by Tony Moyle
Ally came out of unconsciousness a few seconds after impact. There was an irritating and muted buzzing noise in her ears and her heart was racing faster than a marathon runner’s. The smell of burning rubber and paint filled her nostrils and on the floor next to her were the scorched remains of a Bugatti Type 55 steering wheel. Other parts of the vehicle had been liberally distributed around the front porch, pathways, kerbside and as far away as the florist shop fifty metres down the road. The sound of ambulance sirens approached in the distance.
An elderly hand emerged through the chaos and smoke. She took hold of the assistance and was soon back on her feet. Through the clearing smoke she could see the shattered remains of the old classic car and the even more disturbing image of a man’s body pulverised on the front step.
“What happened?” asked Ally, shaking, her normally predictable composure shattered by her experience.
“I think the policeman there,” said Antoine, nodding his head to the corpse acting as a doorstop, “decided to investigate my car. It’s fortunate for us he got to it before we did.”
“Someone blew up your car!”
“Either that or my mechanic is not as good as he claims.”
“What’s going on here today? Something is terribly wrong!” screamed Ally, brushing bits of metal and plaster from her dress and steadying herself against a wall.
“Yes, I know. Exciting, isn’t it!?”
“NO,” replied Ally, remonstrating with him. “I’m a scholar not a sleuth.”
“Neither am I, but it appears the burglars weren’t just interested in things I might own.”
“Why are you so calm? I think someone is trying to kill you.”
“It does look like that, doesn’t it? Come on, I think it might be best we leave.”
“Leave! You can’t leave. You need to talk to the police, tell them what you know so they can catch these bastards.”
The short, stocky police officer, who had been inside his patrol car when the bomb had gone off, protecting him from the worst of the blast zone, was now attending to his fallen comrade. Anyone who’d witnessed the explosion knew there was nothing that could be done for him. You didn’t need to be a medical genius to work out that if a Bugatti tyre had replaced the part of the body where most of the facial features had been, the chances of survival were slim.
“I’m sure they can deal with it on their own,” said Antoine, still showing very few signs of worry. It might have been the adrenaline, but for a seventy-year-old man to witness his pride and joy being blown to smithereens outside his own home, he was taking it awfully well.
“Antoine, this isn’t just a bunch of petty criminals. Whoever committed this is organised and serious.”
Before he even started offering an opinion to this conclusion he’d grabbed her by the hand and was leading her through the house via a series of narrow corridors. At the rear of the property they slipped through a courtyard and into the town.
“Stop!” beseeched Ally. “Where are you taking me?”
“We need to get out of here.”
“Look, they’re trying to kill you, not me.”
Antoine stopped his rather casual getaway speed and looked her in the eye.
“How do you know?”
This was a fair, if rather unexpected question. It wasn’t her house they’d tried to rob and it wasn’t her car they’d just left spread across Lyon’s old town in smouldering pieces. Her car was a fifteen-year-old Rover Series 3 that blew up on a weekly basis, so for her it wasn’t much of a change. But surely none of this had anything to do with her.
“It’s just a coincidence,” said Ally.
“Maybe, or maybe not. The fact is someone is intent on stopping me, or you, or us. I’ve lived in that house my entire life and no one has ever broken in. I’ve driven that car every single day since I bought it and not once in thirty years has someone tried to blow it up. So why today? The only day, I might add, that you have been a visitor. There must be something about that prophecy or the contents of that coffer that someone wants to stop getting out in the open.”
“But you don’t have it, do you? You don’t have any information about it either. You’re merely a bystander.”
“They don’t know that though, do they? But they might think that you know something. It’s your name doing the rounds on the internet. Your name associated with the translation of the prophecy. Maybe someone objects to your work.”
“Certainly wouldn’t be the first time,” huffed Ally, considering all the bad reviews she’d received over her career.
“Until we know who is behind this, we must trust no one.”
“I don’t even trust you, but you’re still moving me around Lyon like I’m being kidnapped.”
He let go of her hand as if it was suddenly covered in barbed wire.
“You come of your own volition. I’m not going to make you. But you do want answers, don’t you? Don’t you want to be right?”
“Of course I do. It’s the only reason I’m in this bloody city.”
“Then you must trust me.”
“How about I just accept what you say for the time being and move slowly and steadily towards trust over the next, say, ten to fifteen years?”
“Fine.”
“God, I could use a coffee right now,” added Ally.
“Escape first, coffee later. I’m starting to understand why you’re not married.”
They moved off again, crossing the old town by the most secretive route they could find. Antoine knew every possible short cut to move fluidly through the streets without almost anyone noticing they were doing so. Age, though, had perhaps taken its toll on Antoine’s memory. He led them into a cul-de-sac with no escape other than through turning back and retracing their steps. There were plenty of houses on both sides of the lane but most were residential and absolutely none of them was a coffee shop. They stopped at a huge, wooden door that stretched up to the building’s first floor. Antoine grabbed the handle.
“You’re lost, aren’t you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then where are you taking us?” said Ally, feeling the effects of her twenty-minute suburban hike in a pair of heels never truly tested for the terrain.
“Are you aware of the traboules?” he said with a grin.
“What’s a traboule?”
“This is.”
- Chapter 11 -
Montmorency’s Ring
Just after sunrise a skinny jailor appeared at the cell door with a small hessian sack in his hand. His jaundiced face and shifty eyes squinted through the prison bars as if someone had smashed a smoke bomb and both occupants were hiding. Once his bloodshot pupils were finally satisfied that the number of people on the other side matched the total from the previous evening, he ran a wooden cosh over the bars to rattle them into life. There was no need. Philibert and Michel were wide awake and in mid-conversation.
“Breakfast,” croaked the jailor, dropping the sack through the bars so that the contents spilt over the floor. The decaying yellow teeth of his broken smile zipped together in perfect alignment with the gaps in his gums.
If there was a medieval equivalent of a dietician they’d decided in their wisdom that a hearty breakfast included a large and almost indestructible loaf of bread, a lump of mouldy cheese, two bruised apples and a dead animal of unidentifiable origins. It might be squirrel. The jailor waited patiently for the hungry inmates to rush gratefully to the more than generous offering. Michel took no notice. It was the same every morning.
“You have a visitor,” hissed the jailor, struggling to remember the complexity of an additional task in a usually routine schedule.
Nostradamus sprang to his feet and started to preen himself for what, as far as he was concerned, would be the visit of some important luminary come to seek his unique insights.
“Not you,” said the jailor, spitting needlessly on the floor. “The other fella.”
“He has a visitor?”
; “I have a visitor?”
The two prisoners answered almost simultaneously, both shocked and surprised by the revelation. How could anyone possibly want to see Philibert? ‘What was so special about him?’ thought Michel.
“Yeah. Five minutes, no touching,” the jailor growled, as he scratched at himself, the only treatment for removing the lice that controlled much of his body.
No touching? Phil wasn’t fully briefed in prison etiquette. He couldn’t think of any good reason why anyone would want to ‘touch’ the person who’d taken the time, quite unplanned, to come and see them. Maybe this was how contraband was smuggled in to assist a prisoner’s escape? Or maybe prisoners had a tendency to grab their visitor in order to hold them hostage in return for their freedom? Phil hadn’t thought that far ahead. In fact at no point since his arrival had his mind focused on being anywhere other than inside his cell.
A woman in a long, black cloak that hid most of her femininity beneath it descended the stairs and approached the bars of the cell. Her long, curly, hazelnut hair framed her attractive features and tried desperately to contain itself under the cloak’s hood with limited success. A light blue bruise was still obvious on her cheek however much she’d attempted to hide it under the disguise. Now it was clear why the jailor had insisted on no touching. No doubt a female visitor and a male prisoner, incarcerated for a long period, might cause an awkward situation.
“Annabelle,” said Phil in surprise.
“I don’t have much time,” she replied. “I shouldn’t be here?”
“But why are you here at all?” asked Phil, moving closer to the bars to hear her whispers.
“I wanted to thank you.”
“For what? I didn’t stop him.”
“No, but you tried. And more importantly you demonstrated to me your true nature, whoever you claim to be. Chivalry is a rare quality these days.”
“Are you ok?” enquired Phil.
“It’s just a bruise. It will fade.”
“I can’t believe a man would do that. What are you going to do?”
“I have no choice. I must marry Jacques. It is my father’s wish.”
“It’s not right, though.”
“Jacques may have my hand, but he will never possess my heart,” she replied with a warm smile. “That I will keep in reserve for you.”
Even though Phil was twenty-nine, and deemed to be of middle age, he’d never been in love before. And he was way beyond the acceptable age when folk got married, had children and settled down. Most twenty-nine-year-olds had already sent their offspring off to war or work, and were contemplating the end of life rather than the beginning of it. Phil just had other priorities on his mind. He’d had relationships in the last fifteen years, if you could call something that lasted a weekend a relationship. Chambard had positively encouraged him to be sexually active but, importantly, never committed. Their lifestyle didn’t lend itself to settling down in one place for an extended period of time.
Phil was more interested in his own potential, and other people usually got in the way. He wanted to rise up against the natural order of society and prove he could excel in life and make his family proud of their sacrifice. A wife would just be a distraction. There might be a time for it when he got where he was going, if he ever arrived. Now this young woman had passed through the awkward flirting stage and was suggesting something deeper and more meaningful. Phil checked his virtual instruction manual, cemented in his mind from many experiences, only to find that the pages on this subject were completely blank.
“But you don’t really know me?” said Phil, nervously pulling back from the bars slightly. “I have a lot of bad habits. I snore like an invading horde, have a tendency to lie when I’m in trouble and nine people have threatened to kill me and anyone who associates with me.”
“It doesn’t matter to me.”
“It really should, the Marquis of Calais is a total psychopath. He’s already threatened to remove my toes and make them into a soup.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to outwit him. After all, you’re different from other men.”
“Yes. I’m a peasant. I have no wealth or title. I have nothing of value to offer you.”
“I think you underestimate yourself,” replied Annabelle quickly.
“But you’re committed to marry someone else.”
“We’re Protestants! Thanks to Henry VIII of England it’s much easier to get out of a situation like that.”
“But I’m in here,” said Phil in case she’d not noticed the iron bars that separated them. “Who knows what my fate will be.”
“But if you love me you’ll find a way.”
Phil was certain he didn’t love her. He’d only met her twice and, although the legend of love at first sight was a familiar concept he hadn’t met anyone who could genuine prove it. Yes, she was pretty, quirky, independent, strong-willed and connected. But that wasn’t love. He didn’t really know how it felt but doubted this was it. Did they share any common interests? He only knew of one. They both wanted his freedom. Under the circumstances he thought it was a good enough starting point, and he’d had past relationships built on much less.
Annabelle held out her fist. She opened it to reveal a chunky ring sitting on her palm. Phil recognised it immediately.
“I thought you might find this useful,” she said.
“Where did you get it?” said Phil, only just noticing that the ring he’d worn on the night of Claude’s party was no longer in his possession.
“My father was going to send it to Paris, but I ‘borrowed’ it for a while. Take it.”
“I’m not allowed to touch you.”
“Why not?”
“The jailor said so,” he whispered.
“Philibert, this is Marseille. We don’t care much for rules here,” she replied, tenderly guiding his arm towards hers and placing the ring into his hand. She allowed her skin to linger against his for as long as possible.
“What is your father planning to do with me?”
“Until they work out who you are they’ll keep you here.”
“And what about me, your majesty,” said Michel who had been listening keenly to the conversation, waiting for the right moment to gatecrash it.
“Who are you?” said Annabelle, drawn away from her captivation of Phil for the first time.
“Oh come on, seriously! You’re not fooling anyone, you know. I’m Nostradamus!” he said, striking the now familiar pose he used whenever announcing his name, as if not doing so would denigrate it in some way.
“My father deals with the crackpots,” she said casually.
“Crackpot! My Highness of immense beauty and spirit, truly you are a woman of great majesty and wonder, but you must understand that I am the real deal. I see much mystery in your future. Allow me to write your star chart.”
“I wouldn’t allow you write my shopping list, you mad old fool.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. What’s so interesting about him anyway?” said Michel, pointing at Phil in the same way someone might point at a pile of horse dung.
“He’s special. I think he might just be what this country needs. A leader who can pull us out of the Dark Ages and bring true equality and balance to our country. One day he will be the most famous man in France.”
Phil didn’t want to be a leader of men, or famous, in France or anywhere else for that matter. The country’s progress didn’t concern him. After all, it had never come to his aid. It had never even noticed his existence, so what motivation did he have to save it. All of his desires and ambitions focused purely on his own progress irrespective of the kind compliments she was paying him.
“Really! Well, he’ll never be more famous than I am,” replied Michel angrily. “At the moment I think the likelihood of him surviving the month are slimmer than the chances of us getting something edible for breakfast.”
“I guess that depends what help he gets,” she said, aiming her comments squar
ely at Michel. “Others might benefit from such kindness, particularly if my father were to hear of it.”
It was the last comment she made before she turned and retreated hastily from the unfamiliar conditions of the cold, hard reality of prison. When the trace of her was out of sight Philibert opened his hand to look at the ring. It was in much the same condition as it always had been. Still in need of a polish and still damaged from whatever treatment it had received in its long life.
“Can I see it?” said Michel, holding out his hand.
“Yes, of course, it’s not much use to me anymore.”
Michel sat down on his stool and reached under the collar of his tunic to remove a gold chain. On the end of it was a small circle of glass encased in a golden frame. The surface of the glass was raised in the centre and chipped in several places from misuse. Michel rubbed it on his chest and raised it to his eye, his fingers clutching the ring on the other side.
“Hmmm, interesting.”
“What is it?” said Phil.
“It’s a magnifying glass,” replied Michel.
“Not that…the ring. Why is it interesting?”
“It’s real.”
“Of course it’s real. What did you think it was made of, porridge?”
“That’s not what I meant. I’ve seen this ring before. In fact, I have kissed it.”
“Kissed it!”
“Oh yes. You see, it used to live on the finger of one Anne de Montmorency.”
“So that’s who he was. I only knew he was Montmorency. No wonder Annabelle guessed I was a fraud, I thought Anne was a woman.”
“No. Anne is most definitely a man. I met him frequently when I was in the court of King Henry.”
