The End of the World is Nigh

by Tony Moyle

  “Please ignore Sir Nicholas,” she said, referring to the man covered in metal. “He believes someone is trying to assassinate him.”

  “Right,” said Phil, not certain quite how the birdcage get-up was going to protect him other than making any would-be assassin stop and gawp.

  “So you are Philibert Lasage.”

  Phil nodded gracefully.

  “And you had the audacity to come here and demand my time?”

  “Yes.”

  Phil placed his hand in his pocket and removed the Montmorency ring, tossing it with a flick of his fingers to Anne, the other occupant on the couch. It landed on his lap jolting him from an open-eyed snooze.

  “Well, I never,” said Anne, “I had it on me all the time. Strange how things turn up like that.”

  “Constable, this man had your ring,” said the Queen, pointing at Phil.

  “What did you say?” said Anne, shuffling along the couch to get closer to his Queen.

  “HE HAD YOUR RING.”

  “You!” said Anne. “I remember you. You’re that doctor! Papadopoulos. Why, I should cut out your gizzard right here.”

  “Papadopoulos?” said Catherine with a furrowed brow.

  “Yes, it’s a small town just outside Saint Quentin,” whispered Phil.

  “What did he say?”

  “Never heard of it,” replied the Queen. “It’s irrelevant anyway. Why are you in possession of the Constable’s ring?”

  Then Philibert did something he was unaccustomed to. He spoke the truth. It was a significant gamble, but weeks of planning and testing each possible scenario had convinced Phil and Chambard that the only possible route to success was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth…up to a point. The Queen was known to have no love for the country’s peasants, but she did recognise spirit. She herself had fought against the male-dominated world order to prove that she, a woman, could outdo the endeavours of men. Phil’s story exhibited the same struggle with similar hurdles.

  Phil summarised his history from Aix through St. Quentin to Marseille and everything in between without making mention to any of the scams he’d conducted on people unquestionably known to Catherine. He purposely focused most of his tale on his time with Nostradamus, his teachings and Phil’s own natural ability at writing accurate prophecies.

  “That’s quite some story,” she said after patiently letting him tell it.

  “You couldn’t make it up,” said Phil.

  “Well, you could.”

  “Majesty, this man is a thief and an imposter. He should be executed immediately,” demanded Anne, advancing on Phil with a small but sharp dagger in his hand.

  “Sit down,” snapped the Queen.

  Anne had been one of her husband’s and father-in-law’s choices as advisor and she only maintained his role because too many others were decidedly less loyal and more dangerous than he was.

  “The Constable does makes a valid argument, though. Why shouldn’t I have you immediately dragged from my presence so they can separate your head from your body in an entertaining way?”

  “Because I have seen what comes next?” said Phil calmly.

  “Is it the sight of a gleaming blade crashing down on your throat?” replied Catherine menacingly.

  “No. It’s the sight of the gleaming blades of rebellion crashing down on your throne.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “That’s your choice, my majesty. Time will judge which of us is right.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because I have spent time in the Huguenot camp and have witnessed their plans. Bloodshed is on the horizon unless you stamp your authority down on it now,” said Phil.

  “Nostradamus is my seer and, even though he is wrong as often as he is right, I still believe in his work. I could just ask for his opinion and have you killed for the fun of it.”

  “You could, if you can find him and then get a semblance of sense out of him. I’m surprised you’re so fond of him. Didn’t he predict that your husband would have a long and healthy life several months before he died.”

  The Queen’s emblem, which adorned the walls of the room as well as the two shields above the fireplace, depicted a broken lance under a banner that read ‘hence my tears, hence my sorrow’.

  “Yes,” she said joyfully, clearly much less in sorrow than her emblem suggested. “It did me more favours than it did Monsieur Nostradamus, I gather.”

  “But I am not him. You can’t afford to ignore what I have to say,” teased Phil, desperate to find the fear inside her that would set the con in motion.

  Queen Catherine was fascinated by astrology and astronomy in equal measure and had an insatiable thirst for self-development. She also had a deeply superstitious nature. Not all superstitions were stupid. Not walking under ladders was symbolic of the path convicts took to the gallows, spilling salt was bad luck because it was rare and expensive, and it made perfect sense in religious circles that the number thirteen was best avoided. There were some, however, that plainly weren’t sensible.

  There appears no obvious reason why the shoes of horses are lucky. In a horse race all horses wear shoes, but how many fall over? Plenty. That doesn’t sound very lucky. And yet how often does the horse in your local field win the lottery? Never. At least the horse only had to give up a shoe. The poor rabbit had to lose the whole foot, and no rabbit that suffers such a curse will ever agree it was very lucky for them. Then there’s the practice of ‘touching on wood’, which is only slightly weirder when people use someone’s head as a substitute for wood. Wood isn’t often confused with foreheads in other situations. If a landscape gardener runs out of wood when constructing a garden deck he doesn’t round up random passers-by and nail-gun their heads to the beams instead.

  It didn’t matter if they were stupid or sensible because Catherine believed them all. And the one she believed in more than any other was not to reject a prophecy when it’s being offered to you for free.

  “I can afford to ignore you if I choose to. How confident are you in this prophecy of yours?”

  “Unlike Michel, I don’t make mistakes,” replied Phil boldly.

  “Excuse me,” said Nicholas Throckmorton gingerly from behind his own personal mobile prison cell. “Can you tell me if the end is nigh?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And is it?”

  “I couldn’t possibly say,” teased Phil. “It depends how long away you think nigh is?”

  “Now,” replied Nicholas. “It’s always now!”

  “Whatever you want to believe,” replied Phil.

  “I tire of this nonsense!” exclaimed Catherine. “Constable, take him away and torture him cruelly until he turns a lovely shade of blue.”

  “Which one of them?” asked Anne, uncertain which of Phil or Nicholas she most wanted punished.

  “Him,” said Catherine, pointing at Philibert. “He’s clearly a fraud.”

  “With pleasure!” said Anne de Montmorency.

  “WAIT!” shouted Phil. “Let me prove I’m the real deal. I have seen what will become of your son the King.”

  With a mighty crash a side door was kicked in and a young boy in full evening wear stormed into the room like he owned the place. Which, as it happened, he did. A face of pale thunder, he picked up an expensive-looking china ornament of a woman nursing a dog and threw it at the fireplace where it shattered beyond repair. Further priceless artefacts were purposely tipped from their position until he felt he’d gained their full and proper attention.

  “Mother, the milk has made me emotional!” he said, stamping his feet petulantly.

  “Not now, dear, Mummy’s working.”

  “MILK!”

  “Ok, my sweetheart. Calm down. Do you want cow or human?” answered the Queen.

  “Peacock!”

  “Nicholas, please attend to the King’s wishes,” the Queen demanded of her aide, clearly in no mood to challenge her child’s boisterous behaviour.
r />   “Um…I don’t believe you can milk a peacock, your majesty. They generally not equipped for it.”

  “Look, if the King wants peacock milk he must have peacock milk,” she said with a glare that wasn’t even partly in jest.

  Nicholas shuffled off towards the exit frequently snagging his protective metal cage on long, flowing curtains or frames of doors.

  “Anything else, my dear?” she said to Charles.

  “Yes. I want to invade Luxembourg.”

  “What, now?”

  “Immediately!”

  “My darling, the peace treaty took a very long time to negotiate, it would seem a shame to break it to acquire a densely wooded forest little bigger than the royal gardens.”

  “I don’t care. I can do what I want. I am King. Get me Luxembourg without delay.”

  “We’ll talk about it in the morning,” replied Catherine.

  “Who is this man?” said Charles, pointing aggressively at Philibert.

  “State business.”

  “I don’t like him. He has a woman’s beard.”

  “That’s enough, Charles, go to bed at once or I will not sanction your executions for a week!”

  “How dare you threaten me, hag! One day you will do as I tell you. And if you don’t, I will marry you off to some ghastly old widower in a horrible place like Wales.”

  “Yes, dear, of course you will. Constable, please escort my son back to his quarters.”

  “Don’t touch me!” shouted the King before Anne could take him by the hand. “You smell of cheese, old man.”

  Soon the noise of distant tantrums receded and it was overtaken again by the din of the party next door. Now Phil was alone with the Queen and their dealings were poised on the edge of a knife.

  “Lovely boy,” said Philibert. “Full on, though.”

  “It is no concern of yours. One day he will be King and we will all have to do as he says.”

  “I’m sure peacocks everywhere will rejoice the day.”

  “His choices are his.”

  “I understood he was ill, your majesty.”

  “You know nothing of it.”

  “Not true. I know he suffers from mood swings that often place him and others in danger.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I know many things. It must worry you that he might not be able to carry out his royal duties in the manner you expect?”

  “What do you know exactly?”

  “I know it will have consequences to the Crown unless you act, my lady. I have already foreseen it. His behaviour, and your management of it, will impact the course of this religious discord. Let me show you what I can do. Then you can benefit from my vast insights in the future.”

  The bait was on the hook. It would be consumed by the next bite or it would swallow him. The Queen considered his proposition for a moment. It was a no-lose situation. If he failed she could work his death into one of her next operas, and if he succeeded she would understand more than her enemies.

  “Very well. Write me a prophecy. If it doesn’t come true within a week I will have you executed. But I won’t just chop of your head like everyone else, I’ll find a really long and painful way of doing it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you waiting for, then? Go write,” she said, wondering why he was still standing in front of her.

  “I already have.”

  “Oh. Then show it to me.”

  Phil produced a small roll of paper from the inside of his mantle and bowed as he placed it in her hands. Catherine unrolled the scroll and read the information it contained. Once she’d processed it calmly she rose from her seat, walked to the raging fire in the hearth and threw the paper carefully into the flames.

  “You now have my attention,” she said, turning to Philibert.

  - Chapter 24 -

  In Pursuit of Madness

  Jacques de Saluces and his goons waited in shadows as Philibert left the palace of Hôtel des Tournelles. To his great relief he’d left by his own free will and with all his faculties fully functionally, thereby proving to his captors that he was every bit the spy Michel had said he was. Now came the debrief that Jacques had already declared before the visit would happen immediately. Their destination for this was a property owned by Louis de Bourbon, Prince of Condé, one of the Protestant ringleaders.

  Whatever intelligence Phil had gathered would be vital to establishing the Catholics’ next move, and Jacques would be the hero of the hour for passing it on. Or at least he would, if Phil had gathered anything interesting. Or anything at all for that matter. When entering an interrogation, ‘nothing’ was a pretty poor starting position, particularly when the other party had interesting ways of making you run much faster than the human body was normally capable. If he didn’t want branded skin with permanently burnt scar tattoos he definitely needed to have something.

  “Tell us all you know,” demanded Jacques angrily the moment they set foot in the building.

  “Hold on a second. Where are you manners? Aren’t you meant to take my cloak from me, offer me a drink and engage in some hearty yet pointless chit-chat?”

  “No. I think you’re confusing me with someone who cares. Tell me now.”

  “Ok, the Queen has very exotic parties,” replied Philibert, stalling as much as possible to gather his thoughts and invent the ‘something’ that might delay his inevitable beating. He failed.

  The back of Jacques’ hand struck Phil’s cheek with force, knocking him clean off his feet. Jacques may not have been blessed in the thinking department, but he more than made up for it in physical presence. A giant of a man for the age, measuring in at around six feet, his arms were thick with hair and even thicker with muscle fibres. The first strike was merely a warning shot. He was capable and willing to inflict much more pain and Phil knew it. Jacques grabbed him by the ruff and dragged him up the stairs. A door jumped out of the way in fear of its hinges as Jacques thundered towards it. Finally Phil was deposited into the corner of the room with a simple flick of the wrist.

  “If you speak out of turn again, traitor, I will punish you further, and next time you may not find it quite so easy to talk.”

  “Noted,” said Phil, caressing the life back into his face.

  “I’ll ask you again. What are the Queen’s intentions?”

  Phil had no idea. At no point in their brief conversation had religion put in an appearance. It hadn’t been important because Phil was setting up another part of his plan and his brain didn’t have the capacity for more than one concept. Every stage would have to be tackled step by step. This was the next one and it had consumed very little of his attention. It didn’t matter that Phil would have to get out of it by telling Jacques a lie, as long as he had enough time and opportunity to influence it suitably so it didn’t end up being one.

  “She’s in a conciliatory mood,” guessed Phil taking a lead out of Nostradamus’s playbook by being as ambiguous as possible.

  “How?”

  “She will attempt to bring both sides together to agree how each should tolerate the other’s faith.”

  “When will this occur?”

  “It has not been agreed, but I’ll know within a week,” said Phil.

  In a week either he’d be sawn into chunks and deposited in various parts of Paris or he’d successfully gained the Queen’s trust. In attempting to achieve the latter, and this new lie, he’d have to convince Catherine of a new course of action through another suitably crafted prophecy. One step at a time.

  “Why will it take a week?” demanded Jacques.

  “Apparently she’s got a hair appointment.”

  The other cheek received a smack and brought both sides of his face into harmony.

  “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? The imposter who, like a wisp of smoke, can pass effortlessly through places that remain impassable to others. A master of disguises, here today and gone tomorrow. Well, I see through your disguise, Philiber
t. If you are lying to me, I’ll be forced to remove your innards and wear them as a scarf.”

  “I’ll never understand Renaissance fashion,” replied Phil, quite unflustered by the physical and verbal intimidation. Threats of death and torture were not a new phenomenon in a world where presently more people wanted him dead than those who didn’t.

  Jacques raised his hand for another strike.

  “Do you know a lie when you see one?” said Philibert to delay the punch. “Because a lie can be many things. To some a lie can be as believable as the truth, if they really want it to be. Sometimes a lie can lead in unexpected directions that may possibly be more advantageous than the truth. A lie is a perception of the facts as they are presented. I am the master of lies, Jacques, and you will never know if I’m telling you one or not until it’s much too late.”

  Lies come in many forms. There’s a huge variety on the spectrum between truth and untruth. Fibs, white, black half, exaggeration, subterfuge, bluff, memory hole, fake news all have a unique colour between black and white. The opposite of a lie is not always the truth, and the absence of truth does not always constitute a lie. Those who proclaim that they never tell lies are lying with the very statement because to humans lying is as natural as breathing. People lie to protect themselves, to gain advantage and to inflate their egos. But lying is not always a negative act. It can be used legitimately to avoid hurting someone’s feelings or reducing pain.

  So should all lies be treated equally?

  If a lie is created with the right intentions, is the person who tells it sinister? Phil told lies as much as the next man. He was just better at it. Phil’s lies were different because he fully intended to manipulate events so that in the end they turned out to be true. Is that still a lie? It’s a matter of opinion. There was no malice in Phil’s deceit because his objectives were clear. Make life better for himself whilst reducing the impact on others, except for those that did not deserve the relief.