The End of the World is Nigh

by Tony Moyle

  A shabby horse trotted through the tower gates and into its small courtyard. A muddied comparison of deep red fabric hung down its sides in a manner that suggested the horse might have dressed itself. An unexpectedly malnourished man with a crop of frizzy hair rode on its back. His skill and style were noticeably less refined than the other riders who had already dismounted and were congregating around the stables. On one side of the rider, leading the horse by its reins, stood an equally out of place squire who looked thoroughly unprepared for the magnitude of the events in front of him.

  Typically the role of a squire was taken by the knights of the future, an apprenticeship for those deemed worthy enough to be taught the etiquette and skills needed for such an important calling. Whereas the other squires massing around the courtyard were strapping young men with muscles that pressed menacingly through their tunics, this one was about sixty years old and appeared to know almost nothing about horses. He struggled to maintain the beast’s discipline as it jittered like an anxious child under its poor treatment, desperate to deposit its rider in any way possible and get away from the idiot who’d been put in temporary charge.

  After much manipulation and heavy breathing the squire finally adjusted the horse’s attitude long enough for its mount to gain smooth access to the flagstone floor and avoid any unnecessary attention.

  “I hate this bloody creature,” said the squire fixing his irritation at the horse’s eye level in case the beast hadn’t fully translated the verbal message. “It’s got a grudge against me, I’m sure of it.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Chambard. It’s a horse. They’re for riding or eating, they’re not for forging vendettas against.”

  “This one is. He’s loopy. I knew it was a bad idea. We don’t normally need a horse.”

  “Well, this time we did. This is one of our best opportunity. All our toil and hardship has led us to this moment. The big one,” said the rider in a lowered volume. “Which means the risks have risen as much as the possible rewards. We’re is the big league now, and we have to act like it. How do you think it would look if I burst into the courtyard and greeted the most important men in France being piggybacked by a sixty-year-old idiot with rickets. Cover blown, I’d say.”

  “We could have got a better horse at least?”

  “Chambard, it’s not exactly ours, is it? I’m not sure we can take it back and ask for a new one.”

  “Ok, Philibert. You’re right. But once this is all over, I’m definitely eating him. No buts.”

  “Fine!” said Philibert.

  Chambard gave the horse a sly grin as one of the peasant boys that worked at the tower took the reins and led the horse away for its own peace and quiet.

  “How do I look?” asked Philibert, doing his best to rearrange his clothes into a more presentable state.

  “Like a noble, Phil.”

  “That’s good, then.”

  “Do you have the ring?”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied, extending a hand towards his squire to show off a gold ring which featured an embossed eagle and two crossed swords down the middle, all of it in desperate need of a polish.

  “Know what to do?” said Chambard gruffly as he wiped his muddy sleeve across a single eyebrow that grew like ivy across much of his forehead.

  “Same as always. Mingle with the other guests, compliment the host, agree with their views…actually what side are they on?”

  “Hard to know for definite these days, but I’ve heard on the wind that Marseille likes to be different so they’ve probably jumped on Calvin’s bandwagon. If they mention the Huguenots then you’re a Protestant, and if they hail the Pope slip back in to fluent Catholic.”

  “Right, good advice. Once that’s done and everyone else is being entertained by the ‘hey nonnie nonnie’ brigade, I’ll go exploring.”

  “Excellent. Remember you’ve done this a hundred times before, nothing to it. Just remember everything I’ve taught you. I’ll wait by the horse and decide which bit of him I’m going to eat first.”

  Philibert followed the other dignitaries as they strolled across the courtyard and towards a circular stone staircase that ascended into the grand tower. At the top the ensemble gathered at the entrance of a large banquet hall decked in delicate flowers. The warmth of a huge fire was both felt and heard from the other side of the room. Standing by the doorway was a servant dressed in plain, dark clothes to distinguish himself from the guests in their fabulously eccentric colours and regalia. He greeted each guest politely before bellowing their name into the midst of those who’d already arrived. The room was already a din of noise as nobles talked loudly through gulps of fine local wines sipped from silver goblets.

  The nerves always peaked about now. Adrenaline seeped into his veins in a sadistic attempt to slowly poison him. His tunic felt alien against his body, intent as he knew it was to embarrass him and give the game away. He slid his hand through his frizzy, dark hair, still saturated with sweat from his arduous journey. He stretched his frame to its full potential, even though it had no effect on how small he felt in the midst of this illustrious company. Once the formalities of his introduction were complete and he was safely through the door, then the evening would get more comfortable.

  The moment had come. His moment to demonstrate a skill that had carried him so productively, and very much against the odds, since the age of fourteen. He mustered a stern yet noble expression as the servant at the door looked him up and down.

  “Welcome, your grace,” muttered the man. “How should I introduce you?”

  “Philibert Montmorency, from the Court of Languedoc.”

  The servant paused a moment.

  “Montmorency, you say? I was not aware of your invitation,” added the gruff busybody in a tone that in centuries to come would be replicated outside all nightclubs worldwide.

  “I suspect that would be because I don’t have one,” Phil replied confidently. “But ask yourself this. How would your master treat you if you turned away a member of the mighty Montmorency family? Would he honour you? Would it go down well in the court of the King when it reached his ears?”

  The guard searched the empty vacuum of his brain for answers. None materialised. A very different thought came off the cranial substitutes’ bench to replace it. It proceeded to construct a vision of the possible consequence of making the wrong choice. A vision that correctly highlighted a branding iron, long periods of darkness and a thick rope with a head-shaped loop at the end.

  “Right,” said the guard reflectively. “I see what you’re saying, but I’m not familiar with a Philibert Montmorency. I’m aware of Anne of course, and Henri. But not Phil.”

  Philibert held his right hand out once more and nonchalantly brandished his ring under the soldier’s nose. “You’ll recognise my seal, then.”

  “Oh…yes of course. My apologies, your excellency.”

  The man immediately announced Philibert’s name and title loudly into the room where almost nobody paid it any attention, just as he’d hoped. Philibert strode arrogantly into the circular hall and immediately helped himself to a large flagon of mead. Those around him supped at wine goblets and huddled in small groups entrenched in discreet conversations. As Philibert watched the activities in the room it appeared to him to be divided into two factions both debating nervously with themselves and keen to keep their views concealed from the other. There could be only one reason for this secrecy.

  The war of religions was an internal threat that had the potential to overflow into a conflict more fearsome than those fought against historic opponents who’d encircled France from all directions since the Middle Ages. This was a danger that came from within, and no one could be sure who was likely to come out as the victor. The rules in traditional wars were fairly straightforward. The enemy wore different clothes, waved patterned flags that even a village idiot recognised and generally approached from the opposite direction. All those rules would be obsolete if the war of religions tr
uly kicked off. It was impossible to know who you were fighting because people had a habit of changing sides on a daily basis. It was also true that neither side really understood what they were fighting about, other than wanting their own way.

  “I understand you are a member of the Montmorency house?” said a warm, friendly voice. “Strange that you should come here.”

  Phil glanced to his left and smiled to acknowledge an elderly gentleman he’d never met before. The man’s white hair clung desperately to a bald patch that had invaded most of his forehead. A regal quality oozed out of his mannerisms as he glided forward to grasp Phil by the arm in firm welcome, as if Phil’s name, rather than he himself, had already earned the old man’s respect.

  “Yes, Philibert. And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

  “Oh, only the person whose banquet you have seen fit to invite yourself to,” replied Claude.

  “My liege, it is an honour. I have been eager to meet you for some time.”

  “Really? The Montmorency family are not normally keen to visit these parts given the current climate. I can only imagine that you bring some ultimatum from the Constable on behalf of the Queen?”

  “No, my lord, I have no news to that effect.”

  “Then why on earth are you here, may I ask?”

  “How can I put this?” said Phil, desperate to stay on a tightrope that, should he fall, might be the last step he ever made. “I seek enlightenment.”

  “Enlightenment! Do I take it, then, that,” his voice dropped to a whisper, even though he was inside the walls of his own château, “you are very much on the side of the righteous?”

  Philibert nodded knowingly, even though he didn’t have the slightest notion of what Claude meant.

  “Does your family know about this? That you are here?”

  Phil considered what his real family might think if they knew he was in deep conversation with the nobility of France, surrounded by more food than they would have seen in their lifetimes and dressed in fine, colourful silks without a spot of mud in sight. They’d have called him a liar, if any of them had survived long enough to voice it. But that would not be a suitable answer to Claude’s question.

  “Not all of the Montmorency family think the same way. I’m sure it is true of each great French family.”

  “You’re right. Throughout this room both sides seek to influence the other in order to cement their stranglehold on the outcome. It’s no longer about families or alliances, it’s about ideology. Jacques there,” he pointed to a gigantic man casting a shadow over most of his small group, “is one of the most vocal, but the rest are too frightened to state their views openly. Personally I welcome anyone who protects personal freedom and seeks to fight for our way of life.”

  “I agree,” said Phil, still baffled as to which side Claude was actually on. “I understand that you have a keen interest in the arts and in particular the works of Monsieur Nostradamus.”

  “Michel, oh yes he’s a personal friend of mine. I marvel at his abilities to see that which has yet to pass. It’s regrettable that the young King should feel the need to sanction his imprisonment.”

  The current King, Charles IX, was eleven and ruler in name only. The official responsibility for sovereign leadership had been bestowed upon his mother, Queen Catherine de Medici who had a formidable reputation. The young king was a weak and troubled child who had yet to gain the full support of the lords. His direct predecessors, Henry II, his father, and Francis II, his elder brother, had both died in quick succession and the impact was still evident in his erratic behaviour. This included brutal mood swings and attempts to make decisions that were neither sane nor approved. Catherine was left to hold the tattered threads of her warring country together through compromise, but for how long no one knew.

  A young woman advanced through the hall towards Phil, and Claude with the grace of a boat gliding over the serene surface of a silent lake. The confidence of her manner immediately drew Phil’s gaze as she smiled gently in welcome. It was unusual for a woman to be the centre of attention in a room of powerful men, yet there was something different in the way this woman dissected the atmosphere and distracted factions of men from their low-volume scheming.

  “Ah, let me introduce my daughter, Annabelle,” said Claude as the young woman feigned a curtsey, balancing necessary etiquette with her own distaste of it.

  “My lord,” she said ambivalently.

  “The pleasure is surely mine,” replied Philibert.

  “I’m neglecting my other guests,” said Claude. “I’ll leave you in my daughter’s capable hands. Good luck!”

  The two stood silently, one hoping the other would take a stranglehold over the social awkwardness, and the other hoping for a conversation that deviated from the usual diatribe that came out of male mouths. He broke first.

  “Mademoiselle, it is my opinion that never before have I met a woman of such beauty.”

  “Really,” she sighed. “That’s all you’ve got, is it?”

  “What? I don’t understand,” said Phil nervously.

  “I’m a woman, and therefore you thought the only conversation I’d be interested in is how I look.”

  “But…I thought that was the convention.”

  “Quite. But is it not possible that a woman might be capable of a debate?” she said sternly, waiting a few seconds for a sensible response that never arrived. “No. Shame.”

  “Um.”

  “Yes was the answer you were looking for.”

  “Um…yes.”

  “Why are men so bloody predictable? All you’re interested in is corsets, horses, wars and wine.”

  “I don’t care for it,” said Philibert pointing to his flagon of mead.

  “Oh…in that case I’m already in love with you!” she said disparagingly. “I’m going to give you one minute to impress me before I walk over there to sit in the corner with my eyes closed waiting for this turgid revelry to cease.”

  Philibert was plunged into a well of anxiety far deeper than any he was used to. Even getting into Claude’s banquet had been a doddle compared to this pressure. All his training and experience had been designed to fool men, not women. He was totally unprepared for it. Women were not supposed to be like this. They were not normally granted permission to hold opinions or possess the intellectual dexterity to debate the topics of the day. And yet here she was, brains and beauty at a level he’d never seen before, forcing him into a balanced state of equal excitement and terror.

  The minute was almost up and the only end product had been blind panic. He had to say something. Anything.

  “I once saw a fire-eater set his beard alight! It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen that many funny things given my background, but still. I remember we all watched him running around shouting and flapping his hands to put it out before somebody tried to dunk him in a fountain. At the end he had a big bald patch of hair near his…”

  “Stop!” said Annabelle. “What are you on about?”

  “Fire-eaters.”

  “I meant in general. You’re not used to talking to women, are you?”

  “Not ones like you, no.”

  “Ones like what?” she replied fiercely.

  “Assertive ones.”

  “It seems to work for the Queen. I see no reason why she should be unique.”

  Queen Catherine ruled with a brand of ferocity that few men could rival. Queens were not supposed to rule, they were supposed to watch and have babies. There were actually laws against it. But chance had landed Catherine in a position of power and she was going to embrace the rare opportunity to prove that a woman could do it better than a man. After all, it was working for Queen Elizabeth, her opponent across the Channel in England. But Catherine’s ambitions were not just driven by equality. Her drive came from a belief that men were weak. Francis, her eldest son and the previous monarch, had been physically and mentally inferior, and now her second son was proving to be litt
le more than a spoilt idiot. Even her beloved husband was nothing more than a serial adulterer. Her new standards were starting to rub off on others in society like Annabelle.

  “Did you say you were a Montmorency?” asked Annabelle.

  “Yes.”

  She looked at him enquiringly with a sense of disbelief in her eyes. “You’re related to Anne de Montmorency, then?”

  “Absolutely,” said Phil, desperate to find a way of raising his now battered ego.

  “And how are the two of you related exactly?”

  “Anne de Montmorency? She’s my aunt.”

  “She?” replied Annabelle in shock and mild amusement.

  A fanfare of trumpets interrupted the room’s chattering voices to signal that the feast was about to commence. The long, wooden table that stretched down the middle of the room was covered in all manner of exotic delicacies. Whole roasted boar, eels in a spicy purée that smelt like the inside of a well-travelled boot, a stuffed swan, or at least Phil hoped it was, slabs of cured meats of unknown origins, mountains of shellfish freshly caught, loafs of bread with thickened, burnt crusts and bowls of colourful seasonal fruits.

  Many of these offerings Philibert had never seen before, let alone tasted. Not that he was going to today. He rarely stayed to eat because it was at that moment when all others focused more on their hunger than his whereabouts. Whilst others enjoyed their gluttony he’d take the opportunity to slip quietly away into private areas of the Tower. In the melee to gain the best seats around the table and to avoid sitting by someone likely to ruin your appetite, Phil snuck out of the main chamber unseen.

  - Chapter 3 -

  The Announcement

  It was customary at the end of a feast for the host to address his guests. Almost every one of the four dozen people assembled around the dining table knew what Claude was about to say, but still they listened to his message with the utmost level of respect and mock excitement. Only two guests didn’t hear the announcement in full. Annabelle stormed out of the room long before she could receive the many congratulations that would no doubt be forthcoming from the now inebriated rabble. At the first mention of the words marriage and the loathsome Jacques de Saluces the door that accessed the private rooms from the main hall was being slammed behind her with force.