Matthew wondered about Jonas as he gazed at the scenery rolling by the train window. How long could he hold out, with failing strength, against what were the forces of evil? Although time moved at a slower rate, it wouldn’t be long before these demons invaded his mind, he thought. God only knows what pressure the poor, old guy was under. All the things he’s been through—a person shouldn’t have to go through that, monk or no monk!
Jane brought him out of his reverie.
“This is like being in a spy novel,” she said.
He had told her about the men watching the house and the meeting with Jonas in the cave.
Matthew also told her of the importance of the task ahead.
“It’s no fictional story, this will be, dangerous.”
“I still find it hard to believe you actually talked to a ghost.” Jane said with a twinkle in her eyes.
“So do I, but it was as I’m speaking to you now, although sometimes he wavered. To be honest, Jonas was like one of those holograms you see in sci-fi films, just a bit more frightening.”
“And the Key, where is it?”
“It’s in an abbey, in or around, Maastricht.”
“So, we’re just going to march into an abbey and demand a religious artefact,” Jane said.
“Yeah, that’s a point,” he said, stroking his chin. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he continued.
A trolley appeared through the carriage door with an attendant attached, who was swinging from side to side as he walked.
“Teas! Coffees!” he shouted.
“Two teas please,” said Matthew.
“Would you like a sandwich or something Jane?”
“Yeah, cheese please.”
“And two cheese sandwiches.” Matthew said to the attendant.
After eating, they sat drinking their tea and looking out the window.
“What happens if this Jonas can’t hold out to these… these demons?” Jane asked.
“Well then, I assume the position of the Key will be revealed to them,” replied Matthew. "And just as Jonas spoke, they must be able to contact this Order of the Gate as they’re called,” he continued.
“And if they find it before us?” Jane asked, raising her eyebrows.
“I don’t know what will happen, but I don’t think we’ll like it.”
The train entered the northern suburbs of Newcastle, and the announcement for the city was made over the public-address system. The passengers, including Jane and Matthew, who were leaving, stood up and collected their belongings. They then made their way to the exits.
Newcastle Station was a blur of people rushing here and there as the pair headed to the bus pickup point for the docks at North Shields.
“The first bus isn’t until three o’clock,” said Matthew looking at the timetable.
“Let’s put the bags into Left Luggage and have a look around Newcastle,” said Jane.
“Okay,” said Matthew, who hated walking around shops.
Saturday afternoon in Newcastle, like any town or city, was a hive of activity; people parading from shop-to-shop chattering to each other. Matthew had decided they looked like they didn’t have a care in the world. Why was this key thing loaded on to his shoulders? These people were unaware about what was happening. Would they care if they found out? Probably not, they would just leave it to the government to sort out. Well, maybe that’s what he should have done and left well alone.
But what of Jonas and his sacrifice for humankind? No, he had to go on, he had to see it through to the end, one way or the other, he thought.
When they returned to the railway station, it was still too early for the bus so they went for a coffee. They made their way into the Centurion Bar, a huge tiled room, which reminded Matthew of old Victorian toilets.
A group of men stood at the bar and shouted obscenities at a large television screen to the side of the bar which was showing a football match. At the other end of the room a party of women who wore white T-shirts with ‘4-OH’ on the back sang and giggled.
Matthew bought two lattes, and then he and Jane sat on an old settee beside a redundant fireplace.
“I must admit Janey; I’m having second thoughts about all this.”
“Oh, you’ll be all right. After all you’ve got me with you,” she said as she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
It rained as the bus wound its way through the streets of Newcastle. Matthew and Jane were sitting upstairs with a few others who were going on a return cruise to Amsterdam. The mood was a happy one, despite the weather, due to the pubs around the railway station. The bus went round a bend and the ferry appeared,
“The King of Scandinavia; doesn’t it look great?” said Jane.
“Yeah, I suppose,” was the reply.
After throwing their bags on the beds in their cabin, which was small but adequate, Jane and Matthew went for a look around the ship. There were bars, restaurants and shops over four levels.
Other passengers were teenagers, who walked around in gangs drinking alcopops.
The pair stood outside on an upper deck and looked at the twinkling lights of Newcastle as the boat cast-off and headed along the Tyne toward the sea. The night was cold but at least the rain had stopped.
“There’s dancing tonight Mattie, let’s enjoy ourselves.” Jane said putting her arm around his waist.
“Okay, that sounds fine,” he said, as he put his arm around her shoulders. It was a good idea to forget about the task in hand, at least for one night, thought Matthew.
They walked into the crowded Columbus Club just as the bingo was finishing. A group dressed as sailors popped cheap champagne bottles and shouted ‘ahoy’ to anyone who passed by.
“This looks like a laugh, said Matthew, dragging Jane to a table beside the dance floor. He ordered drinks from a passing waiter as they sat. A band set up and played music from the eighties.
Jane stood up and grabbed Matthew’s hand. “Right, come on you, let’s get in the swing.”
They danced on and off for hours, leaving the bar at two o’clock.
Outside their cabin they embraced.
“That was great Janey I feel better…” Jane pulled him into the cabin before he could finish.
The next morning, they docked at Ijmuiden and the passengers, cars and trucks flowed off the ship. The day was overcast, but shafts of sunlight sliced through the dark clouds. A bus laid on by the ferry company took Jane and Matthew into the centre of Amsterdam. At first there were fields, then houses, which gave way to factories and high-rise office buildings as they passed through the business area of the city.
Matthew recognised the centre from pictures and television, with its narrow houses and canals.
“It looks great, doesn’t it?
“Just like on the telly!"
The pair left the bus beside the network of small streets that made up The Red-Light District. The bus then swept away with the remaining passengers, leaving Jane and Matthew to cross the busy Prins Hendrik Kade. Cars, trams and bicycles impeded their way. They found a crossing and then entered Centraal Station.
“I want to go see Amsterdam,” whined Jane.
“No time,” said Matthew, looking at the large time table in front of them.
“Ah here we are - Maastricht, come on Janey let’s go.”
France 1424
It was a moonless night as Anatole walked along the dust track, which led through a forest on the way to Chartres. He could hear the howl of wolves in the distance as the wind rattled the leaves on the sycamores. The canopy of stars sparkled as Anatole picked out the constellations of Ursa Major and Draco; they seemed like old friends - lights in the eternal darkness of the universe.
When he reached the thickest part of the forest, the darkness was almost complete, as the trees blotted out most of the sky. Suddenly a star that had fallen from the sky was coming toward him along the track. Bigger and bigger it became until at about one hundred metres from where he was standing, it took on the shape of a wolf - a wolf with red eyes.
Anatole jumped back as the wolf roared up in front of him and turned into a green-skinned Mari.
The air around the demon was putrid and made Anatole sick.
“I’m glad to see you too,” said Hel, in a deep booming voice.
“Why don’t you leave me alone?” said Anatole wiping his mouth.
“Because you and your miserable soul belong to me; anyway, I give you a gift,” growled the beast.
“I want nothing from you,” hissed Anatole.
“Oh, but you do. I know in the dark recesses of your mind you crave power—dark power.”
“Why would you give me power?”
“I need a human: an immortal human to grab the Key when it becomes available- as it will. I need a dark-hearted human to do the steps required to cleanse this world. But heed this human, try to deceive me and I will crush you, powers or no powers.”
Anatole rose into the air until he was about level with the tree tops. Then he gazed at the stars which had surged toward him. One by one they flowed through him; the whole process became faster and faster until Anatole passed out and fell to the ground.
When he came round the complete darkness had returned, and all was quiet save for the wind in the trees. He jumped up and looked all around, but Hel had gone along with the foul stench.
As he resumed his trek to Chartres, he discovered any tiredness he had before the encounter with Hel had gone. In fact, he felt better than he had done for years. Not only could he hear the slightest rustle of the leaves, but he could hear insects scurrying around in the undergrowth all around him.
He could also hear sheep bleating even though he was in the middle of the forest. The darkness could not prevent Anatole from marveling at the vivid green of the sycamore leaves, and the bright yellow of the little primroses along the side of the track. His sense of smell had also become acute, particularly the mixture of the damp earth and the blooming gorse which gave off an intoxicating aroma he had never noticed before this.
After another hour of walking, the trees thinned allowing Anatole to see the first red streaks of dawn spread across the eastern sky. He quickened his pace wanting to be in town by mid-morning, which would give him most of the day to find accommodation.
In the distance the two spires of Chartres Cathedral rose out of the morning mist as Anatole passed through a farmyard surrounded by scurrying hens. Although he had blisters on the soles of his feet, he had no pain; his thoughts were focused on Chartres.
He pulled his hood over his head as he passed a garrison of English soldiers on the edge of town.
The chill morning air gave Anatole an appetite, heightened by the enticing aroma wafting out of the boulangerie on Boulevard de la Courtille. He purchased two freshly baked loaves from the owner—
a balding, plump, jovial man.
“I’m new in town.” Anatole said. “I was wondering if you knew of any place I could stay for a few weeks?” he continued.
“Where are you from?” asked the baker, stacking loaves on the counter.
“I am of French origin, but have lived in Scotland for many years. I have returned to seek my relatives.”
“Your relatives, they came from around here?”
“Yes, but before I can continue, I must earn money.”
“Can you bake?”
“Yes,” lied Anatole.
“Well, you look an honest man. I have a spare room which you can have for a while for helping me in the shop. And if it works out, I will pay you.” What do you say?” said the baker, “my name is Bernard Dudouet,” he continued, holding out his hand.
“Roger Beauchamp,” said Anatole, shaking the man’s hand, “and yes I accept.”
Bernard’s wife, Collette, gave Anatole the attic room in their three-storey house above the shop. It was small but clean, with a single bed and a cupboard. The view from the window was of rooftops dwarfed by the cathedral.
The Dudouet’s had a son: Pierre, who wanted to be a baker, but due to his inability to get up at four in the morning had settled for a job as a carpenter. Michele, the couple’s daughter, was a lively girl just a shade off being pretty, but made up for it in personality. She was a few years older than her brother and was an avid reader.
Anatole worked hard in Bernard’s bakery, rising at four every morning and not finishing until six in the evening. He served the customers, cleaned the shop and stocked the fire for the ovens. As for the baking; Bernard soon realised Anatole had done little if any at all.
Anatole ate with the Dudouet’s in their large dining room. The talk was of the English occupation and how, someday, Chartres would be free again. Pierre despised the English, and there was talk of him going off to fight for France, but his mother quelled him with her gentle but firm feminine ways.
Bernard and Anatole would sit up late into the night drinking and talking on Saturdays—the shop being closed on Sundays. Anatole had to be careful not to let his guard down, which became harder with every beer. Lying to the man was a great pity he thought because he liked Bernard and found his views on life refreshing.
One Sunday Anatole went into the cathedral after the morning service. The sheer size of the place was overwhelming; the massive columns of the Nave rising into the vaulted ceiling like a great stone forest. Gothic stained-glass windows both round and arched were wondrous; this was architecture of the finest quality. Also, the labyrinth-laid into the floor-the route to Jerusalem for pilgrims unable to go to the holy land.
A midday sun shone through the Rose Window on the south transept creating an intricate pattern on the cathedral floor as Anatole strolled further into the building. The smells of must and candle wax; the murmur of people praying gave him a sense of uneasiness as if he should turn around and leave.
He felt a growing revulsion take hold of his being and pulled up the hood of his tunic so his face was concealed. He staggered as dizziness so great surged into his head. Falling forward, he crashed into the back of a section of pews sending several toppling. As he hit the ground he threw up and then ejaculated—the produce of which ran down his right leg.
The din made the few who were praying stop and stare at the unfolding events. A great wind swept through the cathedral and made any lose material flap and blow out all the candles.
Anatole shook as he picked himself up amid the strewn pews. His only thought was to run to the entrance; which he did with as much effort as he could muster.
As he ran past the Rose Window, many of the sections exploded into thousands of shards, which then fell inwards onto the flagstone floor with a horrendous crash. The placid praying pilgrims looked up and shouted obscenities as Anatole disappeared out the open portal.
That night lying in his bed in the small attic room Anatole was awoken by an evil presence. The entity swirled around the atmosphere before taking the shape of a robed human figure.
“I am Loki of the Dark Realm. I know you desire greater power to… let us say defend yourself from Hel. I am here to instruct you how to get this,” he said with a hissing voice.
“Why would you help me defend myself from Hel?”
“Let’s say I’m doing it for selfish reasons,” said Loki with a grin. “What you have to do is to gather the souls of dark-hearted people who are departing the physical world. But know that not all souls are the ones you seek. The true natures of many souls are hidden by the build-up of emotions from
many incarnations. This is your destiny—you are the Dark Soul Gatherer!”
“What are the selfish reasons?”
“She tricked me into staying with her when the portal was being sealed up, by feigning love. So I stayed, and she laughed in my face.
“She’s your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she go through the portal?”
“Because she wished to remain in these miserable dimensions to have dominion over the pathetic human souls.”
“Why did you wish to return to the Dark Realm?”
“Because it is where I belong. Not all of us wish to walk these dimensions.”
Loki laughed, and then said: “Such irony: I wish to return and many, I have felt from the other side, wish to enter!”
The sun shone from a cobalt sky as the Maastricht train pulled out of Centraal station. The early morning clouds had cleared away on the strengthening wind.
Matthew and Jane settled in their rear facing seats. They had breakfasted, at the station cafe, on croissant and cheese washed down by large lattes. The carriage was empty save for another three passengers who looked to be heading home after a hectic night in Amsterdam. One of them—a boy of only sixteen with multiple tattoos on his arms - sat down and fell into a snoring sleep.
The train pushed its way through the city suburbs: miles of wooden family homes, which then gave way to open fields.
“I want to see fields of tulips and windmills,” said Jane.
“First, this is October and not the season for tulips, and second we’ve just left the city, give the windmills a chance,” said Matthew.
The carriage door hissed open, and the guard entered. He tapped the sleeping youth on the shoulder and asked for his ticket. The boy jumped out of a substance induced dream and tried to focus on the official.
“Oh yeah,” he said, and he handed over his ticket for inspection.
The guard checked the other passenger’s tickets before inspecting Jane and Matthew’s, after which he left with another hiss. Almost immediately the loud snoring began again. Matthew looked at Jane, and they both laughed.
The train pulled into Maastricht station at two twenty; two and half hours after leaving Amsterdam.
“Well, that’s it Janey we’re here,” said Matthew, stretching and yawning.
“What do we do now? Jane asked, while rising from her seat.
“Well, tourist information would help, then we’ll get something to eat—I’m famished.”
Leaving the station, they headed along Stationstraat and then turned right along the busy Wilhelminasingel where, according to a porter, there was an information office.
“I see it,” said Jane, pointing ahead.
The glass doors had stickers advertising boat trips on the Maas River. They opened to allow Matthew and Jane into a blue carpeted room with swivel holders full of postcards and leaflets. At a desk swamped by paperwork sat a well-dressed woman.
“Can I help you?” she said in unaccented English.
“Yes, we’re looking for an abbey in the area which begins with s.” Matthew said.
The assistant tapped away at her computer keyboard, then clicked her mouse.
“There’s Susteren Abbey…”
“That’s it!” interrupted Matthew.
“How do we get there?” he continued.
“It’s half an hour from Maastricht, you could go by train or bus, but…”
Matthew didn’t allow her to finish; he led Jane by the hand out through the opening doors.
“Thanks!” he shouted over his shoulder
“Wait!” the assistant shouted.
This stopped Matthew in his tracks. The doors didn’t know whether to stay open or close because he stood on the rail along which they ran. Jane however made up their minds for them by tugging him back into the office.
“It would be a wasted journey because, the only thing that remains of the Abbey is the Romanesque church,” resumed the woman.
“Ah!” Matthew said. “That puts a different complexion on the matter.”
“The French closed the Abbey in the eighteenth century,” said the assistant.
Matthew scratched his head. “That would have been around the time of the revolution.”
“So, where'd any artefacts from the Abbey have ended up?” Jane asked.
“It looks like you are in luck,” the assistant said, “most of them are at the Basilica of Saint Servatius here in Maastricht,” she continued.
“Where’s the Basilica?” Matthew asked.
“About two kilometres from here; if you head along WyckerBruggstraat to the river you’ll see it in the distance.
“Thank you very much,” said Matthew.
“Why the interest? “The assistant asked, handing them a leaflet on the Basilica.
“We’re theological students,” lied Jane.
As they crossed Saint Servaas Brugg Matthew gazed up at the impossibly blue sky; although it was October the only clouds in the sky were high cirri producing a rippled effect. Below, a cruise boat passed by filled with gaping tourists.
“I’m hungry; I fancy something foreign to eat,” said Jane.
“There’s a McDonald’s over there,” Matthew said, pointing across the river.
“Perfect,” said Jane.
The couple entered the plastic heaven that was the modern restaurant of quick foods. They purchased hamburgers and drinks and then sat beside the window - which gave an outstanding view of the river.
“It closes in half an hour,” said Jane, looking at the leaflet on the Basilica.
“It’ll have to be tomorrow then,” Matthew said, filling his face with a double hamburger.
That night they booked into a hotel on Helmstraat which overlooked Vrijthof Square: the main area in front of the Basilica.
France 1425
“Those English! They have invaded our country; brought hunger and death, now they wreck our sacred cathedral.” Anatole heard a customer say as he swept up in the back shop.
“What happened?” Bernard asked.
“An English swine smashed the Rose Window and knocked over pews.”
“Mon Dieu! Nothing is sacred.” Bernard said with anger.
“How do you know he was English?” another customer asked.
“Oh, come on my friend, would a Frenchman do such a thing,” said the first customer.
Such patriotism thought Anatole with a smirk on his face as he worked. Perhaps there was a way he could exploit it.
Bernard came through to the back shop shaking his head.
“Roger, the English have been destroying the Cathedral; it breaks my heart.”
“Deplorable, someone should sort them out,” said Anatole.
“If I had a thousand good Frenchmen, I'd throw those bastards out,” spat Bernard.
“Would you Bernard; would you do that,” Anatole said, fixing Bernard with an icy stare.
Bewildered, Bernard jerked his head back from Anatole while raising his eyebrows.
“I am a simple baker with a family to provide for, my friend.”
“But these foreigners are your masters, and as you say they are now wrecking your sacred place of worship. What will happen to your baking if the crops fail as they have done in the past? Will they bring flour from England?”
“It is not up to me, I am not a fighting man,” said Bernard.
“Then who is it up to my friend? You are a Frenchman; first you say you'd throw them out, then you say you are not a fighter. Is this what most French say? Is this why you now have an English king on the throne? What of the brave men who have died.
The sound of the shop door opening saved Bernard.
“I must go, when you're finished that there’s washing up to do,” he said.
He didn’t like to antagonize his friend, but he was just sowing seeds—just sowing seeds! Anatole reflected as he started the washing.
After a buffet breakfast, Jane and Matthew left the hotel and walked over Vrijthof Square. They gazed at the massive bulk of the Basilica in front of them. Rust coloured leaves were being blown around in the chill wind as they followed Vrijthof round to the entrance at Keizer Karelplein.
The entrance portal was an ornate arch depicting Christ with Saint Servatius and the twelve apostles.
“Great sculptures,” remarked Matthew, as he stumped up the entrance fee of seven Euros.
In the Quad they passed the huge Grameer Bell resting on the ground before they entered the Nave of the church.
“Wow!” Jane exclaimed.
“It’s beautiful, said Matthew.
The columns and vaulted ceiling were painted white which made the Nave look clean and pure.
To the right and left there were many small side chapels. The pair marveled at the Rose Window on the west choir depicting Christ as the sun of justice. Opposite this was the presbytery with a statue of Saint Servatius using his staff to kill a dragon; the dragon symbolizing the denial of the divinity of Christ.
Matthew looked at Jane and grinned. “Let’s go down into the crypt?”
“Nah! You’re all right.”
“It’s where they buried the saint in three hundred and eighty-four.” Matthew said looking at the leaflet.
“He’s almost as old as you then.” Jane remarked with a grin.
The treasury was what they had come to see, however, and they weren’t disappointed. After passing through black, ornate metal gates they entered white vaulted rooms where the exhibits were in well-lit glass cases. Central in the first room was a golden bust of Saint Servatius said to contain the skull of the great man. Other exhibits were relics encased in silver or fabrics. The next room contained the most precious exhibit: the ‘Noodkist’ which was the shrine of Saint Servatius.
“Can’t see no key,” said Jane. “If it was here, we’d have no chance of getting hold of it,” she went on.
“Ach! I knew it wouldn’t be here; we need to find someone who knows something about it.”
There was a Priest doing work on an exhibit at the back of the room. Matthew approached the man with Jane following him.
“Excuse me Father my name is Matthew; I’m a theology student from Scotland. I’m interested in the artefacts brought to the Basilica from Susteren Abbey in the eighteenth century.”
The man raised his head from his restoration work. “The early exhibits in the next room are from Susteren.”
“I was wondering if you knew what happened to a particular key artefact.” Matthew said, trying to look nonchalant.
“I’m sorry I don’t know of any key from Susteren. Some of the material from the Abbey went to other places I understand. If I have time I might do some checking for you. What’s your surname and address?”
Matthew gave him the information and thanked him for his help, then he and Jane left.
“Well, that didn’t help much, said Jane as they left the Basilica. “What do we do now?”
“I’m not sure; I must do some thinking. Let’s get something to eat.”
In the treasury office Father Lens lifted the receiver of the telephone and dialed a mobile phone number.
“Hello.”
“Father Lens here, from the Basilica.”
“Ah yes Father, what can I do for you?”
“You told me that there would be a boy coming and asking about the Key.”
“Yes.”
“Well, he was here just five minutes ago. I told him I didn’t know of any key.”
“What’s his name, and where is he staying?”
“Matthew Wilson, and there’s a girl with him; they’re staying at Hotel du Casque on Helmstraat.”
“Thank you, Father.”
France 1425
One night Anatole went to a tavern where he had heard the clientele were of the anti-English persuasion. He purchased a tankard of ale and went to sit in a dark corner of Le Moine. The air had a stench of urine with heavy overtones of sweat. The sawdust on the floor was dark grey in colour and looked like it had lain there since the start of the century.
There were a few men at the bar standing laughing and slapping each other on the back. The tables were empty save for a group sitting across from Anatole.
They greeted him amiably, and he greeted them.
“A new face in the tavern, said a man, who was big and balding.
“Where are you from friend?” asked another, who was thinner and had more hair.
“I am from Tiron but have spent time in Scotland,” answered Anatole.
“What brings you here?” the big man asked, “it can’t be the company,” he went on. This produced a round of laughter within the group.
“I come back to support France in her hour of need,” stated Anatole.
The group of five men stared at Anatole thunderstruck and then looked around the inn.
“Brave words friend, but what can you do on your own–throw yourself at the garrison on the edge of town,” said a ginger-haired man with a beard, producing another round of laughter.
Anatole went over to their table and sat. “Do not mock me, I am serious,” he said, fixing the man with a grim stare. “I will talk plainly for it seems I am among men of my ilk. I am for a free France, and I am prepared to fight for that liberty. The throne of France is for a Frenchman. For this cause I propose to form an alliance.”
“You throw caution to the wind Sir. What if we are English spies? Also, if we are, as you say of your ilk, what if you are an English spy?” the big one proposed.
“Then one of us is undone, but if not, unite with us against our common foe? I have nothing to hide, my name is Roger Beauchamp I work for Bernard Dudouet the baker,” said Anatole. "If you are interested, I will be back here the day after tomorrow. Now I bid you goodnight gentlemen.”
With that Anatole finished his ale and left the tavern.
The next day while stocking the fire under the oven with wood, Anatole heard Bernard come through to the back shop.
“Bernard, remember what you said the other day about wanting to rid France of the English.”
“Oh, now Roger, I spoke in the heat of the moment.”
“Will you come with me to meet some friends? Just to talk that’s all.”
“As I told you I am a family man.”
“Bernard, nothing will happen to you, I promise,” said Anatole, fixing the man with an honest stare.
The next night Anatole and Bernard entered the tavern. The smell of urine was overpowering in the half-lit environment. There were a few people sitting at tables murmuring into their beer. The pair bought two ales and sat at a table where what had once been a candle was now a knotted blob of wax with a small yellow flame in the centre.
“What now?” Bernard asked, looking around.
As Anatole was about to answer, the front door opened, and in walked the five men from the other night.
“My friends!” shouted Anatole.
The men went over to where they were sitting and shook hands with them; Anatole introducing Bernard.
“Ah yes the baker, I recognize you,” said the ginger-haired man, “My name is Francois.”
The landlord brought tankards of ale over to the table for the new arrivals after a nod from Jean, the big man.
“I’m glad to see you. Have you thought over what I said the other night?” Anatole asked, lowering
“Yes, and you’re right it is time to fight back in our own way; even if we can just free Chartres,”
said Francois.
“Good, then let’s drink to that.” Anatole said, lifting his tankard.
“What do you propose,” said Jean, after they had drank.
“We will meet somewhere every week.”
“What about here,” said Jean, “I’m sure Albert won’t mind,” he continued, nodding toward the landlord.
“Okay, and if everyone agrees we’ll call ourselves the Alliance of Friends,” said Anatole, acknowledging the nodding heads.
“Names are all very well, but what are a few patriots going to do against a garrison,” said Bernard.
Anatole eyed his friend. “Our tactics will be to stir-up the locals and harass the English as much as possible.”
Just then Albert the landlord came over to the table and whispered a few words to Jean.
“We have a problem,” Jean said, after Albert had gone. “There’s a certain gentleman been hanging around the place all day. Don’t all look at once, but he’s sitting at the table in the corner,”
he continued.
“I recognize him he is English or at least a collaborator,” whispered Bernard. “When the garrison needs extra bread over and above the stuff, they make themselves I get roped in to supply it. That man was in their mess talking to officers when I made a delivery.”
The man, who was of scruffy appearance, gathered something was wrong, and headed for the front door.
“We’ve got to stop him,” shouted Francois.
Anatole ran out of the door after the spy with the others following. As he stood in the street, he could hear the collaborator’s footsteps running to the right of where he was standing.
On and on the spy ran with Anatole gaining on him. He took a fleeting glance backwards and realizing he would get caught he slipped down a side street. He had gone fifty metres when he crashed into—nothingness. It was as if he had run up against solid air. He turned to see the silhouette of a man with red eyes standing at the top of the street. He turned back and tried to push on but to no avail. A wooden post wrenched itself free from the ground; the pointed end rose until the stake was hovering horizontally at about a metre and a half above the ground.
The spy let out a spine-chilling scream as the stake flew at blinding speed into his chest, splattering blood over the cobblestones. He looked down at the post sticking in his chest, and his legs wobbled. He then collapsed dead onto the road.
The rest of the company ran into the side street and stood horrified at what they saw.
“Mon Dieu Roger, did you do this?” asked Jean, fighting to recapture his breath.
“Merde! What do we do now?” Francois asked no one in particular.
“We meet next week as planned," said Anatole, "now get rid of the body,” he went on.
“Yes…mon ami,” Jean said, giving Anatole an understanding look.
Matthew chased Jane up the deep, red carpeted stairs of their hotel. He stopped at the top to catch his breath as she ran to their room door on the first floor.
She giggled, then in a mocking voice said: “You must get more exercise Wilson.”
“I’d like to get more; if only you’d let me.”
Jane became serious and said: “You know my views on that; I’m an old-fashioned girl; I want to get married.”
“Yeah, don’t I just,” murmured Matthew, as he opened the door.
“Hey there’s a note,” said Jane pointing to the floor.
Matthew picked it up and read it.
“It says if we want answers to our questions we must go to Chartres in France and seek one called Henri Diebolt. And it says, oh Jesus, be careful great evil is there.”
“Who’s it from?” Jane enquired.
“It doesn’t say.”
In the room, he looked out of the window. Across the street there was a figure sitting in a black Audi A6 Allroad staring up at him over the top of a partially opened tinted window. Matthew jumped back, but kept his eyes on the figure.
“What’s up Mattie?” Jane asked.
He turned to look at Jane. “There’s someone out there looking up here.”
“Let’s see,” she ordered, pushing him out of the way, “I can’t see anybody.”
“Just there in the Au…that’s strange it was there a second ago!”
“Was it one of the men who were watching you back home?”
“No, there was something different about this person; even though I couldn’t see his face I knew he meant me no harm.”
“What do you reckon then?” asked Jane.
“Well, there’s not much more to be gained from hanging around here, so I reckon in the morning we’ll find out about getting to Chartres.”
Matthew and Jane took the train to Liege in Belgium and then caught the Eurostar to Paris, which took just over two hours; the train pulling into the vast grandeur of the Gare du Nord at quarter past one in the afternoon.
The pair left the station and walked out into the buzz that was Paris.
“What now Mattie?” Jane asked.
“We’ll have to take a taxi to Gare Mont Parnasse. But first I’m thirsty, let’s go over to that cafe,”
he said, pointing over the street.
It was a warm October day. The sky was azure with high cirri clouds in between which were white streaks of plane contrails. They sat at an outside table at the Café de la Gare.
“A beer and a white coffee,” said Matthew to the waiter who had appeared.
“Grande bere?” The waiter asked.
“Qui.”
The waiter brought back the biggest beer Matthew had ever seen.
“I hope you're thirsty, said Jane.
The train to Chartres took an hour, and as it sped round the final bend the pair could see the two spires of the cathedral pierce the golden rays of the setting sun.
“Well, here we are on the next step of our European tour.” Jane said, as she stood up and grabbed her luggage.
France 1432
Twelve hundred English soldiers, ready to defend, stood behind the metal studded wooden gates of La Porte Guillame Chartres. Around the city walls longbow men were in position; other soldiers kept watch over the mass forces of the French, who had surrounded the hilltop city.
The citizens welcomed the French army. And the English instructed that there would be dire consequences for anyone seen helping the enemy.
“The other entrances have been secured Sir,” said Sir Rupert Bowers, a young officer.
“Good, as long as those damn gates hold, we should be okay,” said Sir Humphrey Shaw, the garrison commander - a rugged man who had seen many campaigns.
“We’re well prepared for a long siege Sir. We have ample food and plenty ammunition. The only problem will be supplies of fresh water. Rationing must be introduced."
“Yes, the longer the better from our point of view. It will give the reinforcements time to get here.”
A shout from the battlements confirmed that the French were moving bowmen and small cannon into position.
“Instruct our bowmen on the battlements to fire at will, at the men moving and loading the cannons,” ordered Shaw.
“Yes Sir,” said Bowers, as he turned and moved away.
The French bowmen were positioning themselves in the fields and scrubland just close enough to get in a shot. Four cannons were being pulled to just outside the main gates.
The English opened fire on the men pulling the cannons into place; the sky was full of arrows. In return, the French tried to give cover by firing back at them.
As this exchange was taking place a group of French soldiers moved away from the main body of their army pulling a trebuchet. They crossed land fast and took up position well behind the cannons, just out of the range of the English bowmen. As the English picked off the men who were positioning the cannons, others ran up to take their places and the weapons eventually were placed.
“Their cannons are in place Sir, despite our bowmen killing many of them,” said Bowers.
“You must stop them firing those cannons Bowers and try to push them back,” ordered Shaw.
“They’re bringing a trebuchet up behind the cannons Sir.”
“I’m not sure how long the doors will stand up to cannons and a trebuchet. We must try to buy ourselves some time.”
The bowmen on the battlements around the doors were doubled and began a relentless onslaught on the cannon loaders. Although many French were killed around the cannons they got in a few shots, which smashed into the walls wide of their target.
The trebuchet team worked to get the giant slingshot into working order, but they had misjudged the distance the longbow men could achieve.
With the air full of English arrows, the French pulled back; tugging their cannons and the trebuchet back out of range. Shouts of joy erupted from behind the city walls.
“Sir, they’ve pulled back, we’ve repelled the first attack,” said Bowers.
“Yes, maybe we can buy some time, if we keep at this.” Shaw said.
Soon silence crept around, broken only by the groaning of dying men. The stench of gunpowder drifted away in the breeze replaced by the smell of wild flowers. Suddenly, there was a wriggling sound around the doors, which became louder and louder. The large bolts which held the hinges together were working themselves loose and soon they dropped on to the dusty ground.
For a moment the doors just stood as if being supported by an invisible ogre. Then they fell backward, crushing the English soldiers at the front of the column. The rest ran back in fear; many being trampled in the panic.
The figure of a man in the shadows of a side street close to La Porte Guillame slipped back into an open door. His red eye colour changed back to blue/grey.
For an instant the French officers stood, with unbelieving eyes. They came to their senses, however, and ordered the charge–the gates to Chartres were now down!
The French cavalry clattered over the fallen doors; slashing and stabbing the shocked English soldiers, who tried to fight back using pikes. But when the French infantry surged through the gates, outnumbering them by five to one, the end was nigh.
The English were pushed back further and further into the city– the advancing French trampling over English dead. The archers on the walls—their advantage gone—shot aimlessly into the turmoil and in turn were picked off by the French bowmen.
When the remaining English troops reached the cathedral Sir Humphrey Shaw gave the command to surrender. And thus, Chartres was back in French hands.
“We’re free,” shouted François
“Yes, thanks to Roger,” said Claude.
“What do you mean? It was the brave French army.”
“Yes, my friend, but I saw Roger out on the street when the gates came down; I don’t know how he did it, but he brought the gates down.
“Then he is a hero!”
“A hero—yes, but also a very dangerous man.”
The hotel on Boulevard Chasles was small but well kept. Matthew and Jane had a twin room on the second floor, which had a fine view of the cathedral. The owner, a Monsieur Theobald, was a stocky man with a thick, black moustache. He was a chain smoker; one draw almost finishing his current cigarette.
“You are on holiday in Chartres—yes?” he asked, as he pulled a beer in the tiny bar.
“Yes, we’re on a study holiday: looking at religious artefacts,” said Matthew.
“Well in that case you’ll find plenty up at the Cathedral to keep you happy.”
As Matthew moved away from the bar with his drinks he said, “I know this is a long shot. But, would you know a Monsieur Diebolt who lives in or around Chartres.”
“No, the name rings no bells, as you English say.”
“Actually, I’m Scottish.”
“I know; I pull your leg—yes.”
They both laughed as Matthew sat down beside a puzzled Jane.
“What was all that about Wilson?”
“Och, nothing. He doesn’t know anybody called Diebolt.”
After another few drinks the pair said goodnight to Monsieur Theobald through an atmosphere thick with cigarette smoke, and then they climbed the narrow staircase to their room.
Inside the warm room, Matthew gazed at the well-lit cathedral out of the window.
“That’s an impressive sight Janey.”
“Mmm,” replied Jane, engrossed in a French game show on the television.
As Matthew switched on the kettle, the telephone rang.
“Hello,” said Matthew.
“Mr. Wilson this is reception I have a call for you.”
“Okay.”
There was a click and a male voice came on the line.
“Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Henri Diebolt. I would like to arrange a meeting with you. Will ten o'clock tomorrow morning at the Cathedral be okay?"
"Yes."
"Until then."
Jane rose from the bed and made her way to the en-suite. “Who was that?”
“That was our Monsieur Diebolt, and we’ve to meet him tomorrow at the Cathedral.
After a wonderful French breakfast of baguette and ham washed down with thick, black coffee, Matthew and Jane headed off to the Cathedral. The day was clear but cold as they walked up Boulevard Chasles toward Place des Epars. The wind played around the rooftops before wrapping itself around the spires of the Cathedral. Matthew shivered making him glad he had packed his fleece.
After negotiating their way through the small streets, they stood before the gothic masterpiece that was Notre Dam Cathedral.
Inside, the only people around were the custodians.
“This place is awesome,” said Jane.
“Yeah, takes some beating, eh?”
“Hey look at this,” Jane said, as she walked round the Labyrinth.
“That’s the famous Labyrinth. It was for Christians who couldn’t get to the Holy Land.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they walked around it in ever decreasing circles until they reached the centre which symbolized a pilgrimage to Jerusalem - I think. Oh, I’m not big on this stuff.”
A monk in a grey habit came strolling down the Nave; head bowed and hands clasped. He stopped beside Matthew. “Mr. Wilson?”
“I’m Abbot Henri Diebolt.
They sat down amid the masses of empty pews.
“My abbey is about ten miles north east of Chartres,” said Henri looking at them with deep, soulful eyes, “it is small and very old.”
“Who’s the man with the black Audi?” Matthew asked.
“He’s…an associate. What you seek is not here.”
Matthew stared at the man. “Well, there’s not much point in us staying then.”
“Please, you must hear my story. The artefact was here, at my abbey for almost one hundred years—guarded by my predecessors.” Henri paused for a moment. “You’ve heard of Saint Servatius—yes?”
The two listeners nodded their heads.
“Well, while working in Tongres, now in modern day Belgium, he went on a pilgrimage to Rome to visit the tomb of Saint Peter, and while there he had a vision where Peter came to him and told him that sinful Tongres would be invaded and ordered him to Maastricht. The vision revealed the hiding place of the Key. Servatius took the Key and guarded it as the Powers of Darkness were getting close. He was then warned that this was not the key for heaven and it must not fall into the hands of evil.”
Henri looked up and took a deep breath as if he was drawing the rest of the story from the air.
“Servatius journeyed to Maastricht where he remained until his death. The Key was guarded by his followers and their descendants until an order of monks took it with them to Tiron in France in the twelfth century. There they joined the order that were invited over to Scotland by King David the First. You will of course know of the temptation and seduction of Abbot de Longford?”
“Yes. What happened after the French closed Susteren Abbey?” Matthew asked.
“The Key was secreted away to Aren Abbey where I am now the abbot.”
“Where it remained for one hundred years?” Jane asked.
“Yes, with the growing unrest leading up to the First World War, the decision was made to secure it in a bank vault with only successive abbots knowing the access number. London seemed to be the safest choice at the time, so it was deposited in the Bank of England.”
Matthew ran a hand through his hair. “Is it still there?”
“No, after the war there was a young Dutch abbot who wanted it back on Dutch soil, so he had it transferred to a bank in Amsterdam. Where, to my knowledge, it remains to this day.”
“You’ve got the access code—right?” Matthew asked.
“Wrong. The Dutch abbot, Christiaan die Voech, was a very pious young man. He claimed to have had a vision where Saint Peter came to him and told him he was responsible for the security of the Key. He believed it was his birth right because his name, die Voech, means ‘the guardian’.
Right up to his death he never released the details of the whereabouts of the Key.”
Henri looked at the two young people as they digested the story. “Well, that’s you up to date with what I know, and I wish you well with the rest of your task. May God be with you?”
Henri stood up and walked back the way he had come.
Matthew jumped up. “Wait, a minute! How do you know all this? And what do we do now?”
“I would go to Amsterdam if I were you,” Henri said, over his shoulder.
Outside the Cathedral a large Audi with dark, tinted windows watched Matthew and Jane leave.
Jonas watched Mari as she came toward him, her blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders as she walked. He was back in the fields outside Arbroath; it was a warm summer’s day, and the birds were praising it through song.
Mari took him by the hand, and they walked through the field of grass and wild flowers. She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand as she giggled. He in return ran his hand along her bare arm; her skin felt soft like velvet.
She stopped and turned toward him and then kissed him on the lips. She then stared into his eyes.
He was mesmerized by her. He knew what was going on, however; so he screamed, “I must resist—
but oh, it’s becoming…”
And Jonas was no more. The Dark Dimension absorbed his consciousness. As a consequence the chanting in the cave reached fever pitch. The hooded figure stood up, walked into the centre of the circle and threw back the hood.
Mari rose into the air and spun while emitting a high-pitched shriek. Her features became distorted; her skin became sallow and her eyes turned to a deep red. The transformation was complete when her hair became straggled and she had grown in size to two and a half metres.
The shrieking became a terrible howl which when merged with the loud chanting shook the Dark Dimension and alerted any souls within as to what had happened.
Didier Grondin woke up and sat bolt upright in his bed with his heart pounding. He stared into the darkness and smiled. They’ve found out where the Key is, he thought.
He got up quietly so as not to arouse his slumbering wife and made his way through to the study.
He switched on the wall lights, chasing the darkness away. It was cold in the room; he shivered as he sat down at his desk. He stared at a painting on the wall. It was of children playing in a harvested field. The sun was bright and shining out of a deep, blue sky. In his mind he could hear the laughter of the children running and hiding behind the bales of hay. The painting always brought out a profound sadness in him. What had happened to the humanity he loved so much when he was young? Now the sun was replaced by darkness.
Hel materialized before him as Mari. He looked at her with loathing in his eyes.
“As you will be aware, we can now trace the Key,” she said.
“Good, it has been a long time coming.”
“Poor old Jonas took it to Sustern Abbey in Holland,” she said with a grin, “so now you can do the rest, and don’t try deceiving me; as I have said, vengeance will be dire.”
After she left his eyes burned. “Vengeance will be dire,” he said. Once he had the Key vengeance would be his–revenge for Xavier, he thought.
Grondin switched on his computer, went straight onto the internet and looked up Sustern Abbey.
It had been beside Maastricht, but all that now remained was a church. When the French closed the Abbey, the artefacts moved to The Basilica of Saint Servatius.
Time to get those two fools in London mobilized, they were outwitted by that young brat in Scotland, but huh…that wasn’t hard to do, Grondin thought.
Signing off from the internet he picked up his phone and pressed Lagrange’s number. It rang for a while before it was answered. “Yeah,” growled Lagrange.
“Georges, I know it’s three in the morning,” he said, looking at his watch. “ I need you and Alain on a plane in the morning for Amsterdam, where you’ll hire a car and drive to Maastricht. I’ll meet you there in the afternoon.”
“So, I take it we know where the item is now?”
“Yes, we can now trace it.”
He hung up and sat back in his chair. He stared at the same painting on the wall, but this time there was no sadness.
France 1451
Bernard Dedouet lay in his bed staring out of the window at the sombre, grey sky. His face was pallid, and he was sweating. The fever that gripped him refused to let go. Anatole entered the bedroom carrying a bowl of soup. “Bernard you must try to eat this it will give you strength.”
“Roger, come and sit with me for a while.”
“Of course.”
“How’s the shop doing?”
“We’re doing fine. When you’re back on your feet again, we’ll do even better.”
Bernard grabbed Anatole’s wrist. “Listen here my old friend; I call you old, but look at you, it’s as if you haven’t aged a day since we first met. Anyway, we both know I will not make it through this fever.”
A bout of coughing interrupted him. He shook his head at Anatole’s offer of a drink of water.
“With Collette having passed away two years ago and Pierre killed serving his country against the English. I have only you to pass the business on to my friend.”
“What about Michelle?” Anatole asked, although he knew the answer.
“Michelle! I never see her—married to that Parisian upstart. No, I want you to have the shop and the house. The papers are sorted and I have sent money to Michelle she can have no more.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing Roger you have been a loyal friend and a good worker. I know you helped to free Chartres. Now go, there is someone in the shop.”
When Anatole returned to the bedroom Bernard was at peace.
The next night at the scheduled meeting of the Alliance of Friends in Le Moine tavern, Anatole stood up and offered a toast. “To Bernard - a great Frenchman.”
“To Bernard.” said the friends.
“Now friends I would like to change the name of our club to the Order of the Gate. Why? Well, beyond a gate there is a new frontier—new optimism. That is what I now see for France my friends—new optimism.”
As she sat and watched the French countryside pass by the train window, Jane said: “I may have to go back home soon. I’m running out of money, and I told them I'd only be away for a couple of days.”
“I’ll look after you,” said Matthew, “I phoned the library this morning and told them I would take the week’s holiday I’m due; they seemed okay about it.”
The train pulled into Gare Mont Parnasse. When it came to a halt Matthew and Jane left the carriage with an army of Parisian office workers.
They took a cab to Gare du Nord. The cabbie was a thin, long-haired man of Asian origin who manoeuvred his way through the rush hour traffic while filling the atmosphere with expletives.
The giant facade of the north station, with its nine statues, loomed up at the end of Rue Denain as Matthew looked at the meter and then counted out Euros for the driver.
At ten thirty the train to Amsterdam left giving them half an hour to have breakfast. Monsieur Theobald, back at the hotel in Chartres, only just made their checkout time, never mind any food.
Soon they were speeding through the north east on a blustery autumn day heading toward the Belgian border.
“I can’t believe it," said Jane, “I’ve just left the fashion capital of the world, and I never looked in one shop.”
“Well, you said you haven’t got much money; just look at it as having saved what little you do have.”
“Yeah, I suppose so, but I would have fancied a little window shopping.”
After an hour or more the train pulled into Brussels Midi. The passengers that left were well-dressed political types– some with personnel assistants. Not surprising, thought Matthew, as this was the hub of the European Union.
After over three hours of travelling over flat Belgian, then Dutch, countryside the train rolled into Amsterdam Centraal Station.
“Well, that’s us back to where we started,” said Jane. “What now?”
Matthew opened the carriage door. “You said you wanted to see Amsterdam—well let’s go.”
Stopping by a rack of brochures in the station Matthew picked up one advertising accommodation. “This one looks reasonable,” he said, pointing at a hotel.
“Is it far?”
“I don’t think so, not by taxi. Any way its central and doesn’t look too pricey.”
They hailed a cab which took them through the maze of busy streets to Hotel Atlanta in Rembrandt Plein.
The room was small, but clean and had all the basics: kettle, television, hairdryer and a minibar.
The view was of the square which looked resplendent in the dying sun. A huge screen on a building opposite advertised many things from football boots to lipstick. Rembrandt’s statue in the centre of the area peeped through the autumnal trees as if he were afraid to view what had become of his city.
The pair lay on their twin beds, exhausted, and watched Dutch television. Matthew fell asleep and when he awoke the old British sitcom ‘Are You Being Served’ filled the screen. He laughed at Mrs. Slocum speaking Dutch.
Jane rolled onto her side and faced Matthew. “What’s the time Mattie?”
“Half past six.”
“Let's go out on the town; have something to eat and a few drinks.”
“Yeah, I'd say we deserve it,” said Matthew, rolling off his bed.
After washing and dressing they left the room and descended the narrow staircase. The receptionist was busy typing behind the front desk. Matthew asked her if she could recommend a good place to eat. She told him there were many good restaurants around the square, but for more variety to head for the area around Liedse Plein.
Outside, the night was chilly, and the wind howled around the buildings.
“There’s an Irish pub. Let’s go in, I haven’t had a decent pint of Guinness for a while.” Matthew
said, pulling Jane by the hand through the doors.
Inside it was warm, and there was a big screen showing a football match. A few men sat watching the game on the ends of their seats. Other clientele sat at tables in alcoves and chatted.
The Guinness slid down Matthew’s throat. “That was good,” he said, amazed at how thirsty he had been. “Where to now?”
“Hold on Wilson, I’m not finished yet, and I want something to eat.”
“Okay, once you’re finished, we’ll look for the place the receptionist was telling us about.”
They walked hand in hand along leaf strewn streets. They crossed small humpback bridges over canals until they came across Liedse Plein, which was a large square dissected by a busy road.
Although it wasn’t exactly a balmy summer evening, people were sitting outside being served by waiters.
“There looks like a lot of restaurants down that way,” said Jane, pointing towards a street which ran off the square.
The pair settled for a small Thai restaurant with floating candles in dishes of water on the tables.
“Welcome,” said the small waitress, while bowing and smiling. She had jet black hair and delicate, high cheek bones.
Cooked to perfection the food had plenty of crisp vegetables within spicy sauces. Jane drank white wine while Matthew went for a beer; settling for lager as there was no ale.
“This is great, just like being on holiday,” said Jane.
“Yup, sure is.”
They sat for a while after the meal watching the crowds pass by outside on foot and bicycle.
“You know what I’d like now,” said Jane.
“What?”
“To see The Red-Light District.”
He stared at Jane with raised eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, let’s go have a look.”
They paid up and left the restaurant; then followed the crowds heading to Dam Square along Kalverstraat.
“Wow! The shops here look great,” said Jane.
“Yeah great.”
“Need to get the credit card out tomorrow.” Jane said, eying Matthew.
After walking along narrow streets and tight alleys the vast openness of Dam Square came as a shock to the senses of Matthew. He put an arm around Jane’s shoulders as they walked across the cobbled concourse. They laughed at the statue people, who moved mechanically when money dropped into their pots.
The pair walked down Damrak and took a right which landed them in the network of streets that was The Red-Light District. The place was buzzing. There were bars, coffee houses and restaurants everywhere.
“Oh my God look at that, said Jane, pointing at erotic pictures in a sleaze shop window.
“And what’s that for?” Matthew asked, nodding toward a massive dildo, “scratching your back!”
They strolled down a narrow street; passing by women who winked at men from behind glass doors. At the bottom they turned right and walked along the canal side. A church bell rang.
Matthew looked over the water and saw the two spires of the building rise toward the stars. A beacon of light amid this sinful darkness, he thought.
As they crossed a bridge, they heard loud rock music coming from a side street.
“Wow! Let’s go there,” said Matthew.
Inside, the pub was dark and smoky. The bar section was narrow and lead to a larger seated area at the back. On the two large screens Lynyrd Skynyrd were in the death throes of ‘Freebird’.
“A beer and a glass of white wine,” said Matthew to the barman, who was a young rocker with long blond hair and a Metallica T-shirt.
“Could you put on AC/DC for me?” Matthew asked, after he got his drinks.
“Yeah, maybe later,” answered the barman.
Matthew had acquired a penchant for early AC/DC by listening to his cousin's collection of Heavy Rock.
When he and Jane sat down at the back, Deep Purple were halfway through ‘Smoke on the Water’.
“I like this place, it’s got atmosphere, said Matthew.
Jane rolled her eyeballs. “Yeah, I can smell the atmosphere.”
They both laughed and drank. Then Matthew headed back to the bar for more drinks. As he stood looking at the mass of CDs and DVDs on the other side of the bar, he felt a strange presence. A figure in a long, black coat with the collars up came and stood beside him.
“Beer,” said the newcomer, in a deep, rasping voice.
The barman dropped what he was doing and delivered a beer in front of the stranger; who then turned away from the bar, brushing past Matthew; who felt his legs go shaky as red eyes peered at him for a moment through the high collars.
“Yeah man, what can I get you?” asked the barman.
“Uh! …oh yeah, a beer and a glass of white wine,” said Matthew.
When he got back to his seat, the intro riff to ‘Highway to Hell’ boomed out and Matthew recovered from the encounter with the stranger at the bar.
“You, okay?” Jane asked, “you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I think I have.”
Feeling something in the back pocket of his jeans; he stood up and pulled out a letter.
“What the…!”
He looked around but couldn’t see the figure in the black coat anywhere.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Matthew went into the gents where there was a bright overhead light, and he opened the letter. It was from a friend asking him to come to New Amstel Books on Spuistraat at noon the next day.
France 1789
Philippe Corbere strolled through the dark corridors which lead to his office. He had done well for himself since moving from Chartres to Paris. The Wine exports business had gone from strength to strength, and he had employed five of a staff as a consequence. He lived in a three-storey house on Rue Mignon with his wife and two daughters. But no amount of life’s fineries could extinguish the eternal fire which burned within his immortal being. Tonight, he would welcome new members to the Order of the Gate and swell the numbers over and above the people who had followed him from Chartres.
As he entered the office Philippe was set upon by his assistant, Paul Duvalier, who handed him the usual list of orders and debtors.
“Sir, we must address these debtors to pay the suppliers.”
“Yes, all in good time Paul.”
Oh, the tedium of human affairs–things that are of no consequence in the grand scheme of the universe, thought Philippe. He strolled over to the window and looked out over Paris—over a France that was changing, a France weakened by countless wars and left penniless by a despicable king who had the audacity to believe he was divinely chosen to lead the country.
That night Philippe entered the tavern on Rue Bourbon Le Chateau and greeted the landlord as he made his way through to the meeting room at the back.
“Good evening friends!” he shouted, as he opened the old pine door.
The landlord came in after him with a tray of glasses and three bottles of red wine.
“Thank you, Robert,” said Philippe, as the man set the tray down on a table.
The room was large and had a musty smell. The candles on the tables were in bottles and provided enough light for Philippe to analyse the faces.
“Thank you for coming my friends, and nice to see the new members, you are welcome.”
Some of the members put glasses in front of everyone and filled them up.
“First a toast,” said Philippe, “To France!”
“To France,” everyone said, as they raised their glasses and drank.
Philippe glanced around the room. “Now to business." He brushed his fingers along the table.
"I will speak freely as I know the new members have been vetted. As you know, too many wars have weakened France; some justified others not. We are told the nation’s purse is now empty, and the King has the audacity to come to us, the citizens, for more money. Higher taxes my friends that’s what’s at stake. Turned away by the nobility and of course the clergy pay no duties, he is now looking for the money in your pocket.”
There was a knock at the door; the landlord came in with more wine. He set the bottles on a table, took the empties and left.
“So, I ask you my friend’s do you want to pay up, or be part of the new wind that’s sweeping across the country? The age of enlightenment brings with it new opportunities for France in areas such as science and education. Gone are the old views on state and religion. We must grasp this with both hands. So, are you with me?”
Philippe raised his glass. “To a new France,” he said.
“A new France,” they all said, as they raised their glasses and drank.
“What would be our part in the making of this new France,” said Valery Dube, a tall, thin man with a big nose and long, dark hair.
“There is a new force in the land known as the National Assembly. If you are with me, and as members of the Order of the Gate you will look for new frontiers, I urge you to take the oath and join them. Then together we can move into a new age where the rights of the citizen are respected above all.” Philippe then filled up the glasses of the twenty-five members - old and new.
The next day, Paul Duvalier knocked on Philippe’s door.
“Yes, come in,” said Philippe.
“There’s a gentleman to see you,” said Paul, popping his head around the door.
In walked Cesar Michaud a small, well-made man with a prominent brow which shaded his dark, brown eyes.
“Monsieur Corbere, I will get straight to the point, I have been instructed to come here to inform you of coming events. You will be no doubt aware of the growing unrest in Paris of the past few weeks.”
“Yes, I have heard from associates that something is going to happen.”
“The National Assembly, to whom I have given my oath, is meeting in Versailles. They have sent word they fear for their lives from Royal Army troops made up of Swiss and German soldiers. As a consequence, they have instructed me and others to begin the citizen’s battle to take France.”
“I know there are troops at Champs de Mars,” said Philippe.
“Yes, that’s where most of them are; but also in various places around the city.” Michaud paused for a moment. “Tomorrow, we have organized a mob or what will resemble a mob, to attack the Bastille and secure arms and gunpowder for the struggle ahead. There are just over one hundred guards in the prison - mainly veterans. The main concern is the troops at Champs de Mars; although over an hours march away, they will stop us, if alerted early enough.”
Michaud stared at Philippe. “I have heard you, Monsieur, are a man with great persuasive powers as I look into your soul, I sense that…” Michaud cried out in pain.
“Monsieur Michaud you will have nothing to fear from the soldiers at Champs de Mars. Now I wish you and your associates well, and long live the revolution,” said Philippe, as he stood up and offered his hand.
“Thank you Monsieur Corbere, and yes, long live the revolution.
Paris 14th July 1789
Bernard Rene de Launay, governor of the Bastille, was having breakfast with an elected group of citizens when there was a knock at the door.
“Come!” he shouted.
Lieutenant Deflue opened the door and strode into the austere brick-walled office.
“Sir, the mobs have moved into the inner court. I think the decision to withdraw the cannons from the battlements was misconstrued as a reloading manoeuvre.”
“Hmm! I think gentlemen, that you are being seen as prisoners,” said the governor to the group,
“I will come with you Lieutenant and have a look.”
The two men stood above the main gate and peered down at the swelling crowd which had surged up against the raised drawbridge.
“Surrender now and there will be no bloodshed. It’s not you we want,” shouted a big man from the crowd who was waving a pistol.
“This will get out of hand. Get most of the guard on to the battlement’s lieutenant.”
At around one o’clock a shot was fired; no one was sure from which side it came, but there followed an onslaught from both sides of the wall.
“Instruct the men to keep firing. People loyal to the King will send word to the Champs de Mars,” said de Launay.
“Yes sir,” acknowledged Lieutenant Deflue, “the mob appears to grow with every passing minute.”
At three o’clock the chains to the drawbridge were cut. The structure crashed down killing some of the mob, but it allowed the crowd to rush up to the main gate. The fortified wood of the big doors creaked and moaned under the pressure. De Launay had to do something, and do it quickly, as it looked as if there would be no back up from the Champs de Mars.
A letter with terms for a mutual cessation of hostilities was passed to the mob through a slit cut in a side gate.
Earlier, at ten o’clock, across the Seine within the army encampment a cannon had swiveled around on its axis, much to the amazement of the guards on duty. When it reached a certain direction, it stopped. Then a fireball shot out of the barrel and flew into a wagon containing gunpowder. The ensuing explosion ripped through the atmosphere blowing away nearby tents and setting fire to others. Soldiers ran screaming from the crater caused by the blast; many had serious burns, others dragged dead comrades away from burning debris.
“We’re under attack. Infantry, attach bayonets and assemble on the camp perimeter!” bellowed an officer.
Soldiers, some half-dressed, ran in all directions with muskets in hand.
“From what direction did the attack come?” General Jacques-Pierre Dubois demanded, as he stood outside the operational tent.
“I don’t know sir,” said a passing officer.
After a few moments an uneasy silence fell on the large camp. The only sounds were of burning wreckage, and the moaning of injured men.
“Can’t see anyone, said a young soldier, with his finger on the trigger of a musket pointed out at the surrounding parkland.
“Keep alert soldier,” replied an officer walking back and forward behind the line of troops.
Dubois paced about inside his tent. An officer marched a guard in, who then stood to attention.
“Sir, this man… saw one cannon move round and fire at the gunpowder wagon,” said the officer.
“Who moved it?” Dubois asked. There was silence. “Well, who moved the cannon - soldier?”
“No one sir,” the guard said.
“What?”
“No one sir, it swiveled itself.”
“Get this man out of here—and keep vigilant.”
Later, Dubois was sitting discussing events with General Valery Beaulis the commander of the Swiss troops and Dieter Mitter, General of the German contingent.
Sensing an evil presence, the three men turned and looked out the open end of the tent where they watched a dark figure approach at fast pace.
When he reached the start of the awning, two guards put their bayoneted muskets across Corbere’s path and shouted halt. Philippe waved his right arm, and the two guards flew twenty metres backwards through the air, landing on the turf with their necks broken.
The generals jumped up from their seats as Philippe entered the main part of the tent.
“Who are you?” Dubois demanded.
“My name is of no importance; what I have to say is.”
“I’ll have you shot for this,” shouted Beaulis.
“You’ll find that hard to do, now sit down, and listen,” said Philippe, pointing to their chairs.
“You will be aware of the little demonstration of my powers earlier.”
“It was you who blew up the gunpowder wagon?”
“Yes, and I can give you another demonstration if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary," said Dieter Mitter, "what do you want?”
“In a while you will be asked to help the guard at the Bastille control a riotous mob.”
“We suspected this might happen and are drawing up plans to aid the Governor. We were finding it hard to motivate the French troops to fight their fellow countrymen. But now after hearing that a mob stormed the Hotel Invalides killing French soldiers in the process they are ready to fight for the King,” said Dubois.
Philippe’s eyes turned a deep crimson colour as he moved closer to the generals.
“You will do nothing," he growled, “you have seen what I can do; act, and I will destroy you.
Then I will move into your home lands and lead a path of destruction,” he continued, glaring at Mitter and Beaulis. “I have an army of people like myself at my disposal,” he lied.
The generals cowered in their chairs. They agreed there would be no aid for the Bastille.
“And now gentlemen I will take my leave, and one more thing; don’t double-cross me as vengeance will be swift,” said Philippe– his eyes turning back to normal as he headed out of the tent.
The mob laughed at the letter, and the firing continued with shouts of: “surrender now and join us,” from the crowd crammed into the inner court.
“I have a good mind to ignite the gunpowder and blow the whole place up including many buildings around about, said de Launay, to a shocked Lieutenant Deflue.
At around five o’clock de Launay was summoned to the battlements above the main gate.
“Sir, I think you should see this,” said Deflue.
The Governor turned pale when he peered into the inner court. There stood just inside the outer gates two large cannons aimed at the main gates.
“Right, it’s over I'm afraid. Deflue, instruct the men to stop firing and wave white flags, then open the main gates.”
Disarmed, the royal guards were marched out of the prison. The prisoners were then released –
all seven of them. De Launay was not to be so lucky – the mob pounced on him and hacked his head off. The horror then paraded around on a pike.