The Cardinal's Man

by M. G. Sinclair

  Holding his breath, he listened for signs. This time the footsteps were slow and methodical. Marching to the far wall, they turned and came straight towards him, a loud clump. They stopped then moved away again and began to travel the floor, sometimes nearby, sometimes further away. In the background he could hear what sounded like swallowed tittering, but without speech or context. It made no sense. Someone was definitely in the room. Even so he couldn’t hear the sound of anything being opened or lifted or moved, only the footsteps mixed in with the occasional snort of laughter. Then a crackling noise. Odd. A crunching, but accelerated and growing louder, like some ever-expanding paper ball. Soon afterwards he caught a gust of smoke and guessed that someone had lit a fire in the hearth. He wasn’t sure why. It was late summer and the heat was uncomfortable enough already. As the smoke thickened he felt warmth beneath him, quite uncomfortable. It continued to become hotter, painful to the touch, now a burn. Then he realised the flames weren’t in the fireplace, they were directly below him. The cabinet was on fire.

  His reaction was violent and instantaneous. Grabbing the frame, he yanked himself into the open and sprang from the drawer, gasping for air as he scrambled to escape the blaze, only stopping when he became aware of the guffaws nearby. Through watering eyes, he could pick out a gaggle of figures wobbling with hysteria and pointing at him. Then he looked round to see a pile of smoking straw beneath his hiding place, which a servant was now extinguishing with a bucket of water. Realising he was safe, he collapsed to the ground and lay there a few minutes, too weary to move, until Cinq-Mars grew bored of the spectacle and ended it by having him dragged back to the kennels again.

  * * *

  The document itself was unremarkable – a vellum square, creased into quarters from where it had been folded. Its script was suitably stately: perfect calligraphy without error, every letter serifed and crossed, the black ink crisp against the white. The only disorder came from the five signatures at the base, each scribble separated by an accompanying red seal.

  Sebastian lay trussed in the library once again. It was a favourite place for punishment, perhaps because the thick walls muffled any cries from outside ears. And for all his love of literature, the leather-bound books brought him no comfort. Instead his attention was drawn to the oversized furniture and a grotesque red marble fireplace which gave the room both a hellish appearance and sulphurous whiff.

  ‘You see this.’ Cinq-Mars held up the document with great care, as though exhibiting a masterpiece. ‘This will change the face of France. Look at the signatures – me, Gaston, Lorraine. There are more too. Richelieu can’t win this time. You’ve chosen the wrong man.’

  It was at that exact moment Sebastian realised he was going to be killed. Cinq-Mars had just shown him something the cardinal had spent months searching for, a document whose discovery would mean the marquis’ immediate downfall and death.

  Instantly his mind turned to escape. There was no time to lose. His instinct, as ever, was to talk his way out of the situation. But he knew it was hopeless. He had nothing to offer Cinq-Mars. Besides, the man wasn’t going to listen to him. No – it would have to be more direct, straight out of the castle and over the walls. But how? Whenever he left his cell, they kept him tied up or under guard. The only possibility was at night – but it would have to be a different room, at least without bars on the window.

  ‘You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?’

  ‘That depends. We’re open to persuasion.’

  ‘You’ve beaten me, burned me, put your bloody dogs on me. What makes you think I’m going to tell you anything now?’

  The marquis shrugged. ‘Then yes, you’re going to die.’

  Sebastian took a moment to absorb the words. Even though he knew they were coming, they were still not easy to hear. ‘I believe I’m allowed a last request.’

  ‘You want mercy? From me?’

  ‘I’ll not ask much. Just a night in a comfortable bed and a good breakfast to follow. To die with a bit of dignity, well-slept, well-fed. Besides, I’ll put on a better show if I’m in decent shape. I mean, do you really want me passing out in the first minute?’

  ‘Enough.’ The marquis waved him to a stop. ‘I’m minded to refuse you for cheek. However, since you seem to have discovered a degree of humility, I’ll consider it.’ He glanced down at his doublet, grimacing at a grain of lint that had made its way onto his chest. Extracting it with a nail, he rolled it between his fingertips before blowing it into space. Then he checked the spot again, brushing down the ruffle and restoring it to a liquid shine. Now satisfied, he looked back at Sebastian.

  ‘I’ve put considerable thought into how I kill you. The rope, the sword, poison, do you have a preference?’

  ‘If I do, I’ll be sure not to say.’

  ‘Probably wise. Recently I’ve been thinking that height might be appropriate, or should I say lack of it.’

  ‘Very perceptive, Your Lordship.’

  The marquis ignored the aside. ‘I was wondering if there might be a way to shrink you somehow. If we bound you into a ball, then wound you tighter until you suffocated. Or maybe put you in a wine press. I wonder what liquid would come out first – mainly shit, I would imagine.’ As Cinq-Mars spoke, he scrutinised Sebastian, searching for a reaction. But Sebastian remained mute in that manner of the powerless, when all they have left is scorn.

  * * *

  Even during his years training to be a priest, Sebastian never had much faith in the Almighty. Years of praying as a child had taught him that God might be omniscient but he is also deaf. Nevertheless, tonight he broke with tradition, murmuring the ritual Pater Noster under his breath, soothing himself in its familiar lines. Qui es in caelis. Sanctificetur nomen tuum. Latin constructions that could not be rushed. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua. Pronouncing each word carefully and with precision. Sicut in caelo, et in terra. Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie. It provided a sense of finality, the desire to leave a tidy life with no loose ends. Et dimitte nobis debita nostra. And now it was at an end. Quite possibly the last words he would ever say. Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Amen.

  The bedsheet was lying in the centre of the floor. Its ends had been knotted to make a sack, into which he had stuffed every piece of material he could find: curtains, tapestries, a small rug, his pillow, even his clothes. He tugged the knots again, satisfying himself that they were secure. Closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath, as if about to plunge to the bottom of the ocean. Then he crossed himself, lifted the bundle above his head and concentrated on the small chest he had placed in front of him. After the briefest of pauses, he ran at the window, using the chest as a ramp as he sprang at the glass, holding the cushion tight in front of him. The impact came in a spray of noise and splinters. Time slowed and there was a momentary stillness, long enough for him to notice the cold and the dark.

  Next the drop. A shriek of air and sheer, blind terror. Gripping the sheet tight, he opened his mouth in a silent scream, clamping his eyes and bracing for impact. A moment passed. Pictures flashed through his head: his mother stood above him in Camoches; the cleft yew at the end of the village and the road to Créances; the view through the curtain while he stared at Père Jean; the cardinal gazing down from his throne; the sight of Michelle on the pillow as she slept; all those times spent crouching in tight spaces listening to his own breath. Then the images disappeared and he remembered that he was falling before smashing into the ground with a crunch of bone. Then black.

  * * *

  The pain was overpowering, this time from his elbow. But, while the agony in his hand had ended, now it was constant. Worse still, he couldn’t make a noise and was forced to bite his lip as he bent double in his effort to contain himself. He lay curled, waiting for the torture to ease, but there was no relief. His stomach rose and he bent forward, hacking out a pool of vomit. The cold sweat revived him somewhat and he became aware of the press of gravel beneath him and the muck in his face. Then
, after wiping the scum from his cheek, he managed to struggle upright, took two steps and fell straight onto the damaged arm.

  The pain was every bit as severe as before, and it was some time before he managed to uncoil and push himself up. He collapsed again almost immediately, but succeeded in keeping his elbow away from the ground. Standing up once more, he managed to reach the lawn before falling over yet again. Exhausted, he rolled onto his back and lay there a moment. Even so, tired as he was, he could feel the open air on his face, reminding him of the need to hide. It took all his effort to clamber upright and, noticing a blur of bushes to his left, he flung himself towards them, using his own momentum to carry his bulk the final few yards before tumbling into the copse.

  Now safe in the undergrowth, he was able to recover and catch his breath. Propping himself up against a tree, he examined the wound. It was hard on the eye, impossible to look at without a wince. The forearm had sheered completely out of its socket and drooped at a sickening angle, hanging loose with the bone thrusting out beneath the skin. The elbow, meanwhile, had swollen to a tender bulb of flesh, too painful to touch. There seemed no break at least, and a hard tug appeared enough to pull it back into place – though it took him five minutes to build up the courage and a further fifteen to recover.

  Eventually the pain subsided enough for him to remember the cold and he became conscious of his shivering and the phlegm pouring from his nostrils. Remembering his clothes, he hobbled back to the bundle, extracted his jerkin and trousers and dressed himself with slow and agonised care – paying particular attention to the elbow. Still cold, he draped one of the curtains over his shoulders – a makeshift blanket – and took the sheet to bind his arm. Then, returning to his hiding place, he spent the remainder of the night huddled beneath his cover while whittling two splints for his forearm and lashing them into place. It was hard work, only being able to use one hand – especially tying the knots. But he had both time and patience, and by dawn the limb was half-usable again. Now he could turn his mind to escape.

  * * *

  Sebastian observed the morning unfold with muted horror. It wasn’t the fact he was going to die which terrified him, but rather that he knew precisely how it was going to happen. First, there would be the discovery of the evidence, then the searching of the rooms, followed by a hunt of the grounds before his inevitable capture and death. And yet he had to endure it in total silence, breathless with fear, hoping for an escape that was never going to come.

  It began with a servant strolling out and walking the portico, taking in the light and the silence. On the return journey, he stopped, noticing the sack of fabric on the ground. Then he scuttled across, perplexed, and began picking through the rags. Looking around, he didn’t take long to work out the source and stared up at the blank black windows which topped the house. One stuck out, splashed with a blot of white from the ceiling behind. The man looked down again, perhaps searching for a body, then called for help. A moment or two later, the doorway spat out three servants who clustered around him, muttering among themselves. A guard with a halberd appeared, and immediately began searching the vicinity.

  Sebastian was sodden with sweat, breathing heavily and struggling to keep calm. It was only a matter of minutes now. He was too close for them to miss. The urge to run was overpowering. He had to do something – anything but sit and dumbly await his demise. Frantic, he glanced across at the front gate. One of the servants was walking towards it, probably to cut off his escape. Then he noticed something moving between the bars. Assuming it was simply a trick of the eyes, he peered closer, trying to make sense of the smudge.

  A moment later the shape coalesced into horse. A horse? Then he realised it was a visitor waiting to be let in. Immediately he looked back at the servant, who was already undoing the bolts. It wasn’t much of a chance but it was all he had – sixty yards, every step in full view. No point thinking. Just run and pray.

  The pain was excruciating. Every jolt shooting fire down his arm. His eyes were tearing up from the effort it took not to scream. Still forty yards to go. Somebody had to have seen him. Resisting the urge to look round, he kept running, eyes fixed on the brown smear of the gate. Thirty yards. The pain was unbearable but he forced himself to keep going. He couldn’t give up. Not when he was so close. Twenty yards. He could see it now. A covered wagon pulled by a single horse. Ten yards. For the first time it occurred to him that he might actually succeed. Then, as he slowed to turn the corner, there was a voice to his left.

  ‘In a hurry, little man?’

  He froze and looked across, steadying himself for the blow. But it wasn’t a guard, instead a fat-faced local looking down from the wagon with a mildly bemused expression.

  ‘Anything wrong? You okay?’

  Returning a curt, ‘Good day’, Sebastian nodded and gave an iron smile. Then, rounding the gate, he unexpectedly found himself a free man.

  From then on, the rat took over. Knowing he had to keep off the main road and away from the scent of dogs, he took the fastest way downhill, soon coming across a stream and following it to the nearest village. After that, a quick rummage through his clothes revealed two livres sewn into his waistband with another in the collar. And three coach rides, two taverns and six meals later, he was back in Paris and outside the Palais-Cardinal.

  * * *

  The moment he saw the steward, Sebastian knew matters had taken a turn for the worse. Richelieu’s moods were always evident in his staff. The man was baggy-eyed and semi-conscious, exhausted from overwork.

  Despite Sebastian’s appearance – foul-smelling, injured, his clothes cracked with wrinkles – the man seemed too tired to notice and simply mumbled that the Chief Minister and his staff had already left for Lyons. However, when Sebastian explained it was urgent, the man conceded there was a slight chance the cardinal’s carriage might still be in the courtyard at the rear.

  Ignoring his arm, which remained a constant source of pain, Sebastian made his way to the back of the palace, only to be stopped at the gate by two guards. One of them, a bent-nosed and lugubrious individual, lowered his halberd, his confusion further deforming an already homely face.

  ‘Dwarf, this is the Chief Minister’s palace. Try somewhere else.’

  Sebastian glared upwards and rolled his eyes.

  ‘I don’t have time for this. I need to see the cardinal – now.’

  The soldier didn’t expect to be spoken to in such a manner, and gazed back, struggling to shape an answer.

  ‘He’s sick. He isn’t seeing visitors.’

  ‘Look, I’ve travelled three days and risked my life to get here. Now you can either let me in or you’d better pray Richelieu dies, because if he finds out what you’ve done, he’ll have your head.’ The guard continued to stare back, still unable to connect the voice with the figure standing before him.

  ‘Say something, you idiot,’ Sebastian prompted, hands on hips, before abandoning the enterprise and marching forward. ‘Enough, I’m going in.’

  The barb was enough to jog the man into a response, and with a disgruntled follow me, he beckoned Sebastian inside.

  The courtyard consisted almost entirely of doors: high studded doors for the carriages, stable doors for the horses, weather-beaten doors for storing wood and coal, and plain doors that led into the palace itself. A few were entirely distinct. A solid metal door, bolted and barred, that clearly led to some kind of vault. A battered door, sunk deep into the walls and half off its hinges, probably either for refuse or a cesspit or both. Along with a portcullis through which a hidden garden, thick with roses, could be seen. The general impression was of a place full of comings and goings, the arrival of kings and retinues, the despatching of messengers – all the bustle of statecraft.

  Today there was no activity, only silence, apart from a single carriage standing in the middle of the square, its horses ready and clinking in the harness. It appeared to be some kind of baggage wagon, dun and leather-clad. The only indication of its own
er’s importance was the vast pile of trunks bound to the top, doubtless packed with papers and diplomatic business. There was no sign of the cardinal’s coach anywhere. Assuming Richelieu had already left, Sebastian was bemused when the guard stopped him at the rear wheel and told him to wait. He couldn’t see any purpose to the delay and it took him a few moments to work out the reason. Of course – the cardinal would never use his state carriage on the open road. He didn’t have walls or the King to protect him, probably no more than a few guards. It made sense not to stand out.

  After a brief whisper through the window, the guard waved Sebastian forward. Richelieu lay inside, on a stretcher between two seats. He’d been sick before, but this was different. He looked halfway to death, already fading from the world. The surgeon had bled him near-translucent and his wraithlike skin contrasted with the grey of his beard. Sickness made him apostolic: his long hair sprayed on the pillow like a ragged halo, his feverish eyes fixed on some point in distant space, his gaunt features smooth and without earthly concerns. Hearing footsteps, he turned his head mechanically and stared at Sebastian. Then his lips drew back into a smile that was all tooth, no gum.

  ‘The King’s timing, as ever, remains impeccable. I can barely move and he’s decided to join the siege at Perpignan.’

  ‘Tell him you can’t go.’

  ‘I must. He’s travelling with Henri the entire way. It’s a fortnight at least. He’s already turning the King’s mind, I know it.’ Instead of its usual monotone, Richelieu’s voice wavered with emotion, taut as a bowstring, and for perhaps the first time Sebastian doubted his judgement, worried the fever had tipped him into delirium.

  ‘Tell him to postpone.’

  ‘He won’t postpone. He lives for his troops, just like his father. Nothing will stop this.’

  ‘Your Eminence, I’m not sure you’re in any condition to ride. Trust me, I spent months travelling Normandy when I was young. It’s going to get hot, you’ll be knocked about. It’s not something you can do on a stretcher. Besides, you’ve served the King for fifteen years. Louis won’t abandon you.’