‘Nobody cares what you think, little man.’ Cinq-Mars bent down towards his ear, making sure he could hear every word. ‘You’re nothing. Something that should have never been born . . .’ And with that he tossed the book into the fire. For a brief moment, it remained intact and Sebastian scrabbled to rescue it but was held in place. Screaming, he struggled to break free as the paper first scorched then lit, disappearing in a matter of seconds.
It was as if his mother was burning in front of his eyes. The book had been his companion, shelter and sustenance – almost literally, considering the nights he had gone without food rather than sell it. The comforting feel of it inside his jerkin, warm as an embrace, now nothing more than ashes. He continued to watch the final few fragments cling to the logs before evaporating to dust. And then when it had all gone, his neck dropped as if cut and he stared slackly at the floor.
Now the excitement had passed, Cinq-Mars soon bored of Sebastian and let him drop to the ground.
‘Anything else to say?’
Sebastian didn’t seem to hear him, let alone reply.
‘I thought as much. You brought this on yourself, dwarf.’ The marquis strode for the door, marking his exit with an emphatic slam. Sebastian, meanwhile, remained where he was. Alone, he sat slumped, searching the fireplace with an empty stare.
Ignoring the chill of the stone floor, he continued to gaze into the flames before finally making his way upstairs, though he might as well have been sleepwalking, for he had no memory of how he got there. It wasn’t simply the loss of the book but the reminder of his inadequacies – that talent and effort are not always enough, that not all obstacles can be overcome. And, closing the door behind him, he fell onto his bed, giving way to hot and shaming tears which only reminded him further of his weakness – though he did his best to fight them, refusing to give way to self-pity as he waited for the pain to subside. Eventually, with the sound of birdcall and the tread of feet in the corridor, the outside world made itself apparent and he composed himself once again. It was another setback – nothing more.
Besides, if nothing else, there was always the prospect of taking his revenge.
* * *
Sebastian’s retribution was short and brutal. Cinq-Mars was not a hard man to mock, forever proclaiming his lineage despite the fact his title was unknown outside Auvergne. His crest, a phoenix with wings outstretched above a ring, was emblazoned on his armour, clothes, furniture – even on his underwear if rumour was to be believed.
He didn’t indulge his quill with anything too elegant. He wanted Cinq-Mars to understand each and every word. The result was more fist than knife. The adventures of a knight called Sir Clucksalot, an over-dressed dandy whose crest was a chicken rising from an egg, boasting of his great deeds while in fact being terrified of everything and everyone. After twenty minutes of swagger and braggadocio, the play climaxed with Sir Clucksalot being publically humiliated and sentenced to eat ginger for a year in the hope it might instil courage.
The performance, if not the content, was one of Sebastian’s finest. Jerome and Claude were terrified of offending one of Richelieu’s creatures and refused to take part, leaving Sebastian to act out all the roles:
King Clovis: a wise and beneficent monarch
Sir Clucksalot: a cowardly braggart
Lady Clucksalot: his long-suffering and patient wife
Sir Morefed: Sir Clucksalot’s portly and over-watered nemesis
Pierre Lickpenny: Sir Clucksalot’s grasping yet unctuous servant
From the start, Sebastian performed the work with a hard edge born of violent hatred, glaring at Cinq-Mars throughout. Cinq-Mars stared back, first with amazement then with murderous, stewing fury. Sebastian continued, unconcerned. If anything, the marquis’ anger spurred him on, his impersonation growing ever crueller and the laughter of the court ever more raucous. At the end, just to prevent any possibility of misinterpretation, he dedicated the piece to ‘Henri Coiffier de Ruzé, Marquis de Cinq-Mars, the most honourable and courageous man in all of France’, before the jeers of the entire court.
After the performance, Sebastian didn’t even bother getting changed and took a stool in the changing room, awaiting his visitor. He wasn’t long coming. Sebastian anticipated a furious entry, but it was careful, a creak of the door and click of the latch. The entrance of a man who didn’t want to be noticed. And it was only once they were alone that the marquis let his emotion show – a face ugly with rage, at odds with his silk and lace.
‘I thought you were a freak. Now I know you’re a bloody abomination.’
Sebastian didn’t move, staring back with verminous hatred. ‘Henri.’ He pointedly ignored the title. ‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’
‘I think you’re a corpse.’ Cinq-Mars drew his rapier. It was a courtly thing, as much ornament as weapon, and was met with a laugh.
‘God almighty, do you really think I’m such a fool?’ Sebastian shook his head and drew a duelling pistol from his inside pocket. ‘Didn’t it occur to you that I might take precautions?’ The gun was too large for him and he had to hold it in both hands, clearly battling with the weight, his short fingers barely reaching the trigger.
It was enough to stop the marquis, though not enough to make him sheathe his sword. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t use that thing. It’s not even loaded.’
‘To be honest, I’ve no idea. I bought it from a pawnbroker a month ago. But considering you’re four feet away, do you want to find out?’
‘Runt. You’re only making it worse for yourself.’
‘Perhaps.’ Sebastian was still struggling to hold the gun upright and it had started to wobble.
Cinq-Mars stayed where he was, eyeing the downward tremble of the barrel as it trickled down his neck and chest before finally halting over his heart, at which point Sebastian braced it with his one hand, holding it musket-fashion.
‘It doesn’t have to be this way.’ His voice softened and he looked at Cinq-Mars with a smile, more rueful than pleasant. ‘We’ve both suffered enough already. Can’t we just leave it be?’
The marquis shook his head, taking a pace forward then another until the pistol was touching his chest. ‘Do you really think you can threaten me, dwarf?’ He glared down as he spoke. ‘You’re nothing. Besides, I’ve no intention of killing you now. I’m not going to be executed on your account. There’ll be a better time. When you’re out on the street, or in the courtyard, or at night in your room. All I want you to remember, when that moment comes and you’re praying for death, is that it was me.’
Then with a shrug, he turned on his heel and left. Sebastian observed his departing figure with exasperation rather than fear. Pride had always struck him as a particularly ridiculous fault – most common among those least deserving of it. Besides, Cinq-Mars was bound to come to his senses eventually. Fool that he was, he had to realise he had no choice. The humiliation had been too public. He couldn’t retaliate without everyone knowing it was him. Instead he would have to react as rank demanded – to show good grace, display the noblesse oblige and laugh it off as best he could.
Then, after a hot meal followed by a stroll round the gardens, Sebastian returned to his room and a life that seemed to have returned to its reassuringly normal self. And that night as he put his head on the pillow, snug behind his locked door, he even allowed himself a momentary grin – smug with the memory of what he’d done.
* * *
Carefully the woman pulled the sheet to one side before levering herself upright. Sitting on the side of the bed, she slipped on her dress and pulled on a pair of threadbare stockings. Then she turned to the mound alongside her. The bulk of it was hidden beneath the crumpled sheets, apart from a loose arm which hung as though from a corpse. A close examination revealed no movement beyond the slow rise and fall of ribs beneath the covers, and she promptly directed her attention towards the pile of clothes that lay in the corner of the room. Creeping over, she took another glance at the bed, then bent down a
nd lifted the doublet, carefully feeling for each pocket and dipping a hand inside. Finding nothing, she moved onto the trousers. This time her efforts produced a candle stub and accompanying fragments, which she was sliding back into place when a voice emerged from the bedclothes.
‘Lost something?’
She startled, narrowly repressing a shriek of alarm, then turned to face the voice – where Sebastian’s head had now revealed itself from beneath the sheet. Still in the early morning fog, he stared at her through heavy lids.
‘Don’t worry. Stay a little longer. I’ve got coin.’
‘How much?’
‘Do we have to negotiate everything?’ He sighed and rubbed his face. ‘It does ruin the illusion somewhat.’
‘I’m sorry, my liege. It might be pleasure for you, but it’s work for me.’ She noticed him wince and softened a fraction. ‘Look, I’m sorry . . .’
‘God, is that pity? Please no.’ Horrified, he cut her off instantly. ‘I’m quite aware of the situation. I’m no woman’s dream. Anyway I don’t need your . . . services. Just to talk.’
‘It’ll still cost you.’
‘Four sous.’ His remittance to his mother would have to be a fraction short this month.
‘Six.’
‘I’m short, not a fool. I advise you learn the difference.’ The comment was followed by the chink of coin dropping onto the floor.
Sweeping up her prize, the woman smiled and returned to the bed. ‘Is that a book in your bag? Are you some sort of priest?’
‘Priests aren’t the only ones who can read, you know. But I’ll take your confession if you like.’
‘You’d be here a long time.’ She had a cackle of a laugh and he couldn’t help smiling. ‘Anyway, all this reading. What have you learned then?’
‘Too much to tell.’
‘That’s no answer. This book here – what’s it taught you?’
‘Martial? That those who mock the rich will always be poor.’
‘Don’t need a book to tell me that.’
‘There are whole civilisations in books. History. Philosophy. The minds of some of the greatest people who have ever lived. I can hear those very same thoughts Julius Caesar had sixteen hundred years ago – make those dead lips speak. Does that not amaze you?’ He looked at her soft-eyed, seduced by his own words.
‘Can’t shag a book, can you?’ She flashed a tit for effect.
‘No . . . no, you can’t.’ A sadness fluttered across his face and he closed his eyes. However, it only lasted a moment, and he looked back at her with a drowsy smile. ‘Tell you what. There’s a baker opposite. How about you go and get us a couple of brioches for breakfast and we carry on talking then?’
‘Give me the money then.’
He aimed another glance upwards. ‘What about the four sous I gave you?’
‘That’s for working. Not to buy you breakfast.’
‘Here’s another two. Should be more than enough.’ He placed the coins in her outstretched hand. Then, once she left, he changed into his clothes, flattening down the creases and fastening each button tight. Seating himself on the side of the bed, he retrieved his Epigrams and began to read while waiting for her to return. It wasn’t until the fifth page that he glanced across at the door. He looked again on the eighth page, this time with a frown, and again on the tenth. However, it wasn’t until the twentieth page that he took a deep breath, snapped the book shut and left the room, closing the door behind him.
* * *
Sebastian woke up choking and blind. The heat was unbearable and acrid smoke was burning his eyes. FIRE. Scrambling out of bed, he smashed his foot into the wardrobe. Then, sucking in a chestful of fumes, he choked again, this time coughing so hard that he bent double and barely managed to stay upright. Suffocating, he made another futile attempt to draw breath and stumbled to the desk, where he propped himself up and pressed his nightshirt to his mouth, straining for air that would not come. He couldn’t see anything. The smoke was impenetrable and his eyes were flooded with tears. The only thing he could locate was the heat, which was now at his back, somewhere near the door. He needed another way out – the window. Groping round the bureau, he grasped the edge and pulled it to one side. The desire to breathe was overwhelming, pounding his chest. He was starting to lose consciousness. Feeling first the wall then the uneven glass and lead, he sucked against clamped lips as his fingers found the frame and then the latch. He gave a tug but it didn’t give. Desperate, he forced the matter, hurling himself against the glass. Suddenly a crash followed by the thud of tile and the cold of the night on his skin. He was lying on the roof, heaving great, ragged breaths, then coughing again, the freezing air every bit as sharp as the smoke had been. For all the relief, it wasn’t long before sense took hold. He was still in mortal peril. Whoever had just tried to kill him must be nearby. He needed to hide. A look around revealed a chimney pot to his right. Rolling onto his hands and knees, he crawled over and hid behind it, crouched and listening for approaching footsteps. Hearing nothing, he remained motionless, but there was only the distant crackle of his life being reduced to ash and he sat in his nightshirt, wrapping his arms round his legs as he sheltered from the wind as best he could. A short eternity passed before he picked out voices nearby. After satisfying himself that the sound was coming from his room and that help was finally at hand, he ventured out and crept back the way he had come.
Looking across the rooftop, he gazed dumbly at the scene. The fire had mostly burned itself out and he watched as the last of the flames were quenched, leaving his window soot-blackened and pouring smoke. It looked like some chimney turned wrongways, the surrounding wall stained with plumes of ash. Though what struck him most of all was the blackness of the chamber. He could see figures walking within, presumably servants come to deal with the mess. Unless Cinq-Mars was among them, checking if he was dead. The thought was enough to make him reconsider and he stole up to the ledge and peeped inside, checking the livery of each person in turn. And it was only once he had satisfied himself that he was safe that he finally climbed the sill and dropped into the room.
What had once been his life was now nothing but cinders. Everything he had ever read, written or owned: every book, every memento, every coin he had saved, all his clothes, his pen, his play – his refuge, the one place in the world that was created for him and him alone. Only the barest remnants survived: scraps of paper, half a bedstead turned to charcoal, the brass feet of his wardrobe laid in a perfect rectangle on the blackened floorboards. He had trouble recognising anything in the chaos and stared, half-expecting it to suddenly make sense, but nothing changed. He simply remained where he was, uncomprehending, until the soot overpowered his throat and he had to leave.
Out in the corridor, he lay by the stairs, exhausted. All he could taste, see and feel was smoke: stinging his eyes and chest, furring his tongue and throat and pouring in black streams from his nose. But he couldn’t rest. Not yet. His attacker was still at large, and he would try again. He still couldn’t understand how the marquis had managed it; his door had been locked and the window closed. It was only after stumbling back to the scene that he noticed the blot gouged into the boards by the door, where the fire had burned deepest. Instantly he realised what had happened. Someone must have poured oil in from the corridor outside, then set it alight. Looking closer, he could even see a smear on the unburnt side of the door, tell-tale as blood. Quite simple, really – well within the capabilities of Cinq-Mars, or whichever stooge he had employed to do his bidding. The flurry of people was increasing. A number of servants had been woken by the noise and were tending to the mess, eager to finish and return to their beds. Some were carrying buckets of ash and soot, while others held mops to swab the walls and floors. Returning upstairs, he could see them filing in and out of the doorway at a steady pace, oblivious to his presence.
It was the chamberlain who first noticed him. A squarely built man of middling years, he was wearing an oversized wig, and his robe
was unbuttoned, exposing the shirt and paunch beneath. He had been freshly roused from his slumber and didn’t seem concerned by his appearance, or indeed anything beyond getting back to bed, judging by the near-permanent yawn as he shuffled down the corridor.
‘So, you’re the source of my troubles, dwarf,’ he declared, without giving Sebastian the chance to speak.
‘No, sir. It’s the Marquis de Cinq-Mars. He tried to murder me.’
Sebastian expected at least a word of sympathy but instead met with indignation. ‘What did you say?’
‘The Marquis de Cinq-Mars. He tried to burn me alive.’
The chamberlain deliberated a moment, straining with thought. The effort was taxing and he soon gave up. Bending down, he pressed a stiff finger to Sebastian’s chest. ‘I am not a man who sleeps a great deal.’ This was evident from a pair of bleary and wrinkled eyes. ‘And what little rest I do get, I am thankful for. Consequently, I like my nights to be simple – making sure the palace is in good order, that the loaves are ready in the oven and that the guards are on watch, while occasionally returning a drunk student back to the Sorbonne. This allows me to catch what sleep God allows and to retain my good humour. But tonight, not only do you nearly burn down the palace and wake up half the staff, you now inform me that the ward of Cardinal Richelieu wants to kill you. Well, Monsieur Morra, I am not interested . . . in fact, I wish the man good fortune. He might at least make my life a little simpler.’
Sebastian stared in astonishment as the chamberlain turned round and strode back up the corridor. He felt an overwhelming desire to grab the man and scream, to make him understand he was dealing with a fellow human soul, no different to himself. But he knew it was pointless. The chamberlain could do nothing. Cinq-Mars was protected by the Chief Minister of France. And it was at that precise moment Sebastian realised what he needed to do. He had to see the only man who had influence over the marquis – Cardinal Richelieu.
The Cardinal's Man Page 8
