Helter Skelter

by Des Sheridan

  His father had rattled on with the story and Leandro hadn’t really understood it. But two things struck him now. First, his father had affirmed him as a Seer. Then the message that if by mistake you fell into the clutches of the Santa Compana escape was impossible. The memory caused Leandro to shiver for he knew the legend was very ancient, dating from the time of the castros, the hill forts built by the ancient Celtic settlers in Galicia. He had often visited them but, marking his father’s words, only by day. They were odd places that sat uncomfortably in the Iberian landscape like visitors from another reality. He wouldn’t pass a night there for any price. Even in broad sunlight he had sensed how those old superstitions seemed to ooze out of the very rocks from which the ruins are made.

  Descending the steps of the church he glimpsed the follower, standing motionless, in the crowd of pedestrians across the square, but this time Leandro felt no sense of dread. His right hand played with the charm at the end of the necklace he always wore. It had been a gift from his father, three interlocking spirals. He was glad the man was there. He planned to take him on a night out.

  Chapter 54

  Dorking, England, 13 October 2014

  ‘That’s much better, James,’ said the Leader. ‘Now let’s have some fresh coffee.’

  He clicked his fingers and the lackey who wore a suit disappeared with the cafetière in search of the kitchen. The others waited in the lounge in silence. James ventured to speak once but the hard-faced man thumped him forcefully on the shoulder,

  ‘Wait until the Patron is ready,’ he hissed.

  James was made to sit in submissive silence until the coffee arrived. Then the Leader went through an elaborate ritual of letting it brew sufficiently, even insisting that someone go back and warm the milk, before finally pouring a cup for himself and his captive.

  He sipped the drink and nodded his head. ‘Good quality! I can see James that you are a man of taste and discrimination, so I know you will agree that it is important to do things properly. Good coffee requires care in the preparation. So do my affairs.’

  Turning to the man in the suit he said.

  ‘Explain to our new friend exactly what we want from him’.

  The man concisely and precisely explained to James their interest in William Howard. When he was finished here was a silence. James now knew they wanted information on William Howard during the sixteen fifties. Knowing it gave him a kind of power, he thought, but he needed time to figure out how to use it to his advantage. Maybe if he held out...

  ‘Well? I am waiting, James.’

  The Leader spoke quietly and when a further thirty seconds wait produced nothing, he opened his brief case and extracted two A-5 sized photos, passing them to James. One was of a woman and the other of a man with a child.

  ‘Look! The latest photos of Ariadne and her adoring parents. My colleague took them yesterday. Don’t the Chilterns look good at this time of year?’

  James stared at the photos as the realisation sank in. The names of his wife and children would have been easy enough to find out but these photos meant that his family, including little Ariadne, had been under direct surveillance. If these bastards had resources to do that, how could he resist them? Was there anything they couldn’t access? His face crumpled in defeat and submission and, in a hesitant voice that he scarcely recognised as his own, he began to tell them what he knew of the life and times of William Howard in the sixteen-hundreds.

  Chapter 55

  Noia, Spain, 13 October 2014

  The sun, setting over the sea, painted streaks of red and yellow into the sky, as Leandro drove into Noia. He was on the coast road and the tide was coming in, long low waves breaking over the mud with a low, sucking, seductive sound. Before long he encountered crowds along the narrow road, so he parked the car and continued on foot. A quick look confirmed that the watcher was still on his tail. Taking a deep breath Leandro plunged into the festival crowds. He was not entirely sure how tonight would rid him of his sinister pursuer but he was certain that it would. Move forward in faith had been the priest’s words. And Leandro had prepared a concoction to drug the man just in case, although he would have to find a way of getting him to drink it first. This in turn created a further problem. He didn’t want to let the man get too close.

  As dusk closed in the sky darkened to angry shades of crimson, purple and black. Torches were lit and hordes of people processed through the streets of the old quarter, towards the church of San Martino. Some of the marchers were in religious dress, with altar boys dressed in white and priests in golden vestments. The crowds were thickening too, with many people dressed in medieval clothing, singing and praying. The sound of Galician bagpipes filled the air and he could smell incense and food cooking, the aromas mingling together on the cooling sea breeze.

  Leandro slipped into the procession, all the time praying intently to the Virgin Mary to intercede with her Son, and to come to his aid, just as she had with San Juan. As the crush of the crowd tightened he was swept up in the intensity of the emotion and the sights and sounds of the ceremony. It was out of his hands now, he thought at first, sensing supernatural assistance at hand. Then his glance fell upon a small girl walking alongside him, a sweet little thing with smoky brown eyes, and he had a brainwave, a way to help push divine providence along.

  Chapter 56

  Sedan, France, 2 September 1870

  Henri paced up and down in the woodland of the Bois de la Garenne. His men would be all right for now, as it would take a while for the Prussians to close in. The horses were already tacked out so he ordered his men to check and clean their rifles and bayonets. Meanwhile he had a personal dilemma to resolve. His thoughts turned to his duty, sworn to his late father over the family bible, to commission the loyalty of any future son and heir to the protection of the Triskell. But, at the age of twenty eight, Henri was neither married nor yet a father hence his predicament. Anxiety flooded his mind! What could he do to honour his pledge? After a few minutes thought, he called out, ordering Anton to bring his writing materials. Anton, astonished, queried the request.

  ‘But, votre altesse, this is not the time, perhaps later?’

  ‘Don’t call me that! I am not a Duc here, I am a capitaine. And do as I ask, man! I have a vital letter to write to my cousin Daniel which affects the ducal inheritance. I must see to the safety of the Triskell. I am a fool! I should have done it years ago!’

  In truth Henri was more irritated with himself than with Anton. Running to the baggage Anton retrieved the satchel containing the writing kit and brought it to his master’s side. Henri had already unfolded a wooden travelling chair and sat waiting for Anton to extract and pass him pen, ink and paper. Henri knew he cut a faintly ludicrous figure but he really couldn’t care what his men thought at this juncture.

  So it was that he sat incongruously in the forest, like an artist at his easel, moulding his thoughts before capturing them in words addressed to his cousin, Daniel, who would, in the event of his death, inherit the title and his estate. He wrote what he knew of Guion Bihan and his journey from Ireland to Mont Saint-Michel with this mysterious object of great antiquity and beauty, and the mysterious power that it carried. Then of Armand Bihan who eighty years ago had brought the relic for safety to the Château d’Arz for safe keeping during the Revolution of 1789. Lastly of Henri’s grandfather, Lucien, who had invented the ruse of describing the object as the shield of Vercingetorix, the better to conceal its true origin. Lastly he implored his cousin to take upon himself the duty of protecting the object into the next generation. He recalled that he and Daniel had got on well when they spent time together as boys, although he saw him only rarely nowadays. He could but hope his cousin would take the matter seriously.

  Henri, who had spent perhaps twenty minutes lost in thought and scribing, became aware that the shelling was getting louder and that spurred him on. He must return to his men! At last, using blotting paper to check that the ink was fully dried, he folded the three sh
eets of paper and sealed them in an envelope, which he inserted in the inner breast pocket of his uniform. Still seated, he called out for Anton to bring the satchel. The aide came hurriedly towards him but then paused, looking shocked.

  ‘Anton, if anything happens to me today be sure to retrieve the envelope in my breast pocket and pass it without fail to Daniel. It concerns a vital family matter. Understood? What is the matter with you, for goodness sake?’

  Anton nodded but still stood frozen.

  A rustling noise behind Henri caused him to turn, and then realising who was present, he stumbled as he rose out of his chair knocking the wooden tablet and writing implements to the ground. Standing a few feet away, smoking a cigarette, was Louis Napoleon. He seemed at once a very familiar figure and yet different from what Henri expected. Height gave him dignity although he was stouter than Henri would have assumed. But the high forehead, bushy moustache and distinctive tufted beard were unmistakable. What was surprising were his slumped shoulders and the exhaustion entombed in his eyes. His face too was an unhealthy pallor but nonetheless a bemused smile rested on his lips.

  ‘Monsieur, I am intrigued. May I ask who you are and what literary matter is so urgent as to require such attention in these circumstances?’

  ‘Your Majesty, forgive me,’ Henri bowed. ‘I am Capitaine Henri Bihan-Malmanche, at your service. The letter relates to an urgent family matter that must be put right. Forgive me, it is personal in nature.’

  The Emperor of France laughed lightly. Then his mouth creased in what appeared to be pain. Henri knew that the Emperor’s health was rumoured by the newspapers to be poor and that might explain it. His leader coughed and inhaled again on his cigarette.

  ‘Ah yes, Le Duc d’Arz. Patrice spoke of you, and highly too, capitaine. Well, look at the two of us! I wander this forest looking to the Honour of France and find corpses at every turn, and here you are, fully focussed and assiduous in a matter of the Heart.’ He turned to his small escort. ‘You know between us we may yet save France!’ His entourage laughed.

  Henri grasped the Emperor’s mistake. He had assumed a reference to a female, but Henri was not about to correct him. An awkward silence ensued. There was no courtesy invitation to attend court, which a duc might expect, and then Henri recognised why. Louis must be conscious that he might not be Emperor for much longer, as the campaign was going disastrously wrong. Henri felt keenly for his leader. He had led France for the last twenty-two years and, whatever his mistakes, Louis Napoleon was well intentioned and had achieved much. Railways had spread far and near, industry had grown fast and Paris, under Baron Haussman’s bold design, was reborn. A shell exploded nearby - too near! It was time they all moved. Words at last came to Henri.

  ‘Your Majesty, your presence here will inspire the men beyond measure. I salute you!’

  Henri raised his arm in military salute and Napoleon, stubbing out the cigarette, returned the gesture half-heartedly, his eyes boring into Henri’s as though searching for some meaning in them. He then moved to remount his horse.

  ‘Au revoir, mon Capitaine, I will not forget this curious encounter. You restore my faith in human nature! Bonne Chance!’

  Napoleon flicked the rein of his horse which obediently moved in response and the troop started to canter away. At that moment an incoming roar announced the imminent arrival of a shell. Henri moved rapidly after Anton who had already started back towards camp. The shell, hurtling down through the trees, smashed the branches before exploding in a blaze of yellow and blue light that blasted vegetation and soil in all directions. Unfortunately for Henri he had moved towards the point of impact and the explosion uplifted him, hurling him violently against a thickset tree trunk. The top left half of his torso was blown to pieces and his broken body crashed down to earth. His left arm landed a few feet away in a bush which was left dusted in a spray of blood, tissue and bone fragments.

  Louis Napoleon, perhaps ten yards distant, turned and stared, looking in horror at the young officer’s mangled corpse.

  ‘Your Majesty, quick, we must move quickly to safety,’ implored his adjutant but the Emperor, his pallor whiter than ever, would not move. Finally he spoke quietly.

  ‘Danielle will never know now of the fervour of his affections, will she? His letter is destroyed along with him. Yes, get me out of here. It must end! Take me to Donchery.’

  ‘Sire, you are confused, Donchery is now behind enemy lines. We should rejoin the main corps.’

  ‘I repeat, take me to Donchery at once! The King of Prussia is there. I came here in search of my own death, not to see yet more youth die like this. This must stop now. I will speak with Wilhelm myself!’

  ‘But Your Majesty, we must consult first with the commanders and agree a negotiation strategy!’

  Louis Napoleon pulled his horse up, turned in the saddle to face his escort and asked loudly.

  ‘Gentlemen, enough is enough! Will you take me now to Donchery or must I go alone?’

  Faced with this anguished outburst his entourage ceased resistance and complied, accompanying Louis Napoleon as he stepped out of history.

  Chapter 57

  Dorking, England, 13 October 2014

  ‘As it happens,’ James began hesitantly. ‘I do know something of the William Howard you refer to. He stands out in the Howard chronicles, as you will shortly hear, and that is why he came to my attention.’

  Pascal nodded in encouragement and the man continued.

  ‘Your interest dates from 1649 when William was in Ireland. Well, he resurfaced back in England in 1659. We don’t know how he bypassed the Cromwellian forces in Ireland. Most likely he was hidden by some well-connected family. But evidently he did, as a letter in the archive records him turning up at the Howard farm at Glossop, in Derbyshire. He clearly knew better than to return south. Arundel, the family seat, had been largely abandoned after being besieged and taken no less than twice during the sixteen-forties and the Earl of Arundel had scuttled off to Italy to lead a quiet life. Don’t forget this is the era of the Commonwealth under the Puritans. To be a royalist, never mind a Catholic, was not a good idea. Thankfully the North was always more tolerant in such matters, capable of turning a blind eye most of the time.’

  Pascal could hear the self-assurance returning to James’ voice as he prattled on and knew it reflected the calm which had settled in the room. That was why Pascal had gone through the coffee ritual, to indicate that co-operation would lead to the return of order. Delighted with this detail pouring from James, Pascal ordered Dries to make sandwiches. The gesture further reassured James, as he carried on with his story.

  ‘William, to all intents and purposes, now laid aside the priesthood for farming and his only appearance in the affairs of men for some years is in the receipts of the Glossop farm. That this was simply a ruse to stay alive is confirmed when he resurfaces in 1664 as priestly adviser to the wife of King Charles II , Queen Consort Catherine, who was a Roman Catholic. William owed this sinecure – which meant he resided in St. James Palace, no less! - to the intervention of his cousin, Cardinal Phillip Howard. Now Phillip was quite an operator, a Vatican official yet almoner to the Queen of England. Of course, she was never crowned queen. The people would not have tolerated a Roman Catholic queen. Perhaps unsurprisingly Phillip oscillated residences between England and Europe over the years depending on the state of anti-Catholic sentiment at the Court. Not many people realise it, but Charles II himself converted to Catholicism on his death bed. That’s the Howards for you, always close to the Throne and always Catholic. Or at least Catholic when you scratched the Protestant veneer off.’

  ‘James, please may we get back to William please? You are straying off the point,’ Pascal nudged civilly.

  ‘Oh yes, yes, certainly. I’m sorry. Well, we hear little of him until he passes away in 1701 and is buried at Framlingham Church. Framlingham was another ruined castle of sorts that the Howards had in Suffolk. We don’t know why he was buried there but it is sometime
later that events bring William out from the shadows, where minor Howards linger, and into the foreground of history. Bear with me as I need to explain the context a little further. During the eighteenth century most of the Dukes of Norfolk looked both ways. They had to take the Oath of Allegiance and acknowledge the Supremacy of the Church of England in order to hold onto their estates and titles. But privately the family remained Catholic. So the pattern for the Dukes became - born a Catholic, then decamping to Protestantism once they became of age only to revert again on their death beds. It is pretty obvious that Rome gave tacit approval to this arrangement.’

  James was in full flow so Pascal, although he had questions to ask, did not interrupt.

  ‘In the seventeen-eighties, Charles Howard became the Eleventh Duke of Norfolk. He was quite a character. His first wife died after a year of marriage. The second went mad within twelve months so he locked her up for years and comforted himself with a succession of mistresses. Charles is principally remembered these days for one thing only, the restoration of Arundel Castle. He devoted much of his life and a large fortune to it. So to the nub of the matter! For some reason Charles goes to the trouble of digging up William, almost a century after his death, and re-interring him in the Fitzalan Chapel at Arundel, where most of the recent Dukes are buried. No one knows why the Eleventh Duke went to such trouble. And that is why I know about William, that is why he sticks out! That and an odd reference to something called a Triskele on his tomb.’

  That one word was music to Pascal’s ears. Triskell! His instincts had been right!

  Chapter 58

  Noia, Spain, 13 October 2014