And then my gaze fell upon a group of spectators a few feet away: young Charles Stuart and his friends. And the look that was on my king’s face was enough to bring tears from a stone. He was at that moment disarmed and transparent. I knew his thoughts as if he had cried them out for all to hear. His expression wasn’t one of jealousy for his royal cousin, nor of anger for his own misfortune, but rather a look of such crestfallen weariness that he might die there as he stood. It was a knife to my heart to see the dark youth looking so terribly old and spent. His eyes drank in the vision of the bright Apollo before him, the rising dawn of France. Charles’s flame seemed to wink and flicker, a poor tallow candle to the splendour of the sun.
“Do you not find Louis the most captivating man in this hall?” said Marguerite. “So handsome. So... regal. Well, isn’t he?”
I was still distracted by my own monarch’s distress. “He is hardly a man, my pigeon.” I loosened her grip from my sleeve.
“Your eyes are misting over green, my love,” she said. I watched the corners of her lovely mouth rise with mirth.
The ballet was ending in a crescendo of trumpets and the theatre exploded with applause and cries of “Vive le Roi!” But my attention was diverted as several men pushed their way through the crowd towards us. Quickly, I realized they were coming for me. And it was Monsieur d’Artagnan who was in the lead, a large tall-crowned charcoal beaver hat upon his head and dressed in a suit of grey velvet, a large blue sash across his chest. The lieutenant gave a flourish of his hand and touched the brim of his hat as he locked his gaze on Marguerite.
“Madamoiselle,” he said, bowing slightly. Then he turned his attention to me. “Colonel Treadwell, I hope you fare well and have enjoyed the dance?”
“Indeed, monsieur. We are all now basking in the warmth of the sunbeams of the king just as if it were a summer’s morning.”
He smiled again, but only to be polite. “I am come to say that His Eminence wishes to see you. At once.”
“Then I shall not keep him waiting.” I then felt Marguerite’s hand clench my arm. I leaned in towards her. “I won’t be gone long. We can take a saucer of chocolat together, no?”
“As you wish, my lord,” she said, not convinced on either point.
“Fear not, Colonel,” volunteered d’Artagnan. “I will escort your dear lady until your return.”
I watched the crimson spread from her cheeks and down her neck like it was spilt wine. She gave reply in a quiet maiden’s voice but with the steady eye of a hawk. “I would be grateful of your company, sir.”
“Well then,” I said, “where is His Eminence?”
I followed the guards down to the theatre floor and then down the stone steps of a torch-lit brick passage, down and around until we were in a subterranean world of grim machinery, more intricate than any clock tower. A dozen artisans, sleeves rolled, shirts undone, laboured to move little wagons set upon wooden rails that stretched the width of this dungeon. To these contraptions were fastened many ropes and pulleys and looking up I could see the slits cut across the stage floor. It soon became clear that this was the secret of the magic that unfolded above. These were the puppeteers that made the trees move and the heavens roil. And this was Mazarin’s theatre. Despite the January chill above, it was damp and muggy below as we descended deep under the Louvre.
The passage, lit by torches, showed glistening walls that held dark alcoves on either side. The guards took me deeper down until the musty smell of a wine room filled my nostrils. At least it was not a dungeon—yet. We reached a large door, blackened with age and stinking of mould. The guard knocked once and I heard the command to enter.
“My dear Colonel!” said Mazarin, floating towards me. I stepped forward, briskly, bowing low and kissing the hand that was offered up.
“At your service, Eminence!”
We were in a large vaulted chamber; barrels of wine carefully stacked on massive racks surrounded us. The Cardinal raised me up by both hands. “It has been some time since we last conversed, has it not? I now find myself in need of your advice.” He turned to usher me a few steps into one of the storage rooms that lay off the main chamber. “You may wait outside,” he said to the sergeant behind me.
There was a rude table and chairs in the room but little else. Two lamps threw out a weak circle of orange light across the room. Mazarin spread his red skirts and gently seated himself.
“Forgive these surroundings, please, but you will of course understand the need for secrecy.”
“Of course, Eminence.” This was undoubtedly going to be grim.
“I’ve heard tell that my English royal exiles at the palace grow fractious. Or so my informants say. It would seem that young Charles’s chancellor, Mister Hyde, finds himself struggling to keep the king’s confidence.”
His purpose was clear. I was here to be squeezed like an apple in a press. “Eminence,” I began, trying to ease my way out of his grasp, “I’m afraid I do not have the confidence of the exile circles. I remain outside counsel.”
Mazarin slowly shook his head. “Come, my dear Colonel, you do yourself no credit. Surely you observe more than that.”
“I will say that in the court hope runs as scarce as daily bread, sir. That’s no secret. And hungry, hopeless men are wont to squabble.”
“And to plot, no?”
“Perhaps, Eminence, but not that I am privy to,” I said, thanking the Lord that it was permissible to lie to a Papist.
“Well, at least Charles must be happy to have his brother back safe and sound. Thanks to your good work. His gratitude involved a knighthood for you. No small mark of trust.”
“I am still but an ordinary soldier, Eminence. Not an advisor.”
“Colonel,” Mazarin said, worrying his crucifix in his hands, “I have kept you away from your regiment for some time now, have I not? You have the liberty to walk the Louvre for a reason. That reason being to inform me of the goings on in the English court. Do not dissemble with me or I’ll have you in the trenches at Arras trading shots with the Spanish before the week is out.”
“Your Grace, there is no grand plot, of that I’m certain. But there is complaint in good measure. Some of the exiles, Herbert and Gerard to name two, are agitating for some action in England. But Chancellor Hyde is of the opinion that this is a fruitless endeavour.”
“And is it?”
The game was growing dangerous. I had balanced for a very long time between Mazarin and my own king but now I was on the verge of falling over into the French camp for good. I thought as quickly as I could of a way to smooth the Cardinal’s feathers.
“All reports bear the same sad tune,” I said. “There is no leader in England to unite the remnants of the king’s supporters, and any plan to rise up doesn’t stay secret for long under Cromwell’s watchful eye. The Scots are useless and Hyde realises this now too.”
The Cardinal nodded but I knew he was unconvinced. For more than a passing moment there was silence. I thought he might be weighing my words, deciding whether or not I was lying to him. But something else entirely was on his mind. “Colonel, I am questioning you for a reason... a delicate but serious threat may be arising among the English. And it is not an ordinary threat to the state but rather something more sinister.”
“Eminence, surely the exiles present no threat to the French crown,” I said, voice quavering. “It’s hardly in their interest.”
“I am using the word sinister in its truest sense.”
I shook my head in ignorance. “Begging your pardon, Eminence, I am a little tired—”
“There is someone here you must meet. Someone who carries alarming intelligence.” Mazarin barked to one of the guards outside the cramped room. “You may bring him in now!”
I took half a step backwards as a black-robed monk glided into our presence.
“Colonel Treadwell, this is Brother Anselm of the Benedictines of Saint Edmunds.”
The monk drew back his cowl. He looked to be something over
fifty years, with a round face and tired, hooded eyes that made him appear permanently penitent. His thick curly hair, yellowy white, looked like the backside of a sheep, straw and all. Dealing with one priest was bad enough but what news could this bedraggled cleric be carrying? I bowed curtly and watched as he studied me.
“At your service, Brother Anselm.”
He said nothing in reply but moved closer towards me, never taking his eyes from me. And when he was before my face, he spoke—in English with the broad accent of a Lancashire man.
“Yes. You can truly see them. Indeed, you have seen them, that is clear to me now.” He was nodding as he stared. Quickly, he turned to the Cardinal, speaking in flawless French. “Your instinct was correct, Eminence—as usual.”
I knew exactly what he was speaking of. What bothered me was that the Cardinal appeared to have an inkling of my past experiences as well. I had never told him about my adventures during the German wars, nor of my glimpses there into dark places. That I could see the ghosts of men I had only ever confided to a few. It was no gift. More a curse. A touch that only certain others could sniff out on me—like that gypsy seeress had all those years ago.
I looked at Mazarin and it was clear he sensed my growing unease.
“Brother Anselm is the astrologer of my astrologer,” he said. “As such, when he comes to tell me that the English are playing games with the Devil, I listen.”
“I don’t understand, Eminence.”
“You will. Brother Anselm, tell the Colonel what you told me two days ago.”
Anselm folded his hands together, close to his chest. “I have told His Eminence that I have drawn up charts for General Cromwell and for Charles Stuart. Once I had calculated these projections I drew them again... to be sure I had made no errors.”
“What are you saying, sir?” I said.
Brother Anselm blinked and pursed his lips. “A calamity is soon to happen. Someone is about to unleash a great evil into the world. They will do this to affect the affairs of state and all men. The alignments are clear to me.”
“And you’re saying that Oliver Cromwell or Charles Stuart are intriguing with the Devil to win their war for England? Charles is above reproach and as for Cromwell, though Lord knows he is no friend of mine, he’s convinced himself he’s doing God’s work and not the Devil’s. It’s laughable to say one or the other is involved in the black arts.”
Brother Anselm shook his head. “I do not say that either man is the agent of this evil. That could be the case or it could be that there are those close to them that are invoking the Dark One. But I am not wrong in what I say—a powerful man is trying to change his fortune by other means.”
Mazarin spoke up from his chair, his voice like a blast of icy wind. “Colonel Treadwell, you had better listen well to this because I am in no doubt. One of your countrymen is planning on opening a door that should remain forever shut. I mean to find out who that is and put a stop to it.”
I stammered. “But... Eminence, what am I to do with all this?”
The Cardinal leaned forward and fixed me with a basilisk’s glare. “I know that you possess a skill for finding the Underworld like a pig finds truffles. There is no one in my employ better than you to find out if this Satanist is among the exiles here in Paris. Once I can rule out the English court then I can decide what to do about General Cromwell and his faction. But I will have intelligence and I will have it soon.”
“You can be our compass, sir, our lodestone to find these men,” offered up Anselm.
I bowed to the Cardinal. “Very well, Your Eminence.”
“The king needs to know what his royal cousin is up to and you are now in a situation amenable to that end. Do not fail in your duty to your king.”
And it was plainly evident which king he meant. Mazarin slowly lifted his hand and at first I thought he wanted me to help him rise. But I realised it was the proffered hand of a holy Cardinal and I kneeled quickly and touched my lips to his cold claw.
I was dripping with sweat as I left the room, the Cardinal’s guard eyeing me as I slowly walked back towards the stone staircase. An English voice behind me brought me round. Brother Anselm had followed me out of the room, one hand lifting the skirt of his robes so he could catch me up.
“Colonel Treadwell! A word, sir!” He drew close and put a hand on my arm. “This is a dangerous errand you have been given. I’m sorry that I cannot give you better direction on finding who is behind this sorcery. Alas, that is the nature of divination—never as precise as one would want.”
I must have flashed him a weak smile. “Direction? You’ve given me no help at all other than to say he’s one of us. Tell me... how did you come to be so far from Preston?”
He smiled back. “Aye, a long way from the North that is true. Most of us at Saint Edmunds are English these days. My lord Cromwell has driven most of our faith into hiding or over here. Listen, I can’t offer you much of use, I know. But remember that the enemy will be cunning and well-disguised. Maybe even godly in their ways. They will kill rather than be exposed.”
I nodded.
“And one more thing. If they are successful, and they open some portal to summon infernal aid to their earthly cause, they may not be able to control what they bring forth. You know of what I speak.”
I swallowed but did not answer.
“God be with you, Colonel.”
I DISCOVERED D’ARTAGNAN and Marguerite arm-in-arm and conversing in earnest amongst the remaining theatregoers as they jostled to reach the great doors. I took a deep breath to regain myself.
“Your dear lady has been a source of delight, Colonel,” said the musketeer as he lifted her hand to present her back to my care. “She has told me of her favourite scenes and I confess admiration that she in no way fades after such a rigorous spectacle. I’ll miss her company, sir.”
I looked into Marguerite’s flushed face.
“Your audience was a fruitful one, I trust?” asked d’Artagnan.
“We discussed the Arras campaign,” I said, drawing Marguerite’s cloak closer about her shoulders as I propelled her ahead of me.
The musketeer’s bronzed face opened into a full-toothed grin. “Perhaps our Spanish problem will have an English solution.”
“Farewell, friend,” I told him as I saluted with a touch to my brim. “I am sure we’ll see each the other at the Cardinal’s next play, and in short time.”
Marguerite’s heels clopped unsteadily across the cobbles as I held her arm through mine. She let out a sigh. “Richard, I would rather you escort me to my rooms. I am fully spent after such a conversation with Monsieur d’Artagnan. He has fair talked me to death, I think. A most intense gentleman. He has quite left me breathless.”
I was saddened that I would not now have her to distract me from my darker thoughts, thoughts that now crept up fast on me. Mazarin was not a man to be easily fobbed off and would expect more than just a mean morsel—he desired meat. And so I took her to her apartments and then made my way into the freezing streets again, to a coffee house. Paris was roiling with the late morning swarm of sedan chairs and their huffing bearers, swearing drovers, footmen, and vendors bundled in their cloaks against the chill like corpses in shrouds. I blew inside the nearest establishment and finding a place on a bench apart from others, the bitter drink of the Turkmen soon warmed my bones and began to enliven me.
And then the Beast came.
Like a kettle filling with water, I could feel it rising up within me. And, as before, I knew there was nothing I could do to stop it. Welling up inside me was the most overwhelming sensation of cold sickening dread. My hands started to shake, my heart raced, and I drew breath as if I was being chased by a legion of monsters. I could feel the sweat dripping down my face. In a few moments, the sickness had embraced me in its terrible arms. I hunched over the table, hands cupped tightly about my drink, and tried to summon all my will to master the fear that was washing over me. It was all I could do to hold on.
&
nbsp; It was my dreadful secret, one I had yet to share even with my Marguerite. I had faced Croats, Germans, Poles, Cromwell’s Ironsides, and Spaniards, all without flinching. When battle surrounded me, I revelled in the noise and clash, never once turning tail. But this curse, this unseen creature that pounced on me without warning, it froze me like a terrified lamb. The beast could strike for hours—or minutes. It had started only a few years before. And since then, it came again and again, every few months, even when nothing was troubling me. But I knew this time what had brought it upon me.
My jaw clenched as I stared into the Turkish brew. And suddenly, someone behind called out my name. With his usual habit of surprise, Andreas Falkenhayn was suddenly there in front of me, his churchyard cough echoing and raising heads. It was never lost upon me just how strange that we two, companions in some twenty seasons of campaign, were now again united under a common paymaster: the Cardinal. I had made his acquaintance in the German wars fighting under the Danish king when I was a lad new to soldiering. I latched onto Andreas and he made sure I stayed alive. If I was now around forty-and-six years old, God alone knew how old Andreas was.
“Rikard! You old bastard,” he croaked. “I had given up hope that you would ever visit again whilst I drew breath.”
I could already feel the Beast retreating, loosening its claws from me. “By God, you look like you’ve been whoring and drinking again,” I said as he sat down on the bench next to me. In truth, he looked drawn, grey-faced, and very, very weary.
A rumbling laugh welled up from his chest, seasoned with a goodly amount of phlegm. “I suppose my looks give away my night-time frolics. And, well, I’ve slowed a bit since our adventures last summer. But, hey, what’s this? You look not well either, my friend.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Born of drinking coffee too quickly. But you, you’re in need of a physician. Has the good widow not summoned someone to see to you?”
Gideon's Angel Page 3
