The Cardinal's Blades (17 page)

Three turns, then a pause. Three turns, a pause. Three turns …

“How long have they been in there, do you reckon?”

The fencing master directed a dark, patient eye toward the Gascon. With a thumb, Marciac indicated the door behind which La Fargue and Rochefort were closeted together.

“I don’t know.”

“One hour? Two?”

“Perhaps.”

“I wonder what they’re saying. Do you have any idea?”

“No.”

“And it doesn’t intrigue you?”

“When the time comes, the captain will tell us everything we need to know.”

Marciac, thoughtful, ran his nails up his stubbled cheeks.

“I could press my ear against the door and listen.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I forbid you from doing so, and I shall also prevent you.”

“Yes, of course you would. That’s an excellent reason.”

The Gascon returned to his chair like a scolded schoolboy.

He drained his glass, refilled it, and, rather than say nothing, asked: “So what were you doing, during the past five years?”

Perhaps with the intention of diverting Marciac’s attention from the door, Almades made an effort to reply.

“I practised my trade. In Madrid to begin with. Then in Paris.”

“Ah.”

“And you?”

“The same.”

“Because you have a trade.”

“Err.… In fact, no,” the Gascon admitted.

But he added quickly: “That’s not to say I have not been very busy!”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I have a mistress. That can keep you occupied, a mistress. Her name is Gabrielle. I shall introduce you to her when she stops hating me. Very beautiful, nevertheless.”

“Prettier than little Naïs?”

Marciac was known for his many amorous adventures.

He caught the allusion and, a poor loser, shrugged his shoulders.

“The one has nothing to do with the other.”

A silence fell beneath the dark ceiling, which the sound of the fire was barely able to fill.

“They don’t care much for one another,” said the Gascon finally.

“Who?”

“La Fargue and Rochefort.”

“No one likes Rochefort. He does the cardinal’s dirty work. A spy, and no doubt also an assassin.”

“And what are we, then?”

“Soldiers. We fight in a secret war, but it’s not the same thing.”

“Nevertheless, there’s a feud between those two which goes far beyond the ordinary quarrel.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it. You’ve seen the scar Rochefort bears on his temple?”

Almades nodded.

“Well, never mention it in front of Rochefort when the captain is present. Rochefort could take it as a mocking reference. He might think you know how it got there.”

“And you … you know?”

“No. But I act as though I do. It gives me a certain air.”

The Spaniard let this remark pass without comment, but said: “I’d like you to shut up now, Marciac.”

The door opened and Rochefort crossed the room without sparing a glance for either of them. La Fargue appeared behind him. He walked to the table, sat down astride a chair, and, preoccupied, began to pick at the remaining food on the plates.

“So?” asked Marciac innocently.

“So we have a mission,” replied the veteran of numerous wars.

“Which is?”

“Briefly put, it is a question of serving Spain.”

Spain.

The sworn enemy of France: Spain, and her Court of Dragons.

The news fell as heavily as an executioner’s axe on the block, and even the exceptionally reserved Almades raised a wary eyebrow on hearing it.

4

Armed with the information that the Grand Coësre had given him, Saint-Lucq waited for dawn before springing into action.

The location proved to be perfect for his purpose: discreet, hidden from the road by the wood that surrounded it, and less than an hour from Paris. It was on the farthest fringe of the faubourg Saint-Jacques, a short distance from a hamlet whose presence was indicated by a silent bell tower. An old mill, whose large waterwheel no longer turned, had been built on the bank of the river. Its stones stood firmly in place, but its roof—like those of the other buildings in the vicinity: a woodshed, a granary, a miller’s house—had suffered from years of exposure to the weather. A solid wall still enclosed the abandoned property. Its front porch opened on to the only road which passed by, not much travelled since the mill had stopped working.

How did the Grand Coësre know the Corbins—the Crows—had established one of their hideouts in this place? And how did he know that Saint-Lucq would find what he wanted here? Perhaps it was of minor importance. All that mattered, in the end, was that the information was accurate. The reasons that had persuaded the king of the Cour des Miracles to help the half-blood remained shadowy and unclear. Certainly, it would be in his interest if Saint-Lucq’s plan succeeded and he made some mischief for the Corbins. The gang had held sway over the province and the faubourgs for the past two years and their attention had now turned to the capital. A battle for territory was brewing, which the Grand Coësre no doubt wished to forestall. But above all he feared that the Corbins’ activities, even indirectly, would harm him to some greater or lesser extent in the long term. These highwaymen plundered, raped, were quick to use torture, and often murdered. They terrorised the population and infuriated the authorities, who would ultimately react brutally and instinctively, mobilising a regiment out of necessity and erecting dozens of gibbets. The Corbins were running to their own destruction. However, not all of the blows directed against them would strike the gang. The Court of Miracles would also suffer the consequences and its leader wished to avoid them. Nevertheless, Saint-Lucq had played a dangerous game in going to find him in his fiefdom on rue Neuve-Saint-Sauveur and demanding information in such a challenging manner. Time was running short, to be sure, and the half-blood would stop at nothing to achieve his objectives. But one day he would pay the price for his audacity. The Grand Coësre’s hand could not be forced with impunity.

A man was dozing in a chair in front of the miller’s house, his sword hanging from the back of the chair and his pistol resting across his thighs. His hat was tipped down across his eyes, and he was wrapped up in one of the big black cloaks which were the gang’s distinctive sign. He had been on guard, shivering in the cold, all night.

Another Corbin left the house. Dressed in leather and coarse cloth, he stretched, yawned, scratched his side with one hand and the back of his neck with the other, and then shook his accomplice by the shoulder. The guard sat up and stretched in turn. They exchanged a few words and then the man in leather walked away, undoing his belt as he went. He went into the woodshed where the horses were stabled, pulled down his trousers, squatted, urinated loudly with a sigh of ease, and had begun to defecate when Saint-Lucq garrotted him from behind.

Unable to call for help, the brigand tried to seize the thin strap which bit into his flesh and stood up abruptly. The half-blood matched his movement without reducing the pressure on the strap and drew his victim with him as he backed up two steps. The Corbin’s ankles were trapped inside his dropped breeches. His arms thrashing, he tipped over backward but could not fall as Saint-Lucq held him suspended halfway to the ground, strangling him under his own weight. The man fought, struggling as much as he could. His heels frantically dug into the urine-saturated ground. A death rattle was torn from his chest as his face turned crimson. His fingernails scratched deeply into his tortured throat, clawing uselessly at the leather garrotte. Then he tried to strike back, his fists furiously pummelling the air in front of the half-blood’s face. Saint-Lucq, impassive and focused, simply drew his shoulders back. Terror emptied the remaining contents of the unfortunate man’s bowels. Brown, sticky faeces stained his thighs before falling to the ground with a soft squelch. With a final spurt of effort, the Corbin searched desperately for a foothold, for some support, for a rescue which was not coming. His struggles weakened. Finally, his windpipe collapsed and his sex released its last, smelly dregs. His tongue hanging out, his eyes rolling up, the man slowly collapsed into his own excrement, still held by his torturer.

The horses had barely stirred.

Dropping the soiled corpse, Saint-Lucq rewound his garrotte and pushed his red spectacles further up his nose before going to look outside.

The brigand on guard duty was still at his post. Legs stretched out and ankles crossed, fingers interlaced over his stomach, and his hat covering his eyes, he was dozing in a chair, its back tipped against the wall of the house.

The half-blood drew his dagger and, advancing with a determined step which he meant to be heard, walked toward the man. The other heard his approach but mistook it for the return of his companion.

“So? Feeling better?” he asked without raising his nose.

“No.”

The Corbin jumped with a start and dropped the pistol resting across his thighs. Swiftly, Saint-Lucq slapped a hand against his mouth to both silence him and force him back down into his chair, and struck with his dagger, upward from beneath his chin. The blade went home with a dry thump, pierced the brigand’s palate, and dug deep into his brain. He died in an instant, his eyes wide-eyed and full of pain.

The half-blood dried the dagger on the Corbin’s shoulder and left the body slumped limply on the chair, its arms hanging. He had counted six horses in the woodshed. Six minus two. Four men remained.

He went to the front door and pressed an ear to it before gently pushing it open. Inside, two brigands who had just risen were talking while eating a frugal meal. Both had their backs turned to him, with one sitting on a small upturned barrel and the other on a wobbly stool.

“We’ll be running out of wine soon.”

“I know.”

“And bread. And you wanted to feed him—”

“I know, I know.… But we’ll be finished with this business today.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“Today, I tell you. They can’t be much longer.”

Saint-Lucq entered silently. As he passed, he picked up a poker which had been abandoned on the mantelpiece above a long-unused fireplace.

“In any case, I’m not spending another night in this ruin.”

“You’ll do as you’re told.”

“We’ll see about that!”

“No, you’ll see. You remember Figard?”

“No. I never knew him.”

“That’s because he disobeyed an order before you arrived.”

Saint-Lucq was on them quicker and more silently than any ordinary assassin. The first collapsed, his skull split by the poker. The second only just had time to rise before falling in turn, his temple shattered.

Two seconds, two blows. Two deaths. No cries.

The half-blood was on the point of letting the bloody poker fall onto the stomach of one of the dead bodies when he heard the squeak of hinges.

“So, lads?” someone said. “Already busy stuffing your faces, are you?”

Saint-Lucq about-turned and flung out his arm.

The poker hummed as it whirled through the air and drove itself, hook first, between the eyes of the Corbin who, hatless and dishevelled, had so casually entered the room. Stunned, the man staggered backward and crumpled onto the floor.

Four and one made five—the count was still short.

His right hand tightening around the hilt of his sheathed rapier, Saint-Lucq slipped into the room the dead brigand had just come from.

Makeshift beds had been set up in there, and Saint-Lucq found the last surviving Corbin lying on one of them, paralysed by absolute terror. He was young, an adolescent of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. His lip sported no more than blond fuzz and bad acne ate at his cheeks. Woken with a start, he seemed unable to tear his gaze from the corpse and the wrought-iron rod embedded in its face. The poker began to tip over very slowly, its point spattered with viscous fluid and lifting up a piece of skull bone which tore through the skin. With a final cracking sound, it toppled and fell to the floor with a clatter.

The sound made the adolescent quiver all over and he suddenly directed his attention toward the half-blood wearing red spectacles. Looking deathly pale and distraught, his eyes already filled with tears, he vainly tried to force out a few words, vigorously shaking his head—a quiet, desperate supplication. Rising from his bedcovers, he retreated until his hands and heels touched the wall. He wore nothing but a shirt and a pair of breeches, breeches that were now stained with urine.

“Mer … Mercy—”

Saint-Lucq took a slow step toward him and drew his sword.

Lucien Bailleux shook with fear, cold, and exhaustion. He wore nothing but a nightshirt and the hard ground on which he was lying proved as chilled as the stones against which he sometimes leaned.

It had been three nights since he had been surprised, unsuspecting, in his sleep at home, in the apartment where he lived above his notary’s office. They had gagged him before pulling a hood over his head and knocking him senseless. What had they done with his wife, who had been sleeping at his side? He had woken here, bound hand and foot, in a location he could only guess at due to the hood. He was attached to a wall by a short, heavy chain that ran around his waist. He had no idea on whose authority he was held. All he knew for sure was that he was no longer in Paris, but somewhere in the countryside. The noises from his present surroundings, which also allowed him to keep track of the passing days, had made that much clear to him.

Initially believing he had been abandoned he had chewed away his cloth gag and shouted, yelling until his voice broke. He’d finally heard a door open, the footsteps of several men in boots approaching and a voice, at last, saying to him: “It’s just you and us, here. No one else can hear you. But your shouting annoys us.”

“What … what do you want with me?”

Rather than answering him, they had beaten him. In the stomach and kidneys. A kick had even dislodged one of his teeth. He’d swallowed it, as his mouth filled with blood.