The Cardinal's Man

by M. G. Sinclair

  ‘I know it was you.’ Her voice had lost all its charm. Now the words were guttural, bubbled from the dregs of her stomach.

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. If you could perhaps enlighten me . . .’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t waste my time. You think I didn’t notice you skulking around all through the second course.’

  ‘I still have no idea what you mean.’

  ‘Nobody else could have possibly fitted under that table except you ­– unless Richelieu’s taken to engaging children for his dirty work.

  ‘If you’re so sure, why not call the guards.’ He was actually smiling. The runt knew he had her trapped; she couldn’t do a thing without incriminating herself.

  ‘You admit it, then?’

  ‘You expect me to apologise? You serve your master. I serve mine.’

  ‘I don’t want apologies. I want that letter back.’

  ‘It’s already with the cardinal.’ He gave a shrug of such indifference that it bordered on disdain.

  Chevreuse stepped forward, hand raised, but then thought better of it. Instead her arm returned to her side as she silently observed his discomfort. He was afraid, and with good reason.

  ‘I don’t think you fully appreciate your position.’ Her voice was slow and at its most hypnotic. ‘All I have to do is cry and rip my skirt, and your life is over. I’ll tell the guards you laid hands on me and they’ll kill you where you stand.’

  Sebastian froze and repeated the threat in his mind. He was prepared for a pistol or knife, but not this. He was still struggling to make sense of what she had said, let alone the implications.

  ‘Did you just say . . . ?’

  ‘I did,’ she snapped, not giving him a moment to think. Stepping back, she lifted a hand to her sleeve and pulled the material tight. ‘I’ll count to three.’

  Sebastian stared back, muddled with terror. It wasn’t just the words but the glibness with which she uttered them, without so much as a second thought. This was someone wholly amoral, unconstrained by belief or guilt – capable of doing anything to achieve her aims. ‘ONE’. He opened his mouth, still without any idea of what to say, though he knew he had to speak or else he was going to die. Still nothing. He waited, praying that his cornered mind would somehow – as so often before – find some means of escape. ‘TWO’. The prospect of death was now so overwhelming that he could think of nothing else, a lodestone in his mind that attracted everything to it. Every thought, desire, memory, everything that he was seemed distilled into this moment. The duchess in front of him. Her red dress. The scent of helichrysum – sweet and narcotic in the nose. ‘THREE’. She smiled as she said it, triumphant. Momentarily he considered promising her the letter, if only to give himself some time – then recoiled. She did not strike him as the sort to be trifled with.

  ‘Have you considered . . . ?’ He murmured the words without any idea how to continue, seizing every last instant. But now there was no more. He met her eyes.

  Suddenly inspiration struck him, that clarity at the moment before death, as the urge to live took over. The answer was obvious. His size, as ever, would be his salvation. He held up a hand to stop her. ‘What makes you think anyone’s going to believe you?’

  ‘I’m a duchess, in case you were unaware of the fact.’

  ‘You’re also two feet taller than me. But if you’re prepared to become the laughing stock of the entire court, then please go ahead.’ His heart was thudding in his ears and he had difficulty pushing out the words. Nevertheless, it was enough to make her pause and her hand slackened, though it remained in place, hovering over the seam of her shoulder, maintaining the threat.

  ‘I assure you I can be very convincing.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt of that. I don’t claim to read the future.’ He was still struggling to conceal the fear in his voice. ‘It’s true I might die. But there might be a trial first. Maybe I’d even be pardoned and you’d spend the rest of your life humiliated. Or perhaps the guards simply won’t believe you. I’ve no idea. All I know is that you’ve been exiled twice, and traitors usually don’t get the benefit of the doubt . . .’

  With a snarl, Chevreuse whipped a palm across his face, knocking him into the wall. ‘How dare you, you little bastard.’

  Anticipating another blow, Sebastian backed into the corner, trying to protect his face. It didn’t come. Instead she bent down until her face was level with his, and then she grinned. Sebastian had never seen her smile with open lips. Now it was clear why. Years of grinding had reduced them to a row of misshapen stumps, their wear a testament to the frustration inside. The symmetry of the surrounding face made their cracks and jags all the more apparent.

  ‘Very well, little man.’ Her breath smelled of meat. ‘I’ll spare you this time. And there are easier ways to have you killed. Poison. Digitalis. Wolfsbane. Bundled into a sack and thrown into a river. Maybe just a knife in the dark.’

  Sebastian said nothing, his back pressed tight to the wall in his effort to widen the distance between them.

  ‘At least tell me this. Is Richelieu really worth dying for? Do you actually think he cares about you in the slightest?’

  Sebastian considered a moment. ‘I’ve no idea, Your Grace. But much as you think I’m an abomination, I am at least a loyal one.’ Then, and with the slightest of bows, he scuttled out of the room as quickly as possible.

  Shutting the door behind him, Sebastian rounded the corridor before bracing himself against the wall and catching his breath. A spot of blood fell to the floor and he felt the cut on his cheek, pressing it with a handkerchief as he reflected on his good fortune. He had escaped unharmed – for the meantime at least. Her reputation was deserved. The woman was the opposite of Richelieu, but no less intimidating for it. Where he was supremely calculating, considering every possible permutation, she was an arch-opportunist. Logic, however mighty, follows clear lines. It can at least be predicted and foreseen. But she had no such restrictions; she did not pause to deliberate. Her preferred weapon was surprise – to be upon her opponent before he had time to respond. And Sebastian’s fear of her took a different form – primal, the same sensation of being trapped with a bear or a tiger. Something that could not be negotiated with or bought off, something that would kill the first chance it got.

  * * *

  The reality is rarely as good or bad as one expects it to be; the dread can exceed the punishment, the hope surpass the reward. Even kings and queens are not exempt, and Anne of Austria had spent the entire morning worrying over her imminent meeting with the cardinal. Shame seemed certain, banishment probable, imprisonment possible – all were horrible. At first she hadn’t even been able to get out of bed, refusing to face the day; each time hoping that when she woke up matters would somehow be different, but nothing ever seemed to change. Until, having no choice, she rose and dressed for the grand occasion, in a quilted gown topped with a ruby and diamond choker from her parure. Even then she didn’t leave her apartments, instead striding up and down her parlour, venting frustration at the occasional servant unfortunate enough to appear at the door.

  An hour before noon, the source of the Queen’s fury made itself apparent, when a quailing maid announced the cardinal had just arrived and asked, ‘Would Her Majesty care to grant an audience?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ the Queen spat back, her accent magnified with emotion.

  The maid forced a smile and nodded.

  ‘Very well, bring him to me,’ the Queen finished. She paced to the window, then turned and assumed her pose – august, chin raised, shoulders back, her eyes fixed on the door.

  When he entered the room the cardinal was, as ever, discreet. Wax-faced, he bowed deeply, gave a tight smile, then apologised for the intrusion. Anne loathed the way he hid behind his manners. Nothing was ever said directly, yet the meaning was always clear. Sometimes she almost pitied him, imagining how hard it must be to repress every emotion, every trace of the man inside –
whether after so many years, any of the original self remained, like the shell of a beetle once all the flesh has gone, a perfect facsimile of something which has long since disappeared. Today, however, she felt no sympathy for the man, not after what he had done.

  ‘How could you? To put a knife to a duchess? Have you no shame?’

  ‘I am shocked you think I would countenance such an action, Your Majesty.’ The words were meticulous, typical of a man who was careful not to lie, merely dissimulate. ‘Nevertheless, I fear a more serious issue has since come to light. Naturally I have put every effort into retrieving the stolen document and I can reassure Your Majesty it is safe. As you would expect, to check its veracity I was compelled to take a brief examination before returning it and could not help noticing it appears to be addressed to your brother Philip. Now, I am sure Your Majesty meant no harm, but you must understand any communication with the Spanish court poses a potential threat to our realm. And while I’ve no wish to show it to the King . . .’

  The moment Philip’s name was mentioned, Anne looked away.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me? Do you wish to destroy my marriage? To break the covenant we made before God?’

  ‘There may be an alternative.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Her bluntness contrasted with his equivocation.

  ‘Only what is the best for Your Majesty. For you to regain the King’s favour and secure the future of France.’

  ‘You mean have a son?’

  ‘It would be a glorious event, Your Majesty. Our nation depends on you.’

  ‘And the letter? You will not show it to the King?’ Her hands had now dropped and were turned palms up, in the manner of a beggar asking for food.

  ‘Knowing the happiness a son would bring him, I certainly wouldn’t want to mar his joy.’

  ‘But I do not understand. I have already explained this to your dwarf. The problem is with the King. He will not sleep with me.’

  ‘I’m not sure you quite listened to what I said, Your Majesty. I didn’t mention the King, merely that France requires a dauphin.’

  She paused a moment, struggling to decode his words, then let out a penny-whistle laugh and stared back, her mouth agape.

  ‘Are you asking me to commit adultery?’

  ‘I’m telling you to do your duty, Your Majesty. All France depends on you having an heir.’

  The Queen looked away and paused, perhaps hoping for an alternative, or simply because the occasion demanded it. When she looked back, her face had hardened into its regal mask.

  ‘Very well, cardinal. But remember that when the King dies I will be regent, and I will not forget this. One day you will pay for what you have done.’

  ‘That is your prerogative, Your Majesty. Now I will intrude no further upon your valuable time.’ As he left, Richelieu was careful to follow protocol, shuffling rearwards with eyes cast down, never once turning his back on her – formal to the end.

  The Queen was left alone in a pastel hell, staring at the mirror opposite. Sitting down, she looked at herself framed in early baroque, a solitary figure on a fawn chaise longue. Her face looked featureless in the watery light, and her sex was buried under her dress. All that remained was a wilted posture: elongated and limp, hands on lap, her head like a drooping bloom.

  Return to the Past

  (1638)

  Richelieu gazed at the rooftops of Paris through the circular window. Its glass was warped with age, twisting lines into curves, diminishing and magnifying space. On the streets below, people bubbled through its imperfections and the trees bent into unworldly forms. The cardinal was aware the illusion worked both ways, that to the outside observer looking up, he resembled some caricature, hook-nosed and axe-headed, clawed hands protruding from beneath his red soutane. Not that it concerned him. The view was as real as any other, the interpretation no more or less true. His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. Cinq-Mars entered, without waiting to be called in.

  Richelieu stared at the marquis tailored in velvet and lace, the material brushed to a liquescent shine. How could anyone waste so much time getting dressed in the morning? Did it give him pleasure or was it simply the result of having nothing to do? He thought back to the day Cinq-Mars first arrived, a shock-faced orphan, still trapped in the moment of his parents’ death. It was months before he spoke, or did anything except walk through the house and stare at fragments of the past. They were arranged in his bedroom: a shrine of battered portraits, trinkets his parents had given him over the years. He would sit on the floor in front of them, torturing himself for hours. Richelieu had found himself drawn to the child’s room, and would observe from the doorway, praying that the boy might find some way out of the dark.

  But when he recovered, it was no better. As some people are strengthened by loss, others are destroyed by it. For Cinq-Mars, the void had simply grown until it consumed him, a bottomless and raging need. He had spent his whole life trying to fill it, always wanting more. Richelieu knew he was partly to blame. Pity had made him spoil the child, showering him with gifts in the hope it might somehow undo the past: clockwork dolls, musical boxes, toy horses and soldiers, a wooden sword, shield and bow, a suit of armour, books – more than he could ever hope to play with. He had the best private tutors and all the money he could want, and it had ruined him. Like so many before, he had atrophied in luxury. There was nothing to fight, nothing to strengthen him. Everything yielded to his touch and now there was none of that child left. Instead, a creature of privilege – soft, effete, and wildly overconfident. Like some pampered pet, surrounded by tamed nature and thinking himself master of the world.

  ‘If this is about my spending, I promise I’ve been good,’ Cinq-Mars declared. Their conversations over the previous year had consisted almost entirely of the cardinal berating him after being forced to pay his various debts.

  ‘You’ve clearly been a model of frugality,’ Richelieu remarked, making a pointed glance at his new doublet, fashioned from silver and black brocade, the cuffs and collar fine-worked needle lace. ‘No, this is about another subject altogether. You may be interested to know that the King has taken an . . . interest in you.’

  Cinq-Mars hesitated a moment, perplexed. Then he gave a slow and knowing smile.

  ‘He has asked me to arrange a meeting in private,’ Richelieu continued.

  ‘What about de Hautefort? Isn’t she his mistress?’

  ‘De Hautefort is irrelevant. De Hautefort is not the King.’

  ‘And is there anything I need to do? Beforehand, I mean.’

  ‘Strangely, that’s exactly what I wanted to discuss.’ Richelieu did not sound surprised in the slightest. He motioned at the chair opposite. ‘I assume you’ve time for a brief word.’

  Cinq-Mars gave the slightest roll of the eyes before sitting down. His conversations with the cardinal tended to be anything but brief, invariably consisting of dreary and repetitive lectures that he was made to endure like some disobedient child, only ending when Richelieu seemed to bore even himself and would finally return to his reports.

  ‘There is a possibility you may become close to the King, even discuss matters of policy with him. If such an occasion were to arise, I would like to be sure your advice is . . . sound.’

  ‘Sound?’

  ‘I would like our opinions to be in agreement.’

  ‘You mean I should say whatever you tell me?’

  The cardinal uncoiled from his chair and leaned forward, his thin features sharpening.

  ‘Of course.’ The marquis yielded with a dip of the head. ‘But what exactly do I stand to gain in return?’

  ‘You’ll have my support – which you will need. If, and it is a considerable if, you ever do become his favourite, you may discover it to be less attractive than you think. You’ll have great power, but only at another’s whim. All it takes is for the King’s mood to change. A beautiful face, an argument, boredom, and you’ll be cast down again. It can be an unpleasant drop. There may be
resentments. You will need protection.’

  ‘And if the relationship doesn’t end?’

  ‘You are a young and beautiful man, Henri. One day you’ll be an uglier but wiser one.’ It was the sort of patronising remark that Cinq-Mars had become used to but still loathed. Not that he showed it, of course. There was no point arguing with Richelieu. The man was incapable of admitting fault. Better to nod along and wait for him to finish, which he proceeded to do as the cardinal explained in laborious detail how to answer anything he might possibly be asked, from the Croquants in the South-West to the removal of the state assemblies and clerical immunity from tax. Richelieu seemed to notice he wasn’t paying attention and kept asking him to repeat things, which he did, thoughtlessly and mechanically. But this only seemed to further exasperate the cardinal, who finally gave up, announcing he was late for the Te Deum and taking his leave.

  * * *

  The King’s son Louis was born on the fifth of September 1638, though the actual identity of his father remained a source of widespread speculation. Various noble names were put forward. A few people even suggested the Queen’s old admirer, Buckingham, had been smuggled over from England. Above all, however, there was rejoicing. Bells were rung and fireworks lit. God had blessed France with an heir and the future was, if not secure, then at least less uncertain. If the King was aware of the hearsay, he gave no appearance of it. Like all monarchs, he had remarkable powers of self-delusion. And, as no one would ever correct him, he could afford to. In his world, the rumours did not and never would exist.

  In contrast, the Queen was anxious to preserve her reputation and retired with her son to the monastery of Les Loges. Eager to show her piety, she passed her days praying in cloistered silence with the white-robed nuns. Occasionally she would be forced back to court, usually for state occasions: the King’s birthday, festival days and the like. Regarding it as an opportunity to publicise her transformation, she would shuffle among the courtiers, plainly dressed in a wool bodice and long, matronly skirt. Seemingly aloof from the world, she only spoke when spoken to and even then restricted her conversation to Christian platitudes and quotations from the good book. Yet it was a virtue without passion and she fulfilled her duties with an empty gaze that was anything but divine. The austerity weighed on her like a suit of armour and every evening she would return to her bedroom and collapse in a jumble of giggles and tears, overwhelmed by the sheer relief of being able to shed the load, and every morning she would walk to her wardrobes and skim through fondly remembered damask and organza before turning back to the limp woollens draped over her chair. But she had no choice. She was aware of the rumours and knew a queen must be beyond reproach. There could be no question of her son’s legitimacy to the throne.