by Pierre Pevel
Grown into a young woman, that daughter had recently made a reappearance in his life. She had been in danger and he had been forced to take steps to protect her, putting her beyond the reach of both the Black Claw and Cardinal Richelieu’s agents. But it had meant he was separated from her once again. He did not even know where she was now, as prudence dictated. But at least his mind was at rest, knowing there was nowhere his daughter would be safer than in the hands into which he had entrusted her.
La Fargue lifted his head and closed his fist over the pendant when he heard Leprat knock at his door.
‘Yes?’
The musketeer entered.
‘I’m afraid nothing is going to happen this evening,’ he said.
‘So am I.’
‘It will soon strike midnight.’
‘I know.’
‘Should I order the horses unsaddled?’
‘Let’s give La Donna another hour to manifest herself
‘Very well.’
At that same instant, Almades ceased sharpening his rapier. Leprat turned and saw Andre arriving, a letter in his hand.
‘Where’s the captain?’ asked the groom.
The Spaniard pointed in the direction of the small private office. Andre crossed the fencing room, watched attentively by the whole company, as La Fargue and his lieutenant walked out to meet him. Agnes, Marciac, and Ballardieu rose to their feet. Almades sheathed his blade, now sharp as a razor. Saint-Lucq remained stretched out on the bench, but had turned on his side, his head propped up by one elbow.
‘Captain,’ said Andre, ‘a rider just delivered this.’
‘Thank you,’ replied La Fargue, taking the letter from him.
The seal was Cardinal Richelieu’s. The old captain split it open and unfolded the letter amidst a deep silence.
Everyone waited.
La Fargue read the contents, and then announced:
‘La Donna presented herself at the Palais-Cardinal an hour ago.’
The others looked at him without understanding.
‘She came to offer herself up as a prisoner,’ he explained with a faint, ambiguous smile. ‘And when you think about it, it’s a clever move on her part . . .’
4
It was not the most well-known of the sixteen gates of Paris. It was not the most frequented, or the best defended. And once night fell, and the thick doors between the two massive towers were closed, it became a dark, silent edifice whose sinister calm would — ordinarily — go undisturbed until the following morning.
The dracs arrived shortly after midnight, their mounts walking in the black ground-hugging mist that accompanied them.
There were eight in all.
Seven vigorous black dracs and one other drac with pale scales, the colour of dirty bone. The black dracs were riding calm, powerful warhorses. Wearing gloves and boots, they were dressed like hired swordsmen. Wide leather belts were cinched around their waists and they had solid rapiers at their sides.
The other drac was unarmed. But he carried a large carved staff hung with various small fetishes: tiny bones, teeth, feathers, old scales. Dressed in stinking, filthy rags encrusted with what looked like dried blood, he rode bareback on a giant salamander whose belly grazed the black mist and whose slow, steady step set the pace for the whole group. The drac was very old. He was missing some teeth and his back was bent. His yellow eyes, however, gleamed with a lively spark. And a particularly virulent and baleful aura emanated from him.
The dracs drew to a halt on the narrow stone bridge that crossed over the fetid ditch before the gates. They waited, as the mist beneath them stretched out dark tendrils that snaked their way beneath the city gate in order to accomplish their task on the far side. The task did not take long. The tendrils immediately withdrew.
The old drac raised his staff in one gnarly hand, tipped with jagged yellow claws, and pointed it at the door.
He mumbled a few words in the drakish tongue.
The sound of scraping and several dull thuds could be heard inside.
And then the heavy doors opened, while the portcullis lifted with a clanking noise.
The archway, long and empty, was only lit by two sputtering torches. The dracs passed through it slowly, without sparing a glance for the dying pikeman who staggered out of the guards’ lodge and stretched out an arm, trying to cry for help before he collapsed. He died, his body convulsing, retching up a black bile that ran from his mouth, nostrils and eyelids.
The dracs emerged from the gate and melted, one by one, into the shadowy streets of Paris.
1
Alessandra di Sand, also known as La Donna, had been awake since dawn. She rose carefully from her bed, trying not to disturb the two dragonnets still curled up asleep. Silently she went to sit by the window, half naked, with an old Italian song on her lips, methodically combing her hair. She was pale and beautiful, caressed by the dawn sunlight that warmed her long red tresses.
The young woman had a view of the garden and the entire domain of La Renardiere — the name of the small castle where she had dwelt for the past five days — from her bedchamber. It was a hunting lodge, quite similar to the one which had just been finished for the king in Versailles. It comprised a central pavilion with two wings framing a courtyard, and to the front, beyond a dry moat crossed by a stone bridge, stood a forecourt flanked by the servants’ quarters. Although in truth it lacked for nothing, La Renardiere only provided the basic comforts. But the place was both discreet and peaceful, only an hour’s ride from Paris, a short remove from the road to Meudon, and practically invisible behind some dense woodland.
In short, it was a perfect retreat.
Having combed her hair, Alessandra shook a little bell to warn the chambermaid - who had been graciously put at her disposal, along with an elegant wardrobe — that she wished to wash and dress. The clear tinkling sound attracted first Scylla, the female of the pair of black dragonnets and then her brother Charybdis, who followed close behind. The twins vied playfully for their mistress’s affections. They jostled one another, craning their necks for a caress and rubbing their snouts against La Donna’s throat and cheeks. She laughed, pretending to repel the small reptiles’ assaults and gently scolding them for being such impudent little devils. An involuntary swipe of a claw scratched Alessandra’s shoulder, but the wound closed almost immediately and the single drop of blood that had welled up slid down her perfectly healed skin.
The chambermaid’s knock at the door interrupted their frolics.
She had been at La Renardiere for five days. Five days of being taken, each morning, to Paris to be interrogated. Five days of being treated with a mixture of courtesy, wariness and resentment.
‘This is your room, madame. And this is your key. At night please avoid leaning too far from your window. Someone might fire a musket at you by mistake.’
When she had presented herself at his door and made herself his prisoner the beautiful spy had placed the cardinal in an extremely delicate position. The Parlement of Paris — which was the kingdom’s most important court of justice -had recently convicted her in absentia on several charges of corruption, blackmail and theft. And, for the most part, they were quite right in doing so. But Richelieu did not want her to be punished for these crimes: firstly, because the Pope was unlikely to allow her to be executed; secondly, because she was in a position to reveal State secrets which no one in Europe wished to see divulged; and thirdly, most crucially, because she claimed to have knowledge of a plot against Louis XIII and was demanding, before she would say more, that her life and liberty be guaranteed. But the Parlement was jealous of its authority and if it learned the truth, it would call for La Donna’s immediate arrest. Once that happened, whatever was subsequently decided, the legal and political complications would accumulate — and as for the plot against His Majesty, they would be forced to wait until it was set in motion to discover its nature and scope . . .
Happily, the members of Parlement could not be displeased by
tilings of which they remained ignorant. It was thus in greatest secrecy that Alessandra spent her mornings with a magistrate at Le Chatelet, where she was asked questions which she answered graciously, while always endeavouring not to say too much. She stayed at La Renardiere the rest of the time, protected by musketeers. There were a dozen of them, who patrolled the grounds and occupied a small wooden pavilion in the woods by the entrance to the hunting lodge’s grounds. But the young Italian woman was not fooled: the musketeers were there to keep a watch on her as much as they were to protect her, just as the domestic servants in the residence were there to spy on her as much as to serve her. All of them were Richelieu’s people, as was the gentleman who acted as her bodyguard.
That one was a Cardinal’s Blade.
Seated at her dressing table, Alessandra was finishing arranging her hair and attire to her satisfaction when there was a knock at the door.
‘Come in, monsieur!’
It was Leprat. Freshly shaven, wearing boots, breeches, gloves, and a doublet, he was dressed in red, black and grey. His spurs jingling at each step, he entered the room with his hat in hand and his sword at his side.
‘Good morning, monsieur le chevalier,’ La Donna greeted him, her eyes on the mirror which the chambermaid slowly moved around her. ‘Did you sleep well outside my door?’
‘No, madame.’
The young woman pretended to be concerned. She turned theatrically in her seat and placed a hand to her throat.
‘Did you sleep poorly, monsieur? Are you feeling ill?’
‘No, madame.’
Alessandra went from worry to pouting anger, still playacting.
‘Then you must have slept elsewhere. That’s very poor on your part. You abandoned me and I could have been assassinated. I’m very upset with you. I was happier when I thought you were ill . . .’
Leprat smiled.
‘I was at your door, madame. But I didn’t sleep. And I feel quite well.’
‘Well, thank goodness on both counts! I am doubly reassured.’
Returning her attention to her toilette, La Donna continued to inspect her reflection in the mirror.
‘Madame, would you be so good as to make haste. Your breakfast is served, and monsieur de La Houdiniere will no doubt arrive soon.’
Irritated, La Donna snatched the mirror from the chambermaid’s hands.
‘Monsieur de La Houdiniere shall have to wait,’ she said. ‘And in Paris, inside that depressing Chatelet where he insists on receiving me, monsieur de Laffemas can also wait. And, if necessary, the cardinal can wait too!’
‘Madame. If you please . . .’
Alessandra caught Leprat’s eye in the mirror.
She smiled at him, adjusted a curl of hair for form’s sake, returned the mirror to the servant, and then rose to turn towards the former musketeer. She looked ravishing, in a snugly fitting but otherwise fairly plain brown-and-cream dress which nevertheless enhanced her pale skin, her red hair, and her pretty bosom. She seemed to be waiting for a compliment, but Leprat limited himself to a brief nod of approval.
The beautiful Italian woman had to satisfy herself with that and accepted the arm offered to her before passing into the antechamber.
Kh’Shak, the huge black drac, hesitated for a moment before opening the door and descending the stairs with a cautious step, almost on tiptoe, holding the scabbard of his rapier to keep it from knocking into anything.
The cellar was silent and warm, stingily lit by fat yellow candles whose flames gave off acrid wisps of smoke. The place reeked, filled with strong odours that would turn a human stomach but which were pleasant to drakish nostrils: the smell of blood, offal, and meat both fresh and spoiled.
The old pale-scaled drac was sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor. He was wearing the dirty, smelly rags that were his sole clothing, and his ceremonial staff — the big carved stick with its feathers, bones, scales, teeth, and coloured beads — was resting across his meagre thighs. Eyes shut, he sat completely still, hardly breathing at all. The gutted body of a small white goat lay before him. Other remains were rotting here and there, mutilated and half-devoured.
Halting at the bottom of the steps Kh’Shak hesitated again, as if afraid to enter the cellar completely and set foot on the spattered, blood-soaked floor where he knew awful rituals had been carried out. Yet he was by no means a coward. His courage and fierceness had earned him his position as chief.
But when it came to magic . . .
‘Saaskir . . .’ he ventured in a hoarse voice.
Saaskir. A drakish word meaning both priest and sorcerer, two notions that were blurred together in the dracs’ tribal culture.
‘Yes, Kh’Shak?’ answered the old drac. ‘What is it?’
The black drac cleared his throat. Still unmoving, his eyes still closed, the other had his back towards him.
‘Have you found her, saaskir?’
‘No, my son,’ said the sorcerer in the calm, patient tone that one usually employed with small children. ‘I haven’t found her yet. La Donna has concealed herself behind seven veils. I rip one away each night, and soon, she will be revealed in full nudity beneath the Eye of the Night Dragon. Then I shall see and, after me, you will be the first to know . . .’
‘Thank you, saaskir.’
Kh’Shak was about to turn away, still troubled, when the old drac called out to him:
‘You’re worried, aren’t you?’
The great black drac wondered how he should reply. He opted for the truth.
‘Yes, saaskir.’
‘That’s good. You are a chief. It is your role to worry about things others do not care about, to think of things which others forget, to see what others ignore . . . But as the days pass, your warriors are growing restless, and you’re afraid you won’t be able to restrain them for much longer.’
Was the saaskir casting doubt on his authority? Kh’Shak’s blood began to boil.
‘My warriors fear me and respect me! They shall obey!’ The old drac sorcerer gave a faint smile that the other could not see.
‘Of course, of course . . . So, all is well?’
‘Yes,’ Kh’Shak was obliged to concur. ‘All is well.’
A silence ensued, during which the black drac did not know what to do. Finally, the old sorcerer’s sugary voice came again: ‘Now, Kh’Shak, you must leave me. I need to rest.’
La Donna was finishing her cup of chocolate while a servant cleared away the remains of her breakfast. Sitting in an armchair, she eyed Leprat who was looking out of a window. He was watching the track that emerged from the woods and then ran in a straight line, crossing the forecourt between the servant quarters to the bridge over the dry moat.
Antoine Leprat, chevalier d’Orgueil.
One of Captain La Fargue’s Blades, therefore. And a former member of the King’s Musketeers, it would seem. Calm, reserved, courteous, and watchful. Probably incorruptible. In a word: irreproachable. Tall, dark-haired and grim-eyed. Attractive, to those who liked mature men whose faces had been marked by the years, and by their ordeals. He had a brutal side to him. This Leprat knew how to fight and had no fear of violence. His muscular body was doubtless covered with scars . . .
Alessandra di Santi’s glance must have been too intense in the silence, because Leprat felt it and turned to her. She did not make the mistake of suddenly averting her eyes, which would have been a tacit admission of a guilty sentiment.
Instead, cleverly, she chose to conceal the motive of her interest.
‘Where did you acquire that strange sword, chevalier?’
As always, Leprat had his white rapier at his side, a single piece of ivory carved, from tip to pommel, out of an Ancestral
Dragon’s tooth. It was an extraordinary, formidable weapon, lighter and yet more resilient than even the best Toledo blade.
‘It was entrusted to me.’
‘By whom? Under what circumstances?’
The former musketeer smiled and turned his head back t
o the window without answering. His eyes drifted towards the tree line.
‘Come now, monsieur,’ the beautiful spy insisted. ‘We’ve shared this roof and most of our waking hours for several days and I still know almost nothing about you.’
‘Just as I know almost nothing about you. No doubt it’s best that way.’
Alessandra rose and walked slowly up to Leprat, approaching him from behind as he continued to gaze outside.
‘But I only desire that you know me better, monsieur le chevalier. Ask me questions, and I’ll answer them . . .’
‘I leave the task of questioning you to monsieur de Laffemas.’
‘Would a little chocolate soften you? There’s some left.’
Turning from the window, Leprat suddenly found himself in close proximity to La Donna. She had drawn so near they were almost touching. Shorter than him, she looked up at him over the rim of the cup, which she held against her moist half-opened lips.
Her eyes were smiling.
‘Do you like chocolate, monsieur le chevalier?’
‘I ... I don’t know.’
‘You’ve never tasted it?’
‘No.’
Not widely known previously in France, chocolate now enjoyed some slight notoriety since Queen Anne d’Autriche, who had acquired a taste for it during her childhood in Spain, asked that it be served to her in the Louvre. Still reserved for the rich elite, chocolate was, curiously enough, sold by apothecaries.
‘It’s delicious,’ murmured Alessandra. With both hands she raised her cup to Leprat’s mouth. ‘Here, try some . . .’
Their glances met, hers seductive, his troubled.
For an instant that slowly stretched between them, the former musketeer almost gave in to temptation . . .
. . . but the chambermaid — knocking and then immediately entering the room — broke the spell. She brought La Donna’s gloves, cloak, and hat. Having surprised Leprat, who quickly drew back, she acted as if she had seen nothing.