by Tony Moyle
“You were at the court? Why?”
“Because, as I have told you, if you want to be noticed in this world you have to move within the right circles of society, and theirs is the highest possible. In my early days of prognostication I wrote a prophecy that concerned the royal family and they were most keen to meet me. Which was useful because that’s exactly what I was hoping when I wrote it.”
“So you made up a prophecy just to carry favour with the aristocracy.”
“No! I never make anything up. It was just a happy coincidence,” replied Nostradamus, determined to maintain the validity of his work and methods.
“Nonetheless, that worked?”
“Yes. Everybody seeks answers, Phil. Although I think they might be a little more cautious these days.”
An idea started to form in Phil’s mind. If he wanted to get out of this situation he needed a good scam. A way to convince people that he was important to them. Important enough to be kept alive. What mattered most to the gentry was power, and what vexed them was the thought of losing it. Michel had already proved that you could infiltrate the highest echelons in a different way than owning land or title. Perhaps he might gain more from Michel than he’d first imagined.
Most of Phil’s cons had a short time frame and were essentially basic. They were generally easy to execute with nothing more than a ring and the right set of clothes. He was never greedy: Chambard had insisted on that. They took only what they needed to survive before moving on to the next target. They took time to learn about the people they stole from and were careful not to stand out. And because of this they rarely lived long in people’s memories. The con was never about them or what they said or did. It was just an illusion to create the perception that they were not out of place. But his next con would need to be much more complex. It would have to be about him.
Michel was also learning something of his muse. Philibert was not some plucky peasant stumbling blindly on the fringes, stealing whatever he could get hold of. There was intelligence and skill to how he operated. Not only had he infiltrated a highly prestigious gathering of nobles, but he’d also won the affections of one of their daughters. That might be highly unlikely but it was still possible. Acquiring the ring, though, that was another level of talent altogether. If this peasant had managed to steal the ancestral ring from one of the most powerful men in France, there was more to him than first impressions suggested.
“How did you get this?” asked Michel, intrigued and confused.
“I borrowed it.”
“Do you justify all of your thefts in such a way?”
“No, because I fully intend to return it. I only have it by accident. I didn’t actually steal it.”
Michel thought this explanation to be highly unlikely. Phil was a trickster and lying was as fundamental to that profession as astrology was to a prophet. Everything he said would have to be taken with a healthy pinch of salt.
“It’s what you do though, isn’t it? You and this man Chambard?”
“Borrow stuff, yes. Since that day when I met him in the church we have been wanderers. We take from people who can afford to share but often don’t. It’s a kind of benefits system.”
“But who benefits?”
“We do. But we never take more than we need. Each target will lose one item. It’s usually so insignificant to them, because they own so much, that they don’t even notice it.”
“I think I might check the contents of my coffer,” replied Michel, suddenly conscious that he’d spent several days in the presence of a known criminal and hadn’t locked anything away.
“Don’t worry. You’re not a mark, not yet anyway,” he said with a cheeky wink.
“It seems a highly risky profession if you ask me.”
“Not really. Chambard is an expert, and I’m not too bad myself as it goes,” said Phil, desperate to find a way of proving his ability to the more sophisticated man. “Do you know ‘find the queen’?”
“Yes. Ride north for about a month and ask people to direct you to Paris or just wait until you can smell it.”
“Not the real Queen, the card game.”
“Card game?”
“You’ve had a rather sheltered life, haven’t you?”
“If you must know, I’ve been rather busy studying. What’s a card game got to do with any of this?”
“That’s how we do it.”
Phil explained the principles of a simple three-card trick that involved a target being encouraged to bet money to locate the queen of hearts amongst three cards. The dealer would often conceal the correct card, thereby confusing the player to follow the wrong card and lose their stake. A second player, usually in cahoots with the dealer, and often called Chambard, would bring a sense of fairness to proceedings by winning the occasional hand and proving to the mark that easy money could be made.
“And did Anne bet his ring in this game?” asked Michel, not fully following.
“No. It’s simply an example of a distraction. A con works because the target is not looking in the right direction. They see only what you want them to see.”
“What did Anne see when you ‘borrowed’ his ring?”
“War mainly.”
“War?”
“Yes, we came into contact with him at the Battle of Saint Quentin.”
“Ooh, that was a nasty one,” replied Michel.
- Chapter 12 -
The Battle of St. Quentin
The role of Constable of France was a position of great power. Other than by the direct involvement by the King himself, the Constable had jurisdiction over the country’s military and outranked all other nobles in the Kingdom. The job gave the recipient ultimate responsibility for military justice, the financing of the war effort, and strategic decision-making. The King relied on him to plan and execute victory on the battlefield and he would listen to the Constable’s voice above all others.
The role required a man, and it always was, of great strategic thinking, inspirational oratory skills to motivate his troops, and an exemplary record of achievement on the battlefield. Strong in stature, lightning-fast reflexes and the ability to process and act on information at such a speed that your enemies would never keep up. A man of honour, integrity and with an unparalleled list of allies and supporters.
Whichever way you looked at it, Anne de Montmorency was none of those things. But after nineteen years in a role that was thoroughly unsuitable for him, no one had made the connection. It wasn’t common for a Constable to be sacked unless a new monarch ascended to the throne and wanted their own people. That wasn’t the typical handover process, though. Ordination of a newbie normally came about after the remains of the previous Constable were returned, often in different-shaped caskets, from whatever pointless war they themselves had organised: death being a perfect example of why they were no longer capable of executing their duties.
At sixty-four years of age, Anne was not at his peak. His hearing had gone some years ago, possibly from all the cannon fire he’d been subjected to. Claims management companies would have been crawling all over him had such services existed. To compensate his deafness his key lieutenants were often seen shouting in his ear whilst making slow and meaningful gestures with their hands. They’d tried to write things down, but as his eyesight was also failing that approach had been scrapped.
Physically Anne would not have passed any fitness examination that involved anything more energetic than light breathing into a sack or standing upright for more than a minute, and even then the chances of him passing might be touch and go. He could still ride a horse, which at least allowed him to keep up with his captains, even if he had a habit of forgetting where he’d left the creature. This often led to other people also losing their horses soon afterwards and a strong denial by Anne that the one he’d miraculous ‘found’ would respond to the same name.
His mental dexterity was also not as sharp as during his prime. Decisions took way longer than necessary, partly due to a high
er than normal level of anxiety about the outcome, which was not at all misplaced. When you fought in Anne de Montmorency’s army, anxiety was more prevalent than rickets. It was accurate to describe Anne’s warfare record as less than exemplary.
In fact his win rate wasn’t even better than average.
Even the best generals in history have suffered defeat. Failure is an unavoidable and welcomed part of any learning process. Obviously not everyone agreed. It was hard to find much cause to celebrate the progress of warfare if you were one of the poor sods who’d died horribly as a consequence of your slow learning curve.
The reasons for losing wars were varied. Sometimes successful generals might get over complacent and make mistakes. Convinced that their victory is divined by God or written in the stars they make an uncharacteristically poor choice, like advising their troops to have a longer than necessary lie-in. Occasionally a general will simply come up against a new technology or tactic never witnessed, just as Nelson had used to defeat the superior Spanish and French fleets at the Battle of Trafalgar. Others are beaten simply as a result of facing an army with greater numbers or an advantageous terrain.
In his fifty-year career Anne had been defeated by all of these and more. Since fifteen-fifteen when Francis, the previous King of France, appointed him as Captain of the Bastille, Anne had been responsible for a litany of epic failures.
The decisive defeat by the Spanish in the fifteen-twenty-two Battle of La Bicocca was delivered partly because the Swiss mercenaries that supported the French troops refused to fight because someone forgot to pay them. Guess who? The captain in charge of the Swiss that day was none other than our friend, Anne de Montmorency. To add to his mistake the Spanish appeared on the field of battle that day holding small metal devices in their hands that sent blasts of smoke and crude balls of metal, sometimes in unexpected directions at extreme speeds. The first reaction to these small balls of metal was the look of shock on the victim’s face and a quickly broken shout that started with “What the…” and ended with death.
Rather than demote Anne for his incompetence they decided instead to promote him to the post of Marshal of France. A strange decision on the face of it. But because all the other French nobleman had died in the battle there weren’t many candidates for the job. Which meant none of them could disagree with Anne’s assessment that he’d fought bravely and the battle had been lost mainly because the Spanish had these things called ‘guns’. People lie in job interviews, it’s not a new concept.
Worse was to come three years later at the Battle of Pavia. In an almost identical re-enactment of the previous campaign, it only took Anne four hours of fighting to truly excel himself. Leading his cavalry through a dense wooded area, designed to offer protection and secrecy, it instead gave the enemy a perfect place to set up an ambush. The French were slaughtered. Any nobles that escaped the massacre at La Bicocca met their end at Pavia instead. Anne and the King, who had himself been on the battlefield, were both captured. To secure their release the Holy Roman Emperor forced Francis to sign a humiliating treaty that conceded huge swathes of French land to the Italians. The result of this aberration for Anne? Yep, another promotion.
Anne had spent so much of his military career in captivity that he was on first-name terms with most of his enemies. On top of being captured by the Italians, he’d also spent a considerable period of time being held against his will by the English following a bungled armistice deal. In a career that spanned four decades he’d spent more time as a hostage then he ever did as a soldier, much to the relief of all sections of the French military.
Given his wretched record it was unsurprising that in later life Anne became a staunch advocate of a negotiated peace settlement with their enemies, quite contrary to the sentiments of the royal court. There would be no end until ultimate victory. The eighth Italian war would continue at Saint Quentin, providing Anne with a fresh opportunity to orchestrate catastrophe.
And it wouldn’t be his last.
Saint Quentin was a strategically important town on the banks of the Somme River in Northern France. It would not be the last time in history that the town would swim in the blood of battle. But the battle of fifteen fifty-seven was the first and original Battle of the Somme. The town’s southern perimeter was protected by the river and to the north and east a two-and-a-half-mile-long wall was meant to keep the population of eight thousand safe. Or at least that’s what they were told.
The forces of the Spanish, aligned to the Holy Roman Empire, approached the city flanked by the English in support. The town’s defence consisted of Gaspard de Coligny’s company of eleven hundred men. In opposition, the Spanish had forty-five thousand. The city had no chance. Within days the oppressors had besieged the city, but not before word had been sent to Paris to raise a force to recapture it. On August the seventh Anne’s forces reached the southern banks of the Somme, and on the tenth they made their plans to free the city.
A large group of heavily armoured men crowded inside a tent that had been hastily erected on an uneven surface. The sides had been rolled up so that more people could muster to hear the orders and the breeze could lower the sweltering heat under canvas. Outside thousands of men sat around waiting for the off. Holding pike, sword or bow they were as prepared as they would ever be for whatever battle was to come. They stood in small battalions and at the front of each was a rider in full armour.
“Sir, are you sure about this?” said a youthful-looking commander.
“What?” said Anne, holding his hand to his ear in response to the question.
“I SAID ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS?”
“Absolutely.”
“You wouldn’t rather we went around the marshes rather than through them?” replied Louis de Bourbon, the Duke of Montpensier, who had never fought under Anne in the past, which probably accounted for why he was still able to breathe.
“March, yes, we should definitely march,” replied Anne.
“MARSH, sir. You want us to go through the MARSHES?”
“Yes, definitely. Surprise, that’s the key,” said the old man as he was being helped into his armour in readiness for the campaign.
“It’ll be a hell of a surprise to the soldiers when they get stuck up to their nipples in water,” huffed one of the captains to his nearest colleague.
“But won’t our soldiers sink?” said Louis, continuing to challenge the strategy.
“They already stink don’t they? They’re peasants,” replied Anne.
“SINK!”
“Well, put them in the boats, then, that’s what they’re there for.”
“I don’t think we have enough boats,” said John Philip, another of the Constable’s captains.
“Just fill them up as much as you can or take more trips. I thought you were meant to be captains.”
“So what happens after we get across the river, sir?”
“What?”
“WHAT’S AFTER THE RIVER?”
“Usually the land,” said Anne.
It wasn’t like the old days. In the past his captains just agreed with his instructions and marched off to certain glory. Or at least that’s what they believed. Now everyone was an expert. They all wanted to know the plan, the fallback plan, the retreat plan, the health and safety plan and the contingency plan. Anne only had one plan. Others liked to call it the bad plan.
“WHAT DO WE DO AFTER THE RIVER, SIR?!”
“We enter the town and take it by force of course. Have any of you ever been in a war before?”
Only some of them shook their heads. Experience was a rare commodity in the French Army during the Italian Wars. Anne being the main cause of the high turnover rate.
“Right, any further questions?”
“Yes, I have one,” said Louis.
“No…Good…Long live the King,” croaked Anne.
“I SAID YES!”
“Let us delay no longer. Rally your armies and bring me my physician!” shouted Anne, who always shouted
in order for himself to hear his own voice.
Reluctantly the captains filtered out to join their battalions and offer whatever words of encouragement they could muster. They didn’t like the plan, but armies worked on a clear hierarchy of command and whichever way they looked at it they were not at the top of that pyramid. When Anne was alone two men entered. Unlike every other member of the Constable’s company they were the only ones not carrying weapons or dressed for battle. They were plain-clothed and one of them carried a small case in his hand.
“You sent for me, my lord,” said the younger of the men.
“No. I sent for Monsieur Paré?” said Anne who didn’t recognise either of them. Only their unusual attire reassured him they were probably doctors.
“Unavoidably called away to serve the King, sir. We have been studying under his tutelage,” said the younger of the two.
“This is most irregular,” said Anne.
“Sir, I can assure you we are vastly experienced in treating injuries and ailments of all types,” said the elder of the two doctors whose single eyebrow was so bushy it looked like a mouse had taken up residence on his forehead.
“Well, it doesn’t look like I have a choice. Come here, I need you to examine me before battle.”
“I’m not surprised,” said the young doctor in a whisper. “You’re older than time!”
“What?”
“I SAID I’M SURPRISED IT’S THAT TIME ALREADY.”
“What’s your name?” asked Anne, looking at him suspiciously.
“Philibert.”
“Philibert what?”
There was a pause. Then minor panic. He hadn’t been using a second name recently as none of their scams required one. Like most peasants he didn’t actually own a real one. It just wasn’t required. If your name was Thomas and your dad was the local blacksmith that’s how people referred to you. He had to say something. Doctors always had second names.
“Um…Philibert.” He glanced at Chambard who had his head bowed in shame. “Philibert…Papadopoulos.”
