The Cardinal's Man

by M. G. Sinclair

  Richelieu remained Sebastian’s only protection but he was rarely present at court, occupied instead with the recent revolts in Catalonia and Portugal. Ever fearful of the threat from Spain, he was doing all he could to support the rebels in the hope of tying down the Emperor’s troops.

  The cardinal’s absence didn’t go unnoticed by Cinq-Mars, who was continually grasping further, feeling for the edges of what the King would permit. It began with slight insubordination, just the odd remark, that the cardinal seemed overworked or that he seemed to take to his bed more frequently nowadays. Then more direct, that he was old or not what he once was. Soon he realised there was no check at all, except for the occasional admonishment from Louis, who clearly enjoyed hearing his chief minister being taken down a peg or two. Alarmingly, Richelieu remained either oblivious or simply didn’t consider it worth bothering with. Like Louis, he seemed to regard the marquis’ behaviour as youthful exuberance, no more dangerous than that of a child.

  * * *

  It was two days before the Assumption that Cinq-Mars finally made his intentions known. Sebastian had been performing a pastiche of the imperial general, Jean de Werth – considerably improved by the absence of the marquis, doubtless off debauching himself in the depths of the city. Then, after taking the opportunity for a brief walk round the garden, he returned to the sanctuary of his room, only to find the door ajar.

  Sebastian knew immediately that something was wrong. After the previous attempt on his life, he was careful to keep his door locked at all times as well as sealing any gaps before going to sleep – someone was most certainly waiting inside. Turning back towards the stairwell, Sebastian abruptly found his path blocked by a guard, his arms crossed and defiant. The face was familiar, seamed by a scar that ran from scalp to jaw, and he recognised him as one of the marquis’ bodyguards.

  ‘You’ve a visitor,’ he stated, nodding him back towards his room.

  Sebastian instinctively reached for the pistol in his pocket, then decided against it. Shooting a guard was a capital crime. If Cinq-Mars wanted him dead, better to make it as difficult for him as possible. Instead he let the guard put a hand on his shoulder and steer him to the door.

  The marquis was slouched by the desk, his clothes glinting, liquid in the candlelight. Both his left eye and cheek were scooped in shadow, making his face appear half flesh, half skull, and his right hand rested on his rapier. He watched Sebastian, letting the silence hang.

  ‘You’ve come to kill me.’ Sebastian was oddly unafraid. Having spent so long fearing this moment, he found it almost dreamlike, as though acting a part he had played many times before.

  ‘No, this is just for pleasure.’

  ‘No pleasure for me, Monsieur le Grand.’ He pronounced the title with mocking reverence.

  Cinq-Mars shook his head with a smile, and when he spoke his voice retained its murderous serenity. ‘Insolent to the last, dwarf. And you will suffer for it . . . be certain of that. I’m a patient man, or at least patient enough. I’ll wait until the right time, when I can work on you at leisure. A few days, maybe a week if you last that long.’

  ‘That’s what you came to tell me? Don’t you have anything better to do? I was under the apprehension that you are a very important man.’

  ‘In fact, I am here on business. Your room is required. I’ve had enough of your stink around the palace and I’ve a spare clerk I need lodgings for.’

  Sebastian considered asking if the cardinal had been informed, then thought better of it. Why would the man need the cardinal when he had the King? ‘Well, I’d best get packing.’ He accompanied the remark with a pointed glance at the door.

  ‘Don’t play the hero, dwarf. It doesn’t suit you,’ the marquis replied, noisily drawing up a glob of mucus and spitting it at Sebastian’s feet – a parting gift. And with that, he turned for the door.

  Then Cinq-Mars was gone. Except he wasn’t. The after-image remained in front of Sebastian as he stood, battling with the implications of what had just taken place. Cinq-Mars was right. It wasn’t an if but a when. His thoughts immediately turned to escape – and with it came disorientation. His room was his refuge from the world and the prospect of being cast from it was profoundly unsettling; as though he had been ejected from the womb, some shivering newborn thrust into a cold and terrifying world. Where was he to go? For a moment, he considered the streets, hiding away among the poor and anonymous. But there was no safety there. It had been hard enough before, let alone now. Besides, he was too used to his comforts to go grubbing round the cobbles or sleeping in doorways again. Better to take his chances at court than die on some lonely corner with one of the marquis’ brutes come to stove his head in.

  To begin with, Sebastian tried the local area around Les Halles. It seemed a good place to lose oneself in as any, the beating heart of the city, if it possessed one at all: a hive of costermongers, bargain-hunters, fruit-traders, thieves, artisans, sharpers, metalworkers, beggars, soon-to-be-beggars and people simply looking to try their luck. However, the crush was intense and the stink almost unbearable – predominantly fish, transported from the coast and bloating in the August sun, mixed with fetid pickles and meat. Consequently, his search didn’t last long. After a few minutes of wincing his way through the stench while lost in the dark and the scrum, he gave up and headed for the Porte Saint-Martin and the faubourgs – intent on finding somewhere quiet on the road towards Saint-Denis. He expected a long journey, but half a mile beyond the walls, he stumbled upon a sign advertising a cheap room. The house belonged to an ageing widow, clearly looking to support herself. She seemed amused by him at first, then gained sudden interest when he mentioned paying two months in advance. The low price was explained when she led him to a bare room overlooking Saint-Lazare prison. Not that it bothered him in the slightest. In the circumstances, anything that kept people away seemed an advantage, especially considering it was walking distance from the Louvre. So, after ordering a cart to fetch his things, he moved in right away.

  It turned out to be one of his better decisions. Liberated from the urban chaos, he woke up to clean air, open sky and chequerboard fields flumed with barley. Cinq-Mars was no longer a distraction and he was able to leave the confines of his room, allowing him space to think and to concentrate on making final revisions to his play. Determined to make the most of what time he had left, he no longer listened to his doubts and his writing acquired the fluency and energy common to those near death, the last grains of life flaring like powder in a flame. One loose end still remained, however – the cardinal. Over time, Sebastian’s anger towards Richelieu had faded, to the point where he wondered if it had simply been frustration, the need to blame. After all, Richelieu had treated the revolt no differently to any other. And loath as Sebastian was to admit it, there was truth to the cardinal’s words. He had no more leeway than an executioner did with an axe. He was and had to behave as chief minister; it was impossible to expect him to be otherwise.

  * * *

  Richelieu sat in his official rooms at the Palais-Cardinal. He had been working much of the night and slumped on his throne, his hands laid on its oversized armrests, a heraldic canopy behind. To compensate for his condition, his attendants had dressed him in overwhelming pomp – a soutane of silver thread set against the deepest black. And rather than his usual biretta he was crowned with a mitre that rose a full two feet above his head. Instead of glorifying him, it made him look all the more exhausted, his face leeched against the splendour, its only lustre provided by a thin gloss of sweat. Conscious of his appearance, his guards stared ahead from their posts, eyes steady, refusing to acknowledge his condition.

  Sebastian’s arrival was enough to raise leaden eyelids and the cardinal leaned forward, peering down and allowing himself a smile.

  ‘Hello, Sebastian. Last time we spoke, your departure was . . . emphatic. Has something changed your mind?’

  ‘It’s Cinq-Mars. He means to kill me.’

  Richelieu dismissed th
e concern with a flick of his hand, as if being informed of some schoolboy prank. ‘Is that all? The boy’s a braggart. It means nothing. He knows I won’t allow it.’

  ‘Even so, if I do die, I want you to know who’s responsible.’

  ‘You exaggerate. If he meant to kill you, he would have done so by now.’

  ‘He’s already tried to burn me alive.’

  ‘That was before I spoke to him. Besides, what harm has he actually done?’

  ‘He means to kill me, Your Eminence.’

  ‘You forget he’s my ward. I’ve been responsible for him for the past seven years, and he is answerable to me. Whatever he may claim, the fact remains I am still Chief Minister of France and head of the Conseil d’État. He will not break his word.’

  ‘Your Eminence, I’m not sure you quite understand the situation . . .’

  Raw from lack of sleep, the cardinal was in no mood to brook dissent and rose out of his seat – stiff-backed, glaring down from on high with his gemstone peer.

  ‘Mind your words. I tolerated your previous outburst because of your brother. Don’t assume I’ll do so again. I understand the situation perfectly well. In fact, after twenty-three years at court, I might possibly understand it a little better than you.’

  ‘Of course, Your Eminence. Please accept my deepest apologies. You know I would never mean to offend. But surely you agree the fact you’re his guardian might affect your judgement?’ Sebastian’s frantic efforts to rephrase seemed to succeed and the cardinal nodded, dropping back on to his throne, seemingly too tired to maintain his annoyance.

  ‘Perhaps, but what threat does he pose? What are you asking me to be afraid of? His intelligence? His political skills? His ability to persuade? Chevreuse or Philip of Spain I could understand, even Gaston. But Henri? He has ambition, and precious little else.’

  ‘Louis is infatuated with him. He has the King’s ear.’

  ‘Yes, but I have his. You forget it was I who introduced him to the King in the first place. Besides, you say my relationship with Cinq-Mars affects my judgement. Don’t you think the same applies to you? That your belief he’s trying to kill you might make you think him more dangerous than he actually is?’

  ‘Yes, Your Eminence.’ Sebastian conceded, not because he thought Richelieu was right but because he knew any further argument was futile. At worst he would infuriate the cardinal, at best merely irritate him. Anyway, who was he to lecture the Chief Minister of France? The man had been at court as long as he’d been alive, longer even.

  During the ensuing lull, the two men glanced at each other, both aware that the conversation wasn’t over and of what had been left unsaid.

  Richelieu ended the silence. ‘The tomb for your brother and mother, it’s complete.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sebastian’s voice was flat, acknowledgement more than gratitude.

  ‘I had an extra plot put in. I didn’t know whether you wanted to be buried alongside them.’

  Sebastian didn’t reply, then looked back at the cardinal with a baffled smile. He knew Richelieu was probably just being meticulous. Even so, it seemed a very human consideration – and there was humanity in the cardinal’s face. Tiredness had softened the veneer and a curl had wrinkled its way into the corner of his mouth, barely perceptible beneath his beard.

  ‘Yes, I would like that very much indeed.’ Sebastian nodded. Then they glanced at each other again and smiled, this time knowing the meeting was at an end. And long after Sebastian had begun the long walk home, he ambled at a contented pace, oblivious to the knocks and blows of the passing throng, pleased to have seen his master again.

  * * *

  Despite Richelieu’s predictions, the rise of Cinq-Mars continued unchecked. He was made successively Master of the Wardrobe then Master of the Horse, given authority over the royal stables, along with the right to every horse and saddle in them upon the King’s death. He had power over the retinue, ceremonies and even the royal coronation. Along with both titles came ample salaries as well as whatever tidbits Louis would throw his way. But it still wasn’t enough. He wanted glory, military command, and above all what he could never have – the respect of others.

  Richelieu, meanwhile, was content to tolerate the marquis’ requests, viewing them as distractions, irrelevant to matters of state. It wasn’t until the King informed him of his agreement to Cinq-Mars marrying Marie de Gonzague that he realised the gravity of the situation. Louis mentioned it casually as they were discussing some petitions for tax exemption. Unable to hide his shock, Richelieu reacted as if the King had announced he was marrying Cinq-Mars himself.

  ‘You can’t possibly do this . . .’

  Louis wasn’t used to being given orders and was stunned by the cardinal’s response. Richelieu seemed equally surprised at his own lack of control and gazed back, momentarily forgetting what he meant to say.

  ‘By which I mean of course that you can do it, Your Majesty. However, in my opinion, it would not be the wisest course of action.’

  With a sniff of displeasure, Louis nodded at Richelieu to continue. Due to his stutter, he often communicated using little more than a nod or shake of the head, preferring to avoid the embarrassment of speech.

  ‘Marrying into the house of Gonzague would destroy our entire Italian policy. The woman governs Mantua. She’s an ally of Spain.’

  ‘You think it matters so muh-muh-much?’ the King replied with an innocence that Richelieu found half-endearing, half-contemptible. Sometimes he felt Louis was like a man locked in a tower, to whom reality was nothing more than a hazy jostle far below.

  ‘I’m afraid so, Your Majesty. Aside from the political considerations, there would be the risk of a royal favourite being intimately linked to our enemies.’

  ‘But I would be breaking my word, and a king does not break his word.’

  ‘You would not, Your Majesty. I would be unable to allow it on religious grounds.’

  ‘What religious grounds?’

  ‘A sign from God, Your Majesty, a vision that the children of the union would be cursed.’

  Louis laughed at the flagrancy of the lie. ‘You’re a good man, Armand. He will hate you for it.’

  ‘Better me than you, Your Majesty,’ Richelieu replied, shuffling backwards out of the room before Louis had the chance to change his mind. Then, closing the doors, he snapped upright and requested the steward to bring Cinq-Mars to his chambers of state without delay.

  * * *

  Despite his magnificent surroundings, Richelieu dressed plainly in a black soutane sans biretta and lace. Now in his mid-fifties, he was forced to use a stick, but shunned it today and stood beside his throne, gripping the armrest as a prop and staring ahead with the conviction of a messiah. The impression was of an austere figure, shorn of decoration and dressed for purpose, determined to exercise his will, the only sign of weakness the shake of his hand as he struggled to support an ageing frame. Yet even his frailty somehow added to the zeal, each spasm and waver showing his will to fight.

  Cinq-Mars entered the room with the air of someone who wants to leave as soon as possible. Disregarding the usual pleasantries, he gave a cursory bow before enquiring what precisely it was that the cardinal wished to discuss. Richelieu left a brief pause to express his disapproval, and when he spoke, the words were as slow and accurate as a chisel on stone, their sharp edges stressed by a voice that seemed to take grim pleasure in the task.

  ‘This marriage cannot happen. It is not the will of the Lord.’

  Cinq-Mars listened with inevitable disbelief then exploded into fury, screaming outrage and defiance. Richelieu ignored him, letting the marquis’ anger exhaust itself before repeating himself in blunter terms.

  ‘Nothing you say can change this. I will not question a sign from God.’

  ‘But you can’t do this.’ Cinq-Mars was now reduced to a whimper. The cardinal looked back, still struggling to hold himself upright. Then he too softened.

  ‘Henri, if I could spare you th
is pain I would. But Marie de Gonzague? Don’t you see the consequences of that?’

  ‘But this is the woman I love. This is my life. Does that mean nothing to you?’

  ‘It means everything to me, Henri, and I rejoice in your happiness. But what I feel has nothing to do with the needs of France.’

  ‘I want to forgive you, but I can’t, not for this. I’m giving you a last chance – reconsider.’ Cinq-Mars looked at the cardinal with an expression which reminded Richelieu of the moment he first arrived after losing his parents. A traumatised, consumptive stare, the eyeballs aimless and without moorings.

  ‘There’s no point, Henri. I can’t sacrifice Italy for anyone, not even you.’

  ‘Very well, but remember this was your choice not mine,’ the marquis finished, pulling himself upright before turning his back and striding out of the room. Even the clack of his shoes sounded abrupt.

  * * *

  The situation was compounded a month later. After his humiliation by Richelieu, Cinq-Mars’ first reaction had been to implore the King to change the cardinal’s mind, pleading with him almost daily. Tortured, Louis was desperate to oblige and hunted vainly for a substitute bride, but not one of the noble houses was interested. His opportunity arrived with rumours of the Habsburgs approaching Arras and the raising of an army to meet them. Knowing the marquis’ desire to command, Louis immediately offered it to him – to Cinq-Mars’ delight – only for Richelieu to visit the following day and have it withdrawn.