The Cardinal's Man

by M. G. Sinclair

  This time Cinq-Mars’ fury was unrestrained. Marching straight to the Palais-Cardinal, he demanded an immediate audience. Richelieu, however, was occupied in a meeting with the papal legate and left him to seethe for twenty minutes, and by the time the marquis was finally permitted entry he was in a state of murderous rage: striding in, cape over shoulder and hand on sword. Richelieu’s guards responded in kind, lowering their pikes and taking a step forward. Unperturbed, the cardinal defused the situation immediately, motioning the guards back with a wave of the hand before asking the marquis if he would care to let go of his weapon in return. Cinq-Mars left a defiant pause before unbuckling his rapier and letting it clash onto the floor.

  ‘Don’t you dare take my command. The King gave it to me, you’ve no right.’

  Richelieu shook his head, then raised an index finger, parent to child.

  ‘A year ago I told you that being a favourite was one of the most difficult positions in France. You have no power, only what the King chooses to give you. I suggest you act accordingly.’

  ‘Why? You serve the King just as I do.’

  ‘Don’t make an enemy of me.’ Richelieu’s voice was disconcertingly measured, the opposite of bluster. ‘I know what you’ve been saying. That I’m an old man. That my judgement isn’t what it used to be. That I need to be replaced. I’ve let it pass for now. But take this command and it will be the end of you.’

  ‘No more lectures, Armand. Don’t you understand? You can’t just threaten me any more. I’m not afraid.’

  The response was treated with a slow sigh and Richelieu shook his head, more disappointed than angry. ‘That was always your problem, Henri – speaking without thinking. What do you suppose would happen if I asked the King to choose between you or me?’

  ‘Probably you, but only probably. You’d be taking a risk, and if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you hate taking risks if you can avoid them. So why do it? Why gamble everything? You don’t need to do this.’

  ‘You’re right, Henri, I detest unnecessary risk, which is exactly why I won’t put our largest remaining army in the command of a man with no military experience. If we lose at Arras, the Habsburgs will invade. I can’t allow that, not under any circumstances. So reflect on this – if you take command and fail, I won’t just go to the King and ask for your resignation, I’ll ask for your head.’

  The axeman’s shadow had a sobering effect on Cinq-Mars who paused and took an unusually long time to reply. ‘I get nothing?’

  ‘All I ask is that you prove yourself. First lead the cavalry. Fulfil your duties and then we can consider higher command.’

  After a brief hesitation, Cinq-Mars acceded with a petulant nod before turning heel and leaving the room. Richelieu remained a moment then forced himself upright and shuffled to an antechamber, closing the door behind him. Taking the nearest chair, he sat back, opened his collar and stared at the opposite wall, his face hollow with exhaustion. The mask had grown heavier in recent weeks. Time – it used to seem an ocean stretching from boundless past to boundless future. Now it had become a puddle boiling away in the sun, its waters growing more brackish by the day.

  * * *

  Arras was a triumph and Marshal Châtillon its hero. Cinq-Mars, lauded in the Gazette, played a supporting role, having his horse shot from beneath him after heroically charging the enemy guns. Yet on his return, far from boasting of his exploits, the marquis was curiously subdued, refusing to discuss what had happened except to bad-mouth the marshal to anyone who would listen. Mostly, he sulked in his room, only emerging to go hunting with the King or play the occasional game of faro with his friends. Some thought he had been changed after witnessing the horrors of war, others had less flattering explanations.

  Richelieu, meanwhile, was becoming an increasingly peripheral figure at court. His age had become apparent to all, though he did his best to hide it, wearing wide-brimmed hats to disguise his hairline and using his crosier rather than a stick. More often he spared himself the embarrassment of public scrutiny by staying in his palace, restricting his official meetings to the Conseil d’État and his twice-weekly audiences with the King.

  His one indulgence remained his village of Richelieu. He had spent nine years watching over it, hiring a legion of masons to work its stone. Too busy to visit, he had the model of the town moved to his private apartments: walled and quartered, a lavish gate centred along each side. Each house was carved in wood, with spaces left for the few remaining plots. Arranged in a perfect grid, the buildings were close-fitting, making the whole resemble a chequerboard dotted with missing squares.

  At the very end of the town stood Richelieu’s palace, three wings of colonnades and domed splendour set amid elaborate topiary and shaded avenues. Despite never having been there, the cardinal still knew its precise dimensions and the contents of every room, even the patterns on the cornicing. He visited it almost daily in his mind. Somewhere to escape the pressure of work and imagine the day when there would be nothing left to be done.

  Currently he was by the circular window in his private apartments, seated at a table and idly tracing its swirls. The top was inlaid with ivory and mother of pearl, quartering into four separate designs meeting at a circle in the centre, also quartered and with the pattern rotated to opposing sides – a bewildering vortex of diamonds, vines, fleur-de-lis, and crosses. Staring at the track of his finger, the cardinal specified the measurements and decoration for a small gatehouse to be added to the castle entrance at the head of the moat. Each part was described in detail, from the wood of the frame to the height of the portcullis and the spacing of the crenulation. His instructions were fluid, recited without notes, as if he was simply reading off a chart – the voice a tranquil monotone.

  The cardinal’s reverie was shattered into a thousand splinters as the door flew open and smashed a side-table into the wall. The only people present were a doctor and an amanuensis, who gaped at the figure advancing towards them. Even when it stopped, they remained motionless, unsure what it meant to do.

  ‘Good day, Henri, do you have something you wish to discuss?’ the cardinal remarked, not even turning to look.

  Cinq-Mars didn’t reply, scowling at the attendants and jabbing a finger at the open doorway. In their eagerness, they scampered for the corridor without so much as a farewell.

  Long after the door had closed, Cinq-Mars remained silent. His face, initially creased with fury, changed now that they were alone, the wrinkles flattening into something far more calculating. Richelieu suspected he had realised there was nobody else present and was considering whether to kill him. Not terribly wise considering the two witnesses and the twenty guards between him and escape. Eventually the marquis seemed to reach the same conclusion and looked across at the cardinal, admonishing him with a gentle shake of the head.

  ‘How did it come to this, Armand? You’re my guardian. You took care of me, introduced me to court and to the King. I owe it all to you. But now you hold me back. You block me at every turn. My marriage, my command at Arras, you even threaten to have me executed. I’m asking you to stop. I’ve been understanding until now, but this must end.’

  ‘Henri, you’ve risen a long way. Why risk it all now?’

  ‘It wasn’t me who chose this battle, it was you. You made a fool of me at Arras.’

  ‘From what I heard you did that perfectly well yourself. Ordering your troops straight into the guns, what were you thinking?’

  ‘It would have worked if it hadn’t been for Châtillon.’

  ‘Really?’ The cardinal stopped his meandering of the tabletop and glared at the marquis. He had a curious ability to look down on people even from a sitting position. ‘I heard he told you specifically to stay in reserve. That one of your men was forced to shoot your horse from beneath you so he could sound the retreat. Not only that, but you made repeated requests to charge again and the marshal actually had to overrule you in person.’

  ‘That’s a lie. I saw a gap
and charged to split the enemy. But Châtillon wanted all the glory and ordered me back. The man knows nothing.’

  ‘Does it matter? We won. History will say you led the cavalry. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No. If you hadn’t taken away my command, none of this would have happened. Besides, you’ve heard the rumours I assume? People are laughing behind my back. I’m being made to look an idiot.’

  ‘You may be right, but it doesn’t mean I was wrong. Do you really expect me to put an army in the hands of someone with no experience at all? It would have been insanity. You can’t judge a decision through hindsight . . . only context.’

  ‘But all I’ve ever wanted were the same chances you’ve had – to prove my worth. You’re on the Conseil d’État. You’ve led on the battlefield. Why can’t I?’

  ‘Henri, it’s not the same. You’re twenty years old. You’ve already had a military command and a senior position of state, and now you tell me you want to be on the Conseil d’État. I was thirty-one before I had that chance – and thought young for the post. It isn’t fair, Henri. The nobles won’t stand for it. And without the nobles, we can’t raise the troops. You’d be bringing the temple down on our heads.’

  ‘You disappoint me, Armand. Is that really the best you can come up with? That I’m twenty years old.’ Cinq-Mars stood up and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back. Looking out, he saw Paris through drunken eyes – roofs and streets pooled together in its whorled glass. ‘Louis was sixteen when he became king. I didn’t hear of anyone saying he wasn’t old enough, least of all you. Just admit the truth. You don’t want me on the Conseil d’État because you don’t want change. You’re the one who isn’t ready.’

  ‘You do yourself no favours with these outbursts. The more I listen, the more I know I made the right choice.’

  ‘What in God’s name is that supposed to mean? Are you losing your mind, old man?’ Cinq-Mars jeered, turning round and tramping towards the door. He stopped by the model in the corner before picking up one of the dwellings and peering at it. ‘Look at you. Is this what you do all day? Play with your toy houses? You might have been a great man once, but you’re nothing now.’ Then he placed the building down in the castle courtyard, upside down, as if blown there by a particularly capricious hurricane. ‘Either way, remember this. I gave you a chance, Cardinal. Whatever happens, you were warned.’

  * * *

  Sebastian arrived at the Palais-Cardinal with a black eye and a split lip, having narrowly avoided being robbed the previous night. It wasn’t the first time. He’d been returning from a pleasant few hours shared between Michelle and a bottle of wine when, despite his best attempts to keep to the shadows, two men had seen him silhouetted on the Porte de Nesle and grabbed him as he made his way towards the Pont Neuf, pulling him into an alleyway before he could reach for his pistol. He had only escaped by hurling a handful of coins into his assailant’s eyes and vaulting over the wall into some canal-cum-sewer. After which he was forced to squelch the three-mile walk home slathered in stinking foulness.

  Consequently, Sebastian had spent much of the morning trying to remove the stench from his clothes and was in the middle of his fifth scrub when one of Richelieu’s aides arrived and announced the cardinal was expecting him. Naturally Sebastian accepted, while keeping his distance from the man’s nose and managing to beg enough time to finish cleaning himself and apply some lavender water.

  After being taken to the palace, he was led through a side door, up two flights of stairs and through a suite of rooms, finally emerging in the antechamber outside the cabinet. Its architrave appeared incongruous amidst the book-lined walls – the only hint of its importance was the soldier stood at each side. A few minutes passed before the quiet was broken by the ring of a bell from within, at which point one of the guards opened the door and nodded him in. Sebastian hesitated. It was not an appealing entrance – instead a slab of black, which swallowed what little light there was, while casting an unnatural shadow that appeared to spill out beyond the door. Eventually, after a few moments peering into the gloom, he inched towards it, wavering at the brink before daring to step inside.

  As the door closed behind him, Sebastian experienced the same unease he had felt walking up to his father’s deathbed. There was no sound or light to guide, and he was forced to grope through the murk, spreading his arms in front of him as he made his way forward. Then he stopped, sensing the presence of someone nearby, straining for a clue but unable to hear over his own laboured breath.

  ‘Who is it?’ The voice came from his left.

  ‘Me – Sebastian.’

  There was a pause followed by a grunt of realisation. ‘Sebastian Morra . . . you sound different.’

  ‘Perhaps because you can’t see me. People often confuse my height and my mind.’

  ‘My God, what is that stink? Lavender and . . .’

  ‘My apologies, Your Eminence. I fell into a canal.’ Sebastian interrupted as the cardinal searched for a word to end the sentence. ‘An accident,’ he added, wanting to change the subject as quickly as possible.

  ‘An accident? Odd that a man of your stature should fall over a wall. What sort of accident?’

  ‘I didn’t look where I was going. My apologies again, the surroundings certainly draw one’s nose to the scent.’

  ‘Quite so . . . ’ the cardinal gave a chuckle. ‘Anyway, do excuse the dark. A relic from my migraines. I prefer to be away from light and noise when I think. It clarifies the mind.’

  ‘Of course. You asked to see me.’

  ‘Yes, I would like your assistance with something. If you’re still working for me, that is?’ He glanced across at Sebastian.

  It was a pointless question; Sebastian was hardly going to refuse the only ally he had left. Though out of respect for his brother, he did at least pause before replying.

  ‘What do you need from me?’

  Nothing immediate, though considering the situation at court, I can’t rule out a plot. I imagine later I’ll need information relating to Henri . . . I mean Cinq-Mars.’

  ‘Actually I’ve been meaning to ask. I was reading the Gazette and I noticed a favourable account of his . . . exploits at Arras. It seemed odd. I mean it’s an open secret your relationship has soured of late.’

  ‘I hoped to spare him embarrassment.’ Richelieu’s voice thinned and he drew a breath. ‘I thought he might be grateful, but it only seems to have infuriated him.’

  ‘Infuriated him? I think you’ve done considerably more than that. You know he wants you replaced?’

  ‘I’m fully aware of Henri’s intentions,’ the cardinal snapped, curt with annoyance. His diminished situation appeared to have made him more sensitive – even to the slightest of quibbles. ‘Rest assured I will do what is necessary.’

  ‘But why are you allowing this? Cinq-Mars is just some glorified country squire. You’re the Chief Minister of France. Can’t you just remove him?’

  ‘It would jeopardise my relationship with the King. I would have to threaten resignation. It’s not a risk I care to take.’

  ‘It’s not a risk.’

  ‘Disobeying a monarch is always a risk. Louis is ultimately a man, as capricious and unpredictable as anyone else. It’s easier to wait. Cinq-Mars will slip up. He’s too greedy, too rash.’

  ‘And if you’re wrong? If Cinq-Mars doesn’t make a mistake?’

  ‘Henri will make a mistake. To make no mistakes, you need to have no flaws. Henri has flaws.’

  ‘But what if the flaws make no difference?’

  This was followed by a long and considered silence.

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘I think you’re underestimating the King’s infatuation with Cinq-Mars.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Not relevant. If the King is so infatuated with Henri, there’s nothing I can do in any case.’

  ‘Also, Your Eminence . . .’ It was not the momentary pause for dramatic effect, but the longer silence of a deli
cate subject. ‘Your position may not be as secure as it once was.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m still doing everything that’s required of me. Our recent victory at Arras. Who do you think raised the men? Made sure they were equipped? Provisioned them? I still run the Conseil d’État, manage the King’s affairs.’

  ‘Didn’t you once tell me the difference between image and truth?’ Freed of his body, Sebastian’s voice had become surprisingly bold, to the point where a listener might have had difficulty telling cardinal from servant. ‘It’s Cinq-Mars people see every day at court. It’s Cinq-Mars who sits by the King’s side, whom we all bow to and call Monsieur le Grand. It doesn’t matter what the truth is.’

  ‘I don’t care what the court thinks. The only person I answer to is the King. Anyway, even if I were to be replaced, we’ve already made arrangements. A successor has been agreed.’

  Sebastian didn’t ask whom. He didn’t need to. It had to be Jules Mazarin. For three years he had been the cardinal’s deputy in all but name, and Richelieu had already pressed for him to be given a cardinal’s hat. Besides, he was godfather and probably actual father of the dauphin, trusted by both an oblivious Louis and the Queen.

  Though Sebastian had never considered the possibility of Richelieu being replaced, it didn’t surprise him that the cardinal had something prepared. Richelieu planned everything in his life. For all his intelligence, he was in many ways a profoundly predictable man, always thinking in straight lines with that undeviating and methodical logic. His own death was treated no differently – just another strategic consideration. In an odd way, the environment suited him – locked in his dark and silent chamber, removed from any distractions of humanity or morality, like some mind in a jar manipulating an imagined world. And it occurred to Sebastian that perhaps this was the only way he could govern the country, that the only way to make hard decisions was to divorce himself utterly from their results.