The Dragon Arcana: The Cardinal's Blades: Book Three

by Pierre Pevel

  ‘So you don’t know what has become of Agnès?’ commented La Fargue.

  ‘Not for sure. But I believe she is being held prisoner in the abbey.’ And seeing the worried glances being exchanged by his audience, he understood and protested, ‘Hey now! None of that! Agnès is still alive! I would know if something had happened to her …’

  ‘How?’ Laincourt asked.

  ‘I … would … know,’ replied the old soldier, carefully articulating each word with a stubborn air.

  ‘Very well,’ intervened the Blades’ captain. ‘Let us assume that Agnès is alive and is being held prisoner at Mont-Saint-Michel. Now you, Ballardieu, what happened to you next?’

  He took a great gulp of wine.

  ‘Well, I can assure you that this abbey is very high, indeed. You simply don’t realise how high it really is, until you topple over its walls.’

  His fall had been painfully broken by the branches of the trees covering the north side of the mount. It was largely thanks to his bull-like constitution, and also, perhaps, to the proverbial luck of drunkards, that he did not suffer any broken bones. Nevertheless, his head had taken a brutal blow from landing on a stone. So, dazed and staggering, but also fearful that his adversaries would come after him to make sure he was truly dead, Ballardieu had continued his flight down the steep and rocky slope, braking himself against tree trunks with an unsteady hand, seizing hold of low branches, often stumbling and sometimes falling, but always rising again. Finally, he had emerged from the foliage and stepped out on the sandy bed of the bay.

  ‘My head was spinning and my vision was blurred. But I knew the sun had risen and that time was of essence. So I walked towards the mainland shore. Which was not an excellent idea.’

  He had forgotten about the great tides. The sea water rushing back into the bay had caught up with him and the waves had first battered at his calves, and then around his waist, before overcoming his last remaining strength. Swept off his feet, he’d lost all consciousness.

  ‘I was sure I was going to drown. But my hour had not yet struck and I was washed up on a beach, where I eventually came to my senses.’

  As for what followed, Ballardieu had only scattered memories. Befuddled and almost delirious, his ears buzzing and the ground pitching beneath his leaden feet, he walked on, crushed by a terrible sun that blinded him, without any idea of where he was heading. How long did he wander?

  He collapsed, only to wake in a bed.

  ‘Some peasants found me in a ditch and brought me to their village priest. Their holy man bandaged my wounds and watched over me until I came round. I was weak and famished, but I was saved.’

  Alone, he could do nothing for Agnès. Therefore he’d needed to return to Paris as quickly as possible, and without waiting to fully recover, he took to the road on the back of an old mule that the priest had kindly loaned him against the promise of future payment. For Ballardieu had lost everything during his escape: his weapons, his purse, and even his boots.

  ‘As for my boots,’ he commented, ‘I do wonder if they are being worn at present by one of the peasants who carried me to the priest. But I suppose, as the saying goes, every deed deserves its reward.’

  Since he had not spared it, the poor old mule had died near Trappes after an exhausting four-day journey, which Ballardieu endured on an almost empty stomach.

  ‘And here I am. You can guess the rest … Now pray tell, where is that sad fellow, Almades? Did you leave him behind in Paris? And what of Leprat?

  The Blades were soon on the road back to Paris, riding at a slow trot beneath a blazing sun. Ballardieu was on a rented horse. They remained silent, out of respect for the old soldier who had barely been able to contain his tears when he heard of Almades’ death under such terrible circumstances.

  ‘A dragon,’ he muttered from time to time, with a mixture of grief and disbelief. ‘Burnt alive by a dragon …’

  At last, when they passed by the first houses in the faubourg Saint-Germain, Laincourt asked him:

  ‘Why didn’t you write to us earlier? A letter would have reached us faster than you would have …’

  ‘But I did!’

  ‘We never received anything,’ La Fargue said over his shoulder.

  ‘My first letter must have been lost …’

  ‘Or else it will arrive eventually. No matter, now.’

  Ballardieu urged his horse forward to draw level with La Fargue.

  ‘We must rescue Agnès, captain. And when that’s done, we must avenge Almades.’

  ‘Believe me, Ballardieu, I will not rest until Agnès is free. But Mère de Vaussambre is hostile to us and I don’t imagine we can take Mont-Saint-Michel by force.’

  They were riding up rue du Cherche-Midi at a walk, towards Place de la Croix-Rouge.

  ‘And Richelieu?’ insisted Ballardieu.

  ‘We can expect no help at all from the cardinal,’ admitted La Fargue.

  ‘What about Mère de Cernay! She feels affection for Agnès and has no fondness in her heart for La Vaussambre. Surely she will help us? She already has!’

  ‘Do you know where to find her?’

  The old soldier’s expression clouded over.

  ‘No,’ he confessed. ‘Only know that she cannot reside far from Paris. Agnès was not long in returning, last time she went to find her.’

  ‘But it’s simply not possible to go knocking on the doors of every convent, retreat and domain the Chatelaines possess in the region,’ Marciac pointed out.

  ‘It would take us more than a week,’ said Saint-Lucq.

  ‘And to what result, other than alarming La Vaussambre?’ the Gascon added regretfully.

  Upon hearing those words, a glow suddenly kindled in La Fargue’s eyes.

  The Gaget Messenger Service was located in rue de Gaillon, at the corner with rue des Moineaux, not far from the Saint-Roch hill and its picturesque windmills. The owner had been exercising his trade with a royal licence for several years now and was the sole agent authorised to employ trained dragonnets to carry letters to Reims or Rouen, Amiens or Orléans, and even as far as Lille, Rennes, or Dijon. The services his company provided were more expensive, but also quicker and more reliable, than ordinary post and couriers.

  That evening, Urbain Gaget had a satisfied air as he stood in the shadow of the circular tower which, pierced with rows of half-moon openings, housed his carrier dragonnets. Slim and grey-haired, he was a fairly handsome man dressed in bourgeois fashion. Oblivious to the activity going on in his courtyard, he was observing the five wyverns he had recently acquired. Thanks to them he was about to expand the scope of his operations. To be sure, his business was flourishing and would continue to do so as long as he retained the royal licence protecting his monopoly, a privilege that he owed to the confidence Cardinal Richelieu had placed in him. But ministers came and went, and kings died. Moreover, Gaget was an entrepreneur at heart and his messenger business was starting to bore him, now that it had become prosperous. It was time to take on a new challenge.

  Having given his instructions to the great reptiles’ handlers, Gaget returned to his office, leaving word that he was not to be disturbed. But he had barely shut the door when a voice made him turn round with a start.

  ‘Those wyverns, what are they for?’ asked Saint-Lucq.

  The half-blood was leaning against a wall, with his arms crossed, in a shadowy corner.

  Recognising him, Gaget let out a sigh, and in a reproachful tone said:

  ‘Good Lord! Why must you always slip in here like this? One day, you’ll be the death of me!’

  ‘I don’t like knocking on doors. And do you really want people to see me knocking on yours?’

  ‘No … No, of course not,’ Gaget admitted grudgingly.

  He sat down.

  ‘So? What are they for, the wyverns?’ insisted Saint-Lucq. ‘They’re new.’

  ‘Well, since there are travellers who rent horses …’

  The half-blood nodded: he already understo
od.

  ‘But almost everyone knows how to ride a horse,’ he objected. ‘And even if they don’t know, they can still hope that if they fall off they won’t injure themselves too badly. Whereas if they find themselves on the back of a wyvern …’

  ‘My beasts are the most placid to be found. They can also carry two, with my wyverneers guiding.’

  ‘When will you start?’

  ‘Soon. It’s all in place.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  Gaget preferred not to respond to this.

  The royal licence that had made his fortune had come with certain strings attached, Richelieu having quickly seen how to make best use of this dragonnet messenger service. It sometimes involved transporting documents as a matter of urgency and with no questions asked. Or else arranging for certain items to make a quick detour by way of the Palais-Cardinal before being delivered to their final destination. Or receiving these visits from Saint-Lucq who, as he had continued to serve His Eminence after the disbanding of the Blades, had been discreetly coming here to pick up his orders.

  Gaget had no doubt that sooner or later his rental wyverns would also be required to make a contribution. But he did not have leisure to dwell on this thought, as Saint-Lucq was asking him:

  ‘How much to carry a message?’

  ‘That depends. Where does it need to be delivered?’

  ‘In the area around Paris.’

  ‘The area around Paris? That’s not a proper destination!’

  ‘To be honest, there are several destinations, all of which I have listed here.’

  Monsieur Urbain Gaget’s eyes widened as they ran down the list that the half-blood unfolded under his nose.

  ‘Really?’ he asked, incredulous.

  ‘Really.’

  ‘As you wish. But my dragonnets will only travel at night. There have been too many imbeciles using them for target practice, of late.’

  Gaget’s first dragonnets took flight just after dusk, and numerous others followed until well after midnight. All of them reached their destinations and the next morning, in the Enclos du Temple, the comte d’Orsan requested an audience with the Chatelaines’ Mother Superior General. Slender, with fine features and dark eyes, he wore the black uniform and breastplate of the company of the Saint Georges Guards, of which he was the captain at the age of thirty years. Mère de Vaussambre bade him enter immediately and was handed an unsealed letter that was not addressed to her and whose contents she read with a frown.

  ‘Well?’ she asked, raising her eyes to meet his.

  ‘Other letters, identical to this one, were sent last night to all our convents, fiefdoms and domains throughout Ile-de-France.

  The Mother Superior General read the letter a second time:

  To mother superior de Cernay,

  Agnès is being held prisoner at Mt-St-Michel. Help us if you can.

  La F.

  ‘Captain La Fargue must be desperate to resort to such a manoeuvre,’ she observed with a half-smile. ‘It’s not his style … It’s disappointing, even.’

  ‘It’s a manoeuvre which might meet with a certain degree of success, mother superior.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Mère Thérèse de Vaussambre asked in amusement. ‘Let us suppose that one of these letters actually reaches Mère de Cernay. Or that the content is simply reported to her … What then? What can she do? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Mother superior de Cernay still exerts a certain influence.’

  ‘But does she have the ear of the king, as I do? Does the Parlement wish to see her seated on the Council?’

  D’Orsan made a bow in her direction.

  ‘Certainly not, mother superior …’

  Thoughtful for a moment, La Vaussambre toyed distractedly with the unsealed letter.

  ‘There is one aspect of this message, however, that does bother me,’ she said.

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘La Fargue knows that we are holding Marie-Agnès. He even knows where. That is a new development which is cause for concern. Who could have told him? And what will he do when this ridiculous appeal to Mère de Cernay leads him nowhere?’

  Seeing that Mère de Vaussambre was still pondering the question, the captain of the Black Guards remained silent.

  ‘Transfer Marie-Agnès,’ she ordered. ‘As soon and as quickly as possible. This message is not meant for Mère de Cernay, but for me. La Fargue knows that one of his letters would reach me. He wants me to lower my guard. He wants me to believe he is reduced to placing his faith in such a foolish enterprise. But our dear captain is not one to lose his head and shoot his musket into the dark. Rest assured that at this very moment he is up to something clever. Perhaps he is even planning Marie-Agnès’ escape. Now that would be much more his style …’

  ‘Would he dare?’

  ‘Oh yes. Knowing the man as I do, I think he might even succeed.’

  ‘So where do you want us to take the baronne de Vaudreuil?’

  ‘The Tour seems to me an appropriate place for her, from now on.’

  D’Orsan hesitated a brief instant, but then bowed his head.

  ‘As you command.’

  Once she was alone, the Chatelaines’ Mother Superior General went to the window, still thinking about La Fargue. She wondered what coup the old warhorse was preparing against her, thinking that he had outwitted her and regained the initiative.

  She smiled.

  Upon his arrival in rue des Francs-Bourgeois, Captain La Fargue found the d’Aubremont household in the midst of preparations to move. The custom was to travel with one’s furnishings and, as the royal court would soon be leaving Paris, the master of the house was making ready to return to his country estate. This estate was not far from the Château de Saint-Germain, where the king retired for the season every year, away from the polluted atmosphere of the capital.

  The marquis d’Aubremont received La Fargue in his private office, a pleasantly decorated room whose two windows with their small diamond-shaped panes looked out on the garden. The light shone through them, cut into crystalline patterns.

  The two men exchanged a friendly handshake, before the marquis offered the captain a seat. He refused it.

  ‘I can’t stay,’ he said.

  D’Aubremont frowned.

  ‘Does it have to do with our affair?’

  ‘Yes. And more particularly, it concerns Agnès.’

  ‘The baronne de Vaudreuil? Have you learned what has become of her?’

  ‘We’re almost certain that we know.’

  La Fargue hesitated, looked towards the closed door, took hold of the marquis’ elbow to draw him away from it, and said in a low voice:

  ‘We think that Agnès is being held prisoner by the Sisters of Saint Georges, on the orders of Mère de Vaussambre. No doubt Agnès has discovered some secret. An important secret which the Chatelaines do not want revealed, and that somehow concerns your son … Be that as it may, Agnès lives and must be rescued.’

  ‘I promised you my help, Étienne. The offer still stands.’

  ‘That is precisely why I’ve come. Only a few days ago, I dissuaded you from using your rank to appeal to the king, did I not?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. You convinced me to abandon the idea.’

  ‘I was wrong.’

  A short time later, upon leaving the Hôtel d’Aubremont, La Fargue met Saint-Lucq who was waiting for him in the shade of a porch. The half-blood was returning from the Temple neighbourhood, or the neighbourhood of the Chatelaines, as it was known.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘The marquis will help us,’ La Fargue informed him. ‘And on your side of things?’

  ‘I’ve found a way.’

  As the afternoon came to an end, Laincourt joined Marciac and Ballardieu at the Hôtel de l’Épervier. They were sitting in the shade beneath the chestnut tree, neither saying much. His hands clasped at the back of his neck, the Gascon was stretched out on the narrow bench, eyes closed, with a blade
of grass in his mouth. As for Ballardieu, he was sprawled as much as one can be in a chair without falling out of it, with one arm passed over the back and one boot resting on a stool. He was getting slowly drunk on white wine. Three stoneware jugs were lying on the old bleached table, and Ballardieu was drinking from the mouth of a fourth while gazing moodily at some faraway point before him.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ Laincourt asked as he sat down.

  The old soldier’s features became animated.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘Oh, you needn’t worry about me. I’m one of those people who are as right as rain after a good night’s sleep.’

  The truth was he was looking relatively well, with his beard now clean and trimmed, his eyes lively and his smile broad and sincere. And he still gave off an impression of strength and solidity.

  ‘So,’ he went on to say, ‘it seems you’re one of us, now.’

  Laincourt lowered his eyes to the steel signet ring on his finger and said:

  ‘So it seems …’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. And not simply because our ranks are thinning.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Almades’ death. Leprat’s departure … Do we even know why he left us?

  Laincourt shrugged.

  ‘He’s gone back to the Musketeers,’ announced Marciac, still lying on the bench with his eyes closed.

  ‘That’s not a good enough reason,’ objected Ballardieu.

  ‘He’s sick with the ranse.’

  ‘All the same. Besides, if the ranse doesn’t stop him serving with the Musketeers …’

  The Gascon had no counter to this argument, so the three men fell into silence. Until Marciac declared:

  ‘I wish that Agnès were here.’

  His two companions exchanged intrigued glances.

  ‘Obviously. As do we all,’ grumbled Ballardieu, his anxiety stirring again.

  ‘I wish that Agnès were here,’ continued Marciac, ‘so I could tell her how much I miss Gabrielle. Have I told you about Gabrielle, Laincourt?’

  Ballardieu rolled his eyes skywards.