The Cardinal's Blades
Page 32
Leprat stood up, limped toward the window, and let his gaze wander over the rooftops of the faubourg Saint-Germain.
“The worst part …” he finally admitted, “the worst part is that I think he’s right to be wary of us.”
“What?”
“Of one of us, in any case.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned toward Agnès and explained: “We were the only ones to know that we were holding Malencontre. But that didn’t prevent Rochefort from coming to claim him after a few hours. So the cardinal knew we had him as well. Who told him?”
Sensing a feeling that she did not like at all come over her, the young baronne played devil’s advocate: “There’s Guibot. And Naïs, who we don’t know from Adam and Eve, after all.”
“And you really believe that?”
“Do you suspect me?
“No.”
“So then, who? Saint-Lucq? Marciac? Almades? Ballardieu … ? And why couldn’t it be you, Leprat?”
He stared at her without anger, looking almost hurt: “It’s anyone’s guess.…”
3
The comte de Rochefort was waiting in one of the confessionals in the Saint-Eustache church when, at the appointed hour, someone sat down on the other side of the opening occluded by tiny wooden crossbars.
“His Eminence,” Rochefort said, “reproaches you for not having warned him about La Fargue’s plans.”
“What plans?”
“The ones that permitted Malencontre to escape from Le Châtelet.”
“I didn’t know about them.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“That’s difficult to believe. So where is Malencontre hiding?” the comte demanded.
“La Fargue gave him his liberty in exchange for the information that allowed them to rescue Agnès. And, in the process, to strike a blow at the Black Claw. If he has an ounce of good sense, Malencontre has already left the kingdom.”
“That’s regrettable.”
“I had rather imagined that defeating the Black Claw would be cause for rejoicing.…”
“Don’t be clever with me. That’s not what we’re paying you for.… Did you know that this so-called Cécile was in fact La Fargue’s daughter?”
There was an eloquent silence.
“No,” the man said finally.
“Well, now you do. His Eminence wishes to know where she is.”
“In a safe place.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“Cécile, or whatever her name may be, is simply a victim in this whole affair. She deserves to be left in peace.”
“No doubt. But you haven’t answered my question.”
“And I won’t answer it.” The man’s tone led Rochefort to understand that it would be futile to insist.
“As you will,” the comte said resignedly. “But I have to tell you, Marciac, you’re hardly earning your wages.”
4
In the courtyard of the splendid Hôtel de Tournon, an escort of gentlemen sat on their horses near a luxurious coach. They were waiting for the comte de Pontevedra, who was about to take the road back to Spain. The secret negotiations had lately taken an unexpected turn, and having been prematurely interrupted, failed to reach any conclusion. It only remained for the ambassador to return to Madrid in order to inform the king and his minister Olivares.
Pontevedra was finishing preparing for his journey when a last visitor was announced. He displayed a certain astonishment on learning his name, hesitated, thinking, and then indicated that he would receive him unattended in a salon.
La Fargue was already standing there when he entered.
The two men stared at one another for a long time. They were roughly the same age, but one had become a gentleman of court and intrigue while the other remained a gentleman of war and honour. It was not, however, the comte de Pontevedra, ambassador extraordinary of Spain and favourite of His Majesty Felipe IV, that the old captain regarded so impassively. It was Louveciennes, his former brother-in-arms and in bloodshed, the sole true friend that he had ever had and the man who had betrayed him.
“What do you want?”
“I came to tell you that Anne, my daughter, is safe and well. It seemed to me that you deserved to know that.”
Pontevedra gave a twisted, mocking smile.
“‘Your daughter’?”
“She is my daughter and you know it. Indeed, you have always known it. As have I. As did Oriane. And now Anne knows it as well. Just as she knows who you are.”
A hateful mask disfigured the ambassador’s face.
“What have you told her?” he spat.
“Nothing. I am not that kind of a man.”
“So how does she know?”
“A letter from her mother. Oriane, who you never loved as much as she deserved.…”
“A reproach that cannot be made of you,” retorted the comte.
He had venom on his lips and a flame in his eyes.
“I have long regretted our conduct that night,” admitted La Fargue.
“A handsome excuse!”
“Oriane also regretted it as well. But that was before La Rochelle, before you revealed your true nature, before you turned traitor.”
“I made a choice. The right one. And to convince myself of that all I need to do is look at you. You have nothing. You are nothing. While as for me …”
“You are merely rich. And Bretteville is dead because of you, Louveciennes.”
“I am the comte de Pontevedra!” shouted the former Blade.
“We both know who you are,” said La Fargue in a calm voice.
Turning away, he already had his hand on the doorknob, when Pontevedra, crimson-faced, cried out: “I will find Anne. Wherever you are hiding her, I will find her!”
The captain spared a thought for his daughter, whom he did not know and even dreaded meeting. For now, she was where no one would be looking for her, in rue de la Grenouillère, entrusted thanks to Marciac to the good graces of the beautiful Gabrielle and her comely lodgers.
That, however, could not last.
“No,” declared La Fargue. “You will not find her. You are going to forget about her.”
The ambassador burst out laughing.
“How are you going to force me? You can’t do anything against me, La Fargue! Nothing!”
“Oh, but I can. You have used your post as ambassador to pursue a personal ambition. You have schemed and you have lied. In doing so, you have seriously compromised your mission and betrayed the trust placed in you by your … king. You have even, in demanding that the Blades and I search for the so-called chevalier d’Ireban, gathered together men who will soon, no doubt, be a source of complaint for Spain. You wanted us because we are the best? Well, here we are. Do you believe that Richelieu will now wish to deprive himself of our services? No, Louveciennes. The Cardinal’s Blades are back, a development that your masters will have cause to regret before long.… So, think about it. Do you really want this to become known?”
“Don’t threaten me.”
“I exchange my silence for my daughter. You have no choice.… Oh, and one last thing …”
“Which is?”
“The next time we meet, I will kill you. Have a safe journey back to Spain.”
La Fargue left without closing the door.
Night had fallen when La Fargue returned to the Hôtel de l’Épervier that evening.
He led his horse to the stable, unsaddled it, and carefully rubbed it down, then crossed the courtyard to the main building. The sound of laughter, snatches of song, and joyful conversations reached his ears as he went up the front steps. He smiled, entered, and, from the shadows in the front hall, watched the spectacle that presented itself to him through a wide-open doorway.
The Blades were gathered around a meal that wine and enjoyment had prolonged. They were all there. Ballardieu and Marciac were standing on chairs and singing off key. Agnès, radi
ant, was laughing. Leprat was clapping his hands and joining in on the chorus. And even the austere Almades could not help laughing at the clowning of the first two. The Gascon was playing at being drunk with only a little effort. Sweet Naïs was serving without losing the least bit of their performance. Delighted, old Guibot tapped out the rhythm with his wooden leg.
Ô charmante bouteille!
Pourquoi renfermes-tu
Dans un osier tordu
Ta liqueur sans pareille?
Pourquoi nous caches-tu
Sous tes sombres habits
Ton ambre et tes rubis?
Pour contenter la vue,
Ainsi que le gosier,
Dépouille ton osier,
Montre-toi toute nue.
Et ne nous cache plus
Sous tes sombres habits
Ton ambre et tes rubis.
They seemed happy and La Fargue envied their joy, their carefree attitude, and their youth. He could have been the father of most of them and, in a certain sense, he was.
Or he had been.
In former times, he would have joined in. And he was hesitating over whether or not to do so now when Naïs, in order to pass by, shut the door and left the tired old captain plunged in darkness
He preferred to go to his room without being seen or heard.
Once there, far from the noise and the warmth of the party below, he stretched out, still fully dressed, on his bed, crossed his fingers beneath the back of his neck, and waited, eyes wide open but staring blankly ahead.
Soon the Saint-Germain abbey bell tower tolled midnight.
Then La Fargue got up.
From a small casket, whose key he always kept on his person, he took out a precious silver mirror that he placed before him on a table.
In a meditative pose, with lowered eyelids, he quietly recited a ritual formula in an ancient, dread, and almost forgotten tongue. The mirror which at first sent back nothing but his own reflection responded to the call. Its surface rippled and, slowly, as if emerging from a layer of living mercury, appeared the slightly translucent head of a white dragon with red eyes.
“Good evening, master,” said La Fargue.
Ballardieu and Marciac’s song
Oh charming bottle!
Why do you enclose
In twisted wicker
Your peerless liqueur?
Why do you hide from us
Beneath your dark apparel
Your amber and your rubies?
To satisfy the eye,
As well as the throat,
Shed thy wicker
And bare yourself
No longer hide from us
Beneath your dark apparel
Your amber and your rubies.
Pierre Pevel, born in 1968, is one of the foremost writers of French fantasy today. The author of seven novels, he was awarded the Grand Prix de l’Imaginaire in 2002 and the Prix Imiginales in 2005, both for best novel.
Published 2010 by Pyr®, an imprint of Prometheus Books
The Cardinal’s Blades. Original text copyright © Pierre Pevel/Editions Bragelonne 2007. English translation copyright © Tom Clegg/Editions Bragelonne 2009. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a Web site without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover illustration © Jon Sullivan.
The right of Pierre Pevel to be identified as the author of this work and of Tom Clegg to be identified as the translator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pevel, Pierre, 1968–
[Lames du cardinal. English]
The cardinal’s blades / by Pierre Pevel.
p. cm.
Originally published: London : Gollancz, 2009.
ISBN 978–1–61614–245–2 (pbk.)
ISBN 978–1–61614–295–7 (eBook)
1. Richelieu, Armand Jean du Plessis, duc de, 1585–1642—Fiction. 2. France—History—Louis XIII, 1610–1643—Fiction. I. Title.
PQ2716.E94L3613 2010
843'.92—dc22
2010024775
Manufactured in the United States
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