Alchemist in the Shadows

by Pierre Pevel

  ‘No!’

  Leprat felt that he could persuade — and save — this gentle-man.

  ‘Leave,’ he said. ‘This very night. Take a horse and go without further delay. Don’t let the king’s justice catch up with you. And before long you’ll be forgotten . . .’

  Mirebeau reflected for a moment. The arm holding the pistol was no longer quite as steady as before when the point of a blade suddenly punched through his chest. He stiffened and gazed down with eyes widened in shock at the length of bloody steel which then vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. He hiccupped, coughed up blood and gave Leprat a last incredulous look before falling to his knees, then face down against the hard marble floor.

  Rapier in his fist, Rauvin stepped over the dead body and advanced, followed by five hired swordsmen.

  ‘I do believe he would have accepted your offer,’ he said, ‘but I grew tired of waiting . . .’

  Having opened the ball with the queen and paid her a much remarked-upon compliment, the king retired to his apartments. He had announced his intention to make the most of the game-filled forests of the Chevreuse valley, and go hunting early the following morning. He had promised, however, to watch the fireworks display that would be the high point of the evening from his window. The gentlemen who were his closest attendants, including the comte de Treville, had followed him. And since the castle could not be taken by assault, the musketeers now reduced their watch over the area outside to mount an extremely vigilant guard at the doors, along the corridors and in the antechambers.

  Arnaud de Laincourt discreetly stole a mask that he saw lying on a bench, put it on and began to mingle with the courtiers who chattered, drank and nibbled as they watched the dancers — two by two - execute a graceful choreography to the sound of the music played by the orchestra. Everyone had disguised the upper portion of their face behind a mask. But if those worn by the men were relatively sober, those of the women — matching their dresses — boasted a profusion of gold and silver brocade, plumes and ribbons, pearls and jewels. Wearing their finest attire, the royal court provided a superb spectacle that evening, beneath the gilt of Dampierre. In their display of elegant luxury and playful insouciance, the courtiers seemed completely unaware of the danger threatening them.

  Laincourt tried to find Agnes.

  He caught sight of her near the dais reserved for Their Majesties. Now only the queen occupied her armchair. It was impossible to approach her. She was surrounded by madame de Chevreuse and by her ladies-in-waiting, who were seated according to their rank on chairs, stools or cushions. They gossiped and laughed behind their fans, the youngest and least dignified among them pointing out the gentlemen they liked best. Among the dancers, the marquis de Chateauneuf in particular attracted much commentary, although most of it was not in praise. Watching out of the corner of his eye to see if the duchesse de Chevreuse was glancing in his direction, he exerted himself with each movement to adopt the most advantageous poses. But his age of over fifty rendered all these efforts somewhat ridiculous.

  Spotting Laincourt, Agnes joined him by a window overlooking the moat and the great Renaissance flower beds among which couples strolled in search of a quiet corner.

  ‘Did La Fargue let you know?’ asked the young man.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s now more important than ever that you remain with the queen.’

  ‘I know.’

  It was a trap.

  The fertility ritual which the queen was supposed to undergo was nothing but a trap intended to lure her away, with her own consent, from the guards who watched over her. The Chatelaines’ Superior General had been right: there was a plot threatening the queen. A plot in which madame de Chevreuse was a participant, acting in the belief that she was serving Anne d’Autriche’s interests. A plot hatched by the Black Claw and the Alchemist, who had usurped the place of the duch-esse’s master of magic. A plot, lastly, whose object was to abduct the queen.

  But after that?

  ‘It will happen tonight,’ said Laincourt. ‘And it cannot be done without the complicity of others. That of the duchesse, certainly. But also that of most of the ladies in her entourage, whom the queen has probably won over to her cause . . . Since you are not a part of the plan, they will try to divert you at the crucial moment. Keep your eye out. And be careful.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Marciac was looking for you a short while ago and could not find you.’

  The baronne de Vaudreuil reflected for short instant.

  ‘Yes. It must have been when I went to fetch the queen’s jewel box. Her pearl necklace broke just after the king retired to his quarters.’

  ‘And the queen? Where was she?’

  ‘She was waiting in the antechamber for me to return so that we could change her finery.’

  Laincourt nodded distractedly as his gaze slowly swept over the queen and her entourage.

  Then he frowned.

  ‘I don’t see Aude de Saint-Avoid,’ he said.

  Agnes turned toward the group formed by the maidens-of-honour and their governess, at the foot of the royal dais.

  ‘You’re right,’ she replied.

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘No.’

  The cardinal’s former spy became worried. If Agnes — because she was a newcomer to the queen’s suite — could be diverted when it came time to execute the plot, Aude was a different matter.

  Like everyone else, the queen was wearing a mask.

  Without meaning to, Laincourt caught her eye . . .

  . . . and suddenly recognised — now looking alarmed as she realised she had been found out - the face of Aude de Saint-Avoid.

  ‘They’ve already abducted the queen!’ he shouted as he left Agnes standing there.

  Unlike Mirebeau, Rauvin had not ventured alone into the underground chambers. He was accompanied by five mercenaries whom he immediately ordered to attack Leprat.

  That’s one, counted the musketeer as he ran his sword through the first man to come within reach.

  He freed his blade, dodged an attack, parried another and forced his opponents to retreat with a few furious moulinets.

  He then returned to the en garde position and waited with his back to the well which, beneath the dome, marked the centre of the circular room. The four mercenaries supposed that he was allowing them the initiative in making the next assault. They started to deploy in an arc. If the man before them was foolish enough to let them organise themselves, they would take advantage of the fact . . .

  But in fact he wanted them to spread out in a row.

  And to gain confidence.

  So that they would lower their guard slightly.

  Leprat suddenly attacked with a great shout. He deflected one mercenary’s sword, stunned another with a blow of his fist to the chin, spun around as he raised his blade to shoulder height and carried through his motion by slitting the throat of the freebooter who was about to strike him from behind.

  That’s two.

  The man staggered backwards, choking, his right hand trying desperately to staunch the wound from which blood was flowing freely, while his left hand flailed in the air, seeking a shoulder, a support, help of any kind. He finally fell backwards and lay still.

  Leprat gave himself space to face a renewed attack. It was led by two mercenaries who knew how to fight a lone opponent without hindering one another. Taking a step back, and then another, the musketeer had to defend himself against two men and two sets of skills. Against two blades which he finally managed, with a single slash of his own weapon, to force away from his own body and downwards to the ground. His move unbalanced both his adversaries and made one of them particularly vulnerable. Leprat delivered a blow with his fist that caused the man to stumble forward, right into the waiting knee that lifted his chin sharply and broke his neck with a sinister crack.

  Three down.

  Only two mercenaries remained.

  Parrying a high sword stro
ke from one man, Leprat pushed the other back with a violent kick to the stomach. Then he surprised the first by elbowing him in his Adam’s apple and finished him off by head-butting him right in the (ace. His nose and mouth covered in blood, the man crumpled to the black marble floor.

  Four.

  The last mercenary was already charging him from behind.

  Leprat spun and riposted in a single movement of lethal fluidity. He was still only halfway round and bending his knees when he blocked a vicious cut. Then he rose, letting the other man’s blade slide down his own until it reached the hilt. Finally, he completed his turn by plunging a dagger he had snatched from the belt of his previous opponent into the mercenary’s belly. The unfortunate wretch froze, dropping his blade and fumbling at the dagger’s hilt. He collapsed after managing a few erratic steps.

  And that mattes five.

  Out of breath, his brow shining with sweat and his eyes blazing, Leprat turned towards Rauvin and once again placed himself en garde.

  ‘My congratulations,’ said the hired killer as he drew his sword. ‘Now it’s just the two of us.’

  He slashed at the air with his blade and the duel commenced.

  At Dampierre, three silhouettes were crossing the duchesse de Chevreuse’s private garden. Closed to guests on a false pretext, this little park adjoining the castle was now standing empty except for shadows. The trio, all wearing dark cloaks, were obviously in a hurry. They turned back several times towards the windows as if they feared being seen and hid themselves whenever the moon peeped out from between the clouds.

  The one who claimed to be Mauduit, master of magic, was leading them.

  ‘This way, madame.’

  Anne d’Autriche followed him, unaware that she was placing her fate in the hands of the Black Claw’s most formidable agent. She was accompanied by a chambermaid who, when the moment came, she believed, would help her to disrobe and put on the ritual garment before the ceremony that would at last let her become a mother. The young servant girl was trembling and casting frightened looks all around, but was ready to do anything in the service of her queen. Both of them were wearing black velvet masks beneath their large hoods.

  At the rear of the garden, they came to a gate set in the wall.

  ‘Be brave, madame,’ murmured the Alchemist. ‘The hardest part is over. Once we reach the cover of the trees, we can no longer be seen from the castle.’

  He opened the gate with a key the duchesse de Chevreuse had given him and then held his hand out to the queen to assist her passage over a small wooden bridge, a sort of covered walkway that allowed strollers to cross the moat and enter the orchard.

  There were armed men waiting on the other side, beneath the trees, some of them carrying dark lanterns.

  ‘Who are these men?’ asked the queen in a worried voice, but stopping herself from retreating.

  ‘Your escort, madame. Don’t be afraid.’

  Anxious but still resolved to see the matter through, Anne d’Autriche nodded. She drew closer to her servant, however, and took her hand while the Alchemist exchanged a few words in a low voice with a one-eyed man whose face was visibly marked by the ranse. With an olive complexion and craggy features, the man was wearing a black leather patch adorned by silver studs over his missing eye. It was Savelda, although the queen remained ignorant of his name. Just as she was unaware that he was the henchman most valued by the masters of the Black Claw.

  He finally nodded in agreement and the false magic master returned to the two women.

  ‘All is well, madame,’ he affirmed. ‘However, we must hurry because it will soon be midnight. The coach that will take us to the place of the ceremony is waiting at the gate to this orchard.’

  But Savelda, who was about to take the lead, suddenly froze, with the absent gaze and slightly tilted head of someone listening very intently.

  What is it now?‘ asked the Alchemist in an irritated tone.

  Without turning round, the Black Claw’s envoy lifted an imperious index finger: he demanded silence. Alter which, he called out softly to the three men he had left as sentries in the orchard.

  There was no answer.

  Savelda snapped his fingers and two of the hired swordsmen accompanying him approached.

  ‘Go and have a look,’ he said with a strong Spanish accent that drew the queen’s attention.

  The two men unsheathed their swords and ventured out cautiously. One of them held a lantern in his left hand and a pistol in his right.

  They had not taken ten steps when they came across a dead body, while an individual emerged from the shadows beneath the fruit trees. The proud, elegant assurance of the stranger worried them only slightly less than the faint smile they detected on his lips. He was dressed entirely in black, except for the slender feather decorating his hat: it was scarlet, as were the round spectacles hiding his eyes. His left hand rested nonchalantly on the pommel of his rapier in its scabbard.

  The two hired swordsmen placed themselves en garde. The one with the pistol aimed it at Saint-Lucq but as he continued to advance they slowly retreated until they had rejoined Savelda and the others.

  The half-blood halted and brandished a pistol of his own in his right hand. In response, three more pistols pointed at him and blades were unsheathed. The queen and her chambermaid jumped, stifling startled cries. Saint-Lucq did not even blink.

  ‘You will go nowhere with the queen,’ he said in an even tone.

  ‘Do you intend to stop us on your own?’ asked Savelda with a sneer.

  ‘I’ve already started to.’

  ‘Give it up. The numbers are in our favour.’

  Saint-Lucq conspicuously pointed his pistol at the one-eyed man’s brow.

  ‘If I fire, or you do, the place will be swarming with musketeers. Is that really what you want?’

  ‘Monsieur, tell me what is going on?’ the queen asked the Alchemist. ‘Who is this man and why is he trying . . .’

  She trailed off, shocked at finding herself ignored by the master of magic, who instead stepped forward among the swordsmen to address the half-blood:

  ‘Then why don’t you shoot? Are you afraid of wounding Her Majesty?’

  ‘My pistol ball will not miss its target.’

  ‘To be sure, but after that? You are familiar with the hazards of battle, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am also familiar with them,’ said a voice that no one had expected to hear.

  Flanked by Marciac and Laincourt to his left and right, La Fargue had entered the orchard. They had arrived from the garden, their blades already pointed in the direction of their enemies.

  ‘And I tell you that if you harm the queen in any way,’ the captain of the Blades added, ‘your death will owe nothing to the hazards of battle . . .’

  Defended by steep moats, the Chateau de Dampierre had only two exits: its guarded drawbridge and the small gate at the rear of the deserted garden. Thus the Blades had no difficulty in guessing which way Anne d’Autriche had been taken. Leaving Almades behind to gain access to the king’s apartments and alert Treville as quickly as possible, La Fargue had decided to go in pursuit of the queen without delay.

  And in pursuit of the Alchemist of the Shadows.

  The Alchemist now turned to the old gentleman. He recognised him and gave a twisted smile.

  ‘La Fargue? Is that you?’

  ‘It’s me, Alchemist. Or whatever your real name is.’

  ‘We meet at last! We almost met at La Rochelle, but . . . Ah! We both know what happened there, don’t we?’

  Savelda and his swordsmen had clustered round the Alchemist and the two women. Calm and resolute, they placed themselves on guard against attack from either direction. Rapiers in their hands, some of them also had pistols aimed at Saint-Lucq, on one side, or at La Fargue, Laincourt and

  Marciac, on the other. They waited for an order, conscious of the fact that the first pistol to he fired would raise an alarm. The music coming from the castle would not be loud e
nough to cover the sound of shots. It merely drifted hauntingly through the otherwise silent orchard.

  Anne d’Autriche and her chambermaid were clinging to one another in fright.

  ‘This man has abused your trust, madame,’ said the captain of the Blades. ‘He is in the service of the Black Claw and is conspiring to bring about Your Majesty’s ruin.’

  The queen turned her worried but furious eyes to the Alchemist.

  ‘What do you have to say, monsieur? Will you deny it?’

  He shrugged. “

  ‘What good would it do?’ he replied before coughing, short of breath, into his handkerchief. ‘It would seem the play is over, is it not?’

  La Fargue frowned.

  There were four Blades. Savelda and his men numbered ten in all and they were in possession of a most precious hostage. Taking that into consideration, the Alchemist’s defeatism was troubling, to say the least.

  It proved unbearable to Savelda.

  ‘Enough!’ he spat.

  The queen’s attendant screamed and promptly fainted when the one-eyed man seized her by the wrist and roughly threw her aside. Before anyone else could react, the Spaniard was clutching Anne d’Autriche against his body, threatening to slit her throat with a dagger.

  The same exclamation escaped from the lips of both La Fargue and the Alchemist.

  ‘No!’

  ‘I won’t hesitate!’ Savelda promised.

  ‘You fool!’ the Alchemist swore at him.

  ‘I won’t surrender!’

  ‘Don’t you understand? We just need to wait!’

  ‘Wait for what?’

  In the castle, the musicians ceased playing.

  The silence became immense.

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ murmured Marciac as realisation dawned on him.

  There was a whistling noise . . .

  . . . and the first rocket exploded in the night sky.

  The Spaniard’s men immediately fired their pistols. The detonations cracked and balls whizzed past the ears of the Blades as they charged forwards. One of them struck Lain-court in the shoulder, halting him in his tracks. A chaotic battle broke out beneath the boughs of the trees in the orchard.

  In the underground chambers of the black tower, under the dome of the room paved with golden-veined black marble, Leprat was engaged in a duel to the death with Rauvin.