The Cardinal's Blades (16 page)

Three men emerged in the pale glow and more were arriving. Gloved and booted, armed with swords, they wore hats, long dark cloaks, and black scarves to hide their faces.

Leprat got to his feet with difficulty, unsheathed his ivory rapier, and turned to face the first of the men charging toward him. He dodged one and let him pass, carried on by his momentum. He blocked the second’s attack and shoved the third with his shoulder. He struck, pierced a throat, and recoiled
in extremis
to avoid a blade. Two more masked killers presented themselves. The chevalier d’Orgueil broke away and counterattacked at once. He seized one of his new assailants by the collar and threw him against a wall while continuing to defend himself with his sword. He parried, riposted, and parried again, endeavouring to set the rhythm of the engagement, to repulse or elude one adversary in time to take on the next. Although being left-handed gave him a small advantage, the reopened wound on his arm handicapped him and his adversaries had the advantage of greater numbers: when one faltered, another took his place. Finally, he skewered the shoulder of one and, with a violent blow of his pommel, smashed in the temple of another. This attack earned him a vicious cut to his thigh, but he was able to step back as the combatant with the wounded shoulder fled and his partner fell dead on the muddy pavement.

The two remaining assassins paused for a moment. They moved prudently, with slow gliding steps, to corner the chevalier. He placed himself
en garde
, his back to the wall, careful to keep both of them in his field of vision. His arm and thigh were giving him pain. Sweat prickled in his eyes. As the assassins seemed unwilling to take the initiative, Leprat guessed that they were expecting reinforcements, which were not long in arriving: three men were coming down rue Saint-Denis at a run. No doubt the same men who had fired on him from the rooftops.

Leprat could not afford to wait for them.

He altered his guard slightly, pretending to attack the adversary to his left and thereby offering an opening to the one on the right, only to abruptly change his target. The ivory caught a ray of moonlight before slicing cleanly through a fist which remained clenched around a sword hilt. The amputee screamed and beat an immediate retreat, clutching his stump which was bleeding in vigorous spurts. Leprat promptly forgot him and pivoted in time to deflect a sword thrust aimed at his face. Parrying twice, he seized an over-extended arm, pulled the man toward him, and head butted him full in the mouth, then followed it with a blow of the knee to his crotch and finally delivered a reverse cut with his sword that slit the man’s throat.

Letting the body fall into the blood-soaked mud, the chevalier snatched a dagger from its belt and made ready to face the three latecomers. He deflected the first thrust with his white rapier, the second with the dagger, and dodged the third which, rather than slicing through his eye as far as his brain, merely left a scratch across his cheek. Then he shoved one brawler away with a blow from his boot, succeeded in stopping the blades of the two others with a high parry, and with the ivory grating beneath the double bite of steel, heaved them both back and to the side, forcing their blades downward. His dagger was free: he stabbed it into one assailant’s exposed flank three times. Pressing his advantage, Leprat planted a foot firmly on a boundary stone and, spinning into the air, decapitated the man he had just kicked away before the latter managed to fully recover his balance. A bloody scarlet spray fell in a sticky rain over the chevalier d’Orgueil and his third, final opponent. They exchanged a number of attacks, parries, and ripostes, each advancing and retreating along an imaginary line, mouths drawn into grimaces and exchanging furious glares. At last the assassin made a fatal error and his life came to a swift end when the slender ivory blade slid beneath his chin and its stained point exploded from the back of his head.

Drunk from exhaustion and combat, weakened by his wounds, Leprat staggered and knew he was in a bad way. A violent retch doubled him over and forced him to lean against a door as he vomited up long strands of black ranse phlegm.

He believed the fight was over, until he heard a horse approaching at a slow walk.

Keeping one hand against the wall at whose foot he had vomited, Leprat peered to one side, his tired eyes straining to make out the rider advancing toward him.

He was a very young and very elegant gentleman with a blond moustache, mounted on a lavishly harnessed horse.

“My congratulations, monsieur Leprat.”

All his limbs in agony, the chevalier made an effort to straighten up, although he felt as if even a breath of wind would knock him over.

“To those with whom I am unacquainted, I am ‘monsieur le chevalier d’Orgueil.’”

“As you wish, monsieur le chevalier d’Orgueil. I beg your pardon.”

Leprat spat out the remains of blood and bile.

“And you. Who are you?”

The rider offered a sympathetic smile and levelled a loaded pistol at the chevalier.

“It is of very little importance, monsieur le chevalier d’Orgueil, if you carry my name with you to your grave.”

The chevalier’s eyes flared.

“A man of honour would face me with his feet on the ground and draw his sword.”

“Yes. No doubt he would.”

The marquis de Gagnière took aim and shot Leprat with a pistol ball straight to the heart.

2

In bed a little earlier than usual, Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu was reading when he heard the scratch at the door. Candles were burning and on this cold spring night a huge, greedy log fire burned in the hearth. Of the three secretaries who shared the cardinal’s chamber, always ready to take down a letter by dictation or to provide the care which their master’s failing health required, two slept on trestle beds arranged against the walls while the third stayed awake on a chair. This one rose, and after a nod from His Eminence, opened the door slightly, then wider still.

A Capuchin monk in his fifties entered. Dressed in a grey robe and shod in sandals, he silently approached the grand four-poster bed in which Richelieu was sitting, his back propped up against pillows to allay the pain in his back.

“This missive has just arrived from Ratisbonne,” he said, presenting a letter. “No doubt you would like to read it before tomorrow.”

Born François-Joseph Leclerc du Tremblay, and known to the world as Père Joseph, he was of a noble family and had received a solid military education before joining the Capuchins at the age of twenty-two, by religious vocation. A reformer of his order and also founder of the Filles du Calvaire congregation of nuns, he had distinguished himself through his zeal and his sermons to the royal court. But above all, he was the famous “Grey Eminence,” the most intimate and influential of Richelieu’s confederates, to whom His Eminence was prepared to entrust certain affairs of state. He sometimes took part in the deliberations of the king’s Council and later became a minister of the Crown in his own right. A sincere friendship, a mutual high esteem, and a shared view on the policies needed to counter Habsburg influence in Europe united the two men.

Closing his copy of Plutarch’s
Lives
, the cardinal took the missive and thanked him.

“There is one other thing,” said Père Joseph.

Richelieu waited, then understood and ordered his secretaries out. When the one who was on duty had wakened and accompanied his colleagues into the next room, the monk took a chair and the cardinal said: “I’m listening.”

“I would like to speak to you again about your … Blades.”

“I thought this matter was settled between us.”

“I yielded to you without being persuaded by all of your arguments.”

“You know that men of such temper will soon be necessary to France—”

“There are other men beside these.”

Richelieu smiled.

“Not so many. And when you say ‘these,’ you’re thinking ‘him,’ aren’t you?”

“It is true that I have little love for monsieur de la Fargue. He is inflexible and has disobeyed you too often.”

“Really?”

Père Joseph launched into a rapid inventory, ticking each item off on his fingers.

“To refresh your memory: in Cologne, in Breda, and in Bohemia. And I’ve not even mentioned the disaster at La Rochelle—”

“If La Rochelle was torn from the bosom of France to become a Protestant republic, I do not think that the responsibility can be laid at Captain La Fargue’s door. After all, if the dam we built had resisted the force of the ocean tides for a few more days, the outcome would be quite different today.… As for the other events you mention, I believe that La Fargue only ‘forgot’ his orders when doing so increased the chances of his mission’s success.”

“He will always be headstrong. He is one of those men who never change.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Père Joseph sighed, reflected a moment, and then returned to his argument: “And what do you think will happen when La Fargue uncovers the secret motives behind the task we are about to confer on him? He will feel deceived and, in view of his grievances against you, he could be tempted to ruin everything. If he stumbles across the comte de Pontevedra’s true identity—!”

“He would have to stumble across the comte’s existence first.”

“He will, without question. Your Blades are spies as much as they are soldiers. They have no end of craftiness and imagination, and we have seen them unravel far more complicated knots than this.”

It was His Eminence’s turn to utter a sigh.

“If it comes to that, we shall take the necessary measures.… For the moment, what matters is that this mission is vital for France. And for reasons with which you are well acquainted, the Blades are the ones best able to carry it out successfully—as well as the ones who must be prevented from learning about this cabal.…”

“A curious paradox.”

“Yesterday I told the captain that I do not always have a choice of weapons. It’s very true. In this business, the Blades are the weapon which I must employ. Spain has set her conditions. I have preferred to give her some degree of satisfaction rather than seeing her harm us.”

Père Joseph nodded resignedly.

“You’re tired,” continued the cardinal in a solicitous, almost affectionate, tone. “Take some rest, my friend.”

In the Palais-Cardinal the monk’s chamber was next to Richelieu’s. Père Joseph glanced at the door leading to it.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re right.”

“And if it helps you sleep, remember that we are speaking of a ship that has already set sail and cannot be recalled to port.”

Père Joseph look puzzled.

“At this very moment,” explained the cardinal, “Rochefort is briefing La Fargue on the details of his assignment.”

“So the dice are thrown.”

3

“Thank you,” Marciac said to Naïs as she placed a bottle of wine on the table. “You should go and lie down, now.”

The pretty young servant thanked him with a smile and, looking truly tired, took her leave accompanied by an admiring glance from the Gascon.

He and Almades were in the main room of the Hôtel de l’Épervier, where Naïs had just served them an excellent dinner. The remains of their meal and several empty bottles stood on the long oak table around which the Blades used to meet and, so it seemed, would be meeting once again. For the time being, however, there were only the two of them and the immense room seemed bleak. The fire in the hearth was not enough to brighten it, any more than it was enough to warm it. It crackled, sang, groaned, and seemed to throw itself fiercely into a battle already lost against the advancing shadows, and the silence and the cold of the night.

“She’s lovely, that girl,” offered Marciac, to make conversation.

The Spanish master at arms didn’t respond.

“Yes, quite charming,” Gascon tried again.

Less carefree than he wished to appear, he drew a pack of cards from his pocket and proposed: “Shall I deal you a hand?”

“No.”

“Name your game. Or a throw of the dice?”

“I don’t play.”

“Everyone plays!”

“Not me.”

Discouraged, Marciac fell against the back of the chair, which creaked ominously.

“You’ve always been dreadful company.”

“I am a master of arms. Not an exhibitor of bears.”

“You’re an entirely dismal individual.”

Almades drank three small sips of wine.

“Always in threes, hmm?” said the Gascon.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

With a heavy sigh, Marciac rose and walked around the room.

He was one of those men whose roguish charm and nonchalance is emphasised by their neglect of their appearance. His cheeks bore a three-day stubble a shade darker than his blond hair; his boots were in need of brushing and his trousers of ironing; his unbuttoned doublet gaped open over his shirt; and he carried his blade with a studied but unforced nonchalance that seemed to say:
Don’t be fooled, old chap. I have a good friend at my side whose weight is so slight that she’s no burden to me, and upon whom I can always rely.
His eyes, finally, glittered with laughter combined with a mocking intelligence; the eyes of a man no more easily deceived by himself than by life’s great comedy.

Almades, on the other hand, was severity incarnate. Fifteen years older than the Gascon, black-haired, and with a grizzled moustache, he was as economical with his gestures as he was with his words, and even at the best of times his long angular face expressed nothing but an austere reserve. He was neatly dressed despite wearing an old mended doublet; the feather was missing from his hat, while the cuffs and collar of his shirt bore lace that had seen better days. It could thus be guessed that he was poor. But his state of destitution in no way altered his dignity: it was simply one more test in life that he faced with a stoicism as proud as it was unshakeable.

While Marciac paced fretfully, the Spaniard remained like marble, head lowered, his elbows on the table, and his hands clasped together around the tin beaker he was turning round and round and round.