by Pierre Pevel
La Fargue halted
‘Who are you?’ he asked in a suspicious tone.
‘1 am the one who has been sent to you,’ the other man replied calmly.
‘I don’t know you.’
‘Well you’re free to leave.’
The old captain thought for a moment and then asked:
‘Your name?’
‘Valombre.’
‘Do you serve the Seven?’
The gentleman smiled.
‘I serve them.’
‘And are you—’
‘—a dragon? Yes, I am. But unless you have a Chatelaine nun hidden up your sleeve, you will have to take my word for it.’
The jest did not make La Fargue smile and he stared at this so-called Valombre before finally saying:
‘I believe you.’
‘Good for you. And if we get down to business now, mon-senieur?’
The captain of the Blades nodded.
‘I am worried,’ he confessed. ‘Rochefort’s men are on my daughter’s trail. Is she quite safe?’
‘I can assure you that she is. Your daughter is doing splendidly and is out of reach of even the best of the cardinal’s agents.’
‘And of the Black Claw?’
‘She is out of their reach as well.’
‘They have immense resources at their disposal.’
‘Our own are by no means negligible. Do you want to know where your daughter is?’
‘No. I would be the first to be interrogated if—’
La Fargue walked several paces, turned around and raised us eyes towards the Bronze Wyvern.
‘In two days’ time,’ he said, ‘the king will have arrested his Keeper of the Seals, the duchesse de Chevreuse and all those who, with them, have plotted against the throne. The cardinal has been gathering testimonies and evidence against them for months now. It will cause a great deal of noise, no doubt about it.’
‘This affair does not concern us.’
‘Indeed not . . . But there’s something else going on, isn’t there? Something important. Something serious.’
He lowered his gaze to look at Valombre, who did not answer right away.
‘Yes,’ the dragon admitted at last, without any trace of emotion.
‘Is the Alchemist part of it?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Are you not sure? Or don’t you want me to know?’
‘We’re not sure.’
The old gentleman frowned.
‘What are you hiding from me?’ he asked.
‘Nothing that the Sisters of Saint Georges don’t already know. Perhaps you should take an interest in their secrets.’
‘They seem to believe that the queen is threatened.’
‘If it exists, the threat against the queen is only the beginning. But the greater danger that we fear will not spare anyone.’
2
In the Chevreuse valley, evening fell across the vast domain of Dampierre and Leprat watched from the bank of the great pond as the sunset lent its colours to the waters. Turning his back to the castle he enjoyed a moment of peace, filling his lungs with fresh air.
As they had agreed, he and Mirebeau had followed the marquis de Chateauneuf as part of his escort. It was composed of over thirty gentlemen of noble birth, each of whom attempted to outdo the others in elegance. Their presence was meant to enhance the prestige of monsieur de Chateauneuf as much as to ensure his safety. A great lord never travelled in public on his own and his status was measured by the number and rank of those accompanying him. Charles de l’Aubespine, marquis de Chateauneuf and Keeper of the Seals of the kingdom of France, could hardly ignore convention on this occasion.
The only road from Paris to Dampierre passed through the villages of Vanves, Velizy and Saclay. It was a journey often leagues, which the marquis wanted to make on horseback, without resting and despite the burning sun, leaving his coach and baggage trailing behind. He was obviously impatient to reach their destination. But he also wished to make a grand entrance at the castle, where madame de Chevreuse was already waiting. So they halted at the gates to the domain for long enough to shake the dust from their clothing, refresh themselves and brush down their mounts. It was a matter of putting on a proud display. For Leprat, it allowed him to observe that Chateauneuf, despite being in his fifties and having considerable experience when it came to women, seemed as eager and anxious as an adolescent before his first gallant rendezvous. The duchesse had indeed made him lose his head.
They had arrived in the afternoon to find Dampierre swarming with busy servants and craftsmen. The paths were raked clear, the gardens were tidied, the trees were pruned and the canals were dredged. But at the heart of all this laborious agitation was the castle itself, where preparations for the forthcoming festivities would continue well into the night. The king, the queen and the entire royal court would be arriving on the morrow, the day of the ball itself. Everything had to be ready to receive them.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
Leprat turned his head towards Mirebeau who had come out to join him and then looked again at the sunset reflecting off the calm, shining waters.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very beautiful.’
‘This domain is one of the most splendid places I know. Whatever the season, it’s a veritable feast for the eyes . . .’
He broke off as a deep, mournful trumpeting almost deafened the two men.
‘And for the ears!’ exclaimed Leprat before they both burst out laughing.
They turned around to watch as a tarasque crossed the terrace separating them from the castle, plodding along at a slow and steady pace. The enormous, shelled reptile was pulling a train of three wagons piled with the pruned trunks of trees that had been cut down to embellish a prospect in the park. Two tarasque drivers were guiding the beast, using both their voices and their pikes. It moved forward with a rattle of the heavy chains linking its six legs to the collar encircling its neck.
Still smiling, Leprat and Mirebeau returned to admiring the view of pond, without either feeling any need to speak. Since he had discovered that Mirebeau was actually in the service of the marquis de Chateauneuf, Leprat had felt himself drawn even closer to the gentleman in the beige doublet. Now there seemed to be really little difference between them, other than the fact that they served their respective masters with equal loyalty. Life might easily have reversed their roles or allowed Mirebeau to become a member of the Cardinal’s Blades. It was perhaps simply a matter of circumstances.
Leprat’s gaze was drawn to an island at the far end of the pond, an island upon which he was able to make out some ruins and the silhouettes of men apparently keeping watch over them.
“What is that?‘ he asked, pointing his finger.
‘It’s the island of Dampierre. An island which isn’t truly an island, since it’s connected to the bank by a causeway that you can’t see from here. The duc is having some pavilions built there.’
The ruins were in fact buildings being constructed.
‘According to legend,’ Mirebeau went on to say, ‘in the time of Charlemagne there was a lord living in a black tower upon the island. He performed vile rituals there and terrorised the entire region, to the point that some valiant knights came to challenge him. Unfortunately for them, the lord was not only a wicked sorcerer, but also a dragon . . . There is, in the castle here at Dampierre, a tapestry representing the heroic combat between these knights and the monster.’
‘Did they defeat the dragon?’
‘Don’t knights always triumph in tales?’
‘And the tower? It looks like there is nothing left of it.’
‘It was razed to the ground and its stones, reputed to be cursed, were thrown into the pond so that they could never be used again.’
‘Legends have an answer for everything.’
‘It seems that these cursed stones also gave rise to the name “Dampierre”, although I know nothing of Latin . . .’
As for the musketee
r, he possessed only a smattering of church Latin. He pursed his lips and the two men fell silent again.
‘Enough lazing about,’ Mirebeau suddenly declared. ‘Come with me, we need to go to the Chateau de Mauvieres and make sure that everything is ready there to receive monsieur de Chateauneufs entourage.’
‘We’re not sleeping at Dampierre?’
‘In the castle?’ the gentleman asked with amusement. ‘Tonight, that might be possible. But tomorrow there will be marquises in the servants’ quarters, comtesses in the attic and barons sleeping on straw mattresses. Where do you think they would put us? No, trust me, we shall be better off at Mauvieres. And it’s close by.’
Leprat regretfully dragged his eyes from the pond and its island. He was following Mirebeau, who had set off at a brisk pace, when he heard the sound of a few notes being played on a jew’s harp.
He halted, turned round and saw Rauvin in the shadows.
Mirebeau had told Leprat that the hired swordsman had escaped, but he’d not seen him since the night when Rochefort had laid his trap for them. How long had the other man been standing there, spying on them? And why had he decided to reveal his presence, if not to make Leprat understand that he was still keeping an eye on him?
As he continued plucking notes on his harp, staring directly at the musketeer, Rauvin gave a slow nod of the head.
The barony of Chevreuse had been made a duchy in 1555, as a favour to Cardinal Charles de Lorraine who had just acquired it as his holding. The seigneurial seat at the time was the Chateau de la Madeleine, an austere mediaeval fortress built on a height overlooking Paris and whose only real advantage was its unequalled view of the surrounding countryside. Its lack of comfort displeased the cardinal, who preferred a more elegant manor nestling in the Yvette valley barely a league away from Chevreuse. It had belonged to a royal treasurer who was obliging enough to die quickly, leaving behind him some debts and a widow who posed no objections to selling off the entire domain.
This domain was Dampierre, whose name was perhaps derived from either domus Petri — Peter’s dwelling in Latin -or from damnce petrce, meaning cursed stones. Its manor became the new ducal residence. The cardinal transformed it into a castle that was later inherited by the youngest son of the duc de Guise, who also came from Lorraine, along with the land and title in 1612. This due de Chevreuse did not add any great distinction to the name, as opposed to the woman he wed ten years later. The famed and indomitable duchesse loved Dampierre. She stayed there often and, at her urging, her husband enlarged and embellished the property further.
However, if the domain was vast and prosperous in 1633, its castle, despite acquiring a luxurious steam bath and some other interior improvements, still compared poorly with the magnificence of the Hotel de Chevreuse in Paris. Its roofs were covered with tiles rather than more handsome slate, while the four sides formed by its sandstone towers and pavilions enclosed a rather small courtyard, entered by means of a drawbridge leading from a forecourt lined with the castle’s outbuildings.
But the main attractions of Dampierre lay elsewhere.
They included the magnificent forests in the surrounding area; the orchards and splendid flower beds arranged in the Renaissance fashion; the beautiful water-filled moats that encircled the castle and its garden; the canals feeding these moats, lined with leafy walks and bordering the main flower bed; and, lastly, the pond where one could take pleasant boat trips out to the island where the new pavilions were being built.
Pavilions which were being guarded for no reason that Leprat could see.
Mirebeau had not lied. The modest Chateau de Mauvieres — sometimes also called Bergerac — was located just beyond the outer wall surrounding the domain of Dampierre. It belonged to a minor nobleman, Abel de Cyrano, whose son Savinien was already beginning to make a name for himself in Paris, both as a man of letters and with his sword.
Leprat waited until nightfall before slipping out of his bedchamber, which was fortunately close by the stables. He saddled a horse, and led it out of the manor before mounting and urging it forward with a dig of his heels. The summer nights were short and he had to be back before dawn.
Who would post a guard over some unfinished pavilions on an island?
Once inside the domain at Dampierre, Leprat stayed away from the paths. He entered the woods, tethered the horse to a tree and continued onward by foot. Remaining concealed, he soon found a place where he enjoyed a clear view of the island in the middle of the large pond. As he had expected, he saw men with lanterns guarding the causeway that gave access to the building site from the shore furthest away from the castle.
It would be impossible for him to cross over that way.
Leprat stripped down to his breeches and shirt, and swung his baldric round so that his rapier hung down his back. Then he took careful note of the place where he left his belongings, slid into the cold water and began swimming towards the island and its mysteries.
He had no idea who these men were or what they were doing here. During supper, Mirebeau had also confessed his ignorance, but said they did not belong to the marquis de Chateauneuf. Did they serve madame de Chevreuse, then? Perhaps. Or else some third party.
Leprat swam steadily to conserve his strength and to splash as little as possible. He drew close to the island, regained his footing once more and hurriedly climbed the bank. Then he took up position on a height where, hidden by some thickets, he was able to catch his breath while observing what was going on.
He saw more armed mercenaries guarding the building site itself, which was lit here and there by torches planted in the ground. Five pavilions had started to emerge from the scaffolding and piles of building materials. They surrounded a roof made of wooden planks. Leprat was unable to see what lay concealed beneath it, but there were mounds of earth nearby.
Had the construction project made an unexpected discovery? Or was the building work only a pretext intended to mask other activities? Whatever the case, Leprat intended to get to the bottom of the matter.
He studied the movements of the hired swordsmen before creeping forward. Quickly and silently he entered the site, liptoed among the shadows and managed to slip beneath the wooden roof without being spotted. It sheltered a pit into which he could descend via a ramp and several ladders. The excavation of this pit had exposed the ancient foundations of a large circular building which immediately called to mind the black tower of the legend. The same black tower whose cursed stones might have inspired the name Dampierre.
The musketeer leapt into the pit and landed nimbly upon a Moor of bare flagstones. There was a gap where some steps descended into the ground. They led to a very old door made of black wood which appeared to have been blocked up long ago and only recently unsealed. Its relatively well-preserved state was, upon reflection, rather astonishing. As was the ease with which it opened to reveal a spiral staircase lit by candles in a succession of niches. Leprat made his way downward with caution, counting seventy-one stone steps which took him to a level beneath the bottom of the pond. After opening another black door, he found himself in a fairly vast but empty chamber, whose vaulted ceiling was supported by rows of round columns. Here, again, a few candles shone in the darkness. The air felt damp and water dripped from the ceiling into age-old puddles.
More and more intrigued, Leprat continued his exploration. There were several doors — low and again black — on either side of the chamber. But the central aisle between the columns, illuminated by the candles set at regular intervals, seemed to indicate a path leading to an archway at the rear over which a last, solitary candle burned.
Rut as he stretched out a hand to draw open the purple curtain concealing the archway, he sensed a sudden movement behind him. He spun round, but only had time to see a scaly tail snaking away into the darkness. A syle. Bad news. Sometimes growing as big as cats, the carnivorous salamanders were both extremely swift and voracious. They became frenzied at the scent of blood and, when gathered in numbers, they were c
apable of attacking a wounded man and devouring him alive. And where there was one, there were usually others . . .
Pulling himself together, the musketeer lilted the curtain.
*
Having left the castle in the middle of the night, seven riders trotted forth upon the causeway joining the island to the shore of the pond. At their head was Savelda, the Black Claw’s most effective servant when it came to carrying out foul deeds. Behind him rode the Alchemist, the false master of magic using the name of Mauduit and true mastermind of a plot intended to change the destiny of France forever. The third rider was in fact a very beautiful woman: the duchesse de Chevreuse, dressed as a horseman and thrilled at taking part in this nocturnal expedition. The four others were hired swordsmen who, like those guarding the island, had been recruited by Savelda to replace the mercenaries killed in Alsace by the troops serving the Sisters of Saint Georges.
The riders reached the building site and dismounted.
Only Savelda, the Alchemist and the duchesse, however, passed beneath the roof protecting the pit and disappeared down the spiral staircase. Wearing the silver-studded leather patch over his left eye, the Spaniard led the way again with a confident air. His two companions wished to make sure that everything was ready for the ceremony the following evening. He already knew this to be the case. In preparation for the last-minute inspection, Savelda had even ordered candles to be lit underground. The same candles that were at this very moment aiding Leprat’s exploration.
Leprat was a musketeer.
He did not know much about draconic magic, but enough to recognise all the signs indicating a spell chamber. The drapes embroidered with esoteric patterns. The tall black candles waiting to be lit. The small table for ritual items. The lectern to support the heavy grimoire as the incantatory formula were pronounced. The altar, a large platform carved from a single block. And lastly, the pentacle engraved on the black stone floor and embossed with scarlet and golden glyphs.