The Cardinal's Blades (34 page)

12

As La Fargue had not informed anyone that he’d recruited Saint-Lucq, the half-blood’s entrance on the stage took the others off guard but was not altogether surprising. First, because the Blades could not claim to be complete without him. And second, because Saint-Lucq had always been an irregular soldier who was most effective when he was off on his own, operating in the shadows. The news that he brought, moreover, took priority in their minds. He announced it at once, without pausing for preliminaries, in the courtyard of the Hôtel de l’Épervier.

“Agnès has been abducted.”

“‘Abducted’?” Ballardieu roared.

Bursting with anger, he took a menacing step toward Saint-Lucq, who did not make any gesture, either to defend himself or to retreat. It took more than this to impress him.

La Fargue, on the other hand, moved to interpose himself between the two Blades.

“Let him explain what happened, Ballardieu.”

Impassive, the half-blood recounted his tale.

“I was watching this house according to your orders.…”

“Cécile’s house,” the captain clarified for the others.

“I suppose that Agnès entered around the back because I didn’t see her beforehand. And the same for the men who came out with her and took her away.”

“But what men, by God?!” shouted Ballardieu.

“Hired swordsmen,” replied Saint-Lucq calmly.

“And you did nothing!”

“No. Agnès didn’t want me to intervene. She wanted these men to take her away.”

“How do you know that?”

“Agnès saw me in the street. She threw me a glance and I understood.”

“You’re very clever … !”

“More than you.”

“What?”

Ballardieu, red in the face, seemed to expand in volume. Saint-Lucq looked at him disdainfully, without so much as a quiver, and said: “You heard me.”

“That’s enough!” intervened La Fargue in a loud voice.

Leprat, who had come down into the courtyard despite the wound in his thigh, forced Ballardieu to move back, taking him by the arm. Only Marciac was missing, having gone to find Cécile in her room just as the half-blood was announced.

“Go on, Saint-Lucq. What happened next?”

“Next? Nothing.… I followed them for as long as I could, but they soon mounted horses. I was on foot.”

“What’s going on?” demanded Marciac, coming out of the stables and passing Leprat, who was still trying to calm Ballardieu. “Well! Hello, Saint-Lucq.”

“Agnès has been abducted,” explained La Fargue.

“Oh? By whom?”

“By hired swordsmen led by a one-eyed man afflicted by the ranse,” said the half-blood.

“My one-eyed man with the ranse?” asked the Gascon. “The one from last night?”

“And the same man as this morning,” added Almades. “The riders we passed on the road, they were also led by a man whose eye was ruined by the ranse.”

“That means that Agnès is in the hands of the Black Claw,” concluded La Fargue. “She allowed herself to be taken in order to unmask our adversaries, but she couldn’t guess that—”

“I’m afraid I have another piece of bad news to announce,” declared Marciac. “Cécile has disappeared. She has run away.”

“
Merde!
”

The captain’s profanity rang out like a musket shot in the courtyard.

The Blades searched the Hôtel de l’Épervier from top to bottom and, when Cécile’s disappearance was no longer in any doubt, they gathered in the main room. The young woman had almost certainly slipped out through the garden, where they discovered the gate ajar—from there, she would have had no difficulty losing herself in a maze of alleys and passageways. A wider search would thus have proved futile.

“I think she must have been listening at the door during our meeting,” said Marciac. “No doubt wishing to avoid answering the questions that we intended to ask her, she preferred to duck out. We were too trusting of her. She wasn’t the poor orphan that we believed, mixed up against her will in a dark intrigue. I would even wager that her sister, who supposedly disappeared at the same as the chevalier d’Ireban, never existed.”

“She and Ireban are one and the same,” announced Saint-Lucq, throwing a small bundle of documents on the table. “I found these in her home. Reading them, you’ll discover that Cécile is the daughter of a great Spanish lord, that she and Castilla are lovers, and that they fled Spain together, Cécile disguising herself as a man to fool any spies. You’ll also see therein that Cécile and Castilla not only feared the wrath of her father but also that of another mysterious enemy.”

“The Black Claw,” guessed Leprat.

“Must I remind you that Agnès is in the Black Claw’s hands?” Ballardieu interjected in tight voice that barely concealed his contained anger. “Isn’t that the most important thing?”

“Yes,” said La Fargue. “However, it is perhaps only by getting to the bottom of this whole story that we will find a way to rescue Agnès …”

“And I tell you that we need to do everything in our power to save her. Starting right now!”

“Agnès voluntarily placed herself in the lion’s jaws,” Leprat reasoned, “but she may not have known which lion was involved.”

“She passed right in front of me,” Saint-Lucq pointed out. “I heard the one-eyed man talking to her as they took her away, and by all appearances, they mistook her for Cécile. That won’t last. Ballardieu is right: time is running short.”

“Who can help us?” the old soldier asked. “The cardinal? Castilla?”

“I doubt that Castilla is in any state to talk,” said Almades. “As for the cardinal …”

Silence fell upon them, heavy with worry compounded by a sense of impotence.

“Malencontre,” said Leprat after a long moment.

The others stared at him, while Almades explained briefly to Saint-Lucq who this Malencontre was. That done, Leprat continued: “Malencontre belongs to the Black Claw; otherwise we would not have surprised him beneath Castilla’s windows. And he must know a great deal, or the cardinal would not have taken him from us.”

“But if I follow the chronology of events correctly,” said Saint-Lucq, “this man can’t know where Agnès is being held today, because he was arrested yesterday—”

“He certainly knows enough to put us on the right track!”

“Yes!” exclaimed Ballardieu. “Yes! That’s an excellent idea!”

He turned toward La Fargue and solicited his opinion with a glance.

“The idea is a good one, yes.… But—”

“But, we don’t know were he can be found at present,” Marciac filled in for his captain. “Moreover, we will not be able to reach him without permission from the cardinal. And, finally, he won’t talk unless we can offer him something in return.”

“Freedom,” said Almades. “Malencontre knows he is lost. He will not talk in return for anything less than his liberty.”

“We’ll persuade Richelieu to offer Malencontre his freedom!” declared Ballardieu. “If he knows that Agnès’s life hangs in the balance …”

He wanted to believe it, but the others were less confident. What price did the cardinal currently place on the life of one of his Blades? He had never hesitated to sacrifice them on the altar of political necessity in the past.

“I can arrange a meeting with His Eminence quickly,” proposed Saint-Lucq.

“Then let us try that,” concluded La Fargue.

They all rose and Marciac took the captain to one side.

“With your permission, I would like to go in search of Cécile.”

“Do you know where she went?”

The Gascon smiled.

“If Agnès were here, she would tell you that you do not know women very well, captain.”

“That may be. Go ahead, follow your idea. But we will have need of you soon.”

“I won’t be long.”

13

In 1607 Concino Concini, an Italian adventurer who, together with his wife, enjoyed such influence over Queen Marie de Médicis that she made him marquis d’Ancre and a marshal of France, built a vast mansion on rue de Tournon. Greedy and incompetent, he was hated by the population, who pillaged his mansion for the first time in 1616 and then again, after his death in 1617. Louis XIII resided there from time to time, and then gave it to one of his favourites, only to buy it back later. From then on, and up until 1748, the beautiful house in rue de Tournon became a residence for visiting ambassadors extraordinary.

The creation of permanent ambassadors was not yet a widespread practice. With rare exceptions, European kingdoms only employed ambassadors extraordinary to conduct particular negotiations or represent their monarchs on grand occasions—princely baptisms, betrothals, marriages, and other important ceremonies. These envoys—always great lords expected to maintain appearances at their own cost—would return to their country once their mission was completed. Diplomacy was yet to become a career.

Thus, in Paris, ambassadors and their retinues were the guests of the king in the marquis d’Ancre’s former mansion. Having been appointed by King Felipe IV of Spain, the comte de Pontevedra had been lodging there for several days and would no doubt remain there as long as was necessary to ensure the completion of a mission that was surrounded by the greatest secrecy. What were the comte and Richelieu discussing during the course of their long daily meetings—meetings at which even the king himself made appearances? The royal court was filled with rumours on this subject and everyone either claimed to know or made educated guesses. The truth, however, went beyond any of their expectations. It involved nothing less than preparing, if not an alliance, then at least a rapprochement between France and Spain. Was such a thing even possible? If it was, it would represent an enduring upheaval in European politics and would affect the destinies of millions of souls.

On this day, the comte de Pontevedra returned rather earlier than usual from the Louvre. He rode in a luxurious coach, surrounded by twenty gentlemen in arms whose role was both to protect him and to enhance his prestige with their numbers and their elegance. At the mansion in rue de Tournon he hurried alone to his apartments, sent his servants away, and even refused his valet’s assistance to remove his brocade doublet and his gold-trimmed baldric. He poured himself a glass of wine and settled down in an armchair. He was preoccupied, eaten away by worry. But it was not the difficulty of the delicate diplomatic negotiations he was engaged in that spoilt his days and haunted his nights.

A door creaked.

The ambassador rose, furious, ready to drive away the unwelcome visitor and then suddenly froze. He glanced around for his sword which, unfortunately, he had abandoned out of easy reach.

“That would be suicide, monsieur,” said Laincourt, emerging from an antechamber. “I am not an assassin. I am a messenger.”

“Who sent you?”

“The Black Claw.”

In his fifties, tall, dignified, with greying temples and a fine scar decorating his cheekbone, the ambassador was still a handsome man. He was not trembling, but he had grown pale.

“I see,” added Laincourt, “that you have guessed the reason for my visit.…”

“Speak, monsieur.”

“We have your daughter.”

Pontevedra remained expressionless.

“You don’t believe me,” inferred Laincourt after a moment.

“On what grounds should I believe you? I await your proof. Can you show me a jewel that could only belong to her? Or perhaps a lock of her hair?”

“Neither jewel, nor hair. But I could return with an eye.…”

There was another silence, during which the two men exchanged stares, each trying to probe the other.

“What do you want? Money?”

Laincourt gave a faint but amiable smile.

“Why don’t you sit down, monsieur? In this armchair. That will place you away from the table you are edging toward and the letter opener that rests upon it.”

Pontevedra obeyed.

In turn, the Black Claw’s envoy also took a seat, but one a good distance from the ambassador, while constantly covering him with his pistol.

“Once upon a time,” said Laincourt, “there was an adventurous French gentleman who became a great lord in Spain. This gentleman had a daughter who, one day, wished to remove herself from his company. The gentleman did not want this to happen. So his daughter fled, crossing the border disguised as a cavalier and finding refuge in Paris. The gentleman received word of this. And he soon learned, through his spies, that one of his most powerful enemies was threatening, or at least also pursuing, his daughter. The gentleman, understandably, became worried.… What do you think of my story, monsieur? Is it accurate enough that I should continue?”

Pontevedra nodded.

“In that case, I’ll go on.… At the same time, an ambassadorial mission was being prepared in Madrid. Did our gentleman engage in a few little intrigues to have this mission entrusted to him, or did fate serve him by happenstance? It matters little. What does matter is that he was named ambassador extraordinary and came to Paris to negotiate with the king of France and his most eminent minister. His political mission was of the utmost importance, but he merely regarded it as the means of saving his daughter. Using all the influence he was able to wield, he obtained a promise from France, via Cardinal Richelieu, that she would endeavour to search for his daughter. Or rather, to search for the chevalier d’Ireban, since it was under this name and this disguise that she had secretly reached Paris. Our gentleman gave the chevalier prestigious origins, so that the cardinal might believe that he was rendering a service to the Spanish crown rather than to its ambassador.… Does my tale still have the ring of truth?”

“Yes.”

“Good.… This gentleman, in fact, did more than simply demand that France search for his daughter. He wanted France to use her best men for this delicate mission. He wanted the Cardinal’s Blades.… When Richelieu asked him why, he answered that Spain wished to assure herself that France was doing everything in her power to succeed: she would therefore show the best possible goodwill by having recourse to the Blades. Careful not to give offence to Spain on the eve of crucial negotiations, the cardinal no doubt agreed to this demand with fairly good grace. After all, for him it was simply a question of recruiting men who had already demonstrated their worth and could soon prove useful once again. And so it was arranged.… But I see with regret that my tale has started to bore you.…”