‘Think you’ll fool me, little man.’ The voice was angry and drunk.
Looking up, Sebastian could see the soldier above him, red-faced and steadying himself for another go. Noticing some passers-by had gathered, he glanced round desperately for help.
His efforts proved successful. ‘Damn you, aren’t you going to help the man?’
‘I would if he hadn’t done the same to me last week. You will not take my money a second time. Gentlemen, this man is a thief.’
It took Sebastian a moment to realise what was happening, as he saw the expressions of those around him change first to confusion and then anger. However, it was only with the first cry of ‘get him’ that he thought to move. He looked around. There was no escape, only a palisade of shins. He looked again. This time, alongside a pair of stained knickerbockers, an opening! He propelled himself forward, scuttling through and pulling himself upright. Then he felt a hand on his collar. Using his momentum, he was able to spin and break the grip, but it was only a matter of time. Seeing where the crowd was thickest, he plunged his way into the mass, ignoring the shouts and yells from behind. If he had been taller, someone might have caught him, but beneath the heads of the crowd, he became invisible – a fish that had slipped its hook and was safe beneath the surface again. Even so, he didn’t stop until long after the cries of his pursuers had faded into the surrounding hum. This one had been too close, and he knew that for all his skill, it was only a matter of time. So, when the day came that he finally earned his chance at escape, he snatched it without a thought.
The King
(1632 – 1635)
It was the fifth of June 1632 and Sebastian was now twenty-four. He had grown into a man, or at least as much of a man as he would ever be. His beard was finally thick enough to conceal the recessive jaw and he could at last look at his reflection without revulsion. Indeed, from the neck up, he looked almost normal. His ragged hair and dark eyes lent him an intellectual bearing, offset by an amiable softness to the nose. It looked peculiar, such a serious face on a small frame, but peculiar still made a considerable improvement on grotesque.
He was sitting in the Place de Grève, his back to the Hôtel de Ville as he watched the ships unload, their nets bulbous clouds heavy with boxes as the hoists swung their loads onto shore. Then the scuttle of dockers pulling them away and the merchants descending on their cargo in a swarm, levering open the booty before carrying it to waiting carts or else secreting it among the honeycomb of barrels and boxes piled along the riverside.
He was distracted by a group of overdressed men striding across the square, all clothed in blue with golden fleurs-de-lis. With nothing better to do, Sebastian decided to have a little fun with them. It was one of the few advantages of living on the street. After all, those who have little have little to lose, and he had very little indeed. The man in front struck him as the most suitable target – heavy-chopped and swollen with his own importance – and, rushing out into his path, he promptly introduced himself by pleading for a sou. After making an unsuccessful attempt to brush him away, the man was forced to take a step sideways, much to his irritation.
‘My stomach’s only small, Your Grace. Your money will go further with me. Half a loaf and some cheese and I’ll be full for the day.’
‘I’m not Your Grace, fool. That’s a duke . . . anyway do you have any idea who I am?’
‘No.’
‘I am a chamberlain of the King.’
The man halted and stared down over a puffed chest, expecting compliance. However, Sebastian had seen the back corridors of enough noble houses to have little respect for titles, least of all a glorified servant.
‘Five sous, then.’ This was enough to draw laughs and the men circled around Sebastian, enclosing him between walls of gold stars and blue sky.
‘Bet his mother got the shock of her life when he popped out.’ The whisper came from Sebastian’s left and drew a rumble of laughter.
‘At least my father didn’t.’ It came out before he could stop himself – but thankfully they took it well, even the recipient of his abuse seemed amused.
‘You give as good as you get, don’t you, dwarf?’
‘That depends what I’m given . . . on the subject of which . . .’
‘How about a room, board and two livres a week?’
The response silenced Sebastian, and he looked every bit as bemused as the dozens of employers who had refused him over the years. ‘Are you offering me work?’
‘We’ll try you out first. And you’ll have to mind your tongue. The King’s court isn’t the gutter, you know.’
Sebastian stared at the man, still not quite able to comprehend what was happening. But the face seemed sincere.
‘What would the King want with someone like me?’
‘To perform at court, of course. We have need of dwarfs. Go to the palace at sundown and ask for me. My name’s Alain Bouchard . . . oh, and your five sous.’
The chamberlain pressed the money into Sebastian’s open hand and walked off. Sebastian, meanwhile, remained where he was, staring at nothing in particular, and it was some time before he allowed himself first a smile, then a snigger and finally a roar of delirious laughter. It seemed fantastic, almost ludicrous. That after so many years of trying to find work, it had been work that found him. And not simply any work, but work at the royal court. For he, Sebastian Morra, was now a servant of His Majesty King Louis XIII of France.
* * *
Sebastian had always tended to avoid the Louvre. Along with the Pont Neuf and the Île Saint-Louis, it was both popular with the watch and intolerant of peddlers. It felt very different to the rest of the city. The streets were paved and the buildings boasted high windows and classical flourishes. Passing by the waterfront, he even had enough space to enjoy a view of the Seine, or what he could see of it through the carpet of barges, rafts and ships. On reaching the palace, he found himself confronted by the largest building he had ever seen. Trudging round its walls looking for the entrance, he found it impossible to comprehend its dimensions. From whichever angle he viewed it, he could only ever see two edges, never the whole, and he remained unsure whether it was square, pentagonal or something in between. Eventually, after a walk that would have taxed a normal man, let alone one of his proportions, he came across a wrought-iron gate, painted black, its details in gold. Bouchard was waiting. He frowned over crossed arms and greeted Sebastian with a tut.
‘You’re late. Keep the King waiting and I’ll have your bloody head, understand?’ Leaning down, he snapped his fingers in front of Sebastian’s eyes, demanding acknowledgement.
‘It won’t happen again.’
The reply seemed to satisfy Bouchard, who summoned a footman with a clap of fleshy hands.
‘Take him to his quarters – third floor, room twenty-six.’
Inside, the palace seemed even larger, an endless sequence of huge and pillared chambers floored with marble and roofed in gold; its cathedral proportions possessing a serenity which seemed unnatural after the bustle of the streets outside. Sebastian found it difficult to keep up with the footman as he gaped at the painted landscapes, tapestries, and silhouettes of Roman busts – dazzled by the pomp and feeling utterly out of place.
Eventually they took an unmarked side door and walked into surroundings that were more familiar – rough plaster walls with long rows of plain doors, each with a name painted on in white. A few had Roman numerals, presumably the empty ones. His was at the end of the corridor – XXVI – yet to be assigned a title. After being ushered inside, he was informed, ‘Privy’s at the end of the corridor. Pick up your food and candles from the kitchen. You’ll get work from the chamberlain.’ Then the door closed and he was alone.
It wasn’t much of a room (little more than a cot, chest and a grate), but he was overjoyed nonetheless. He was used to lodging houses and shared, dank cellars. This, however, felt like a home, with thick walls, a window and somewhere to warm his feet, and he immediately decided t
o make it his own, retrieving coins from various seams of his clothing as he mulled over what to buy. A wardrobe first, then an escritoire, perhaps with a silver inkwell and swan-feather quill like Père Jean’s. A footstool, of course, to help him reach the window. Maybe new candlesticks, and some books to go with his Gargantua and Pantagruel (it had been the one thing he kept during his days on the street, something to sustain him during more difficult times). It would be expensive, far more than he had. But, with two livres a day and a bit of skimping here and there, not an impossible hope. He was still deciding where precisely to place the wardrobe when he was interrupted by a knock from outside.
Opening the door, Sebastian looked up to see who was there but found himself staring at empty space. It was only when he looked down that he saw what he momentarily took to be a mirror and then realised was another dwarf. In fact, not just one dwarf, but two. He continued to stare and it was some time before he managed to stumble out a greeting, at which point the first dwarf introduced himself as Jerome, the other as Claude. Jerome suffered the same affliction as Sebastian and it showed on his face, though his light hair was wispy and his beard less able to hide his chin. Claude was older, perhaps in his forties, but perfectly proportioned, with neat features and a bald scalp. Unfortunately, he also seemed to be moronically stupid and it only took Sebastian a few moments to conclude they had nothing in common beyond their height and sex. Jerome, however, showed more promise, though he was a little brusque in manner. Naturally, when the pair enquired how he had arrived at court, Sebastian was discreet, not wanting to air his past, and claimed to have arrived from Camoches only a few days before. Fortunately, they didn’t probe any further and the conversation soon moved on to their performance that evening, at which point Jerome produced a costume and ran through the parts.
Any concerns Sebastian had about the difficulties of his post were dispelled when he heard his lines. It barely ranked as farce. The performance consisted entirely of making pyramids, tugs of war, along with a series of very bad impersonations, all the time wearing voluminous trousers, which only further increased his chances of falling over. Not that he minded, of course. If people wanted to pay to watch him make an ass of himself, then more fool them. It certainly made a considerable improvement on the street.
* * *
The performance took place during dinner in the great hall, a vast chamber overhung by heavy chandeliers. An avenue of candelabras tapered away to the far wall, where a table stood on a raised dais encircled by a sparkling patchwork of tapestries. Sebastian could just about discern a canopy amid the splendour, and beneath it what looked like a throne – as they drew closer, he continued to stare with growing fascination. After all, this was no normal person. This was Louis XIII, heir of Clovis and Charlemagne, chosen by God to command the realm and crowned in Rheims. And he did indeed look magnificent, with a cascading wig and brushed robes of ermine and velvet. However, he seemed ill at ease with his magnificence and was struggling to eat while keeping the wig out of his bowl and the food from his collar. He was seated at the centre of a long table, spread with gold plate. Members of the great houses of France sat on each side – all dressed in brocades, velvets and organza. Their clothes were iridescent in the candlelight, giving the illusion of disembodied heads floating in glitter. They seemed amused by the performance, Sebastian in particular, their faces bobbing as they tittered at the latest novelty come to entertain them. All except for the King, who observed the evening’s events over a half-eaten chicken leg with the weary air of a man reliving an evening he had already lived far too many times before.
One thing Sebastian couldn’t fathom was his silence. During the whole performance the King didn’t say a word, as the others chattered amongst themselves. Even afterwards, he didn’t speak, remaining mute as he picked his way through both the second and third courses. Sebastian assumed it was shyness. The man clearly loathed the formalities of kingship, and seemed visibly embarrassed by the bows and curtsies of others, shunning every servant’s offer of help.
It was only during the final course that Louis finally spoke, and when he did, the reason for his silence became clear: a stammer that reduced all speech to a thick-tongued gargle. The voice was impossible to connect to the man. He was unable to utter even the shortest of sentences before collapsing into bumbling repetition. It was like listening to a bad imitation of an idiot, and Sebastian could see the frustration as he battled with his tongue, the faces of his listeners contorting as they tried not to laugh. Sebastian, however, found something inspiring in his impediment. Seeing such a powerful man struggle with infirmity provided hope and a comforting reminder that he was not alone.
* * *
Eager to find out more about his new acquaintance, Sebastian decided to go to the tavern with Jerome the following day. While the evening began pleasantly enough, it wasn’t long before the atmosphere began to sour. Despite his young age, Jerome’s features were puffed with drink, his nose veined red and purple. And after pickling himself with cheap wine for much of the evening, he let pour his indignation, raging at the injustices of the world until his grape-stained mouth finally ran out of expletives and he passed out on the table.
Hoping for an improvement, Sebastian tried again the following night. If anything it was worse than before. After being rejected by one of the local prostitutes, Jerome began drinking aggressively and grew ever more abusive. Rabid with indignation, he was barely more than an animal by the end, drooling and incoherent. When Sebastian finally intervened, Jerome turned on him for being ‘just like the rest of them, with your fancy words, thinking you’re better than us’, ending the evening shortly afterward by swinging a punch and leaving him with a black eye for his trouble.
After that, he gave up. It was pointless and dispiriting. Not so much because of Jerome’s behaviour, but for what it implied. Sebastian was searching for wisdom and experience, to learn another’s lessons. Instead he saw a man ignored by everyone around him – who had given up and stood isolated, screaming at a world of deaf ears. From then on, Sebastian kept his relationship with Claude and Jerome to polite talk or rehearsing whatever they were performing that day. He found no comfort from knowing them, only a reminder of his own frustrations.
* * *
Sebastian had never quite felt part of the society around him. As he saw it, there had always been two worlds: his own and another where everything took place two feet above his head. The court was no different, a foreign place ruled by tradition and etiquette. Every morning at nine-thirty precisely, the King would be led to his throne, where a queue of petitioners awaited him. He would then hold audiences for the remainder of the day, usually with a trusted councillor to assist. Meals were opulent, held at set hours and consisting of many courses. However, beneath this veneer of long-respected convention, there was another, more secretive domain, which unfolded in the shadows, in corners and whispered asides. Its mood followed strange tides, the courtiers inexplicably scuttling around like disturbed beetles or else flocking together, impassive birds of prey. Nothing was said openly, though occasionally he would catch a rumour, that such-and-such a person had joined a particular faction, or so-and-so was an agent of Richelieu. But there were only ever indications, suggestions, and inferences – nothing was certain. For Sebastian it was like looking at smooth water and seeing a track of ripples across the surface – a sense of not knowing what lay beneath.
However, a few truths were readily apparent: the principal of which was that the King only ruled France in name. Anyone could see he was no leader. Instead a child, but a child who had grown unchecked, without anyone to impose authority or make clear the realities of life – most clearly manifested in a hatred of formality and juvenile impatience which refused to accept being delayed a moment longer than necessary. And though he did possess gravitas of a kind, it was a teenage solemnity, the behaviour of someone playing the part of a man. Incapable of laughing at himself, he would instead make lengthy proclamations about justice and dut
y, all in a stammer that only further tortured his leaden prose.
* * *
Mostly Louis avoided the demands of court, preferring to spend his life hunting or playing war with his soldiers and travelling with a vast collection of harquebuses, which he kept like so many toys. Occasionally his sense of duty would compel him to attend a meeting of the Conseil d’État or to deliver a speech to the Parlement. Even so, he was always careful to keep his pronouncements suitably statesmanlike – a few lines of fatuous rhetoric that no one could disagree with: defeating enemies, bringing glory or fulfilling the divine will of the French people. The task of actually living up to this bombast was left to the exasperated ministers seated behind him, all sunken-eyed with exhaustion. The people, however, loved him for it. To them Louis was not a ruler, but a symbol – the face on their coins, the name they were asked to pray for every Sunday, the son of Henri le Grand, and God’s representative on earth. They never saw him govern or heard him speak. He was required to be little more than a cipher, and it was a role he filled to perfection.
The Cardinal's Man Page 4
