by Tony Moyle
“A lie is a lie,” replied Jacques, angrily reinforcing the righteousness that all blue bloods carried deep in their DNA. The rich were right and the poor were liars. End of story. “Take him back to his quarters and keep guard over the door.”
Two men of dubious genetic integrity each grabbed an arm and dragged Philibert carelessly down the corridor. It wasn’t far. His room was next door, presumably to allow for his speedy retrieval and ability for others to eavesdrop. Inside, Chambard waited patiently for his return.
“You ok?” asked Chambard, while showing little other signs of concern.
“Fine. Been busy?”
“Not really. I’ve just spent the last four hours counting to myself,” said Chambard.
“Counting?”
“Yeah. Couldn’t think of anything else to do so thought I’d see how far I could get.”
“How far?”
“Seventy-nine.”
“And that took you four hours?” said Phil removing himself from the spot in the middle of the floor where he’d been dumped.
“No. That only took five minutes. I spent the rest of the time trying to remember what came next.”
“It’s quatre-vingts,” replied Philibert.
“Four-twenty?” said Chambard. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. Just wait until you get a little further, it’ll mess with your mind. Ninety-seven is four-twenty seventeen.”
“Who the hell came up with that system?” replied Chambard. “Were they at the absinthe?”
“No idea. Just one of those oddities of history. I’m sure in the future someone will realise the stupidity of it and make changes.”
“How did it go with the Queen?” said Chambard, mocking a little bow.
“I have a week.”
“Did she buy it, then?”
“Time will tell.”
“What prophecy did you give her?”
From the top of his head, Phil retold the prophecy he’d presented to the Queen no less than two hours ago.
Paris cowers under dark winter clouds
Screams of panic, fists of fury and the satanic babble
The madness of a royal child will change the nobles’ mood
And only her medicine will cure the Saints of Germany
“How did you come up with that?”
“Well, Venus is in conjunction with Mars and it suggests, if you look at the events from thirteen-fifty-seven, that solar flares will increase the atmospheric pressure on earth. This will in turn impact on the level of complex molecules in the air, which, if you believe the studies of the notorious physician Jean Ruel, will greatly affect those with fragile mental states like the young King.”
“Will it!?” said a highly gullible Chambard, deeply impressed by Phil’s explanation.
“No idea…I made it up.”
“Right…it was very convincing, though.”
“That’s good,” he smiled, “it’s kind of my job.”
“But what does it mean?” asked Chambard more seriously.
“It means the already crazy Charles is about to advance up the madness scale from doolally to not allowed sharp objects.”
“That’s where I come in, isn’t it?”
“Yep.”
“You have a plan, then?”
“Of course.”
“It’s not going to be easy, this one. I mean we’re stuck in here, aren’t we?”
“That’s true, but we’ve got out of more difficult situations than this. Let’s use the old sacks in the bed routine,” said Phil.
“Then out through the window,” nodded Chambard in agreement.
“Exactly. The prophecy shouldn’t take too long to pull off but it’ll need to be done at night. Should be back before anyone notices we’re gone.”
“Ok, when?”
“Tomorrow night,” replied Phil assertively.
“What do we need?”
“A small bag of gunpowder, a wooden box, two guards’ uniforms, a long ball of string and someone who’s excellent at gossip.”
*****
Other than the two cronies stationed just behind their door, often heard snoring to expose their ineffectiveness, security around the house was limited. Jacques and his cohorts had much more to occupy themselves than chaperoning prisoners. They had an ulterior motive for being in Paris. Each night they congregated in the room next door to Phil’s to discuss matters of the day and put alternative plans in place in case the Queen’s attitude remained conciliatory. They didn’t want tolerance of the religions, they wanted dominance of it. Calvinism, the new Protestant code, was the future.
Annabelle was never party to these debates. In fact she was never party to any conversations at all. Her existence in this strange city was one of abject loneliness. No friends here to confide in, or release the tight noose of isolation. While others planned their own exciting adventures, she was left to idle away the day with needlework, piano practice or reading. This wasn’t the life she pined for. Her eyes had been opened to the world’s suffering and it had impressed upon her a need for action. It was impossible for her to contribute to that while she remained married to Jacques, whose only interest in her was in bed or in public. It was time to join the ranks of the era’s other notable women who were making their mark.
As Phil and Chambard descended through their window and out into the chilly night air she ventured up to the first floor to eavesdrop on muffled conversations leaking through the door from Jacques and his men. Ear pressed up to the wood to decipher as much detail as possible, she followed that evening’s debate.
“He said the Queen was in a conciliatory mood,” laughed the unmistakable voice of Jacques. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”
“Do you still intend to go through with it, then?” said another voice whose owner Annabelle couldn’t place.
“Yes. Every good monarch needs a war, it’s only this one isn’t marching over the borders. And Catherine is getting a war whether she wants one or not.”
“How will it be triggered?”
“There will need to be a flashpoint. A confrontation between the leaders of both faiths. On the Catholic side the Guise brothers are probably the most volatile and least tolerant. If they were to, let’s say, accidentally discover…” The room giggled like schoolchildren. “…A Protestant service in progress I’m sure it would send them into a violent retribution.”
“But what if the Queen gives permission for such religious freedom? You did say she’s being conciliatory.”
“What if she does? We will build the bonfire of war, but the Catholics will light it. It will trigger an unstoppable chain of events that will set each side off against each other. There must be fatalities, lots of them, and it must be easy for each side to blame the other. What we are planning is the first spark that will light the great fire of religious war. A war that we will win.”
“But sir, surely this is madness. We will turn people against us and lose any goodwill that we’ve earned.”
“I have no interest in goodwill. The Catholics have had their turn. Those corrupt bastards in Rome have ruled over faith for more than a thousand years and look what good it has done us. Corruption, conflict, cruelty and now it’s time for change.”
A series of drink-fuelled yelps of agreement echoed around the room and forced the single naysayer into silence.
“When will this flashpoint occur?” said a third voice.
“Very soon. When the Guises return to Paris from their homestead in the early spring next year, then we will strike. I’ve even identified the perfect location.”
“Where?”
Before Annabelle heard the answer footsteps approached the door. She turned and fled for fear of being discovered. In the comfort of her own living quarters she considered the impact of what she’d heard. Peace had been a rarity in her short life. There were already enough wars around Europe without the need to construct one between their own people whatever their religion.
As the only person with any knowledge of this deception, she set to work on a plan to stop it.
*****
Getting inside the grounds of the Palace was easy. For professionals like Philibert and Chambard it was no harder than opening the door to your own home. It was a well-rehearsed trick. Chambard would approach one of the guards at the front gate pretending to be a distressed local or lost traveller, while Phil would come up behind them and strike a blow to the head. Once dragged away and tied up, uniforms could be borrowed and ‘voilà’ you were on the Queen’s payroll. No one wore security badges or name cards. Uniforms were all you needed to fit in.
Phil’s plan had two stages. The first was to carry out an act designed purely to increase the already erratic behaviour of the young King. The second was to ensure as many of the royal court, most of whom were tucked up in bed, witnessed it with their own eyes. That way the most loose-lipped amongst them would spread the message within their circles of influence and the King’s reputation would be broken irreparably.
To achieve the first stage they needed to scare the crap out of Charles without being noticed. Phil had already completed the necessary reconnaissance during yesterday’s visit, even though he wasn’t aware of it at the time. He’d identified the best entrance into the castle, knew where the private quarters were and what security was in place. Very few guards protected the royal family who believed that any dangers were likely to come from external rather than internal threats. If there was no army at the door people slept peacefully.
They moved swiftly through the corridors unchallenged, just two regular guards going about their normal business. They easily obtained the location of the King’s chamber by asking one of their ‘colleagues’ for directions. They justified this unusual question by confessing that they’d not been to this palace before, which wasn’t that unusual given how many homes the royal family owned. Once they were in the corridor outside the King’s door the two took stock.
“Why am I doing this again?” asked Chambard.
“Because the boy knows what I look like. I have a woman’s beard apparently.”
“He’s right.”
“Never mind.”
“You know what to do?” asked Philibert.
“Yes. I sneak in without waking him and place this strange box under the bed. What did you call it again?”
“A firework,” replied Philibert.
“Right. So, I put the firework under the bed and light the slow fuse and then come back out pronto.”
“Exactly, but you must retreat quietly or we’ll give the game away. I expect there will be a bit of a delay as the fuse reaches the wood. That way we’ll be nowhere near it when it goes off.”
“Won’t it blow up the bed?”
“No. I’ve only put a tiny amount of gunpowder inside. It’ll just make a really loud bang, scare the wits out of the King and send him into a fit of panic. At least that’s what I’m hoping. Right, in you go. Quiet now, his nurse sleeps in room attached to his. I’ll keep watch.”
*****
Sir Nicholas Throckmorton never slept particularly peacefully. But tonight he woke with a jolt sweating heavily. His dreams had always troubled him. Most of them had a habit of picturing scenes of terror, mostly involving him. Biblical ones were very popular. A recurring one involved a small pack of demons poking him with sticks while he rotated over an open fire and they made vigorous accusations about his parentage.
But tonight’s dream was a little closer to home.
It had involved the young King rampaging through the palace, screaming obscenities, destroying prized art collections and repeatedly punching his young sister in the face. It was clear, in the dream at least, that Charles had totally lost control of his mind and could no longer function normally. ‘But what could have triggered him into it?’ everyone in the dream was asking. It was at that moment Nicholas woke up.
Of all the personal qualities that people recognised in Nicholas, one was stronger than all others: paranoia. If they gave out awards for it he’d have so many acceptance speeches he’d run out of people to thank. Whether in his waking moments or unconscious ones the fear of impending doom consumed fifty per cent of his attention. The other half was taken up with schemes to avoid it.
One of these elaborate tactics was always to do whatever you were told to do. Not doing so was the equivalent of accepting you’d wake up in the morning somewhere underwater covered in rocks and with your ankles tied to your ears. Of course that probably wasn’t the likely outcome, but paranoia doesn’t do ‘best-case’ scenarios. Failure in normal situations didn’t have such terrifying outcomes. Imagine if a wife or husband threatened the other with execution just because they’d forgotten to wash the dishes or walk the dog. Now there are laws against such things. But there wasn’t in the Middle Ages, which meant paranoia forced you to do as instructed.
Even the impossible.
And by doing so he’d lied to the Queen.
It wasn’t really peacock milk. How could it be? He’d called it peacock milk because no one in history, including the King, had actually seen it before or knew how it tasted. To escape the possibility of a watery grave with only cod for company, Nicholas had invented one. The exact recipe was hard to remember as he’d got carried away, adding ingredients like an experimental chef. The recipe definitely started with cow’s milk and was finished with a garnish of the little mushrooms he’d found growing in the meadow near the cows.
*****
“And he definitely didn’t wake up?” enquired Phil.
“Not a peep. Quiet as a mouse, like he wasn’t even there. What now?”
“We silently make our escape and act like we really do work here. I think we have about five minutes before it goes off.”
They descended the stairs from the first floor, walking abreast and looking nerveless. They were used to blending in. Their heart rates were normal and not a bead of sweat was present on either of them. The nearer they advanced on the ballroom, the more an unexpected noise grew in volume. It was difficult to understand why there was such a commotion at this hour of the morning, particularly considering it was a Sunday and there was no party tonight. They shuffled calmly towards the door to the sitting room which had been flung open.
The contents of the room were in chaos. Many of the priceless paintings had been dislodged from their hooks, every porcelain vase had been smashed, a clock lay on the floor spewing its springs into the air, and a chaise longue had been upended. Somewhere, hidden in the midst of this destruction, echoed the familiar sound of a fist hitting flesh followed immediately by muffled whimpering.
“Chambard, was the King definitely in bed?”
“Yeah, I think so. I didn’t stop to read him a lullaby or anything. Why you asking?”
“Because I think he’s in the middle of that,” said Phil, pointing into the room.
Through an entrance on the other side of the room a number of adults dressed in bedclothes rushed in looking horrified. Sir Nicholas whose sense of paranoia had already pictured, it was the first on the scene.
“Piggy tail!” screamed Charles. “I saw a pig’s tail coming out of her nightdress. And two little pixies in her hair. They taunt me.”
“Mamma!” cried the young girl.
Nicholas rushed forward to grab hold of the boy’s fists before he could inflict more punishment on his sister.
“Ah, the little milkman!” screamed Charles, desperately trying free himself. “May the Devil scorch your behind with handfuls of fiery hedgehogs.”
It wasn’t long before the room was a veritable crowd of people who’d been woken from their slumbers by the noisy racket and had been forced to seek out its source. They would all witness the deeds or aftermath of the King’s anarchy, which only ceased with the arrival of the distraught Queen.
“I think that’s probably done it,” whispered Phil.
“I’d say so,” replied Chambard. “I don’t really understand what’s happened, though.”
/> “Retreat now, understand later.”
Heart rates a little speedier than normal, they turned on their heels and jogged as swiftly and quietly as they could from the castle via the nearest exit. Once they were in the safety of the palace grounds they slumped against one of the outer walls to give Chambard a chance to give his aging body a breather.
“That’s the second time,” said Chambard.
“I know,” replied Phil, equally perplexed by the night’s events.
“If you were a woman they’d have burnt you by now. It’s proper dark, this.”
“Don’t look at me. I’m not trying to do it. I broke most of Michel’s rules and it’s still happening. What more can I say? Fluke?”
“I think we’re way past fluke, Philibert. I think you might have an actual gift.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, we don’t believe in such stupidity. We never have. We get by with self-discipline, not some unexplained magic.”
“I know, but how else would you explain it?”
Their conversation was violently interrupted by a large explosion from the tower above them. Instinctively they covered their ears, crouched like a golfer had just shouted fore in their direction. Pieces of rubble splattered the ground, narrowly missing them, before a fully intact four-poster bed landed on the lawn with a thud.
“I might have overdone the gunpowder,” said Phil, straightening up.
“It’s a good job you can predict the future, because you’re shit at faking it.”
*****
They returned to the relative safety of the house in the early hours of the morning by shimmying up the side of the house in the same manner as they’d left it a few hours before. Chambard struggled, both his extra years and extra weight combining to cause his face to go red and his body to shake. He hit the floor of the bedroom in a heap of human exertion.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he puffed.
“I know. You should retire,” replied Phil with a cheeky grin. “Hopefully that day is coming for both of us.”
