Cardinal's Blades

by Pierre Pevel

  “‘La Fargue’?”

  “An old captain and one of the king’s most faithful swordsmen. Believe me, his return does not bode well for us. Alone, this La Fargue makes a formidable opponent. But in the past he commanded the Cardinal’s Blades, a secret company of devoted and reliable men, capable, with La Fargue, of achieving the impossible. If they have been reunited …”

  Pensive and worried, the young woman fell silent.

  “Do you know the cardinal’s intentions?” Gagnière asked cautiously.

  “No. I merely guess at them.… Which is why I want you to make inquiries into this matter. Speak with our agent in the Palais-Cardinal and learn everything you can from him. Can you meet him soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perfect.”

  Having received his orders, and believing the interview to be over, the gentleman rose.

  But the vicomtesse, looking elsewhere, continued: “All this comes at the worst possible moment. We are about to achieve everything the Black Claw has been so desperate to accomplish for so long: to firmly establish itself in France. Our Spanish brothers and sisters have long since concluded that this goal is impossible, and although we are but a few hours from proving them wrong, I know that the majority are still doubtful. As for those who no longer doubt us, they already envy our forthcoming success—which amounts to saying that they too secretly hope for our failure.”

  “You think that—”

  “No, no …” said the vicomtesse, her hand brushing away the theory the marquis was about to propose. “Those who are envious will not try to harm us.… But they will not forgive the slightest shortcoming on our part and will seize any pretext to speak ill of us, of our plans, and of our competence. They will be only too happy to claim they would have succeeded where we might still fail.… These envious persons, moreover, have already begun to set their pawns in motion. I have been informed of the imminent arrival of a man sent to us by the Spanish lodge.”

  “Who?”

  “Savelda.”

  From the corner of her eye, the vicomtesse de Malicorne detected Gagnière’s dubious grimace.

  “Yes, marquis, I share the sentiment. I’ve been told that Savelda comes to help us put the finishing touches to our project, but I know that his true mission is to observe us and take note of our mistakes, in case someone wishes to reproach us—”

  “We should keep him in the dark, then.”

  “Absolutely not. But we shall be beyond any reproach.… Now you understand why it is essential that we foresee and fend off every blow the cardinal might like to strike against us, don’t you?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then start by catching that courier from Brussels. Then we shall take on the Cardinal’s Blades.”

  13

  Located at the entrance to a hamlet, which had no doubt risen up in its shadow, the inn was a typical example of the staging posts to be found across the country. In addition to the main building capped with red tiles it comprised a stable, a barn, a forge, a hen house, a loading area for coaches, and a small pig pen, all of which was enclosed by a high wall whose grey and white stones were warmed by the afternoon sun. A river flowed past nearby, turning the wheel of a small mill. Beyond, the meadows and fields where cattle grazed stretched away to the east until they met the edge of a verdant forest. The weather was splendid, and the light from the great clear sky shone so brightly that one was obliged to squint.

  A dog barked as a rider arrived.

  Hens were pecking away in the courtyard, where the wheel of a stagecoach was being changed. Once it was repaired the coach would be harnessed with fresh horses and reach Clermont by evening. The coachman was lending the blacksmith and his assistants a hand while the passengers watched or took advantage of this opportunity to stretch their legs. Coaches generally offered a reliable and rapid service, barring accidents and taking into account the state of the roads—for the most part dust tracks in summer and turning boggy after the first autumn rains. Passengers had to put up with the unpleasantness of travelling in a jouncing and noisy vehicle, open to the wind, squeezed together in fours on opposing wooden benches, shoulder to shoulder and knees pressed together.

  As soon as he dismounted, Antoine Leprat d’Orgueil held out the reins to a stable boy, no more than twelve years old, who was dressed in rough serge and ran around barefoot.

  “Groom him and feed him with good oats. But don’t let him drink too much. I leave again in an hour.”

  The rider spoke like a man accustomed to being obeyed. The child nodded and headed toward the stables, leading the horse behind him.

  Indifferent to the sidelong glances sent in his direction, Leprat spied a water trough into which, his hat in hand, he plunged his head. Then he rubbed his face and the back of his neck with fresh water, rinsed his mouth, spat, smoothed back his chestnut hair, and finally replaced his black hat with its grey plume and rim raised on the right-hand side. His dust-covered doublet, worn open over his shirt, had seen better days but it was made of fine cloth. His riding boots, dirtied and softened by use, also seemed to be well made. As for the rapier, ensconced in its scabbard which hung from his leather baldric, it was of a kind that no one, here or anywhere else, could boast of ever having seen the like. He carried it on the right, being left-handed.

  Leprat slowly climbed the steps to the main building, fronted by a gallery with ivy clinging to its beams. Having pushed the door to the building open he stood on the threshold for a moment, silence falling within the room as he looked over the ordinary travellers seated at several tables, and they observed him in return. Tall, well built, with stubbled cheeks and a stern gaze, he exuded a masculine charm which was reinforced by the warlike garb of a weary courier. A first glance suggested that here was a man who smiled little, spoke less, and did not seek to please others. He was between thirty-five and forty years old. His face had the lined features that indicate the iron will of a man of honour and duty who can no longer be moved or upset by anything, because he has already witnessed all the evils of this world. He did, however, spare a brief but tender look for a little girl who was sitting on her mother’s knee, dipping her chubby fingers into a bowl and smearing herself with jam.

  Leprat let the door close behind him. Conversations picked up again as he came inside, his iron-tipped boots thudding against the rough floor with a rattle of spurs. As he passed, a few noticed the sword he carried at his side. Only the pommel and guard could be seen above the scabbard, but they seemed to be carved from a solid block of a material which shone like polished ivory.

  A white rapier.

  That was enough to be intriguing, even if no one knew exactly what it implied. Elbows were nudged discreetly, and uncertain expressions were exchanged with looks of puzzlement.

  Having chosen a small empty table, Leprat sat with his back to a window through which, with a mere glance over his shoulder, he could cast an eye over the courtyard. The landlord, with greasy hair and a stained apron wrapped around the curve of his enormous belly, hastened toward him.

  “Welcome, monsieur. How can I be of service?”

  “Wine,” said Leprat, placing his hat and sheathed rapier on the table.

  Then, eyeing the bird roasting on a spit over the hearth, he added: “And the chicken, there. And bread.”

  “Immediately, monsieur. Hard travelling in this heat, isn’t it? You’d think it was already summer!”

  “Yes.”

  Understanding that the conversation would go no further, the landlord passed his order to a serving girl.

  Quickly served, Leprat dined without lifting his eyes from his plate. He had not unsaddled his horse since the previous evening and found himself more famished than tired. In fact, he did not even feel the aches and pains plaguing his back until he was finally sated. He had been riding hard on the road between Brussels, which he had left in the middle of the night almost three days previously, and Paris, where he hoped to arrive that very evening.

  The dog that h
ad welcomed him barked again.

  Turning his head toward the window, Leprat saw the riders arrive in the courtyard. He’d thought he’d succeeded in leaving them behind in Amiens, after the first ambush which he had eluded on the border between France and the Spanish Netherlands.

  Evidently, he had been mistaken.

  He summoned the serving girl with a calm gesture. An overly plump brunette of about twenty, she resembled the innkeeper so strongly she had to be his daughter.

  “Monsieur?”

  “Could I ask that you close the window curtains, please?”

  The young girl hesitated as the window in question was the only source of light in the room.

  “If you please,” Leprat insisted.

  “Certainly, monsieur.”

  She closed the curtains, blocking all view of the new arrivals who were dismounting outside. Inside the inn, there was some surprise at being suddenly pitched into shadow. But seeing who had made this request to the serving girl, all those present held their tongues.

  “There, monsieur.”

  “Now, do you see the woman with the white bonnet? The one with the little girl on her knee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take them both out of here, without delay. Whisper in the mother’s ear that they are in danger, and tell her she must leave for her own safety and that of the child.”

  “Excuse me? But, monsieur—”

  “Do it.”

  The young woman obeyed, looking worried. Leprat watched while she spoke quietly with the woman in the white bonnet. The woman frowned, and although she displayed some signs of concern, she seemed disinclined to move …

  … at least, not until the door opened.

  On seeing who it was, she hurried ahead of the serving girl into the kitchen, her little girl in her arms.

  Relieved, Leprat edged his chair back without rising.

  The freebooters entered with a swagger, as thugs everywhere enter a room when they are certain they are danger personified. Armed with rapiers and wearing thick leather doublets, they were grubby, sweaty, and stank of the stable. A tall thin man with long flaxen hair was in the lead—he wore a leather hat and had a scar across the corner of his lips which drew them into a strange, smiling rictus. The other three, each with a sinister bearing, escorted him closely and had the almost ordinary faces of conscienceless mercenaries who would cut a throat for a mouthful of bread. And then the last of the riders entered, and with his appearance alone managed to congeal the already apprehensive silence. He was a drac: a member of a race spawned by the dragons in order to serve them, known for its cruelty and violence. A grey drac, as it happened. Fine slate-coloured scales covered his jowled face, and his clawed hands had four fingers. He, too, was dressed as a hired killer.

  Dumbstruck, the patrons in the inn made a show of paying no attention to the freebooters, as if this ploy could somehow dispel their menacing presence. The innkeeper hesitated over whether or not to go up to them, hoping against all odds that they would desire neither food nor drink. In the end, his courage deserted him entirely and he decided to remain close by the door leading to the kitchen.

  The mercenaries slowly swept the room with inquisitorial gazes as their eyes adjusted to the half-light. When they saw Leprat, sitting with his back to the window and its closed curtains, they knew that they had found their man.

  They approached him without crowding one another and took up position before his table. The drac remained by the door, and when customers tried to rise discreetly in order to leave, he was content to simply turn his head toward them. His vertical, membranous eyelids closed briefly over his expressionless reptilian eyes. Everyone resumed their seats.

  The flaxen-haired man settled himself at Leprat’s table, sitting opposite him, without provoking any reaction.

  “May I?” he asked, pointing a finger at the chicken Leprat had been eating

  Without waiting for permission, he tore a wing from the plump carcass, bit into it, and gave a sigh of satisfaction.

  “This is truly an honour,” he said conversationally. “Now I can say I have shared a meal with the famous Antoine Leprat, chevalier d’Orgueil.… Because that’s who you are, are you not? No, no, don’t answer. Seeing that is proof enough.”

  With his chin he indicated the white rapier lying, in its scabbard, on the table.

  “Is it true that it was carved in one piece from the fang of an ancient dragon?”

  “From the point to the pommel.”

  “How many others like that do you think there are in the world?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps none.”

  The mercenary chief put on an admiring expression that might have been quite sincere. Half turning, he called out: “Innkeeper! Wine for the chevalier and I. Be sure it’s your best!”

  “Yes, monsieur. At … at once.”

  The two men locked eyes until the innkeeper came to serve them with a trembling hand, then scurried away leaving the wine jug. Leprat remained impassive as the other lifted his glass; upon seeing that his gesture was not imitated, the mercenary shrugged and drank alone.

  “And me. Do you know who I am?”

  The chevalier eyed him with contempt and did not reply.

  “I am called Malencontre.”

  Leprat smiled faintly.

  Malencontre.

  In other words: mishap. Or ill met.

  Yes, that name did indeed fit this character.

  14

  “Do I know enough?”

  “You will always know enough, if your adversary knows less than you.”

  “But would you say I’ve progressed?”

  Having counted up his meagre salary, Almades tightened the strings of his purse and raised his eyes toward the very young man who, still sweaty and out of breath from his latest fencing lesson, was watching him anxiously. He knew that look. He had seen it often in the past year, and he was astonished that he was still moved by it.

  “Yes, monsieur. You have indeed made progress.”

  It was no lie, considering that a week earlier the man had never held a sword in his life. He was a law student, who had come one morning to this inn, located in the outlying district—known as a faubourg—of Saint-Antoine, seeking the courtyard where Almades received his clients. He had a duel to fight, and wanted to learn how to cross blades. Time was short. But wasn’t it said that this backyard, where the Spaniard taught, was a better school than the finest fencing halls in Paris? Paid for in coin, no doubt a few lessons, properly learnt and applied, would suffice. After all, he only needed an unstoppable flurry of two or three clever thrusts to kill his man, didn’t he?

  Almades frequently asked himself, when faced with students like this, if these young men truly believed in the existence of such “deadly thrusts” which, once their secrets were mastered, were capable of guaranteeing success without any need for fencing talent. And even if there were such a thing, did they imagine this mysterious knowledge could be had for a mere fistful of pistoles? But it was highly likely that this student, terrified by the prospect of risking his life, sword in hand, would want to believe it to be true. Like all the others, he would be led by honour, pride, or stupidity to the meadow tomorrow. He was afraid and, now that he was committed to this duel, hoped for salvation from a miracle worker.

  Almades had carefully explained that in the time available to them he could not do more than impart the basic rudiments of fencing, that the greatest swashbuckler ever born was never certain to carry the day, and that it was always better to renounce a bad duel than one’s life. But faced with the student’s insistence he had accepted taking him on as a pupil, for a week, on condition that he paid the greater part of the agreed fee in advance. Experience had taught Almades that novices, put off by the difficulty of actually learning to fence, were quick to abandon their lessons, and with them, payment of any tuition.

  This one, however, had not yet given up.

  “I beg you, monsieur, tell me if I am ready,” the young man
pleaded. “I must fight tomorrow!”

  The fencing master stared at him for a long while.

  “Above all else,” he finally said, “what truly matters is whether you are ready to die.”

  His full name was Anibal Antonio Almades di Carlo. He was tall and thin, clearly of a naturally slender build, but had grown gaunt due to long periods of hunger. He had dark eyes and hair with a pale complexion and a grizzled but still tidy moustache. His doublet, his shirt, and his shoes were clean, although discreetly patched in places, and the lace at his collar and cuffs had seen hard use. His hat was missing its plume and the leather of his fold-over boots was unpolished. But even if he had nothing but rags to wear, Almades would have worn them well. Old Andalusian blood ran in his veins, nourishing his entire being with a haughty austerity which shone forth from him.

  Brutally confronted by the prospect of his own death, the student blanched.

  “Your duel,” asked the fencing master to lessen the blow, “Is it to first blood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s for the best. Rather than employing this science to kill your adversary, use it to ensure you’re only slightly wounded. Stay on the defensive. Take breaks to conserve your strength and catch your breath. Wait for a mistake; it’s always possible that your adversary will make a clumsy move. But don’t be in too much of a hurry to finish him off, as you risk exposing yourself. And hold your left hand high enough to protect your face if necessary: it’s better to lose a finger than an eye.”

  The young man nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I will do exactly as you say.”

  “Goodbye, monsieur.”

  “Goodbye, master.”

  They parted with a handshake.

  * * *

  Leaving the gloom of the inn, Almades went out into the open courtyard at the rear, a simple square of beaten earth where he supervised the exercises of his rare students. Hens squawked nearby; a horse neighed; a cow could even be heard lowing in the distance. The faubourg Saint-Antoine was a recent addition to the city, still very rural in character, made up of new dwellings and manors whose façades along both sides of the dusty roads converging on Paris hid the surrounding farms, fields, and pasture land from travellers’ sight. The faubourg began in the shadow of the Bastille, just beyond the Saint-Antoine gate and the city’s defensive moat, and the buildings progressively thinned out as one moved away from the capital and its stink.