The cardinal didn’t reply. Everyone, including the marquis, knew the reason – the words that couldn’t be said. I did not choose this. I didn’t want to drag this country into some insane war, wasting everything we have to pay for our people to be killed. This is not glory or honour. This is butchery, plain and simple. And every day I pray for it to end. The only person who seemed unaware was Louis, who smiled then motioned at the cardinal. ‘So, what have you to say, Armand? It seems that the marquis has silenced you.’
Richelieu paused, his face puckered with frustration. ‘Your Majesty, I’m sure you will concur when I say I have executed your policies with the utmost precision.’
‘But, cardinal,’ Cinq-Mars interrupted again. ‘The problems we face must either be the result of the King’s orders or your carrying out of them. If you say you executed them perfectly, then doesn’t that mean the commands themselves were wrong? That the King was in error?’
‘The King, as you know, is God’s representative on earth. For him to be wrong would be for God to be wrong. The only possible explanation is that these events are preordained, that it is the will of the Lord and for the greater glory of his subjects,’ the cardinal replied, ending the conversation. The marquis might have been able to argue with him on secular matters, but not spiritual ones.
Even so the damage was done. The cardinal’s humiliation was total. He had been ridiculed in front of the King and every great person of state, and for the remainder of the meeting he remained silent, his head bowed as he contemplated what had just occurred. The distance between him and the rest of the table, normally a sign of primacy, now isolated him instead.
Spain
(1641 – 1642)
In mid-July, Louis fled the formalities of Paris. Fontainebleau was a particular favourite: close, yet surrounded by forest, teeming with boar and deer. Richelieu chose to stay nearby in his country house at Fleury. His health was declining and after lunch, once the midday swelter had passed, he would retire to the grounds, following advice from his doctor who recommended the heat to balance his excess phlegm. Today he was working at the small escritoire he had set up in the garden, overlooking a pond of goldfish and carp, flanked by statues and ilex hedges. Despite the peaceful surroundings, he appeared nervous, and spent much of the afternoon observing the view over locked hands, his fingers knotted together, whitened from the strain.
The cardinal’s thoughts were interrupted by a cough to his left and he turned to see a footman who enquired if he was expecting a visit from a Monsieur Sebastian Morra. The cardinal assented with a nod and a few moments later saw a familiar misshapen figure appear from behind a tree to his left.
‘You used the side entrance?’
‘Of course, but I’m not being followed.’
‘I know, but the man on the door works for Gaston and I don’t want him informing Cinq-Mars of your whereabouts.’
‘What? You know he’s a spy? Get rid of him then.’
‘No, better to have one’s enemies in plain sight. If I removed him, Gaston would simply use someone else. Besides, I can always throw him the odd scrap of information when it suits . . . here . . . this way . . . I’ve something interesting to show you.’ Richelieu turned and shuffled back towards his desk with the aid of his cane. His legs were barely able to hold him and the stick was taking most of the load, the back of his supporting hand a spider of bulging veins. On the tabletop was a paperweight of Murano glass, beneath it a scrap of parchment, blank apart from a few scribbles. He bent over the desk, smacking his palms face down on the surface as if fixing something in place. Though there was weakness too – the need to support tiring limbs.
‘Looks innocent enough, doesn’t it?’ He shook his head with disbelief. ‘But you could be looking at the end of France. This very moment troops are being raised in Spain. About eight thousand at the latest count.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Some things I can’t tell even you. But it’s as I predicted. A grand alliance – Chevreuse, Guise, Bouillon, Lorraine. They’re going to support a Spanish attack and put Gaston on the throne. Cinq-Mars is involved as well.’
‘Arrest them, then.’
‘I can’t. All I have is an unsigned receipt and information from a confidential source. It so happens I know it’s the truth, but it’s not enough to prove guilt – certainly not for a prince of the blood.’
‘Your Eminence.’ The voice came from their right and they both looked round to see a man in the King’s livery – blue with fleurs-de-lis.
‘Guillaume.’ The cardinal welcomed the man with a nod. ‘Am I needed at the palace?’
‘The dwarf, actually.’
Of the two men, it was hard to tell which was more surprised. Richelieu was the first to recover, and when he spoke, it was with his usual interrogatory tone.
‘How did you know to come here?’
‘Your footman was kind enough to send word.’
‘I’m sure he was.’ The cardinal added a sour tut. ‘And the King, did he give a reason?’
‘I was not informed, Your Eminence. My instructions came from the chamberlain.’
‘And what was the order? Precise words please.’ Sebastian was always impressed by the cardinal’s questioning: sequential and to the point.
‘That I was to bring the dwarf Sebastian Morra to His Majesty’s presence in Fontainebleau.’
He looked across at Sebastian. ‘You understand what this means?’
Sebastian understood all too well. The King had no interest in him. There could only be one possible explanation.
‘And if I was to say Sebastian wasn’t here, and had . . . left Paris never to return?’ Richelieu subjected the messenger to one of his more unreturnable stares.
Unable to meet the cardinal’s eyes, Guillaume looked at his feet. ‘I can’t, Your Eminence. There are witnesses – the footman, the coachman too. The risk would be too great.’
‘Guillaume,’ he repeated. He was not a man who required threats.
‘Please, Your Eminence.’ Guillaume wriggled as though on a hook. ‘You know I can’t. The command came from the King himself.’
‘Very well. Leave us a moment.’ Richelieu snapped, first waiting for the messenger to retreat a respectful distance before bending down, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Listen carefully, Sebastian, we don’t have long. Understand that I can’t protect you. No one can overrule the King’s orders, not even me.’ He spoke staccato, keen to make the most of what time they had. ‘I’ve no idea what Cinq-Mars has planned. But rest while you can, eat what you’re given, and if you see your chance at escape, take it and do not come back.’
‘The first I can promise.’ Sebastian’s eyes were fixed on the cardinal, alert to his every word. ‘But the second . . . I still choose your protection over none at all.’
‘A noble sentiment. And your loyalty is appreciated.’ He was interrupted by a cough from the messenger, and only had time to whisper a few final words. ‘But no heroism, please. My brother was a hero. Died in a duel when he was only nineteen – utterly pointless. Do not risk yourself on my account.’
‘I won’t risk myself on anyone’s account. That I can promise.’ Sebastian was even able to raise a smile, albeit a rueful one. Then, kneeling down, he bowed and kissed the cardinal’s ring before turning to leave. He didn’t normally make the gesture and its significance was clear.
‘Good luck, and whatever happens, remember you have achieved more than God intended for you.’ It sounded more like an epitaph than a farewell.
* * *
Sick with fear, Sebastian was barely aware of the journey to Fontainebleau or indeed anything other than the desire to vomit. However, it wasn’t until they pulled into the courtyard that his stomach got the better of him and he voided himself over the carriage floor and his shoes. Not that it brought any relief. Instead the nausea was replaced by a clammy and pungent sweat along with a keen appreciation of both his surroundings and his situation. Spitting out the last o
f the scum, he gazed down at the spatter of stains on his left shoe before remembering the footman and looking up to see a face pinched from irritation.
‘You can’t see the King in those.’ The man glanced at his feet, tutting sharply. Marching Sebastian inside the palace, he immediately barked at the stable boy to clean the coach – and bring a pair of shoes while he was at it. Sebastian was then presented with a cup of water to swill out his mouth and wash off the mess. Then, once he had been reshod, his journey resumed.
He had never liked Fontainebleau at the best of times. It was too large and empty, a place without theatre, or brothels or people, where his only memories were of being lost in its passages as he searched for some way to occupy himself. But, disorienting as it had been before, it was doubly so now. An endless sequence of long, oak-panelled corridors, each door opening to reveal another passageway and a further door behind, every one seemingly narrower than the last. He kept breathing but could never take in enough air. And still the doors kept opening, their perspective taking on ever more restrictive proportions. It was torture. And it would not end. The sickness returned to his stomach accompanied by a light-headedness. Then, and for no apparent reason, everything came to an abrupt stop.
He was standing in a large room. A pyramid of light shone down from a cupola above – bright at the top, diffuse at the base. The rest of the chamber was in shadow so that only its outlines were visible, no more than a loose-drafted sketch. Four figures sat in the light, playing cards: the King and the marquis, accompanied by the dukes of Vendôme and Rethel. The colour and sparkle of their attire drew the eye, at odds with the tepid shades around them. Seasoned players, they murmured the bets and flicked down the cards with a practised rhythm. Absorbed in their game, none of them seemed to have noticed him except for Cinq-Mars, who had forfeited the hand and was observing him with that familiar smirk of imminent revenge.
‘Aren’t you going to bow in front of your King?’ The tone was crisp, each word pronounced with bite.
‘Of course, Your Majesty.’ Sebastian threw himself to the ground in front of Louis, who appeared visibly embarrassed and waved at him to stop.
‘Please don’t b-b-bother. Anyway, Henri, this is more your affair than mine.’ Glancing across, he nodded at the marquis to continue – ever-eager to avoid the torture of speech.
‘Delighted, of course. As His Majesty was saying, I was just speaking to him yesterday and he had the most wonderful idea. You really must hear it.’
Sebastian nodded with a curtness that indicated they had very different interpretations of what constituted a good idea.
‘As you know, I’ve always enjoyed your performances. And I was just telling Louis how I’m going to the country and how much I’ll miss them. Then he had the most marvellous thought. You could come with me for the week and keep me entertained – my own private theatre.’
Sebastian flinched. It appeared the marquis was going to do exactly as he’d threatened – ‘to take his time’, as he put it. For all its grand proportions, the room had begun to feel every bit as tight as the corridor had been.
‘Marquis, thank you for your kind words. However, it is too great an honour.’
‘I assure you the honour is entirely mine.’
‘I must implore you, I have good reasons.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Might you enlighten us as to what they might be?’
‘It’s a private matter.’
‘But to overrule your king’s command? Surely you’re obliged to provide some kind of explanation.’ Like Richelieu, Cinq-Mars had acquired the habit of using the King’s name to disguise his own.
‘It’s a delicate subject.’
‘You can rest assured that anything you say will remain between these walls.’
‘It concerns His Majesty personally.’ Sebastian was doing his best to obfuscate and could think of no better reason.
‘Are you implying the King has something to hide?’
‘Not at all.’ Sebastian noticed the King’s expression had changed from polite indifference to mild concern and that he was talking himself from a bad situation into an even worse one. ‘I’ve been writing a special performance in honour of His Majesty and was hoping to surprise him this weekend.’
Louis responded with a laugh, evidently relieved it was nothing more serious, then informed Sebastian that he could always perform the following weekend.
‘Besides,’ he added. ‘I promise I’ll look surprised.’
Left with no alternative but to agree, Sebastian tried his best to delay, claiming he would need an hour to return to his room and pack. The marquis, however, granted him no such luxury.
‘Actually I’m just going now. If you come with me, I’ll have a footman fetch your things.’ He stood up and beckoned Sebastian to the door.
‘There’s really no need. I can do it myself,’ Sebastian responded hurriedly; but the players had already lost interest and were staring at their cards.
Cinq-Mars steered Sebastian out of the room, walking alongside him, his palm resting on the dwarf’s back. To Louis, they seemed on the best of terms. However, as they turned the corner, all Cinq-Mars needed to do was twist the collar to yank Sebastian upright and have him tottering, a puppet in the grip of his controlling hand. Sebastian cried for help but found a palm clamped over his mouth.
‘Fighting will only make it worse,’ Cinq-Mars whispered in his ear, removing the pistol from his inside pocket before leading him down three flights of stairs, out of the entrance hall and into the courtyard beyond.
A coach was already set up and waiting, brown-lacquered and decorated with the marquis’ coat of arms – the phoenix and ring. Through its open door, Sebastian could see silk wallpaper and tasselled blinds. An empty trunk sat on the centre of the floor, its open lid yawning over the pit below.
‘I’ve already prepared your accommodation,’ Cinq-Mars announced, allowing Sebastian an instant to view his fate before pressing him inside. Despite spread-eagling himself, he couldn’t sustain the weight from above and only managed to resist for a few moments. Then the lid slammed down and he found himself entombed in the dark.
The space was tight, even for a man of his limited proportions, forcing him to crouch on hands and knees – the sides of the box pressing against his feet and downturned head. The waistband of his trousers was cutting into his torso, and finding himself unable to loosen the string, he was forced to compensate by straightening his back, placing further pressure on his limbs. However, it was an improvement on the alternative and slowly he became more aware of his surroundings, the musty air thick with the smell of sweat and moistened wood. He could just make out a prick of light beside his hip, presumably from the keyhole, though he had no prospect of looking through it. And, listening to his own laboured breath, he felt that familiar sensation of tight spaces and impending death, accompanied by the knowledge that this time there really was no escape.
As the journey continued, the pain in Sebastian’s arms and legs steepened, forcing him to shuffle from one side to the other in order to ease the pressure. Soon the temperature began to rise as his body warmed the chamber from within. He became thirsty and his tongue started to swell, followed by a pain in his lower back, which again he could not reach. All he could think about was water in all its forms: snowy mountains, clear blue lakes, cups filled to the brim. The urge became overpowering and his mind erupted into furious thought, searching for anywhere that liquid might be found. He licked a rough tongue around his mouth, shoulder, even armpit – hoping for moisture – before remembering the scoop of his collarbone. Reaching up, he thrust a finger into the hollow only to find salted skin. His last hope gone, he choked out a few dry tears before slumping, exhausted against the side of the box. And he lay there listless, aware of nothing except the constant drum of the horses’ hooves, altering with each kick, and every pebble and stone. As he sank deeper, only the sound remained, growing evermore intricate, rhythms within rhythms – hypnotic as the sea.
By the end, he barely noticed when the hooves stopped, replaced by the rap of heel on stone. There were voices too, but dim and faraway. Better to remain where he was and return to sleep.
Pain. His forearms and knees were aching. His waist was in agony. Sebastian opened his eyes. He could see a shadow and wall in front of him – a cell of some kind. Next came thirst, overpowering thirst. Noticing a gleam of wetness nearby, he lunged for it – a bowl of brackish scum, still sweet to the tongue. Not enough. He searched for more. There was nothing, only darkness patched with slivers of dark brick. Suddenly noise, lots of noise, dogs snarling and scrabbling. He crouched, arms raised for protection. Then a roar and a strike from behind.
Bolting upright, he flung himself forward. The effort was considerable and the blood rushed from his head, sending the world into a spin – though he narrowly managed to keep his balance with the assistance of the wall. Taking a few breaths, he waited for the shock to pass while trying to ignore the chorus of dogs in his ears, until his thoughts slowed again. He seemed to be unhurt, at least. The animals hadn’t attacked and were evidently behind some kind of barrier. Even so, they were close. He could smell their scent, a mingling of wet pelt, excrement and foul breath. Hesitant, he reached out and felt something cold and round on his fingertips – a bar. Another one next to it. Groping his way along, he reached the corner, then a small, grated window and a door. There was no handle, and when he gripped the underside, a rattle revealed it to be locked. Returning to the window, he squinted into the blackness and could make out a crescent of light scattering from under a distant doorway – presumably the way out.
Now apprised of his situation, Sebastian focused his attention on the lock. First he tried to pick it with his pocketknife, only to find the blade too large and clumsy. Next he tried his belt-buckle but it was too short to get any purchase. So, with nothing else to hand, he trusted to serendipity and fumbled on the floor for a substitute tool. But half an hour’s search only produced some pebbles and a shard of chicken bone. So, all possibilities exhausted, he could do nothing except wait and hope.
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