Doctor Who: The Massacre (3 page)

The Doctor and Steven watched while Antoine-Marc poured their goblets of wine. Then the Doctor picked his up and beckoned to Steven to follow him to a table where they sat down out of earshot of the landlord.

‘It is the nineteenth of August in the year 1572,’ the Doctor whispered dramatically.

‘Is that a guess or good judgement?’ Steven queried.

‘And, if the latter, what’s it based on?’

‘Their conversation.’ The Doctor glanced at the landlord pocketting the coin that Gaston had left on the table while the barboy put the empty goblets on a tray.

Then the Doctor leant forward confidentially. ‘The young Protestant King Henri of Navarre married the Catholic Princess Marguerite of Valois on the eighteenth of August and Duval said the nuptials were celebrated yesterday.’

‘Yes, I heard that,’ Steven confirmed.

‘In which case, this is neither a place nor a time in which to tarry,’ the Doctor said categorically.

‘Then drink up and we’ll move on,’ Steven replied. The Doctor reached across the table and grabbed Steven’s hand.

‘No, first there is someone here I wish to talk to,’ the Doctor said and explained that it concerned a scientific matter which would hold no interest for Steven. ‘A simple exchange of ideas to give me a better understanding of his work,’ he concluded.

‘But you’ve just said we should be on our way,’ Steven protested.

‘There’s no immediate danger and I shall be gone for only a few hours at the most,’ the Doctor assured him.

‘What’s his subject?’ Steven asked, his curiosity aroused.

‘He’s an apothecary.’ The Doctor tried to sound off-hand.

‘Not struck off, by any chance?’ Steven remembered the Doctor’s distant look when they were in the street and the murmured ‘I wonder.’

‘That’s – er – rather what I hope to – hum – find out,’

the Doctor answered uncomfortably.

‘And you know where his shop is?’ Steven persisted.

‘The general area – yes,’ the Doctor sounded vague.

‘Then I’ll help you find him,’ Steven smiled. ‘It’ll cut the time in half and then we can be off.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ The Doctor was on the defensive.

‘He’s a secretive man and does not take kindly to strangers.’

‘So, you know him.’

The Doctor shook his head. ‘Only read about him in some half-destroyed documents I once found. His name was Prenlin, or Preslin, and he was on to something quite important, but the documents didn’t say what. As I’ve said, they were half-ruined and he was only a footnote.’

Steven sipped his wine. ‘But an intriguing one and you want to play detective.’

The Doctor semi-smiled. ‘I suppose you could put it that way,’ he admitted.

‘Then off you go, Doctor, and I wish you luck. But where shall we meet, and when?’ Steven asked.

The Doctor thought for a moment before replying.

‘Here, Steven, this evening after the Cathedral has rung the Vesper-bell which can be heard all over Paris.’ He put his hand in his pocket, took out some coins and placed them on the table. ‘You’ll need this,’ he added. ‘but stay out of mischief, religion and politics.’

‘The last two are one and the same from what I can gather,’ Steven replied, scooping the money into his pocket.

‘And spell trouble, young man, so be warned.’ Then the Doctor looked at the landlord. ‘Is it possible to find a carriage hereabouts, landlord?’ he asked.

‘There’s always one or two for hire in front of Notre Dame, sir,’ Antoine-Marc murmured, looking off into the middle distance. ‘Shall I send the lad to fetch one?’

‘No, no, we’ll walk,’ the Doctor replied. ‘What do I owe you?’

‘Nothing, sir. I took the liberty of permitting the other gentleman to pay for all four glasses. It seemed the proper thing to do,’ he whispered as convincingly as he could. The Doctor stood up and left ten sous on the table.

‘I’ll walk with you,’ Steven volunteered and together they left the auberge.

Notre Dame Cathedral stood at the back of a large square on the eastern end of the island and Steven noticed that the broad steps in front of it were completed. He remarked on the fact to the Doctor but in reply received only a noncommittal grunt. On one side of the square were four carriages. The first three were ornate with crested doors and plumed horses. The fourth was less elaborate and the horse had a careworn air.

‘That’ll be the one for hire,’ the Doctor observed. ‘The other three must be for the clerical hierarchy, by the look of them.’

‘An ecclesiastical conclave,’ Steven suggested.

‘And no doubt plotting some mischief in the name of God,’ the Doctor added and looked up at the driver. ‘Saint Martin’s Gate in Montparnasse,’ he ordered, then opened the door and sat down inside before looking down at Steven. ‘Now, don’t forget to be at the auberge...’

‘After the Tocsin’s sounded,’ Steven completed the phrase and the Doctor looked mildly exasperated.

‘Not the Tocsin, the Vesper-bell,’ he said and then told the driver to move on. ‘The Tocsin’s a warning bell,’ he threw at Steven as the carriage clattered away.

What neither of them knew was that Steven’s name for the bell was by far the more accurate for both of them.

2

Simon Duval lurked under an archway near the bridge which gave him an uninterrupted view of the auberge and withdrew further back into the shadows as Viscount Lerans, Nicholas Muss and the remainder of their party came out and sauntered in his direction towards the bridge.

Duval strained to overhear their conversation but even their laughter was drowned out by the noises of the crowd.

He thought that it was most probably some vicious pleasantry at the expense of the Catholic princess which gave them such perverse delight. Then it was his turn to chuckle as he reminded himself how short-lived their airs and graces would be.

Shortly afterwards he watched with curiosity as the Doctor and Steven left. He wondered who they might be.

Certainly they did not appear to be Frenchmen and his inclinations were that they were English, Protestants, no doubt, in Paris to support the Huguenot cause. Why else would they have been in the
Auberge du Pont Romain
which was becoming known among Catholics as a meeting place for Huguenots?

He decided that their presence would be worth reporting to his new superior, the Abbot of Amboise, who was arriving that same evening to replace Cardinal Lorraine who had ben summoned to Rome three days before the royal wedding festivities. Duval had not yet met the Abbot but knew of him, by reputation, as a Man of God who sternly opposed all religious leanings not embraced by the Holy See.

Then he went back into the auberge. ‘A word with you, landlord,’ he said, pointing at Antoine-Marc as he crossed over to the bar. Antoine-Marc looked alarmed and began mumbling something about the change from the money for the strangers’ drinks but Duval cut him short. ‘Who were they, do you know?’ he asked.

‘I’d never seen them before, sir,’ Antoine-Marc muttered.

‘Had the others – Viscount Lerans and Nicholas Muss –

do you think?’ Duval jingled some coins in his pocket.

Antoine-Marc pursed his lips. ‘Not that they gave any sign, sir, but, of course, it’s difficult to say these days,’ he drew out the last few murmured words to emphasise them,

‘what with the problems and me being a landlord obliged to serve all who enter.’

‘But most of the time you know your customers?’ Duval persisted.

‘If you are referring to the Huguenot gentlemen, sir, oh yes, I know them well.’ Antoine-Marc’s whisper was sly.

‘Viscount Lerans and Nicholas Muss and their associates frequently take a glass of wine here.’ He raised a protesting hand. ‘Not, mark you, sir, by
my
choice, but a man must live and a glass of wine down anyone’s gullet, be he Catholic or Huguenot, puts two sous in my till.’

‘Watch and listen and I’ll put in more.’ Duval was brusque as he placed some coins on the counter. Antoine-Marc inclined his head slightly, took a goblet from under the bar, placed it in front of Duval and poured in some wine from a carafe.

‘Your continued good health, sir,’ Antoine-Marc murmured as he scooped up the coins.

Steven had stood watching the Doctor’s carriage trundle away across the small bridge on the south side of the island until it was out of sight. Then he looked up at the ornate twin towers of the Cathedral in front of him and decided to go inside.

As he walked across the square he passed the three stationary carriages with their liveried drivers immobile in their seats under the broiling sun. One of the horses pawed the ground briefly with a hoot, the second switched its tail and, as Steven mounted the steps to the massive, intricately carved western entrance, the third horse nodded its plumed head.

Steven went into the shade and the coolness of the interior. Candles burned in groups on either side of the main altar and he looked around at the massive pillars decorated with tapestries and heraldic banners stretching up to the central dome high above him. There was a faint lingering fragrance of incense in the air and as he sat down in a pew he had a fleeting vision of the majestic pomp and circumstance of the previous day’s marriage.

Now Notre Dame wore a mantle of serenity. Yet Steven had seen and heard the confrontation in the auberge and the Doctor had warned him that it was not a time for them to linger in.

Involuntarily he shivered and wished that the Doctor were with him. Now, that was absurd! He’d been in scrapes before, both with and without the Doctor, in the past and in the future, on earth and in the galaxies. Yet here, in the peace and quiet of the Cathedral, he felt disquieted and decided that the sunshine outside was preferable.

As he stood up to leave he saw three clergymen hurrying along one aisle towards the door. They were richly dressed in flowing robes and capes with skull caps on their heads.

They were talking among themselves and Stephen overheard one of the priests, a well-built, rotund man, say in a booming voice: ‘... with the Most Illustrious in Rome, my Lord Abbot will allow them no shriving time, God be praised.’

One of the other two, a cadaverous man whose hands clutched the golden cross hanging around his neck, chuckled. ‘Not even a few seconds for Vespers,’ he added as they swept out through the open doorway.

The words ‘shriving time’ struck a distant chord in Steven’s memory. Hadn’t they something to do with death? he asked himself as he went out into the sweltering mid-afternoon sunlight. As he worried the phrase in his brain, his feet led him instinctively back towards the auberge.

‘It’s from a play,’ he said aloud. ‘Oh, come on, Taylor, you’ve acted in it, said those very words, “shriving time”.’

He began to sound angry as he struggled to remember.

‘When you were training to become an astronaut. Come on, think. Name the plays you were in, idiot.’ He was furious now and did not see the young girl who came running around the corner and collided with him. ‘Whoa,’ he called out as he grabbed her by the shoulders spinning both of them around to keep their balance. ‘What’s the hurry?’

The girl looked at Steven in terror then wrenched herself free from his hold and ran into the auberge. Steven, taken aback, looked at the open door but from where he stood he could not see inside.

‘Get out of my way,’ a voice snapped behind him and Steven was roughly pushed to one side.

‘Watch it,’ Steven exclaimed as the man wearing an officer’s uniform with a drawn sword and two other men with pikes stormed into the auberge. Steven moved over to the entrance and looked in.

The officer stood with his legs astride and pointed his sword around the room at the customers. ‘Where’s the girl?’ he demanded.

Viscount Lerans, Nicholas Muss and their friends were seated back at their table with goblets of wine. Lerans had his feet on the table.

‘Don’t point that thing at me, fellow,’ said Lerans. His light tone carried a hint of menace as he lowered his feet leisurely one at a time to the floor.

‘I am the Most Illustrious Cardinal Lorraine’s officer of the guard and my orders are to apprehend the girl.’ The officer tried to sound impressive. ‘So where is she?’

‘Well,
I
am the Viscount Lerans,’ he replied nonchalantly as he stood up and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, ‘and I’m curious to know why three grown-up, armed men should be pursuing a slip of a girl.’

‘She is a serving wench, Sire, who has run away from the Most Illustrious Cardinal’s house and I am to fetch her back,’ the officer replied.

‘But he’s away, isn’t he?’ Lerans bantered.

‘Who, Sire?’

‘Lorraine. In Rome or somewhere.’ Lerans glanced at Muss for confirmation. The officer drew in his breath sharply but realised that a sword and two pikes were no match for the young men around the table.

‘She has been assigned to the Abbot of Amboise’s staff,’

the officer persisted.

Lerans studied the tip of one of his boots before replying. ‘If she cared so little for one cleric’s service as to run away, I doubt that she’d fare any better in another’s,’

he chuckled. ‘Above all, that of Amboise.’

‘Is the girl here, Sire?’ The officer chose to ignore the scarcely veiled insults.

‘Yes,’ Lerans replied, ‘she’s crouched under the bar.’

Antoine-Marc who stood behind it, looked alarmed.

‘Seize her,’ the officer ordered the pikemen.

‘No,’ Lerans countermanded sharply, ‘leave her be.’

The officer hesitated before turning back to him.

‘Viscount Lerans, my Lord the Abbot of Amboise shall learn of this occurrence when he arrives this evening and he will no doubt act accordingly.’

‘No doubt,’ Lerans agreed affably and the officer of the guard with his two pikemen turned on their heels and left the auberge.

Steven stood to one side to let them pass. Then Lerans saw him. ‘Ah, this morning’s stranger,’ he called out and turned to Muss: ‘Remember him, Nicholas, when we made sport with Simon Duval?’ Without waiting for a reply he turned back to Steven. ‘Come and join us,’ he offered.