Behind every symbol is the reality it represents: the laws, the taxes, the administration of state. And, as the people loved the King, so there was one man they loathed above all others – Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal-Duke de Richelieu – also known as Chief Minister, the red eminence or the scarlet pest depending on the source. A man of formidable intellect, he had risen from the provincial bishopric of Luçon to the most powerful position in France. Always careful to act in the King’s name, he kept to the shadows, leaving ample room for speculation, which his contemporaries were happy to fill. Rumours of murder and embezzlement were rife: that he had slaughtered his way to the top or that the entire Conseil d’État was in his pay; even that he had tried to seduce the Queen. Nevertheless, a few facts were known. His value to the King was beyond question, and he had served his master for a dozen years without interruption. Also there was Richelieu’s network of spies and informants, rumoured to stretch into every cranny of France and beyond. Above all, as Louis wanted to be famed for his mercy, so Richelieu seemed intent on being remembered for his lack of it. Every opponent was either dead or arrested, every revolt crushed and every rebel put to death, without exception, to the point where Louis had been forced to exile his own mother when she tried to have the cardinal removed.
Despite his reputation, Richelieu made no attempt to counter it and seemed utterly indifferent to the ceremonies of court. In his first year, Sebastian only saw him four times. All were state functions, where he would sit in silence beside the King, dressed in his scarlet soutane. Sebastian would have recognised him even without his cardinal’s robes. His face had a distinctive sharpness, with thin eyes, pointed beard and skeletal features which sat oddly beside those of his more pampered peers. He rarely talked and instead sat in quiet judgement, scrutinising, evaluating and re-evaluating, hunting for glints of truth in the murk.
As Louis was the child so Richelieu was the father. Louis liked to spite, all insolence and petty rebellion, referring to the cardinal as ‘His Obstinacy’ and mocking his prudence and propriety. Richelieu, meanwhile, responded as the long-suffering parent, smiling it off or correcting with gentle admonishment. The relationship was peculiar – inverted, yet understandable all the same. Louis had not only lost his father at a young age, but also a father regarded as one of the great kings of France, a ruler whose fame had only grown in death. Used to such a dominant figure, he naturally wanted to replace him, and few men were more dominant than the Cardinal-Duke de Richelieu.
Finally, there was the Queen, Anne. Born the Infanta of Spain, she was barely fourteen when she had been married to Louis in an attempt to bind the two countries together. Their marriage had proved a failure in more ways than one. The rumours were many and varied, and it was obvious, even to Sebastian, that they had nothing in common. He only ever saw her from a distance – a pale-skinned figure always surrounded by her attendants, sometimes playing paille-maille, sometimes horse-riding or being transported round the palace within a cloud of damask, satin and taffeta, but always laughing in that refined, almost musical way unique to ladies of court. In short, a woman who was unlikely to be attracted to someone whose main interests were hunting and building forts.
Though there was no heir, there were reports of numerous miscarriages, including one notorious occasion when she lost a child falling off the banister while playing with her friends. It was said the King had never forgiven her. However, it was also said that the miscarriages were a masquerade and no physical relationship existed at all. People would support the argument with a list of favourites – Marie de Chevreuse, the Duc de Luynes, Barradat, Saint-Simon, de Hautefort, de la Fayette – all of whom Anne ignored with regal indifference, either from decorum or simply because she had no choice. And it seemed to Sebastian that for all her titles and finery, she was a lonely figure, and that the dances and the games and the ladies-in-waiting were not there for pleasure but instead for escape.
* * *
In spite of all his power, Louis spent an inordinate amount of time following rules – enduring grandiloquent introductions every time he met someone new, having to watch people shuffle backwards as they left his presence, or eating alone in silent splendour while everybody else stood, waiting for him to finish before they could begin. Understandably, he escaped Paris whenever possible, usually to Fontainebleau, where he would idle away the days riding and hunting in the forest. Often he journeyed further, touring his realm. ‘A king’s purpose is his people. To not be among them is to not be a king,’ was a favoured phrase. Consequently, Sebastian spent much of his time travelling, and during his first year he managed to see Blois, Tours, Saumur, Angers and Nantes. Occasionally, when watching the pageantry – the guards’ gleaming finery, the King waving to the crowds – Sebastian was reminded of his own performances at court and wondered if the King was no different, simply another actor putting on a show.
* * *
Over time, Sebastian came to find the court a place much like any other. His surroundings lost their fascination and he would wander the lonely corridors, aware of the empty mirrors and the distant hiss of his life passing by like so many grains of sand. It was the same purposelessness he’d felt during his days in Camoches – a life alone, adrift from humanity. He could disappear unnoticed; his existence changed nothing and mattered to nobody. He had no friends or confidants. Although he was on cordial terms with most of the servants, he had nothing in common with them. And when he spoke with the courtiers or the chamberlains, the most he could hope for was an amiable indifference, feigned interest along with a distant smile, acknowledging his presence with a humiliating noblesse oblige. He repaid them with silent contempt, watching them preen in embroidered splendour while he saw the view from below: the hairs sprouting in their nostrils, the slope of their paunches, the folds in their chins as they looked down at him.
Sebastian spent most of his time in his room. Now furnished with all the comforts of home, it had become his refuge from the world. A narrow window offered an inspiring view over Paris, its roofs a patchwork of fields in green lead and slate, the treetops reduced to bushes and the spires like firs. In the centre of this landscape rose the two stubby towers of Notre Dame, reduced to the status of parochial church amidst the weaving trails and low, country walls.
Below the window, Sebastian’s messy desk and inkwell were angled to catch what little light there was. The rest of the room was plain. Its most elaborate feature was the escutcheon on the door, a whirl of leaves and tendrils. Aside from the desk, the only other furniture was a bed and wardrobe, both adult-sized (he refused to make any concessions for his stature) and a stool to stand on when necessary. Otherwise there were mementoes, mostly piles of books and pamphlets. Working for the King paid well, and he saved to buy works of a more heretical bent than Père Jean had ever permitted. Calvin proved particularly inspiring and he came to loathe the artifice and pomp of Catholicism, longing for a return to the simpler traditions of Christianity. Often he would read the great plays including Corneille’s Mélite and L’Illusion Comique. Other favourites included the Decameron, Boethius and his copy of Gargantua and Pantagruel, now rebound for the third time. His copy of Montaigne he reserved for bleaker times, when he would comfort himself with the essays ‘Of Solitude’ and ‘To Learn How to Die’. As a rule, he regarded books as a considerable improvement on human company. The words were more considered, the argument more structured, and when they weren’t . . . well he could always turn the page.
Otherwise Sebastian would busy himself with long walks around the gardens or writing letters for Père Jean to read to his mother. He enjoyed reciting the various goings-on at the palace, consoling himself that however lowly his position at court, how illustrious his life must seem to her. He would always end his missives with a brief invitation, imploring her to visit, while secretly hoping she wouldn’t, squirming as he imagined the horrified expression of the chamberlain when he found some provincial standing at the gate.
The remaining hours he o
ccupied by writing a play – a brutal depiction of an inverted society which rewarded only the feckless, idle and dissolute. It wasn’t much to begin with, but with each passing night he improved it, painstakingly reducing each draft to a collection of beautifully crafted scraps before starting again.
* * *
Sebastian had spent the evening in a local tavern. It didn’t matter which one. They were all the same in winter, dark and packed with people huddled together for warmth, trying to drink their way through to spring. After renting a cheap room upstairs, he was now lying beside a prostitute in the aftermath of crumpled linen. It had been a frustrating day. He had been asked to perform in front of the ambassadors’ wives in the Jardin des Tuileries. They seemed to regard him as some kind of child and made him join various games of hoodman’s blind and hot cockles, during which they clucked over him, swaddling him in their mille-feuille skirts and petticoats. By the end, Sebastian was fit to burst and promptly made his way to a brothel – a favourite haunt from his days on the street. Surrounded by poverty and squalor, it was unpromising from the outside, standing just a few doors down from the Hôtel Dieu. Yet, despite abutting a plague-house, it remained well supplied by the desperation nearby.
Sebastian always had a weakness for his fellow Normans and had settled on a lady from Caen called Michelle. She was a recent arrival – naive, young, and fresh, one might even say chaste – and gave him the pleasant sense that he might remain in her thoughts for at least a moment after he walked out of the door. However, midway through reminiscing about an uncle who had once introduced himself by striding in and vomiting in the fireplace, Sebastian was interrupted by a voice from downstairs. It seemed to be shouting what sounded like ‘Michelle’. Jolting upright, he listened again. Yes, it was definitely her name. He made his way to the door, inching it open to see an overdressed, red-faced fop beating the counter downstairs and giving the landlord a piece of his mind . . . or, to be more accurate, his spleen.
‘I don’t care if she’s busy. Bring her now. You know who I am.’
Sebastian knew exactly who he was – the Marquis de Cinq-Mars. While Sebastian had some respect for the great names of state, the petty aristocrats he could see for the chancers that they were – no different to the beggars he’d known on the street. Nothing but flounce and bluster, flocking to court in hope of whatever scraps came their way. Cinq-Mars was a particularly repellent specimen, acutely conscious of his undistinguished birth, for which he compensated by being louder, vainer and even more boorish than his contemporaries. In truth, the only reason he was still tolerated at court was because his parents had died and Richelieu was his guardian.
It wasn’t the first time Sebastian had seen the marquis out whoring, though normally his kind kept to the establishments nearer the Louvre. Evidently, Richelieu’s pocket money wasn’t enough to cover a courtesan’s rates.
Despite the landlord’s best efforts to pacify the marquis, he was having none of it, demanding that Michelle be brought to him immediately and that he would be willing to pay double, even triple whatever rates the local scum could afford. It was only when the landlord explained she was currently with a gentleman and aimed a pointed glance upstairs that Cinq-Mars noticed Sebastian. As both men locked eyes, Sebastian sensed trouble and ducked behind the wall in the hope of remaining unnoticed. However, as he gathered his clothes, he could hear the marquis’ footsteps approaching up the stairs, and barely had enough time to make himself decent before Cinq-Mars was stood in front of him.
Henri Coiffier de Ruzé, the Marquis de Cinq-Mars, was dressed exquisitely, in a discreet ruff with a short-waisted brown doublet, gold-embroidered with interlacing roses and thorns. Silk-lined knickerbockers ended in a pair of spotless white boots. Standing in the doorway, he checked himself a moment, taken aback by Sebastian’s size. This was followed by a second jolt as he recognised his face from court.
‘What are you doing here?’ He seemed more amused than outraged.
‘I could ask the same of you.’
‘Don’t be insolent with me.’
‘I’m not the one barging in . . . besides, unless you haven’t noticed, I’m a little busy at present.’
The marquis shook his head and stepped into the room, bewildered to be encountering resistance. ‘Is this some kind of joke, dwarf?’
‘I don’t see why. I’ve paid for my hour. My money’s as good as yours.’
Shrugging, the marquis tossed a few coins on the floor. ‘Then take your money and go.’
Sebastian was no hero by nature but something made him stand his ground – partly some misguided sense of chivalry, the perverse desire to protect Michelle from this odious sot, but more his sheer dislike for the marquis. The man stood for everything he found contemptible: that expectancy in the curl of his mouth, the effete, loose-strung body, all lace and swagger.
‘I’m not interested in your money. Now, my lord, would you kindly leave?’ He added a sarcastic little bow and citrus smile.
‘It wasn’t a request.’ The marquis strode forward and glared down at Sebastian, though even anger couldn’t entirely remove the smirk from his lips. ‘What would you know about satisfying a woman anyway, half-man?’
Sebastian met his eyes with a look of pure rat, his voice dropping to a goading whisper. ‘Once she’s had us both, maybe she can let you know . . . or are you worried she might choose me?’ It wasn’t his most elegant rejoinder but was perfectly aimed at youthful pride.
Dumbfounded by the dwarf’s cheek, Cinq-Mars paused a moment before lunging downwards and slamming Sebastian against the wall, then hauling him backwards by the collar onto the landing outside.
‘Throw him out and don’t go lightly on the little bastard. He’s got a mouth on him.’
Then Sebastian took his beating. He didn’t have a choice. Three of the marquis’ friends were waiting and there was no way out except down the stairs. He still fought as best he could, lashing out in all directions and managing to catch at least two of them in the face while they were pinning down his arms and legs. But once they dragged him onto the street and set at him, there was nothing to be done except curl tight and swallow the pain.
* * *
It could have been worse. For all its drawbacks, Sebastian’s stubby frame had a resilience, carapaced with ribs and knobbled bone, and he always seemed to be left with bruises rather than breaks. Even so, it was four days before he could get out of bed, at which point, after emptying the chamber pot, he hobbled to his desk, grabbed a sheet of paper and unleashed himself.
• I never met a nobleman who was noble Or a gentleman who was gentle. Only the arrogant, the foolish The greedy and temperamental.
• You think yourselves men but you are nothing but guts. Mindless and spineless – only stomachs to gorge and arseholes to speak with.
• Some say greatness is born from spirit, others say the mind. But true greatness requires a title, wig and manners most refined.
• Nobility = No ability
It wasn’t long before he’d filled three pages. Insulting Cinq-Mars and his kind was hardly difficult. After which he went downstairs for his meal and thought no more of the matter. It wasn’t until later in the day that the possibility of revenge crossed his mind. Returning to his desk, he glanced over his outpourings and smiled. A few of them were surprisingly incisive, though not quite personal enough for what he had in mind.
* * *
Sebastian didn’t usually enjoy his performances. He was never entirely at ease when standing in front of the King, and buffoonery could be exhausting work. Today, however, he left the stage oozing satisfaction as he made his way to the changing room. Naturally, Jerome was curious about his good-humour, but Sebastian politely refused all questions until Cinq-Mars made himself known, yanking open the door and ordering Claude and Jerome out of the room.
‘Leave.’ He was furious, to the point of trembling. And when he spoke, his words were framed by bared teeth. ‘I want this one alone.’
Wor
dless, Jerome and Claude snatched their clothes and exited at once. Sebastian, however, continued to undress, fiddling with a button shirt and paying the marquis no attention at all.
‘You just stood up in front of the entire court and said my family crest was a chicken.’ Cinq-Mars was wide-eyed with disbelief.
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ Sebastian repeated the word – either from malevolence or to make sure he was understood.
The marquis reached for the sword at his waist. ‘That’s it. I’ll kill you, peasant.’
The threat met with a scowl of contempt. ‘You’ll do no such thing.’
Cinq-Mars checked himself, his fingers still resting on the half-drawn blade. ‘How are you going to stop me, you brazen little bastard?’
‘Marquis . . . when I insulted you, did you hear anyone laugh?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I referred to your family crest, did anyone laugh? Or react in any way whatsoever?’
‘But you were looking right at me.’
‘You think anyone noticed? I’m a dwarf. I fall on my arse and wave my feet in the air. Nobody cares what I do, let alone who I look at. The only two people who know of this are you and I. Your precious honour remains intact. You’ve nothing to fear. And frankly, having been beaten to pulp by your friends, I think you’ve had rather the better side of the deal.’
‘I swear, insult me again and I’ll . . .’
‘You’ll what? Kill me? This isn’t some brothel out near the wall. This is the King’s court, in case you hadn’t noticed, and I am one of his servants. We dwarves are a rare commodity, you know, expensive to replace.’ This was partly true, partly bluster. Not that Sebastian was afraid. He’d talked his way off the ends of swords before, and more dangerous ones than that of the marquis. Besides, he was good at reading people and Cinq-Mars was not a hard man to decipher – arrogant and terrified of anything that might sully his reputation. ‘I wonder what they’ll call you . . . Giant-killer, I expect – something like that. It might suit you . . .’
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