* * *
The Château de Blois wasn’t really a château at all; it was three. The original Gothic castle in the centre, with two further edifices added as wings. One, dating from the Renaissance, had been added by François I. The other, classical in style, remained in the process of completion. The effect was to remove all symmetry, replacing it with a stew of styles on which the eye flitted but never settled. The most spectacular feature was an octagonal, spiral staircase that projected from the facade. A vast coil of filigreed stone, it dominated the view from the balcony where Gaston, Duke of Orléans, lounged, picking at some apple puffs with fried raisins. Opposite him, Marie de Chevreuse leaned against the rail, watching him sidelong while curling a tress around her finger. Despite her lingering glances, Gaston was either oblivious or else simply didn’t care.
‘I hear the cardinal’s had you exiled again,’ he remarked, in between mouthfuls.
Chevreuse gave a moue of displeasure and turned away, revealing a back of green velvet topped by a satin cap.
‘Fifteen months I’ve been in Dampierre.’
‘I would have thought you’d be delighted to spend so much time with your husband.’
‘Dispense with the sarcasm. I’m in no mood for jokes.’
‘Don’t worry. Besides, I think Richelieu’s got a soft spot for you. He could have charged you with treason.’
‘But he didn’t. And the fact is until we’re rid of him, nothing’s going to change. The people are too terrified to do anything. No one knows who to trust. It’s ridiculous, the whole country wants him dead and not a single man will raise a hand against him.’
Gaston laughed and sipped his wine. Though young, his face was plump from excess, with a thin beard that didn’t quite join up. He looked as if he would age fast and badly.
‘What you’re saying, it sounds like treason to me. Now, why do you think I’d be interested in overthrowing my brother?’
‘I don’t think it, I know it. But that’s not what you’re asking. You want to know if it’s going to succeed.’
Gaston laughed again. Despite his cavalier manner, he possessed a restless charm, with curious flittering eyes. There was evidently a quick mind behind them, albeit unexercised.
‘First, know this . . . I love Louis.’ He looked at her, almost daring her not to believe him. But she knew he was telling the truth. Nobody would choose to have their own brother between them and the throne. ‘He’s just not meant to be king. He’s no leader – too meek – he only does what Richelieu tells him to. Of course when I talk to him about it, he just takes the high ground. Gives me all that rot about Louis the Just. He really believes it, you know.’
Chevreuse nodded. ‘I used to be his mistress – remember? He’s been merciful, I suppose, but my God he lets everyone know it.’
‘In some ways, I feel sorry for him. He’s always worrying. Thinks everyone calls him an idiot. It’s hardly surprising considering the stutter. Besides, he’s always trying to live up to Father. Mother knew he was no good from the start. She always wanted me to be king.’
‘And now Louis has a son, you never will be, or at least as long as that cripple stays in power.’ Chevreuse sighed with nostalgia, as if they were old and discussing their regrets, decisions they could have made but hadn’t.
‘There’s nothing I can do. Mother tried to remove him and he had her exiled. The woman’s been in Holland for ten years. It’s a disgrace, the man has no respect.’
‘I’m not asking you to get rid of him. I’ve someone else in mind to do that.’
‘Who? There’s nobody left – Montmorency’s dead, La Vieuville, Châteauneuf. He’s even grooming that little brat of his to be favourite . . .’
The remark captured Chevreuse’s attention and she glanced across. ‘Cinq-Mars, you mean? Now that is interesting.’
‘Interesting? What’s interesting about him? He’s barely more than a boy . . . hot-headed too. He’ll most likely get himself killed duelling over some trifle.’
‘But haven’t you wondered why Richelieu’s gone to so much effort?’
‘It’s obvious. He wants to control Louis.’ Gaston replied dismissively, evidently viewing the question as an insult to his intelligence.
‘Exactly, which means he doesn’t have control now. Imagine it from his position. He still remembers Luynes. The man virtually ran France, banished Richelieu to Luçon. He’s terrified of it happening again. Don’t you see? He’s worried a favourite could bring him down. And with good reason . . . I mean, we’d both agree Louis isn’t always the most rational of men.’
‘What are you saying? De Hautefort could get rid of Richelieu?’
‘He is just a man, you know. He can be persuaded. Put the right person in a room with him for a few days and . . . who knows?’
‘Even supposing you’re right – once Richelieu’s gone, what then?’
‘In Spain and the Low Countries, they speak highly of you. You’re seen as a reasonable man, someone who would support their aims.’
Gaston paused, leaning on the balustrade and looking up at the dusk – the yellow and red fading into blue and purple. When he spoke again, the words were careful and non-committal. He knew what constituted treachery in a way only a traitor can. ‘You’re proposing a grand alliance, to overthrow my brother.’
‘You already have their support. They want this war over – every bit as much as we do – and Louis is never going to end it.’
‘I’m not convinced.’ Gaston looked across and grimaced, shaking his head. ‘I need time to think. What do you want from me anyway?’
‘Nothing for the moment. I can take care of matters myself. And frankly the less you know, the better. I’ll be in touch when the time comes.’
‘I still haven’t agreed to this.’
‘You will,’ Chevreuse finished, turning to leave. She liked Gaston in his way. Avaricious as he was, you could rely on his appetites. Hold out a juicy tidbit and he would take it. And yes, he might turn on you the moment something better was on offer, but providing you told him as little as possible, what was there to lose? Besides, it wasn’t easy to be so close to the throne yet possess so little power. Condemned to waste away while waiting for a man to die – for no reason other than the date of his birth.
* * *
The Château de Ruel lay twenty miles west of Paris, a small country house but with gardens on a palatial scale. Its parterres were patterned with intricate hedgerows and perfectly raked pathways, intersected by wedge-shaped beds of catmint and marjoram. Long avenues ended in vistas across the grounds, from which fountains propelled water to impossible heights. Looking out from the house, Sebastian watched with bemusement. Beautiful as the view was, he found it sterile and unnatural – nature reduced to pretty ornament. He was interrupted by a cough from the cardinal, who had finished reviewing his reports and was now ready to speak. Walking to the chair opposite the bureau, Sebastian tried turning it to face Richelieu, only to find it fixed to the floor.
‘The chair, I can’t move it.’
The cardinal looked sidelong from his sickbed. He was ill again, this time with ulcers. It had been a week but his condition was improving and, despite the obvious pain, he seemed in relatively good humour.
‘I prefer to see who I’m looking at,’ he said through locked teeth. ‘Liars never like being in the open. It’s the feet that give them away – always moving. They can grip the chair but the nervousness has to escape somehow.’
‘Ingenious, Your Eminence. It sounds like something out of The Prince.’
‘Machiavelli? You like his work?’
‘I thought it was well written, yes.’
‘Perhaps, I find him a little naive myself.’ The remark made Sebastian smile. Only Richelieu would call Machiavelli naive. ‘It’s obvious the man had no real power. To think you can run a country by following a few rules is ridiculous. You anticipate as best you can, but your control is always limited. You can only react to problems as they arise.’
‘You say that, but surely you seek to control events? To prepare for the unforeseen as best you can?’
‘Of course. I represent the government, I try to control everything.’
Sebastian laughed, disconcerted by the baldness of the statement, then rubbed his beard, not sure whether to admit he agreed with it.
‘Don’t be surprised. What is government except control? It might not be the kindest definition, but people don’t pay taxes out of love for their fellow man. Or obey the law, for that matter. And without taxes, there wouldn’t be armies, granaries, roads. You might even say that everything we have, we owe to government.’
Over the previous two years, Richelieu had become more open during their conversations. Sebastian wasn’t sure why, whether it was time or respect or perhaps he simply had no one else to talk to. As their relationship became more equal, so Sebastian lost his reverence, to the point where he now found himself looking at the Cardinal, hollowed with disease, with an unaccustomed sense of pity. Unsettled, he replied with the first thing that came to mind, if only to fill the lengthening silence.
‘But there’s more to it than that. It’s not just control for control’s sake. I mean there has to be a purpose to it all?’
‘The purposes change, the needs change, but the battle is constant. The presses never stop. Pamphlets, essays, periodicals – all fighting for the mob. Every rebel and heretic pouring poison into men’s minds.’ The cardinal spoke in a careworn voice, motioning across at the shelves, ceiling-high and toppling with papers and books. ‘We try to suppress them of course, but it’s like trying to ban thought. And they are appealing ideas, of course they are. Nobody likes the state. Everyone has a grievance. The poor see a boot on their neck, the merchants pay and get nothing back, the nobles all think they should run it.’
‘But you have your own periodicals – the Mercure, the Gazette, the Académie.’
The words lifted the cardinal and as he looked up, the shadow fell from his face. Illness had deepened his sockets and given him wide and luminous eyes.
‘True – the Académie Française, it will be our salvation, you know. To have one France, we need one language, agreed by all. Through it, we will create a single people, a single culture. We will change history, make people look back at a country that never was.’
Sebastian winced with disgust. He was from Normandy and proud of it – his language, his people and their heroes – Robert Guiscard, William II, Rollo – names he had revered since he was a child. The thought of being merely French unsettled him. It seemed a lifeless idea, a place designed by bureaucrats, somewhere that did not exist outside the words of treaties – an administrative convenience.
‘I see you’re offended. You probably think me arrogant. Perhaps you’re right. I am one man against a nation. Such is the nature of control . . . it is fundamentally an illusion. It only works so long as people believe it. No more than religion, an act of faith.’
Hooked by a passing thought, Sebastian stared at Richelieu blank-eyed before noticing that the cardinal was waiting for him to reply.
‘My apologies, Your Eminence.’ He still referred to the cardinal as Your Eminence in moments of unease. ‘It’s just that . . . well . . . there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.’
‘Then you should probably ask it.’
‘Why me?’
‘I don’t understand. Would you care to elaborate?’
‘The matters we discuss. They seem private. Things I wouldn’t imagine you sharing with many people. And yet you tell me – why?’
Amused, the cardinal nodded, glancing across with a mildly patronising smile. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t realised. You’ve always struck me as intelligent.’
‘I’ve a few suspicions, but I’d prefer to hear from you.’
‘Very well. You’re discreet. And wise to be so, bearing in mind your position. More importantly, I’ve put nothing in writing.’
‘But you’ve still told me.’
‘You’ve no proof, no records – only conjecture, another rumour at worst. And what’s another rumour at court? No, only what’s written is remembered, and people will know the history I tell them. You see that portrait.’ Richelieu nodded at a picture in the far corner, a commanding depiction of him draped in a cloak of crimson silk with a glittering crucifix and scarlet biretta. The image of power, every inch the statesman, though the painter hadn’t quite managed to hide the weight beneath his eyes. ‘That is how people will remember me.’ Richelieu snorted, aware of how different he looked in reality – a skeleton draped in skin, his beard barely concealing the gauntness of the face beneath.
Sebastian slid off his chair and walked to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Then he turned round, a shadow against a background of sky. ‘Since you’re being so open, Your Eminence, there’s one more thing I want to know. It’s been bothering me ever since the dauphin was born. About the Queen … can you tell me if the rumour’s true?’
‘That depends on the rumour.’
‘That you had Jules Mazarin smuggled into her bedroom at night. That he’s the father.’
Richelieu nodded slowly and crooked a finger over his lips, fastening them like a staple. Eventually, he nodded at the wall opposite.
‘You see that shelf. The paper tied with blue ribbon, bring it to me.’
Sebastian did as he was asked, though he found it awkward. The documents, like most things in his life, were out of reach. Climbing to the upper shelf, he was forced to pincer himself in place with one hand while snatching at the papers with the other. On the second attempt, he managed it and after teetering his way down, he passed the sheaf to Richelieu, who skimmed it before handing Sebastian three sheets.
‘Put them in the fire,’ he instructed. Sebastian instinctively glanced downwards.
‘I didn’t say read them.’
Sebastian turned his gaze to the hearth and scrunched the papers into a ball, tossing it into the flames where it erupted into ash – a blaze of brilliant colour, then gone. He looked back at the cardinal, hoping for an explanation.
‘My cabinet has two types of paper. One half for me, the other for posterity. One half for the flames, the other to be filed. So, to return to your question, who is the dauphin’s father? It’s irrelevant. All that matters is that he is the King’s son now, the rightful and legitimate heir of France.’
Sebastian didn’t need ask any more. For a man who revealed so little, Richelieu could be remarkably clear. Instead he turned back to the window and looked out at the gardens. Again he was struck by their symmetry: the straightness of the clipped boxwood, the evenness of the paths, every flower pruned and in its place. It seemed magnificent and yet futile, a battle against the inevitable. One day the cardinal would die, nature would return and all this would be gone. Was it really worth spending so much time on something that was fundamentally no more than an illusion?
* * *
For all the beauty of the garden in autumn, there was no doubting summer had gone. The paths had become mosaics of fallen leaves as the fruit lay decaying on the grass and the nights grew ever longer. Sebastian paced the Jardin des Tuileries with mixed emotions. It might have been a paradise, but it was a fading one. Ever since Corbie, he had been aware of the uncertainty of his existence. The immediate danger had passed. The Habsburgs had been pushed back to the borders and now each side sat in their castles and keeps, content to wait. Nevertheless, the threat remained. Philip was paying down his debts, building his treasury as the gold continued to pour into Madrid. He would attack again and this time without making the same mistakes. Where or what his life might be in a year’s time, Sebastian had no idea. Still deep in thought, he didn’t notice the man approaching from behind. At the last moment, he caught a blur of yellow to his left and turned to face his attacker, raising his arms in defence. But it was only a footman, who startled and mirrored Sebastian’s surprise.
‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘A message from Marie Morra. She
awaits your presence in Camoches.’
Sebastian paused. He expected almost any other name: the cardinal, Chevreuse, Cinq-Mars, but not that of his mother. In the eight years since he had left Camoches, she had never asked a thing of him. All he had received were a few short letters, thanking him for the money and telling him about Audrien and Charles. Always written in that self-conscious formal tone she used when speaking to people of education, viewing herself as a foolish old woman, a hindrance to his illustrious career. Yet now she was asking him to put his entire life to one side and make the seven-day journey to Normandy.
There could only be one reason. She was dying, and ill enough to know it. Then he noticed the footman still standing in front of him, his lips crimped with polite unease.
‘The messenger was told he would be paid on delivery.’
‘Of course.’ Sebastian reached into his purse and unthinkingly handed over a wildly generous sum. Then he set about making preparations, ordering a coach and filling his pack with a few clothes and enough fruit to last the journey.
It wasn’t until Sebastian had been on the road for an hour that he realised he had forgotten to inform the cardinal. Disappearing unannounced might seem suspicious. But there was no possibility of turning back now. Only three things mattered: himself, his mother and the distance between them.
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