Coiled tight with frustration, Cinq-Mars couldn’t stand it any longer and pressed Sebastian up against the wall, his right hand balled into a fist.
‘This isn’t over.’ He leaned in, nose-to-nose, his face swelling into a single raging eye. ‘You will pay for this.’ And with that he thrust Sebastian down onto the tiles before striding out of the door.
Sebastian lifted himself up, sore but satisfied. It had been worth it. And for all his bluff, he knew the marquis was bluffing more.
* * *
Over the following month, Sebastian continued to take revenge on the marquis each and every evening, giving him the knowing stare while referring to him in turn as: a pampered, over-praised little guttersnipe; a jumped-up country squire leeching off his betters; a dim-witted layabout not even worthy of the ignominious title he lays claim to; a powdered, bewigged, scent-infused, embroidered, grandiloquent heap of excrement – because shit is still shit no matter how much perfume you put on it.
And each time his eyes would meet Cinq-Mars’ glower from the lower tables, surrounded by a circle of indifferent courtiers as they chatted and joked among themselves, oblivious to their neighbour’s nightly humiliation.
* * *
It was the knock of bad news – two voiceless raps, sharp and staccato. Sebastian’s fears were confirmed when he opened the door to see the footman, his black doublet carrying the cardinal’s coat of arms topped by its familiar red galero.
‘Please accompany me. My master desires your presence.’ The voice was as functional as the knuckle had been.
Sebastian tried not to show his panic but, like all the court, his fear of the cardinal ran deep. And with good reason, as it was generally agreed that a summons from Richelieu meant death, dismemberment or disgrace – occasionally all three. Sebastian asked the footman to repeat the name, hoping there had been a mistake. The man then repeated ‘Sebastian Morra’ in clipped tones – acid polite – adding that he was expected immediately and leaving Sebastian with no option but to put on his coat and follow.
The journey was short, only five minutes from the north wing of the palace. It was a beautiful evening. The first snow of winter had fallen, the crystals prismatic in the moonlight, layered with violet shadows that cut against the white. Not that Sebastian noticed in the slightest. His attention was fixed on the Palais-Cardinal, ever-expanding with their approach. Baroque, it was fronted with colonnades, which obscured the building behind so that all that could be seen were the columns and pediment, endowing it with the stark austerity of an ancient courthouse or amphitheatre.
The footman led Sebastian to a high metal door whose fleur-de-lis and curlicues had been transformed by the dark into writhing forms better suited to the gates of hell. A bell was rung, after which a guard led them up to the third floor. Sebastian followed automatically, still deliberating whether to brass it out or simply plead for mercy, neither of which possessed great appeal.
Then came the wait outside the cardinal’s chamber. Time passed quickly, then slowly again. Sebastian found neither sensation pleasant, part of him wanting the meeting never to arrive, another wanting it over as quickly as possible. He was still caught between the two when the door swung open. He could see a row of flaming torches along the wall and a long, wooden floor, waxed to a gleam, leading up to a faraway dais. Knowing he had to walk forward, he took care not to look at the platform, preferring to concentrate on the floor as he inched into the room.
* * *
Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal-Duc de Richelieu sat in his official chambers. The room was designed to awe the visitor and did so admirably. Its high-panelled walls were hung with pictures by Rubens, Poussin and Titian – above them, a cornice of interweaving gold leaf. Eight Swiss Guards ringed the room in perfect symmetry, each wearing a red coat with dark blue lapels and white embroidered cuffs, topped by a tricorn hat. On a rostrum at the far end, the cardinal reclined in a throne of papal proportions, high-backed with flaring armrests. Immaculately dressed, he wore a black soutane with starched collar, red skullcap and white-hemmed cardinal’s cloak. On his finger was a single ring, a round chrysoberyl encircled by emeralds. The face above was anaemically thin, its narrow features ending in a pointed beard. Overworked, his eyes were buried in wrinkles; yet they gazed at Sebastian with crystalline concentration, two jewels placed in rumpled velvet.
Terrified and unable to meet the cardinal’s stare, Sebastian stood with his palms locked in front of him, holding hands with himself for comfort. The room was rubbed clean and smelt of polished wood, over which he could detect his own animal odour. Richelieu glanced across at the guards and motioned them to leave, which they did in perfectly spaced single file. Then, after waiting for the door to close, he finally spoke.
‘You, dwarf, have been mocking my ward, the Marquis de Cinq-Mars. Tell me why I shouldn’t make an example of you.’ The voice was flat and terrifyingly certain.
‘Make an example of me, Your Eminence? I don’t understand.’ Instinctively, Sebastian pawed at his face, an ineffectual shield.
‘I’m not a fool. Don’t treat me like one.’
‘I apologise, Your Eminence. Is this about my performance this evening? It’s just that I didn’t think you would concern yourself with such minor matters.’
‘Minor? You insulted a marquis to his face while standing directly in front of the King. Duels have been fought over less . . . besides, have you considered the consequences if anyone notices what you’re doing?’
‘Of course, I’ll stop immediately, Your Eminence. But may I just reassure you this wasn’t a fight of my choosing. I was provoked.’
‘Likely enough. Henri can be . . . insensitive at times. What was the source of this quarrel anyway? He insulted you, I imagine.’
‘Yes, Your Eminence, something of that nature.’ Sebastian had no desire to go into more detail than he suspected the marquis had done.
Sensing evasion, the cardinal peered closer and rubbed his beard. ‘Hmmmmm . . . well, I’d say whatever insult you’ve had to endure it’s been more than repaid, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence. Please forgive me. It won’t happen again.’
‘Indeed it will not . . . which still leaves the question of what to do with you.’ Richelieu paused and stared down at Sebastian. The dais magnified the difference between them and Sebastian stood open-mouthed, in awe of the sheer spectacle in front of him – the rostrum, the throne, the biblical scenes on each side. ‘I’ve a mind to punish you. However, I have to admit it was somewhat humorous. What was it you called him last night?’
‘A malodorous sot in love with the smell of his own farts.’ Sebastian grimaced out the words. They didn’t seem quite so humorous when standing before a prelate of the French Church. Fortunately, the cardinal seemed entertained and slumped back into his throne with a chuckle.
‘There’s a certain eloquence to it. You’re a literate man, I imagine?’
Sebastian nodded.
‘But you’ve no title. You’re clearly not rich. I assume you didn’t educate yourself.’
Sebastian paused, unbalanced by the question. He wasn’t used to people showing interest in him, let alone the Chief Minister of France.
‘My local priest taught me,’ he ventured.
‘Where?’
‘Camoches, in Normandy.’
‘Camoches . . .’ Richelieu paused and it took him a while to place the name. ‘It’s a long way from there to court, especially for a man like you. How did you manage it?’
‘Through my wits.’
‘Your wits?’
‘Yes, it’s hardly as if I’ve much else going for me.’
Richelieu croaked a laugh. ‘I see, but why make the journey in the first place? It can’t have been easy. You must have had good reason.’
‘Isn’t every subject’s greatest wish to serve his King?’
Richelieu laughed again. ‘A diplomatic answer . . . and hardly one I can disagree with.’ Then he paused and le
aned forward furtively as though about to impart a secret of great importance.
‘My associates inform me that you used to be a beggar. Is this true?’
Sebastian was startled. The cardinal’s reputation was clearly justified, and tempted to lie as he was, he knew there was no point and conceded with a shamefaced, ‘yes, Your Eminence.’
His background seemed to fascinate the cardinal, who spent the following five minutes probing into his time on the street. The questions were both sequential and precise: what he had done; why he had done it; and what he had learned. He was particularly interested in Sebastian’s tricks and insisted a guard was brought in for him to demonstrate on.
‘So, how did you choose your victims?’
‘Depends on the person. Generally, the drunk and the young are easiest . . . women give more easily than men. Also those with scars often have them for a reason. But sometimes it’s just a look or plain circumstance. You’ve got to keep an eye out for opportunities.’
‘And this gentleman here? Would you try your luck with him?’
Sebastian smiled, observing the self-consciousness of the soldier as he endured their scrutiny. It gave him considerable satisfaction to cause such discomfort and he felt a reassuring sense of his own significance.
He examined his subject carefully. The man was no more than twenty-five, tall but with the hollow eyes of the infirm, a wan complexion and a sniff – not an intimidating prospect. ‘I’d consider him, yes.’
‘And you would attract his attention how?’
‘Most likely arrange my path to cross his or else pretend I was lost. If he was trapped in a corner, I might use poor man’s plague.’
‘Poor man’s plague? I’ve never heard of it.’
Now it was Sebastian’s turn to be self-conscious, and he looked away, apparently rubbing an invisible speck from his cheek. ‘It’s a street trick, Your Eminence. Not appropriate for these surroundings.’
‘Appropriate or not, I’d still like to see it.’
‘I’d really prefer not.’
‘I insist. And here . . . why not some incentive?’ He tossed the soldier a livre. ‘Give it to him if he’s convincing enough.’
Sebastian’s desire for coin hadn’t entirely diminished, certainly not when there was half a week’s pay to be won, and he became markedly keener, nodding the soldier into position.
‘If you’ll just let me prepare,’ he said, tucking his face into his right arm and emitting guttural noises while coughing into the crook of his elbow. The effect was peculiar and both soldier and cardinal looked on, baffled, unsure if he had fallen unwell. Then Sebastian looked up, transformed. Drool and mucus were pouring from his mouth and nose, sticking in his beard as he squinted out of one eye. Combined with his already peculiar proportions, it gave him a startling and rabid appearance that immediately had the soldier pressed against the wall in an effort to keep his distance.
‘Money for a dying man . . .’ Sebastian gave a loud and hacking cough, stumbling towards the soldier, who promptly tried to step to one side. The dwarf, however, was too quick for him and managed to tangle himself up in his legs, tripping him over and then reaching towards his face with a leprous and glistening hand.
‘Take it,’ the soldier yelled, flinging the coin onto the floor. This produced the desired effect, and Sebastian immediately scuttled after it, snatching his prize and stowing it in his pocket before cleaning his face with a handkerchief.
‘Poor man’s plague.’ The cardinal chuckled to himself, amused by this new discovery.
‘Stick oats on your skin and you can make good welts if you want to be showing a rash.’
‘It seems rather a lot of work for a few sous.’
‘Excuse me for saying, but you’ve never really known hunger, have you?’
‘I fast for Lent.’
‘I think you’ll find Lent ends.’
The response was abrupt and met with a sharp look from Richelieu.
‘Forgive me, Your Eminence, I’m still new to the ways of court. I do not mean to offend.’ Sebastian’s apology was accompanied by repeated and anxious bowing. ‘It’s just the way money is. At the top, there’s more than enough. Further down, there’s less to go round. You have to fight.’
His contrition appeared to satisfy the cardinal, who waved him to a stop. ‘The court has its own difficulties, I can assure you . . .’ He was interrupted by a knock at the door – a herald announcing an emissary from the Duke of Lorraine had arrived.
The change in the cardinal’s demeanour was instantaneous. His voice reacquired its clipped command as he requested his visitor be admitted without delay. Eager to escape, Sebastian wished the cardinal a quick goodbye but was immediately stopped with a raised finger – the upward point of parent to child. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’
‘My apologies, Your Eminence, I don’t understand.’
‘Your punishment.’ Richelieu paused a moment, luxuriating in his power as he left Sebastian to wait out a brief eternity. ‘Two weeks’ pay. I’ll have the clerk deduct it at the end of the month.’
‘Thank you, Your Eminence.’
‘Don’t thank me. It’s self-interest. I am meant to be a patron of the arts, after all,’ the cardinal finished, twitching a nod farewell. ‘Now leave, Master Morra. I’ve enjoyed your company. Perhaps one day we shall meet again.’
Before meeting Richelieu, Sebastian would have been delighted simply to walk out of the room alive. Now he left with mixed feelings – glad to have escaped unscathed, but also disappointed that the conversation had come to an end. The encounter felt unfinished. The words ‘perhaps’ seemed too vague. He had so many questions. What it was like to run a country? What the cardinal thought of the threat from Spain? Why and how he had first come to serve the King? But now they would pass unanswered. He would never speak to Richelieu again. The chance had gone. When he next saw the cardinal, the most he could hope for was a glance or nod, if indeed he was remembered at all.
* * *
The year 1636 did not start well. There were rumours of plague from the Low Countries and Germany. The peasants of Guyenne had risen in mass revolt. Worse still, the war had turned against France. Champagne, Burgundy and Picardy had already been laid to waste, and an army under Thomas of Savoy had been reported as near as Corbie, only two days’ ride from Paris. Prayers were already being made to the bones of Saint Genevieve in the Pantheon. And while people hoped for safety from their fortifications, there was no denying that those of the left bank were three hundred years old and ready to topple at the roll of a drum.
The cardinal stood on a balcony in the Louvre, searching the checkwork of distant fields. He knew the enemy was too far away to see. But there would be scouts ahead, perhaps in the forest near Saint Denis. It might be worth sending a few patrols to check. No, the area was too large. It would be pointless, simply despatching a few soldiers to get lost in the woods. Rubbing his beard, he shook his head and returned inside, where a ledger lay open on his desk. The pages were divided into evenly spaced columns, each filled with numbers in neat script. After tucking his soutane beneath him, Richelieu sat down, waved away an errant fly, drew out his quill and continued his calculations in a slow yet meticulous hand.
He had completed six pages by the time the King appeared. There was no knock and the cardinal didn’t need to look to know who it was. Immediately, he stood up and bowed.
‘Good afternoon, Your Majesty.’
‘Don’t bother,’ Louis motioned him to sit down. As ever, he was dressed magnificently, in a blue doublet embroidered with silver, full-puffed sleeves and cloak. His beard and hair were perfectly trimmed, apart from a single lovelock, which straggled over his right eye.
‘You’ve heard the news?’
‘About Corbie?’
‘Sources inform me there may be scouts within sight of Paris . . .’ Richelieu halted mid-sentence as he noticed Louis peering at his ledger.
‘Am I muh-muh-mistaken or are you going through th
e accounts?’
‘As I do each month.’
‘But why aren’t you raising troops?’
‘I am, Your Majesty.’ Richelieu looked up at a still-sceptical King. He paused, awaiting a realisation, which didn’t come.
‘Allow me to explain.’ The cardinal reached into his pocket and drew out a livre. ‘What do you see?’
The King frowned and let out a sigh. ‘Is this another of your riddles, Armand? Now is not the time.’
‘Power, Your Majesty. What you are looking at is power.’ Richelieu held up the the coin, winking it in the light. ‘This is enough to pay one soldier for two months. Our enemies have fifty thousand troops. That means we require one hundred thousand of these coins. Without them, we won’t have the numbers to fight. It is the rule of government. He who has the money pays the troops. He who pays the troops makes the law.’
‘What use is money if we lose the battle? Muh-muh-muh-money alone doesn’t win wars.’ His stutter was particularly pronounced on the m’s and b’s. ‘You need other things too. A good general, the right weapons and men, properly trained.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty. There are many ways to lose a war, which is precisely why I endeavour to avoid them.’
‘Nobody likes war, buh-buh-but it is a fact of life. War made this country and it is war that will protect it. We have enemies on every side. They have the advantage. They mean to attack.’
‘You’re right, Your Majesty. War is a fact of life. But so is money. We’ve increased our takings fourfold since I began office. And for one reason alone, to pay for war. Yet, if I raise too much, the people rebel. And if I raise too little, we can’t defend ourselves. You ask me why I’m reviewing our accounts. It is only because of reviewing accounts that we are still in the fight.’
‘Then I shall leave you to your studies, Armand, but bring me troops. In three days I shall march to Corbie, defeat the enemy and we shall continue this conversation on my return.’
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