Doctor Who: The Massacre (13 page)

‘Oddly enough, neither am I,’ the Doctor added, ‘as there is still the last act of the Abbot of Amboise to play.’

14

The Abbot of Amboise’s Catholic Council of War was well-attended but short-lived, The King, the Queen Mother, the Dukes of Anjou and Guise as well as Marshall Tavannes were there but, as the Queen Mother pointed out, the Abbot was supposed to be their spiritual adviser rather than the other way around

Even his harangue about the Huguenots practising the Black Arts produced no more than a comment from the King that perhaps a Huguenot cleric should be brought in to deal with the situation. That, the Abbot screamed, would be to yield all of France to heresy and Hell and, as the Most Illustrious Cardinal of Lorraine was absent, he, the Abbot of Amboise, was the only prison morally and spiritually equipped to solve the problem.

‘You could try blowing it up, My Lord,’ Marshall Tavannes suggested.

‘Or drowning it in the Seine,’ the King tittered.

‘Your Majesty, this is not a matter for levity,’ the Abbot said crossly.

‘We quite agree, My Lord,’ the King replied, ‘and so we shall leave its resolution in your’ – he hesitated for a second

– ‘capable hands.’ Then he turned to a courtier: ‘Are our Huguenot advisers in attendance?’

‘They are, your Majesty,’ the courtier answered.

‘Fetch them in and we shall apply our mind to other matters – but only briefly as we are in the mood to play tennis,’ the King said.

Feeling openly humiliated, the Abbot stormed from the Council Chamber while Duval hastily passed on to a surprised Tavannes the parchment Steven had slipped him.

‘From the Abbot’s spy, Marshall,’ he murmured confidentially before hurrying after the Abbot. Outside they ignored the Huguenots although Lerans inclined his head with a mocking smile to an unbending Duval.

Maurevert was average in height and build and as faceless as most of the thousands who thronged the Paris streets.

He was indifferently dressed in a plain blouse, hose with buckled shoes and a floppy hat without a plume.

Only two features distinguished him: his eyes which were pale blue and alert, always darting from side to side, and the oblong box he carried under one arm. When he came to the house on the corner of a street with a commanding view of
le Grand Pont
and the Louvre he looked about him, took some passkeys from his pocket, unlocked the door and slipped inside.

‘Ah, our loyal Admiral!’ the King called out as de Coligny approached the two thrones. ‘Give us your thoughts on how to dispose of that object sitting in the Bastille.’

‘Why, my Liege, I’d make it a present for Spain,’ he replied with a smile, ‘delivered by our force of arms.’

The King shrieked with laughter but the Queen Mother and the other Catholics were not amused.

‘Your proposed Spanish adventure is an obsession,’

Tavannes snapped.

‘Not so, Marshall,’ de Coligny retorted, ‘it reflects my determination to give France a common cause and so prevent further civil strife.’

‘The royal marriage has achieved that,’ the Duke of Anjou said.

‘If that were true then I should find myself doubly blest,’ Henri of Navarre replied, ‘but I fear it is not so.’

‘Oh, what scares you, cousin?’ Anjou retaliated.

‘An incident blown up out of all proportion to put Paris in a tumult,’ Navarre answered.

‘But who would do such a thing?’ the King enquired.

‘They are called fanatics, sire,’ de Coligny said.

Tavannes snorted with derision. ‘Are you not one, Admiral, with your talk of war with Spain?’

‘If you count my will to bring Frenchmen together, not torn asunder by religious polemics, as the act of a fanatic,’

de Coligny threw back, ‘then, yes, I also am one of them.’

‘As we are too, good Admiral,’ the King echoed, jumping to his feet, ‘so let us prepare for war.’

The Queen Mother stood up and faced her son. ‘We cannot bear the expense of a war with Spain,’ she stated.

‘So you keep telling us, Mother – endlessly,’ he snarled and then began to cough and retch. The Queen Mother walked from the Council Chamber whilst the others waited in an embarrassed silence until the King recovered, wiping the flecks of blood from the corners of his mouth.

‘We adjourn this Council until three o’clock this afternoon,’ he gasped and, leaning on the arm of a courtier, left the Chamber as they all bowed respectfully.

Throughout the audience one Catholic had not said a word. He was Francois, Duke of Guise, and the brother of the Cardinal of Lorraine. Their father, also Francois of Guise, had instigated and led the massacre at Wassy ten years earlier, only to be assassinated himself a year later and there were still rumours that de Coligny was implicated in the murder.

For generations now the Guise family residence had stood on a street corner which dominated both
le Grand
Pont
and the Louvre.

The Doctor and Steven’s final mission was to be a joint assault on the Cardinal’s palace so they made their plans together. The Doctor’s objective was the Abbot’s office and a piece of parchment bearing his seal; Steven’s was the cells and the rescue of Anne and her family.

‘There shouldn’t be any major problems,’ Steven said.

‘We need the Abbot out of the way but Duval, preferably, at his desk. So you, as the Abbot, order Duval to hand over Anne, her brother and her aunt into my custody as your secret agent and whilst we’re down in the cells – ’

‘I purloin the page of parchment and put his seal on it,’

the Doctor interposed. ‘The writing can be done later. No, dear boy, I foresee no difficulties at all.’

Steven leant forward confidentially across the table.

‘What about the assassination of Admiral de Coligny, Doctor?’

‘What about it?’ The Doctor’s voice had an edge.

‘Aren’t we going to do anything?’

‘I’m not in the habit of meddling with history,’ the Doctor replied frostily.

‘Oh,’ Steven sounded surprised. ‘But isn’t getting Anne out of prison meddling; isn’t the parchment meddling?’

‘Not at all. I, as myself, play no part in these deceits,’ the Doctor protested. ‘The person responsible is the Abbot of Amboise who, by chance, resembles me.’

‘That’s called begging the question, Doctor,’ Steven retaliated.

‘Absolutely not, not at all.’ The Doctor was most indignant.

‘Do you know where and when it will take place?’

Steven paced out his words.

‘Of course, I do,’ the Doctor snapped back. ‘I’ve read my history books!’

‘But you’ll do nothing to avert it.’

‘Not even lift my little finger,’ the Doctor replied, raising it. ‘Don’t you understand? I cannot, simply cannot.

Nor can you,’ he added adamantly.

Steven sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘have it your way.’

‘History’s way,’ the Doctor said and returned briskly to the business in hand. ‘We need to know, as soon as possible, when the Abbot will leave the palace, hopefully without Duval, and also where he goes.’ He called over David and asked him to obtain the information.

Maurevert climbed the stairs to the top floor of the house and entered the attic which ran the length of the building.

There were several skylights set in the roof but at the far end was a window which he opened.

He looked out at the streets below. No one coming from the Louvre and going to
le Grand Pont
, or vice versa, could avoid being in his sight.

He smiled and opened the oblong box. It contained an arquebus, a handheld rifle of the latest design, which was supported in a crutch to make it steadier and more accurate when fired. He set the arquebus in it and trained the weapon on the street. It was perfect. He couldn’t miss.

Then he took the gun from the crutch and began to prime it.

As soon as he reached the Cardinal’s palace, the Abbot went directly to the reference library and, with Duval’s help, began frantically searching through the tomes on Devilry for something that resembled the TARDIS but they found nothing.

‘There is a material woven by men that cannot be burnt, my Lord,’ Duval volunteered. ‘The same must be true of a metal forged in Hell, like the hardened lava from a volcano.’

‘A hellish alchemy,’ the Abbot mused. ‘That is a possibility, Duval. There must be something here on the subject.’ He began looking along the bookshelves for an appropriate volume.

Duval felt pleased with himself and thought a further comment would not be out of order. ‘It is a pity the day’s itinerary for the Admiral had to be changed,’ he ventured,

‘particularly after all your man’s pains to obtain the real one.’

‘Hmm, yes,’ the Abbot replied abstractedly as he reached for a book, ‘it may be in this one.’ He began to thumb through the pages.

‘He passed it to me so neatly,’ Duval continued, ‘no one could have seen and it would have made Bondot’s work much easier.’

The Abbot shut the book and was about to return it to the shelf but turned to Duval instead. ‘What are you talking about?’ he snapped, sounding like the Doctor.

‘Your secret agent,’ Duval replied.

‘
My secret agent!
’ the Abbot exploded, sounding exactly like the Doctor. ‘Explain yourself, man!’

Which Duval did, starting at the auberge when he first met them both and up to his last encounter with Steven outside the Bastille. During this lengthy recital the Abbot continued his search for the book and did not interrupt, though when he was referred to he looked sharply at him.

‘And I handed on the itinerary to Marshall Tavannes,’

Duval ended nervously.

The Abbot took down another book and silently looked through it before turning to Duval. ‘I do not know whether you are a fool, a knave or delusional,’ he finally announced;

‘a fool unwittingly duped by the Huguenots, a knave in collusion with them, or delusional and imagining all.’

‘I am none of these. On my sacred oath, I swear it, my Lord,’ the unhappy Duval pleaded.

‘Beware, my son, for your Immortal Soul,’ the Abbot warned. ‘For I have never set foot, disguised or otherwise, in the auberge you named. I have no secret agent in Paris, most certainly not the man you brought before me and whose release I am supposed to have ordered.’

Duval shook his head in total confusion.

‘Return to the office and prepare a document of exorcism for the locksmith,’ the Abbot ordered. ‘When I return from the Bastille I shall sign and personally execute it.’

Word of the Abbot’s departure for the Bastille soon reached the Doctor and Steven, both of whom were now dressed for their roles.

‘Time for the last act, Doctor,’ Steven said with a grin.

‘After which, my boy, the Final Curtain,’ the Doctor replied theatrically as they stepped into the dog cart and raced off along the tunnels.

15

The Alsatians were running at breakneck speed when the Doctor, to Steven’s amazement, called a halt.

‘Is something the matter?’ Steven asked, holding up the flickering taper to peer at him.

‘Nothing of any importance, dear boy, just a penalty of old age,’ the Doctor replied. ‘I need a breath of fresh air.’

He asked the driver where the steps beside them led.

‘Up to a small courtyard that’s accessible to the street,’

the driver replied.

‘I’ll be back directly,’ the Doctor said and took the taper.

Steven offered to go with him. ‘There’s no need, my lad, I won’t be a moment,’ the Doctor reiterated and left them sitting in total darkness as he climbed the steps to the small door at the top.

He placed the lit taper in a special holder on the wall, unlocked the door and stepped out into the courtyard. He crossed it quickly to the street door which was barred from the inside. He took off the bar, opened the door a crack and put his eye to it. All was as he had anticipated.

It was almost three o’clock and Henri of Navarre with Admiral de Coligy, having lunched together, were making their way on foot towards the Louvre. Lerans and Muss followed them, scanning either side of the street anxiously.

At various intervals there were men and women leaning idly against the walls in the mid-afternoon heat or chatting to one another. They were Huguenot agents on the look-out for Maurevert who, from the attic window, saw the four men approaching. He rested the loaded arquebus on its crutch, cocked the firing mechanism and took careful aim as there would only be enough time for one shot. He bit his lower lip in concentration as his target came closer and closer to the accurate range of his gun.

The Admiral was only seconds away from certain death.

The Doctor had the selfsame thought as the party drew level with the door. It was now or never: the moment to commit the ultimate offence of a Time Lord – an intervention in history. He threw open the door and stepped onto the street.

‘Admiral!’ he called out at the same moment as Maurevert fired.

Surprised by the voice, de Coligny half-turned towards the Doctor and the charge from Maurevert’s guns struck his right shoulder instead of entering his heart.

The Doctor dashed back into the courtyard slamming and barring the door behind him, then over to and through the small door to lock it, grab the taper, and descend the steps gracefully.

‘I feel much better for that,’ he announced as he clambered into the dog cart beside Steven. ‘It did me a lot of good.’ And they rode on.

There had been another witness to the attempt on de Coligny’s life. Duval had watched it from the office window and had seen the Abbot, with his own eyes, step out onto the street.

Or had he? Was it all in his mind? Was he suffering from delusions, as the Abbot had suggested? He threw himself into a chair, put his head between his hands and groaned in anguish.

He was still sitting in the chair when the Doctor swept into the room, followed by Steven.

‘Is it well done?’ the Doctor demanded haughtily as Duval struggled to his feet, his mouth hanging open in astonishment.

‘My Lord does not know?’ Duval stammered as he stared at Steven.