by Tony Moyle
The Queen’s inner circle, which included the King, Anne, Throckmorton, Phil and Chambard, carried in a chair like an Indian prince, approached the steps of the tower where they were greeted by a fanfare of trumpets, huge flags running down the stone walls and a crowd of excited well-wishers. At the top stood Annabelle looking radiant in a long, flowing green dress and hair intricately coiffured into a bun. A man stood on her left-hand side.
“What a dump!” shouted Charles, purposefully as loud as he could. He wasn’t one for sugar-coating what he thought.
“Welcome Your Highness,” said the man standing next to Annabelle, in a deep, booming voice that was heard across much of the city. “I’m Georges de Clermont d’Amboise, and this is my wife Annabelle. The master of the house offers his sincere apologies for not greeting you in person.”
“Don’t care who you are!” ranted Charles petulantly.
At thirteen he’d spent a significant portion of his life meeting people he didn’t like very much and he was bored of it. Even the nobles were paupers to him, no different from the pathetic plebs who lined the streets looking hungry and ill. There were none who matched him for divinity and power. Everyone else was insignificant.
“Manners, Charles. These are your loyal subjects and you need their support,” whispered Catherine to remind him of his responsibilities.
“I won’t do it again.”
“You must.”
“It’s degrading. Instead let’s have them all executed so we can melt down their jewellery and make a massive monument in the shape of a harp!”
“Charles, the speech.”
“Urghhh. Fine. But it’s the last time. My noble subjects, the King offers you his good tidings,” rambled Charles monotonally in a way that suggested it had been well rehearsed. “In these times of great upheaval I seek to heal divisions, build alliances and honour those who fight for their King and Country. I offer my counsel and am honoured to be in your company.”
“A fine sentiment, your majesty. We welcome you as our honoured guest,” replied Georges. “Are there any provisions or luxuries that might make your stay more comfortable?”
“Yes,” said Charles with a grin. “I want two dozen swans, a miniature trebuchet and something I can throw daggers at, preferably someone poor.”
“I’m sure it can be arranged, Your Highness. We would also like to pay tribute to this momentous occasion by having the council sit for a painting by the renowned artist François Clouet.”
“Swans first, painting later.”
The King marched up the stairs unwilling to continue the daily charade of being nice to people. The rest of the company followed subserviently behind. Phil held back so that he had the opportunity to get Annabelle’s attention, but by the time he got there she’d already been led away by her new husband.
That evening, after another meal fit for a king, the company were led into the round banquet hall and carefully positioned on furniture strategically placed in front of an easel. Behind it a bohemian-looking gentleman stood next to an enormous canvas which he’d already started working on. Once everyone was in place Clouet painted at a speed that looked impossible for such a weak-armed pensioner. It was an arduous experience for everyone. Throckmorton was forced to part with his ever more elaborate protective clothing, designed to withstand all manner of threats to life. He replaced it with a propensity to sweat through every available pore.
Charles’s boredom elevated itself into anger within minutes. The lurchers that had been placed for artistic effect on either side of him had a mild disposition until he’d jabbed them with a concealed fork. But even after that they still moved less than the young King, who would wander off regularly, often flicking a rude gesture or simply shouting ‘King’ loudly and pointing at himself. Chambard and Anne, who were of a similar age, struggled just to stay upright. To overcome this, Chambard was held up from behind by a squire out of eyesight. Every minute or so the frail wanderer would mumble, ‘Kill me,’ from the corner of his mouth and then pretend it wasn’t him. By the end of day it wasn’t, as the sentiment was also being muttered by the exhausted squire.
Worse was yet to come.
The painting wasn’t a quick job. It would take more than one sitting to capture the detail and subtle nuisances that the artist required. Every evening for a week the collective repositioned themselves in exactly the same place, often checking the painting itself to remember what posture they’d adopted previously. The frowns grew with every passing moment. At the end of each session Philibert tried to engage with Annabelle, and on the seventh and final evening he managed it.
“Was this your idea?” he whispered from the corner of his mouth.
“No, it was Father’s and he’s not even going to be in it.”
“Smart move.”
There was one question he wanted to ask above all others, but felt incapable of forming it. In substitution he resorted to the awkwardness he’d used with her at their very first meeting.
“I’ve always liked that locket,” he said, pointing at the chain around her neck. “Is it a ram or a sheep, though? Real craftsmanship, that. In all my travels I have never seen anything with quite such beauty. Well, apart from…”
“I know what you are thinking, Phil,” she interrupted before he could finish his sentence. “You mustn’t worry about me. Georges is a fine man who treats me with dignity and love. It is best this way. I must settle down and comply with my father’s expectations. My life’s purpose.”
“But do you love him?”
“Why is my love important? It will not heal the world’s wounds. It will not overcome war or death. It will not transcend what cannot be allowed. So it matters not. It is my place and I must be thankful for it.”
“That’s not the Annabelle that I know. You’re a rebel, and the world needs more of them.”
“What can I do?”
“You can do whatever you choose, just look at me.”
“Phil, however much you try, whatever skills you learn, it’s impossible to be someone that you are not. None of us can defeat the established hierarchy.”
“But I don’t want to be someone else. I want to be someone better. None of us can change the road on which fate has placed us…but we can decide which steps to take.”
“I’m sorry, Philibert, I can’t take those steps with you,” she said, a single tear weaving its way down her pale cheek. She lingered for a moment in his gaze before gliding serenely away to her chamber.
Phil’s chin dropped to his chest. The fight was up. Nothing left to cling onto. Time to call it a day. In the corner of his eye Chambard was flummoxed on a chair panting from the pointless exertion of posing for a painting that no one would ever know he was in. He held up a hand and beckoned him over.
“Not the answer you hoped for?” he said as Phil flopped on the ground beside him.
“No.”
“It was just a fool’s dream, Philibert,” he croaked. “Some things are just not to be.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s been a good ride these past few years. I’ve tried to guide you as best I could, to teach you lessons of survival and how to stay ahead. But there was one lesson I hope you’ve learnt above all others.”
“Never give up, until there’s nothing left to give.”
“Exactly. So are you ready?”
“Yes. You?”
“I’ve been ready for months. I can’t cling to this broken body until my mind decides to release it. I’ve been in control of my life for as long as I can remember, I’m not going to stop now.”
“I can’t ask this of you,” Philibert sobbed. These tears were not for Annabelle, they came from a source much closer to home.
“You’re not asking me. I am offering. In fact, I am demanding it. I have done much for you and asked for little in return. This you must do for me,” said Chambard fighting to summon the energy to complete the words.
“I have lost enough. I can’t lose you, too.”
&
nbsp; “Do not feel sad, my friend. It’s what we both want. Our freedom relies on it. Everything is in place.”
“Not everything,” replied Phil. “Do you think he will come?”
“He’ll come, and then he and a few others will get what’s coming to them. Eventually at least.”
Phil stretched out an arm and held Chambard’s hand in his. The tough skin felt like an old saddle, split and worn. Old, white scars ran across his fingers like dried-up tributaries of a once magnificent river.
“How can you do what’s needed in this state?” said Phil. “It’ll take strength and mobility to get into position. Not to mention speed. We’ll get maybe thirty seconds at most.”
“Don’t worry. I know people here that I can rely on. They will help me. The plan is already in motion.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“Of course you are. You’re about to become a legend, just like I said you would. Everything I have taught you, all the scrapes we have escaped from, and all the moments we have shared have prepared you for it. I’m going to miss it.”
“Well, we have lived impossible lives.”
“And you still have another to live. Spare a moment to remember me somehow, won’t you?”
“Oh, don’t worry, I will. The name Chambard will live on somehow.”
“Go. We will see each only once more before the end.”
*****
Phil had a difficult night’s sleep. Brain activity crowded his ability to shut down. Each new synaptic impulse fought to scramble the last. Over and over these threads kept a ‘no entry’ sign up to the bliss of slumber where nothing but imagination or the blank nothingness could affect him. But his mind was right to be agitated. The interconnectivity of his actions was about to come to a head. Was he ready? Had he foreseen every possible scenario? Had he judged it just right?
If sleep had been difficult, it was nothing compared to the challenge of waking up. It hadn’t been natural. The sunlight hadn’t crept in through the window to bathe his body back into consciousness. No loving partner had leant tenderly across his body to kiss him back to life. The start to his morning involved half a dozen guards shouting commands and pointing swords in his face.
“I’m guessing Michel is here, then?” said Philibert expectantly.
“Get up!” barked the closest guard.
“Can I get out of my nightgown first?”
“No.”
“Whatever turns you on, weirdo!”
To the guard’s surprise, and against what they had been told, the prisoner made no attempts to resist arrest. They took no chances. His hands were tied behind his back, and with a guard positioned on all sides he was led down through the levels of the tower. In the banquet hall where they’d spent so much time posing for their portrait, the Queen’s company were waiting for him. The Queen sat stony-faced in the middle of the throng. The King paced manically, as if rage would burst out the moment his feet came to rest. There were other faces in the crowd that Philibert recognised, but they certainly weren’t part of the royal tour.
The Marquis of Calais brandished a heavy mace which he thumped regularly down onto his other palm. It had been six years since he’d threatened to kill Phil: clearly time had not softened his perspective. Next to him was Jean Goujon, the famous Renaissance architect. Phil once convinced him to employ them as stonemasons whilst they stole a valuable jewelled cup from the Holy Roman Emperor. The list of victims increased every time he turned his head a fraction. They encircled him like a three-dimensional art exhibition of offences, a timeline of his chequered career. And they were all here for one thing. Justice.
The convincer had worked. It wasn’t the exact response he’d expected from Michel but the outcome would be the same nonetheless. Only one friendly face cut through the angry melee. Watching nervously from the side of this pop-up court was Annabelle. The baying crowd, each desperate to extract their own personal justice from Philibert, were subdued by the entry of the Queen’s soldiers and two elderly men. Michel and Claude.
“Just as I predicted, your majesty,” said Michel, grinning from ear to ear. “This man is a fraud. These are just some of the victims of his crimes.”
“But he has done much for this country, for me,” replied the Queen, torn between her personal need and a responsibility to do what was right.
“This man is not a doctor, or a lord, or a soldier, or an architect, or a prophet as he has led us to believe. He is nothing but a simple street rat who has played us all for fools,” said Claude.
“But he has great gifts.”
“Only lies, deceit and the means to manipulate the outcome,” insisted Michel, accentuating a tone of self-importance. “True foresight ebbs from study and research, not from fortunate guesswork.”
“Every one of these people can tell a story of his deception,” said Claude. “They have all been wronged or robbed and it must not stand.”
“What do you have to say for yourself?” said Catherine.
“It’s true. I am guilty as charged. I have scammed and stolen from all of these people. Apart from that man there, I’ve never seen him before.”
“How dare you deny it,” said the old man with the scraggly beard. “Your majesty, this man stole my canoe and hid it in the bushes.”
“I’m pretty sure that wasn’t me, actually,” replied Phil, considering if it was at all possible that prophecy number one had been true all along.
“What made you do it?” asked a disappointed Catherine.
“What did you expect?”
“Expect?”
“You may rule, my Queen, but you are not wise. The vast majority of your subjects are slaves to your oppression. Their endless suffering helps to build your magnificent palaces and fund your ridiculous lifestyle. And there is only so much they can take. One day they will rise up and burn it down. I am but the first pebble to be dropped in your serene pool of power. But the ripple will multiply. It will not be the last.”
“You talk of treason.”
“No, I speak of rebellion. It may not happen in your lifetime or mine, but it will happen. After all, as you said yourself, I have a gift for these things.”
“He’s a traitor!” shouted Michel clutching his arm as the blood pressure squeezed through his veins.
“And what would you have me do?” she said to him angrily. “It is not your place to offer me counsel or make decisions.”
“No, Mother,” said Charles who was still pacing up and down in front of Philibert, delighted to have this one chance to exert his power. “It’s mine.”
- Chapter 31 -
Finding the Queen
Given the secretive circumstances of the text message it was hard not to imagine that the helicopter would look like one straight out of a Bond film. It would be an imposing black monster with devious contraptions of death bolted to every available panel, while the interior would conceal a band of highly trained killers with curious names like ‘Mr. Thrash’, ‘Colonel Socrates’ and ‘Dead Before We Land’. The reality was far less sinister and a little disappointing.
A blue and white helicopter landed in the adjacent field a couple of hours after they’d been told to expect it. The only occupant was the pilot, who stood patiently next to the machine and waited for them to come to him. When they’d heard the distant hum of blades come to a halt the three gathered the painting and a few other items they’d discussed might be of use and squelched through the mud towards it.
The pilot was the least likely looking movie villain you could employ. Firstly his name was Julian, not a name that Hollywood would get excited about at any movie pitch. People called Julian worked in florist shops or plied their trade as self-employed dog groomers. No one wanted to see a Julian hurling a hand grenade at a bunch of innocent bystanders while shouting lurid obscenities. Action movies might stretch believability but that would just be plain silly.
This particular Julian was from Canada, had excellent manners and greeted them with a soft h
andshake and some gentle words of reassurance. It was clear from the pensive expressions on his passengers’ faces that none of them had ever travelled in this way before and they might appreciate a short briefing on the important safety features.
Only when they were comfortably secured on-board did the machine rise gently from within the surrounding trees like a hummingbird hovering for nectar. Ally was the least nervous about the experience, although it might be put into context with the terror of being a passenger in Gabriel’s car. After that everything was easy. By contrast, Gabriel was in bits, howling hysterically every time the helicopter made a gentle movement or produced a new noise. After the initial strangeness wore off they settled more comfortably and distracted themselves by watching the world by night zooming past them.
It was quite some view, too.
Lights like little fireflies shimmered over the landscape. Columns of acrid smoke rose from the cities as unknown buildings were slowly choked by flames. Flashing blue lights mapped out the edge of urban areas while the rest of the land was cloaked in an eerie darkness. This was the anarchic world the Oblivion Doctrine had created in just a few weeks with the help of a natural flu strain and some good, old-fashioned fake news. Soon they might find out why.
After two hours of flight the stark view, repeated over every major metropolis, became more vivid as they descended closer to the land. It wasn’t Marseille’s distant burning heart that they were aiming for, but somewhere more tranquil on the edge of it. The helicopter came to rest gently on a manicured lawn of an old château.
The outside of the building was gently lit to create the impression that it was more than might be first perceived. Cream-coloured turrets with slate hats guarded each corner, while a collection of red-framed windows blinked from behind their shutters. It was an elegant rather than ostentatious structure, that nonetheless was still full of mystery.
