* * *
There had been a sense of things coming to a head for some time – shadow-talk and whispers mostly. Bereft of the cardinal’s stabilising presence, France became a wheel without an axis. The court whirled with rumours, all unconfirmed: that the uprisings in Catalonia and Portugal had been crushed; that a Habsburg army of a hundred thousand men were waiting to burst across the Pyrenees; that a Spanish fleet was crossing the English Channel, sailing for Normandy; that another revolt against the gabelle was planned. Hysteria took hold and people gave way to abandon: wine cellars were emptied, courtesans exhausted, everyone cheating and being cheated upon. There was no tomorrow so there could be no regrets.
The cardinal battled the situation as best he could, trying to trace each rumour, or amassing piles of reports, documents and notes which he was perpetually poring over and reshuffling in an effort to uncover a link. Continuing to avoid the court almost entirely, he worked harder than ever – requiring the help of three scribes to keep pace with his commands. This lack of contact with the outside world only seemed to heighten his suspicions, making him keener for knowledge and more demanding of detail. Information would be sifted and judged, and anything important written in a small notebook he kept by his bed – the left pages reserved for questions, the right for answers.
To begin with, it wasn’t apparent what the cardinal was looking for. The requests were broad and Sebastian couldn’t see any pattern to the people he was being asked to observe: courtiers, Spanish residents, even some of his fellow spies. Over time, the demands became more specific and the names more familiar: Gaston, Chevreuse and the marquis. Not that this made matters any clearer. All three knew they were being watched and restricted themselves to small talk so dreary that it was obviously a masquerade. Anything deemed important would be scribbled, passed between them and thrown in the fire.
Richelieu’s frustration at the lack of progress was clear. He was constantly irritable, and while he seemed to be having no problem finding questions for the left-hand side of his book, the right side remained infuriatingly empty. Until he reached the point when he was too tired to be angry any more and would ask for news in an exasperated drone, anticipating the inevitable answer – that nothing had changed.
The breakthrough, when it came, arrived from an unexpected source – the principality of Sedan. A letter from the Count of Soissons, a former accomplice of Chevreuse, declaring he would invade through Champagne with the support of the Dukes of Guise and Bouillon. Richelieu leapt upon the information with rabid enthusiasm. Everyone was put to work amassing material to build a case: intercepting letters, searching for military movements and contracts, bribing people who might have been approached. Within a fortnight, Richelieu had all the evidence he needed and was able to bring charges before the King. The verdict was a formality but also meaningless so long as Soissons remained at large. Its only purpose was to bring the enemy out into the open. Now the count was left with no choice but to respond, and within three days there were reports of his troops marching along the river Meuse.
With battle imminent, the rumours were replaced by real and concrete fears. During the two weeks it took the royal troops to reach the border, people discussed little else. It was generally felt that though Soissons had the smaller force, he was the better commander, at least on open ground. Up against him was Marshal Châtillon, hero of Arras. Though respected, the marshal was known as a siege tactician, preferring defensive formations, and the consensus was that he would favour conventional battle, Soissons the surprise attack. What was not disputed, however, was that a defeat would make the cardinal’s position untenable. With an enemy marching on Paris, France would need more than an ageing priest to lead the state. Richelieu knew this full well and became desperate for news from the field, requesting hourly updates on any visitors for the King or diplomatic business, the principal result of which was a succession of false alarms – riders appearing at the gates and being rushed through to the royal chambers, only to offer the greetings of a foreign dignitary or tax rolls from the provinces.
When the messenger finally did arrive, Sebastian was midway through a performance in the great hall. This time there could be no doubt. The man was dusty and hot from his travels, a smudge against the bright tapestry of court, so weary that he seemed unaware of the rows of eyes upon him, all searching for a clue. Then, without a glance in either direction, he marched up to the King’s apartments and was gone. The room remained in utter silence for a moment before bursting into hubbub. Some were convinced they had seen a giveaway smile, others a frown of defeat – though most remained unsure – and the discussion roiled round the chamber for five minutes or so before a herald eventually appeared and announced a victory for the King.
A victory it might have been, but it was not a glorious one. Châtillon had been ambushed while negotiating muddy ground. Attacked on the flank, over six hundred royal troops had been killed and half the remaining army captured. Yet, having completed the rout, Soissons had gathered his officers around him to celebrate when one of them had shot him in the face – apparently one of the cardinal’s agents. Left without a leader, the rebels abruptly found themselves marooned without orders and more importantly without pay. So, after looting the nearest town, they promptly disbanded. It was an unsatisfactory conclusion. The army was lost and the country left wide open. There would be more to come.
* * *
When discussing the conspiracy, both men began hesitantly, discussing the latest theatre along with recent news. Neither of them took comfort in the exchange and there was a sense of the unspoken, a mutual knowledge that they were merely passing time. Eventually the conversation ran out, replaced by pin-drop silence. Both men glanced around the room, each waiting for the other to speak. Gaston had chosen to meet in a rarely visited outcrop of the Louvre. A small guestroom, it was inconvenient to reach as well as bitterly cold at night, due to its crumbling windows and lack of a fireplace, and was generally used to house unpopular visitors. The oak panelling was broken by white covers and throws spread over the squares of furniture, combined with a black and white checked floor that gave Cinq-Mars the impression of sitting inside a folded chessboard. Gaston, who was more familiar with conspiracy, spoke first.
‘I’ve heard there have been . . . differences between you and the cardinal.’ He twirled a piece of card, perhaps to occupy nervous fingers.
‘It’s his fault, not mine. Whatever I do, he blocks it. He even vetoed my marriage. Claimed it was a sign from God. My army commission at Arras as well. The man’s shameless. He clearly sees me as some kind of threat. I’ve no choice, I can’t just let him carry on.’
Gaston listened while continuing to spin the card. His pose was relaxed, slouched, even submissive – awaiting an indiscretion rather than inviting one.
‘Richelieu’s been carrying on for fifteen years. I don’t see that there’s a great deal you can do.’
‘I’ve been telling Louis to ignore him. Just to remind him who’s in charge.’
‘I see it’s working well for you.’
‘It’ll take time of course . . . but what alternative do I have?’
The card stopped moving and was placed on the side-table with the same flourish Gaston used when laying down a winning hand.
‘That depends what you’re willing to consider . . .’ He didn’t complete the remark, leaving it to dangle – unfinished. Cinq-Mars didn’t take up the invitation, instead looking round at a door he already knew to be closed. There was no one nearby – nor was there any way of avoiding a response. He turned back to Gaston.
‘I know what you’re going to say.’
‘Then it would seem I don’t need to say it.’
‘You want me to support a union with Spain.’
‘What an interesting thought.’ Gaston returned one of his more ambiguous smiles, keeping on just the right side of treason.
‘I can’t. They’d have my head on the block. It’s easy for you. Louis is your brother.
You won’t be touched. No, it’s too great a risk.’
‘No more risk than you’re taking already.’ Gaston shrugged and raised an eyebrow. His indifference was persuasive.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Your fate’s tied to that of the King, as I’m sure you realise. I mean if Louis were to die tomorrow . . .’
This time it was the marquis’ turn to shrug. His was sharper and more aggressive than Gaston’s, dismissive rather than indifferent. ‘That’s ridiculous. Louis won’t die.’
‘I’m sorry to disillusion you, but you appear to be forgetting that both my father and grandfather were assassinated. Besides, Louis is hardly the picture of good health. Six years ago he was on his deathbed. I saw him given last rites. Frankly it’s a miracle he’s lasted as long as he has,’ Gaston finished wistfully, recalling dashed hopes.
‘But what can I do? I can’t keep him alive.’
‘You can make sure you’re protected.’
‘Go on.’
With the bored tone of a man explaining the obvious, Gaston pointed out that there were only two possible candidates for the throne – most likely the Queen as regent, if not the Habsburgs. Both loathed Richelieu and would clearly be well disposed towards any man who got rid of him. Cinq-Mars listened, observing him carefully. Gaston seemed convincing: the smile was sincere, the eyes wide, the palms open. But he had a reputation for being untrustworthy, and you don’t acquire such a reputation without persuading people to trust you in the first place.
‘It seems to me that you have more to gain by this than I do. Once Richelieu’s gone, the Spanish will make you king.’
‘Rather late for that I think. I had my hopes of course. What prince hasn’t? But now? Do you know what it’s like to stand outside a door with all the riches of the world behind it?’ Drawing in a sigh, he shook his head and gave a smile, clipped at the corners. ‘You stand there in the cold and the wet, waiting. But it doesn’t matter. Not when you know all paradise is just a few inches away. And you wait and you wait, telling yourself it’s going to be worth it, that at any moment that door will open, nursing that dream in your heart, sustaining yourself with it – while all the time you become sicker and wetter and older. Until the moment comes when you realise your best days are behind you and you’ve wasted your entire life away standing on a step.’ He shook his head again and drew another breath. This time there was no smile. ‘My chance has long gone. With just Louis maybe, but two children as well . . . no . . . the most I could hope for would be a regency.’
‘I don’t understand. So why do you want rid of the cardinal if you won’t profit by it?’
‘Aside from the fact that he’s had me exiled twice, I think he’s going to destroy France. This war needs to end – and soon, or it’ll be the death of us all. We have to ally with Spain – it’s inevitable. And Richelieu will not even consider it. I mean he’s a clever man. No one would dispute that. But better to be right than clever.’
‘And who to replace him?’
‘Mazarin, Séguier . . . perhaps even yourself.’
Despite his reservations, Cinq-Mars had to concede that the argument had merit. He knew the perils of power well enough from Richelieu, that it would invariably end in resentment and revenge. And it would end. The King would not outlive him. Even for the eighteen months they had been together, he had noticed Louis beginning to grey, the colour leeching from his face, like a painting left too long in sun. But now he realised it was not a painting but a mirror. It wasn’t simply the King’s decay he was seeing; it was his own.
* * *
The table was set for fourteen, a cloth of purple velvet ringed with goblets and silver cutlery. The cardinal sat at the head, alone, dipping a crust into a bowl of bouillon. The chef had prepared something more elaborate but he sent it back. Like most older men of court, a lifetime of swan, port and lard had left his stomach unable to hold down anything but the simplest food. Even the brioche was a struggle and his lips writhed with disgust, as if trying to swallow earth. Midway through the torture, he was interrupted by Sebastian, flushed with haste. Evidently he had news – and news that was worth running for. Thankful for the break, Richelieu put down his bread and beckoned him in.
After the briefest of hellos, Sebastian burst into an account of how he had been visiting the Louvre for his evening performance when he observed Gaston walking with Cinq-Mars. Their body language had been odd – side-by-side and not speaking – and he could see they were searching for somewhere they wouldn’t be overheard. Judging by their direction of travel, he’d guessed the most likely location – an antechamber overlooking the Tuileries with a lockable door. And after taking a short cut, he’d been able to hide a moment before they arrived. Then he related Gaston’s attempts to influence Cinq-Mars, as well as their mentioning of Spain. Richelieu appeared interested but not surprised.
‘It’s inevitable. They’re all joining together – the Queen, Cinq-Mars, Gaston, Guise, Bouillon. Chevreuse, of course. Every time there are more.’ His voice was subdued, meditative and almost acceptant. ‘It’s the curse of power – enemies. Every decision you make, someone benefits and someone suffers. But the good is soon forgotten, the bad always remembered. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a man left in France who doesn’t want me dead.’
‘Does it matter? You still have the King on your side.’
‘Everything matters. Every change brings new possibilities, new uncertainties . . .’ The cardinal left the sentence half-finished. It was unlike him to be distracted and Sebastian noticed it immediately. Disconcerted, he forgot what he was about to say and in the lengthening silence simply blurted the first thing that came to mind.
‘I forgot to congratulate you over Soissons – a masterstroke. I don’t know how you did it.’
The compliment met with an acidic laugh. ‘But I didn’t.’
‘What do you mean? The whole court knows it was you.’
‘I know, remarkable isn’t it? One of the odder episodes of my life. I mean Soissons had a good mind, one of the best France had to offer. Yet this man, versed in Latin and philosophy, had a habit of opening his visor with the barrel of his pistol. I assume I don’t need to inform you of the consequences.’
‘He shot himself in the face?’
‘I’m astonished it didn’t happen sooner. Obviously his comrades weren’t keen to disclose the fact, so they put about some rumour that I had him killed. Naturally I’ve no wish to deny it. If people choose to believe I have an all-powerful control over France, I’m not going to disillusion them.’ Richelieu spoke with amused disbelief, but also satisfaction. He was proud, almost vain when it came to his reputation, his power over people and their evident unease in his company, the fact they could never hold his gaze, the awkward silences that were not awkward to him.
After talking a little more, the cardinal drifted into contemplation, seemingly forgetting that Sebastian was in the room before remembering to excuse him after a minute or so. Once alone, he stared at the soup below him and sighed. It wasn’t the pain that hurt so much as the indignity. The greatest mind in all of France – a leader of armies, a prelate of the church and advisor of the King – now defeated by a bowl of bouillon and a few crusts.
* * *
As 1641 drew on, the revolts in Catalonia and Portugal continued. Determined to keep the Spanish occupied, the cardinal did all he could to support the rebels, even providing a French force to reinforce the Catalans and taking Roussillon along the way. Nevertheless, they were few in number and fighting the greatest power in Europe. It couldn’t last and ultimately would change nothing – no more than chaff in a gale.
Meanwhile, the triumph of Cinq-Mars continued unabated. Everyone had hoped the relationship would end, that Louis would tire of his sulks and tantrums. But if anything his passion seemed to have intensified. It didn’t seem to matter what the marquis did or whom he insulted, Louis would invariably indulge him, admonishing, but with an almost parental forgiveness. Many found it
impossible to watch, seeing the King of France, heir of Clovis, ridiculing himself over young flesh while the marquis flinched at the touch of Louis’ wattled skin or crinkled his nose at the sickly perfumes he used to mask his decay.
Richelieu was the most notable victim. Previously the marquis had at least limited his insults to private conversation, but now he began to treat him with open disdain, most memorably during the Conseil d’État.
While not officially a councillor, Cinq-Mars still managed to engineer access as a guest of the King – though being a spectator he wasn’t permitted to speak. And for the first few weeks he managed to remain silent, making his thoughts abundantly clear through grimaces and eye-rolls, usually at the cardinal’s appeals for caution or diplomacy. After a month or so, following a budget statement from Chancellor Séguier, he could restrain himself no longer and interrupted Richelieu midway through his response.
‘So, Armand,’ he said. ‘Broadly, would you describe your administration as a success?’
The whole room glanced across at him, shocked by the unexpected voice – as if a piece of furniture had just spoken. But on seeing Cinq-Mars, they choked back their disapproval and turned towards the cardinal, awaiting his reply. And for that moment, the room was utterly still, its entire focus on Richelieu – the bewigged nobles and councillors gazing down the table whose perspective narrowed onto the bright crimson figure at its tip. The cardinal remained silent, looking upwards as multiple responses passed through his mind, all of which he suppressed. Aware of the eyes upon him, he restricted himself to a tight smile.
‘Yes, I would say our administration was successful.’
‘Then can you tell me, after seventeen years of your leadership, why the people are starving, the army is destroyed and the treasury is bare? Why France has suffered defeats to the Empire and the Spanish? In fact, tell me anything that has improved at all.’
The Cardinal's Man Page 21
