* * *
After stuffing a few clothes into a sack, Sebastian poured his remaining money on the table. Eleven livres and six sous – perhaps enough to reach Orléans. He could eke out some kind of living there, or at least find somewhere quiet to consider what to do next. Then came a knock knock from the corridor. Unexpected. Sebastian dived to hide beneath the bed. Too late. The handle dropped and he was still flat on his belly when the door opened to reveal a footman looking down at him, queer-eyed with puzzlement.
‘The cardinal sent me. I’m to bring you to him.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. He just ordered me to follow you. I’d advise you don’t keep him waiting.’
Sebastian momentarily considered escape but it was too far. Even if he made it to the corridor, the entrance was three flights down and he always struggled with stairs. So, after pushing himself upright, he trudged behind, grimacing as he followed the man back the way he had come.
To the right of the great hall was a side-chamber – occasionally used for business when it required the King to interrupt his meal. Domed and colonnaded, it enjoyed an excellent view over the grounds. The cardinal stood by one of the windows, staring at the winter garden. Its blooms were now scaled with frost, the grass gleaming like upturned icicles, the moonlight catching the crystals and scattering into tints of violet and indigo. As Sebastian entered, Richelieu turned to meet him, his cardinal’s cape purpled in the evening light.
‘I like to come here in the evenings. Finding peace in Paris can be hard at the best of times.’ The menace was not overt. Instead, the politesse of a functionary – a man in complete control of his manner and tongue.
Sebastian gazed back, his own fear magnified by the cardinal’s lack of emotion. His guts seemed to have turned to water and his skin was damp with sweat. He remained silent a moment, too frightened to speak, then blurted out the only thing he could – the truth. ‘Please, Your Eminence, you can’t make me do this. He’s done nothing wrong. You must understand. I mean, you’re a man of God.’
‘I am a man of God. And I fulfil his purpose by serving the King, his divine representative on earth.’ The reply was mechanical and clearly a phrase he had repeated many times before. ‘Like you, I take no joy in killing a man. Nevertheless, it is in the King’s interest and therefore the Almighty’s.’
‘But why?’ Sebastian couldn’t meet the cardinal’s eyes. The sweat was pouring now. His entire body seemed to be turning to liquid and he was straining from the effort of containing his bowels.
‘Do you not understand the danger this country faces? We control barely half our domain and the dukes will betray us at the slightest opportunity. Our borders are weak. We have no natural defence, no Rhine to the north, no Pyrenees to the south. Our enemies are richer and more powerful than us. We have neither the gold of Spain nor the merchants of the Low Countries. Most of our land is forest and we are ravaged by starvation. Rarely has our country faced such a predicament. There is no time to waste. I need my orders carried out without question and to the letter. I cannot start debating the merits of my commands.’
‘I understand what you are saying, Your Eminence, but you’re asking me to murder someone. And magnificent as your words are, I need to know the reason.’ The reply was gabbled and desperate, and so brief it seemed almost insolent. Mindful of the situation, however, Richelieu limited his reaction to a thinning of the eyes.
‘You want to know the facts.’ He nodded. ‘Very well. Saint-Simon is the King’s most trusted military advisor. He is also in the pay of Madrid. Unfortunately I don’t have the evidence to prove it, and the King trusts him beyond reproach. He’s already convinced Louis to send emissaries to King Philip and I believe in a matter of weeks we will be a dominion of Spain.’
‘I don’t understand, Your Eminence. Does that mean you don’t know?’
‘Of course. My work is based on uncertainty. I have to make choices even when I have next to no information – an intercepted letter, an interpretation of events, someone who could equally well be a spy. In this case I’ve received assurance from two sources who have been proved right a number of times before. Can I be sure? No. But it seems likely, and frankly the risk is too great not to act. Morality isn’t worth losing a country over.’
‘But you’ll end up chasing shadows.’
‘Yes, and I’ll never know if what I did was right. It’s something I live with. Be glad you do not.’ The cardinal completed the remark with a flourish of the index finger and looked across at Sebastian, expecting the conversation to be at an end.
‘Your Eminence.’ The sweat was stinging Sebastian’s eyes and he had reached the point of desperation. ‘Forgive me but I must be frank. If there’s something you’re not telling me, I must know. I’m risking my life. I need to be sure I’m not killing an innocent man.’
Sebastian’s suspicions were confirmed when the cardinal responded with a pinched, almost apologetic smile. ‘There are many things I don’t tell you, Sebastian. My work requires a choice – either to lie or not speak. I prefer the latter. Now I’m afraid I have another engagement. So I need an answer. Will you do what has been asked of you?’
It was the weight of Richelieu’s face which betrayed him – that pendulous gravitas of a judge pronouncing sentence. It could mean only one thing. The simple fact Sebastian had known from the moment he entered the room – which had never once been mentioned. That refusal meant death. Saint-Simon was a close friend of the King. The cardinal would never allow himself to be connected to the murder. He hadn’t summoned him to have a debate. He was giving him a final chance to save his life.
Two minutes later Sebastian left the room, shaking his head with self-disgust. However much he told himself Richelieu had convinced him, he knew it wasn’t true. The cardinal had told him nothing of significance. From the moment he stepped into that room, he had been searching for some way to submit. His questions had not been asked out of courage but a desire to believe the cardinal. He was too weak to do otherwise. Richelieu would always be Richelieu and he would always be a dwarf.
Sebastian’s unease only grew when he walked back into the hall and saw Saint-Simon smiling benignly, taking the occasional sip of his drink. The man didn’t look anything like a Spanish agent. He was a retired soldier, a monument, cracked with age and sprouting tufts. The idea of him posing a threat to France, or indeed anyone, was beyond ridiculous. It felt like having to murder a well-meaning uncle and Sebastian looked away, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand.
Matters only became worse when he reached the table. An oaken construction of monstrous proportions, it was thick-beamed and level with his head. He could barely reach the brim, let alone Saint-Simon’s glass. Initially he considered poisoning the drink while it was being served but didn’t dare risk it for fear of picking the wrong cup, leaving him with only one alternative, to climb up and dispense the poison directly.
Sebastian chose an old routine, where he would hold a fork like a magic wand and pretend to be an ugly fairy with the power to grant warts. It wasn’t one of his better acts, but it did allow him to tour the table, visiting each person in turn while bestowing or removing his gifts from increasingly amusing parts of his anatomy. And after clambering up onto the tabletop, he abruptly found himself concealing a vial of poison with a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on him. He felt exposed. Naked. As if each and every one of them knew what he was holding and what he was about to do. Cupping the vial in his left hand, he turned towards the Count of Soissons and muddled through the start of his act. It was enough to raise a chuckle, and he was soon able to progress round the table while all the time the vial sat in his palm, hot and ever-present. As he approached Saint-Simon, he found it impossible to look at the man, and concentrated instead on his cup. Thankfully, it was distinctive – a soldier’s tankard, beaten and tarnished pewter which looked out of place among all the silver and glass. However, passing the duke of Anjou, he failed to notice a slick of grease
and tumbled to his left.
Instinctively he slapped down an arm to brace himself. It was only then that he thought of the vial. Fortunately, a quick check revealed it to have remained intact, and looking round, he found himself at almost kissing distance from a bewildered duke. Then, giving the man a quick peck on the cheek to the considerable amusement of his neighbours, he stood up. Saint-Simon was no more than ten feet away, and after taking a few moments to pick up his thread, he turned his attention back to the cup. The act itself was surprisingly simple, a quick misdirection as he pretended to toss a shower of carbuncles in the air with one hand while emptying the vial into the tankard with the other. Much worse was the moment afterwards, those few sharp seconds as he remained frozen, staring down at the tabletop, listening to the hubbub from the crowd and hearing his own death in every raised voice. But the chatter continued, and after reassuring himself that his crime had passed unnoticed, he drew the performance to a close. Then, after bowing briefly and the usual round of scattered applause, he retreated as quickly as he had arrived.
Nevertheless, the ordeal was only half-complete. In spite of his desperation to escape, Sebastian knew better than to flee. Being seen leaving the hall just as the concoction took effect would be unwise in the extreme. Instead he tried to look inconspicuous while occupying his churning mind as best he could: counting the flies angling around the candelabra, calculating the number of chairs, the height of the ceiling and any other distractions within eyeshot. In between he would glance across at his victim, who continued his meal, unaware that he was already dead. However, the poison acted more slowly than he had anticipated, and ten minutes passed before Saint-Simon turned red in the face and began to splutter. Sebastian stared at him, transfixed, and time slowed as he watched, acutely aware of each and every moment: Saint-Simon grabbing his tankard, lifting it to his lips, the look of confusion as he felt it take effect, then the tranquillity of expression as he began to tire and weaken, sinking back into his seat as he entered his death throes . . . and then inexplicably leaned forward and took another sip of his drink before turning to his neighbour and resuming his conversation. Sebastian continued to stare, scrutinising the man with great intensity as he stubbornly continued not to die. Quite the opposite. Instead he appeared most content with life and looked about the table with the serene appearance of someone who knows his hard work is done and his rest well-earned, occasionally interjecting some bon-mot of military wit. There was no sign of discomfort, no choking or coughing, not even a reddening of the face.
Sebastian felt the vial, still warm in his left hand. Turning to face the wall, he inspected it. There was still some liquid at the bottom, and after a few moments’ further examination, he tipped out the remains – three shivering droplets on his palm. He stared at them intently, sifting their translucence for colour, then sniffing for any sign of perfume, but to no avail. Glancing up at the balcony, he noticed Ambroise leaning over the balustrade, eating some pastry with a vacuous stare. He seemed bored, as though he was passing time rather than waiting for something to happen. Sebastian flinched as if slapped and choked back a scream.
Furious and cursing his stupidity, he strode up the steps as fast as he could manage before marching straight to Ambroise. His face was knotted with anger – locked so tight he could barely force out the words.
‘Damn your eyes, that wasn’t poison.’
Ambroise responded with a wide and braying laugh.
‘You looked bloody terrified. Never seen anyone do it that way before.’
Sebastian flung the empty vial at Ambroise. ‘I thought I was going to die, of course I was bloody terrified.’
‘Don’t be annoyed, what do you expect? We need to know you’re loyal.’
‘You lied to me, you bastard.’
‘Yes, I lied, the cardinal lied, we all lie. You’re in the King’s court, my friend. We don’t come here for amusement. We come for glory and money and we say whatever we have to.’ Ambroise shrugged and retrieved the bottle from the floor.
‘And if they saw me poisoning him? I could have been killed.’
‘It’s happened before. They would have made you drink the cup, nothing more.’
Sebastian hissed out a sigh of displeasure . . . but also resignation. Ambroise was a hard man to be angry at. He meant no harm. Life was easy and simple to him. Like the pet of some wealthy master, he spent his days lying around and gorging himself, his only requirement to follow the occasional basic command.
‘In any event,’ Ambroise finished. ‘I don’t see what you’re so concerned about. It’s over. You wanted to serve the Chief Minister of France and now you do. Don’t complain, rejoice.’
Ascent
(1637)
Sebastian had chosen the hour well. As he began his climb up Montmartre, the hill was deserted, silent apart from an indistinct chorus of fox and dog. Wrapping his cloak tight about him to keep out the cold, he plodded upwards to the rhythm of his panting breath. The moon was full and as he rose he could see Paris in the distance. Apart from its thin band of protecting wall, above which rose the silhouette of Notre Dame and the spire of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, he could distinguish nothing. Instead the different geometries of rich and poor merged into something that more closely resembled an eerie and tangled wood.
Monsieur Marchant’s house was located halfway up, set apart from the abbey surrounds. Like its owner, it was respectable but not ostentatious, three narrow storeys of brick with bow windows overlooking the path. More interesting, however, were the five sacks of coal outside the back door, all lined up and ready to be taken in. One was even half-full, as though left especially for him.
Taking out enough coal to conceal himself, Sebastian squeezed inside the sack before covering himself with the remaining lumps. While restrictive, it was not uncomfortable, provided he took care not to disturb the dust that seemed to collect in every nook and cranny, particularly the nose and throat. It might have proved considerably more unpleasant had he been left there for longer than he was, but only fools left provisions out in the open, no matter how early the hour, and less than ten minutes had passed before he was lifted up, carried through a doorway and inside. Another door opened and he felt himself being heaved down a flight of stairs, then dropped summarily on a hard floor. A pair of feet shuffled into the distance and he emerged shortly afterwards to find himself in a cellar.
His next problem was finding some way into the master’s room. The first floor seemed most likely, assuming he wouldn’t want to walk up more than one flight of steps; and, after sneaking upstairs, Sebastian found himself confronted by three doors – all identical. Unsure which to try, he eased open the nearest and peeked inside, terrified he was going to find a pair of furious eyes glaring back at him – only to discover a pile of linen instead. The next door revealed a snug room, floored with matting, with a mullion window, warm hearth and thick walls to keep out the cold. More interesting was the figure asleep on a low four-poster bed, clearly identifiable from the prominent mole on his lower lip – Monsieur Marchant. Slipping inside, Sebastian closed the door carefully and searched for a hiding place. A cupboard stood on the far wall, offering a reasonable view of the room (albeit restricted by the four-poster) and he immediately wriggled beneath it.
His main memory of the following few hours was the smell of coal – omnipresent and so strong that he feared Marchant would notice. It remained a constant distraction, so much so that he found it hard to concentrate on what the man was doing. Not that there seemed to be a great deal worth concentrating on – he did nothing to indicate the fraud of which Richelieu accused him and instead Sebastian had to endure an hour of watching an old and sagging tax-collector eat breakfast then walk round naked, scraping himself clean. Then, after combing his beard, putting on his wig and dressing himself, Marchant finally left the room.
First taking a few moments to consume the remaining scraps of the man’s breakfast (a crust of bread and some quail, both flavoured with a distinct tint of
anthracite), Sebastian spent the remainder of the day searching the room and stealing what provisions he could from the kitchen downstairs. However, after emptying every drawer, and examining every surface and cubbyhole, he found nothing – not even under the carpet. He began to wonder if he had made the right choice, if it wouldn’t have been better to follow Marchant as he carried out his daily rounds? Then he dismissed the idea. Aside from the fact he could hardly keep pace with the man, it didn’t seem likely he would reveal his hand in public. Better a private place, and where more private than his bedroom? Besides, it seemed probable he would keep his valuables somewhere in his house, safe within reach.
It was three o’clock when Marchant returned. Sebastian only heard him as he grasped hold of the door handle. Thankfully he was near the cupboard and had just enough time to scrabble beneath. The man’s guilt was plain to see from the moment he entered the room – the way he closed the door and locked it, meticulous and without making a sound. Stealing across to the bookshelf, he took hold of the end and slid it to one side. Then, reaching down, he pulled up a plank – from beneath which he retrieved a small ledger. Suddenly there was a voice outside and Marchant glanced round, startled. Nothing to worry about, though. Just the servant come to inform him the cheesemonger had arrived. Dismissing the man with a swift ‘I’ll be down shortly’, he waited a moment before walking to the desk. Adding a new entry to the ledger, he drew a pouch from his pocket and carefully counted out five gold coins, taking considerable pleasure in the act. Then, placing both gold and ledger back in their hiding place, he returned the bookshelf to its former position, unlocked the door and left.
The Cardinal's Man Page 10
