts and gnats.”

  “The lobster clouds have always confused me.”

  “Do you know all of my quatrains?” asked Nostradamus.

  “Every single one.”

  “Really! I’m impressed. And who are you exactly?”

  Jean rose from his seat and conducted a pathetically over-elaborate bow, further propagating the tavern’s collective desire to stab him to death before he left the building. “Jean de Cavigny, at your service.”

  “And you’ve come for an interview,” mumbled Michel, wondering whether this naïve young man had accidentally slipped through the net of their recruitment process.

  “Yes. Here are my credentials,” he said, placing a roll of paper on the table.

  It was the most pristine example of paper Michel had ever witnessed. Firstly it was white and most paper was beige with signs of flame damage. Secondly it was written with curiously intricate fonts of differing sizes and styles. It had been crafted so carefully it must have taken the author weeks. Thirdly it contained words like ‘self-starter,’ ‘team player,’ ‘entrepreneurial’ and ‘results driven’ in a rather self-indulgent opening paragraph. Michel was searching for a secretary not a luminary.

  “I only need someone to do my admin,” said Michel abruptly.

  “Yes, sir, I know.”

  “But that’s not you, is it?”

  “Really?” replied Jean crestfallen. “Why do you think that?”

  “Let me explain. How does a degree in ancient Greek from the College Royal in Paris help me manage my filing or written correspondence?”

  “Are any of your letters written in ancient Greek?” asked Jean desperately.

  “Nope. They’re not even written in modern Greek.”

  “Oh. Well, I have many other attributes that I think you might find useful,” said Jean, nodding towards the paper.

  “Are you referring to your recent article on the mating habits of butterflies?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Or the fact that you state here that you can play lute to grade six?”

  “Music is soothing, sir, I could play it in the background to make the atmosphere more inspiring.”

  “No,” replied Michel curtly. “Do you have any skills as a secretary? Are you good at proofreading? Skilled at filing? Good with diary management?”

  Jean’s chin dropped down onto his chest. “No, not really.”

  “Then why are you wasting my time?”

  “Because I want to work for you, Monsieur Nostradamus. I’m desperate to learn the ways of the prognosticator. I have been inspired by the great prophets of our time: you, Jean Froissart, Philibert Lesage…”

  “Who?”

  “Surely you’ve heard of Froissart?”

  “Obviously. The other one.”

  “Philibert Lesage. You mean you’re not aware of his work?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Oh you should, the man’s a genius. Everyone in Paris knows who he is. He can’t walk the streets without a stranger recognising him. He started working for the Queen about a year ago. Apparently he originally came from these parts. They say he’s the most accurate prophet who’s ever lived.”

  “Bastard!” said Nostradamus, smashing both fists on the table.

  “I might not be right for the job, sir, but I hardly think that language is fair. I do have feelings, you know.”

  “Not you. Philibert.”

  “You do know him, then.”

  “Oh, I know him. And it’s about time he and I had a little chat.”

  “You’ll need a month, sir, he’s still in Paris.”

  Michel had barely thought about Philibert over the last eighteen months. The last he’d heard, Claude had shipped him off to Paris on his own suggestion. He’d not expected him to last the year. But not only had he survived, he also appeared to be gaining notoriety using the skills that Michel himself had taught him. It would not stand. He’d been very clear about his offer to train Phil. He was under no circumstances allowed to be better at it than him. How this fraud had managed to do so didn’t matter. No one was going to put him in the shade.

  “Jean, do you own a horse?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then why on earth didn’t you include it on here?” replied Michel, stubbing his finger on the page. “I mean that changes everything. You’re exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “Really…because I own a horse,” replied Jean, a little annoyed he’d gone to so much trouble writing up his credentials in so much detail and with so much effort.

  “You’re hired.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing! I won’t let you down, you’ll see. What time do I start in the morning?”

  “Morning? No, you start immediately.”

  “Now?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “But we haven’t agreed a salary yet. And what about healthcare, insurance…”

  “I’ll pay you two francs a week. If you get sick you’ll probably die like everyone else, and you don’t need insurance because I predict the future. You can have a free copy of each of my almanacs and my personal access key to the cosmic energy. Take it or leave it.”

  “The horse needs new shoes.”

  “Done.”

  Michel found the cleanest piece of blank paper from his pile, although it was still many shades of beige away from Jean’s gleaming résumé, and started to craft a letter. Once it was finished he sealed it with candle wax and handed it to his new employee.

  “Ride back to Paris immediately. Take this to Her Majesty The Queen. Then return here for your next duties.”

  “But sir, I just arrived here from Paris,” sighed Jean. “Couldn’t I get some food and rest first?”

  “Jean, everyone within these four walls other than me wants you dead: do you really want to risk it?”

  Jean scanned the patrons to see that many were sharpening blades or pointing aggressively at him. “See you in a couple of months, then.”

  *****

  Much had happened in fifteen sixty-three. After Vassy, Annabelle had returned to Marseille to attend to her late husband’s funeral in the full, but undisclosed, knowledge that she’d been responsible for his death. Back in her home town, Claude had soon seen to it that she was walking down the aisle with husband number two before she hit twenty-five.

  The massacre at Vassy had indeed been the flashpoint that Jacques de Saluces hoped for, even if it hadn’t panned out quite the way he’d expected. The events of that March day, fifteen-sixty-two, had forced the Guise brothers, never shy in their support of the Catholic mantra, to adopt a more militant set of tactics. Further flashpoints developed into scuffles, which developed into brawls and, without anyone blowing a trumpet, full-scale religious war.

  Louis Bourbon, Prince of Condé, and unelected leader of the Protestant cause, mustered his support and successfully seized the city of Orléans. Buoyed by his achievements, bullish groups of Protestants sprang up all over France to capture the strategically important towns of Angers, Tours and finally Lyon. The sides clashed in significant battles at Orléans, Rouen and Dreux.

  Anne de Montmorency once again donned his armour, keen not to miss an opportunity to further blot his abysmal military record. True to form, the now sixty-seven-year-old Constable was yet again captured during the disastrous Battle of Dreux. But the Catholics weren’t the only ones to suffer setbacks. When one of the Guise brothers was assassinated in the first months of the new year the Queen was forced to negotiate a truce through the Edict of Amboise.

  One of the biggest changes that year happened in August when Charles was declared the legal monarch. Still only thirteen, Charles had been kept well away from matters of state since the infamous attack on his sister and the widespread discontent that had festered amongst the nobility as a result. But in a very different climate it was actually the nobility who held the key to his reinstatement. Each side in the war felt they would gain more power
from the young impressible King Charles than they ever would from the more conciliatory Queen Catherine.

  As all these events unfolded through the year, one person penetrated them all. Philibert had predicted the outcome. What began as the occasional input at the Queen’s request migrated to the role of full-time advisor. If the Queen wanted to know what Italy would do in the spring, they called for Phil. If the Queen wanted to know which nobles were on side, out they wheeled him. If the Queen wanted to decide who to execute, particularly if Phil didn’t want it to be him, there he was ringing the doorbell of the palace first thing in the morning. There wasn’t a single aspect of the day-to-day running of the country that hadn’t been put before his consideration.

  And frankly, he was getting sick of it.

  In many respects he was as much a prisoner now as he had been when he was officially in one. There was a little more space, better breakfasts and a lot less lice, but ultimately he was trapped in employment with no notice period. People like Philibert didn’t get jobs, they were unemployable. Yet he’d done such a good job of convincing the Queen of his talents she couldn’t rule effectively without him. So reliant on him was she that Philibert and his assistant, as the Queen liked to call Chambard, had been relocated to the Palace of Fontainebleau, her personal and official new residence. Always close at hand in an emergency, all she needed to do was ring his bell.

  Oh that ruddy bell!

  Ten times a day that bell rang, only ceasing when he left his quarters to retreat from it. Over the years he’d built up a strong resentment towards the way the rich and powerful treated the commoners of this land, and here he was advising them how to do it more efficiently. There had to be a way out. He’d got himself into this mess and he would have to get himself out of it. That was his real job, after all.

  There was a time, early on in his role as official Royal Seer, when Philibert would actually consider what to write in his predictions. He would even replicate the conditions and approach that Michel had taught him, to increase the chances that cosmic energy might lend a hand here and there. Not anymore. Now the requests for, and outcomes of, his prophecies were so regular, certain and predictable he’d lowered himself to writing the first thing that popped into his head. Sometimes he purposely wrote total rubbish in the hope that his unbreakable run of form might desert him.

  It never did.

  For his own amusement he’d written a rather explicit prophecy about the Duke of Guise, whom he’d never forgiven for his actions in Vassy. The verse suggested that Guise would be discovered in a well-known brothel wearing woman’s clothes and in the company of three women scantily dressed as clowns. It was hard to say whether Phil or Guise were more shocked when it turned out to be true. Unsurprisingly, Francis of Guise was not seen in the royal court much after that, deciding his talents were better employed elsewhere.

  It was clear that sending Chambard out to give his predictions a little helping nudge was unlikely to alter the outcome. What was the point? They all ended up coming true anyway. What’s more, Chambard was no longer strong enough to wrestle boar or run around castles avoiding exploding beds. His health had faded rapidly over the past twelve months and the cause of his ailments were very simple. Age.

  Old Father Time had finally caught up with the great wanderer. It was hard to say how old he was exactly because even he didn’t know what year he was born. There were no documents concerning his birthdate, place or parents, a common fact for those born into poverty. Half of them died before they got off zero, so why waste the paper. For as long as Chambard could recall he’d fended for himself. Most people thought he was sixty, but it’s very possible he was even older than Anne de Montmorency.

  His old friend’s slow degradation, and the return of Annabelle to the south, had punished him with a loneliness he’d not experienced since the death of his family. He missed Annabelle more than he’d expected. Her bravery at Vassy had saved his life and latterly helped him to understand that the love she had for him was no fool’s crush. It ran deeper, and not just in her. It welled in his heart also. Absence had only strengthened those feelings. Love, though, shared a room with guilt. Guilt that the repercussions on her own life because of her actions would be significant and harsh. A debt that must be repaid.

  The last significant event of fifteen sixty-three was the arrival in Fontainebleau of a letter in the hands of a young scholar called Jean de Cavigny.

  The bell rang once more. Two minutes later he was trotting down the corridors to see what she wanted this time.

  “Philibert, I require your counsel,” she demanded in a tone that suggested she knew how much power she had over him.

  “I live to serve you as always,” he replied cordially.

  “I want to take the court on a tour of the country to heal the divisions that are all too evident between our people. I want the King to see his domain and build trust with his people.”

  “Do you think that is wise? Even here, protected by the court, the King is a handful.”

  “Silence! Know your place in matters concerning my children.”

  This abruptness of tone was not new to Philibert. It was a common occurrence that had slowly escalated over the months as his service was taken for granted. The novelty of his talents had worn off and now his input was controlled with the same ruthless efficiency as the military or tax collection.

  “Why have you called me here, your majesty?”

  “Because I want your opinion.”

  “I can easily write you a prophecy,” he replied, knowing full well he kept about half a dozen about his person at any one time like discarded jokes from Christmas crackers. He had a tendency to deal them out at royal gatherings to impress the guests.

  “That won’t be necessary. I only want your opinion.”

  “I think there is good logic in your decision,” he replied, not in the least bit interested whether there was a grand tour or not.

  “Good. He thinks so as well,” added the Queen tapping the letter on her lap.

  “Who does?”

  “Nostradamus.”

  “What’s he got to do with it? I thought I was the Royal Seer?”

  “You are, but I still value his input. His letter clearly states that he has seen visions of the tour and its potential success.”

  “Good for him.”

  “There was something else he was adamant about, though.”

  “Oh, he’s always adamant, he struggles with any other pose.”

  “He said you must accompany the party and Marseille must be one of our first stops. We leave in a week.”

  The Queen left, followed as always by her other advisors, including Nicholas Throckmorton who’d taken to carrying a Bible with him at all times. Sometimes without warning he’d kneel and shout a Psalm before making the sign of the cross three times in the air. Phil wondered if this had anything to do with the prophecy he’d given him suggesting that God was considering purging all first-born children who had moustaches and were called Nicholas.

  Philibert ambled dejectedly back to his quarters where Chambard was laid up in bed, bored and welcoming the end of his days.

  “I can’t stay like this,” said Chambard as Phil shut the door and slumped into the seat by the window thoroughly exhausted by the hours spent each day crafting history from his own imagination.

  “Feeling any better?”

  “No. My legs hurt, my arms hurt, my butt’s fallen asleep again and my brain wants to attack my body with a scythe, but it can’t convince any of my limbs to join in because they’re all knackered. This is no life. I’m a wanderer who hasn’t wandered in months. Can’t you do something?”

  “Like what?”

  “Push me off a cliff.”

  “It’s pretty flat around Paris.”

  “Um…any plague kicking around at the moment?”

  “There’s a bit in Limoges. But that’s in the wrong direction.”

  “Wrong direction for what?”

  Philibert su
mmarised the Queen’s plans for a royal tour that they were soon to be a part of.

  “I’m done with this,” said Phil with a sigh. “This is not what we planned. We’re meant to trick people for our benefit not theirs. I have to find a way out of it.”

  “Any ideas.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “A mark?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Nostradamus.”

  “Really. Why him?”

  “Because he’s the reason we’re in Paris in the first place. And he’s the reason we’re going back on this ridiculous tour. Which means it must be benefiting him in some way. Plus he’s a charlatan and I want everyone to see it for themselves.”

  “But how does that remove you from the Queen’s service?”

  “You’ll see. If my plan works, I think I can win Annabelle’s hand, crush Michel’s image and get the sack all in one con. But it means I need your help one more time.”

  “I can’t do much.”

  “I don’t need you to move. Just write.”

  “Write what?”

  “A prophecy.”

  “But that’s your job.”

  “Oh, we’re both going to write one.”

  “I think my mind might be on the way out. I’m sure you just said both of us?”

  “Yes, I did. The problem with my prophecies is they always come true, and for this con we need one that doesn’t. The only way to convince a mark is to entice them with their strongest desires, you taught me that. So what does Michel want most in the world?”

  “Fame and legacy.”

  “Exactly. So we need him to think that we’re giving it to him. And the way we do that is by breaking all three rules.”

  - Chapter 29 -

  The Royal Tour

  If a mentally fragile thirteen-year-old boy with too much power is allowed to organise anything more complicated than to run his own bath, it’s bound to happen. And from the moment that Catherine relented to Charles’s pressure to organise the tour, the wheels started to come off. And boy were there a lot of wheels.

  Down the ages a grand tour was the rite of passage trod by upper-class youths and inquisitive scholars in order for them to ‘find themselves’. Often all they found was syphilis and an allergic reaction to olives, but they still went in their droves. These trips were usually solitary affairs involving no more than the individual in question and possibly a mentor, who acted as a cultural and geographical guide.