The Cardinal's Blades (12 page)

The sun was still high when Agnès de Vaudreuil arrived in sight of the village. Her doublet open and her sheathed rapier beating against her thigh, she was covered in the dust raised by her galloping horse’s hooves since
she left the manor with all speed. She had pink cheeks and her face shone with sweat. Thrown into disarray by the ride, her long plait was now a mess of loose braids barely held together at their ends, with many full black curls having already escaped completely. Her face, however, still expressed a combination of relentless determination and contained anger. And her gaze remained fixed on the objective toward which her foaming mount progressed without flagging.

From a mere hamlet, the village had grown up around its church at the crossroads between two roads which wound between wooded hills. It was still only a staging post on the Chantilly Road and it owed its incipient prosperity to the Silver Cask, an inn renowned for the quality of its cellar and kitchen, and the amiable company of its serving girls. Local people went there for a glass of wine on occasion and well-informed travellers would happily sleep there—on their outward journey if their business did not require them to be in Chantilly at daybreak, or else upon their return.

Agnès slowed as she passed the first houses. In the streets her horse trod the same beaten ground as on the road, and she guided it into the heart of the village at a trot. In front of the Silver Cask’s porch, the villagers were dispersing. They smiled and chattered with one another, sometimes making grand gestures. One of them climbed onto a mossy stone bench and raised a laugh by miming blows and vigorous kicks up the arse. All of them seemed delighted, as though they were leaving a theatre where they had seen an exceptionally funny farce. Agnès guessed who might be behind this festive mood, which didn’t bode well. Just because the spectators were delighted did not mean that the spectacle itself had been pleasant. In these times, crowds gathered to witness the public punishment of condemned criminals and were greatly amused by the many howls and twitches of the unfortunates being thus tormented.

On seeing the horsewoman pass, some of them doffed their caps, and the clown climbed down from his bench.

“Who is that?” asked someone.

“The baronne de Vaudreuil.”

“Our Lady!”

“As you say, my friend. As you say.…”

The Silver Cask was a picturesque sight with its crooked buildings, its old and beautiful grey stone, its façades covered with ivy, and its red-tiled roofs.

Agnès dismounted just beyond the porch, her spurs jingling as the heels of her riding boots touched the cobblestones of the courtyard. She wiped her shining face with the back of her sleeve, unbound her hair, and shook her head to make her heavy black curls fall into place. Then, dishevelled, dusty, and yet heedless of anyone’s glance, she looked around.

She recognised the innkeeper standing in front of the main building, trying to calm the impatience, if not the anger, of several patrons. Nervous and agitated, they were vying with one another for the chance to roundly scold the man, punctuating each angry point with jabs of their index fingers at his chest. The innkeeper made appeasing gestures expressing his most fawning respect, all the while preventing anyone from entering the building. But his efforts proved unsuccessful. His customers would not be soothed, and Agnès noticed that the appearance of a few of them—if not quite as disorderly as her own—left something to be desired. One had the right sleeve of his doublet, torn at the shoulder, tightly wrapped around his elbow; another, shirt hanging out from his breeches, was pressing a wet cloth against his face; a third was wearing a badly dented hat, and his lace collar hung down miserably.

Finally, remarking on her arrival, the innkeeper excused himself from the gentlemen. They grumbled while he hastened to greet Agnès. On his way, he hailed a stable boy, who abandoned his bucket and pitchfork to busy himself with the baronne’s horse.

“Ah, madame! Madame!”

She walked toward him with a firm step. And as she neither slowed her pace nor changed her course when they met, he was forced to make an abrupt about-turn and trot along at her side.

“What has he done now?” asked Agnès.

The innkeeper was a small, dry, thin man, although sporting a pot belly as round as a balloon. He wore a short waistcoat over his shirt, and his figure was squeezed by the belt of his apron, which fell to his thighs.

“Thank the Lord, madame. You’re here.”

“Rather than heaven, thank the boy you sent to warn me, master Léonard.… Where is Ballardieu? And what has he done?”

“He’s inside, madame.”

“Why are all these people waiting outside?”

“Because their coats or bags are still within, madame.”

“Then why don’t they collect them?”

“Because monsieur Ballardieu will not let anyone in.”

Agnès halted.

Caught unawares, the innkeeper was two steps past her before he followed suit.

“Pardon me, master Léonard?”

“It’s just as I said, madame. He threatens to shoot anyone who opens the door in the head, unless it is you.”

“Is he armed?”

“Only with a pistol.”

“Is he drunk?”

Master Léonard had the air of a man who was not quite certain he understood the question and was afraid of committing a faux pas.

“Do you mean: more drunk than usual?”

The baronne gave an aggravated sigh.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Then yes, madame. He is drunk.”

“Plague on the old tosspot! Can he not indulge within reason?” she said to herself.

“I believe he never learned how, madame. Or else he has no desire to do so—”

“So how did all this start?”

“Ah, well,” the innkeeper hesitated. “There were these gentlemen.… Please note, madame, that they had enjoyed an excellent meal and that it was more the wine than themselves that was talking.…”

“I see. And then?”

“A few of their comments displeased monsieur Ballardieu—”

“—who, in his way, let them know it. Very well, I understand. Where are they, these gentlemen?”

The innkeeper was astonished.

“They’re still inside, madame!”

“So who are those three over there, covered with bumps and bruises?”

“Just those who attempted to intervene.”

Agnès raised her eyes to the sky then continued to walk toward the inn and, in addition, toward those standing outside it. Master Léonard hurried ahead of her to open a path.

Seeing that she was about to enter, an elegant officer who had only remained to be entertained by the comedy of the situation, said to her: “Madame, I advise you against opening this door.”

“Monsieur, I advise you against preventing me,” the baronne replied in a flash.

The officer drew back his shoulders, more surprised than annoyed. Agnès suddenly understood that he had only meant to be gallant. She softened.

“Never fear, monsieur. I know the man conducting the siege inside.”

“What?” interrupted the man with the dented hat. “You know that raving madman?”

“Have a care with your remarks, monsieur,” said Agnès de Vaudreuil glacially. “He of whom you speak began some work upon you which I could easily complete. And it would cost you a little more than a hat.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?” the officer insisted politely.

“No, thank you, monsieur.”

“Know, nevertheless, that I shall be ready if needed.”

She nodded and entered.

Low-ceilinged and silent, the room had been thrown into an upheaval of fallen chairs, toppled tables, and shattered crockery. Splatters of wine stained the walls where jugs had been broken. Several panes of glass were missing from a window. A serving platter had been cracked. In the hearth, the spit was only held up by one forked support and the counterweight mechanism designed to keep it turning clicked uselessly.

“Finally!” exclaimed Ballardieu in the tone of someone welcoming a long-hoped-for visitor.

He was enthroned in triumph in the middle of the chaos, sitting on a chair, one foot leaning against a supporting beam to balance himself. His red velvet doublet was open over his massive chest, hairy and sweating, and his smile was huge, seeming full of reckless joy despite—or perhaps because of—his split lip and swelling eye. Ballardieu was one of those who took delight in a good brawl.

He held a wine bottle in one hand and, in the other, something which looked like a wooden skittle.

“Finally?” Agnès was astonished.

“Of course! We’ve been waiting for you!”

“‘We’? Who is this ‘we’?”

“These messieurs and myself.”

Tearing her incredulous gaze away from the old soldier with great difficulty, Agnès observed the men. They were all a sorry sight to see, having received a severe chastising.

Two very richly dressed men—merchants no doubt—were piled up one on top of the other, either unconscious or pretending to be. Another—most likely a pedlar—had scarcely fared better: he was sitting with his arms and chest pinned inside a large wicker basket through the bottom of which his head had burst, the latter now swaying woozily on his neck. Finally, a fourth member of the party was huddled up at Ballardieu’s feet, and his cringing manner indicated that he feared another thump. This one the baronne knew by sight at least: he was a veteran who had lost a leg in the Wars of Religion, and henceforth, hobbling around, dedicated his days to a tour of the local inns.

“You’ve left them in a pretty state,” commented Agnès.

She noticed that the veteran was missing his wooden peg leg, and suddenly realised it was the skittle-shaped object with which Ballardieu was playing.

“They deserved it.”

“Let us hope so. Why have you been waiting for me?”

“I wanted this man, right here, to offer you his apologies.”

Agnès looked at the unfortunate one-legged man who, trembling, was protecting his head with his forearms.

“Apologies? For what?”

Ballardieu suddenly found himself extremely embarrassed. How could he explain, without repeating the vulgar and abusive comments that had been made about her?

“Uhh …”

“I’m waiting.”

“The important thing,” continued the old soldier waving the wooden peg leg like a sceptre. “The important thing is that this lout offers his apologies. So, lout, speak up! The lady is waiting!”

“Madame,” groaned the other, still seeking about for his prosthesis, “I beg you to accept my most sincere and respectful apologies. I have ignored all my obligations, which not even my poor nature, my neglected education, and my deplorable habits can justify. I promise to mind my conduct and manners in future and, conscious of my faults, I deliver myself to your goodwill. I add that I am ugly, have a mouth like an arse, and that it is difficult to believe, having seen me, that the Almighty made Adam in his own image.”

The man had recited this act of contrition in a single breath, like a practised speech, and Ballardieu had followed the tirade with regular shakes of his head and the synchronous movements of his lips.

The result appeared to satisfy him.

“Very good, lout. Here, take back your leg.”

“Thank you, monsieur.”

“But you forgot to mention your ugly mug, which is—”

“—so foul it turns milk into piss. I’m sorry, monsieur. Should I start again?”

“I don’t know. Your repentance seems sincere to me, but …”

Ballardieu questioned Agnès with a look.

She simply stared at him, dumbstruck.

“No,” he said again. “Madame la baronne is right: that will suffice. The punishment must be just and not cruel if it is meant to be a lesson.”

“Thank you, monsieur.”

Ballardieu rose, stretched, emptied his flagon of wine in two swallows, and threw it over his shoulder. At the end of a beautiful arc through the air, the aforementioned flagon bounced off the pedlar’s head, who was still sitting imprisoned in his wicker pannier.

“Good!” cried Ballardieu joyfully, rubbing his hands together. “Shall we go?”

Behind him, the stunned pedlar tipped over onto his side like an overturned basket.

22

Alerted by her son, the woman appeared on the threshold of the thatched cottage to see the rider who had just arrived. With a word, she ordered her son to go and bring her something from inside. He was quick to obey, returning with a wheel-lock pistol which he handed to his mother.

“Go and hide, Tonin.”

“But mother—”

“Go and hide under the bed and don’t come out unless I call you.”

The afternoon was drawing to a close, with a faint warm breeze in the air. There were no other dwellings anywhere around the cottage for as far as the eye could see. The nearest village was a good mile away, and the road leading there passed by some distance away. Even pedlars and sellers of almanacs only rarely stopped off to visit them. In this lonely corner of the French countryside, the inhabitants were by and large abandoned to their own devices.

Remaining at the door alone, the woman checked that the pistol was loaded and that the gunpowder in the chamber was dry. Then she let the weapon hang at the end of her arm, slightly behind her body, out of the rider’s sight as he entered the yard where a few hens pecked at the brown sun-beaten ground.

She barely nodded when Antoine Leprat greeted her from his mount.

“I should like to water my horse. And I would be glad to pay you for a glass of wine.”

She studied him for a long while without saying a word.

Badly shaven, grimy, and bedraggled, he seemed exhausted and hardly inspired either confidence or fear. He was armed: pistols were tucked in the holsters on his saddle and a curious white rapier hung at his side—his right side, as though he were left-handed. His night-blue doublet was open over a sweat-stained shirt and its sleeve, up by the shoulder, had a nasty gash through which a recent bandage could be glimpsed. Fresh blood had trickled over his hand, a sure sign that his wound had reopened.

“Where are you going?” asked the woman.

“To Paris.”

“By these roads, you won’t reach Paris before nightfall.”