by Tony Moyle
The search for truth might have burnt like a fire inside her, but it wasn’t the end of the world – well, not yet anyway. She craved a shower, clean underwear and a chance to fix her hair, which looked like it had been subjected to electroshock therapy. She was both mentally and physically exhausted. She believed strongly that the virus wouldn’t destroy the world, but the fear and panic that accompanied it might just tear down society as they knew it instead. It had already begun. A day spent in a small provincial town like Mâcon was all the evidence she needed. Her only goal had been to bring some sense to the world. Give it a gentle shake and tell it to ‘pull itself together’.
“Wait,” said Marian. “Don’t leave. There’s something in the will for you, Ms. Oldfield.”
She’d totally forgotten. What on earth would Bernard leave her? Curiosity got the better of her and she returned to her seat.
“I, Marian Lamy, executor of the last will and testament of Bernard Brutus Baptiste, confirm that the following item has been left to Ms. Alison Freda Oldfield. One oil painting entitled ‘The Royal Court of Catherine de Medici’ dated to approximately fifteen-sixty-four and painted by François Clouet.”
“What on earth do I want with a painting!” huffed Ally whose side of the Venn diagram didn’t contain French Renaissance art.
“It’s probably worth a fortune,” replied Antoine in horror. “Clouet was a genius.”
Gabriel immediately stopped daydreaming and perked up at hearing the word ‘fortune’.
“He could have invented tartan paint for all I care, I still don’t want it.”
Marian walked over to the large object propped up against the wall. She pulled the dust sheets off in a dramatic style that David Copperfield would have been proud of. Underneath was an enormous oil painting that stretched five metres across and more than two metres high. It was encased in a bulky, antique wooden frame as thick as the beams that held up most roofs.
“Shit! What do you expect me to do with that!”
“I did tell you to bring a van,” replied Marian.
In genuine surprise and wonder all four of them removed themselves from their seats to examine the painting. The scene featured a gathering of many people in a circular room. The heads of mighty harts, all with more than ten points on their antlers, extended out from wooden plaques hung on the walls. In the centre of the ensemble sat a woman dressed in black looking demure and serious. At her feet, sitting cross-legged and sporting a face of perfect anger, was a teenage boy with a small crown on his head. Whether symbolical or not, two skinny lurchers flanked the boy at the same level.
Half a dozen other individuals were in the painting, most dressed in formal attire and holding poses that no living human would ever naturally find themselves in. They were mostly men. There was an elderly gentleman with a huge, conjoined eyebrow standing just behind the Queen’s left shoulder who looked terribly unwell and to the right of him a tall, handsome man with frizzy hair, maybe in his early forties.
There was only one other female in the painting. A pretty, young woman with auburn hair in a long, flowing turquoise dress with a low neckline. The painting was so big each character was painted in exquisite detail and their size was almost relative to real life. Antoine took out a pair of half-moon glasses and stepped forward to take a closer look at the brushstrokes.
“I have too many questions,” said Ally unable to process her reaction. “Um…why?”
“There’s no additional information from the deceased, I’m afraid. He clearly thought you’d like it.”
“No, he didn’t. The man hated me. It’s just like him to leave me something stupid like this. I bet he’s in his grave laughing at the thought of me trying to get this through Customs and onto a budget flight. Ten kilos in small hand luggage is all they give you these days. It doesn’t say one small bag and a ridiculously large piece of art on the boarding card.”
“Ally,” said Antoine seriously, his voice shaking. “Come and look at this.”
Pointing to the second female in the painting, his finger wobbled nervously. Ally came in for a closer look. A silver chain extended down the woman’s neck and at the end was the unmistakable detail of a pendant in the shape of a ram. It was the second time this week that Ally had seen it in a picture.
“You’re kidding!” she exclaimed.
“No, it’s the same locket, no question,” replied Antoine.
“The same what?” asked Gabriel.
Antoine explained that the locket around the woman’s neck was currently in his possession, an heirloom that had been handed down the generations of his family. Whoever this was wearing it in the painting, it seemed sensible to assume that she was some distant relative.
“Who is she?” asked Gabriel.
“I don’t know.”
“But if the painting contains a link to you, why did Bernard leave it to me?” asked Ally.
“I don’t know that either. Almost no one knows about my locket, so he wouldn’t have made the connection. He must be trying to tell you something else, or it’s just an amazing coincidence. Maybe the painting is a clue. Is Nostradamus in the picture?”
“No,” said Ally, who would know his face anywhere.
“Then who are these other people?”
“Art isn’t exactly my area of expertise, but I think they must be part of the royal court. I’m pretty sure the figure at the front is Charles IX and if it’s dated correctly that was the year of the longest and largest royal tour in history. Catherine took the King across France as part of his coronation and to engender support from local nobles. But there’s no way of telling from the picture where it was painted or who the others are.”
“Then what are we meant to be seeing?” said Antoine scratching his head.
“I don’t know, but there must be more to it. Bernard must have been carrying out his own research. He knew about the coffer in your basement before you did and someone has possibly killed him for owning it. Whatever is in it holds the key to the mystery. Perhaps Bernard suspected he was in danger and left this for us to carry on his work?” replied Ally, sniffing out another clue that might keep the trail going.
“He could have just sent you an email,” added Gabriel simply. It was hard for her to imagine a world that didn’t feature the internet. In her mind the painting in front of her could just have easily been painted in ninety-eighty-two, such was her lack of empathy for anything older than she was.
“That’s true. So why didn’t he send me an email?” answered Ally.
“Perhaps he feared it wasn’t safe to do so,” replied Antoine. “I was right to avoid the surveillance systems.”
“I’m sure this is all very fascinating,” said Marian looking at her wristwatch and making it clear it was anything but interesting to her. “Our business here is concluded so if you wouldn’t mind moving your painting, I can get back to work.”
Moving the portrait without the assistance of an amateur rugby team, a small crane and a removal van would be more challenging than explaining to Gabriel how libraries worked. The three of them tried to lift, shove, pivot and drag it without shifting it an inch. It didn’t cross their minds to ask how the stuffy-nosed lawyers of Lamy and Veron had got it in here in the first place. Removing the huge glass window seemed the only possibility.
“This is stupid,” huffed Gabriel who was the fittest of the three by some distance. “You don’t really need the frame, do you?”
“The frame is an original,” said Antoine in dismay. “If you remove that you’ll make it almost worthless.”
“I hate to agree with Gabriel, but this isn’t about the money. Mrs. Lamy, could I borrow that letter opener from your table?”
The lawyer nodded as Antoine simultaneously buried his head in his hands. He hated seeing pieces of history butchered. Ally stabbed the corner of the painting and cut around the frame to release the canvas. Once it was free from the wood they could easily remove it in a roll. As Ally picked it up, a piece of paper floated
to the ground, hidden between the painting and the back of the frame. Gabriel was the only person to notice it. She picked it up while the others were busy rolling up the painting.
“Right, let’s go.”
“And the frame,” said Marian as the three of them motioned to leave.
“You’re kidding, right?” replied Ally forlornly.
“No. It’s your rightful property and keeping it would be seen as theft,” lied Marian, simply wanting to get it and them out of her boardroom.
Their only option was to smash the four sides of the frame into several pieces. These were still not small enough to store comfortably inside the Renault, so they tied them together and left them hanging out of the boot like a lance in reverse. The painting was rolled up and laid along the middle of the car.
“What a total waste of time that was. We’re still no closer to solving the puzzle,” said Ally, getting back into the passenger seat and noticing that a large, folded piece of paper was sitting on the driver’s seat. “What’s this?”
“It fell out of the painting,” said Gabriel. “I didn’t want to interrupt you at the time so I picked it up.”
Although there wasn’t enough room to see all of it, such were the number of folds in the paper, Ally spread it out as best she could on her lap.
“What is it?” asked Antoine as he leant forward from the now crowded back seat.
“It’s a family tree.”
“Whose?”
“Nostradamus’s,” said Ally almost speechless.
“Dear Lord, so it is.”
“And at the bottom,” she continued, “someone has circled a name in red ink. Bernard didn’t want us to discover the painting, he wanted us to discover this.”
“Whose name is circled?”
“Mario Peruzzi,” replied Ally. “Mean anything to you?”
“Nothing at all.”
Gabriel turned the keys in the ignition and gave the little car a dose of petrol via the accelerator pedal to resuscitate it back to life. “So who’s this Nostradamus bloke anyway?”
- Chapter 23 -
Killer Queen
“Your majesty I have received a letter.”
“And?” replied the Queen dismissively. There was a time and place for matters of state and the middle of a lavish court festival wasn’t one of them.
“Forgive me, but I believe you will find it most illuminating,” said Michel de l’Hôpital, holding the letter in his hand to make the point more firmly.
“More interesting than ballet, music and dance,” replied Catherine. “Monsieur l’Hôpital, maybe you should relax a while. Take a drink from one of our lovely topless ladies.”
The Queen’s festivals were more than just celebrations. They were strategic messages sent to rivals, both at home and abroad. When other nations strongly believed that the French state had been bankrupted by years of poorly fought wars, the Queen would prove to the contrary by throwing ever more eccentric gatherings. The fact that these were almost always funded by bank loans didn’t really seem to matter.
These were political as much a general affairs of revelry. While the men of the court were distracted by the many outlandish gimmicks such as the topless waitresses, and had their glasses constantly topped up with strong alcohol, she would infiltrate their conversations and gain the advantage. It was the only way she could do it. Men weren’t comfortable with a woman in power and Catherine was in the most powerful position of all.
These parties also allowed an outlet for one of her other passions, the arts. The renaissance that Francis, her father-in-law, had stimulated more than two decades ago was now being championed by her. The best architects had been engaged to continue the development of her palace in Fontainebleau, she’d introduced ballet as an art form, and continued to build on the old King’s huge library collection. Her husband’s meagre passions had been women and warfare; she would be famous for culture and learning.
“Your majesty, I’m a little too old for that type of excitement,” replied l’Hôpital, shielding his eyes from the debauchery.
“Who is the letter from?” asked the Queen faking interest.
“A man by the name of Philibert Lesage.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Neither had I until I received information from an ally I trust in the South. But the letter says he has important information for you.”
“About what exactly?”
“The religious disagreements.”
“What expertise does he have on that subject?”
“It says he fought at the Battle of St. Quentin and has trained under the tutelage of Monsieur Nostradamus. It also states he’s been operating inside the Protestant community and understands their intentions.”
“Then is he a soldier or a seer?”
“Neither. Apparently he’s a doctor.”
“I don’t really need another doctor or another seer. One of each is more than enough,” replied Catherine.
“But your majesty, perhaps it might be prudent to hear what he has to say?”
The din of the festival made it difficult for Michel to hear himself think, let alone conduct a meaningful conversation. In every corner of the room actors in fantastical costumes, that resembled all kinds of mythical beasts and characters, were interacting with the guests through forms of entertainment as diverse as mime and juggling. Dancers weaved their way through the crowd, often teasing guests with their provocative moves. Musicians battled for dominance over the airwaves, and lutes and harps clashed with trumpets and recorders in a cacophony.
In the middle of all of this revellers scoffed all manner of delicacies, flirted with the women hired solely for their entertainment, and broke into song at the drop of a hat. Everyone who was anyone was in attendance. Freeloaders the lot of them, but as they’d eventually be responsible for raising the taxes needed to pay for it, they might as well push themselves to excess. Even the young King was up after his bedtime to watch how things should be done, all part of the education his mother designed for him.
“Fine, I will see him, but if I am unimpressed I will be forced to have him put to death,” she replied unemotionally.
“Yes, your majesty. I’ll go and get him.”
“Not now!”
“But he’s already here. He was most determined to see you tonight. Apparently he’s travelled all the way from Marseille.”
“Then maybe he should have thought about making an appointment first. Why is it so urgent anyway?”
“I believe he also has important information about your son.”
“My son?”
“Yes, a prophecy about the King in fact.”
Catherine loved a good prophecy, a great deal more than she did her own son in truth. Prophecies had an almost mystical quality. They could be ridiculous, inspiring, powerful and insightful, but they were always interesting. If there was a prophecy about her son she must hear it and speak to the one brave enough to commit it to paper.
“In that case you’d better go get him,” said Catherine suddenly more engaged. “And while you’re at it, bring my advisors, Montmorency and Throckmorton, at the same time.”
Philibert was guided into the great ballroom where his senses were so overloaded by what he saw he thought they might all shut down in exhaustion. He’d been to plenty of parties thrown by high society, but this one went so far past extravagance the others were barely visible on the horizon. And here he was again, alone, out of place in a palace, and dressed in clothes made to measure by the finest tailors that Paris had to offer.
White socks ascended to his knees and combined with red hose, fitted with an outrageously large codpiece. As the fashion of the day demanded, a white doublet was worn over the top of his shirt, one sleeve tightly fastened around his wrist while the other was left to hang loose. At the collar a white ruff, a fashion item that Catherine herself had influenced, circled his neck and a dark grey mantle was slung casually over his left shoulder to add some individual flair. All of i
t was topped off with a ridiculously elaborate gathered hat with a large, speckled feather poking from the top and several jewels sewn into the front. He looked and felt like an idiot, but fitted in with the crowd perfectly.
The unpredictable road of life had led him to this impossible moment. From a position of complete poverty he’d wriggled up the social ladder through plagues, wars, near scraps and adventure. He’d passed through every major French city, met and conned almost every famous family or church stalwart, witnessed war, escaped prison, started uprisings and learnt how to survive. Only one last massive hurdle to leap. On the other side of the door that led from the ballroom the Queen awaited his entrance.
The Queen.
If only she really knew who she was meeting. The scrawny waif of a boy born to a simple farm labourer who’d spent his entire life up to his knees in manure. In his so far successful attempt to leave history behind him, he’d managed to convince everyone he’d ever met except for Annabelle. She was the only one to see through him. He hoped it wasn’t a quality that all females possessed, otherwise this wouldn’t just be the biggest moment of his life, it might end up being his last.
The double doors were swung open and Philibert strolled confidently into the elegant lounge where he found two figures sitting comfortably on chaise longues covered in purple velvet. A further man stood uncomfortably inside an unusual metal contraption. A metal band was fastened around his waist and protruding from that were further bars that stretched over the top of his head and down to his knees. It looked to Phil at least that he’d recently picked a fight with a parrot’s cage and had lost, badly.
The Queen was dressed in black, as she so often was, further propagating the notion that she was in league with the supernatural. Unlike her party guests, who used the event as an opportunity to push the boundaries of their own fashion standards, art and decency, she made little effort to fit in with any conventions. The black attire reflected the elaborate façade of grief she wanted to portray. Others would be forced to notice the deep grief she still carried two years on from the passing of husband. She was thin of stature and had eyes that protruded out as if on stalks from an otherwise rather plain face. A steely determination oozed from every gesture and posture she adopted.
