The Dragon Arcana: The Cardinal's Blades: Book Three

by Pierre Pevel

  ‘Well … yes.’

  Mortaigne thanked Tranchelard, who left.

  ‘You see?’ he said. ‘There’s no mystery. A young man falls for a pretty whore and carries her off, convinced that their love will overcome all obstacles. It will last until the twit discovers how much he misses his paternal allowance …’

  The two men exchanged a long glance without blinking and Marciac recognised the gleam of a challenge in Mortaigne’s eye. The master of the Cour-aux-Chiens seemed to be saying to him: ‘You’ve heard what I have to say. Now, either call me a liar or accept my word.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you very soon,’ Marciac promised as he left.

  Mère de Vaussambre received Agnès in the large cloister of the Enclos du Temple. She waited for the baronne alone, seated on a stone bench. She did not get up, but she did close her breviary when the young woman joined her.

  ‘Welcome, Marie-Agnès.’

  ‘Mother superior.’

  ‘Will you sit with me for a moment?’

  Agnès sat down, ill at ease, as the Chatelaines’ leader was quick to perceive.

  ‘Calm yourself, my dear. You’re in no danger here.’

  ‘Not even in danger of being thrown into a cell in your tower keep? I seem to recall having had that experience recently …’

  ‘You secretly infiltrated our sacred abbey on Mont-Saint-Michel,’ retorted Mère de Vaussambre in a tone of gentle reproach. ‘And rather than lay down your weapons when the alarm was raised, you had no hesitation in crossing swords with the Black Guards … Did you really believe that would go unpunished?’

  Agnès was at loss for a reply.

  ‘But let us forget all that, Marie-Agnès. Stop seeing me as an enemy and accept the peace offer I am making.’

  ‘What’s happened, mother superior? Why this change of heart?’

  ‘I have never been hostile towards you, and neither have the Sisters of Saint Georges. Quite the reverse.’

  ‘Then why do I have the feeling that you dislike me? You have never accepted the fact that I renounced taking my vows, mother superior.’

  The Superior General of the Chatelaines was silent for a moment, and then suggested:

  ‘Let’s walk a little.’

  They slowly paced along the lanes of the cloister.

  ‘Your mark has awoken, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it has.’

  ‘Don’t you see that as a sign?’

  ‘I won’t take the veil, mother superior.’

  ‘And how about your nights?’

  Agnès refused to answer.

  ‘All of the White Wolves bear the dragon’s rune,’ continued Mère de Vaussambre. ‘But yours is different.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  As if weary, the Superior General sighed.

  ‘The Good Lord has singled you out, Marie-Agnès. And with each passing day, I pray you will come to understand that before it is too late. A terrible ordeal awaits you, and it is only the first, the one that will reveal if you are worthy of this destiny you so obstinately turn your back on. The destiny that you will be forbidden to fail …’

  Agnès halted, forcing the Superior General to do likewise and turn round.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘It is the Good Lord’s will, Marie-Agnès.’

  ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘This dragon haunting your sleep, you will have to confront it soon. Do you think you will manage that on your own?’

  The young woman was shaken by what she saw in Mère de Vaussambre’s gaze.

  She turned away.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she said.

  ‘No, it’s not … But this dragon is a primordial. A primitive and savage creature, extremely brutal, which certain parties have succeeded in turning into a formidable weapon. If no one opposes it, it will destroy Paris and plunge the kingdom into a storm that will devastate it. There will be misery, famine, and war.’

  ‘Who knows about this?’

  ‘The Chatelaines.’

  ‘And no one else?’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Why keep it a secret?’

  ‘Because it hides another secret. One even the king does not know; one on which the fate of the entire world hangs.’

  The young baronne waited.

  In vain.

  ‘No, Marie-Agnès,’ the Superior General said to her with a resigned smile. ‘I cannot confide that secret to you now … But before you leave, grant me the boon of a favour.’

  ‘Which is?’ asked Agnès in a defensive tone.

  ‘Speak with our new mother superior of the White Wolves. She will know how to persuade you and I think you will be glad to learn that she has recovered from her ordeal.’

  Then, looking in the direction indicated by Mère de Vaussambre, Agnès recognised Sœur – or rather – Mère Béatrice d’Aussaint, who waited, smiling, with her sword at her side.

  The last time they had seen one another, the Chatelaine had lain delirious on a narrow bed in the abbey at Mont-Saint-Michel.

  That evening, Marciac went to rue Grenouillère. Making a cautious approach, he discreetly observed the surroundings. Not so long ago, men in the pay of Rochefort had been keeping watch over The Little Frogs. The Gascon had put one of them out of action, but he did not know whether his message has been received. The only sure result of his initiative had been to greatly displease Gabrielle, who knew how matters stood and – quite understandably – preferred he left Cardinal Richelieu’s henchmen, as abject as some of them were, alone. Hence their most recent dispute, and their most recent separation.

  Marciac did not see anyone or anything out of the ordinary, except that shutters had been recently added to the brothel’s windows. He did not try knocking on the door. He went around to the back and climbed over the wall into the garden, where he found Gabrielle sitting at a small table in the shade, busy with her correspondence.

  ‘You do know we have a door,’ she said, glancing up at the Gascon. Unmoved by his appearance, she did not pause in her writing. ‘We even have a porter to open it for you.’

  ‘And how is he, dear old Thibault?’

  ‘You can ask him when you leave. By way of the door.’

  Marciac sat down on a low wall and removed his hat, fluffing his blond hair which was tangled and shiny with sweat.

  ‘I went to see Mortaigne,’ he announced.

  Gabrielle put her quill down and straightened her shoulders.

  ‘And?’

  ‘That evening, it was a certain Tranchelard who was “keeping an eye on things”, as Mortaigne put it. You know him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought perhaps you might have heard of him. Tranchelard enjoys a degree of renown, along with some of the other unscrupulous brutes of his type. But the last I heard, he was still part of the court of miracles in rue Saint-Sauveur. I didn’t know he’d left the Grand Coësre’s service. And I’m wondering why.’

  ‘Passing from the King of the Beggars’ service to that of the master of the Cour-aux-Chiens does not seem like a promotion to me …’

  ‘Well put.’

  ‘Do you think that Tranchelard might be involved in Manon’s disappearance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Mortaigne?’

  ‘It’s possible. I can’t say for certain.’

  Marciac put his felt hat back on and adjusted it to the proper angle.

  ‘Do you believe Manon … Do you think she’s still alive?’ asked Gabrielle suddenly, with a vibrant emotion in her voice.

  Her distress, which she allowed herself to reveal for the first time, moved Marciac deeply. He went to crouch beside her, took her hands tenderly, and looked up, seeking her gaze.

  ‘The truth,’ he said, ‘the truth is that I don’t know. Not for certain.’

  ‘It will soon be three days and three nights, Nicolas …’

  ‘Even so, we can’t …’

  On the verge of tears, but in a voice ringing with anger, s
he interrupted:

  ‘If you only knew how much I blame myself!’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Gabrielle.’

  ‘But why did I decide to rely on Mortaigne?’

  ‘It wasn’t such a bad decision. And you couldn’t know Mortaigne would delegate the duty to Tranchelard.’

  Gabrielle rose and drew away from Marciac.

  ‘You’re trying to excuse me,’ she accused, turning her back on him.

  He stood up. Embarrassed, not knowing what to say, he scratched the stubble on his cheeks and neck.

  Finally, after a moment of silence, Gabrielle turned and, regaining control of herself, said:

  ‘We can expect no help at all from Mortaigne, if I’ve understood you correctly.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘So, what do you intend to do?’

  ‘It’s time you told me who hosted this party, Gabrielle.’

  ‘Go to the usual rendezvous point tomorrow. Valombre will tell you what to do,’ the white dragon in the mirror had said.

  Saint-Lucq was hiding in a porch on rue Saint-Guillaume when La Fargue came out of the Hôtel de l’Épervier, just before midnight, alone. Invisible and silent, the half-blood watched him walk away and waited until he turned into the rue des Saints-Pères before following him.

  The captain walked quickly to the Seine, where he turned right on the Malaquais quay. That could only mean one thing: he intended to enter Paris via the Nesle gate. All of the capital’s gates being closed at this hour, La Fargue would have to use his permanent pass signed by Cardinal Richelieu. Like all the Blades, Saint-Lucq carried a similar document. But he couldn’t pass through the Nesle gate at the same time as La Fargue, nor could he afford to wait for the guards to re-open the gate for him …

  Saint-Lucq pondered the situation for a moment, made his decision and then did not hesitate.

  Retracing his steps back up rue des Saints-Pères, he quickly turned away from the river, went past the Saint-Germain-des-Prés abbey and finally presented himself at the Buci gate. His pass worked its magic, allowing the half-blood swift access to rue Dauphine. Breathing hard, for a moment Saint-Lucq thought he had lost La Fargue. But he stayed calm and spotted his captain just as La Fargue ventured out onto Pont Neuf.

  The stalking resumed, more delicate than ever, as La Fargue was careful to watch for anyone tailing him and the deserted Pont Neuf offered a clear view behind. Saint-Lucq could count on the darkness as an ally, however. And his dragon eyes could see far. He gave La Fargue a long lead, wondering whether the captain would continue across the Seine or turn into Place Dauphine. But in the event, he did neither. After a last glance around him, he disappeared behind the Bronze Wyvern’s pedestal, at the tip of the Ile de la Cité.

  So here was La Fargue’s rendezvous point with this Valombre the white dragon had spoken of. A ‘regular’ rendezvous, which made the half-blood wonder when these meetings had started. Who had started them. And why. He could not bring himself to admit that his captain was a traitor … but he was determined to get to the bottom of all this.

  Midnight tolled.

  Ten minutes passed without anyone turning up. Either Valombre was late or he had arrived at the meeting point first. He and La Fargue must be in the midst of their discussion. Nevertheless, Saint-Lucq rejected the idea of approaching the statue to eavesdrop on them. Too risky. So he waited.

  At last, La Fargue reappeared and, in a great hurry, travelled back the way he had come. No doubt he was returning to the Hôtel de l’Épervier. The half-blood tracked him with his eyes but did not move. Almost immediately, another gentleman wearing a felt hat and a black coat emerged from behind the Bronze Wyvern.

  Surely this was Valombre.

  And he was a quarry worth following.

  La Fargue made haste to rejoin the other Blades. Valombre had told him where La Donna was probably being held prisoner, without being able to give definite assurances of this or guarantee she would remain there for long. So they needed to act tonight, and address any doubts or questions afterwards.

  At the Hôtel de l’Épervier, the captain ordered André to saddle the horses and summoned the others to the bottom of the main stairway. Agnès and Ballardieu arrived, and then Laincourt and Marciac almost immediately after.

  ‘So?’ asked the young baronne. ‘How do matters stand?’

  La Fargue had refused, of course, to let anyone accompany him to his rendezvous. He had, however, announced before leaving that he might return with news concerning La Donna.

  ‘We know where she is,’ he said now. ‘She’s being held in an old tower, a place called “Bois-Noir”.’

  ‘I know it,’ indicated Marciac. ‘It’s on the Seine, not far upstream from Paris.’

  ‘Is the information reliable?’ enquired Laincourt.

  ‘As reliable as we can hope to get.’

  ‘And where does it come from?’

  La Fargue had no idea how the Guardians had discovered where La Donna was being kept. To crown it all, he could not even tell the others who had given him this piece of intelligence.

  ‘From one of the cardinal’s agents,’ he lied.

  But Agnès had other concerns:

  ‘Is Alessandra still held captive by the dracs who abducted her?’

  ‘Yes, definitely.’

  There was a moment’s silence, broken by Marciac after he had done the sums:

  ‘There were about thirty of them before they attacked us, and they left ten bodies on the ground. That leaves twenty dracs, well armed and well trained. Even without counting the dragon who commanded them, that’s a lot to take on.’

  ‘There are only five of us,’ Ballardieu pointed out.

  ‘Saint-Lucq isn’t here?’ asked La Fargue in surprise.

  ‘No, captain.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘No idea,’ Marciac confessed.

  The Blade’s captain cursed. But there was no time for that, either.

  ‘We can’t wait to see if he shows up. Make your preparations. I want to be on the move in less than an hour.’

  The others hesitated for a brief instant and then nodded; whatever their reservations none of them would question their captain or his authority. Only Agnès spoke up with a suggestion:

  ‘At the very least, allow me to fetch Leprat, captain. We’ll need his sword.’

  ‘All right. But don’t take too long.’

  ‘And I’m going to need my bag of tricks,’ muttered Ballardieu.

  Laincourt heard him and frowned, but understood a short while later when he saw the old soldier return with a heavy pouch full of fused grenades slung over his shoulder on a bandolier. Agnès had already mounted the first horse that André had finished saddling and called out:

  ‘Meet us at La Tournelle gate.’

  Then she dug her spurs in and left the courtyard at a gallop.

  La Fargue watched her leave, still thinking about Saint-Lucq. Worried about their mission, he already sensed that the half-blood’s lethal efficiency was going to be sorely missed.

  After his rendezvous with La Fargue, Valombre did not leave the Ile de la Cité. He crossed the Pont Neuf, then took the Grand-Cours-d’Eau quay. His path took him alongside the dark, high walls of the Palais de Justice until he reached rue de la Barillerie, which stretched from the Pont au Change bridge to the north to Pont Saint-Michel to the south. Beyond this street lay a twisted maze of medieval streets and alleys, which Valombre entered at a brisk pace, forcing Saint-Lucq to reduce the distance separating them or risk losing sight of his quarry. The half-blood was resolved to discover exactly where the captain’s secret contact was going. But his anxiety increased the closer Valombre came to the so-called Cloister neighbourhood of Notre-Dame.

  The Cloister occupied the eastern end of Ile de la Cité, in the shadow of Notre-Dame cathedral. A legacy of the Middle Ages, it consisted of three streets and about forty small houses owned and occupied – in principle – by the cathedral’s canons. A wall surroun
ded it and the area inside was only accessible through three gates. Lacking any taverns or shops, this tiny neighbourhood was much envied for its tranquillity and some of the canons had realised the profits they could make if they allowed their dwellings to be let. This practice had become firmly established and, under Louis XIII, the Cloister had more secular than religious residents.

  Was this Valombre’s destination?

  For Saint-Lucq, the question was answered when he saw the man present himself at the gate in rue de Colombe. One minute later, the man passed through the wall into the Cloister where visitors were rare and intruders were immediately suspect.

  The half-blood winced in frustration.

  Should he take the risk of following the mysterious gentleman inside the Cloister? He realised this was his only opportunity to find out what La Fargue was hiding, and duly located a spot where he could climb the enclosure unseen. He landed in a garden, went over a first low dividing wall between properties, then a second, and spotted Valombre just before the man disappeared at the end of rue Chanoinesse. Saint-Lucq ran silently alongside the houses’ façades but arrived at the street corner too late: the place was deserted.

  Breathless but still focused on the hunt, the half-blood searched the darkness with his dragon eyes, pricked up his ears, and searched for any glow in the windows around him.

  Not a trace.

  He cursed – and failed to see the blow that knocked him out cold.

  Of the stronghold of Bois-Noir, nothing remained but an old stone bridge, a circular wall still in fairly good shape, some ruins that had been reduced almost to ground level, and a partially collapsed keep whose bevelled silhouette was outlined against a paling sky only an hour before dawn. These isolated, long-abandoned remains stood on top of a steep hill overlooking the Seine. They could be reached by road or via a footpath. Narrow and treacherous, this footpath wound towards the riverbank in a series of switchbacks, ending at a floating landing stage where a boat was moored, with dracs already busy on board. The road climbed the far slope in a large loop leading to the old bridge, which crossed a ditch filled with brush. Down below, where the road began, a temporary enclosure had been erected to hold twenty horses grazing next to a stream. Some dracs were also camped there, but the majority of the band were within the ruins, where La Donna was almost certainly being held.