Now Sebastian’s task was simple. And, after retrieving the book and a few coins, he slipped out of the door and down the stairs, intent on returning to the Palais-Cardinal as quickly as possible. Then, just as he turned into the hallway, he found himself facing an emaciated footman with a slick of brown hair. He stared at the servant, acutely aware of the ledger thrust prominently down the front of his doublet. The footman didn’t seem to notice, gazing back with that look of repulsed fascination that he had come to know all too well, before thinking to ask who he was.
‘Chimney-sweep.’ Sebastian shrugged, almost dismissive. It seemed to make sense, considering the coal-dust and his diminutive proportions. Thankfully the servant, like so many before, showed no further interest, not thinking to ask why he had no tools or indeed giving him a further glance.
It wasn’t to be the only time his size would prove of use. People never seemed to notice him and he overheard things others didn’t. He could hide in the tiniest spaces, inside a chest or on top of an armoire. Occasionally he had to stoop to going through bins or stealing the post, but generally avoided such methods, finding them to entail considerable effort for little result.
The work was satisfying, at least to begin with. Success was not a sensation he was used to, and he felt an unfamiliar sense of importance, even power. He was, after all, influencing the fate of France, if only at its fringes. There was novelty too, as well as the opportunity to send his mother a few extra sous at the end of each month, and he worked with the enthusiasm of the new recruit, determined to prove himself and undertaking assignments without giving thought to the risks involved.
* * *
Mostly Sebastian was sent in pursuit of valuables of one kind or another, sometimes Spanish coin, more often unpaid tax or contraband. Tonight was no exception. A ring of Bretons had been smuggling untaxed goods from the coast to Paris. A few of them had been caught but the leader, known as La Cravate due to his penchant for tying a blue handkerchief round his neck (and discarding it when the time came to hide), remained at large. The man was notoriously secretive, restricting his meetings only to close friends and private places. There was a particular location he favoured – a small tavern, owned by a friend. In the back room of which an agent had discovered a small cabinet; reporting to the cardinal that it might be suitable for a person ‘of particularly narrow proportions’.
Now Sebastian was behind that very cabinet, squeezed breathless as his cheek was pressed against the wood. At first he had assumed he would become used to hiding in small spaces. But he had not – if anything it became worse. Each time he dreaded it; concealing himself, compressed in some dark corner while thinking of all the occasions he had been in the same position before – always certain that this night would be his last.
The only thing which sustained him was the prospect of release. When, having heard each and every word they said, every name and every crime, when they had damned themselves utterly, he would finally be able to wriggle free. And that sense of accomplishment when he would walk out into the night, parched with thirst and dripping sweat, knowing his work was complete – for the time being, at least.
* * *
In spite of his initial fear of the cardinal, Sebastian came to admire him more as the months went by. Richelieu’s mind was meticulous, logical and astonishing at storing detail, but lacking any spark of imagination or creativity. Information went in, was analysed and then dispensed with. He never spoke in metaphors or told jokes, except of the driest sort. Imagination was by nature a distortion of the truth and therefore a waste of time.
However, it was Richelieu’s discipline and concentration which impressed Sebastian most. His capacity for work seemed near infinite, and he was forever meeting people, planning, signing documents or issuing orders. Sleep was a luxury and Sebastian became used to being summoned at ungodly hours to find the cardinal in full regalia, either having just woken or still completing the previous day. To begin with, he assumed it was simple ambition, but over time he noticed that the cardinal applied the same dedication to whatever he did, whether fussing over the plans for his town of Richelieu or simply arranging a feast for the King. And after a while Sebastian concluded it was conviction – an unshakeable and probably justified belief in his own worth.
Sebastian liked to think the respect was mutual, at least to some degree. Whenever they met, Richelieu found time to talk, and after issuing his commands, he would invariably digress onto a book, philosopher or even the affairs of state. Montaigne was always popular, hailed for his sense of understanding of what it is to live. Ovid also, though for his language rather than his philosophy. Oddly the cardinal showed less enthusiasm for religious works, doubtless having been overexposed to them at seminary. He always seemed interested in Sebastian’s opinion, though invariably struggled not to interrupt with his own. Not that Sebastian minded; it didn’t even concern him that Richelieu was probably flattering him, indulging him to ensure loyalty. After all, a man doesn’t become Chief Minister of France without being able to manipulate and control.
The only difficult moment came when Sebastian asked if the cardinal would consider being his patron. He had spent much of the previous year rewriting his play and finally felt it ready. Perhaps no great work, but perfect in its way – crafted to the bone, precisely structured and clear in intent – certainly good enough for outside eyes. When he happened to mention it to the cardinal, Richelieu immediately expressed an interest and asked if he could see the manuscript. Naturally Sebastian was delighted to oblige, only to find he had condemned himself to a week of agonising over his master’s response.
His next meeting with the cardinal took place in the antechamber adjoining the library. A model of his village of Richelieu, which the cardinal was inspecting with great interest, dominated the room. The model was perfectly rendered – square-walled, with gatehouses on each side, overshadowed by an ornate chateau and grounds. However, for all its immaculate detail, it was only half-finished – the castle semi-complete and without symmetry, more romantic ruin than fortress. There were gaps as well, conspicuous spaces between the townhouses from the hundred and sixteen plots that even the cardinal’s offer of tax exemption had proved unable to fill. The overall effect was that of a fairy tale, a tumbledown castle overlooking a hamlet strewn across the snow.
Sebastian’s attention, however, was focused entirely on the leather wallet in Richelieu’s right hand. This fact did not go unnoticed by the cardinal.
‘Your play, of course.’ He nodded, returning the manuscript.
Sebastian took it, his eyes fixed on Richelieu. ‘Does it meet your favour?’ The vibrato in his voice betrayed his nerves.
‘It’s excellent. A really fine work. You have considerable talent.’ Richelieu spoke taut-lipped, his solemnity of expression at odds with his praise. Sebastian knew full well what was about to follow.
‘You’ll pay for it to be performed?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You are a gifted satirist, Sebastian. But how can you expect me to support something that ridicules the state – however exquisitely?’
‘I could change it, perhaps– ’
Richelieu cut him off. ‘Sebastian, excuse me for being blunt. While I recognise your abilities, you need to understand that not everyone can see beyond your size. By patronising you, I would be risking ridicule, and a man of my stature cannot be made a mockery of. Besides, it’s not to my benefit. You’re a good agent, I want you finding information – not idling away your days in the theatre. You’d be no use to me – or France for that matter.’
Sebastian looked away in an effort to conceal his disappointment. Richelieu, uncomfortable with emotion, grimaced and patted his own forehead as if trying to brush away something unpleasant. ‘I understand your frustration, Sebastian. But your purpose is to be a buffoon. Like those two associates of yours, Jerome and . . .’ He paused and looked across at Sebastian.
‘Claud
e.’
‘Yes . . . Claude. It already bothers me that you bring too much attention to yourself with that tongue of yours. You’re meant to make a fool out of yourself, not other people.’
‘Absolutely … I understand.’ Sebastian’s tone was dutiful rather than sincere.
‘You clearly have objections. Voice them.’
‘My body causes me enough difficulties . . . Must you take my mind as well? You are asking me not to be myself.’
‘This is self-indulgence.’ The cardinal shook his head. ‘You ceased to be yourself from the moment you began working for me. That is what an agent does. He is not there to write plays, or be known for his wit or repartee. His purpose is to be anonymous, to not attract suspicion, to make others drop their guard.’
‘Of course, Your Eminence.’ The cardinal noticed Sebastian cast a sour glance at the model. The reason was not lost on him. He was asking someone else to let their name fade into posterity while building an entire town to carry his own.
‘It’s true.’ He nodded. ‘To ask you to make sacrifices in the face of such extravagance is unfair, I won’t deny it. Just because I don’t permit you the sentiment, it doesn’t mean I don’t share it. It’s something we all aspire to – to be remembered.’
* * *
When the footman mentioned the word ‘cabinet’, Sebastian already knew its importance. He associated it with waiting: ‘the cardinal must not be disturbed as he is in his cabinet or a meeting in his cabinet has overrun and he will be delayed’. It seemed a mythical place. Somewhere that was spoken about but he would never see. He had no idea where the room actually was, though he imagined it to be on the top floor, some shadowed hall lined with faceless tomes, where secret papers, charters and the seal were kept in great chests. A place where all the cardinal’s most surreptitious business was conducted, his sanctuary from the world.
The reality was somewhat different, and he found himself being led into a chamber that appeared little more than a cubicle, locked away behind a stateroom in the core of the building. The only light came from a single candelabra, and Sebastian could just make out the honeycomb of niches lining the walls and the cardinal lying on a small bed in the centre, reminiscent of a queen in her hive. He was propped up with pillows while an assistant passed him a stream of papers taken from random piles stacked across the floor. Not noticing Sebastian, he flicked through the documents and issued commands, ordering for various papers to be returned or filed or discarded as required.
Despite frequent announcements that the cardinal was unwell, Sebastian had always assumed they were simply excuses to avoid attending ceremonies and events of state. But this was no pretence. In the flicker of the candlelight, he resembled a corpse, his yellowed skin scaled and peeling and his hair lank with sweat, as he peered at the pages as if practically blind.
‘Yes, I’m a sick man. We’re more alike than we might first appear,’ Richelieu croaked, looking up and observing Sebastian’s shocked expression. ‘I know what it’s like for your body to be a curse. All my life I’ve suffered migraines, toothache, fevers . . . ulcers, haemorrhoids, rheumatism. I may be one of the most powerful men in the land but I haven’t been able to piss in two days.’
‘Please don’t refer to me as cursed, my Lord. Remember I don’t look small through my eyes.’
‘My apologies, I don’t mean to cause offence. It’s a compliment. I know how hard you have to fight.’
‘There is hope of your condition improving,’ a voice interrupted from the shadow.
‘It hasn’t improved in twenty years; I don’t see why God should favour me now. Besides, it doesn’t matter. Adversity makes us stronger. When all you’ve known are difficulties, you lose your fear of them. It’s my ability to fight, to resist my urges that has given me everything I have. People say my fingers reach into every corner of France. They don’t understand. I have power over nothing but myself – or at least what my body allows me. It is not through control that I have become a cardinal, but self-control.’ Richelieu was speaking in a strained voice, glaring upwards, taut-faced. It occurred to Sebastian that his infamously cold manner wasn’t intentional but rather the result of having to conceal perpetual and excruciating pain.
‘Cardinal, you only have yourself to blame. As I’ve told you on repeated occasions, you must rest. You cannot continue to work like this.’ The doctor’s words were half-hearted. He knew he would be ignored but spoke up all the same.
‘I am resting, doctor. I find peace in my work.’ The cardinal turned back to Sebastian. ‘I don’t believe you’ve ever seen my cabinet.’
‘No . . . it’s plainer than I expected.’
‘I don’t like distraction when I think. Anyway, I’ve something important to show you.’ Richelieu motioned his secretary to pick up a bundle of cloth from a nearby table. The assistant held it aloft then released the material – only to reveal what appeared to be a wrinkled calico sheet.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It belongs to the Queen,’ Richelieu replied curtly, as if this would explain everything.
Sebastian flinched – and there was reason for it. A long circulated rumour that the cardinal had once declared his love for the Queen and been rejected. He had always claimed it was politeness misconstrued, but nobody believed him, not even Sebastian, who was now looking at the Queen’s dirty linen with considerable embarrassment. Richelieu, however, remained too agitated to notice his discomfort.
‘Don’t you see? It’s immaculate. The King and Queen aren’t sleeping together.’
Sebastian shrugged. It seemed a statement of the obvious. The whole court knew Louis and Anne barely had anything to do with each other. Frankly it was a miracle they were still married. They had nothing in common. She lived a spindrift existence, following the wind with her gaggle of ladies-in-waiting, blind to the dangers of court. He, in contrast, was deeply serious, bound by his conscience and sense of justice, forever playing king. And it seemed to Sebastian that Louis’ outrage at her miscarriage had only been a pretext to end a relationship that was already long-doomed.
‘Don’t you understand? France needs an heir,’ Richelieu snapped, irritated by Sebastian’s indifference. His voice was sparse and fired by certainty. ‘From the day he was born, Louis has had above all one purpose. That purpose which falls on all kings – to continue his line. Without a successor, our country will tear itself apart. Thousands will die. This isn’t just a sheet, it’s the future of the realm.’
‘What about Gaston? He’s Louis’ brother. Wouldn’t he inherit?’
Richelieu gave a thin laugh. ‘Gaston? He’s reckless, a bon vivant. Able, perhaps, but far too weak. He’s already botched two plots against the King – and been exiled twice. Hardly a record that augurs success. The man wants power but no responsibility. Who wants to be ruled by someone who can barely make it out of the brothel? Besides, even if he did become king, he’d never hold power, or at least only under the boot of Spain. Gaston’s a distraction. The Queen needs a son.’
‘I don’t see how you can ask more of her. She’s already had four and they all died.’
Richelieu considered the reply a moment, then ignored it. ‘She must keep trying. She writes letters to her brother. I need them.’
‘Her brother?’
‘Philip of Spain.’
‘I’m not quite sure I understand. How can you be sure about something you’ve never seen?’
‘I don’t need to see the letters.’ The cardinal’s voice was sharp with impatience. Fever had made him emotional and he had the consumptive eyes of a zealot. ‘The woman is Spanish and staunchly Catholic – of course she writes to her family.’
‘Even so, how can you be sure they’re so incriminating if you don’t know what’s in them?’
‘Philip’s name will be quite enough. Now have you finished asking questions?’ Sebastian knew better than to reply and after a pointed pause, the cardinal moved on. ‘I’ve had her rooms searched, both here and in Saint-Ge
rmain. They found nothing, not even sealing wax. I think she’s writing them in the Val-de-Grâce. She knows I can’t go into a convent, and those nuns will do anything for her. No wonder, considering what she pays them.’
‘How do you expect me to get into a convent?’
‘I don’t.’ Then Richelieu turned to his secretary and requested paper, quill and ink. The assistant returned with a special tray, which slotted into the bedframe over the cardinal’s lap, laying out the materials in neat order. Lifting himself upright, the cardinal proceeded to compose two brief introductions. As with everything he did, his work was meticulous, each letter perfectly distinct. For all his fastidiousness, he wrote quickly and without pause. After which he folded the pages, then applied wax and seal before handing them to Sebastian. One was addressed to the Queen, the other to her lady-in-waiting, Marie de Chevreuse.
‘These should be sufficient to get you an audience. I doubt you’ll see anything incriminating in plain sight, but look for signs or clues – maybe a place they mention . . . and beware of Chevreuse.’
Sebastian didn’t need telling. He knew the name well enough. The courtiers always spoke of her in hushed tones, not as they did of others. Even the King referred to her rather sarcastically as ‘the messiah’. Sebastian had heard the cardinal mention her a few times in passing, invariably followed by a hesitation and that slightly stiff expression he used when repressing strong emotion. It was obvious why. Whenever there was unrest at court, she was sure to be at the heart of it. Despite being married to the Duc de Chevreuse, she cheated on him repeatedly, though it wasn’t her lovers that she was known for but what happened to them subsequently. Both Châteauneuf and the Comte de Chalais had ended up on the scaffold because of her. Her taste for traitors had also extended to Gaston and even an Englishman, apparently a close friend of the Duke of Buckingham. On top of this, she had been behind at least two attempts to overthrow the King. Even her family had disowned her and hadn’t visited court in upwards of twenty years. Despite all this, or perhaps because of it, Sebastian was intrigued by the prospect of meeting her – much more so than the Queen – partly because of her beauty, but mostly the danger. She had the same mystique that the cardinal had possessed before he first met him, that lethal fascination of a spider or a snake.
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