by Pierre Pevel
‘I’m all right,’ he lied in a hoarse voice. He pointed with a shaky index finger. ‘Over there. The … The door to the cells. I found it just before … Go look for Agnès?’
The Gascon nodded, advanced a few steps, then changed his mind and went to take the keys to the gaol cells from the two-headed drac’s cubby-hole.
After all, they had earned them.
From a window in one of the older sections of the Louvre, La Fargue looked out towards the Enclos and, under the pale, bluish glow of the stars, had little difficulty in distinguishing the imposing silhouette of the Tour du Temple.
It was visible from almost anywhere in Paris and could be easily located after nightfall, thanks to the light that shone from its pyramidal roof. The light came from a big lantern containing a ‘solaire’, an alchemical stone that was also known as ‘Bohemian stone’, because only Bohemian alchemists knew its secret. The solaires – whose invention was fairly recent – shone like the brightest of flames and had only one drawback: their fabrication was both onerous and dangerous. The one in the Tour du Temple was white and, like others in Paris, it served to guide wyverns in flight. A blue one shone from the Louvre, a red one from the Palais-Cardinal and, soon, there would be a yellow one to indicate the Gaget Messenger Service.
His eyes fixed on the Chatelaines’ distant beacon, the captain of the Blades waited, patient and alone.
Finally, he heard Ballardieu’s footsteps approaching.
‘The marquis d’Aubremont has just left the king, captain. He gave me this for you.’
‘And Mère de Vaussambre?’
‘The king has retained her.’
Without turning away from the window, La Fargue took the note that Ballardieu held out to him, unfolded it, and read its contents.
‘She denied it,’ he said, lifting his head.
And, gazing back towards the Tour du Temple, he crumpled the paper in his fist and added gravely:
‘Now we can only hope they succeed.’
In the tower basement, the door that Saint-Lucq had indicated opened onto a narrow staircase, at the bottom of which Marciac found a small square room and four doors.
‘Agnès?’ he called. ‘Agnès, are you there?’
‘Nicolas? Is that you?’
‘At your service, baronne.’
Thanks to the gaoler’s keys, he opened the door from behind which Agnès had answered him, and freed the young woman.
They immediately embraced.
‘God’s blood, Nicolas! Am I happy to see you …’
‘And I, you!’
‘No doubt that explains why one of your hands is creeping dangerously close to my buttocks …’
‘Sorry. Force of habit.’
‘It’s still moving down, Marciac …’
‘The little rascal …’
Agnès thought it preferable to step away from the Gascon before she was obliged to break a few fingers, which would have spoiled their reunion.
‘So, I did see Ballardieu on that rooftop this afternoon!’
‘It was him.’
‘I thought I was going mad. I believed he was dead, did you know that?’
‘He’s quite lively.’ And showing her the way out, he added: ‘Let’s be off, baronne. We’re not out of this yet, and time is running short.’
‘You didn’t come here on your own, did you?’ asked Agnès as she followed him up the stairs.
‘No. Laincourt and Saint-Lucq are with me.’
They found the half-blood back in the torture chamber and, as she passed, the baronne de Vaudreuil noticed the body of the two-headed drac lying in a pool of black blood.
‘I see you met the master of ceremonies down here.’
‘He gave us the most deplorable welcome,’ replied Marciac.
They were quick to rejoin Laincourt, who, in the darkness of the ground floor, was standing with his back to the wall by the entrance. The young man had left the door ajar and was keeping an eye out for any signs of movement outside, a pistol in either hand.
He smiled upon observing that Agnès de Vaudreuil seemed to be in good health, although her face looked drawn.
‘I’m delighted to see you again, madame.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘Likewise.’
He also noticed the sorry state in which the fight with the drac had left the other two, but made no comment.
‘The sentries have discovered that the little door in the garden was no longer locked,’ he announced. ‘You should go. The alarm will soon be sounded.’
‘You’re not coming?’ exclaimed Agnès in surprise as she saw him step back to let them pass.
‘I’ll meet you where we left the horses, don’t worry.’
Saint-Lucq went out first, and then he signalled Marciac and Agnès to follow him.
Laincourt closed the door behind them. He waited for long enough to be sure they hadn’t been spotted or forced to make a hurried retreat back inside the tower. Now on his own, he moved off and took the spiral staircase that rose up through one of the keep’s corner turrets.
From his vantage point within the Louvre, La Fargue could not make out what took place at the summit of the Tour du Temple. Therefore he did not see Laincourt surprise and stun a sentry on the walkway. Nor see him catch the guard as he fell. Nor spread a great piece of red cloth over the lantern housing the Chatelaines’ dazzling white solaire.
What he saw was the beacon at the Enclos suddenly turn red.
Like most strongholds, the Enclos was conceived to prevent invasion, rather than escapes. Having crept past several sentries unseen, Saint-Lucq, Agnès and Marciac climbed on top of a building that leaned against the outer wall and, with the help of the Gascon’s bloody grapple, they soon made it to the other side. The last to straddle the crenelated rampart, Saint-Lucq looked up at the top of the Tour du Temple and saw the light of the beacon turn red: La Fargue would now know that Agnès was free.
The alarm sounded shortly thereafter, just as they rejoined André in a darkened backyard, where the Blades’ groom had been waiting with their horses. There were shouts at first. Then shots were fired and the tocsin began to sound inside the Enclos.
‘We have to go,’ whispered Saint-Lucq.
‘What about Laincourt?’ Marciac protested in a low voice. ‘We just abandon him?’
‘That blasted tocsin will wake the entire neighbourhood, and it won’t take the Black Guards much longer to send out patrols.’
‘Laincourt is one of us!’
‘He knew the risks.’
‘We don’t abandon our own, Saint-Lucq.’
‘Yes we do, when the success of the mission demands it.’
‘That’s enough!’ interjected Agnès, stopping herself from raising her voice. ‘Laincourt is resourceful. He can still—’
‘If he’s being pursued, and if he has any brains,’ the half-blood interrupted, ‘this is the last place he will go. He’d be leading the whole pack straight to us.’
‘Let’s give him another moment,’ the young woman said stubbornly.
Saint-Lucq cursed.
More detonations were heard. Curt orders were given, although their exact nature remained indistinct. But it was clear that a manhunt was under way.
‘Well spoken,’ murmured Marciac to Agnès. ‘But all the same, you should not stay. It’s too dangerous. I’ll wait for Laincourt. You three should go. Laincourt and I will find you later.’
‘Out of the question.’
‘You don’t have a choice, Agnès. Saint-Lucq is right: Laincourt knew the risks. So did we. And if we all agreed to run them, it was to liberate you. So don’t let yourself be recaptured now.’
Agnès de Vaudreuil fell silent. Marciac was right, although it cost her to admit it.
She nodded sadly.
‘All right,’ she said. But …’
She didn’t finish, but grinned instead as she saw Laincourt arrive with his sword in his fist, running at a steady jog and not looking particularly worried.
&nbs
p; ‘What?’ he asked, when he saw them all staring at him.
The king detained Mère de Vaussambre for a short while after the departure of the marquis d’Aubremont. He was courteous and attentive, seeking to end their interview on a more pleasant note than the climate of suspicion in which it had begun. Louis XIII had too great a need of the Chatelaines’ support to risk alienating their Mother Superior General. Although she had not been forced to answer any accusations this evening, d’Aubremont’s questions had put her in an uncomfortable position, despite the king’s claim that it was ‘an affair of little consequence’.
Mère de Vaussambre was not duped by this.
La Fargue had tried to compromise her and d’Aubremont knew perfectly well where matters stood. And Richelieu? Did he have any part in this? No. The trap was too crude, too clumsy, to be the cardinal’s work. But what had La Fargue hoped to gain? That, in the king’s presence, she would not dare deny she held the baronne de Vaudreuil prisoner?
She only understood when her coach brought her back to the Enclos.
She found the former Templar fortress in a state of upheaval, the tocsin pealing and lights at all the windows, her guards on a war footing, and even patrols out searching the surrounding streets. Men had infiltrated the Enclos. They had freed Agnès from the Tour du Temple and taken her away, leaving a dead body and several mistreated sentries behind. They had not worn masks, and one of them had been a half-blood.
‘Saint-Lucq!’ exclaimed the comte d’Orsan. ‘It must have been the Blades.’
‘A brilliant deduction,’ said Mère de Vaussambre in a bitter tone.
‘Mother superior, one word from you and I’ll have them all arrested before dawn. Starting with La Fargue.’
‘And on what grounds?’
‘But mother superior!’ the captain of the Black Guards protested in astonishment. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
La Vaussambre remained silent.
She was in no mood to tell d’Orsan that she had lied to the king, exactly as La Fargue had known she would and had wanted her to do. How could she now accuse the Blades of liberating by force a prisoner she had just denied holding? She knew La Fargue. She knew that he would let matters rest, as long as she did the same.
Pale and simmering with frustrated rage, she ordered the tocsin silenced and the beacon restored to its original whiteness.
‘And find a satisfactory explanation for all this uproar.’
La Fargue and Ballardieu left the Louvre on horseback and found the others waiting for them, also on horseback, in front of the Pont Neuf. There were smiles all around. Agnès and Marciac, above all. But Laincourt too, and even Saint-Lucq had a smirk on his face. They were relieved and happy. They were victorious.
Eyes shining with pride, their captain saluted them with a slight nod, while Ballardieu, beaming, gave the young woman a huge wink.
Reunited once more, they felt no need to say anything.
‘Let’s go home,’ La Fargue said.
4
The dragon seated in front of the mirror had the appearance of an elegant gentleman with fine features and blond hair. He was unusually pale, his reptilian eyes shining with a dark lustre as he spoke. The mirror did not return his own image, but that of the individual he was addressing: an old red dragon whose massive scaly head, adorned with a triple bony crest, shone from the reflective surface and shimmered in the dim light. Located in Madrid, this other dragon also had a human form. But the ensorcelled mirrors revealed the true nature of those who used them.
‘Do you think killing the Alchemist was a mistake?’ the red dragon was asking.
‘I don’t know, Heresiarch.’
‘I’ve already heard complaints … But the Alchemist knew the price he would have to pay. Could we have allowed him to fall into the Chatelaines’ hands and taken the risk he might reveal our secrets to them under torture?’
‘Certainly not. Yet—’
‘The Heir can still see the light of day,’ the Heresiarch continued without listening. ‘Nothing can be allowed to prevent that! Nothing must impede our work!’
In front of his mirror, the gentleman remained silent. He waited until the red dragon regained his composure and then said:
‘I am loyal and devoted to you, Heresiarch. However, the masters of the Grand Lodge are growing impatient. Our adversaries constantly draw attention to all the efforts and the fortunes the Black Claw has already devoted to our Grand Design. And they have no difficulty in finding willing ears to listen to them. For the moment, I have managed to minimise the extent of our failure, but—’
‘It was the Alchemist’s failure, and his alone!’
‘Nevertheless. The Black Claw is now demanding results.’
‘And it shall have them.’
‘When?’
‘Very soon.’
II
The Arcana
1
The day after her escape Agnès wanted to visit Almades’ grave. And since she was determined to go there on her own, Ballardieu was forced to follow her to the cemetery discreetly, and to watch over her from a distance.
He knew she was grieving and he suffered as a result. Indeed, everything she felt affected him. He shared her joys and her sorrows, her doubts and her pleasures, her angers and her regrets. He could not be happy if she wasn’t, and it had been that way between them ever since she was entrusted to his care, soon after her birth, by a man who was totally indifferent to the fate of his only daughter.
Ballardieu slipped behind a funeral monument when he saw Agnès walking back through the small cemetery. He heard her footsteps pass and waited for her to reach the gates before emerging from his hiding-place. But he held off for too long. Not seeing her anywhere, he cursed and had to hurry, panicked by the thought that he had no idea whether she had turned right or left in the street. He came out of the graveyard almost at a run and then halted, heart beating fast, desperately seeking a glimpse of the young baronne among the crowd thronging the city pavement.
‘You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?’
He managed not to jump in surprise and, composing an impassive expression on his face, turned with all the dignity of a prelate.
Arms crossed, one ankle placed in front of the other. Agnès was leaning against the cemetery wall. She was dressed like a squire, wearing boots, breeches, and a red leather corset over a white shirt, with a sword at her side. Her outfit drew glances from passers-by in the street, but she paid no heed. Bareheaded, with her long black braid draped over one shoulder, she was gazing fixedly at him.
‘Excuse me?’ he managed in reply.
‘You couldn’t help following me,’ she said, drawing closer.
The old soldier, growing red-faced in the heat, feigned shock.
‘Who, me?’ he protested.
‘What? You’re going to deny it …? You deny being here, at this very minute?’
He barely hesitated before answering.
‘I don’t deny the fact, I deny the intention. I wasn’t actually following you. I was simply going to the same place as you, that’s all.’
‘And that’s all,’ mimicked the baronne de Vaudreuil. ‘So what were you doing over there behind that big vault?’
‘I … I was taking a piss.’
‘In a cemetery?’
‘Best place for it, doesn’t bother anyone.’
She stared at him. Waiting. A trickle of sweat ran down Ballardieu’s upper lip and he became aware of a wisp of hair stuck to his forehead.
‘All right!’ he exclaimed, suddenly stretching his arms wide in surrender. ‘I was following you …! So what? Can you blame me for worrying?’
‘Worrying?’ asked Agnès in surprise. ‘Why?’
He looked warily around at the bystanders in the street and bent over to whisper in her ear:
‘All of you seem to believe, and you in particular, that Mère de Vaussambre is going to accept her defeat with all the graciousness in the world. But I say she has not abandoned
the idea of doing you an evil turn … Ergo, I’m watching over you.’
‘“Ergo”?’
‘Ergo. It means—’
‘I know what it means,’ Agnès laughed merrily. ‘But I didn’t know you spoke Latin … Very well, you old beast, you win. Watch over me as much as you please.’
‘You won’t even notice me, girl.’
‘It would be the first time that ever happened.’
Shaking her head in amused disbelief, Agnès turned back to the cemetery, and as her gaze drifted towards the site of Almades’ grave, hidden from her view, her smile slowly faded. Ballardieu became grim-faced as well.
‘So it was a dragon that did this?’ said the young woman after a moment.
‘Yes,’ replied Ballardieu, looking in the same direction. ‘And if Almades hadn’t been there, we would be grieving for La Fargue instead.’
Agnès’ eyes narrowed.
‘But there was another dragon there, in the room with them. The Alchemist.’
‘So …?’
‘So … when did dragons start killing each other?’
In the inn on the rue du Pot-de-Fer where he had become a regular, Leprat had eaten his noonday meal alone. He was now moodily sipping eau-de-vie and was absently rolling a pair of dice as he kept an eye on the door. He was waiting for Athos, who was supposed to join him here when he came off duty. They would then make their way to the Louvre together, and from there the Musketeers would escort the king to his château at Saint-Germain.
It had only been a few days since Athos had advised Leprat to be patient over the cold, and even sullenly hostile, manner in which the other musketeers had greeted his return to their ranks. According to Athos, the main reproach against him was fickleness, for having doffed and donned his cape too many times. So now he had to demonstrate his loyalty. If he avoided getting into any quarrels then time would smooth over the rest. He just needed to keep his head down for the time being.
Athos was right, for the most part. But Leprat was also aware that the other musketeers looked at him differently as news of his illness spread. The ranse was eating away at both his flesh and his soul. In the long run, decades in some cases, its victims were slowly and irremediably transformed into grotesque, pathetic creatures, whose deformed bodies and tortured minds clung hopelessly to the last shreds of their humanity. But one of the disease’s first symptoms was that at least some of the afflicted’s acquaintances began to treat them like monsters as soon as they learned of the illness, long before that final stage was reached, and saw nothing but the inevitable and abject fall from grace. From that point on, sufferers ceased to be themselves and became merely diseased.
