The Cardinal's Man

by M. G. Sinclair

  * * *

  Anne de Bourbon, Queen of France, Infanta of Spain and Portugal, Archduchess of Austria and Princess of Burgundy and the Low Countries stood on the balcony of the Château Neuf. Leaning over the balustrade, she looked out over the terraced gardens of carnations, violets and jasmine. Beyond them lay the Seine valley and forests of Marly, a patch of dark green fringing the horizon. She loved Saint-Germain every bit as much as she loathed Paris. The land, forest and open sky reminded her of Spain. Childhood days spent wandering the El Escorial with her brothers and sisters, horse-riding in the sierra, following trails through forests of chestnut and beech. Afternoons cooling in the cloisters and the gardens, devising games and word puzzles as they sheltered from the heat.

  Her reverie was interrupted by a discreet cough from a footman, who presented her with a letter from the cardinal. Reluctantly she opened it, expecting a command to return to Paris, couched in the most polite and deferential terms. Richelieu was always careful to show obedience, never giving orders and forever using the King’s name to disguise his own. False humility was one of his many repellent qualities. He meant to seem humble but it was blatantly political, no more than a charade so Louis could continue deluding himself that he still ruled France. Yet, despite her reservations, the letter turned out to be a simple note of introduction. One of the cardinal’s representatives had arrived to discuss ‘a matter of some importance’. And, after a moment’s consideration, she asked the footman to admit him.

  She anticipated an emissary, resplendent in embroidered livery and with a character as bloodless as his master’s. Instead she was astonished to see a bearded and surly-faced dwarf, still dusty from the road, who bowed and presented himself in what seemed a mockery of protocol.

  Having never seen the Queen at close quarters, Sebastian’s only recollections were from a distance – a faraway sun, static and luminescent, around whom dandies and ladies twirled in orbit before being granted the briefest of audiences and moving on. However, the first thing he noticed wasn’t her face, but her hands. He had heard of their beauty but never believed it. One hand had always seemed much like another to him. Up close he had to concede the rumour was true. They were ivory-skinned, without any hint of the Mediterranean, the fingers languorous, delicate and intensely feminine, the wrists accentuated with turquoise bracelets. Captivated, he stared before remembering the head above. When he did eventually look up, it was not a welcoming sight – instead a straight-backed figure, hands on hips, her face pursed with indignation.

  ‘I have seen you before. You are one of those dwarfs at court.’ She spoke with the curt, stilted speech of someone foreign-born. ‘Explain yourself. Why is Richelieu sending some half-man to speak to me? Is this a joke? Is he mocking me?’

  Sebastian blanched and stepped backwards. It was distressing enough to be faced by a queen, doubly so an angry one. He had no idea of the correct response and bumbled desperate apologies.

  ‘Your Majesty, I’m sorry if my presence displeases you and I promise the cardinal intended no offence. My size is not meant to insult. It was God’s choice, not mine.’

  ‘The cardinal chose to send you nonetheless.’

  ‘I assure you his intentions were honourable. He required someone to discuss your . . . marital relations with the King. He wanted the conversation to be as discreet as possible, so he chose me. I do not mix with the nobles of court.’

  His answer seemed to placate her and her scowl softened. Then she conceded the slightest of nods.

  ‘Very well.’ A trace of Spanish remained in her v’s. She did her best to hide it, but her lips couldn’t quite stop rounding them into b’s. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘The cardinal has observed your lack of relations with the King. He is concerned and worries there will be war if France does not have an heir.’

  ‘He is concerned? What about me? You think I am happy? I love my husband. I want him to share my bed, I want to have his children. It is him you need to talk to. He despises me. I try to make him happy: I wear French clothes, I dismiss my Spanish ladies-in-waiting – women I have known since I was a girl. I put up with his favourites and his . . . appetites. It makes no difference. All he wants to talk about are his wars or the petitions he has received. I try to show interest but everything I say disgusts him. What makes you think my marital relations,’ she spat the word, ‘have anything to do with me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I’m simply a messenger. Please be assured I know you’re doing everything you can–’

  ‘Do not insult me with your pity,’ she interrupted. ‘Go and tell your master the truth. It is perfectly simple. I love my husband but he does not love me. The fact is our marriage died a long time ago and all I have left are a few happy memories which become more distant with every day that goes by. I did not choose this situation, neither do I know anyone who would. I am trapped with a man who doesn’t want me – a queen without a king.’ She paused a beat. ‘Now I have told you what you need to know, so leave.’

  Sebastian hesitated, obliged to comfort her yet knowing it to be impossible. Then he observed her eyebrows drawing into a frown and realised his delay was being interpreted as further impudence.

  In his hurry to depart, he almost turned around before remembering to shuffle backwards until out of sight, continuing his retreat long after the Queen had returned to the view, evidently keen to forget the conversation as quickly as possible.

  Reaching the sanctuary of the adjoining room, Sebastian was about to leave when he detected an absence. Looking round, he took a moment to discern what it was – people. Checking more carefully this time, he confirmed there was no one in sight. The footman appeared to have left, presumably to his post by the front step. He had the palace completely to himself, for now at least. It seemed too good an opportunity to waste. Noticing an open door nearby, he peeped round. No good. It looked like a parlour of some kind. Far too public. If she was concealing something, it would be somewhere private and out of the way. A reading room or study, perhaps? He crept down the corridor, peering through each crack and keyhole in turn. First a library, followed by a garde-robe and a ballroom which seemed to run most of the length of the corridor. Then, rounding the corner, he found himself in what appeared to be servants’ quarters and instead tried a different passage, which led into an older area of the palace, stone-walled and draped with tapestries. Suddenly a noise, close by – the clack of approaching footsteps.

  Sebastian’s first instinct was to talk his way out of the situation but then he thought the better of it. He was on completely the wrong side of the building. It would be obvious what he was doing. He needed to hide and quickly. Looking round, he couldn’t work out where the sound was coming from and scampered up a nearby flight of stairs to the upper landing, crouching by the baluster, from where he saw a group of ladies-in-waiting pass by. He remained frozen, holding the spindle as he listened to their chatter fade down the corridor. Then he became aware of a most peculiar scent – distinctly feminine, at odds with the surrounding scent of aging oak.

  Looking behind him, he could see a door in pearwood, its lintel carved with fruited vines – their leaves so delicately wrought that they appeared soft to the touch. Approaching, he could detect the smell more clearly. Years of creams, unguents, and soaps built up layer on layer. A mix of jasmine, lavender, rosewater and vetyver that both repelled and attracted, its deep-soaked perfume heady and intimate. But also private, enough to make Sebastian acutely aware of the danger he was in. This was the Queen’s bedchamber. There could be no explaining what he was doing beyond that door. He would be cut down where he stood.

  Sebastian continued to stare, motionless. The door was ajar, enough to reveal what appeared to be an empty chamber behind. It was a terrifying prospect but also irresistible, and he knew he would never get the chance again. Taking another glance around the hallway, he inched forward and slipped through the door. Then, closing it carefully behind him, he turned to find himself inside
a waiting room of sorts. After skimming through the dresser and a side table, he examined the adjoining chamber, which proved equally unremarkable. However, it was the closed door beyond which caught his interest, and he crept closer, bending down and then pressing his ear to the wood. Unable to hear anything over the beat of his heart, he took some time before feeling confident of the silence beyond. Drawing himself up, he placed one hand on the latch as if steadying himself to lift a heavy load. Next, and with a sharp exhale, he pressed with closed eyes, letting the door fall away under its own weight. Holding his breath, he tensed, waiting for a scream or cry. But none came. He squinted at the room in front of him. It was dazzlingly bright, walled almost entirely in a sparkling cloth of gold that made the ornate furniture seem drab by comparison. He stood in the doorway, transfixed, feeling as if he had wandered across some genie’s cave or lost hoard. Jewelled bodices were draped over the backs of fluted chairs, while bracelets, diadems and necklaces were scattered across a dresser inlaid with ivory and tortoiseshell. At its centre stood a jewellery box that more closely resembled a treasure chest.

  Eventually Sebastian was able to take his eyes off the splendour long enough to notice the escritoire in the corner. Using a piece of charcoal he kept for such occasions, he immediately took a rubbing of the blotter. His efforts, however, revealed nothing more than a few invitations and brief replies. A search of the cubbyholes uncovered some loose correspondence and he was midway through deciphering a letter to a lady-in-waiting when he heard a whisper in his ear.

  Jolting upright, Sebastian turned round. But there was nothing there. Then he heard the voice again. Curious. It didn’t sound surprised or angry or as if it had noticed him at all. Bewildered, he remained frozen. It was only then that he noticed the open window. Of course! It was just the babble of conversation from the parterre outside. Still panting from the shock, he took a last glance at the dresser and then departed as swiftly as possible. There was no point continuing. Searching the palace was pointless: too many rooms, too many hiding places – impossible for any one man, twice as hard for him. There was nothing else for it. He would have to meet Chevreuse.

  * * *

  Marie de Chevreuse’s house stood on a nameless street off the Rue de Grenelle, only a few minutes from the Louvre. Sebastian was grateful for the shortness of the walk. It was high summer and the dung in the streets was at its ripest, releasing a stink that both turned the stomach and stifled the breath. He, along with most of the court, was reduced to tipping perfume onto his handkerchief and keeping it pressed to his nose, while trying to waft away the swarms of flies attracted to his mouth and eyes. The scent, although still curdled by the reek, remained marginally preferable to the alternative. And at least the heat seemed to have kept the crowds off the streets, for once allowing him to move without enduring the usual clutter of knees and elbows.

  As with all parasites, the nobles kept close to their king, and the buildings around the Louvre were inhabited by some of the greatest names of the realm: Lorraine, Montmorency, La Fayette. In spite of all the magnificence, differences still remained. Grand houses that would have been mansions elsewhere were dwarfed beside more extravagant neighbours, often with statuary, cupolas or even flags to announce the owner’s presence. Though, for all their wealth, the streets were no less narrow than the rest of the city, the high walls on each side making them seem particularly restrictive. Sebastian had the impression of walking along a gorge, too deep for the sun to reach and with shadows that gave a sense of perpetual dusk. Peering through the thin light, he came across the house more through luck than design. It was three storeys of stone, lined with high windows and topped by a steep gambrel roof. Wide steps pooled down onto the street, bordered on each side by a fat-columned balustrade, their ends both crowned by a classical urn. The only indication of Chevreuse’s reputation was the heavy door and barred windows, riveted and reinforced against any unwelcome visitors.

  After receiving the customary look of surprise from her steward, Sebastian presented the message from Richelieu. Amused to receive this letter of introduction, the footman took it with a smile, expecting some parody of etiquette. Then he saw the cardinal’s signature and his mouth plunged downwards. He immediately became as obsequious as if standing before Richelieu himself.

  ‘Do come in, Your Emin . . .’ He narrowly managed to cut the sentence short. ‘Would you care for a seat while I speak to Her Grace? Perhaps you would like a drink?’

  Sebastian declined and waited in the atrium. Instantly he was struck by the lack of ornamentation. While respectable enough, the room was not opulent. The walls were simple panels and there was only one portrait of note, along with a few miniatures. The furniture was equally plain, comprising three chairs, a table and a chest of drawers, topped by two silver candlesticks. Hearing the steward retreat upstairs, he took the opportunity to examine the rooms nearby. Only a few were decorated. Fewer still were furnished and as he walked past, Sebastian could see slits of bare plaster and floorboard through half-open doors.

  He returned to the atrium, unsettled. No duchess would ever live in a house like this. People like her flaunted their wealth whether they actually had it or not. Without the image, they were nobody. It had to be a trap. But if it was, then who had devised it? And why? Then came an image of Cinq-Mars waiting in an empty attic, sword in hand, followed by a stab of terror. But he could hear the servant descending the stair. It was already too late.

  As the steward led him up to the duchess, Sebastian followed tentatively, leaning backwards, an unwilling body propelled by the legs beneath. On reaching the door, he paused and held his breath before grasping the handle, pulling and walking inside. Immediately he was enveloped by a sodden heat, sapping him of energy and drying his throat. The brightness was intense, blinding him – a dazzle of gold, tapestry and light in all directions. Dizzy, he sucked in a gulp of air, only to find it soaked with bergamot and helichrysum, a rich and overpowering perfume that smothered whatever sense he had left. Drugged by the scent and befuddled in the glare, he searched for his bearings and saw Chevreuse lazing on a divan. She looked more like a portrait than a person. Attractive, though not as beautiful as her reputation led one to believe, she was groomed and sculpted with an artist’s hand. Her make-up was applied expertly, the lips painted into crisp points, the skin smoothed to plaster white, her hair brushed back and fixed tight with a few loose curls left as a fringe. Below, she wore a bodice laced with silver and puffed sleeves slashed with velvet. She looked across at him, reclining aristocratically with a single arm draped over the back of the divan as her dress cascaded onto the floor in a tumult of luxuriant rumples.

  ‘Your house is lovely, Your Grace,’ he stammered, filling the silence.

  ‘No it isn’t, but it does allow a degree of mobility.’

  Sebastian laughed, not so much at the comment as the sound. It was more a river than a voice, slow and comforting, with a rural flow that reminded him of his mother shushing him down. Against every instinct, he found himself warming to her.

  ‘The Queen said you would be coming.’ She waved him to the empty chair opposite. Her smile was unusual, tight and with closed lips – feline. ‘So, who exactly are you and why are you here?’

  Sebastian searched for a response, trying to think through the heat. ‘I work at court, for the King. I’m the one who jumps out of the pie on his birthday.’ He couldn’t suppress a roll of the eyes.

  ‘Yes, I remember you now. You made that play for Cinq-Mars.’

  ‘For him?’

  ‘He told me he commissioned it. That it was part of a bet, for rather a large sum of money, so I remember.’

  ‘He may have been exaggerating somewhat.’

  ‘Really? I’m amazed.’ She smiled. Her reputation was such that sarcasm was not required.

  There was a pause as Sebastian clambered into his seat. It was difficult but he approached it patiently. Adversity was something he had long become inured to: walking up steps, getting into c
hairs, using the chamber pot, waking up every morning in a world created for other people.

  ‘You still haven’t told me why the cardinal sent you.’

  ‘I w . . .’ Sebastian was just about to say that he worked for the cardinal and checked himself, realising the error. The voice was making him forget himself. It made him feel safe, at ease. He wanted to talk to it, to pour out his hopes and fears, and it was a constant struggle not to surrender to the warmth. Instead he managed to evade as best he could. ‘I was told by the cardinal I would be suitable. Because of the subject matter, I mean. I’m discreet and I don’t have dealings with the rest of court.’

  ‘And what precisely is this subject matter?’

  ‘The cardinal is worried that the King and Queen aren’t sleeping together and the country will be left without an heir.’

  ‘Reasonable enough, I suppose, but it still doesn’t explain your presence. The King’s sleeping arrangements are no business of mine.’

  ‘You have influence over the Queen. He hoped you might be able to persuade her.’

  ‘She needs no persuasion from me. She loves Louis with all her heart, as you know full well. It’s no secret.’ Inquisitive, flittering eyes looked out from beneath heavy lids. ‘No, that’s not why you’re here, is it? There’s something else.’