Alchemist in the Shadows

by Pierre Pevel

  But above all, there was an atmosphere of evil haunting this place. Whatever danger threatened the king, whatever the nature of the plot concocted by the Alchemist, it had something to do with this chamber which now only awaited the arrival of a sorcerer and, perhaps, a victim.

  ‘Damn it!’ Leprat muttered.

  He started to feel ill.

  He was suddenly very hot. His vision blurred. Dizzy, he felt his legs start to give way under him. He did not understand what was happening to him; indeed he had trouble keeping any wits at all. Then the disease eating away at his back awoke. It was as if the patch of ranse had come alive and was biting ever more deeply into his flesh. Leprat grimaced, fighting back moans of pain. In a feverish delirium of confused thoughts, he sensed that he had to leave this cursed chamber. He needed to get back to the surface and away from this place that was increasing tenfold the virulence of the ranse. He clung to this idea, concentrating on its urgency. He tottered back through the curtain. The pain lessened, but the dizziness remained. Gasping, his brow bathed in sweat, he staggered from column to column, moving in the direction of the staircase and the exit. He could barely see the way. His ears were filled with a buzzing sound and he failed to hear the party descending the steps. Sapped of his strength, he continued to stumble towards the door, which Savelda was going to open at any instant . . .

  . . . when he felt a pair of arms seize hold of him and haul him away.

  A gloved hand blocked his mouth.

  ‘It’s me,’ a familiar voice murmured in his ear.

  Saint-Lucq.

  Dressed entirely in black, the half-blood with the red spectacles dragged Leprat into a dark corner just before Savelda entered. The Black Claw’s agent preceded madame de Chev-reuse and her master of magic. He held a lit lantern in his left hand, as the candles burning in the hall of columns did little more than point the way to the spell chamber.

  I lallway to the purple curtain, Savelda slowed and then came to a complete halt. His two companions imitated him, looking puzzled. He turned around with the expression of a man who senses he has overlooked something. The leather patch concealing his eye failed to mask the stain of the ranse that spread, star-like, towards his brow, his temple and his cheekbone. His fist closed about the pommel of his rapier.

  ‘What is it?’ asked madame de Chevreuse.

  ‘I thought ... I thought I heard ... I don’t know. Something.’

  The gaze of the one-eyed man passed over Leprat and Saint-Lucq without seeing either of them. Saint-Lucq kept hold of the musketeer and had not taken his hand away from the other man’s mouth. With a considerable effort, Leprat managed to control the shaking of his legs which risked betraying their presence.

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said the duchesse. ‘Did you, Mauduit?’

  ‘I heard nothing either, madame.’

  ‘It must have been a syle,’ Savelda conceded.

  ‘Good Lord! There are salamanders down here?’

  ‘This place is safe, madame,’ said the Spaniard as he reluctantly moved on. ‘My men have made sure of that. But down in the lower levels . . .’

  The two men and the woman soon disappeared behind the curtain.

  ‘You’ll see,’ they heard madame de Chevreuse promising, ‘everything has been scrupulously arranged according to your instructions.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Saint-Lucq.

  With the half-blood assisting Leprat, they returned to the open air by way of the spiral staircase, climbed out of the pit, slipped past Savelda’s men and found refuge in one of the pavilions under construction. Sitting with his back against a large block of stone, the musketeer took his time to recover, drawing in deep breaths while Saint-Lucq kept watch over their surroundings.

  ‘Have they come back up?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘The duchesse was there, wasn’t she? But who were the other two? I could barely see.’

  ‘One of them was Mauduit, the duchesse’s master of magic. The other one was Savelda, a Spaniard working for the Black Claw. I almost had a chance to fight him when we prevented the vicomtesse de Malicorne from summoning the soul of an Ancestral Dragon.’

  ‘I missed all of that. I was in a gaol cell in the Grand Chatelet that night.’

  ‘That’s true . . . But what was wrong with you just now? It looked like you were overcome by a fever or by too much drink . . .’

  Without mentioning the ranse, which he wished to keep secret, Leprat spoke of the spell chamber and the effect that he suspected it had on him.

  ‘I almost fell right into the arms of our enemies. If it hadn’t been for you . . .’ And when Saint-Lucq did not respond to this, the musketeer prompted him, ‘What were you doing down there?’

  ‘At the cardinal’s request, I have been watching Dampierre for several days now. I was intrigued by the pavilions that they were building here. And you?’

  ‘I entered La Chevreuse’s service by passing myself off as an agent of the queen mother. And, like you, I was curious about what this building site might be hiding.’

  The half-blood nodded.

  Leprat crouched and as his wits returned to him along with his strength, he noticed that Saint-Lucq was gloved, booted and impeccably dressed, as usual.

  ‘You didn’t get here by swimming.’

  ‘No. I came underground. There is a passage that leads to the old cellars here. No doubt it was once used by the residents of the tower in times of siege. The entrance lies beneath a very big oak tree in the forest, not far from a stone cross that stands where two paths meet. I discovered it when following Savel-da’s men. Several of them came back wounded and I wanted to know why. As it happens, the tunnel is swarming with enormous syles.’

  The Alchemist, Savelda and the duchesse returned to the surface. Leprat and Saint-Lucq watched them depart, along with most of their hired swordsmen. The torches were extinguished. Only a handful of sentries remained.

  ‘I better go back myself before someone notices my absence,’ said Leprat.

  ‘Well, I’m going back down. I need to see this spell chamber with my own eyes.’

  ‘We must also inform La Fargue of our discoveries.’

  ‘I’ll take care of that. I will be in Paris tomorrow.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Have you fully recovered?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t worry about me.’

  The half-blood was about to leave when Leprat called him back:

  ‘You saved my life, Saint-Lucq. Thank you.’

  The other Blade gazed back at him from behind his red spectacles. He did not react, no doubt seeking a suitable response, to no avail.

  And so he left.

  In his turn, the musketeer slipped out of the unfinished pavilion. He tried to ignore the burning pain in his back, forcing himself to focus on the approaching day instead. He had lied to Saint-Lucq. He knew what was happening to him, although it cost him to admit it, even to himself.

  The causeway was no longer guarded. Leprat crossed it quickly, then found his clothing and his horse in the forest. He did not spare his mount and arrived at the Chateau de Mauvieres just as the night sky was beginning to grow pale, but before the cock’s first crow. He left his horse in the stable and hurried back to his bedchamber.

  But someone was watching him.

  A new day dawned in Paris and, by mid-morning, the air had already grown unpleasantly warm. From all its streets, all its courtyards, all its gutters and all its ditches, the city’s stink rose stronger than ever beneath the relentless sun. The sun’s rays, however, did not reach sieur Pierre Teyssier’s study. Behind closed shutters, I lis Eminence’s master of magic had fallen asleep at his work table after a hard night of labour, his head resting on his forearms, snoring loudly and drooling slightly.

  He awoke suddenly to what sounded very much like an altercation in the stairway outside, complete with cries and the sound of blows being exchanged. He sat up, with bleary eyes and tousled h
air, to gaze with astonishment and then alarm at the individual who had just burst into the room. He was a squat, solidly-built man with white hair and a ruddy face. One could tell he was an old soldier from ten leagues off. He shoved his way past the valet who had been trying to deny him entry.

  The tall, gangly young magic master rose and looked for a weapon to defend himself. He found nothing, but consoled himself with the thought that he would in any case not have known how to use it.

  ‘Monsieur?’ he asked, mustering a degree of dignity.

  ‘Please forgive this intrusion, monsieur. But the matter is an important one.’

  The valet, seeing that a conversation had been engaged, awaited the outcome.

  ‘No doubt. However, I don’t believe I know you.’

  ‘I am Ballardieu, monsieur. I am in the service of Captain La Fargue.’

  ‘In whose service?’

  The question surprised Ballardieu. He hesitated, casting a wary glance at the valet before stepping forward, leaning over, clearing his throat and whispering:

  ‘The company of the Cardinal’s Blades, monsieur.’

  Realisation finally dawned upon Teyssier.

  ‘La Fargue! Yes, of course . . .’ he sighed with both relief and satisfaction which were readily shared by the old soldier . . .

  . . . but which still failed to clarify the situation.

  With uncertain smiles on their lips, the two men gazed at one another in silence, each of them expecting the other to speak. The valet also waited with a smile.

  Until at last Teyssier enquired:

  ‘Well? Fa Fargue?’

  The question woke Ballardieu from his daze. He blinked his eyes and announced:

  ‘The captain wishes to meet you.’

  ‘Today ?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Although he tended to be taken aback by unforeseen events, Teyssier was young man of good will.

  ‘Very well . . . Uhh ... In that case ... In that case, tell him that I shall receive him at a time of his convenience.’

  ‘No, monsieur. You need to come with me. The captain is waiting for you.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t go out much.’

  ‘Can you ride a horse?’

  ‘Not very well.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’

  An hour later, at the Hotel de l’Epervier, Teyssier was still trying to convince himself that he had not actually been abducted. Feeling unsteady, he was finishing an ink drawing of the pentacle which Saint-Lucq had reported seeing at Dampierre and had described to him from memory. He found himself in the large fencing room, lit by the sunlight pouring through the three tall windows that looked out on the garden with its weeds, old table and chestnut tree.

  Carefully avoiding the scarlet gaze of the half-blood and his disturbing spectacles, Teyssier concentrated on his sketch, which he corrected and completed in the light of his own knowledge. He could not prevent himself, however, from glancing at La Fargue who was slowly pacing up and down the room, or looking over at Marciac who was sipping a glass of wine and daydreaming as he rocked back and forth on a creaking chair. Laincourt remained outside his field of vision, but Teyssier could sense the man behind him, watching over his shoulder as the drawing took shape. Silent and expressionless as ever, Almades guarded the door. As for Ballardieu, he had left the magic master in the front hall.

  In fact, as soon as Teyssier had arrived at Hotel de l’Eper-vier he had immediately been taken in hand by La Fargue, who explained what was required of him: a drawing of a pentacle based on a verbal description.

  ‘Do you think this is possible, monsieur?’

  ‘Yes. On condition that—’

  ‘Because Laincourt, who knows something about magic, claims that the purpose of a pentacle can be divined from its appearance. Is that true?’

  ‘Certainly, but—’

  ‘Perfect! Then let’s get to work, monsieur.’

  Time was indeed running short. The pentacle in question had probably been traced in preparation for a ritual that would take place that very night, during the ball being given by the duchesse de Chevreuse. And the Blades suspected this ritual of being a means, if not the ultimate end, of the plot against the king.

  Teyssier, on the other hand, was growing more and more doubtful that this was the case . . .

  ‘There was a symbol resembling the letter N, here,’ Saint-Lucq was saying. ‘And over here, something that looked rather like the number 7 . . . And that’s about all.’

  The young master of magic had recognised the two draconic glyphs recalled by the half-blood. He copied them onto the paper.

  ‘Nothing else?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He made a few revisions to his sketch and then turned the sheet of paper around and pushed it across the table towards Saint-Lucq.

  ‘So it looked like this?’

  The half-blood studied the drawing carefully and then nodded.

  ‘As far as I can recollect, yes.’

  La Fargue ceased his pacing. Marciac stopped rocking in his chair. As for Laincourt, he straightened up with a puzzled look and said:

  ‘There must be some mistake . . .’

  ‘The drawing is just like the pentacle I remember,’ asserted Saint-Lucq crossing his arms.

  ‘What?’ asked the old captain. ‘Why would it be a mistake?’

  Teyssier hesitated.

  He exchanged a glance with Laincourt that confirmed the doubts and fears of both men. But still he kept silent. It was therefore the cardinal’s former spy who announced:

  ‘This pentacle is beneficial, captain. It can’t harm anyone. Neither the king, nor anyone else.’

  The king and his court arrived at Dampierre during the afternoon.

  Louis XIII and the gentlemen of his suite rode at the head of the procession with‘ panache, followed just behind by a detachment of musketeers. Pulled by a team of six magnificent horses, the king’s golden coach followed. Then came that of the queen, and finally those of the great lords and courtiers, in order of their rank and favour. More riders in small groups brought up the rear; others trotted alongside the carriages so that they could converse with the passengers; while the most impetuous urged their mounts to prance and twirl in an effort to please the ladies who watched and laughed, bright-eyed, from behind their delicate fans.

  Leaving the baggage train far behind, the parade of coaches was a splendid, joyful sight to behold, sparkling in the sun despite the dust that rose in its passage. It attracted crowds of spectators who gathered at the entrances of villages and along the roads. As it approached Dampierre, heralds spurred their horses forward to announce the coming of the king. While protocol required this, it was an unnecessary precaution. Runners had already cut across the fields to deliver breathless warnings at the castle, alarming those who had not yet finished erecting a platform, painting a fence or raking a lawn. ‘The king! The king!’ From the kitchens to the attic, and all the way out into the gardens, there was a great flurry of activity, with a final nail being hammered down just before the trumpets sounded.

  Everything was ready, however, by the time His Majesty passed through the gates of Dampierre.

  Leprat took advantage of this distraction to slip away from Rauvin, who had been breathing down his neck all morning. Although the mercenary was not following him openly, he was always somewhere in the background, no matter where Leprat went or what he did. The musketeer therefore had no choice but to carry out the tasks assigned to him by Mirebeau, who had become strangely distant. This coldness left Leprat perplexed, but he was not inclined to dwell on the matter. After all, Mirebeau must have worries of his own. For his part, Leprat had enough to think about between his mission, the danger posed by Rauvin, the underground spell chamber and the possible plot against the king. And when he wasn’t preoccupied by all that, his ranse — which he knew had taken a sudden turn for the worse — continued to haunt him.


  But the king’s arrival gave Leprat an opportunity to take a horse and discreetly get away on his own. There were things he needed to do in the woods and, in any case, he was better off avoiding Dampierre now that the castle was swarming with blue capes. Louis XIII never went anywhere without his regiment of musketeers, all of whom knew Leprat by sight and were thus liable to unmask him.

  He rode for a quarter of an hour through the underbrush before coming across a path.

  What was it Saint-Lucq had told him? Beneath a very big oak tree in the forest, not far from a stone cross that stands where two paths meet.

  If Leprat wanted to explore the underground tunnels below the ruins of the black tower that once stood in the middle of the Dampierre pond, first he needed to find the entrance to them.

  The afternoon was ending when Arnaud de Laincourt crossed the Petit Font and, with long strides, passed beneath the dark archway of the Petit Chatelet.

  I lis surmises upon seeing the pentacle described by Saint-Lucq had been confirmed by Teyssier, the cardinal’s master of magic, who explained that there existed several different kinds of pentacles and, despite possible errors, omissions and guesswork, the one he had drawn was intended for a beneficial ritual. Certain features of its general design left no room for doubt in the matter.

  ‘I can affirm to you,’ he had said, ‘that the person who drew this pentacle did not wish to harm anyone. In fact, in my view, quite the opposite.’

  But Teyssier had been unable to say which particular type of ceremony the Dampierre pentacle was intended for. Protection, healing, benediction, rejuvenation? The sketch was too imprecise. He would have to compare it with all the others he had recorded in his grimoires and then, after careful cross-referencing, he might be able to reach a conclusion. Hearing that, La Fargue had permitted the magic master to return to his home, accompanied by Ballardieu who would remain with him until the pentacle had been positively identified.

  Laincourt followed the old and very narrow rue de la Bucherie, towards Place Maubert.

  Saint-Lucq had not lingered after Teyssier’s departure, saying simply, ‘I’ll see you this evening in Dampierre, no doubt.’ La Fargue, Marciac and the cardinal’s former spy had continued the discussion in the fencing room at the Hotel de l’Epervier, while Almades contented himself with listening in. They had traded various hypotheses back and forth, trying to integrate the pentacle into a possible plot by the Alchemist and the duchesse de Chevreuse against the king. None of these speculations led anywhere. They didn’t have enough facts and in the end were left with nothing but reasons to worry. Chief among them was the presence of Savelda, the Black Claw’s most trusted henchman. The threat was therefore real.