The Cardinal's Blades (7 page)

“I— I’m sorry, monsieur …” the serving girl stammered. “Forgive me.…”

She turned on her heel, her lower lip trembling.

Saint-Lucq pushed his spectacles back to the top of his nose and interested himself anew in Tranchelard and his bodyguards. As they had only come to drink a glass of wine and extort their protection fee from the tavern keeper, they soon left. The half-blood drained his glass, rose, left a coin on the table, and followed them out.

Tranchelard and his men moved steadily through the packed streets where their ill manner alone was enough to open a path for them. They chattered and laughed, unaware of any danger. The crowd protected them, although it also provided cover for Saint-Lucq as he tailed them discreetly. As luck would have it, they soon turned off into a winding alley, as rank as a sewer, which offered a shortcut to the old rue Pavée.

It was too good an opportunity to miss.

Suddenly pressing forward, Saint-Lucq caught up with them in a few strides and took them totally off guard. They barely had time to hear the scrape of the steel leaving its scabbard. The first man fell at once, knocked out by a blow from Saint-Lucq’s elbow which also broke his nose, Tranchelard was held immobile by the caress of a dagger blade at his throat, and the third man had barely moved his hand toward his sword when a rapier point, an inch from his right eye, froze him in midgesture.

“Think twice,” the half-blood advised in a quiet voice.

The man did not delay in taking to his heels, and Saint-Lucq found himself alone, face-to-face with Tranchelard. Continuing to threaten him with the dagger, Saint-Lucq pressed him back up against a grubby wall. They were so close that their breaths blended together; the street thug stank of fear.

“Look at me carefully, my friend. Do you recognise me?”

Tranchelard swallowed and nodded slightly to the man with red spectacles, sweat beading at his temples.

“Perfect,” Saint-Lucq continued. “Now, open your ears and listen.…”

12

As his feet touched ground in the courtyard of a beautiful mansion recently built in the Marais quarter, near the elegant and aristocratic Place Royale, the gentleman entrusted his horse to a servant who had rushed up at once.

“I’m not staying,” he said. “Wait here.”

The other nodded and, reins in hand, watched out of the corner of his eye as the marquis de Gagnière climbed the front steps with a quick and supple step.

Sporting a large felt hat with a huge plumed feather, he was dressed in the latest fashion, with such obvious care for his appearance that it bordered on preciousness: he wore a cloak thrown over his left shoulder and held in place beneath his right arm with a silk cord, a high-waisted doublet of grey linen with silver fastenings, matching hose decorated with buttons, cream lace at his collar and cuffs, beige suede gloves, and cavalier boots made of kid leather. The extreme stylishness of his manner and attire added to the androgynous character of his silhouette: slender, willowy, and almost juvenile. He was not yet twenty years old but seemed even younger, his face still bearing a childish charm and softness which would take a long time to mature, while the blond hair of his moustache and finely trimmed royale beard preserved a silky adolescent downiness.

An ancient maître d’hôtel greeted him at the top of the steps and, eyes lowered, accompanied him as far as a pretty antechamber where the marquis was asked to wait while he was announced to the vicomtesse. When the servant finally returned he held a door open and, with a bow, ushered the marquis through. Remaining by the door, he again avoided meeting the young man’s gaze as though something dangerous and troubling emanated from him, his elegance and angelic beauty nothing but a façade disguising a poisonous soul. In that respect, the young marquis resembled the sword which hung from his baldric: a weapon whose guard and pommel had been worked in the most exquisite manner, but whose blade was of good sharp steel.

Gagnière entered and found himself alone when the maître d’hôtel closed the door behind him.

The luxuriously furnished room was plunged into shadow. Drawn curtains shut out the daylight and the few scented candles that burned here and there created a permanent twilight. The room was a study for reading. Shelves full of books covered one wall. A comfortable armchair was installed next to a window, by a small side table which bore a candelabrum, a carafe of wine, and a small crystal glass. A large mirror in a gilded frame hung above the mantelpiece, looming over a table and an old leather-backed chair with a patina of age.

Upon the table in the middle of room, supported by a delicate red and gold stand, reposed a strange globe.

The gentleman approached it.

Black, gleaming, and hypnotic, it was as though the globe was filled with swirling ink. It seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. One’s eye soon became lost in its deep spirals.

And with it, one’s soul.

“Don’t touch it.”

Gagnière blinked and realised he was leaning over the table, his right hand stretched out toward the globe. He pulled himself back and turned, feeling perturbed.

A young woman dressed in black and purple had made her appearance through a concealed door. Elegant yet severe in a gown with a starched bodice, her low neckline was trimmed with lace and decorated with a grey mother-of-pearl brooch representing a unicorn. She was beautiful; blonde and slender, with a small sweet face that seemed to have been designed to be adorable. Her sparkling blue eyes, however, showed no sign of any warm emotions, any more than her pretty, but unsmiling, lips.

The vicomtesse de Malicorne took a slow but assured step toward the gentleman.

“I … I’m sorry,” he said. “… I have no idea what—”

“There is no need to reproach yourself, monsieur de Gagnière. No one can resist it. Not even me.”

“Is it … is it what I think it is?”

“A
Sphère d’Âme
? Yes.”

She spread a square of brocaded golden cloth over the ensorcelled globe, and it was as though an unhealthy presence had suddenly deserted the room.

“There. Isn’t that better?”

Straightening up, she was about to continue when the marquis’s worried expression stopped her.

“What is it?”

Embarrassed, Gagnière pointed a hesitant finger toward her, and then indicated his own nose: “You have … there …”

The young woman understood, touched her upper lip with her ring finger, and found its tip fouled by a blackish fluid that had leaked from her nostril. Untroubled, she took an already stained handkerchief from her sleeve and turned away to press it to her nose.

“Magic is an art which the Ancestral Dragons created for themselves alone,” she said, as though that explained everything.

She faced the large mirror above the mantelpiece and, still dabbing at her lip, spoke in a conversational tone: “I recently charged you with intercepting a covert courier between Brussels and Paris. Have you done as I required?”

“Certainly. Malencontre and his men have undertaken the task.”

“With what result?”

“As yet, I don’t know.”

Her pretty face now clean of all foulness, the vicomtesse de Malicorne turned from the mirror and, with a half-smile, said: “Allow me to enlighten you then, monsieur. Despite all the opportunities he has had to lay an ambush, Malencontre has already failed twice. First at the border, and then close to Amiens. If the rider he pursues continues at the same pace, Malencontre’s only hope of catching him is at the staging post near Clermont. After Clermont, he will proceed straight on to Paris. Is it truly necessary to remind you that this letter must under no circumstances reach the Louvre?”

The gentleman didn’t ask how she knew so much: the globe, with all the secrets it deigned to reveal to any who sacrificed part of themselves to it, was sufficient explanation. He nodded in reply: “I remain confident, madame. Malencontre and his men are quite used to these missions. They shall succeed, no matter what the cost to themselves.”

“Let us hope so, monsieur le marquis. Let us hope so.…”

With a gracious, urbane gesture the vicomtesse invited Gagnière to take a seat and took one herself, opposite him.

“Right now, I would like to speak with you on an entirely different matter.”

“Which is, madame?”

“The cardinal is about to play a card of great importance, and I fear that he means to play it against us. This card is a man: La Fargue.”

“‘La Fargue’?”

“An old captain and one of the king’s most faithful swordsmen. Believe me, his return does not bode well for us. Alone, this La Fargue makes a formidable opponent. But in the past he commanded the Cardinal’s Blades, a secret company of devoted and reliable men, capable, with La Fargue, of achieving the impossible. If they have been reunited …”

Pensive and worried, the young woman fell silent.

“Do you know the cardinal’s intentions?” Gagnière asked cautiously.

“No. I merely guess at them.… Which is why I want you to make inquiries into this matter. Speak with our agent in the Palais-Cardinal and learn everything you can from him. Can you meet him soon?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect.”

Having received his orders, and believing the interview to be over, the gentleman rose.

But the vicomtesse, looking elsewhere, continued: “All this comes at the worst possible moment. We are about to achieve everything the Black Claw has been so desperate to accomplish for so long: to firmly establish itself in France. Our Spanish brothers and sisters have long since concluded that this goal is impossible, and although we are but a few hours from proving them wrong, I know that the majority are still doubtful. As for those who no longer doubt us, they already envy our forthcoming success—which amounts to saying that they too secretly hope for our failure.”

“You think that—”

“No, no …” said the vicomtesse, her hand brushing away the theory the marquis was about to propose. “Those who are envious will not try to harm us.… But they will not forgive the slightest shortcoming on our part and will seize any pretext to speak ill of us, of our plans, and of our competence. They will be only too happy to claim they would have succeeded where we might still fail.… These envious persons, moreover, have already begun to set their pawns in motion. I have been informed of the imminent arrival of a man sent to us by the Spanish lodge.”

“Who?”

“Savelda.”

From the corner of her eye, the vicomtesse de Malicorne detected Gagnière’s dubious grimace.

“Yes, marquis, I share the sentiment. I’ve been told that Savelda comes to help us put the finishing touches to our project, but I know that his true mission is to observe us and take note of our mistakes, in case someone wishes to reproach us—”

“We should keep him in the dark, then.”

“Absolutely not. But we shall be beyond any reproach.… Now you understand why it is essential that we foresee and fend off every blow the cardinal might like to strike against us, don’t you?”

“Indeed.”

“Then start by catching that courier from Brussels. Then we shall take on the Cardinal’s Blades.”

13

Located at the entrance to a hamlet, which had no doubt risen up in its shadow, the inn was a typical example of the staging posts to be found across the country. In addition to the main building capped with red tiles it comprised a stable, a barn, a forge, a hen house, a loading area for coaches, and a small pig pen, all of which was enclosed by a high wall whose grey and white stones were warmed by the afternoon sun. A river flowed past nearby, turning the wheel of a small mill. Beyond, the meadows and fields where cattle grazed stretched away to the east until they met the edge of a verdant forest. The weather was splendid, and the light from the great clear sky shone so brightly that one was obliged to squint.

A dog barked as a rider arrived.

Hens were pecking away in the courtyard, where the wheel of a stagecoach was being changed. Once it was repaired the coach would be harnessed with fresh horses and reach Clermont by evening. The coachman was lending the blacksmith and his assistants a hand while the passengers watched or took advantage of this opportunity to stretch their legs. Coaches generally offered a reliable and rapid service, barring accidents and taking into account the state of the roads—for the most part dust tracks in summer and turning boggy after the first autumn rains. Passengers had to put up with the unpleasantness of travelling in a jouncing and noisy vehicle, open to the wind, squeezed together in fours on opposing wooden benches, shoulder to shoulder and knees pressed together.

As soon as he dismounted, Antoine Leprat d’Orgueil held out the reins to a stable boy, no more than twelve years old, who was dressed in rough serge and ran around barefoot.

“Groom him and feed him with good oats. But don’t let him drink too much. I leave again in an hour.”

The rider spoke like a man accustomed to being obeyed. The child nodded and headed toward the stables, leading the horse behind him.

Indifferent to the sidelong glances sent in his direction, Leprat spied a water trough into which, his hat in hand, he plunged his head. Then he rubbed his face and the back of his neck with fresh water, rinsed his mouth, spat, smoothed back his chestnut hair, and finally replaced his black hat with its grey plume and rim raised on the right-hand side. His dust-covered doublet, worn open over his shirt, had seen better days but it was made of fine cloth. His riding boots, dirtied and softened by use, also seemed to be well made. As for the rapier, ensconced in its scabbard which hung from his leather baldric, it was of a kind that no one, here or anywhere else, could boast of ever having seen the like. He carried it on the right, being left-handed.

Leprat slowly climbed the steps to the main building, fronted by a gallery with ivy clinging to its beams. Having pushed the door to the building open he stood on the threshold for a moment, silence falling within the room as he looked over the ordinary travellers seated at several tables, and they observed him in return. Tall, well built, with stubbled cheeks and a stern gaze, he exuded a masculine charm which was reinforced by the warlike garb of a weary courier. A first glance suggested that here was a man who smiled little, spoke less, and did not seek to please others. He was between thirty-five and forty years old. His face had the lined features that indicate the iron will of a man of honour and duty who can no longer be moved or upset by anything, because he has already witnessed all the evils of this world. He did, however, spare a brief but tender look for a little girl who was sitting on her mother’s knee, dipping her chubby fingers into a bowl and smearing herself with jam.