by Tony Moyle
“In the wrong hands you could.”
“So why not just let the Church read them?” asked Phil.
“It’s sensitive,” replied Michel with a long, pregnant pause as he considered it. “I may have made a small error in one of my predictions.”
“A small error.”
“Tiny.”
“What was it?”
“I might have predicted that the King would have a really successful year full of health, happiness and victory in battle.”
“Which King was that?”
“Henry II,” replied Michel.
“Oh.”
- Chapter 6 -
The Untimely Death of Henry II
A wall of flags, each with a distinctly different colour palette and historic crest, fluttered in the gentle breeze of a June afternoon. Shadows from flagpoles stretched like static creepers across the lush green square of Place des Vosges, a hectare of royal real estate in the heart of Paris. Europe’s largest city bulged increasingly into the countryside, its girth sprawling over its belt like the oncoming sea reclaims the land nearest the coast.
Dissecting the land between the lush greenery of the square and the Seine, a filthy, clogged artery gouging its way through the heart of the city, was Paris’s widest road. The original Roman road, a throughway that once guided travellers between Paris and Melun, had been extended over the centuries into the impressive Rue Saint-Antoine, simply known by those who lived there as the Grand Rue. At one end of the road, equally haunting as it was beautiful, stood the recently fortified Tower of Bastille. And stretching along the road from the tower’s intimidating roots a diverse collection of buildings did their best to protect their positions along the route of the road. Hectic wooden houses leant against neighbours fabricated by talented masons in intricate stone, while others were seemingly kept in place by willpower alone.
No carriage or cart had trundled down the Grand Rue for three days. The entire area from the King’s property at the Hôtel des Tournelles to the river had been requisitioned for a grand tournament to celebrate recent achievements and good news. The signing of the treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis had brought the eighth Italian war against the Habsburgs to an end after a hundred years of bloodshed. At least for now. After attempting eight times to resolve their differences there was obviously a very decent chance that someone would kick another one off any day now.
This most recent Italian war had lasted for eight years and had consumed the entirety of King Henry’s reign. His brother and predecessor Francis had only just brought the curtain down on the seventh edition of the rivalry when he had the good grace to die, forcing Henry to have another crack. Season eight had been the best yet. It had everything. Abdications, interesting settings, terrible defeats, like the battle of Saint Quentin, the unexpected entry of the English, who ruined everything by bringing the name of ‘Italian’ war into disrepute, and one huge cliffhanger. Who would ultimately come out as victor? Europe waited expectantly to see if either side were wealthy enough to fork out the vast sums necessary to deliver a ninth season.
Until then everyone developed strategies for enjoying peace. The most popular way was to grab your weaponry, stick on your suit of armour and charge full speed at your own allies with a pointy log in an attempt to knock the other off their stead. Peace meant tournaments. But ironically tournaments were often more dangerous than the war they’d spent most of their adult lives fighting. Crucially they were cheaper than a decade of tax receipts that most wars consumed.
The peace treaty was not the only notable triumph being celebrated at this tournament. Recently two of the King’s children had been married off, mostly to the very kingdoms they’d been trying to destroy for the best part of a century. His daughter, Elizabeth, was now Queen of Spain, having married Philip II. Spain had been part of the Italian Empire during the war, and the fact that France sat between the two explained much of the tension. Henry’s teenage son and heir, the sickly Prince Francis, had been married off to Mary, Queen of Scotland, a betrothal that had been prearranged since the pair were four years old.
These distinguished family members, and other significant dignitaries, sat in position on raised stages under canvas roofs along the edges of the Grand Rue to enjoy the sights and sounds of the joust. Not everyone was enjoying the festivities. The Queen, Catherine de Medici, was bored. She did her best to fake interest as rider after rider hurtled down the centre of the road desperately struggling to cling to the back of their animal with varying degrees of success while simultaneously removing their competitor from theirs. Mostly they missed each other. Once in a while a shield might receive a gentle nudge with an opponent’s lance. Imagine modern-day baseball, lots of swinging and only the very occasional contact. All that for eight hours surrounded by smelly, boozed-up idiots. Jousting, not baseball. Well.
The poor weren’t left out. The main reason for hosting the event in the middle of Paris was to allow them the chance to enjoy the event. That’s if they could find a vantage point within a mile of the action and they did so under the proviso they didn’t get in the way or put anyone off with their fascinating, and sometimes deadly, range of aromas. Those deemed in contravention of these basic rules were marched further up the road towards the Bastille, which had the desired effect of helping them realise that they had more important things in their lives. Life, for example.
The King dropped the visor down on his helmet and peered into the distance. A couple of hundred metres down the road was his victim, Lord Montgomery, captain of the Scots Guards. The atmosphere from the crowd suggested an unbreakable confidence in the outcome of the duel, and no one believed it more than Henry himself. How could he lose? He was King, and in the eyes of the people, he was one step from divinity. Stronger physically, tougher mentally and with the Will of God sitting neatly upon his shoulder. If that wasn’t enough, even the prophecies were on his side.
His stead neighed its excitement, the smell of its own sweat filling both of their nostrils. To the Queen’s anger, Henry wore, as he always did, the black and white colours of his mistress, Diane de Poitiers. If Catherine tilted her head just a fraction she’d see her adversary sitting in the gallery not far away. Like a spectre this woman had haunted her every step since the very first she’d taken as a married woman. Whatever the King said concerning his faith, it was always a ‘Do as I say and not as I do’ mantra. God frowned upon adultery, yet it didn’t stop Henry, who preached the Scriptures unwaveringly, from ignoring them when it came to personal discipline.
Expectation in the crowd heightened as even small children stopped their games to watch the outcome of the King’s contest. This was what they’d really come to see. The main event. The man that everyone recognised, not some jumped-up newcomer from Toulon with only a few minor hits under their belts, or a random Scotsman with a dodgy accent. Even if the last two courses had proven that at forty years of age the King was at a disadvantage against his younger rival. Those courses had finished without a winner. They’d ride two more to conclude matters.
Even though the King’s doctor had warned him against overexertion there was no way Henry was backing down, not while his people watched in anticipation. This was his moment. A celebration of the achievements and challenges he’d overcome during his short reign. After eight years of fighting, he was finally winning, and he didn’t want it to stop.
Montgomery lowered his lance to signal his readiness for action and the King did likewise. A metal-booted heel dug into his horse’s side and it burst forward along the wooden tilt that separated the two riders from a certain collision. Hooves struck the ground like thunderbolts ever more frequently as they drew ever closer to their target. A collective silence cascaded down the road like a Mexican wave as all eyes were drawn towards the flurry of man and beast. Both riders lowered their lances and held shields to protect their bodies from a possible strike. The noise of horse and heart got ever closer. In a blink they were upon each other, and in another they’d passed.
> With the clatter of lance against shield the King wobbled giddily as his body slid to one side of his horse from the high-speed impact. His lance fell uncontrollably to the ground as he summoned all his skills as a horseman to stay in contact with the animal. Holding the reins for dear life he managed to reseat himself and brought the horse to an ungraceful halt. A collective breath returned to the dry throats of the mesmerised and distressed onlookers. Eager for stability, he quickly dismounted and led the horse back to the gallery.
“You made it, then,” said the Queen through gritted teeth. “I’m so pleased.”
“Yes, my love, he got a lucky hit there. But I’ll get him back in the fourth course.”
“My lord, the court has engaged in this so-called sport for three solid days: surely it’s time we returned to matters of state and ceased this barbarity,” beseeched Catherine.
“No. It’s a tradition! You can’t just wipe that away. Look at the people with all their happy, smiling faces. They’re enjoying themselves and they’ve earned it. I promise today is the last day.”
Across the road the Queen watched a dishevelled group of peasants challenge each other to see who could spit the furthest. In another section an obese, shirtless man was inviting members of the public to punch him as hard as they could in the stomach in exchange for a franc if he stayed on his feet. He wasn’t very good at it. Every time a fist landed in his abnormally flabby gut he was forced to lie on the ground for twenty minutes writhing in pain.
“Happy? They seem, well, distracted by it more than showing signs of enjoyment,” replied Catherine.
This wasn’t how people celebrated success in her home city of Rome. In Italy they thought it enough to celebrate achievement by eating, drinking and making love to anybody within a ten-mile radius. On second thoughts that might not be the best alternative for someone with Henry’s reputation who, having spotted Diane in the next tent, was waving at her less subtly than he’d hoped.
“Why do you insist on applying your affection to that brainless whore?” said the Queen.
No other person would speak to the King in this way, but Catherine was like no other. Royal in her own right, she’d lived throughout her marriage with his endless infidelity. While he focused on enjoying himself, she studied the arts, the rule of law and some more dubious interests, in an attempt to uphold the position bestowed upon her. Much more so than he did. To him the Crown was an inconvenient distraction that got in the way of life’s pleasure, just a birthright without consequences. In his opinion whatever he did or didn’t do was always the right decision, and whether people agreed or not seemed irrelevant. She, on the other hand, desired to rule for the good of the country and not just the good of the Crown.
“My darling, you wouldn’t want me to be unhappy, would you?” he replied with sickly sweat tone of utter fakery. “She’s just a hobby, a distraction from all the hard work I do.”
“Be careful, my lord, one day God will judge your deeds,” said the Queen.
It would come a lot sooner than anyone anticipated.
“Unlucky…herauph…papa,” spluttered a lanky teenager with more gold trinkets hanging from his body than a mid-sized jewellery shop. This fashion choice was not a wise one. All the excess rings and pendants weighed down on his already feeble body, which even without them seemed incapable of moving without aid. Every other word the boy said was accompanied by a gravelly cough or sneeze, forcing the congregation to reach for a shield of their own. The pretty girl sitting to his left seemed the only one not to care. Instead she gently preened his hair with her hands or made sympathetic noises every time he struggled to complete a sentence.
An even younger boy, around nine years of age, sat in the row behind the young couple sporting a temper that suggested someone had stolen his favourite servant and had demanded a ransom. The boy spoke only through his expression, which told everyone it was best not to annoy him. Charles had anger issues, particularly when he didn’t get his own way, which was more often than might be expected for a young prince. Declining his demands often stemmed from the impossibility of his requests rather than a desire not to spoil him.
Charles had a habit of insisting on items that simply didn’t exist, like a mug of lightning or a nurse with three nipples. Whether Charles knew he was asking for the absurd or not didn’t seem to restrain him. It was as if his preposterous desires were purposely designed to instigate his second favourite pastime, losing his shit.
“My sons,” said the King warmly, aiming his response to the sick and grumpy boy in the row behind the Queen. “One day the two of you will ride here and compete at an event like this, and you, too, will win the ultimate prize.”
“Begging your pardon, Your Highness,” said the Queen with a wry smile. “I believe he just beat you.”
“One more course to go, my love,” he replied overconfidently.
“Must you compete? I’m so desperately concerned for your welfare,” replied Catherine, her vocal tone never suggesting the same concern offered by her choice of words.
“Never fear. No harm can come to me: Nostradamus said so himself.”
The King clicked his fingers and almost at once a member of the court wearing a large chain that dangled down onto his portly belly appeared alongside him. On his left hand a band of pale skin lacked the olive tan that spread over the rest of his visible body and was the only evidence of a real ring that once lived there.
“Anne, my faithful friend and servant. Where is that letter Nostradamus sent me?”
“What?”
“THE LETTER,” said the King, remembering that Anne had been saddled with deafness.
“Yes, of course. I keep it on me, sir,” said the elderly man reaching inside a roll of papers he carried under his arm. “Ah, here it is.”
“Thank you, Constable, as always your usefulness to me has no limits.”
The King cleared his throat and read the passage out loud so as many people as possible could hear it. “My most invincible King, no affliction, calamity or misery comes into the world but that the stars make it beforehand. France shall greatly grow, triumph, be magnified and much more so its monarch.”
“Hear, hear,” said the Constable after holding his hand to his ear and guessing every second word. Anne de Montmorency had been through much adversity in his life and few of his bodyparts worked productively as a result. Although an elderly man well into his sixties, he had taken an active role in all wars since the fifteen twenties, which had involved numerous injuries and afflictions.
“I’d say that was pretty positive,” summarised the King.
“It’s alright for you, my lord, but what about the rest of us.”
Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, England’s Ambassador to France, was an eccentric personality who lived on the edge of his nerves. Not many blamed him. Over the last twenty years the English monarchs, of which there had been many, had all at various times accused, convicted, pardoned and banished him for just about every possible misdemeanour in the book, only some of which he’d been guilty of. This had led him to develop a highly sensitive anxiety disorder that meant he’d thought of, planned against and attempted to avoid, every possible calamity that might befall him. This included, at the extreme end of the spectrum, his strong fear that the world would end any day now.
“Come now, Nicholas, I’m sure England has their own prophets?”
“No. Queen Elizabeth had them all executed, which strangely none of them predicted.”
The crowd milling around the King’s tent was suddenly parted as a burly man in armour cut through it effortlessly. He lifted off his helmet and shook his long, ginger hair. The ladies of the court swooned and attempted various methods of gaining his attention including fainting, hysterical screaming and the extremely naughty flash of an ankle.
“Ye a’richt, sur, ah didnae mean tae catch ye lik’ that.”
King Henry did his best to process as much of Lord Montgomery’s mutterings as he could, but even in French his accen
t made him sound uniquely undecipherable.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch all that, can you repeat it?”
“Ah didnae mean tae catch ye lik’ that.”
“Nope,” said Henry screwing up his face, “it’s no good, totally lost.”
“Yer laird, urr ye duin fur th’ neist coorse?” said Montgomery, attempting a different message all together.
“Honestly, it’s like another language,” whispered Henry to Anne from the corner of his mouth.
“What?” replied Anne who couldn’t hear either of them.
“Mary, my dear, isn’t he one of yours? Would you interpret for me?”
Mary, Queen of Scotland in absentee, glided elegantly down from the shade of the canopy and whispered in the King’s ear.
“Oh I see, you said you’re ready for the next course,” he said, nodding to Montgomery and holding his thumb in the air to aid their understanding of each other. “Right you are. I was born ready, my Scottish friend. I’m the King. What can possibly go wrong?”
*****
“And that’s when it got complicated,” said Michel as he recounted the story to Philibert.
“It certainly did for Henry: I hear it took him ten days to die.”
“Yes, it did. During the fourth course, Montgomery’s lance splintered on impact and some of the pieces pierced the King’s eye, head and throat. His doctor managed to remove them, but the damage was done.”
“The Queen can’t have been very happy with you and your letter?”
“No, to the contrary, she was rather pleased with the outcome.”
“Pleased!”
“Of course. It was her opportunity to lead the country the way she wanted to. The boys were much too young to rule, and as it happens the elder boy, Francis, died of his own illness twelve months later. These days the younger brother Charles is rightful heir, but at eleven he’s too young to make any decisions, much to his own irritation I understand. The family don’t hold a grudge against me. They still ask me to provide star charts, even after my mistake.”
