Cardinal's Blades

by Pierre Pevel

  Then he placed himself en garde.

  And waited.

  The tables around them finished emptying in a clatter of moving furniture. Silent and anxious, the inn’s patrons huddled tight against the walls or on the steps of the staircase leading to the first floor. No one wanted to receive an ill-judged blow. But they all wanted to watch. The innkeeper himself had taken refuge in the kitchen. It seemed he lacked the stomach for this type of entertainment.

  In a corner, the drac wrapped up Malencontre’s hand with shreds torn from the first handy piece of cloth. The other three, finally untangled and ready to fight, prudently deployed themselves in a semicircle. Without taking his eyes off them, the chevalier d’Orgueil allowed them to approach.

  Closer.

  Much closer.

  In reach of a blade.

  That should have worried them, but they realised it too late.

  Leprat suddenly thrust his right hand behind him and pulled open the curtains. Brilliant daylight burst into the darkened room, clearly revealing his dark silhouette and striking the mercenaries in the face. Without waiting, he struck. The ivory rapier found one blinded freebooter’s throat and produced a scarlet spurt which the villain tried in vain to staunch with his fingers. He fell, blood bubbling from his mouth and nostrils. Leprat broke off his attack immediately and dodged a clumsy lunge from another mercenary, who was still protecting his eyes from the sun with his elbow. Leprat doubled him up with a blow from his knee and sent him smashing, headfirst, into the mantelpiece. The man’s skull cracked. He fell face-first into the hearth and began to burn; the smell of scorched hair and cooking meat was quick to impregnate the room. The third brigand, who could now see better, was already charging him from behind, brandishing his sword. Leprat didn’t turn. In one movement he reversed his sword and wedged it beneath his armpit, took a step back, and dropped to one knee, allowing his attacker to impale himself on the ivory blade. The man stiffened, arm raised, face incredulous, and lips dribbling pink spit. Leprat slowly returned to his feet, pivoted, and finished driving his blade into the body, up to the hilt. He stared deeply into the dead man’s eyes, and then pushed the corpse away, to fall backward to the floor.

  Less than a minute had passed since he had opened the curtain, and three assassins were already lying dead beneath blows from the chevalier d’Orgueil. He was well known in Paris, in the Louvre as well as in all the fencing schools, as one of the best swordsmen in France. Evidently his reputation was not undeserved.

  Malencontre was in no state to fight, but the drac was still waiting to enter the fray.

  Leprat sized him up. He snapped out a sharp movement with his rapier which spattered the floor with red droplets, drew a dagger from its sheath over his kidney with his left hand, and resumed the en garde position. The drac seemed to smile. In his turn, he crossed his arms before him and simultaneously drew a straight sabre and a dagger.

  He would also fight with two weapons.

  The duel was furious from the very first exchange. Tense and concentrated, the drac and Leprat exchanged attacks, parries, counterattacks, and ripostes without holding back. The reptilian understood who he was fighting and the chevalier quickly realised the worthiness of his opponent. Neither seemed to have the upper hand. When one of them retreated a few paces, he was quick to reclaim the advantage. And when the other was forced to parry a flurry of blows, he always managed to take the initiative with his next attack. Leprat was an experienced and talented swordsman, but the drac had greater strength and endurance: his arm seemed indefatigable. Steel against ivory, ivory against steel, the blades spun and clashed together faster than the eye could see. Leprat was sweating, and could feel himself tiring.

  He had to finish it quickly.

  Finally daggers and swords crossed at the guards. Pushing one against the other the drac and Leprat found themselves nose to nose, their arms extended above them like a steeple. With a mighty bellow, the drac spat a mouthful of acid into the chevalier’s face, who replied with a powerful head butt. He managed to stun his opponent and, seizing the moment, wiped his burning eyes on his sleeve, but the drac was already rushing at him with foaming mouth and bloody nostrils. It was a weakness of dracs: they were impulsive and quick to abandon themselves to blind rage.

  Leprat saw an opportunity that wouldn’t present itself a second time.

  With one foot, he slid a stool into the drac’s path. The reptilian stumbled but continued his charge, half running, half falling as he came. His attack was fierce but inaccurate. Leprat stepped aside and pivoted toward the left as the reptilian passed him on the right. He managed to turn and slash, arm extended horizontally.

  The ivory rapier sliced neatly through its target.

  A scaly head spun and, at the end of a bloody arc, bounced against the floor and rolled a considerable distance. The decapitated drac’s body fell, releasing a thick jet of liquid from its neck.

  Leprat immediately looked for Malencontre. He didn’t find him, but heard cries and the sound of hoofbeats out in the courtyard. He rushed to the door in time to see the man escaping at a gallop, watched by those who had remained outside and were only now emerging from their hiding places.

  Stained with the blood of his victims, the remains of the acidic reptilian spit still clinging to his cheeks, Leprat went back inside the inn. He was the focus of attention of all those present, whose reactions wavered between horror and relief. So far no one was inclined to move, and certainly not to talk. The soles of nervous feet scraped against the raw wooden floor.

  Weapons in hand, Leprat contemplated the carnage and disorder with a tranquil air. Amidst the upturned furniture, the broken plates, and the trampled food, three bodies lay in thick pools of blood, while the fourth continued to burn in the hearth, the greasy flesh of his face crackling in contact with the flames. The smell, a mixture of blood, bile, and fear, was appalling.

  A door creaked open and the innkeeper came out of the kitchen brandishing an antique arquebus before him. The fat man wore a ridiculous-looking helmet on his head and a breastplate whose straps he was unable to fasten. And due to the trembling of his limbs, the barrel of his weapon—gaping open like an incredulous mouth—seemed to be following the erratic path of an invisible fly.

  Leprat almost laughed, but succeeded only in smiling wearily.

  It was then he saw the blood running from his right hand and realised that he had been wounded.

  “All’s well,” he said. “In the king’s service.”

  17

  “What?” exclaimed a merchant. “That Amazon with the flying hair who galloped past us this morning? A baronne?”

  “God’s truth!” confirmed the old soldier. “Just as I told you!”

  “It’s beyond belief!” blurted another merchant.

  “And yet,” added a pedlar who knew the region well. “Nothing could be truer.”

  “And since when did baronnes carry swords, around here?

  “Why, since it pleased them to—”

  “It’s simply extraordinary!”

  “The baronne Agnès de Vaudreuil …” sighed the first merchant dreamily.

  “It’s said she’s of excellent birth,” said the second.

  “Old nobility of the sword,” declared the veteran of the Wars of Religion. “The best. The true.… Her ancestors went on the crusades and her father fought beside King Henri.”

  This exchange took place at the Silver Cask, a village hostelry on the road to Paris. The two merchants had stopped there after concluding their business at an excellent market in Chantilly, which explained their shared good humour. Two more men had invited themselves to join their table. One was a quaint, garrulous local, an old soldier with a wooden leg who lived on a meagre pension, passing the greater part of his days drinking, if possible at someone else’s expense. The other was a pedlar who seemed not at all eager to resume his rounds, carrying his heavy wicker pannier on his back. It was an hour after dinner and, with the afternoon rush over, the tables ha
d quickly emptied. With the aid of wine, the conversation rolled along freely and vigorously.

  “She seemed very beautiful to me,” said a merchant.

  “Beautiful?” repeated the veteran. “She is more than that.… Her firm tits. Her long thighs. And her arse, my friends … that arse!”

  “The way you speak of her arse I would swear you’d seen it?”

  “Bloody hell! I’ve not had that good fortune.… But others have seen it. And felt it. And enjoyed it. For it’s a very welcoming arse, indeed.…”

  The drinkers were talkative, the subject ripe for discussion and the wine pitchers quickly emptied, all to be replaced immediately. However, the prospect of a handsome profit was not enough to gladden the heart of master Léonard, owner of the Silver Cask. Anxious, but not daring to intervene, he kept an eye on another customer sitting all alone at a table, visibly fuming.

  The man wore sagging funnel-shaped boots, brown leather trousers, and a large red velvet doublet left open over his bare chest. His body was of a robust build but weighed down with fat—large thighs, broad shoulders, and a thick neck. He might have been fifty-five years old, perhaps more. Beneath a close-cut beard, his lined face was that of an old soldier who had grown soft over the last few years, and interlacing crimson veins—which would soon blossom into blotches—decorated his cheeks. Nevertheless, his eyes remained sharp. And the impression of strength which emanated from his person was unmistakable.

  “And where are they, these happy arse-samplers?” gaily demanded the most cheerful, and most drunk, of the merchants. “I would like to hear more from them!”

  “They’re all about. This beauty is not shy.”

  “It’s said she kills her lovers,” interjected the pedlar.

  “Nonsense!”

  “You might better say that she exhausts them!” corrected the veteran with a bawdy wink of the eye. “If you know what I mean.…”

  “I see, yes,” nodded the merchant. “And I say, myself, that there are worse deaths than that.… I’d gladly flirt with her myself, the naughty wench!”

  Hearing that, the man who had been listening to them unnoticed rose with the air of someone resolved to carry out a necessary task. He advanced with steady steps and was halfway to the table when master Léonard nimbly barred his path, a somewhat courageous act, since he was two heads shorter and only half the other man’s weight. But the safekeeping of his establishment was at stake.

  “Monsieur Ballardieu, please?”

  “Don’t be alarmed, master Léonard. You know me.”

  “Precisely. With respect … they’ve been drinking. No doubt, too much. They don’t know what they’re—”

  “I tell you, there’s no cause for concern,” the man said with a friendly and reassuring smile.

  “Just promise me you won’t start anything,” begged the innkeeper.

  “I promise to do everything possible to that end.”

  Master Léonard stepped aside with regret and, wiping his damp hands on his apron, watched Ballardieu continue on his way.

  On seeing him, the veteran with the wooden leg turned pale. The three others, in contrast, were taken in by his easy manner.

  “Please excuse me, messieurs, for interrupting you.…”

  “Please, monsieur,” replied a merchant. “What can we do for you? Would you care to join our table?”

  “Just a question.”

  “We’re listening.”

  “I would like to know which of your four heads I shall have the honour of breaking first.”

  18

  A sound disturbed the drowsing Saint-Lucq.

  It was a repeated, irregular scratching, which sometimes seemed to have stopped only to promptly begin again. A scrape of a claw. Against wood.

  The half-blood sighed and sat up under the bedclothes. The afternoon was drawing to a close.

  “What is it?” asked the muffled voice of the young woman lying beside him in bed.

  “You can’t hear it?”

  “I can.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  And she turned over, pulling the bedcovers round her.

  Having two or three hours to kill during the day, Saint-Lucq had approached her on rue de Glatigny, an alley in the city where ladies of pleasure had plied their trade since the Middle Ages. He had offered to pay her handsomely on the condition that he could also take rest in her dwelling. The deal concluded, she had led him into the little attic room where she lived, close to the law courts. “You’re not my first,” she had said, on seeing the half-blood’s reptilian eyes.

  Then she’d undressed.

  An hour later, she was asleep. As for Saint-Lucq, he had remained awake for a moment, looking at the stripped plaster ceiling. He had no preference for the company of prostitutes but their bought hospitality had its advantages—one being that, unlike hoteliers, they did not keep a guest register.

  The scratching continued.

  Saint-Lucq rose, put on his breeches and his shirt, listened carefully, and drew back the nasty brown rag which served as a curtain to the sole window. The sound was coming from there. Daylight entered, and the silhouette of a black dragonnet was clearly visible behind the pane of glass.

  The half-blood was still for a moment.

  “Is he yours?”

  The young woman—she claimed to be called Madeleine, “like the other Magdalene”—sat up and, squinting in the light, grumbled: “No. But it seems to think so.… I made the mistake of feeding it two or three times. Now it won’t stop coming here to beg for more.”

  Truly wild dragonnets had almost disappeared in France. But those that were lost, had escaped, or had been abandoned by their masters lived in the cities like stray cats.

  “Find me something to feed him,” ordered Saint-Lucq as he opened the window.

  “Oh, no! I want to persuade him to go elsewhere. And it’s not—”

  “I’ll pay for it as well. Surely you have something he’ll eat?”

  Madeleine rose, naked, while the half-blood watched the dragonnet and the dragonnet watched the half-blood, with equal wariness. The reptile’s scales shone in the light of the waning sun.

  “There,” said Madeleine, bringing in a cloth tied together at the corners.

  Saint-Lucq untied the linen and found a half-eaten dried-up sausage.

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all,” confirmed the young woman, already back in bed. “But there’s a roast-meat seller on the street corner, if you like …”

  Hand held flat, the half-blood presented a morsel of sausage to the dragonnet. The animal hesitated, sniffed, took the food in at the tip of its pointed muzzle, and seemed to chew it with some regret.

  “You prefer your victims to be alive and fighting, don’t you?” murmured Saint-Lucq. “Well, so do I.…”

  “What are you saying?” asked Madeleine from the bed.

  He didn’t reply, and continued to feed the dragonnet.

  A wyvern—which, ridden by a royal messenger, was returning to the Louvre—passed high above them, giving voice to a hollow cry from the skies. As though responding to the great reptile’s call, the black dragonnet suddenly spread its leathery wings and was gone.

  Saint-Lucq shut the window, swallowed the remains of the sausage, and finished getting dressed.

  “You’re leaving?” asked Madeleine.

  “So it would seem.”

  “You have a meeting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who with?”

  The half-blood hesitated, then offered a truth so incredible it might as well be a lie.

  “With the Grand Coësre.”

  The prostitute laughed loudly.

  “Oh, really! Say hello for me. And to the entire Court of Miracles, while you’re at it … !”

  Saint-Lucq simply smiled.

  A minute later, he buttoned his doublet, hung his sheathed sword from his belt, and fitted his strange spectacles with their crimson l
enses. Then, from the attic room’s threshold, the door already half open, he turned and threw two pieces of silver on to the bed.

  The gesture astonished Madeleine since she had already been paid for her services.

  “That’s a lot for a little bit of sausage,” she teased him.

  “The first coin is for you to feed the dragonnet if it returns.”

  “Done. And the second?”

  “It’s so you don’t forget what the first is for.”

  19

  Arnaud de Laincourt lived on rue de la Ferronnerie which ran between the neighbourhoods of Sainte-Opportune and Les Halles, extending rue Saint-Honoré, skirting the Saints-Innocents cemetery, and linking up with rue des Lombards, thus creating one of the longest routes through the capital. Broad, at almost four metres across, and heavily used, it was a place of sad memories: it was here that Ravaillac had stabbed Henri IV when the royal coach was halted by the busy street traffic. But this detail aside, Laincourt’s address was quite commonplace. He rented accommodation in a house similar to many others in Paris: tall and narrow, crammed in between its neighbours, with a small shop on the ground floor—a ribbon seller, as it happened. Next to this establishment, a door for residents opened onto a corridor which passed through the building and led to a lightless staircase. From there, the top floors could be reached by following a shaky wooden banister up through the fetid air well.

  Laincourt had his foot on the first step when he heard the squeak of hinges behind him in the shadowy corridor.

  “Good morning, officer.”

  It was monsieur Laborde, the ribbon seller. He must have seen him arrive, just as he saw everyone who came and went. In addition to the shop, he rented the three rooms on the first floor for himself and his family, as well as one poor, tiny room on the second floor for their maid. He was the principal lodger in the house. Because of this, he collected the rent and claimed to keep an eye on everything, puffed up with pride, jealous of the trust placed in him by the landlord, and very concerned about the respectability of the place.