The Cardinal's Blades

by Pierre Pevel

  Eventually, preceded by a severe-looking individual with a noticeably receding hairline, the Grand Coësre arrived.

  Slender and blond, the Grand Coësre was no more than seventeen years old, an age when one was already reckoned an adult in these times, but he seemed rather young to be leader of some of the toughest and most frightening members of the Parisian underworld. He nevertheless displayed all the self-­assurance of a feared and respected monarch, whose authority was never disputed without blood and tears flowing from the challenge. His right cheek carried the scar from a badly healed gash. His clear eyes shone with cynicism and intelligence. He was unarmed, certain that no harm would befall him in his own stronghold where a mere glance on his part could condemn another to death.

  While the Grand Coësre settled himself comfortably on the high-backed armchair reserved for his use, the man who had held the door for him moved to his side, standing straight and expressionless. Saint-Lucq knew him. His name was Grangier and he was an archisuppôt. Within the strict hierarchical organisation of the Cour des Miracles, archisuppôts ranked just below the Grand Coësre, along with the cagoux. The latter were responsible for organising the troops and training new recruits in the arts of picking pockets and eliciting compassion—and money—from strangers. The archisuppôts, in contrast, were often highly educated judges and advisors. A defrocked priest, Grangier had his master’s ear due to his formidable perspicacity.

  Saint-Lucq bowed his head, but did not remove his hat.

  “I must admit you’re not lacking in courage,” the Grand Coësre observed without preamble. “If anyone but you behaved like this, I would think I was dealing with a cretin.”

  The half-blood didn’t respond.

  “To come here after having manhandled two of my men and threatened to cut poor Tranchelard’s throat—”

  “I had to be sure he would not forget to pass on my message.”

  “You realise that he now speaks of nothing but disembowelling you?”

  “He’s of no importance.”

  Tranchelard bristled, visibly itching to draw his sword. As for his undisputed master, he burst out laughing.

  “Well! You can always boast later of how you piqued my curiosity. Speak, I’m listening.”

  “It concerns the Corbins gang.”

  At hearing these words, the Grand Coësre’s face darkened.

  “And?”

  “Recently, the Corbins have seized certain goods. Precious, fragile merchandise. Merchandise of a kind which, up until now, had never interested them. Do you know what I am referring to?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I would like to find out where they stash their goods. I know the place is not in Paris, but nothing more than that. You, on the other hand …”

  The master of the Cour des Miracles paused for a moment without speaking. Then he leaned toward Grangier and said a few words to him in narquois, a language which was incomprehensible to the uninitiated. The archisuppôt replied in the same idiom. Without reacting, Saint-Lucq waited for their secretive discussion to end. It was brief.

  “Supposing I have the information you seek,” the Grand Coësre said to him. “Why should I tell you?”

  “It’s information for which I’m willing to pay full price.”

  “I’m already rich.”

  “You’re also a bastard without faith or morality. But above all, you are a shrewd man.”

  “Which is to say?”

  “The Corbins are making inroads into your territory. Because of them, your influence and your business revenues are shrinking. But, in particular, they don’t take their orders from you.”

  “This problem will soon be resolved.”

  “Really? I can resolve it for you now. Tell me what I want to know, and I will deliver the Corbins a blow from which they will have trouble recovering. You can even take the credit if you want.… We don’t like one another, Grand Coësre. And no doubt, one day or another, blood will be spilt between us. But in this matter our interests coincide.”

  The other stroked his well-trimmed moustache and goatee thoughtfully, although they were still not so much hair as down.

  “This merchandise is precious to you, then?”

  “To you, it’s worth nothing.”

  “And for the Corbins?”

  “It is worth the price they have been offered. I think they are only hirelings in this business and soon they will deliver the goods to their employers. For my purposes, it will be too late to act once that occurs, and you will have lost a beautiful opportunity to give them a taste of their own medicine. Time is short.”

  “Allow me an hour to consider it.”

  The man and the half-blood exchanged a long glance, in which each delved into the heart of the other.

  “One hour, no more,” Saint-Lucq stipulated.

  Once Saint-Lucq had gone, the Grand Coësre asked his archisuppôt: “What did you make of that?”

  Grangier took a moment to reflect.

  “Two things,” he said.

  “Which are?”

  “To begin with, it is in your interest to help the half-blood against the Corbins.”

  “And then?”

  Rather than replying, the archisuppôt turned toward the old woman who, he knew, had followed his chain of thought. Between nibbles of her wafer, her gaze still directed straight ahead like someone either blind or indifferent to the world, she said: “The following day, he will have to be killed.”

  25

  Within the Cardinal’s Guards, the troops received their pay every thirty-six days. This occasion demanded a roll call, which was also an opportunity to take a precise count of the cardinal’s manpower. The guards lined up. Then the captain or his lieutenant walked past with a list in hand. Each man in turn called out his name, which was immediately ticked off the list. Each ticked name was then copied out onto a list which was certified and signed by the ranking officer. This document was given to the paymaster, and the guards would go—in good order—to receive their due at his office.

  Today, it had been decided that roll call would take place at five in the afternoon, in the courtyard of the Palais-Cardinal, since His Eminence was currently residing there. Unless they were excused, all the guards not currently on duty thus found themselves collected here. They were impeccably turned out—boots polished, capes pressed, and weapons burnished. They waited to be called to attention and chattered amongst themselves, enjoying the idea of soon being a little richer. They might have been gentlemen in social rank, but most of them lacked fortunes of their own and lived on their pay. Happily, the cardinal paid well—fifty livres for a guard and up to four hundred for a captain. But above all, he paid punctually. Even the prestigious King’s Musketeers were not remunerated so regularly.

  Sitting by himself on a windowsill, Arnaud de Laincourt was reading when Neuvelle joined him. The young man, delighted to be taking part in his first roll call, was beaming.

  “So, monsieur Laincourt, what will you do with your hundred and fifty-four livres?”

  It was the pay grade of an ensign with the Cardinal’s Guards.

  “Pay my landlord, Neuvelle. And also my debts.”

  “You? You have debts? That’s not like you. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t imagine you burning through money.…”

  Laincourt smiled amiably without replying.

  “Let’s see,” continued Neuvelle. “I have observed that you don’t drink and you scorn the pleasures of the table. You don’t gamble. You’re not vain. Do you have a hidden mistress? Rumour has it that you give all you have to good works. But you can’t run into debt through acts of charity, can you?”

  “My debts are with a bookseller.”

  Neuvelle made a face while curling up the tips of his slender moustache, between his thumb and index finger.

  “Myself, I read nothing but monsieur Renaudot’s Gazette. You can always find a copy of it lying about somewhere. The news is sometimes a little dated, but I always find myse
lf rather well informed.”

  Laincourt nodded, his blue eyes expressing nothing other than an amiable and patient reserve.

  It had been two years since Théophraste Renaudot began to produce—with royal dispensation—a highly popular news journal which was hawked on the streets. Every week his Gazette comprised thirty-two pages and two slim volumes—one dedicated to “News from the East and the South,” the other to “News from the West and the North.” It also contained information pertaining to the French court. To this was added a monthly supplement which summarised and then enlarged upon the news from the preceding weeks. It was common knowledge that Cardinal Richelieu exerted tight control over everything which was printed in the Gazette. He had, on occasion, even taken up a pen himself and contributed to it under his own name. And, surprising as it seems, even the king did not scorn to comment on events which related closely to him in the Gazette.

  “What are you reading at this hour?” asked Neuvelle to make ­conversation.

  Laincourt offered him his book.

  “Goodness!” said the young guard. “Is that Latin?”

  “Italian,” explained the officer, abstaining from further comment.

  Like most gentleman of the sword, Neuvelle was almost illiterate. However, he could not hide his admiration of Laincourt’s learning: “I’ve heard that in addition to Latin and Greek you understand Spanish and German. But Italian?”

  “Well, yes …”

  “And what does this work speak of?”

  “Draconic magic.”

  A bell tower, and a few others nearby, sounded three quarters of the hour, indicating to the assembled guards it was time to prepare for the roll call. Neuvelle returned the book as though it were some compromising piece of evidence and Laincourt slipped it beneath his cape and into his doublet.

  At that moment, a lackey wearing the cardinal’s livery walked toward them.

  “Monsieur Laincourt, the service of His Eminence calls you before monsieur de Saint-Georges.”

  “Now?” Neuvelle was astonished, seeing the troops being formed up.

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  Laincourt reassured the young guard with a glance and followed the lackey inside.

  After climbing a staircase and a long wait in an antechamber, Arnaud de Laincourt saw, without real surprise, who awaited him beneath the high carved ceilings of the captain’s office. The room was vast and impressive in length, its gold and its woodwork burnished to a high gleam in the daylight which shone in through two enormous windows in the rear wall. These windows opened onto the main courtyard and through them came the sound of roll call, now almost over.

  Stiff and impassive, six guards renowned for their loyalty stood at attention, three to the right and three to the left, opposite each other, as though showing the way to the grand desk at which captain Saint-Georges was sitting with his back to the light. Standing close to him, and slightly further back, was Charpentier.

  The presence, in this place and under these circumstances, of Richelieu’s private secretary could only signify one thing, and Laincourt realised this immediately. He waited until the lackey had closed the door behind him, then took one slow step forward between the guards. Old Brussand was one of their number and seemed to be struggling with his emotion; he stood more stiffly than the others and was almost trembling.

  As all present held their breath, Laincourt pulled himself together and saluted.

  “By your order, monsieur.”

  Saint-Georges, his gaze severe, rose and walked around his desk.

  And holding out his hand before him, he ordered in an irrevocable tone: “Your sword, monsieur.”

  At the same moment, the beat of a drum outside announced the end of the roll call.

  26

  “You know that it’s not your fault, don’t you?”

  Agnès de Vaudreuil jumped as though she’d been poked in the kidneys with a blazing poker. She had been dozing and, startled by the voice, dropped the book which had been lying open on her lap. A feeling of surprise tinged with fear took hold of her, but a second was enough for her to realise that she was alone. Besides, the voice that she had heard or dreamed could only have been speaking from beyond the grave.

  As soon as she returned from the inn with Ballardieu she had shut herself away in her favourite room in the manor, a very long hall almost devoid of furniture, where, when it fell, the silence seemed greater than anywhere else in the house. On one side, old suits of armour on their pedestals alternated with panoplies and racks of mediaeval weaponry. On the other side, through four tall windows with stone mullions, daylight fell in oblique rays—against which the armour seemed to be mounting a resolute guard. Two large chimneys opened their blackened brick mouths at each end of the hall originally intended to host banquets. But the chairs and the immense table had been removed, and the great iron chandeliers now looked down on empty flagstones.

  Agnès was drawn to this room when times were bad, either alone or with Ballardieu. She liked to take refuge here to read, reflect, or simply to wait until another day, or sometimes another night, was over. For this purpose she had arranged an area for her use around the one fireplace which could still serve against the early frosts. There was an old leather-covered armchair there, a table polished by age and use, a worm-eaten old chest, some shelves where she stored her treatises on fencing, and an old quintain.

  Her entire world was here.

  On this afternoon, Agnès was taking her ease with a book. She had hung her belt over the quintain, removed her boots and her thick red leather corset, and then she had ensconced herself comfortably in the armchair, legs stretched out and ankles crossed on the chest before her. But she was clearly more tired than she had thought. Sleepiness had won as she thumbed through a chapter dedicated to the comparative merits of quadruple and sextuple parries against a point lunge delivered by an adversary with the advantage of a longer reach.

  Then there came the voice: “You know that it’s not your fault, don’t you?”

  Agnès’s gaze fell on the quintain.

  Before reaching the ultimate disgrace of becoming a porte-manteau, it had served as a training mannequin for fencers for a long time. Its horizontal arms had been shortened by two-thirds and its bust—firmly fixed to a solid base which no longer allowed it to pivot—was covered with notches, the number of which increased in proportion to their proximity to the heart symbol engraved on the wood. It was Ballardieu, the soldier to whose care Agnès had been abandoned by her father, who had brought this worm-eaten device in from the field where it had then been serving as a scarecrow. At the time, still a child, the future baronne had to struggle, with both hands, in order to lift a rapier that was almost as tall as she. But she had refused to use any other.

  The cry of a wyvern nearby tore through the silence.

  Agnès pulled on her boots, rose, laced up her leather corset which fastened at the front, and, with her baldric slung over her shoulder and her sheathed rapier crossing her back, she headed for the courtyard on which the first shadows of the evening were beginning to encroach.

  The wyvern rider was already climbing down from his white mount, its broad leathery wings now folded against its flanks. The beast’s colour and the man’s livery were unmistakable: he was a royal courier. He had evidently come straight from the Louvre.

  After he had assured himself of the identity of the baronne de Vaudreuil and had saluted respectfully, the wyvern rider held out a letter drawn from the great reptile’s saddlebags.

  “Thank you. Is an immediate response expected?”

  “No, madame.”

  Seeing Marion appear on the kitchen threshold, Agnès directed the royal messenger to her so that he could partake of a glass of wine and whatever else he desired before setting out again. The man thanked her and left Agnès in the company of his wyvern which, calm and docile, twisted its long neck around to observe its surroundings with a placid eye.

  Agnès broke the wax seal showing the Cardina
l Richelieu’s arms and, without expression, read the contents.

  “What is it?” asked Ballardieu coming over for news.

  She didn’t reply at once, but turned her head and stared at him for a few moments.

  And then, finally, for the first time in a very long while, she smiled.

  27

  That evening three riders passed through the Buci gate—or Bussy, as it was written then—entering the vast and peaceful faubourg surrounding Saint-Germain abbey. They rode down rue du Colombier at a slow walk, soon reached rue des Saints-Pères, passed Les Réformés cemetery, and, in front of La Charité hospital, turned into rue Saint-Guillaume.

  “Here we are,” said La Fargue, stepping down from his horse.

  Marciac and Almades shared the same expression as they looked toward the huge gates before which they had stopped—these were massive and gloomy, with two carved, rectangular wooden panels fixed in place with large round-headed nails. They also dismounted and, as their captain rapped the wrought-iron knocker three times, they observed the tranquil street which forked halfway along its length toward rue de Saint-Dominique. There were only a few people walking on its filthy paving stones beneath the golden and crimson skies at sunset, and its tradesmen were packing away their stalls. The vague odour of cooking mingled with the excremental scent of Parisian muck. Not far away, a fistful of knotted hay served as a sign for a local tavern.