The Hunt for The Red Cardinal

by Bradley Sinor

  “And yet, here you sit drinking with a lieutenant in the cardinal's guard,” said Montaigne. D’Artagnan noticed that he did not mention his own connection to the Prime Minister of France.

  “I will drink with any man who fights at my side,” said Athos. “I care little what tabard he does or does not wear. Besides, who knows but we can convince you to transfer to the Musketeers.”

  “Me, a Musketeer? Hardly,” laughed D’Artagnan.

  The Hunt for The Red Cardinal

  By

  Bradley H. Sinor and

  Susan P. Sinor

  Chapter One

  May 1636 Paris

  One morning, Luc Boyea was passing by the radio room on the top floor of the Paris townhouse of Louis, Count de Soissons. His brother, André, who was responsible for receiving, transcribing, and delivering radio messages, worked there. André had just completed a transcription and was heading out to deliver it when he ran into Luc, nearly knocking him to the floor.

  “Important message?” Luc asked, after steadying himself against the doorway.

  “Very,” his brother, who seemed hurried, replied almost in a whisper. “Don’t ask what it is. I can’t tell you that the queen is about to give birth.” He realized what he had done, clapped his hands to his face and said, pleadingly, “Don’t even mention what I said to yourself. I could get in a lot of trouble.”

  “The queen is . . .?” Luc looked around to see if anyone else was there, listening. “Don’t worry. I won’t even breathe it.” But, he thought, I will remember it and listen at doors for anything I can hear. He had done that many times before, learning things he probably shouldn’t know, but no one ever found him out. He was very reticent about telling anyone the secrets he kept.

  His position at the townhouse was to do whatever he was told. That included taking messages to various people around the city, fetching anything his master requested, and staying up until all hours waiting for the count to dismiss him. His family had all worked for the count for generations. His father was the stable master, and his mother was the head housekeeper. Two of his sisters were housemaids, and his other brother, the eldest, oversaw the count’s armory. They were at the historical home of the count’s family in the village of Soissons. Only he and his brother, André, had gone to the Paris townhouse.

  Luc somehow meant to advance his position in the household. He was old enough, he thought, to be responsible for something other than fetching and carrying.

  Right then he arranged to find himself at any door which had conversations going on behind it. He had very good hearing and a very good memory of what he heard.

  He followed his brother at a distance as he rushed down the sumptuously carpeted stairs and hallway to deliver the message. When he saw André leave the room where he had presented the message to the count, Luc calmly made his way in that direction, busying himself with the large bowl of flowers on the ornate gold-covered table beside the door. Presently, he heard the voices he hoped to hear.

  “Somewhere to the west, not terribly far from Paris. I’m not sure just where. It is unknown if the child has been born yet, but I know that Richelieu,” the name sounded as though it was a nasty taste in the speaker’s mouth, “is going there.” It was the voice of the count, and he was talking to his friend, Claude de Bourdeille, Comte de Montrésor, who was visiting. Luc knew just what to do to accomplish his goal.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Charlotte Blackson, a wealthy divorcée of middle age, but hardly looking it, stretched and looked out the second-story window of her Paris townhouse. The open were blowing in the breeze, and the sun shone through the window on her golden hair, warming her creamy skin and highlighting her blue eyes. She realized that it was some time after dawn since she could hear the sounds of commerce in the street: venders hawked their wares, whether they were selling food, household goods, or themselves.

  Wrapped only in a sheet, she was enjoying herself immensely. That was not unusual when she was in the presence of Charles. He made her happy, and she liked being happy. Much of her past had not been happy, so she took it whenever she could get it.

  Charles, lying on the large bed, rose up on one elbow in order to see her face. “Charlotte, what are you thinking about? You’re certainly quiet right now.”

  She smiled up at him, turning her head to admire his bare chest and his handsome, chiseled face, and brown eyes.

  “Oh, nothing, really. I’m just trying to avoid doing anything constructive for a while. I know I have many things that I must accomplish, but I just don’t want to right now.” She turned the rest of the way to face him, stretching again, the sheet slipping from around her. “And what are you thinking of, my young guardsman?”

  “Ah. The past several minutes, for one. And the view just now is most delightful, m’lady.” He made as much of a bow as he could from his position. “But my leisure brings to mind that I am not with my fellow guardsman, wherever they went with the cardinal yesterday morning. As much as I like being with you, I don’t like not being with them on whatever it is they are doing. It is my duty, after all,” he said with a flourish of his hand, which came close to meeting with Charlotte’s head.

  “Of course, my darling, but you do get a day off now and then,” she said as she leaned away to keep his hand from knocking against her. “Besides, I’d rather you were here with me.”

  He had leaned farther toward her and bent his head for another kiss when there was a knock at the door. “Madame. Madame?”

  “Yes, Sophie?”

  “A letter has come for Monsieur D’Artagnan. It was sent to him at his barracks, but the messenger was told he might be here.”

  Charlotte looked at D’Artagnan, rose, wrapped herself in a dressing gown, and went to the bedroom door. Opening it just wide enough for the paper to pass through it, she replied, “Thank you, Sophie. I’ll give it to him.”

  “Yes, Madame.” Sophie, as Charlotte knew, was aware that the gentleman was with her, but neither would ever let on what they knew. It would certainly not be proper form for a servant to have any opinion about what the master or mistress did. However, Charlotte knew that servants always knew what was going on in the house.

  “A letter has come for you, Charles,” she said, waving it at him. “I wonder from whom it could be. Are you expecting a letter, my love?” She waved it around some more, trying to keep it from him, her robe loosening as she spun. He rose, not bothering with a robe, and joined the game, chasing her around the room. When he was able to grab it from her hand, he looked at the stamp. “The seal is blank, but it does have my name on it, so . . .” He broke the seal and unfolded it. He started reading it to her. “To Monsieur Charles D’Artagnan, from His Eminence, Cardinal . . .” He read the rest quickly, reread the letter, and folded the page.

  “My dear Charlotte, I must leave. The cardinal wants to see me at once.” He headed for the door, taking his hat and placing it on his head.

  “Darling, perhaps you should put your trousers on first.”

  “Oh, yes.” He turned toward her, flourishing his hat and bowing. “If I must.”

  “But it is still early, my dear. Must you leave now?” she whispered, reclining enticingly on the bed.

  He gazed at her for a moment, then sighing, replied, “I must leave regardless of the hour whenever the cardinal summons me.” He quickly dressed himself and left the room before she could ask any of the many questions he was sure she had.

  She sighed. Well, she thought, I have things to do myself. Best get on with it.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  It was noon when Charles D’Artagnan entered the parish church, Saint-Étienne-du-Grès, as instructed by the message sent him by François Leclerc, Cardinal Tremblay, and found the statue of Notre Dame de Bonne Délivrance, The Black Madonna, indicated in the note. D’Artagnan was of average height and build, which belied his strength and skill with weapons. His demeanor led his betters to believe him of average intelligence, which was a mistake. His friends knew t
his, as did his master, Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu. His countenance, however, immediately caught the attention of all around him, especially of women of any age.

  As directed by the letter, he was not wearing his usual uniform but clothing a laborer might wear, something he might be overlooked wearing. He was wearing plain breeches and stockings and a simple shirt and sleeved cloak. His boots were the ones he always wore. He would not wear footwear other than his own comfortable and sturdy boots. He waited patiently. Patience was a virtue he had cultivated in his career as one of Cardinal Richelieu’s guards. Sometimes he thought the motto of the Guard should be, as the up-timers said, “Hurry up and wait.”

  He didn’t have to wait very long, though. Before he knew someone was near, he heard a low voice saying, “Thank you for being prompt.” He recognized Cardinal Tremblay’s distinctive voice.

  Out of the corner of his eye, D’Artagnan glimpsed a tall man in a monk’s robe with the hood covering his head.

  “Don’t look at me, just look around as if you were admiring the art. But be attentive. I have grave news and a task for you.”

  D’Artagnan nodded slowly and gazed at a painting hanging nearby. “What is the news?” he asked in a low voice. “And the task you have for me?”

  “I will explain when you attend me this afternoon at my residence. You will be admitted at the servants' entrance. Come at four o’clock and be ready to travel.”

  Without another word, the tall monk turned and walked farther into the church. D’Artagnan waited a moment, then turned the other way and walked slowly toward the door.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Back in his room at the barracks, D’Artagnan mused on what might have happened to cause a respected man such as Cardinal Tremblay to be so secretive. He knew that her majesty, the queen, was in confinement awaiting the birth of the royal heir, but that should be another month away. He also knew that Cardinal Richelieu had taken a small contingent of guards and left for an undisclosed location the day before. His not being with them was a result of his attending to other matters. And where, he wondered, was he to go? And why was it at Cardinal Tremblay’s direction instead of his master, Cardinal Richelieu’s?

  D’Artagnan did as instructed, packing a saddlebag and arriving on horseback at the cardinal’s home at the appointed hour.

  “My name is Charles D’Artagnan,” he told the maid who opened the back door when he knocked. “I have an appointment with His Eminence.”

  After looking him up and down appreciatively, she said, “Yes, monsieur, come with me. You are expected. My name is Audrey.” The maid led him down a plain but clean hallway and handed him off to a man D’Artagnan assumed was the butler. He was led up the back staircase to a room on the second floor. The man knocked on the door, opened it for D’Artagnan to enter, and then closed the door again.

  It was a small room, as the rooms of a cardinal’s residence went, with two chairs, placed on either side of a massive, ornate fireplace. Farther from the fireplace was a beautifully carved mahogany table which would seat six, with heavily brocaded chairs to match. The room was at the back of the house, looking out over the kitchen garden, with a tall stone wall at the back of the property. Heavy red velvet drapes were pulled back from the windows to admit sunlight.

  “Ah, you’ve arrived. Good,” the cardinal said as D’Artagnan kneeled, and kissed the cardinal’s ring. “Would you have some wine?”

  Cardinal Tremblay, known for his austerity, was a bearded man in his late fifties. He kept the residence and servants he was accorded due to his office, but refused extravagance and preferred the cloak and persona of Pere’ Joseph.

  D’Artagnan replied, “Yes, thank you, Your Eminence.”

  Cardinal Tremblay poured for both of them and gestured for D’Artagnan to sit, indicating one of the chairs by the fireplace, where a small fire had been lit.

  “Your Eminence, you hinted that something has happened.”

  “Yes, it has. I’ll tell you the whole story, but it must be kept between us.” The cardinal took a deep breath, exhaled, and then took a sip of his wine. “Two days ago, Cardinal Richelieu received a radio message that the queen would give birth very soon. He told the king, who insisted on going along, but dressed as one of the cardinal’s guards. In the group were a dozen guards, the king, the cardinal, and his secretary, Servien. Along the way they were set upon by what was thought at first to be a group of highwaymen.” He paused, took another breath, another sip, and continued. “His Majesty was killed and the cardinal was injured on his side by a gunshot. Servien and one guard got away unscathed. They escaped with the cardinal to a nearby church, leaving the rest behind. If they had stayed, they would have probably all been killed, and no one would have known who the killers were.”

  D’Artagnan reacted with a gasp and a cry. “Not the king! What terrible news. And the cardinal? If only I had been with him, perhaps this horrible thing would not have happened. What of his circumstance?”

  Cardinal Tremblay went on, dryly. “I doubt that one more guard would have changed the outcome of the attack, regardless of your prowess with the sword or the musket. It is by God’s grace that you still live to carry out what needs now to be done. Cardinal Richelieu’s situation is unknown, except that when the young guard who informed me of this left the church to return to Paris, he was alive.”

  “And the queen? Has she been told?”

  Tremblay nodded. “The secretary, Servien, went on to the destination and gave them the news.”

  “And the heir? Has the child been born? Is it a boy?”

  The cardinal replied, “I don’t have that information yet. Regardless, your orders are to go to the small monastery at Clairefontaine, where the cardinal was taken. If the cardinal is alive and improving, he must be removed from the monastery as soon as he can travel.”

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” he said. “But if he has succumbed, God forbid, to his injuries, what should be done?”

  “If he is alive, time will be of the essence. If he is able to travel, he should be moved to a more secure location. Otherwise, a . . . replacement . . . must be found and persuaded to go in his stead.”

  “A replacement? What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Gaston should believe that the cardinal is alive but not know where he is.”

  “If he is alive and able to travel, I would request that trusted friends of mine be included in the party. They would be invaluable in keeping the cardinal protected.”

  “Who are these friends of yours?” Cardinal Tremblay asked.

  “They are in the king’s Musketeers, Athos de la Fere, Porthos du Vallon, and Aramis, also known as René d’Herblay. They will be loyal to the throne and to the Queen and the heir. They excel at shooting and are excellent swordsmen, as well,” D’Artagnan explained. “Also, they are all cousins.”

  “And you vouch for them?”

  “On my life,” D’Artagnan replied.

  The cardinal thought a moment. “And if a . . .substitute . . . is needed?”

  “I should like them to accompany me regardless. Since the king was murdered, his Musketeers will likely disband, and my friends might be in danger. It could be safer for them to leave Paris.”

  “I will send for them while you are away. I will provide food and drink for your journey so you won’t have to stop for it on the way.” Tremblay handed him a sealed letter. “Give this to the abbot when you arrive,” he said, and called for a servant to go to the kitchen and procure the provisions.

  “Might I ask the name of the guard who survived?”

  “Of course. He is Jean D’Aubisson.”

  “Thank the good Lord,” D’Artagnan exclaimed in relief. “He is the youngest of the guards, and I have a fondness for him, as he reminds me of myself. Do you know where he is now?”

  “Yes. I myself sent him on a journey. He should be in no danger, so don’t be concerned about him,” the cardinal said.

  “Where is the place that I am going?” h
e asked.

  “Oh, yes. The place is southwest of here, near Ramboullet: the village of Clairefontaine. I will draw you a rough map.” He took quill and parchment and drew on it, adding directions, then handed it to D’Artagnan.

  “And where should I ultimately take his enimence? Or his replacement?” The words sounded very wrong to D’Artagnan.

  “I have a place in mind which should be safe for my friend, but is a far distance from here, so it may take you many weeks or months to arrive. I will give you directions when you return.”

  “If the cardinal cannot ride, how should he be moved?”

  “The monastery is not wealthy and would not be able to help monetarily with this journey, but I believe they have a small cart they can provide. I can provide a horse for the cart.” He handed the guard a small leather bag. “This is in case you need funds for this first trip. I will give you more to fund your journey when you return. Now, go at once,” Cardinal Tremblay said. “By the way, I think it best if you use another name.”

  “Other than my own. Certainly. What name should I use?”

  “Allais, I think, would be suitable. Allais Dubois. Report to me when you return. God go with you.”

  D’Artagnan stood, bowed to the Cardinal, and took his leave.

  Chapter Two

  Luc Boyea had intended to set out from the Count’s townhouse immediately upon hearing the conversation regarding Queen Anne. He had borrowed a horse from the Count’s stable to ride as fast as he could through the streets of Paris, then west and a little south from there. However, it took a short while for Boyea to actually leave the Count’s townhouse, since he had to procure money as well as the horse. He put a few items in the horse’s saddlebag with all the cash he had squirreled away from his pay. Not knowing how long he’d be gone, he also tucked in a change of clothing, something non-descript if he needed to be anonymous, and a bit of food from the kitchens where a cousin worked.