by Pierre Pevel
Avoiding a patrol that hurried past, Agnès made her way by guesswork through the maze of buildings forming the abbey. She had almost reached her goal when she made an error and climbed a flight of stairs. Her blunder allowed her to evade a second patrol which was investigating more slowly and thoroughly than the first, but it brought her to a sort of balcony from where she could only gaze helplessly at the terrace she was trying to reach. The detour saved her from worse trouble than the patrol, however, when she saw guards moving back and forth along the terrace while a figure in white – one of the louves, no doubt – gave them their orders. Armed men were already making their way down the stairway that led to the old spring.
And to freedom.
‘Merde!’ Agnès muttered between her teeth, thinking of Ballardieu.
Would he be able to escape? If he did, he would take the horses with him.
Determined to find her own way out, the baronne de Vaudreuil drew away from the parapet, turned around, and froze: three men had crept up behind her and now advanced in a threatening manner. Dressed in black, they belonged to the redoubtable Guards of Saint Georges, better known as the Black Guards. They were all gentlemen, all skilled swordsmen, and they protected and served the Chatelaines with absolute devotion.
The three guards drew their weapons.
‘Surrender, madame,’ said one, as the other two moved out to his right and left.
Sure of themselves, they had not called for reinforcements. That stung the impetuous baronne de Vaudreuil’s pride, and she wondered if they knew with whom they were dealing. But their excessive confidence could be useful. Spreading open the front of her cape, she unsheathed her rapier, with a blade made of the finest Toledo steel.
She placed herself en garde, but her wrist trembled and her eyes darted about nervously.
‘Come now, madame. Give us your sword, I beg of you.’
‘If you insist.’
Taking advantage of the narrowness of the balcony, Agnès attacked with a feint. She slammed a sharp elbow beneath the chin of one guard, parried the blade of the next, and fell back before the third, who lunged too far. She doubled him over with a vicious knee to his belly. The two men she had struck collapsed, one of them knocked out cold and the other not much better off. The last man standing believed he still had time to act. But the young woman turned and pressed up against him, seizing his collar. There was a click and a metallic hiss. With her thumb, Agnès had released the stiletto blade concealed in the grip of her sword. The sharpened steel sprang from the pommel and its edge now tickled at the astonished guard’s throat.
‘One word, one murmur, and you die. Understood?’
The man nodded.
Unfortunately, the guard she had felled with her knee was now getting up. Staggering to his feet, he took hold of the parapet and shouted:
‘HELP!’
All eyes on the long terrace, including the louve’s, lifted to the balcony. Reacting immediately, Agnès spun on her heels and used her momentum to push the man she held toward the parapet. Surprised, he tripped and fell out into the air. He screamed briefly, clearly believing his death was at hand, but landed without too much injury on a roof two metres below.
A black cloaked figure, Agnès took flight.
The obsessive steady tolling of the bells was now mixed with the voices of the guards calling out and guiding one another. Rapier in her fist, she ran. Mont-Saint-Michel had become a net from which she had to escape at all costs. For it was not simply a matter of her freedom. She had to alert people of the terrible danger that threatened Paris. But the abbey, greatly enlarged by the Chatelaines’ building and digging into the rock, was a labyrinth of passages, galleries, and narrow stairways often hemmed in by high walls. Despite her fear of becoming lost and constant dread she would run into a sentry, Agnès could not afford to slow her pace.
Bursting out of a small courtyard, she was suddenly forced to halt. A patrol was coming toward her. She turned back, reentered the courtyard, and heard more pursuers approaching from the opposite direction. The guards would be on her in less than a minute. She dashed beneath an arch only to run into a locked door, and grimaced. She pressed her back to the wood. Was there any chance that the soldiers would pass by without seeing her? Probably not. She was cornered. There was only one question left in her mind:
Surrender or fight?
A movement caught her attention. Agnès was astonished to see Ballardieu behind the parapet of a roofed gallery overlooking the courtyard. She gave him a sign which he answered. He understood the situation and would act. She also understood and nodded reluctantly, reminding herself that it was essential she got word of her discovery out.
The patrols arrived in the courtyard from either side at the same moment. They were not solely made up of Black Guards. There were also halberdiers and several harquebusiers drawn from the village garrison. Ballardieu let the guard of his sheathed rapier scrape against the stone wall as he rubbed past it. The sound seemed involuntary and immediately alerted the armed men below to his presence.
‘UP HERE! UP THERE! THE INTRUDER!’
The old soldier pretended to be startled before taking to his heels. Shots were fired and the hunt took a new course that drew the guards away from Agnès. Nevertheless, she waited a moment before abandoning her hiding-place. She listened intently, watching the shadows, and then sped away.
An idea came to her.
Her cloak flapping in the dark shadows, Agnès ran with long silent strides. Twice she had to conceal herself in a corner or recess as guards approached her, their weapons clanking and hobnailed boots clattering on the flagstones. They passed by without bothering to search, however.
Ballardieu had attracted the pack’s attention and artfully kept them busy, but he could only offer the baronne a brief respite. She knew time was working against her and that the guards would soon be on her trail again, but there was still no question of descending the old stairway to the spring. Nor of going down to the village with any hope of successfully scaling its defensive wall. And even supposing she managed to escape the mount, what would she do next? Regain the mainland on foot? She was sure to be spotted and captured on the bay’s immense tidal flats, especially now that all the sentries were on alert. Or be drowned in the next high tide that would come sweeping in at dawn. Its speed here at Mont-Saint-Michel was notorious. Not to mention the dangers posed by quicksand and wild sand dragonnets.
That left only the air.
That left the louves’ wyverns.
The winged steeds should still be waiting on the abbey’s flight platform. Supported by a solid framework, its floor jutted out from the north-eastern corner of La Merveille. It could be reached from the upper floor of the church, but also by means of a series of stairways and landings forming a permanent wooden structure that climbed the outer wall of the building.
As she expected, Agnès found a sentry at the bottom of the first flight of stairs. She quickly knocked him out and began her ascent to the platform. She took the steps two at a time, then slowed down and cautiously unsheathed her sword as she approached the top. A strong wind was howling in the night. The place seemed to be deserted, but the wyverns were there, under shelters that extended from the slate roof.
She set one foot down on the floor which, although it appeared solid, creaked like a ship’s deck at sea. Suddenly, she heard the echo of distant shots. They weren’t shooting at her, so they could only be aimed at Ballardieu. She hurried forward, crossing the platform, and looked down from the other side.
The view was dizzying. La Merveille’s height was added to that of the mount, so the platform was perched nearly a hundred and fifty metres above sea level and overlooked the long terrace which guarded the north side of the rock, serving as a walkway for its defenders. That was where Agnès had arrived, and it was where she now saw Ballardieu running, closely pursued, with shots whistling past his ears. No doubt he had hoped to escape by the stairway leading down to the spring. But he couldn’t
. Cornered, he unsheathed his sword and turned, his back against the parapet. Another shot grazed him. He realised that he was finished and raised his arms wide in surrender. A Black Guard ordered the arquebusiers to cease shooting, but too late. They had already knelt to take aim and opened fire. The shots cracked out in a cloud of smoke. Hit square on, Ballardieu toppled over the wall and out into empty space.
Agnès’ eyes opened wide in disbelief, a cry held prisoner in her knotted throat. Trembling, she stumbled away from the edge, back toward the centre of the flight platform.
She had just watched Ballardieu die.
Her face was livid and she fought for air, but the howling wind didn’t stop her hearing:
‘Now that was a useless death.’
She spun round and found herself in the presence of three Chatelaines, one of whom remained still while the other two carefully spread out to surround her. They were armed with draconite rapiers. Their heads were covered by veils and wimples, but they also wore boots and breeches beneath their white robes.
The louves.
‘It’s over,’ said the one who had just spoken. ‘Your sword.’
Her black cape flapping about her in the gusts of wind, Agnès de Vaudreuil placed herself en garde and, with a look full of hatred, indifferent to the outcome of a fight that she already knew to be lost, she issued her challenge:
‘Come and fetch it.’
Above the abbey, three shapes had appeared in the night sky. Three white shapes, diaphanous spectres that held the glow of the thin crescent moon. Three great shapes that hovered in place, beating their wings, and seemed to waiting, watching something going on below.
The shape of three dragons.
I
The Chatelaines’ Prisoner
1
Captain Étienne-Louis de La Fargue stood in silence before the grave. Legs slightly apart, he held his hat in both hands in front of him. He was staring down at the grey stone cross. But what did he actually see? A hint of pain flickered in his eye, like lightning in a slow-moving raincloud.
Perhaps he was praying.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he was a gentleman grown white-haired with years, but hardened by many ordeals survived, battles fought, and losses mourned. His coat and his breeches were black, as were his hat and boots. As for his shirt, it was the same dark crimson shade as his baldric and the sash about his waist, knotted over his right hip. His rapier was a long, heavy and quite sturdy Pappenheimer, a weapon which resembled this old soldier: driven by honour and duty, it was said he would rather break than surrender, and he had never broken. His patriarchal features – a grim mouth, handsome wrinkles, and a firm jaw with a closely trimmed beard – were marked by small cuts still in the process of healing, while a patch covered his left eye. His split lower lip was swollen and dark.
The captain lifted his head and his sad gaze seemed to lose itself among the rooftops of the magnificent Saint-Germain-des-Prés abbey. He was alone in the small, hushed cemetery in the faubourg of the same name. It was pleasant here, among the old stones, the ivy, and the silence. The weather was sunny, and although it promised to be another day of scorching heat, the air was still mild in Paris on this morning in July 1633.
It was a season meant for life to be relished, for laughter and for love.
Without ever appearing to, a young man kept watch over the entrance to the cemetery. Leaning against the wall by the gate, he seemed to be waiting for someone as he flipped a coin in the air, killing time. His name was Arnaud de Laincourt. He was not yet thirty years old and he had only worn the steel signet ring of the Cardinal’s Blades for a short while.
A pretty young maid, who was walking jauntily past in the street clutching an empty basket, offered him a saucy glance and a cheeky little smile.
Dark and thin, Laincourt was dressed as a gentleman in a quietly elegant costume: a felt hat with the brim tilted up on one side, a slashed dark red doublet, matching breeches, a white linen shirt and top boots. With one heel placed flat upon the wall against which he slouched, he cut quite a dashing figure, his left hand resting on the pommel of a fine rapier. The crystalline blue of his eyes did not detract from his charm.
Laincourt politely saluted the young woman with a slight nod of his head.
You’re good-looking, boy.
He made no response to the person who made the remark. Not just because Laincourt was the only one able to see and hear him, but because he didn’t know what to reply. He, too, had noticed that women were looking at him differently.
But he was at a loss to explain why.
It’s because you’ve gained confidence.
You think so?
To be sure! You cultivated the art of being invisible for far too long. It was becoming second nature to you. You were basking in it …
I was a spy.
But now, you accept the fact that people see you. And you happen to be a handsome lad. You’re attractive. That’s how it is.
Laincourt felt the tap of a friendly hand upon his shoulder. He glanced at the old man beside him. The old hurdy-gurdy player always appeared in this guise, dressed in rags. But his face was no longer bruised and bloody, as it had been the last time Laincourt had seen him alive. He was even smiling now, with a proud, affectionate expression that a father might bestow upon a son.
Could he be right?
Laincourt felt he had undergone a change since joining the Cardinal’s Blades, the elite and secret band of five men and a woman, commanded by Captain La Fargue.
No, four men and one woman.
Or perhaps just three.
And what of that pretty young lady who occupies so many of your thoughts?
The old man pretended to be busy with his instrument.
Aude de Saint-Avold?
That’s the one.
The young’s man gaze grew distant.
She’s gone home to Lorraine. And I doubt she will be able to return to France.
Lorraine isn’t so far away.
Laincourt remained silent.
Lorraine was an independent duchy which France was preparing to invade. The French king’s regiments would soon march on Nancy, the duchy’s capital and a notorious hotbed of intrigue. No doubt Cardinal Richelieu would find some use for his Blades in the course of the operation. There were always opportunities for secret missions and cloak-and-dagger work in times of war.
Where is Maréchal? the hurdy-gurdy player suddenly asked.
Maréchal was the emaciated, one-eyed dragonnet that the old man used to take with him, attached to a leash, while he earned his pittance playing music in the streets. After his death, Laincourt had inherited the small winged reptile.
The young man smiled.
In his cage.
You know how he hates to be locked up—
I know. But it’s the safest place for him, in these times.
Yes, the hurdy-gurdy player agreed sadly.
Then in an offhand tone he said:
Nice ring, boy. Goodbye for now.
Saint-Lucq was making his way over from the rue du Sépulcre.
Laincourt did not look, but he knew the hurdy-gurdy player had vanished.
Saint-Lucq gave Laincourt a nod as he entered the cemetery.
He was dressed entirely in black: breeches and doublet, boots and gloves, and a felt hat. Even the fine-looking basket guard of his rapier was black. A thin scarlet feather adorned his hat. It was the same colour as the lenses of the curious round spectacles that protected his reptilian eyes. For Saint-Lucq was a half-blood. Dragon blood ran in his veins, which accounted for the dark animal charm that emanated from him. Slender and supple, elegant but sinister, Saint-Lucq was a magnificent and deadly weapon.
He walked towards La Fargue and halted a few paces away, behind him and to the right. Certain that his captain had heard his approach and recognised him, he uttered no greeting but waited patiently in the sun. Almades should have been standing here, in the best spot to keep an eye on the surroundings and
guard La Fargue without being intrusive. But Almades was not here. The Spaniard’s tall, thin figure would never be seen again.
‘He knocked three times,’ La Fargue said, lowering his eyes to the grave.
Saint-Lucq did not reply.
‘Just after he shut the door,’ the captain continued. ‘He knocked on it three times with his fist. Three times, the way he always did. In spite of the circumstances. In spite of the danger. In spite of—’
He broke off.
Almades had been his friend and his bodyguard. Exiled from Spain following some dark business, the former fencing master had already been at La Fargue’s side when the Blades were formed. Silent and serious, not given to making confidences, and grim to the point of bleakness, Almades had possessed a sense of dignity that tolerated no exceptions. His only foible was that of repeating his gestures thrice. Was he saddling his horse? He tightened the strap three times. Dusting off his doublet? The brush tripled its movements back and forth. Sharpening his sword? He applied three strokes of the whetstone to one side of the blade, and then three to the other.
He couldn’t help it.
‘He knocked three times,’ La Fargue repeated. ‘He knocked three times, and then everything went up in flames.’
It had happened in broad daylight. A great black dragon had attacked Le Châtelet, the fortress in the middle of Paris whose central keep housed a prison. The bells of the French capital had pealed in alarm and those who had seen the creature passing over the city had been scarcely able to believe their eyes.
La Fargue and Almades were on the fourth floor of Le Châtelet, where the captain was visiting a prisoner in his cell. The prisoner in question was the Alchemist of the Shadows – a dragon, but one of those for whom the human form had become more natural than his true, monstrous shape. He had just masterminded a plot to abduct the queen during a ball organised by the duchesse de Chevreuse; a plot which the Cardinal’s Blades had foiled. But if the queen had been saved, if scandal had been avoided, and if most of the guilty parties had been arrested or killed, numerous questions remained unanswered. And it was those questions La Fargue had intended to put to the Alchemist.
