The Cardinal's Blades (6 page)

“Enter,” said Laincourt, on hearing a knock at the door.

Brussand entered.

“Monsieur de Brussand. You’re not on duty.… Would you not be better off at home, resting after your long night on watch?”

“Of course, but … would you grant me a minute?”

“Just allow me to finish this task.”

“Certainly.”

Brussand sat down in front of the desk at which the young officer was writing by candlelight. The room had only a high, bevelled window opening onto a light well into which the sun barely peeped. There were, without a doubt, dungeons in the Bastille or in the château de Vincennes that were better lit.

Laincourt finished his report, checked it, wiped his quill on a rag, and then slipped it between the pages of the thick log-book before he closed it.

“There,” he said. “I’m all yours.”

And turning his crystal blue eyes upon Broussard, he waited.

“I have come to assure myself,” said the other, “that you do not hold anything against me.”

“Regarding what?”

“Regarding confidences about you that I repeated to young Neuvelle. Concerning your past. And the circumstances under which you joined the Cardinal’s Guards.”

Laincourt gave an amiable smile.

“Did you say anything slanderous?”

“Certainly not!”

“Anything untrue?”

“No. At least, not unless I’ve been misled myself.”

“Then you have nothing to reproach yourself for. And therefore, neither do I.”

“Of course. But …”

There was a silence during which the officer’s smile did not waver.

His courteous mask, ultimately, proved to be a perfect defence. Because it expressed nothing but polite interest it left others to carry the conversation, so that, without any effort on his part, they little by little became less self-assured. Rarely failing, this strategy was proving particularly effective against Brussand, who was growing more embarrassed by the moment.

But the old guard was a soldier, and rather than remain exposed in this manner, he instead charged forward: “What can I say? There are certain mysteries surrounding you that encourage rumours—”

“Indeed?”

“Your famous mission, for example. The one which, it is whispered, detained you for two years in Spain. And for which, no doubt, you were promoted to the Cardinal’s Guards with the rank of ensign.… Well, you can imagine what is said about all that, can’t you?”

Laincourt waited without making any reply, the same indecipherable smile on his lips.

Then, a clock sounding half past one, he rose, picked up his hat, and tucked the heavy log-book under his arm.

“Forgive me, Brussand, but duty calls.”

The two men walked together to the door.

As he allowed the officer to go first, Brussand said to him in a conniving tone: “Strange country, Spain, isn’t it?”

Laincourt walked on, leaving Brussand behind him.

* * *

With the air of a man who knows exactly where he is going, Arnaud de Laincourt strode through a series of salons and antechambers, paying no heed to either the servants or the guards on duty who snapped to attention as he passed. Finally, he entered an empty service corridor and, at its intersection with another, paused a few seconds before turning right toward the cardinal’s private apartments.

From that point, he moved as quickly and silently as possible, although taking care not to appear furtive: there was no question of making his way on tiptoe, or hugging the walls, or glancing anxiously around. If someone was to surprise him, it was best to behave in a manner unlikely to arouse suspicion. His rank and his cape, certainly, protected him. But then, suspicion was the rule in the Palais-Cardinal.

He soon pushed open a door which, seen from the room within, merged seamlessly with the decorated wooden panels. This was the study where monsieur Charpentier, Richelieu’s secretary, normally worked. Functionally but elegantly furnished, it was filled to the point of overflowing with papers. Daylight filtered in through the closed curtains, while a candle guttered weakly. It was not there to provide light, but its flame could be transferred to numerous other candles at hand, and thus, in an emergency, fully illuminate the study in the middle of the night if required. Just one of the many precautions taken by those in the service of His Eminence, who demanded readiness at all times of the day or night.

Laincourt set the log-book down.

He drew a key from the pocket of his doublet and opened a cupboard. He had to be quick, as every minute now counted. On a shelf, a box sat between two tidily bound manuscripts. This was the object of his search. Another key, a tiny one, opened its secrets to him. Inside were letters waiting to be initialled and sealed by the cardinal. The ensign thumbed through them impatiently, and took out one which he perused more closely.

“That’s it,” he murmured.

Turning, he brought the letter closer to the candle and read it twice in order to memorise its every comma. But as he refolded the document, he heard a noise.

The squeak of a floorboard?

The ensign froze, heart thumping, with all his senses alert.

Long seconds passed …

Nothing happened. No one entered. And, almost as if it had never occurred, the sound was not repeated.

Pulling himself together, Laincourt replaced the letter in the box and the box in the cupboard, which he relocked with his key. He assured himself that he had disturbed nothing, and then departed silently, taking his log-book with him.

But Laincourt had barely gone when someone pushed open another door, left ajar and hidden behind a wall hanging.

Charpentier.

Returning in haste from the Louvre to fetch a document which Cardinal Richelieu had not thought he would need, he had seen everything.

10

Having saddled his horse, La Fargue was strapping on the holsters of his pistols when Delormel joined him in the stable, amidst the warm smell of animals, hay, and dung.

“You’ll come see us again soon?” asked the fencing master. “Or, at least, not wait another five years?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know you are always welcome in my home.”

La Fargue patted his mount’s neck and turned round.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Here. You left this in your room.”

Delormel held out a small locket on a broken chain. The old gentleman took it. Worn, marked, scratched, and tarnished, the piece of jewellery seemed worthless, lying there on his big gloved hand.

“I didn’t know you still kept it after all this time,” added the fencing master.

La Fargue shrugged.

“You can’t give up your past.”

“But yours continues to haunt you.”

Rather than answer, the captain made to check his saddle.

“Perhaps she didn’t deserve you,” Delormel commented.

His back turned, La Fargue went rigid.

“Don’t judge, Jean. You don’t know the whole story.”

It wasn’t necessary to say anything more. Both men knew they were speaking of the woman whose chipped portrait was to be found inside the locket.

“That’s true. But I know you well enough to know that something is eating at you. You should be delighted by the prospect of reuniting the Blades and serving the Crown once again. So I’d guess that you only accepted the cardinal’s proposal under duress. You yielded to him, étienne. That’s not like you. If you were one of those who yielded easily, you would already be carrying a marshal’s baton—”

“My daughter may be in danger,” La Fargue said suddenly.

Slowly, he turned to face Delormel, who looked stunned.

“You wanted to know the whole truth, didn’t you? There, now you know.”

“Your daughter … ? You mean to say …”

The fencing master made a hesitant gesture toward the locket which the captain still held in his fist. La Fargue nodded: “Yes.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty. Or thereabouts.”

“What do you know of the danger she’s in?”

“Nothing. The cardinal simply implied there was a threat against her.”

“So he might have lied to you in order to secure your services!”

“No. I doubt he would have played this card with me without good reason. It is—”

“—despicable. And what will you say to your Blades? These men give you their blind trust. Some of them even look on you as a father!”

“I shall tell them the truth.”

“All of it?”

Before mounting his horse, the old captain admitted, at some cost: “No.”

11

Fiddling distractedly with his steel signet ring before returning it to the third finger on his left hand, Saint-Lucq watched the everyday drama on display in the crowded tavern.

Located on a miserable-looking courtyard in the Marais neighbourhood, tucked away from the beautiful private mansions with their elegant façades being built in the nearby Place Royale, the Red Écu was a cellar tavern whose poor-quality candles gave off more soot than light, in an atmosphere already poisoned by sweaty bodies, bad wine-soaked breath, tobacco smoke, and a potent whiff of the muck picked up by shoes walking the streets of Paris. Here, everyone spoke loudly and forced others to raise their voices in turn, creating an infernal uproar. The wine being drunk had something to do with this. Loud laughter burst out, as did the occasional sharp quarrel. A hurdy-gurdy played songs on demand. From time to time, cheers and applause greeted a lucky throw of the dice, or the antics of a drunkard.

Saint-Lucq, without appearing to do so, kept a close eye on all.

He observed who entered and who left through the small door at the top of the stairs, who used that other door normally reserved to the tavern keeper and the serving girls, who joined someone else and who remained alone. He stared at no one, and his gaze slid away whenever it met that of another. But those present barely took any notice of him. And that was exactly as he liked it, in the shadowy corner where he had chosen to sit. He was constantly on the lookout, keeping track of any anomalies that might indicate a threat. It could be anything: a wink between two people who otherwise pretended not to know one another, an old coat concealing new weapons, a faked fight designed to distract attention. Saint-Lucq was always wary and watched for such things automatically, out of sheer force of habit. He knew that the world was a stage filled with deception, where death, disguised in everyday rags, could strike at any moment. He knew this all the more, for it was often he who delivered the mortal blow.

Upon his arrival, he had ordered a jug of wine, none of which he drank. The young woman who served him offered to keep him company, but he declined the offer with a calm, cold, definitive “No.” She went off to talk with the other two serving girls, who had watched her approach the new customer. From their reaction, it was obvious that they found Saint-Lucq both attractive and intriguing. He was still young, well dressed, and a handsome man in a dark way which hinted at sinister and exciting secrets. Was he a gentleman? Perhaps. In any case, he wore his sword naturally, his doublet with elegance, and his hat with a quiet, gallant confidence. His hands were exquisite and his cheeks freshly shaven. Of course, his boots were muddied, but despite that they were made from excellent leather, and who could go unsullied by the disgusting muck of Paris, unless they travelled by coach? No, clearly, this cavalier dressed in black had plenty of pleasing assets. And then he had those curious spectacles with red lenses perched on his nose, which concealed his eyes and rendered him still more mysterious.

Since Saint-Lucq had turned away a slim brunette, a busty blonde tried her luck. And met with the same lack of success. The serving girl returned to her friends, irritated and disappointed, but she shrugged and said to them: “He just left a brothel. Or he has eyes only for his mistress.”

“I think he prefers men,” added the brunette, with a pout which betrayed her hurt feelings.

“Perhaps …” the third trailed off. “But if he does not touch his glass and he is not seeking company, what does bring him here?”

The other two agreed, in any case, that there was little point in persisting with their advances, and Saint-Lucq—who was watching their debate out of the corner of his eye—was led to hope that they would now leave him in peace.

He returned to his surveillance.

A little after midday, the man Saint-Lucq had been expecting to appear entered the tavern.

He was tall and badly shaven, with long greasy hair, a sword at his side, and a surly air about him. He was called Tranchelard and, as was his habit, he was accompanied by two scoundrels, no doubt hired for their brawn rather than their brains. They picked a table—which emptied as they approached—and did not have to order the wine jugs the tavern keeper brought to them with an apprehensive look.

The third serving girl, whose eyes had remained fixed on Saint-Lucq, chose this moment to act.

She was redheaded and pale-skinned, very pretty, no more than seventeen and knew—from experience—the effect that her green eyes, rose-coloured lips, and young curves had on men. She wore a heavy skirt and, beneath her bustier, her open-necked blouse left her shoulders bare.

“You do not drink,” she said, suddenly standing in front of Saint-Lucq.

He paused before replying: “No.”

“No doubt because you don’t care for the wine you have been served.”

This time he said nothing.

“I could bring you our best.”

Silence again.

“And at the same price.”

“No thank you.”

But the girl wasn’t listening. Adolescent pride dictated that, after the unsuccessful attempts of her two colleagues, she could not fail.

“In return, I shall ask you only to tell me your name,” she insisted with a smile full of promise. “And I shall give you mine.”

Saint-Lucq held back a sigh.

Then, expressionless, he slid his red spectacles down his nose with an index finger and gazed back at the young girl …

… who froze when she saw the reptilian eyes.

No one was unaware of dragons, of the fact that they had always existed, that they had adopted human form, and that they had been living among men for centuries. To the misfortune of all of Europe, a great number of them were now to be found within the royal court of Spain. And their distant racial cousins, the wyverns, served men as winged mounts, while the tiny dragonnets made valued pets and companions. Despite that, a half-blood always made a powerful impression. They were all born of the rare love between a dragon and a human woman, provoking a malaise which became hatred in certain people, horror in others, and in the case of a few men and women, an erotic fascination. Half-bloods were said to be cold, cruel, indifferent, and scornful of ordinary human beings.