Merlin's French Encounter

By Malcolm John Baker

Merlin, the time traveler from the days of King Arthur, moved on to the Shakespeare period in Merlin’s Shakespeare Encounter. In this book, he is moved on again to the period of the French Revolution and Madame Guillotine aiding the landed gentry to escape France.

After Napoleon’s coup, Merlin arrives at the battle of Waterloo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Mar 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781643459646

Malcolm John Baker

Malcolm John Baker was born in Salisbury, England, in 1945. By trade, he was a chartered surveyor and practised in South London, England. Now retired, he lives in the United States in Florida.

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Merlin’s

French

encounter

Malcolm John Baker

MERLIN’S FRENCH ENCOUNTER

Copyright © 2020 Malcolm John Baker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-64345-963-9

ISBN (Ebook): 978-1-64345-964-6

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter One

25 January 1790

Paris

During a freezing January morning in central Paris, a crowd gathered in the forecourt of the Palais des Tuileries. This beautiful stone palace ran along the right-hand bank of the River Seine and had once been the pride and joy of the French monarchy living within its splendor. Today the building was unoccupied having been taken over by the revolutionaries, the crowds of rampaging Parisiennes smashed all the furniture, and the occupants were under arrest and imprisoned. The King knew his hopeless fate, but he hoped the Queen will survive. She was a woman after all, and the French nation respected a woman. Surely they were still gentle persons at heart.

It snowed heavily during the night, and there were two inches of snow covering the ground. A timber stage stood in the center of the front courtyard of cobblestones; the edges of the blocks could just be recognized as the snow was not deep enough to cover them completely. On the platform was the guillotine, a grotesque device used for executions. At least it cut the head off in one slice as opposed to the previously used ax, which usually took at least three chops to bring the same end. The executioners were always drunk. Who could do that job without being intoxicated?

The Palace was never available to the public before the revolution. Now the elaborately wrought iron gates, each with the white fleur-de-lis proudly situated in the center of each gate, were open all the time. They were not so proud on this day. However, one gate was hanging off one hinge as though it was dying, just like its master. The brick pillar it rested on had been smashed by the crowds those few weeks ago. Even the fleur-de-lis was sadly slipped on one side; it appeared to be dying as well.

Parisians now wandered through the grounds to see how the other half had once lived, but no more; they were in their prison cells. The soldiers guarding the guillotine were clearing away the snow from the platform, making sure the prisoners could get to the scaffold without interference. It’s a busy day today as every day lately. They checked if the guillotine was functioning correctly, raising the shining blade to its full height. Someone had polished the edge of the blade with glee overnight; there were always disgruntled volunteers.

The crowds watched the reflections of the sunbeams glinting from the bottom of the blade, and they took that as good faith that God agreed with them. Conversely, the birds did not fly over the Palace today; even the crows kept away.

The blade was released, sending it crashing like thunder as it hits the base. The crowd raised a cheer as the blade landed on its base, lifting their arms to the sky, as though thanking God for their deliverance. Little did they know that life would be no better shortly as one dictator was replaced by another.

That will work fine. These landowners deserve what’s coming to them. It will be the King and Queen next, you mark my words, said one soldier to the other with enthusiasm in his voice and shaking his fist at the sky.

His colleague shrugged his shoulders; not everyone in France was in favor of what was happening. His thoughts were You get rid of one tyrant, another will replace him.

The crowd was now wholly intoxicated with the suspense. There were at least one thousand people gathered, and they were beginning to chant Off with their heads—Vive la France! They slapped their densely clothed arms around their chests to keep warm, but they happily braved the cold to watch the macabre spectacle that was about to happen.

One man to the rear of the crowd was much more reticent and solemn, a tall slim man who looked as though he had been fuller in his youth. He thought, It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, but his thoughts were on other matters.

At that moment, the tumbrel turned into the corner of the square, and it passed by what remained of the Bastille on the way over, but that building was now just a pile of stones covered in snow. The Bastille was the fortress and prison of Paris; it had been overrun at the beginning of the revolution by the crowds of Paris who had come out in their thousands to protest to the King at the extravagancies of the realm. The peasant folk were starving. The prisoners held there were all released.

As the prisoner passed by the ruins, he looked up to the sky and murmured to God, Oh Lord, why have you let this happen to my country? I do not matter personally, but accept me into your arms and save my country. He then recited the Lord’s prayer. He didn’t feel the cold; that was the least of his worries at that time. He too was thinking of his wife. Would she be executed as well? His friends had promised to get her out of harm’s way, and he said another prayer for her.

A cheer went up from the crowd as the tumbrel, a two-wheeled wooden cart led by two horses, rattled over the cobblestones lining the courtyard. The soldiers had cleared enough snow so that the tumbrel would get through without sliding from side to side. It carried the forlorn prisoner to the executioner for his last few moments to live on this planet.

He was contemplating what had happened to his country. Could he have done anything to prevent his fate and the fate of so many landowners? He thought he was a good man, always looking after his servants and their needs. That made no difference now though; he was born into the wrong class in France for this period in its history. The country was once proud and powerful. Maybe it will be again one day, he thought.

The tumbrel came to a halt in front of the scaffold; the prisoner looked up at the guillotine in fear. His pale face said it all. One of the guards at his prison had given him a swig of cognac before he left, saying, Take this. It will calm you down for what is about to happen. I know your family has been good to me all my life. God bless you, sir. And he bowed as the prisoner was led onto the tumbrel.

The guards came down to him as he arrived at the scaffold. They roughly grabbed him by the arms to force him up the steps, even though his legs seemed to be stuck to the ground. Sadly, the prisoner slipped on ice and fell.

Don’t worry about him, said the unsympathetic guard, laughing. He’ll have more than a broken leg in a minute.

A priest stood at the top of the steps as they dragged the prisoner up, and he made the sign of the cross, muttering a few words of absolution.

Please, I need to make my peace with God, said the prisoner to the guard.

Be quick then, said the guard, and the prisoner prayed for a minute with the priest was asking for forgiveness for any sins he might have committed. People were very religious in those days.

That’s enough, said the guard, and the prisoner

was pushed to the ground without any ceremony. His

head was forced at the base of the guillotine, facedown. The guards wasted no time; they knew they had ten other executions to administer that day.

Off with his head! the crowd shouted, first by one soul then repeating it several times by the remainder, getting louder and louder each time. The blade was slowly raised to its height, squeaking on the slides as it went up.

The prisoner almost passes out in fear; it would have been better for him if he had. At the top, the blade was released and came down with a crash as it crunched through the bone of the poor dying soul.

It was all over quickly. The priest crossed his chest in the sign of the cross.

The head fell into a basket conveniently placed to receive it. Blood poured out for several seconds until the heart had entirely stopped beating. The expression on the face of the prisoner after death was contorted with fear and horror at what had happened. The brain lived on for a few moments after the head was cut off until the blood drained out, and it knew what had happened.

The crowd let out a further cheer, all except the one man whose face was drawn and in deep concentration. I was powerless to have done anything about that, but I must take action to help these poor souls, he thought. Behind him stood a ghost in her usual white veil, but no one, except the man, could see her.

You have to do something, she whispered.

I will, but I will need your help, he said quietly.

You know you have that. I will always be here for you, she said.

Chapter Two

28 June 1613

London

Stanley Wellove and Michelle Kingston were married in the year 1595, a simple ceremony with the local vicar, a Protestant cleric this time. The cleric at Stanley’s first wedding in the year 600 was a forester; Christianity had not arrived in ancient Britain at that time. He and Michelle lived in London, England. They jointly manage the Globe Theater on the south bank of the River Thames for William Shakespeare and his acting company, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. They felt honored by William Shakespeare for such trust. Stanley was befriended by William because of his ghost stories. William said Stanley had helped him with several stories.

Initially, Stanley and Michelle were both time travelers. Stanley originated from the year 2019, and his name then was Robert Hunt. He was orphaned at the age of ten, his parents having died in a motor car accident, and he was brought up by his grandmother, a lady in her seventies. She did her best, but he lacked a male figurehead.

He got into bad company in his adolescence and left home. The gang he had become involved with decided to carry out a bank raid. A ghost was watching him in his youth; she was looking for the right person for her needs. She wanted a young man to develop his character. She knew Robert was at heart a good lad, but his life had not been favorable, and she felt sorry for him. His character had not yet developed.

Things went wrong on the fateful day of the bank raid. As the police arrived, his ghost admirer quickly moved in. His ghost savior was Viviane, the Lady of the Lake, from the days of King Arthur. Viviane’s mother was a witch named Beverley who had been saved from death by King Uther, Arthur’s father, because she had cast a spell enabling Arthur to be born. Uther’s wife was barren until Beverley cast a spell. On her deathbed, Beverley cast a spell on Viviane, who was only ten years old at the time. The spell made Viviane responsible for creating the legends of England and the English Empire even after she had died.

Viviane died in a swimming accident in the year AD 590. As a ghost, Viviane had been watching Robert for many years and decided that although he was in bad company, he was the right person, just whom she needed. She intervened in the bank raid and transported Robert back to the year AD 595, where he had the task of creating the legend of King Arthur. He was a young man then of twenty-one, a similar age to the king.

Robert had introduced many inventions from the twenty-first century to Camelot—including the cannon, electricity, and salt production—besides producing the longbow, which was such an asset for the English in the wars with the settlers and throughout medieval times. Robert became a chief adviser to King Arthur, who adopted him as his brother. Arthur knighted Robert in recognition for all he had done for Camelot and renamed him Merlin.

Merlin presented King Arthur with the golden sword named Excaliber.’ The gold came from the bar he had taken in the bank raid, or to be actuate, the one Viviane placed in his hand. Merlin married a local girl, and they had a baby. Sadly, both were killed in battles with the settlers.

Having succeeded in his task and despondent with the loss of his family, Merlin asked Viviane to move him to another era. She transported him to the year AD 1200 to reform Robin Hood, who was then a common thief. Again Merlin, who had kept the name as it still seemed appropriate, had to formulate Robin into the hero of history. Merlin revisited Camelot six centuries on from his last visit with highly emotional results, collecting Excaliber and giving it to King Richard the Lionheart to be included in the crown jewels, which were subsequently lost by King John in the fens of the East Coast. King John was not only famous for the Magna Carta.

Having succeeded with Robin, Merlin was then moved to AD 1415 and became the major in command of archers in King Henry V’s army on its path to Agincourt. He had witnessed the murder of Major Stanley Wellove by a French spy in a pub brawl at Stonehenge. Merlin knew that he had been transported to advance the plight of England, although he had no idea what his task would be. Viviane always made that her condition as she developed his character.

Merlin assumed that this murder was part of his task, although he could have done nothing to prevent it. He took on Stanley Wellove’s name and position. His task, he found out later, was to make sure the battle of Agincourt took place in the right field and on the date that history depicted. He was knighted for the second time following his successes. He wrote details of the King’s speeches at the battle, delivering them to the Shakespeare family in Stratford-upon-Avon, knowing that William Shakespeare would live there a century later and would write about Agincourt in his play Henry V.

He then moved to the 1580s, where he met William Shakespeare in person. Stanley kept his new name and was involved with Sir Francis Drake in the battle with the Spanish Armada. As always, the ghost of Viviane was with him, guiding and guarding him and now becoming a friend. A strange relationship was developing.

It was during this time that he met Michelle, and they fell in love. Michelle was also a time traveler from the year 1960, although they were the same age in their body age. She had been transported by Viviane’s mother, Beverley, for similar purposes, to promote the legends of England and the English Empire.

She was chosen because at the age of twenty-one, she was orphaned when both her parents died of polio. Michelle had told Stanley that her claim to fame was the fact that she persuaded William I, the Norman conqueror, to land in Pevensey Bay rather than Ramsgate.

"It might have been named the Battle of Ramsgate otherwise," she had said. They always laughed out loud at that suggestion every time they made it.

Stanley and Michelle had enough of time traveling by then, and they were falling in love. The pair was offered the task of running the Globe Theater by William Shakespeare, who was keen to have details of Stanley’s ghost meetings for his plays. Beverley was not happy to release Michelle but reluctantly agreed when pressed by Viviane, who made it clear to Stanley that if it became necessary, she would move him on.

They had been in control of the theater, which was built of timber in a circular construction on the south bank of the River Thames for five years now. London was still a small town at this time. Originally, the theater was on the north bank of the river, but the artists fell out with the landlord because their lease ended, and the landlord wanted to increase the rent very substantially. The artists decided to move the theater across the Thames timber by timber and erect it on a site that was cheap on the not-so-popular side of the river. All the seating was on the outside of the circular arena, broken only by the stage. The central area was for standing spectators.

Things were working well for Stanley and Michelle. The acting profession had now become accepted. Queen Elizabeth had died, and King James VI of Scotland had moved down to London and became King James I of England. The two countries were now united.

The theater was full of patrons every night. Shakespeare was increasing his finances, which pleased him immensely, and he built a beautiful new house in Stratford-upon-Avon in the Tudor style.

While involved with the Spanish Amada preparations, Stanley and Michelle met Christopher Marlow, another playwright. He was also a spy for the English government, and the three of them were instrumental in getting the Dutch to blockade Dunkirk in the Spanish colony of Flanders. That prevented the Spanish Armada from collecting the thirty thousand land troops from the port.

Stanley had thought how strange that such a small town should become so involved in two significant wars throughout history. It meant the Spanish invasion was a complete failure; the Spanish had never intended to land themselves. All three had remained friends after the war, and it would shortly be Christopher’s birthdate. Christopher was murdered in a pub brawl in 1593, but Stanley felt they should always have a special toast on Christopher’s birthdate.

Birthdays are strange for us, aren’t they, darling, Stanley said to Michelle.

Are they? Why.

Well, I can’t even remember when my birthday is, and in any event, ten days will be removed from the calendar in a few years. If it weren’t for the abacus that Friar Tuck gave me in 1290, I wouldn’t know how old I am. I calculate I am forty-five now, but you must be only twenty-five, he said, lying.

I am older than that, Michelle said.

But you don’t look it. I love you, he said with feeling.

Get away with you. Do you ever think of changing your name back to Merlin? she said.

No, it wouldn’t be right for Merlin to keep popping up everywhere in history, Stanley said. "We need to get on with the preparations for Shakespeare’s new play Henry VIII, starting tomorrow. We need to get those cannons into the correct position."

His mind immediately went back to the two cannons he designed and had made for King Arthur, and a small smile appeared on his lips.

Michelle said, We’ve heard that story so many times now. She didn’t mind really; she loved to hear his exploits.

By the time they went to bed that night, everything was prepared for the new play. The cannons were in place. Stanley was still worried about the safety issues, but William Shakespeare had been insistent that a real cannon would need to be fired in the performance to emphasize the drama. He was a stickler for