Read 1636: The Cardinal Virtues Online
Authors: Eric Flint,Walter H Hunt
Tags: #Fiction, #Alternative History, #Science Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #General
1636: The Cardinal Virtues (16 page)
“You mean,” Brassac said, “do I swear you to secrecy with a blood oath? No. Nothing of the kind. It would be my preference that you keep its existence secret; I know that you are familiar with the business of keeping secrets, and thus I have no doubt of your ability in that regard. But I will not foolishly compel you. Do whatever you like with the information.”
“Just that. ‘Do whatever you like.’”
“Just that.” Brassac reached within his vest and drew out the object he had concealed there: a cloth scapular on a woven string. It bore a painted image of the Blessed Virgin with a crimson heart surrounded by a golden halo. He touched it to his lips and then handed it to Servien. “This is our emblem: the Sacred Heart. It is one of our methods of recognition.
“When you entered, I was praying to our Holy Mother that others in our Company were executing their instructions, making efforts for the defense of France in the face of these events. I shall return to Paris after word of the king’s death officially reaches us; until then, I must leave matters in the hands of others.”
“Including the cardinal de Tremblay, I assume.”
“Yes. Most especially including the cardinal de Tremblay. And in the meanwhile we watch, and wait.”
Chapter 22
Maintenon, France
Mazarin had become accustomed to the idea of intrigue, of deception in plain sight, as a part of his career within and without the Vatican. His relatively recent association with Cardinal Richelieu, the man who—in some other future, never to be reached—would pass the mantle of ministerial authority to him, only enhanced that acclimation.
Most of those who saw the small party of seven—himself, Achille d’Étampes de Valençay, Queen Anne and her infant son, her lady-in-waiting the duchesse de Chevreuse, the up-timer doctor, and the Savoyard servant—saw nothing but a noblewoman and her entourage traveling from place to place. Mazarin wanted to continue that way—they could not move quickly by carriage, with a mother just out of childbed and an infant only a few days old—but it was also clear that they could not avoid all contact for fear of arousing suspicion.
A full day’s travel brought them as far as Maintenon, a small town on the banks of the Eure. It lacked any sort of reasonable hostelry, of the sort suitable for a traveling noblewoman, much less the queen of France.
As the servant attended to watering the horses by the side of the road, Mazarin and Achille held a conversation.
“It seems simple enough,” the knight of Malta said. “Maintenon is the home of the Marquis de Rambouillet; we will go to his manor house and request lodging for our honored lady.”
“Whom he will immediately recognize.”
“Not necessarily,” Achille answered. “She is recently widowed; she will wear a suitable veil. I would be more concerned about you, Monseigneur.”
“Me? Why me?”
“You are . . . better known than any among our company, with the exception of Her Majesty.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Mazarin took off his hat, examined it and flicked a tiny bit of road-dust from the brim, and placed it back on his head. “If we choose to stay with the marquis, word will reach Paris that we have been there. His wife is the renowned
salonnière
.”
“And he is likely to speak of it.”
“The marquis and the marquise have their own . . . diversions,” Mazarin said. “But I suspect that such news would be passed on in short order. We cannot go to Maintenon.”
“We cannot reach Dreux before nightfall,” Achille said. “We must go to Maintenon.”
“Why Dreux? Why have we chosen this direction in preference to all others?” The morning of their departure from Baronville, Mazarin’s principal concern had been for Anne and the infant; he had let the other man determine their direction.
“Which way would you rather go, Monseigneur? We cannot go toward Paris—Her Majesty has many enemies there. There is nothing to the south or west.”
“And to the north?”
“Ultimately, the Low Countries,” Achille answered. “Her aunt in Brussels.”
“You wish to travel to the court of
Lady Isabella
? Are you mad? The Hapsburgs are the enemies of France.”
“The Spanish Hapsburgs certainly are, I’ll admit that,” he said. “But perhaps not the Austrians. And the king in the Low Countries—that’s another matter entirely.”
“It is a terrible risk.”
Achille laughed and looked away from Mazarin toward the carriage. The up-timer nurse, who had disembarked to stretch her legs, looked curiously at the two men.
“Tell me what part of this venture is not risky, Monseigneur. We travel in the company of the queen, who may be in danger from anyone she meets and has only
us
to defend her. Her husband and his chief minister have been slain by assassins, led by an exiled bastard prince who—I do not hesitate to remind you—is still somewhere nearby, and has two dozen men for each one of us.”
“Has anyone explained all of this
risk
to Her Majesty? Do you believe she truly understands?”
“I am extremely well acquainted with the queen, monsieur,” Mazarin said. “There might have been a time when she was innocent with respect to such things, but it is far in the past. She understands completely what is happening, and what our situation has become. Do not underestimate her.
“I wonder sometimes if we understand it nearly as well.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Achille was right: there was no other choice than the Château de Maintenon. And he was also right to note that Mazarin was better known than he was; therefore, it was logical for Achille, rather than Mazarin, to approach the château and request lodging for his mistress and her company, while they waited without.
Mazarin’s first introduction to Achille’s lack of diplomatic skill came with the arrival of a troop of a dozen horsemen, their hauberks and helmets dappled with the wan light of the last quarter moon. The carriage had remained on the lane near the château; Mazarin stayed on the top bench with Artemisio, while the others stayed within.
The leader of the horsemen approached the carriage, holding his hand up to keep the others at a distance.
“Good evening,” Mazarin said.
“Monsieur,” the man said. “Good evening. You are . . . companions of the knight of Malta, I presume.”
“He has made your acquaintance.”
“I found him arrogant, demanding and—”
“I can just imagine. Achille is impetuous—”
“To say the least.”
“And undiplomatic. But . . . I thought it best to have him approach with our humble request.”
“A troublesome choice.”
“May I have the courtesy of your name, monsieur?”
“My name is Charles de Sainte-Maure; I am the Marquis de Montausier. Monsieur de Rambouillet, who not in residence at this time, is my . . . he is the father of my intended.”
“Congratulations.”
“
Merci
,” the man answered with exaggerated courtesy. “Who is the distinguished lady on whose behalf the knight of Malta is so eager to offend?”
“I would invite you to step inside our carriage and find out.”
“Very mysterious,” he said, “but I shall humor you.” He dismounted and walked toward the carriage. “Who are you, and who could be so important?”
Mazarin did not answer, but looked down toward the carriage door, which had been opened slightly from within. Montausier stepped up and opened it, then stepped in. A moment later he stepped out, his face transformed by surprise.
“Please follow me,” he said without looking back at the carriage.
◊ ◊ ◊
“They did not treat me with proper respect,” Achille said, placing the bread crust on the plate before him. “I’m sorry, Monseigneur. I cannot accept an affront to my dignity, or the honor of my order.”
Mazarin looked from Achille to Montausier.
“No particular offense was given to him,” Montausier said. He picked up his wine goblet and took a sip. They were sitting in the nearly deserted dining hall of the Château de Maintenon; the queen had been comfortably lodged in quarters upstairs. The candles had burned low in the candelabras.
“With respect,” Achille said, “I beg to differ.”
“Is this how it is going to be?” Mazarin said. “We are trying not to attract any attention. Is that not meaningful to you?”
Achille shrugged. “I do not quite see your point, Monseigneur.”
“Diplomacy is not one of your primary skills,” Mazarin said. “We should consider ourselves fortunate that the marquis is not in residence.”
“He has gone to Paris,” Montausier said. “The king is dead.”
“You don’t say.”
Montausier seemed to be considering whether Mazarin was serious or not; but after a moment he smiled. “Yes. Of course you know that. Is Her Majesty aware of . . .”
“Of course,” Mazarin said. “And she is in great danger. It is why we are here.”
“If you had merely explained yourself . . .”
“I was very clear—” Achille began, but Mazarin held his hand up.
“My Lord de Montausier,” Mazarin said. “I have no other choice but to trust in your discretion. Tomorrow we must be gone from here, and no one must know that we tarried with you. Monsieur Gaston is likely not in the country, but his spies likely
are
.”
“Now that he is to be king, he can command anyone he wishes.”
Mazarin stood suddenly. “He is
not
the king of France, my lord. He may believe that the crown belongs to him, but it does not. It belongs to that infant upstairs. As long as the baby lives,
he
is the king of France.
“With respect, My lord Marquis, I ask you to remember that.”
Montausier was taken aback, enough that his hand moved down toward his scabbard. With a glance at the standing Mazarin and the still-seated Achille, he stopped that motion.
“I give you my word,” Montausier said at last.
Chapter 23
Pau
In the last few days, Servien had been thinking a great deal about the comte de Brassac, and his revelations concerning the Company of the Blessed Sacrament. Brassac, he was sure, had violated a principal rule of the Company by revealing it to him, and of his membership in it; but these were difficult, extraordinary times.
He wondered if there were others, elsewhere in the country or beyond, who were just learning of the society.
The servant found him in the library, examining a family history of the Château de Pau’s most famous resident—Henry of Navarre, who had been born here and had embraced the True Faith so that he could become king of France.
“Monsieur le Comte asks that you attend him at once,” the servant said. “By your leave, monsieur.”
“Of course.”
As they walked down the great staircase, Servien said, “Do you know what this is about?”
“I do as I am commanded, monsieur.”
“A wise course.”
The comte de Brassac was waiting at the bottom of the stair with a younger man who shared his features; indeed, Servien—a careful observer of such things—would have thought that the comte, at half his age, would have looked thus.
“Allow me to present my oldest son Alexandre. He brought me a report that might interest you as well. My son, this is Monsieur Servien,
intendant
to His Grace the cardinal-duc de Richelieu.”
The man offered a polite bow, which Servien returned. The three began to walk toward the inner courtyard.
“We have visitors,” Brassac said. “They are very well armed and trained—and led by an up-timer.”
“An army?”
“Not in the normal sense,” Alexandre answered. “But given their arms and equipment . . . well, if any two dozen horsemen could be considered an army, then this label might fit.”
“How can I be of service?”
“Very simple, Monsieur Servien. I need you to tell me: are these friends or enemies?”
They emerged into the bright May sunlight to find four riders still mounted, with more than two dozen in Brassac livery keeping close watch upon them. Three were subordinates, but clearly well-equipped as Alexandre had said; they remained still, a few feet apart from each other.
The fourth, a somewhat older woman, dismounted as they approached. She seemed to favor one leg very slightly; at first Servien attributed it to the cavalry sword at her waist, but he concluded that it was in fact a weakness of some sort—perhaps an injury. Still, she walked very steadily to where the comte, his son, and Servien stood.
She nodded to Alexandre, who acknowledged it.
“You must be the comte de Brassac,” she said. She glanced at Servien, but didn’t have anything to say to him.
“Louis de Galard de Brassac et de Béarn,” Brassac answered. “The rest of your command is outside the château?”
“This is my honor guard,” she answered. “
Maddox’s Rangers
. In service to Marshal Turenne. I’m Sherrilyn Maddox. Colonel Maddox to them; you can call me Sherrilyn.” She stuck her hand out, and neither Brassac nor Alexandre seemed to know what to do; Servien extended his hand to her and took it, and found a firm, steady grip.
“I am Étienne Servien,
intendant
to the cardinal-Duke de Richelieu,” he said when the handshake was over. “You must be the up-timer of which so much has been heard.”
“You know her, then,” Alexandre said.
“Not personally,” Servien answered. “But I do know that the marshal engaged the services of a
Grantvilleuse
”—he made sure to use the female version of the noun—“to train some of his troops.”
“Is Marshal Turenne planning to invade my lands?”
“I wouldn’t call it an invasion,” the up-timer answered. “We’re here at his direction. The rest of the army is on its way; we’re just the advance guard.”
“And what are his intentions?”
“Your boss,” she said, looking at Servien, “assumed that there would be trouble coming from the south. When we heard about the death of the king, we packed up and began to move down here. If there’s any sort of invasion, my lord, it won’t be by the marshal—it’ll be by the Spanish.”
“And how do I know that you are, indeed, from Marshal Turenne’s army?”
She placed her hand on the hilt of her sword. Everyone in the courtyard tensed; but Brassac held up one hand. Maddox seemed to realize that she had sent the wrong signal.
“If I may be permitted to draw the sword to show it to you, my lord.”
Brassac nodded. The up-timer looked around her, then slowly drew the blade from its scabbard; she brought it to her shoulder, then extended it, flat across her right forearm, with the hilt so that Brassac could grasp it.
He picked up the sword and examined the guard, which bore the d’Auvergne crest; he noted an inscription along the flat of the blade nearest the hilt.
“A generous gift from the marshal,” Brassac said, and offered it back, hilt first. Maddox took it, saluted, and replaced it in her scabbard.
“I believe I have given good service in return, my lord,” she said.
“No doubt.” Brassac turned to Alexandre. “My son, please make these soldiers—and the rest of Colonel Maddox’s command—comfortable. Colonel, I welcome you as our guests for the time being. As for the rest of the army . . .”
“I’m sure they’ll find a place to camp.”
Brassac turned with Servien and they stepped inside the building once more.
“So Marshal Turenne
is
invading,” Brassac said as they made their way back toward the library. “After a manner of speaking. Perhaps he has news of which I have not heard.”
“I’m sure the marshal would have the same question for you.”
“An interesting response.”
“May I ask a question, my lord?”
“Ask away.”
“Who is the king of France?”
Brassac stopped walking. They were at the foot of the grand staircase; he glanced from Maddox to Servien, and then back to the up-timer.
“He is the sovereign lord to whom your commander has pledged his fealty,” Brassac said. “Your understanding may be more clear than mine. Perhaps you should answer the question.”
“I asked you first.”
“And I am a peer of the realm and you are a hired soldier. I know that you up-timers are known for their forthrightness, Colonel Maddox, but you and your command are in my home, in my lands. Courtesy extends so far, and then stops. Who do
you
believe to be the king of France?”
“I’m not sure,” she said at last. “Marshal Turenne wasn’t sure either. It’s why he moved his army so that Monsieur Gaston could not take command of it.”
“Where is Gaston now?”
“Again, my lord, I’m not sure. We heard that he was traveling to France from Turin, where he was a guest of his brother-in-law the duke of Savoy. I imagine he’s in Paris by now, or close to it.” She took a deep breath. “And now, Comte, maybe you’ll answer
my
question.”
Brassac did not respond, but looked at Servien; the
intendant
inclined his head and spoke.
“The king of France,” Servien said, “is an infant child, ten days old, the son of His Highness Louis XIII and Her Majesty Queen Anne. He was born just before his father was ruthlessly murdered before my eyes.”
There was a very long silence, then Maddox spoke. “When we passed through Toulouse, there was a royal herald or something proclaiming Gaston d’Orleans as the king. He’s to be crowned in two weeks or so at Reims. Does he know about this baby?”
“We believe he does,” Brassac said, looking at Servien. “We believe that they are in terrible danger.”
“From Gaston?”
“Or his agents. It is unclear whom he has chosen as allies, or what he has promised them. When do you expect your commander to arrive?”
“At least ten days from now. They move at good speed, but it’s still an army. And that’s if they don’t meet up with any opposition.”
“That is not what I fear,” Brassac said. “The question is whether the Spanish themselves will invade before they arrive.”
She smiled slightly. “The marshal assumes that before the Spanish march over the mountains with their tercios, they’ll send a scouting party to check things out. He thought we might be able to stop them.”
“Stop,” Servien said, “meaning—”
“I think you are being disingenuous, Monsieur Servien,” Brassac said. “Colonel Maddox’s ‘Rangers’ consist of the best marksmen in Marshal Turenne’s army. ‘Stopping’ infiltrators on French soil means exactly what you would assume it means.”
Sherrilyn Maddox smiled even more broadly. “It means target practice.”
Paris
When word began to circulate of Monsieur Gaston’s imminent arrival in the capital, members of the elite Cardinal’s Guard began to absent themselves from the precincts of the Louvre, and from their barracks nearby. For fifteen years, the distinctive uniform of Richelieu’s personal troops had been ubiquitous in Paris—Guardsmen were admired, feared, resented, the subject of rumor, and considered a law unto themselves.
Now they were almost impossible to find. This, more than anything else, was demonstration that the cardinal himself had fallen. It was said in the markets of Les Halles and the public places in the city that the new king, Gaston d’Orleans, would surely not retain him in his long-held post; it was Richelieu who had caused Gaston to be exiled from the realm.
And surely
, it was said,
Gaston will be a better king than his brother. At the least he will provide an heir to the throne . . . something Louis had never done.
Had not even the most recent pregnancy, attended with so much fanfare, resulted in another failure? Surely if there was an heir, it would have been announced.
Gaston approached, and the guardsmen had seemed to vanish. Their disappearance was not mourned.