The Hunt for The Red Cardinal

by Bradley Sinor

  Just then a knock on the office door was heard. The blacksmith stuck his head through the door and dragged another man in with him.

  “Is this the one you’re looking for?” he asked D‘Artagnan.

  “As a matter of fact, he is. Thank you for finding him. Now take him out and slit his throat.”

  “You can’t do that!” protested Frédéric. “We are agents of the king.”

  “Not the rightful one,” said Montaigne with a wink to D’Artagnan. “Who wants to take this one,” he pointed at Frédéric, “to join the others?”

  The blacksmith volunteered for that chore also, and took Frédéric to join his compatriots.

  After being profusely thanked by the pastor and townspeople, and being given what provisions the town could spare, the group of, now, seven, set out again.

  Just before they left the church, Pastor Alexandre said, “We have been afraid for a long while that we would be found. We are very fortunate that you are the ones who found us. This proves that not all Catholics hate us and wish to rid our country of us. Thank you.”

  “We all worship God, the same God, in different ways. We harbor no ill will toward you because we know you are good people,” D’Artagnan explained to him as they were leaving to go on their way.

  On the way from the church to the stable, D’Artagnan explained what their journey was all about. Of course, Montaigne already knew about the attack on Cardinal Richelieu’s party and the death of King Louis. He brought the others up to date on current events.

  In the stable, Montaigne was formally introduced to Brother Xavier, who had never met him before. Cardinal Richelieu woke long enough to recognize him before going back to sleep. “We’re calling him Brother Etienne if anyone else is near.”

  D’Artagnan and the three musketeers had worked with Montaigne in the past. In fact, the first time they met was the time that D‘Artagnan had first met Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

  Montaigne nodded to D’Artagnan, then he bowed to the cardinal, saying, “Your Eminence.”

  As they rode away, Montaigne told the group, “Gaston has had himself installed as king. Everyone knew that would happen. And no, before you ask, I do not know the gender of the child of Louis and Anne. I heard that they, Anne and the child, escaped to another country. I’ve heard rumors of Spain, Italy, Switzerland, Germany and the Low Countries. I have no idea which, if any of them, is true. For all I know, she has boarded an up-time ship headed for the New World.”

  “Speaking of rumors,” D’Artagnan broke in as they rode slightly ahead of the others, “the spreading of rumors of the great cardinal’s whereabouts is something that needs to be done. Before leaving on this journey, I was told that this would be done all over France. What direction will you be heading when you leave us?”

  “Well, now that I’ve caught up with that bunch back there, I suppose I could go wherever I want. I was not directed to report back immediately, so I suppose I could go south toward Spain, seeing my former master at each stop.”

  “It’s fortunate that few people outside of Paris actually know what he looks like,” D’Artagnan said. “It is the same for us,” he added, indicating his three friends. “And in our case, people have never even heard of us. It is also fortunate that the book about us wasn’t, er, won’t be written until 1844.”

  “By then that writer will have a very different story to tell,” said Montaigne. “Now I must be off on my own errand. Have a safe journey.”

  “You, as well, my friend,” D’Artagnan said. “May God be with us all.”

  The two friends had slowed, letting the others catch up to them.

  The cardinal had awakened just in time to hear that Montaigne was about to go his own way. “Monsieur Montaigne, would you mind travelling with us for a while?” he asked. “I would enjoy your company again.” The cardinal seemed more alert than he had for days, and seemed to feel better, as well.

  Montaigne looked at the rest of the group, questioningly. “I suppose I could, if no one objects.”

  D’Artagnan spoke up. “Of course not, if that’s what the cardinal wants.”

  “Excellent,” the cardinal said. “Come ride beside me so we can talk.”

  Athos rode up to D’Artagnan and asked, “Where do we go next?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Simon Cordonnier, a short, balding, middle-aged cobbler, walked along the road next to the river, toward his home in the village of Soissons. The sun was dipping in the west, and the breeze was cooling from its warmth earlier in the day. His steps were slower than usual due to the heavy bundle tied to his walking stick. He had fished it out of the river, which meant his legs were wet from the knee down. Fortunately, the bundle had caught up in a bush whose branches touched the surface of the slow-moving river. He had then taken it to rest on a stump in order to open it and examine the contents. It was wrapped in brown cloth which looked very much like a shirt. The contents were a red, watered-silk robe the likes, it appeared, fit for a wealthy nobleman, or, perhaps, a cardinal of the Church. Next he saw a strange-looking hat. Cardinals wore hats like that, he had heard, never having actually seen a cardinal before. It was four-cornered with a ball of some kind on top in the middle. He thought they were called birettas. No matter. It looked like the bundle could have been in the water for several weeks.

  He thought about wrapping it back up and throwing it back in the river, but it was unlikely that anyone would be looking for it here, and the fabric was beautiful where it wasn’t torn or stained. He decided to take it home where his wife could repair it.

  He hoped his dinner would be ready when he arrived. His day’s work had been tiring and he was hungry. He enjoyed making and repairing shoes, but when he had to leave his shop to visit a customer, he had to walk there. I’m too old to walk this much, he thought as he trudged on. If only I had a horse. Oh, well. We do what we have to. And walking is what I have to do.

  Fortunately for him, he arrived at his home shortly thereafter.

  “My dear, I’m home,” he called as he entered his house. “Is dinner ready? I’m starving.”

  His wife, Marie, short and plump with graying hair, met him at the door. “Soon, soon,” she said. “What is that – thing – hanging from your walking stick? It’s wet! Quick, put it outside before the floor is flooded.” She pushed him back through the door, where he set the stick down and untied the bundle from it.

  “It was in the river.”

  “What?”

  “I was curious to see what it was. You won’t believe it, so I’ll have to show you, but not here outside where any passerby could see.” Simon took her arm and pulled her with him. “Come around the corner of the house.”

  He carried the dripping bundle with them around the side of the house to the back and stepped behind a large bush which would screen them from view. Untying the string from around the bundle, he spread the cloth covering flat and gently raised the robe for his wife to see, letting it hang loose.

  “Where did you get that? It looks like a cardinal’s robe,” she gasped. Then she saw the hat. “And that, that’s a biretta.”

  “Aha, I thought so,” Simon said.

  “But what are you doing with it? This can’t be good. The likes of us should not have anything like that.”

  Simon shrugged. “I told you, I found it floating in the river. I thought, it’s wet, but it will dry. And the material is still in pretty good condition, if you don’t count the tears. Maybe you could get the stains out and make yourself a nice dress.”

  “Simon, what were you thinking? We must take this straightaway to the priest in the village. Father Benedict will know what to do with it,” she said.

  “But shouldn’t we let it dry, first? And have our dinner? I told you I’m famished.”

  At that, she relented. “But we mustn’t leave it out here. We’ll take it in the house and lay it over the backs of two chairs to dry while we eat.”

  “And let it drip all over the floor? Besides, we have only
two chairs. Where will we sit to eat?” Simon asked.

  “We can stand. That robe is more important than we are. But you’re right; it would drip all over the floor. We’ll bring the chairs outside where the sun can dry it faster.”

  “But what will we sit on?” Simon asked.

  “We don’t have so much food that we can’t stand up to eat it,” she replied.

  “We could always sit on the hearth.”

  After moving the chairs and carefully laying the wet robe over their backs, they went back in to eat.

  Half an hour later, Marie said, “Well, it must be dry by now. I have some white material to wrap it in and a basket to carry it in to the village church.”

  But when they went out to retrieve the robe, it was gone. The two chairs were still where they had been placed, but no red robe was draped across them, and the biretta was nowhere to be found. Marie and Simon looked all around the yard for it.

  “The wind must have blown it away,” she said. “We have to find it!”

  They looked, again, all over their yard, in the neighbors’ yards and then went to the front of the house and looked all around there.

  “This is terrible,” Marie said, her head in her hands. “What will we do? What will we tell Father Benedict?”

  “Nothing,” Simon told her. “No one knows we had it. If it has blown away, someone else will find it. Don’t worry.”

  “But the biretta is gone, too. I don’t think the wind could have blown it away. Someone must have taken it.”

  “If someone took it, it’s their problem now. Just pretend that I never found it, that I never brought it home. Now, let’s bring the chairs in.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  A tall, loose-jointed, middle-aged man wearing a wide-brimmed black hat walked jauntily across the meadow. What a find I have made, he thought, a beautiful red robe and a funny-looking hat. He was surprised that anybody would leave the garment outside for just anyone to take. It did have some tears in it, and there were some stains, but no matter. That didn’t bother him.

  He had folded the robe into a small bundle and put it around the hat. Then he put it into his large leather pouch, so no one would see it. He wouldn’t put it on until he got home to his hut.

  Or would he? He decided he should be wearing it right then. What good is finding something special if you don’t wear it? He stopped and took the bundle out of his bag, putting the biretta on his head – a good fit – and carefully unfolding the robe and putting it on right over his clothing. It had obviously been wet, but seemed to be almost dry. A little dampness won’t hurt me, he thought.

  The route to his house took him across a stream with a steep bank. He had never had any trouble crossing the stream before, but he had never been preoccupied with this good a find before, either. As he daydreamed his way down the slope, he tripped on a stone and fell into the swiftly moving water. Never having learned how to swim, he floundered, being dragged by the current, until a fallen tree branch snagged him. The branch caught the robe pulling his head underwater. He tried to get free, but the branch held him firmly and he couldn’t raise his head above the surface.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Some short time later another traveler, in ordinary dress, walked past the place in the stream and saw something red fluttering in the current of the river.

  “I wonder what that is,” he said to himself, and went down the bank to see. After pulling on the red fabric he could see that it was attached to a dead man. He was able to disentangle the man from the branch and pull him onto shore. He laid the man on his back and arranged his clothing in order to see what the red garment was.

  “Oh, my,” he said to himself. “That looks like the robe an important church man would wear. I don’t want it to get into the wrong hands.” He removed the robe from the dead man, and, glancing back at the water, saw another red garment trapped by the branch. After fishing it out, he said, “Yes, that is the hat that goes with this robe. Better not leave these lying around.”

  He took the robe and, because it was dripping wet, carefully squeezed as much of the water out as he could, folded it into a small bundle and stuffed it and the hat he had rescued from the stream into the traveling bag he was carrying and went on his way. He told himself he would report the dead man when he got to the next village.

  “I fished a drowned man out of the stream a couple of miles back that way,” the man told a shopkeeper in the village, pointing the way. “I didn’t know him, but you might. I wasn’t going to bring him with me; he was too heavy and soaking wet. But I thought I should tell you in case this village is missing a tall man.” He started out the door, saying, “I must be on my way.”

  The man lived a couple of villages farther on, but decided to stop for the night at the next one. It was getting dark and he didn’t want to be walking all night. There was a small inn where he could get a meal and share a room with other travelers, so he stopped.

  The food was decent, though the portions were small, but, he figured, you get what you pay for. The room had four narrow beds, and he would be sharing it with three strangers, which was nothing unusual. His trip had been somewhat profitable, and he could afford to spend that small amount of his money.

  He took the bed by the wall farthest from the door. He didn’t want anyone catching a glimpse of what he had in his bag. He shoved the bag under the bed and went to find the privy going down the back stairs.

  While he was out, one of his roommates entered and chose the next bed. No one else had come into the room yet, so this man decided to look around. He spotted the bag under the other bed and pulled it out to see what was in it. Setting the bag on the bed, he opened it enough to see that there was something red, and wet, in it. He pulled out the bundle to see it better.

  He pulled the wet fabric out and started to unfold it, when he saw another red article. He picked up the biretta and examined it.

  “I know what this is,” he said to himself. Then he finished unfolding the robe. He could see the rents and stains on it, and another thought came to mind. It had to be the robe that Cardinal Richelieu was wearing when he was injured during the attack when the former king, Louis, had been killed. The man knew someone who had been involved in the attack. He also knew that the cardinal had not been killed but had escaped. Perhaps the owner of the bag that holds the robe knows where the cardinal was taken, he thought. He laid the wet robe across the other bed and stood behind the door. When the man came back in he would confront him.

  After just a moment, he heard footsteps outside the door. The traveler entered and turned toward the bed he had claimed. He stopped short when he saw the robe lying across it and whirled around to see the other man pointing a flintlock pistol at him.

  “Where did you get that robe?” the man with the pistol said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. How did that come to be on my bed?”

  “Don’t be stupid. It came to be on your bed because I found it in your bag and put it there. Now, where did you get it?” He brandished the pistol.

  Realizing he actually had nothing to lose, and maybe something to gain, the traveler said, “I found it floating in a stream and fished it out.” He said nothing about the dead man who had been wearing it at the time.

  “Really,” the other man said, disbelievingly. “Which stream was this?”

  “I don’t know what it’s called. It’s just east a ways from the town. I thought it might be worth something and thought I could sell it. Are you interested?”

  “I am, but not in buying it. I know who it belongs to and wish to return it.”

  “As a matter of fact, I know who it belongs to, also. I will return it.” He reached around himself and brought his own flintlock pistol out, pointed at his adversary.

  Just then, the door started to open again, creaking as it swung. It startled the men, who had their pistols pointed at each other, causing both to pull their triggers.

  The gunshots startled the man coming in the door, and
he staggered back into the corner next to the bed with the robe on it.

  He quickly recovered when he saw the robe. His eyes got wide and he gasped. I know who that belongs to, he thought to himself, then quickly folded it and put it in the bag he was carrying, along with the biretta, and left the room.

  A moment later the innkeeper dashed up the stairs. He was sure he had heard a gunshot. If someone was injured, he needed to get help. If someone was dead, he needed to clean up whatever mess had been made and get rid of the body.

  When he saw two bodies, he was dismayed, but only for a bit. He was a shrewd man, always concerned with his own situation. He snatched up the pistols and hid them in the waistband of his pants. He moved one of the dead men to parallel the other, as if both were killed by another man, and ran back downstairs to alert whatever authority he could find.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  By that time the third man, who had the stolen robe, had gotten to the stable, taken his horse, and left town. He didn’t care that he had paid for his share of the room already. That was a pittance to what he could get for the robe that Cardinal Richelieu had probably been killed wearing. He had been going back to his village, but he decided, after that, to travel a little farther, where he knew of someone who might pay for what he had in his bag.

  Since the man wasn’t married and had no children, he was free to go about his business as he wished. He told his landlord he might be away for a few days and paid him in advance to keep his room for when he returned.

  “Certainly, Monsieur Baudin. But if anyone is looking for you, what should I say?”

  “Nothing, Monsieur Borde. You might even deny that you know me at all. I will leave tomorrow.”

  He went up to his small room and packed his bag with what few things he would need, after taking the robe and biretta out of the bag they were in and laying them out on his table to complete drying. He also laid out changes of clothes and all of his money. He went to bed early, but tossed and turned, knowing that he had a long ride ahead of him, so he rose before dawn. He was able to get his horse without anyone hearing and went on his way.