Astonished by Louis’ words, Richelieu opened his mouth, about to spit back a riposte and only managing to check himself at the last moment. Even when he did eventually speak, his voice remained uncharacteristically taut.
‘You must not leave Paris, Your Majesty. Without you, the country is lost. Send one of your generals – La Fayette or Soissons. We can’t afford such a risk.’
‘No.’ Louis waved him aside. ‘You want me to sit by and do nothing? Rulers are remembered for the battles they win, not the taxes they raise. I will do as my position demands.’
‘Your Majesty . . .’
‘Are you questioning me, Armand?’
‘Of course not.’ The cardinal restricted his exasperation to a tight smile. ‘In three days, you will have an army. During your absence, I will stay in the city and ensure order is maintained.’
‘Without troops that muh-muh-may be difficult.’
‘I won’t need troops,’ Richelieu replied.
This time it was the King’s turn to look surprised.
* * *
Before leaving the Palais-Cardinal, Richelieu completed his morning rituals. First, he applied his unguents and scents, next came the woollen stockings and vest, then his shirt and knickerbockers, followed by the soutane and crucifix. Last of all he waxed his beard and neatened its point. Each action was executed methodically: the oils massaged into the skin, the clothing pressed flat, the crucifix perfectly centred on his chest. Finally, after examining himself in the mirror, he made a few last adjustments and called for his horse to be brought to the courtyard.
As the cardinal rode to the gate, his guards tried to follow but were immediately dismissed. They didn’t question him. In his regalia, he made a formidable sight, straight-backed as a statue, the red of his soutane against the white of his charger. Keeping the horse under tight rein, he advanced from the palace towards the Rue Saint-Honoré, then past the familiar sights: the duke of Vendôme’s house on the corner of la Rue des Petit Champs, the unfinished arch in front of the Corps des Guardes. But they seemed different now. The streets were empty, cold and desolate. Virgin snow spread untrammelled along the avenues. It didn’t feel like a city threatened by war – more as if the war was already over, the population dead and the buildings left to nature.
It was only when the cardinal neared the market that the first passers-by appeared. Their reactions were invariably the same. They would stop walking and stare at him, unable to believe that the most hated man in all of France was riding alone and unarmed through the middle of Paris. He smiled at a few of them, and all smiled back, but fearfully, suspecting a trick. It seemed odd to him that they should be so afraid. They had never met – to them he was no more than a name.
Once the cardinal reached Les Halles, the streets trickled back to life: merchants off to trade their wares, people returning home with their provisions, carriages and horsemen trotting the cobbles, relays of street-hawkers echoing from the walls. Signs in wood and metal overhung the street: the pen of the quill-merchant, the horseshoe of the farrier, the bloody rag and white post. Even so, the people’s response was no different. The cardinal’s arrival was like the coming of winter, all life and activity slowing then stopping as he rode by the frozen scene. And each time his eyes would flick from person to person, always holding an instant, just long enough to fix the memory in their minds.
The market square was as busy as ever, the deserting hordes trying to hawk the last of their chattels they could before fleeing south. Despite the throng, Richelieu made steady progress as people rushed out of his way, soon reaching the heart of the bustle where he reined his horse to a stop, dismounted and made his way up some nearby steps. Halting halfway up, he turned to face the crowd. There was no need to capture their attention. They were already watching him, silenced, an amorphous field of drab leather and staring eyes. He waited a few moments, maintaining his serenity in front of the mass, making clear he was not afraid.
‘Yes, I am Richelieu, Chief Minister and scourge of France. I know what you think of me. That I’m the man who’s taxed you, who has spies in every corner of the land, who drips poison in the ear of the King.’
He paused a moment, both to collect himself and allow the crowd to absorb what he had said.
‘But today, my countrymen, I am not a minister of state, or even a cardinal. I am a citizen of France. Just like you. Like you, I will lose everything if Paris falls. Like you, I pray for the King’s victory at Corbie.’
A further pause.
‘I will not lie to you. These are difficult times for us all. The future is not certain. However, we can be sure of one thing. We can be sure of today. Because today we are free. Our homes are safe. Thirty thousand men stand between us and our enemies. Today we are victorious. It is us who hold the field. And though we fear the worst, remember too that there may be better times ahead. We may look back at this not as a bitter moment in our past but as a great one, when we were put to the test and we were not found wanting. So I tell you this. Whatever tomorrow may bring, today let us rejoice. Because today we are free. Today we are victorious and we still have hope. Long live the King.’
The crowd was silent as the cardinal finished his speech, his voice resonating in the still air. Long moments passed before there was any reaction. However, when it came, it was like the collapsing of a dam, the trickle of applause growing stronger before bursting into a torrent of roars and cheers. Long live the King. Long live the King. Long live the King. Ill at ease with such displays of emotion, the cardinal acknowledged the crowd with a stiff bow before descending back into their midst. As he made his way back to his horse, he stopped to speak to people, whispering comfort and acknowledging fears. Then, with a final wave, he turned homewards and made his way back to the palace.
An hour later, he was back in the privacy of his bedroom and preparing for sleep. Without his soutane and hose, he was stripped of his authority – no more than an emaciated, old man sat on a plank of wood. His naked skin shivered from the cold as he wrapped his arms around himself and prayed under his breath, his ribcage jutting out beneath bony arms. The only light came from a half-extinguished candle and the large circular window behind him, offering a view onto the moonlit roofs of Paris and distant woodland beyond. Richelieu gazed at the horizon as he prayed, awaiting news from Corbie. There was a fervency in his eyes – that of a pilgrim awaiting a sign.
* * *
The siege of Corbie had lasted three months. Like all sieges, it was inglorious – endless days of spadework and disease. Now it had reached the point where it was hard to tell who was being besieged. The earth round the town had been ground to sludge by the tread of feet. The attackers no longer patrolled, instead huddling in their tents for warmth, breathing air that was poisoned with the reek of excrement – both human and equine. Starvation and infection had become rampant. Sentries sat at their posts, homesick and waiting for an end. Illness and desertion had thinned their numbers, while the watches had lengthened for those who remained. Too tired to speak, they sat in the silence, looking out through sleepless eyes. Before them stood the city walls, an unchanging block of grey whose light pockmarks of cannon fire only reminded them of the impossibility of their task.
Gaston, Duke of Orléans, was walking among his troops when the King arrived. Alerted by scattered shouting and cheering of the soldiers, he turned towards the source of their excitement and saw two dribbles of silver winding down the distant hills. Ahead of them rode a dot of blue and yellow, the standard-bearer holding the royal colours. Rolling his eyes, Gaston swore under his breath before mounting his horse and trotting out to meet his brother.
Louis was on horseback near the front of a column, dressed for battle in full plate armour inlaid with gold. Joking with his lieutenants, he seemed relaxed, freed of the restrictions of court – even his stutter appeared to have subsided. He noticed Gaston approach and greeted him with the regal wave.
‘Hello, I’ve come to relieve you of the burdens of comma
nd.’
Gaston’s mouth soured and he looked away. When he turned back to face the King, he was smiling through taut lips. ‘No need, brother. Your reinforcements are more than enough.’
‘My country is at stake. I will take command.’
‘Give me two days. Please. The town is about to fall. The sight of more troops will end it. Look . . .’ Gaston motioned at the city walls where a row of tiny figures peered down from above. ‘They’re already watching us. The news will be spreading. Right now as we speak. Forty-eight hours. Give me that. I’ve been here three months. I only need two days . . .’
‘Thank you, my buh-brother. You have done well and will share the glory. But this is not the time for argument. Our country needs its king.’
* * *
The King’s command was a brief one. Events unfolded as Gaston had predicted. After seeing the new troops, the town put up one final show of resistance – a fusillade of cannonballs from the ramparts as a motley force of Dutch mercenaries appeared and tried to break the blockade. It was no more than the last twitches of a corpse. Exhausted from their journey, the invaders only managed a feeble charge before fleeing into the woods. Soon after there were rumours of a vote in the town centre and a few hours later the gates were opened to reveal a group of emissaries, shrunken beside the enormity of their protecting walls.
Joining the King and his guards to negotiate terms, Gaston looked out of place, his scuffed armour and ragged beard at odds with their coiffures and gleaming plate. Occasionally he glanced across at his comrades with weary exasperation but said nothing. Instead, his attention was drawn to the representatives at the gate. After ninety days they were hollow with starvation, their eyes sunken and their bellies distended. Despite their situation, they had still made the effort to dress and wore fine silks and brocade. All seemed determined to meet their fate with dignity, stiff-backed and high-chinned – except one who was stooped and pawing at his face in fear. Embarrassed by his cowardice, they stood apart from him, and as the King arrived, their leader even had the temerity to refuse to bow down, forcing one of the guards to punch him to the ground. They made a futile attempt to negotiate until it was made clear they were in no position to discuss terms. Instead, the King listened to their pleas for clemency before pronouncing judgement in his most solemn voice – the city walls were to be razed to the ground and the leaders executed. Sensing the significance of the occasion, Louis was particularly careful not to stammer and spoke ponderously, in silent battle with his own tongue.
Finally, the King completed his triumph with a speech to the troops. Gaston found the experience execrable, watching the men he had slept and fought alongside for the past three months being forced to listen to some stammered doggerel from a man whose only contribution had been a couple of nights in a tent and a light sweat from the ride. It was arrogant to the point of insult. Nobody had asked him to speak. They all just wanted to be home as soon as possible. Louis thought himself a warrior like their father, but he never understood that warriors are remembered for their battles not their words.
The Cardinal
(1636 – 1637)
Catching a whiff of the city gutter, Sebastian winced as the stink burrowed its way up his nostrils. Looking up, he caught a sign – La Rue Merderelle. Appropriate at least. He always loathed the crush of Paris. It had the relentless and unstoppable power of the sea. He would pry his way through the bodies but without any idea of where he was going. All he could see was bulk in every direction, towering and blocking out the light. No signs, landmarks or anything beyond shapeless, clothed flesh. Occasionally he would catch a chink of space – an empty street or square – and rush towards it only to be knocked off course. Other times he would be jostled down cul-de-sacs, squashed against the sides of buildings or else trapped behind a huddle of bodies, forced to wait for a break in the scrum before being able to move again.
The only alternative was to stay away from the main thoroughfares. However, keeping to the smaller streets brought its own problems. Aside from their twists and dead ends, they were unpaved, thick with mud, dung and whatever stinking foulness poured out of the tanners, which, while bearable enough during dry weather, became intolerable in the wet.
He had been intent on doing all his chores for the week – dropping off some clothes at the tailor, buying ink, visiting the barber and picking up his rebound Gargantua and Pantegruel, read and reread until it was little more than a collection of loose and dog-eared sheets. However, after visiting the bookbinder, he had decided to leave the rest for another day. The journey had been worse than pointless. He had spoken to no one and done nothing except be reminded of his own deficiencies. So it came as a considerable relief when, near the postern to the east of the palace, he was finally able to escape the stink and walk the last hundred yards in the open air.
Relaxing in the space and light, he paid no attention to his surroundings and only became aware of Cinq-Mars when he felt a tug at his elbow and noticed the book was gone. Turning round he saw the marquis staring back at him, standing among a group of friends.
‘Well what have we here . . . The dwarf can read, can he?’ There was a degree of surprise mixed in with the scorn.
‘Can you kindly return it, my lord? That book is very important to me.’ Mindful of Richelieu, Sebastian tried to restrain himself. It was difficult – the sneer and the puff of the clothes, the voluminous collar and broad-brimmed hat, that greedy stare pleading to be slapped off.
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Please. It’s mine.’ Sebastian made a grab for the manu-script, which Cinq-Mars pulled out of reach then dangled, wanting Sebastian to jump. Instead he received a cocked head and rank disdain.
‘I’m not going to beg.’
‘Why? Don’t you want it?’
‘Yes. But making a fool of myself isn’t going to help.’
‘It might.’
‘I don’t see how. You won’t give it back no matter what I do.’
‘Who do you think I am, dwarf? I’m a marquis. I keep my word. I’ll return this . . . thing when you do what I say. Now jump.’
If it had been anything else, Sebastian would have walked away. But it meant too much. It was the one thing he had kept from Camoches. Even when he was hungry and penniless, he’d never been able to sell it. The pages were smudged and barely legible in places, but he didn’t care. He knew it all by heart anyway.
And so he jumped. And waved his arms and grunted and strained and did everything that was demanded of him. But it wasn’t enough. The marquis seemed delighted with this new-found power and now decided he should try to bite his own ear.
‘And not half-heartedly. Properly. Snap your teeth. Bend your neck. And I want you to growl like a dog.’
Sebastian obeyed, until he could barely look round after craning so much and had half-lost his voice from snarling. But it still wasn’t enough. Now Cinq-Mars decided to amuse himself with discovering the truth of the rumour about dwarves being compensated for their shortcomings elsewhere.
‘You mean my brain, I assume.’
‘I mean your cock. Undress dwarf.’
So Sebastian did as he asked, pulling down his pantaloons and sullenly exhibiting himself to the amusement of all. Still it wasn’t enough. Not content with having made a dog of him, the marquis now commanded him to put his face in the dirt and chew grass like a cow, and swallow it too, which he did until his belly ached and his mouth leaked green. Nevertheless, he suffered it out. He had been through worse. Tonight he would be back in his room, safe behind his locked door, and tomorrow this would be a memory. Cinq-Mars was already beginning to tire. He was talking among his friends now. It wouldn’t be long. He took another bite and tasted the bitterness as the grass collected into a rough and indigestible ball, its blades catching in his throat. Then he heard the marquis’ voice. It sounded mildly disappointed.
‘Very well, dwarf. You’ve amused us long enough. You may leave.’
Struggling to his feet, Seb
astian spat out the cud and held out a hand, expectant. ‘The book.’
Cinq-Mars smiled before tucking the volume inside his doublet. ‘You know what. I might keep it. Call it . . . protection.’
‘You promised.’
‘I said I’d give it back, not when.’
‘That’s ridiculous. You call yourself a man of honour? You’re nothing . . .’
Sebastian was cut off by Cinq-Mars grabbing his shoulder and throwing him to the ground. Pinning him down with a foot, he watched him thrash, an upturned beetle flailing for escape. ‘Hasty words, dwarf. What do you have to say now?’
Powerless, Sebastian lashed out with the only thing he had left – his tongue.
‘Why don’t you fight someone your own size? Or are you too frightened without the cardinal to protect you? That’s the truth, isn’t it? Without Richelieu, you’re no one. Some jumped up squire who thinks himself a man.’
Frigid silence followed. This was the King’s court. In 1636 servants didn’t insult masters, let alone marquises, and certainly not in public. Shocked, the nobles looked across at Cinq-Mars, awaiting his response.
It wasn’t long coming. Notoriously conscious of his ancestry, which was considerably less exalted than he made out, Cinq-Mars grabbed Sebastian and hauled him out of the dirt.
‘Well, dwarf, it seems you’re stupid as well as contemptible,’ he said, locking his arm round Sebastian’s head and marching forward, yanking him behind.
Barely able to keep up with the taller man’s strides, Sebastian was pulled across the gardens and through a side door. He was in the main hall, though all he could see of it was the stone-flagged floor. Ahead of him was the fireplace, piled high and blazing, and momentarily he scrabbled, terrified of being hurled into the hearth. Instead Cinq-Mars halted abruptly, raising his head to face the heart of the flames.
‘The book, it fell out of my doublet. Someone bring it here.’
‘No. Don’t.’ His voice rose to shrieking panic as he realised what Cinq-Mars was about to do. ‘Not that. You can’t. My mother gave it to me. She saved for months. No, no, please God, no.’
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