The End of the World is Nigh

by Tony Moyle

  They tended to lack solid planning, as it generally took away from the principle of searching. If you knew what you were looking for and where it was, there wasn’t much point going out in the first place. It was almost impossible to know when someone had ‘found themselves’, in the same way that it’s difficult to locate an object you’ve lost but haven’t actually ever seen. It’s not like virginity, there weren’t rules to prove that it had happened.

  And there was another significant reason why it wasn’t like someone losing their virginity. Grand tours might last for years. Even if you were lucky enough to ‘find yourself’, the length of the trip might be extended unexpectedly by not actually knowing where you were, or a sudden lack of funds to find out. There were no traveller’s cheques, cashpoints or credit cards to swiftly lift you out of financial crisis. Gaining more funds meant writing a letter, if you could find a postal service in whatever godforsaken backwater you were in. Failing that you were expected to take up some bohemian profession like painting to pay your way. Even better still you could arrange a quick marriage to some wealthy local woman.

  But Charles wasn’t planning this type of tour.

  The one he demanded was a little more excessive and a lot less uncertain. And his ability to demand taxes from anyone he met en route meant he wasn’t likely to run out of money anytime soon. But to call this a tour at all was misleading. It was better described as a city on wheels.

  Not all the King’s decisions on who joined it were misguided. It was wisdom to include a battalion of soldiers to protect them on the road for what would last two years. The council, who were responsible for overseeing all aspects of the country’s welfare, would have to join him for continuity. And servants of course would be needed to tend to the royal family much as they would at one of the palaces. Hairdressers, cooks, squires, maids and courtiers were all forced to tell their families they were popping out for a while and it was best not to wait up for the next, say, twenty-four months.

  Others decisions the King made were much less sane. There would be servants on tour whose only job would be to carry a tapestry or piece of furniture the length and breadth of France. This was fine if your piece of furniture was a lightweight ornament that could be neatly wrapped in cloth and placed in a sack. Not so good if you had to carry the wardrobe.

  Taking a leaf out of his mother’s addiction for a good knees-up, all of the usual entertainers were also in tow. The eighty or so naked ladies, known locally as the flying squad, the musicians, the singers, the actors, the mask makers, the triumphant arch carriers, and the man that came to every party, even though no one claimed to know who he was.

  Oh, and the dwarves.

  Nine of them in fact travelling in their very own miniature coach.

  In total the population of the grand tour that left Paris in January of fifteen sixty-four was made up of fifteen thousand souls. Keeping track of them all was a nightmare. Particularly the dwarves who constantly got left behind. In the midst of this hoard of extravagance were Phil and Chambard. Chambard, almost completely bedridden by his ailments, travelled in his own private coach equipped with its own bed and creature comforts. It was quite a change compared to the journey they’d experienced to get to Paris in the first place. Phil rode out in front of the coach at the head of the procession, never far from the Queen. Thankfully the bell was one of the few possessions the family had left behind.

  The tour travelled south from Fontainebleau and every time it reached a major town, which was at least twice a week, a great party was organised to celebrate the tour’s arrival. Locals were forced to wear fake smiles and applaud the King’s coach as it passed by their impoverished existence. There was no begging or charity sought. Such notions had been banned by the authorities and would be met by fierce reprisals if any were witnessed. This was a celebration of the King’s ascension and a way of reconnecting the monarch to his people. The rich ones at least.

  Party after party, department to department, the swarm of people crept on like a malignant cancer. Hangovers were cured by sleeping on the journey, which was fine for anyone not carrying a wardrobe. This pattern seemed to continue endlessly until one summer’s day the convoy invaded Provence.

  “Chambard, wake up,” said Phil, gently nudging the horizontal lump that consumed most of the coach. “We’re here.”

  “Urgh...and I’m still here, too. Come on, God, I’m easy pickings,” he sighed from under the sheets.

  “It’s home!” exclaimed Phil.

  “There’s no such place.”

  “There is for me.”

  Twenty years had passed since he’d last set eyes on the ancient Roman walls of the city and the purple hue of the lavender bushes that cut a path like a silk scarf along the roadsides. The fragrant smell triggered a deep emotion inside him and unexpected tears welled in his eyes. They were passing into Aix, a city that was much transformed from the dark, spectral one he remembered. Children chased each other in and out of the spaces between their carts, playing merrily, oblivious to the bodies that Phil had once seen on these very streets. It was a city reborn, full of vigour and life. The memories may never die but the people at least lived on.

  “I never thought I’d see it again,” said Phil. “Not like this anyway.”

  “Life and death are not separate forces, you know,” said Chambard, squirming to sit up for the first time in weeks and take in the scene. “Maybe you should stay.”

  “No. I couldn’t do that, it would be like admitting failure. I wandered from this city for a reason.”

  “Maybe it was so you might wander back,” replied Chambard prophetically. “Every journey has to have a destination.”

  “Yours didn’t.”

  “Then don’t make that mistake, Philibert. The only reason I didn’t stop was because I never found a reason to. But I think you have. You can con everyone, apart from yourself.”

  The main section of the tour, which housed the most important members, disconnected from the rest and delved further into the city. They came to a stop in the centre next to the Cathedral whose bells were once again chiming happily in the tall bell tower. The Italian fountains frothed vigorously as if the clear fresh water had been responsible for cleansing the horrors from its own skin. Phil was keen to explore, to remember a more innocent time when his parents would send him down to the market to buy bread for dinner. To discover the streets where he’d play-fight with his younger siblings. To smell the cooked meats wafting from the windows of the inn on the corner. The inn right across the street from him now. The one with the elderly, white-haired gentleman outside currently waving at him.

  ‘Oh. This might get awkward,’ he thought.

  Standing in his most colourful clothes, designed both to stand out to the royal family and equally to overshadow anyone else’s attempts to do so, was Michel Nostradamus. Phil wondered how many in their tour would know who he was and how long it would take before he got tired of posing in that unique way of his when he had to tell them.

  “I’ll be back a minute,” said Phil, stepping off the cart and down onto the cobbles. He strolled casually forward to greet his old mentor, uncertain quite what welcome he might expect.

  “Philibert Montmorency, or is it Lesage?” said Michel without offering a handshake or friendly pat on the shoulder. “You have been busy.”

  “Shall we get a drink?” said Philibert.

  “I think you owe me that much at the very least.”

  They settled in the corner of the inn, far from others but near the window to allow the light, sunny air to purify the otherwise obnoxious odours of a place frequented by filth of all kinds. The shabby barman, seemingly one of those who knew Michel’s face, brought two goblets to the table that contained what might be excused for beer, but might equally pass as medieval disinfectant.

  “Are you well?” asked Philibert casually, as if nothing had happened in the intervening two years since their last meeting.

  “How do you do it?”


  “I’m not with you.”

  “How do you make them all come true. Your so-called prophecies.”

  “Honestly. I don’t know.”

  “You’re a conman, that’s how you do it.”

  “No, I was a conman, now I am the Royal Seer.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. You’re no seer. You have been fabricating history so that it appears your foretelling is accurate.”

  “You’re right, I did at first. But then I found there was no need.”

  “Prove it.”

  “How?”

  “If it’s not an illusion, prove how powerful you are right now. Predict something.”

  “About what?”

  “The next ten minutes.”

  “I’d have to break your rules, though, wouldn’t I!?”

  “Sod the rules. Do it!”

  “This is ridiculous, no one can be that accurate.”

  “Most of us can’t, but you’ve already broken all the rules. I know your game. I have swum in the cosmic pool and all you did was pee in it.”

  “A cosmic pool now, that’s new.”

  “Come on, show me.”

  “Fine, if you must embarrass yourself. In the next ten minutes a man will threaten your life.”

  “Is that man you, Phil?”

  “No. I’m no murderer. I’m a pacifist. The man who I speak of will have three front teeth and will carry a small sack in his left hand.”

  “Right. We’ll see, won’t we?”

  “We’re just going to wait, are we?”

  “Yes.”

  Michel was noticeably fidgety in his seat, constantly shifting his weight to find the right position. His limbs creaked with every movement and the old man held his right wrist with the palm of his other hand, massaging it back into life.

  “You’re looking old,” said Philibert darkly. “Not long left now.”

  “Is that another prediction or a question?”

  “Six months at the most if you ask me, and what then, Michel? How will you control your legacy when you are no longer here to influence it?”

  “I have friends, family, and my new secretary Jean who will see to it that people remember me long into the future.”

  “But why do you need to. You’ll be dead.”

  “Because what I do is real.”

  “No. You’re the fraud, Michel, with all your cosmic nonsense. What you write is a confidence trick against the weak and uneducated. And soon I will show them.”

  “It’ll be too late. Plans are already in place to protect my legacy. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “So why am I here?”

  “Because I need something that you have.”

  “What?”

  “Your prophecies of course. The next ten minutes will prove whether or not you are as good as they say you are. While we wait, I want you to write me another. A proper one. A prophecy of such extraordinary implications that it will carry my name forever.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then I will tell everyone who you really are. I have the power to reach every corner of this country. In a couple of weeks the name of Philibert Lesage will be on the lips of every one of your victims. You’ll be hunted in every town and village from Caen to Cannes. A ghost no more.”

  “My people are all ghosts. The powerful are blinkered from them and another will soon take my place.”

  “Maybe, but you will lose everything in the process.”

  “I already have.”

  “Not yet. What about the young woman? Annabelle, wasn’t it? Don’t you desire to start a life with her now that she has returned a widow from Paris?”

  Michel spoke the truth. Philibert had run so far and so fast a stitch was forming in his soul. Maybe it was time to stop. Time to build a new life. But there was only one way that could be achieved with Annabelle, and the window of opportunity sat in front of him.

  “Ok. You win. I do have a prophecy you might be interested in.”

  Philibert pulled out the small, wooden box that Michel had given him all those years before, and removed what he needed. Once he’d written out the quatrain he handed it across the table.

  “But this breaks the third rule!” replied Michel in shock.

  “Yes, it does. Scares you, does it?”

  “Not particularly. The events you speak of will not happen for five hundred years. The end is hardly nigh, is it?”

  “No, but think how long you will remain in the public conscience as they wait on tenterhooks to see if the great Nostradamus was right all along.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “Never more so. Do you know how many of my predictions have come true? All but that very first one I wrote in prison with you.”

  “Oh yes the famous canoe prediction. Not your finest hour. But this, this is extraordinary. There’s only one part I don’t understand. Who are these mountain men that you refer to?” said Michel, pointing to the last line of the prophecy.

  “Oh come on, Michel,” he replied with a smirk, “You said it yourself, it’s for scholars to interpret meaning, not for the prophet himself.”

  “It isn’t enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I need more than one. I need all of them. I once told you that if you became better at predicting than me, I would unveil you as the imposter that you are.”

  “You also told me to make something of myself and I have.”

  “At my expense. It won’t stand.”

  “What if I promised not to write anymore.”

  “It’s not enough. I need you to work for me.”

  “No. I’m done with employment and bells and routines and my mind being squeezed dry every three hours for the next piece of insight. All of which was your fault in the first place, by the way. Why did you tell Claude that I was working for the Queen?”

  “I didn’t tell him that. I predicted it. Looks like I got it right, too.”

  Phil got up angrily from the table, making its legs scrape the floor. Was that true? Was his destiny in the hands of this vain arse-kisser who was about as connected to the cosmic energy as a horse was connected to God. He’d heard enough, he’d take his chances and accept whatever Michel felt compelled to do. As he marched away from the table, Michel attempted to stop him by sticking his leg out to trip him up. Phil gently hopped over it, but the man coming in the other direction didn’t.

  To protect the small bag of coins that he carried in his arms the man didn’t stop his fall and his face took the full impact with the floor, dislodging several teeth on the bloodstained wood. Phil watched as the man pulled himself up.

  “Stupid old idiot, I’m going to kill you!” he shouted, grinning manically and revealing only three teeth still attached to his gums.

  - Chapter 30 -

  Home to Roost

  Michel utilised all of his wit and skill in an attempt to extricate himself from the awkward situation in the inn. Luckily when that failed, Jean was close at hand to rescue him. The ultimate cost was a larger bag of coins and an agreement never to show his face in this part of town again. But that didn’t matter. It had all been worth it. Phil had proven his talent irrefutably, and there was no question now that the prophecy that broke all the rules was legitimate.

  “Jean, I need you to ride to Lyon at once. Take this,” he said, handing him the prophecy he’d taken from Phil. “I need them to include it in my most recent edition of ‘Les Prophéties.’ Bring the first copy back to me as soon as you can.”

  “Yes, of course. Is it a good one?”

  “My best yet. It’s the most important quatrain I’ve ever written, which is why I want it included in the preface of the next book. It must stand out and be remembered by all who read it.”

  “Consider it done. And where will I find you on my return?”

  “I’m heading to Marseille. Meet me there. Hide the book inside my oak coffer if I am not around.”

  “What will you be doing?”

&nbs
p; “I’ll be gathering a few people to destroy a legacy.”

  *****

  Two weeks after its visit to Aix, the front of the tour trundled into Marseille. The back of the tour arrived three days later. This was the southernmost limit of the King’s influence and from here the company would travel west along the coast before turning north just before it hit the Spanish border. Six months had already passed since that January morning in Paris when this whole procession set off, and they weren’t even halfway. In that time three wardrobe carriers had perished, and the wardrobe had only been opened once. And that was only because the dwarves were playing hide-and-seek.

  Philibert approached Marseille with a sense of foreboding. Two years ago he’d arrived in total anonymity. He returned as one of the most famous figures in the whole of France. In the intervening years the Queen’s Seer had been an unavoidable presence in court and there wasn’t a noble or lord he’d not been introduced to. They’d always looked him up and down suspiciously, as if there was something familiar about him. Which wasn’t surprising as most of them had been victims in the last decade, even if their memories didn’t place the current name or outfit. Phil and Chambard’s predicament had stemmed from their last visit to Marseille, so it was fitting the end would come there, for both of them.

  There was only one dignitary in the city worthy enough to host the King, and only one place where it would happen. For the second time in his life Maubert Tower loomed over him. Much had changed since then, but it was likely that Claude’s opinion of him wasn’t one of them. Had Annabelle told her father about the events at Vassy and his role as the Queen’s seer? Did Claude still believe that Phil was working for both sides. Fortunately he didn’t have to immediately deal with the answers: Claude was not in town. According to whispers amongst the council leaders, he’d been delayed at his Castle of Cadarache due to ill health. The party would be greeted by his daughter instead.