The Cardinal's Man

by M. G. Sinclair

  * * *

  As Sebastian trudged through the Louvre, he appeared out of place in the magnificence; a ragged figure set against jasper and marble, fluted pilasters and coffered ceilings. Not that he noticed the contrast. Deep in thought, he didn’t even slow his pace as he walked barefoot onto the snow outside. He had more than enough to keep him occupied – principally, how to engineer an audience with the Chief Minister of France at an hour past midnight when uninvited and dressed in a tattered nightgown. The best he could hope for was that the cardinal might somehow remember their previous meeting. However, bearing in mind it had been over a year ago and the subsequent invasion by Spain, it seemed unlikely to say the least.

  Sebastian’s first attempt to enter the Palais-Cardinal was abrupt, almost comical. Even before reaching the door, he looked ridiculous beside the edifice – an ant facing a cliff – and stood overawed for some time before venturing a knock. Shortly afterwards he heard the slow approach of footsteps and the sound of a bolt being pulled aside. Then a hatch opened, framing a mistrustful stare. The eyes were looking a foot above Sebastian’s head and he was forced to shout for attention. Peering down, they narrowed with disgust.

  ‘On your way, beggar,’ a curt voice snapped as the hatch slammed shut. Having no alternative, Sebastian pounded the knocker again.

  ‘I’m not a beggar. I need to see the cardinal. Let me in.’

  After a brief pause, he heard the turn of a key in a lock and the door opened a slit. A face appeared in the gap – one of Richelieu’s personal guards. He was plainly dressed, with the official insignia of three chevronels and galero.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Sir, but can you let me in? I am hoping to arrange an appointment to see His Eminence, the Cardinal.’

  ‘He’s busy. State your business or leave.’ The guard spoke in a military manner and was evidently more used to giving orders than asking questions.

  ‘Please. My life is in danger. Someone just tried to burn me alive.’

  ‘Your problems are no concern of His Eminence. He’s got more important things to worry about.’

  ‘But we’ve met before. Don’t you remember? Last year he asked for me.’

  The guard gave a rasping, abrasive laugh. ‘I’d remember you.’

  ‘Where I met him, the wallpaper, it was green. The floor was chequered black and white. Behind you, in the hall, there’s a picture of a woman in a blue dress.’

  The guard didn’t speak and his face contorted as if being pulled in two directions. He glanced behind him, only to confirm what he knew was there. Then he looked back at Sebastian.

  ‘Wait here – I’ll check with the secretary,’ he replied before slamming the door. Sebastian was left marooned on the step, not only shoeless but also pitifully underdressed, clad in only a scorched nightshirt; and it wasn’t long before his feet grew brittle, forcing him to hop from one to the other to keep off the freezing stone. Hugging himself, he sheltered in a corner but the wind was in his face and soon he began to shiver uncontrollably as the cold sharpened to a blister then a burn. Resisting the urge to scream, he closed his eyes and withdrew into the darkness. And when the door did eventually creak open, he was too numb to hear what the guard said, only able to make sense of the arm beckoning him inside.

  Barely able to walk, Sebastian was handed a blanket and allowed to warm himself for a few minutes before being led to an unfamiliar wing of the palace. It lacked the usual overbearing splendour, consisting instead of wood-panelled corridors which all looked much the same, so he soon lost all sense of his bearings.

  He expected another overwhelming chamber and was surprised to be led into a pleasant but unremarkable room, hung with faded and badly rendered portraits. Perplexed, Sebastian took a few moments to notice the family resemblance and realise they were there for sentimental value rather than to impress. He observed other objects that appeared equally personal – a wooden pig, a flaking grandfather clock and a crewel-work tapestry crumbling to threads. The room felt private, unsettlingly human. Richelieu was not a man he associated with emotion and nostalgia, and it felt somehow inappropriate, as though he had walked in through the wrong door and found the cardinal undressed. His immediate instinct was to leave, but instead he averted his eyes and looked at the floor, trying to concentrate on what to say.

  The wait didn’t last long. After a few minutes Richelieu appeared from a side door, wearing a red biretta and plain cassock. The only hint of his station was the intricate silver crucifix shining out of the black of his soutane. Immediately he cocked his head and peered closer, intrigued by Sebastian’s appearance. After a moment he appeared to reach some kind of conclusion and glanced across at the guard.

  ‘Why haven’t you given him some clothes? Money? Food?’

  ‘You didn’t ask, Your Eminence.’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ His voice had the hiss of acid. ‘Look at his face and arms. The man’s patently been in a fire and he’s walked here in bare feet. I think he deserves a modicum of hospitality.’

  The guard scurried to make amends and two minutes later Sebastian was in the kitchen holding a bowl of hot soup and a slab of bread with five livres stacked on the table top in front of him. The clothes took longer to find and he had to make do with a billowing shirt and sleeves rolled up to the elbow, along with knickerbockers that made him feel as if he was wading through a bog. However, his appearance was the least of his concerns. In five minutes, he was due to have an audience with the governor of France, and he hadn’t the slightest idea what to say. Not only did he possess nothing of interest to the cardinal, but Cinq-Mars was the man’s ward and the closest thing he had to a son. Nor did he have any hope of lying his way out of the situation, which left him with no alternative but to rely on Richelieu’s compassion – not a quality for which the man was renowned.

  Returning, Sebastian was led into Richelieu’s private chambers, where he found the cardinal sitting on a small cushioned throne. Sebastian looked up at him, hoping for some sign of acknowledgement, only to find himself confronted by unblinking authority. He felt the same terror of breaking protocol as when they had first met, and shuffled forward, keeping his head bowed. He was unsure whether to meet Richelieu’s gaze and his eyes flitted between the cardinal’s feet and chin.

  ‘I’ve come to plead for my life, Your Eminence.’

  ‘I’ve no memory of ordering your execution.’

  ‘You’re the only one who can help me. Your ward, the Marquis de Cinq-Mars . . . he tried to burn me alive in my room. Speak to him, please, I beg you.’

  ‘Henri.’ Richelieu sighed and closed his eyes. ‘Always so rash. He took offence to your play, I imagine. I heard it was somewhat unforgiving. Amusing but certainly unforgiving. You must have realised the consequences?’

  ‘No, Your Eminence . . .’

  ‘Dispense with the formalities. I’m a busy man.’

  ‘Yes, Your . . .’ Sebastian narrowly managed to stop himself. ‘I mean it was only satire. Nobody murdered Dante or Boccaccio.’

  ‘They were wise enough to have patrons, and rather better suited to defending themselves than you. Anyway, it’s beside the point. The fact remains that Henri is both my ward and a peer of the realm, whereas you are a court dwarf born of peasant stock. I must act in my own best interests, and much as I would like to help, I’m afraid it’s not worth the price.’

  ‘I will be forever in your debt.’

  ‘Be that as it may, you still humiliated my ward in front of the entire court.’ The cardinal shook his head, lifting a hand to end proceedings, only for Sebastian to speak again.

  ‘I have a thought.’

  ‘Make it brief.’

  Sebastian hesitated, aware of the significance of the moment – his cornered mind searching for escape. But what on earth could he offer the Chief Minister of France? What use would such a man have for someone whose only discernible talents were as a trickster and beggar of coin? Then, as ever it came from nowhere – accompanied by that disconcert
ing sense that his mind was cleverer than he was, that he was no more than a mediocre rider fortunate enough to be saddled to a fast horse.

  ‘I can serve you. Bring you information.’

  ‘How? What do you know?’

  ‘What do you want to find out?’

  ‘Don’t play with me.’

  ‘I’m not, Your Eminence. But you’d be amazed what I hear. Nobody pays attention to me. I’m a buffoon, no threat to anyone. Besides, I’m already a known face at court. All I need is guidance and I’ll find out all you care to know.’

  The cardinal chuckled at his impudence. ‘I somewhat doubt that. But go on . . . tell me about yourself. What languages do you speak?’

  ‘Spanish, Latin . . .’

  ‘Dicasne lingue Latina?’

  ‘Satis agnoscare illa quaestio.’

  ‘Very good. Where did you learn?’

  ‘I listened in church.’

  ‘An all too rare phenomenon . . .’ The cardinal paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had fallen into a murmur. ‘Very well. There’s no harm in trying, I suppose. I’ll tell Henri to keep away. For a month or so at least, if only not to draw suspicion over the fire. After that . . . well . . . we’ll see.’ He glanced across at Sebastian, his eyes two dots of pinpoint concentration. ‘Now, you’re an intelligent man. I assume I don’t have to remind you that anything we discuss remains between you and me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Richelieu nodded at Sebastian to leave, but the dwarf held his ground, drawing a raised eyebrow from the cardinal.

  ‘Is there something else?’

  ‘If you don’t mind?’

  ‘You’re hardly in a position to make requests.’

  ‘I know, but my books were burned. I’d like to borrow a few from your library.’

  Richelieu’s mouth convulsed into a smile. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘You agree?’

  ‘I’m not going to stand in the way of a man trying to educate himself. There’s some Lucan and Petronius you might enjoy. The Bellum Civile I find particularly entertaining. As regards the other matter, one of my representatives will meet you tomorrow evening by the north-west door at six.’

  ‘How will I know him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry; I suspect he won’t have difficulty recognising you. His name is Ambroise. He’s a cousin of mine.’ The cardinal glanced across at the clock in the corner, an elaborate affair with four dials: one timing the earth, the others astronomical, set to the sun, moon and stars. ‘Anyway . . . it’s late and I advise you get some rest. I’ll have some men attend to your room.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Eminence. I will repay your faith.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt you will,’ Richelieu finished, nodding at him to leave. The implication was clear enough.

  Then, after taking a brief tour of the cardinal’s library and picking out some Petronius, Lucan and Plautus, Sebastian returned to the palace, alone with his thoughts. He felt a certain sense of relief, of course, but tempered by the knowledge that he had not been saved out of compassion or mercy, but to serve a purpose. This was an agreement that once entered could not be undone. For better or worse, he had become the cardinal’s man.

  * * *

  It was only on returning to the Louvre that the lateness of the hour became apparent. Sebastian had a dim memory of being led to the kitchens and shown a palliasse in the corner, draped with a sheet. He didn’t care. He didn’t even bother waiting for a pillow. The crook of his arm was comfortable enough, and after a long and dreamless sleep he woke up to find himself in what appeared to be a store room, complete with a pile of cooking apples in the corner. He could hear clanking and shouting from outside, the hubbub of people at work. Then, as he drew in a breath, he felt an ache in his chest immediately followed by the cold spike of reality. It’s all destroyed. You have nothing.

  Lurching upright, he ambled half-dressed through the kitchens and back to his room, hoping that it was some trick of the mind and everything would be its same normal self. In a way he was right. Everything was orderly and in its place, just not as he expected it to be. The room had been transformed. The same elements remained but the effect was entirely different. Plain walls had been replaced by oak panelling, the desk and wardrobe were walnut, the embroidered bed with its canopy looked more like a ship. On the bureau stood a stack of paper, quill and full pot of ink – all perfectly arranged. There was even a new library, complete with the works of Montaigne and Rabelais, gold-stamped and leather-bound. Indeed the only hint of what had taken place was a mild whiff of charcoal.

  He continued to look about, bewildered. It didn’t feel like his room any more, as if he had awoken to find himself in someone else’s life. He prodded and poked, opening the wardrobe and lying on the bed, searching for something he could recognise. But it was all unfamiliar, and he continued to peer around while finding nothing to settle on.

  Eventually, after a few trips to the corridor and a brief walk outside, he began to find the room if not comforting, then at least less disconcerting. He was able to think of other things: the blankness of the paper on his desk, the play already disappearing in his mind, the fact that he still had four hours until his meeting with Ambroise. And, after a deep breath, he marched to his desk and began to write. Desperate to save what he could, he didn’t bother with details and paraphrased where possible, scrawling down the memories before they could fade away. However, it was dispiriting work and each half-remembered character and misplaced scene only reminded him of how much he had lost. The words seemed inadequate – dots and scratches, nothing more.

  * * *

  After walking to the rendezvous, Sebastian searched for Ambroise, but the corridor was empty. The only person in sight was a man in the garden outside, leaning on the edge of a fountain while observing the sunset. His back was to Sebastian but from what he could see of the man’s attire, it appeared inconspicuous: well-cut but neither elaborate as a noble nor plain as a servant. Hearing his approach, the man turned round and stood up. If he was a cousin of Richelieu’s, he was a distant one and, judging by his weight, he had none of the cardinal’s discipline either. Aside from his girth, his face was plump as a pillow and his nose rosy from drink. Below it was a parody of a mouth, pinched at the top, with the lower lip sagging beneath. On seeing Sebastian, he introduced himself by chortling under his breath in a mildly insulting manner.

  ‘I’ll be damned. I thought I’d misheard.’

  ‘I see you’re amused by my size. Oddly enough, it seems quite normal to me.’ Sebastian shook his head, more weary than annoyed.

  ‘Sorry, don’t mean to offend. But you look pretty different to the usual . . . people he sends. Who’s going to spot you, eh?’

  ‘Yes, I’m small. Yes, I’m unlikely to be noticed. Now are you going to carry on being an ass or can we discuss the business at hand?’ Sebastian replied, amazed the cardinal would employ such an idiot. Clearly he prized loyalty over intelligence.

  Ambroise was visibly taken aback. The grin disappeared and he replied with the only thing he could think of – his orders. ‘The cardinal says I’m to take you to the great hall and give you your instructions.’

  The hall was on the other side of the palace – a five-minute walk. Evidently uncomfortable with silence, Ambroise insisted on chattering the entire way, primarily about the cardinal. Despite being Richelieu’s cousin, he admitted to knowing relatively little beyond childhood recollections. ‘Armand doesn’t like talking about himself. Thinks it’s a weakness. He listens to what people tell him and he gives orders. Nothing else.’ Sebastian reflected that this said as much about Ambroise as Richelieu. The cardinal wasn’t the type to waste his time conversing with fools.

  Aptly named, the great hall was a palace within a palace, its hammer beam ceiling engraved with coats of arms and interweaving ivy and honeysuckle. Long tables were lined in two symmetrical rows, leading up to a central dais and the King’s table, complete with throne and canopy. Sebastian stood on th
e balcony that stretched across the far wall, listening to the chatter of the court as they ate, oblivious to the spectators overhead. From above, he had a better sense of the room. He could see the swarms of flies around the chandeliers as the insects caught the flames and fell onto the tables below. The room was of an imposing height, the candlelight fading into the gloom of the roof above; and rather than glorifying the King, the space diminished him – reducing him to a speck in the void. He considered sharing the observation with Ambroise but decided it would be pointless. Instead he waited, until eventually Ambroise produced a few scribblings from his pocket and peered at them for a moment, struggling to decipher his own words.

  ‘The Duke of Saint-Simon, do you see him?’ He nodded at the people below.

  Sebastian spotted the man at a glance. Everyone knew Saint-Simon. Once a favourite of the King, he had long since lost his looks and now bore the effects of a life spent on the battlefield – his face flattened, shaped like clumsily-handled clay, his voice that of a soldier, blunt and terse. Yet Louis remained attached to him, finding his candour a relief from the usual timidity of his subjects. At present he was three seats away from the King, sharing a joke with his neighbour while rubbing the food off his moustache.

  ‘Yes. He’s on the royal table. Dressed in green.’

  ‘Good . . . now put this in his drink.’

  Sebastian looked down to see a vial of clear liquid in Ambroise’s hand.

  ‘You are joking?’

  Ambroise shrugged. ‘No joke.’

  ‘I’m not killing him . . . besides, he’s sitting right next to the King. I’d be struck down on the spot. I’m not doing this.’ With that he marched downstairs and back towards his room. Passing through the hall below, he noticed the cardinal seated a few places down from his victim, picking at a dry-looking plate of vegetables and chicken. Richelieu’s insouciance revolted him. That someone could eat his dinner a few yards away from the man he was about to have murdered. It seemed beyond callous. The cardinal seemed to sense his displeasure and glanced up. His eyebrows twitched with surprise; then he realised what was happening and the look hardened. Not with rage but intent. The stare of a man who had not just killed, but killed many times before – and would have no compunction doing so again. Still the eyes did not move. Sebastian remained trapped, paralysed through sheer will. Seconds passed before he was finally able to break the spell and look away. He had no time, only a few minutes at most. Long enough to scurry to his room, grab whatever possessions he could and flee before Richelieu’s men arrived.