The End of the World is Nigh

by Tony Moyle

“That’s where you come in.”

  “Is it? How?”

  “You’re going to make sure it does!”

  “Hold on a minute. Let me get this straight. You want me to change the future?” replied a bemused Chambard.

  “No. I want you to make it look like the future happened in precisely the way I predict.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “No.”

  “But what future have you predicted for him?”

  “I haven’t yet.”

  “Philibert, he’s coming today. This morning. I’m not impressed by this plan of yours, but if you are going to do it you better get a move on.”

  “Is it safe for you there?”

  “While it’s still dark it is, but the moment the sun comes up they’ll spot me.”

  “Right. Wait there.”

  Phil dug out the small writing box that Michel had left him a couple of days ago. At the time he didn’t realise how significant it would be, but without Michel’s present he’d have had nothing to write with. On the cleanest patch of floor that he could identify he rolled out a piece of paper and dipped the pen into one of the small bottles of ink. That was the easy bit. Now he had to write something special.

  The detail had to relate to something close to Claude’s heart. That was always how a con worked. Use someone’s weakness to lower their defences and make them desire the outcome as much as the convincer did. At the very least it had to be something that made Claude think, and importantly think about delaying his decision about Phil’s life. But what did Claude care about?

  Certainly his daughter, although given Annabelle’s infatuation with him, Phil felt it might be playing with fire to involve her. Claude was a Huguenot, a supporter of the Protestant faith: perhaps that might be an angle that Phil could play with. What did they fear most? They feared not being able to follow their faith because of the Catholics. Could he really influence that? This prophecy had to be something that Chambard could falsify and it was doubtful with a potential war of religions desperate to tear regions and families apart that he was up to it.

  No, it had to be something smaller and easier. Phil pictured the tower where he’d briefly been a guest. He visualised the rooms that he’d walked through and the décor around him. As he pictured it a vision of animal horns, ears and snouts filled his imagination. Aggressive-looking boar with massive, pointed tusks, beautiful stags’ heads with antlers that stretched high towards the ceilings, and whole foxes stuffed in a pose quite alien to their last living stance. It had to be about hunting. Phil scribbled down some ideas.

  “Phil, have you gone back to sleep?”

  “No, be quiet. I’m working on it.”

  “Just remember,” said Chambard, “I’m not good with horses.”

  “I know. You’re ok with dangerous animals, though, right?”

  “Horses are dangerous animals! Look, as long as I don’t have to ride one we’re all good.”

  The prophecy was starting to take shape but there was only one problem. He had to break some of the golden rules. It would be impossible to trick Claude into believing Phil had the ‘gift’ if it made no reference to him or the circumstances. Rule one had to be go. And there had to be a timeline that Chambard could follow. Rule two was out of the window as well. Everything else that Michel had taught him he could leverage. It had to sound authentic and flow like the great poets of the age.

  Spear will splinter and horse will bolt

  Mighty will be the beast that rips through Savoie

  Only shield and armour will protect the hunt

  On the day the dead are remembered

  Once he was happy it was neither too obvious nor too ambiguous, he copied it down on another more elegant piece of paper in his neatest handwriting. The first he crumbled into a ball as if to jettison it into a fire, but threw it out of the window instead where it landed unnoticed in the mud. A few feet away from it Chambard leant against the wall to shelter from the sky’s drizzle.

  “What do you think?” said Phil.

  “I think someone should invent a device that you could hold above your head to keep the rain off your receding hairline. Something wide and round on a stick with a nice, comfy handle on the end. You could call it a rain rescuer.”

  “I meant the prophecy! I threw it out of the window.”

  “Wasn’t it any good?”

  “No, it was for you! Look on the floor.”

  In the dark Chambard crawled on his hands and knees through the wet mud searching for the screwed-up ball of paper. Eventually he found it and wiped it on the driest thing he had, the inside of his coat. He found it impossible to read in almost no light and with his failing eyesight.

  “It’s too dark,” replied Chambard. “Tell me what it said.”

  Phil slowly read out his version.

  “I said no horses,” replied Chambard. “There’s definite a horse in that.”

  “That bit of the prophecy isn’t important. Do you understand what needs to be done?”

  “Seems simple enough. The day of the dead is All Souls’ Day, right? That’s the end of the week so I’ll get to it straight away. Any preference to what beast you want me to hurl at him?”

  “The most important thing is that you stay out of sight. They must believe that what happens is natural. If you get caught we’re both for it.”

  “Don’t you worry, Phil. You know I’m a master of disguises.”

  “Are you? Normally you only play a knackered squire or a wizened old man.”

  “What about the time when I disguised myself as the mother of Isaac the Elder? You know when we stole his antique vase, that was convincing?”

  “The disguise was, but the scam wasn’t. It should have dawned on us that someone called the ‘elder’ might already be quite old. The whole con falls apart when you find out he’s eighty and his mother has been dead for decades.”

  “Fun times,” chuckled Chambard.

  “For you maybe, but you didn’t have the embarrassment of duelling an octogenarian being dragged towards you on a chair with wheels attached. Anyway, the point is, do you know what to do?”

  “Yes. Leave it with me. Just make sure Claude believes you in the first place,” said Chambard.

  He scuttled off up a grass bank and into the undergrowth. A man of portly dimensions, he’d developed an incredible lightness of movement and could hide himself in places smaller than the total of his own mass. All Phil could do was wait, think and practise convincing his own captor.

  True to Chambard’s tip-off, Claude arrived the same day. Just after breakfast had been served, and ignored, the old Governor descended down into the prison block in a sweeping blue mantle and matching hat. To Phil’s relief he was not joined by Jacques, who might have made life a little more complex. When Claude reached Phil’s cell door he asked politely for it to be opened. The jailor acted immediately and in a more civilised manner than any of the prisoners were used to.

  “Bring us two chairs, jailor,” Claude requested as he walked into the cell without concern for his safety.

  “Can I offer you a drink?” said Philibert, bowing ironically and holding out a cup of the yellow swill they liked to call water.

  “No, thank you, Philibert. I assume that part of your name is real?”

  “Both that and the Montmorency part are mine, sir,” he replied, continuing to uphold the façade until it was clear doing so was futile.

  “Strange how none of your illustrious family have noticed your absence, isn’t it?”

  “We don’t really get on,” lied Phil.

  “Then what about friends or allies?” said Claude. “Where are they?”

  “I don’t really collect them.”

  “But there was one with you, an old squire, I understand, what of him?”

  “Just a hired servant. Dispensable.”

  “It would appear so: we found no trace of him other than the bite marks he left on your animal, whom by the way we have housed amongst ou
r own.”

  “I’m sure the horse will be most relieved.”

  The jailor deposited two chairs in the room. One was elegant with fine carvings etched in the wood. It was extremely heavy to lift and was rather noisily dragged through the iron doors. The second chair looked as if it had recently been the subject of arson. Scorched wooden legs clung helplessly to the battered seat, shedding black chunks of soot every time someone sat down on it. Claude took up position and pointed at Phil to do likewise.

  “You, sir, are a ghost,” said Claude with an air of frustration. “No one knows who you are or where you came from. Now, tell me why that might be.”

  “Perhaps you’re asking the wrong people.”

  “It’s possible, but I doubt that is the reason. You know what the real reason is, don’t you?” said Claude, delivering a facial expression that a parent might use to seek an apology from a child for a crime they already had cast-iron evidence for.

  That was it. The game was up. Someone had croaked and blown his cover. Had they got to Annabelle? Or perhaps Chambard had been captured and tortured? Just as Phil was about to spill his guts and confess under the dual pressure of his own guilt and Claude’s stare he was rescued.

  “Nostradamus has already told us the truth.”

  “What?!”

  “You’re a Catholic spy, aren’t you?”

  “WHAT?!”

  “He also said that you would be open to an offer to turn to our side.”

  “He what?!”

  “Oh come on, Philibert, there’s no point denying it.”

  “What?! Why would he say that?”

  “You tell me?” said Claude.

  It was unclear as to whether Nostradamus was trying to help or hinder him. It’s true that Michel would have said anything to save his own backside, but did he really need to save it? Maybe this had been his way out all along. Perhaps Claude had only planned to release Michel if he ratted out his new cellmate. Maybe that was Claude’s intention all along? Michel could either offer him the truth and all the stories that went with it, or find an alternative version of the truth that might give Phil a fighting chance. It was hard to process whether he was in a better situation or not.

  “Work for us, Philibert,” said Claude, “and I’ll give you your freedom.”

  “I’m not a spy.”

  “Michel said you’d deny it. I guess that’s all part of your training.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I’m really a prophet.”

  “Of course you are!” said Claude sarcastically.

  “No, really I am!”

  “Then make a prediction.”

  “I already have. Let me show you.”

  “I’m not really interested.”

  “Oh, go on. It’s really good.”

  “Don’t care. You’re clearly a liar. Michel’s information fits with everything that I have witnessed about you. A stranger at my party that no one has ever heard of with a stolen ring and an enquiring nature. You’re a spy. I see no other explanation.”

  “If you knew the truth…you really wouldn’t believe it.”

  “I want you to return to your masters in Paris. I want you to understand all you can about the Queen’s intentions regarding the freedom to practise our faith. Information that we need to bring our religious differences to a peaceful conclusion before matters turn nasty. I’m going to give you a few days to think about my offer.”

  - Chapter 17 -

  One Extremely Agitated Boar

  A vast party of nobility, huntsmen and hangers-on rode out of Marseille in an eastward direction towards the Var, a densely wooded region swarming with worthy prizes for would be champions. Wild boar, herds of deer, a dozen varieties of geese and feral goats were all potential targets.

  Against the hunt, the animals’ odds of survival were greater than a one-legged Great Dane winning a steeplechase. It was nigh on impossible for a startled creature to outrun an archer on horseback. And hiding was counter-intuitive to an animal who feared for its life. The adrenal function consisted of fright, fight or flight: there wasn’t a fourth instinct called ‘cower in a big bush and pray they moved on’. The only hope was that the hunters got bored or shot one of the others before they got to you. Not so much survival of the fittest, as survival of the lucky.

  Hunting was not, as it might seem to the uninitiated, a random gamble. The hunt didn’t just ride off into a forest and sit around waiting for an animal to casually stroll past on a morning jaunt. Hunting was a highly organised and well-planned activity that required the co-ordination and efforts of dozens of people and it was no different today for Claude’s hunt.

  This was All Souls’ Day, November the second, a highlight of the hunting calendar. Today the living celebrated the loved ones they’d lost over the past twelve months. And what better way to glorify their memory than inhumanely butchering the regional game population. Until now no one’s final words on their deathbed ever consisted of “Son, I love you. There’s one final thing I need to tell you before I die…I need you to kill me a wild goose. A really big one, mind, with huge wings and a really vicious bill.”

  Every detail of the event had been checked, examined and assessed to ensure the host’s reputation was upheld. Claude’s hunt had to be a magnificent success and that would only be true if every single guest went home with a heavy carcass and a massive smile. Think of it like a big and bloodied after-party goodie bag.

  Leading Claude’s group out into the woods were the expert huntsmen and their eager pack of lymers, the meticulously trained hounds that were used to track and locate their prey. While the dogs and their masters did all the hard work, the nobles would gather in a large, temporary camp on the outskirts of the forest. There they would wait for news while idly lazing around a roaring campfire eating breakfast, sharing stories and preparing their weapons. Once a suitable prey had been located, usually by sight, scent or the observation of footprints in the ground, the nobles would gather around to decide if they could be bothered to move or just carry on socialising until a better candidate was presented.

  On the rare occasions they did decide to mount up and move out, some more interested in the feasting and drinking than the hunt itself, the hounds, barking with fervent excitement, would be positioned around the animal’s location to block any escape routes and tire it out. The lymers would then advance to shrink the animal’s zone of comfort. Then and only then did the hunt commence properly.

  The hunters coveted one prize above all others, the mighty hart. But not just any hart. Only a male deer classified as a ‘hart of ten’ would be satisfactory. An exhibit with less than the desired number of lines or points on its antlers was not worthy of hunting and would escape the inevitable slaughter until it grew a little bigger. But catching and killing one with more than ten was no simple task.

  There were two accepted methods by which the beast could be hunted. By force or by bow. Hunting by force was the most noble art form and involved eight distinct phases, the last of which was a close-range kill by spear or lance. But because it put the hunter in close proximity to the animal, ‘by force’ was by far the most dangerous. By bow in contrast meant you spent most of the afternoon up a tree hiding like a wimp and firing arrows indiscriminating from long range.

  This was much safer for the archer than it was for the rest of his company. Over the years quite a few nobles had been killed by these wayward arrows. To date no archer had had the guts to claim these victims as legitimate prizes of the hunt and demanded to have their heads neatly mounted above the fireplace. But if you really wanted to prove your worthiness in front of your peers the kill had to be by force and that took far more planning.

  And that played perfectly into Chambard’s hands.

  Thanks to his inside information he knew exactly where the hunt was going and when they’d arrive, which allowed him to wander out into the Var region a few days before they did. After all, they weren’t the only ones who needed preparation time. Phil’s prophecy
called for a ‘beast’ that would ‘rip through Savoie’ and cause ‘horse to bolt’ and ‘spear to splinter’. In Chambard’s opinion all creatures were beasts. Almost no species liked him and, other than the enjoyment of eating them, the feeling was mutual.

  Some unidentified sixth sense compelled dogs to bite him, cats to scratch him, all manner of birds to poop on him, and horses to buck him. No matter what the breed, a collective campaign of hate had been spread across the animal kingdom against him at a sound frequency unavailable to humans.

  The only animals worse than horses in Chambard’s mind were rats. As one of life’s outcasts, a man of no fixed abode, he’d spent a lifetime sleeping rough in field and hovel. He coped with everything about that lifestyle apart from those little, hairy buggers who refused to leave him be. They had no redeemable benefit other than making excellent brushes for cleaning shoes. Given the choice he’d like to go with guinea pig, but they could hardly be defined as beastly. The location made the choice for him. If you wanted a beast, there was only one candidate.

  A wild boar.

  Boar were hard to hunt. They had a turn of speed way beyond the design of their stumpy bodies and, although a spear expertly thrown at the right region of the body might fell one, they were rarely killed instantly, such was the boar’s tenacity to remain breathing. But Chambard didn’t have to hunt one. He had to catch one. And after a couple of fruitless days in the field he’d already discovered that that feat was a different challenge altogether.

  So far none of his strategies had worked. Trying to reason with one had been highly ineffective. Creeping up behind one quietly in an attempt to mount it at the last moment had also not gone well. After multiple attempts the best he’d managed was the faintest of ankle tackles and a mouthful of forest floor. Coaxing them with a variety of tasty lures had been no good either. Hours he’d wait for one to venture out and devour the pile of mice and eggs he’d left as bait, only to find they’d waited long enough for him to fall asleep before eating the lot and depositing a steaming pile of boar dung as a thankyou note.