With the dawn, light entered the distant corridor, enough to see by. He appeared to be in a cellar of some kind, entirely brick and ending in a long passageway. There were another three cells besides his own – one adjoining, the two others on the opposite wall. All contained a variety of hunting dogs which now seemed to have lost interest in him and had returned to scuffling among themselves.
Over an hour passed by before he heard footsteps. He expected Cinq-Mars, but the visitor was middle-aged, near bald with a tufted beard – presumably the master of the hounds, come to feed and water them. On seeing the man, he pleaded for help, only to be met with the indifference of someone who had seen such displays many times before: striding into the cell, filling the bowls with water and scraps, then leaving without so much as a glance. Alone again, he stared at his food for a minute or so, considering whether to eat it. However, with no one around, there seemed no point in defiance, so he forced down what he could before curling up on the floor and returning to fitful sleep.
* * *
A hand grabbed Sebastian by the collar and pulled him up. The images that passed before his eyes were fast and jarring: bricks, iron bars, open door, a slit of sky, circles of teeth, a pointed ear, more bricks, another door, cobbles, light-splintered puddles, the spiral of the stairwell, a flash of Cinq-Mars.
‘Lovely place you have here.’ The words were choked rather than spoken. Then he felt the grip pull tight round his throat.
‘Behave like a dog and I’ll treat you like one. Anyway, the kennels are too bloody good for you. I should throw you to the damn pigs.’ Cinq-Mars completed the remark by yanking Sebastian’s neck, pulling him onto his hands and knees as he struggled to keep pace up the stairs – until finally they reached level ground. Then, after being walked along a corridor, he was led into a library and deposited by the hearth, too out of breath to notice the figure standing in front of him.
‘Oh, you’re still alive.’ The voice was familiar, caustic and female. He stared upwards, struggling to make sense of the face. Then he recognised her – Chevreuse.
The marquis had taken his place alongside her. He was typically overdressed, wearing an overly elaborate ruff with a coiffure that was impossible to take seriously. Chevreuse, however, was the opposite: the embodiment of command, dressed like a queen with wide gauntlets and a bodice of purple velvet threaded with pearls.
‘Well, give him something to drink then.’ She looked across at Cinq-Mars, who stared back, confused.
‘You want him able to speak, don’t you?’ she snapped. ‘And let him relieve himself while you’re at it. I don’t want him soiling the carpet.’ And so Sebastian was allowed two cups of water and to squirt the contents of his guts into the privy, though supervised throughout and with no possibility of escape.
He returned to the library to find the marquis and Chevreuse in animated discussion, seemingly over their relationship with Gaston, and for a brief moment he remained mercifully free of their attentions.
‘What about when Gaston is regent? He won’t need us any more.’ The quarrel seemed to have been underway for some time and Cinq-Mars shook his head with the resignation of someone who knows he will go unheeded but still feels obliged to speak.
Chevreuse had no time for such doubts. ‘Gaston won’t care. He just wants to enjoy himself. To play the king, not be it. Can’t you see? He and Louis haven’t changed since they were children. Gaston’s still the favourite. Always spoiled, getting away with murder. And Louis – poor, serious Louis. The older brother trying to act grown-up. I don’t think he’s ever been truly happy a day of his life.’
‘We could leave for Spain.’
‘And spend our lives wondering what could have been?’ She sneered at the mere suggestion. ‘You know me better than that. Besides, who leaves a play in the final act? And on the subject of final acts . . .’
She looked down, scrutinising Sebastian, her face lopsided with revulsion. Raising a hand, she whipped it across his cheek. He winced but remained silent, denying her the pleasure of seeing him suffer.
‘I’ll deal with him.’ Cinq-Mars stepped in, grabbing him by the collar and thrusting him down onto a chair. ‘Lock the door. I don’t want any interruptions . . . and I’ll need something to tie him with. That shawl of yours . . . yes, perfect.’
Sebastian did his best to fight, kicking and clawing and biting and butting, even managing to land a blow on the marquis’ shin and earning a kick in the ribs for his efforts. But once the marquis had a knee on his neck, it was only a matter of time, and soon enough his feet were lashed to the legs of the chair, his right arm bound behind him.
Satisfied with his efforts, the marquis took the opportunity to bend down, unpleasantly close. While gripping Sebastian’s free hand, he licked his left cheek slowly and deliberately, leaving a trail of spit behind along with the odour of his breath, sharp as vinegar.
‘I don’t need to tell you what’s about to happen.’ His voice had dropped to a whisper. So if you wish to spare yourself a great deal of pain, I advise you speak now.’
Sebastian felt Cinq-Mars’ squeeze tighten round his wrist, but said nothing. The marquis waited a moment, then a moment more – delighting in Sebastian’s unease. Then he nodded, seemingly approving of his defiance. Striding across the room, he fetched a side-table from the far wall, which he placed in front of Sebastian before again grasping his free hand, slapping it down on the table as though upon a butcher’s slab. Sebastian suddenly knew what was going to happen. He tried to pull away, straining against his bonds as his hand tried to scrabble free of the marquis’ grip. Then he saw Cinq-Mars reach down and fetch something. He held it up, brandishing it – a hemisphere of pure glass, cannonball-solid. Lifting it up, he cocked his arm, ready to strike. His eye was fixed on Sebastian’s hand – which was now clenched into a fist, awaiting the blow.
‘Last chance.’
Sebastian didn’t reply and closed his eyes. Time passed, drip by drip by drip. Long enough for him to feel the horror of the moment. Then the pain. It was immediate and like nothing he had ever felt. Hotter than fire. Sharper than a blade. Relentless and without mercy, it spared nothing. He tried to scream, but there was no air. He tried to open clenched eyes but could not see. Nothing existed except the agony and he writhed breathlessly, trying to think of anything else, anything that might bring relief. No good. Then through the pain, he heard her voice.
‘Can you hear me, dwarf?’
Unable to speak, he managed a nod but it went unnoticed.
‘Don’t insult me.’ She took hold of the injured hand and squeezed, this time drawing a cry as he arched back, trying to withstand her grip.
‘I said, can you hear me?’
‘Hurts too much.’ The words were forced out through spit and locked teeth.
‘That’s no concern of mine. You’d better learn.’ She squeezed again, drawing another scream every bit as loud as the first.
‘You’re an aberration, cursed by God.’
‘We were . . .’ Choking, he couldn’t manage more than a few words between breaths, ‘ . . . all dwarfs once . . . even you.’
‘No. You can’t survive without help, you’re a parasite.’
‘And you . . . who do . . . you live off? . . . Who works . . . your fields? . . . Cooks your food?’
The remark was repaid predictably. This time so hard, he felt a crunch in his hand and immediately retched. Vomit spewed from his mouth and nose, which he was unable to clear and instead sucked back in, blocking his throat. He tried to cough it out but had no air and began to suffocate – grasping for his windpipe, only to feel his hand being held in place. Thrashing for breath, he wriggled against his bonds, mouthing for help. The room was bleeding red and he could feel the pressure building behind his eyes as he sucked again, only to feel nothing there. Then the world took an abrupt tip sideways and he crashed to the ground, jolting the muck from his mouth and enabling him to take a strangled breath before spitting the leftovers from his throat an
d heaving for air.
They allowed him a few minutes to recover before taking hold of him and pulling the chair upright again. Cinq-Mars reached for his wrist, but Sebastian told them not to bother, and placed his crabbed and swollen hand back on the table. Preferring not to look at the injury, he stared back at Chevreuse as she resumed the interrogation – this time enquiring what he knew about the cardinal and his plans. Sebastian gave the question some thought before dismissing it with a shake of the head.
‘I can tell you I know nothing, but you won’t believe me . . . Though there is one thing.’ The words weren’t uttered with hatred or spite, or even courage for that matter. Instead, in a voice that no longer cared. ‘That first time we met, when I asked you if you came from Picardy and you denied it. I knew you were lying. It didn’t make sense to me at the time.’ He paused to catch his breath. Chevreuse was staring directly at him, expressionless apart from the slightest pressing together of the lips. ‘And Rohan, it’s in Brittany. I know why you chose him . . . the Duke of Rohan . . . You needed someone who never comes to court, who no one ever sees . . . Some mad bastard, who you knew wouldn’t recognise his own child even if he knew her. In fact, there’s only one thing I don’t know.’ He drew another ragged breath. ‘Marie de Rohan – was she already dead or did you kill her yourself?’
Chevreuse continued to stare at Sebastian and it was some time before she spoke. Standing up, she pressed down her dress and looked across at the marquis.
‘Can you put the poker in the fire?’
* * *
Opening his eyes the next morning, Sebastian stiffened with pain. Everything hurt: his arms, knees, hand, waist, and his left cheek – now a wet and weeping strip. The memories of the previous day were still raw: Chevreuse holding the glowing poker in front of his open eye, the heat on his skin as he screamed, the marquis kicking him down the stairs, fighting off the dogs. Not that it served any purpose. He had told them nothing. They thought it was courage, but it was nothing of the sort. It was fear that stayed his tongue, the knowledge that as long as he kept silent, they would have reason to keep him alive. Because in spite of it all, despite the pain and the struggle, he still did not want to die. That verminous core burnt as strong in him as ever – born of the street, it would not give in, it would crawl through tunnels, eat scraps, endure any indignity just to survive another day.
Lifting himself up, he groaned in muffled agony as his face peeled from the pillow. Once the pain had dulled he was able to force himself into a marginally less excruciating position, from which he was able to look around the room. Not that there was a great deal to see. Only a small square of bare floorboard, four walls of crumbling plaster and his own palliasse – though at least there was no sign of Chevreuse or the marquis.
Some time passed before his mind turned to escape. The only window was barred, and judging by the treetop swaying outside, it was too high to jump. Noticing a door in the far wall, he lurched upright and stumbled across, propping himself up against the frame and briefly examining the lock. However, after fiddling with it for a while and giving the handle a few desultory yanks, he gave up and returned to his mattress, where he lay, trying to ignore the pain and keep his wound away from the sheet.
It turned out to be a considerable wait, long enough for him to be served two meals and reflect on his former life with an unanticipated nostalgia. Lately he had been too preoccupied to appreciate it, too busy with the cardinal’s business and the intrigues of court. But now it seemed like paradise, scribbling away the hours and forgetting himself in country views. Let everyone else chase the money, power and glory: all he wanted was his own small space in the world. Somewhere quiet with a pleasant view, to spend his days as he chose with enough money to afford the occasional visit to a brothel or theatre. And he promised himself that if by some miracle beyond imagining he was to escape this place, then all he would ask from this life would be a small but reliable pension, enough for his needs, and to be left to spend the rest of his days in peace.
* * *
The moment Sebastian heard the noise, he knew it wasn’t the guard. His gaoler had a quiet way of unlocking a door, controlled and perfected through routine. This time the key scuffed the lock and he could hear the hinges creak from the weight of a body pressing from outside. The scratching continued briefly before the door flew open, sending a wedge of light across the room. It was Cinq-Mars. Clearly drunk, he tottered in, his shirt half-unbuttoned and wig askew. There was an object in his right hand, but silhouetted with the light behind so it was impossible to see – perhaps a club or baton of some sort? Wary, Sebastian stood up and edged towards the corridor outside, keeping his back to the wall, his fingertips brushing across the rough plaster. Cinq-Mars seemed distracted by what he was holding, waiting until Sebastian was a couple of yards short of the corridor before lifting the object and waving it in his direction.
‘Any time I like,’ he slurred.
‘What do you mean?’ Sebastian could see the marquis looking at him and stopped, aware of the gaping doorway just to his right.
Then he heard a twang followed by the thunk of a bolt beside his head. Flinging himself to the ground, he crouched, awaiting the worst. But there was nothing – no flash, no blood, no sound except the unsteady clack of approaching footsteps. They circled his head and stopped.
Aware of the silence, Sebastian looked up. The marquis was standing between him and the corridor, the perspective enlarging him to titanic proportions. His body was silhouetted and all he could see was the arrowhead of the loaded crossbow, its point glinting and aimed directly at his forehead. Instinctively, he scrambled back crabwise on aching hands and feet, but the arrow followed him all the way to the corner, at which point he tired of the game and slumped back against the plaster, glaring up at his captor.
‘I can kill you any time I like,’ Cinq-Mars drawled, malicious with drink.
‘For God’s sake, just stop this.’ Sebastian was desperate, almost outraged by Cinq-Mars’ inability to understand. ‘You’re killing me over nothing. It’s been three years since I wrote that play. Everyone’s forgotten.’
‘I haven’t. And there’s what you did to Marie. She was exiled because of you.’
‘But you’ve tried to kill me . . . twice. Destroyed everything I owned. You’ve burned my face, scarred me for life. What more could you possibly want?’
‘Shut up, little man. You’re nothing. I don’t care what you think.’ Cinq-Mars had tired of the conversation and grabbed Sebastian by the collar. Up-close he reeked of sex, an acrid mix of sweat and fluids, raw as fish. Leaning in, he examined Sebastian, turning his head so the slick of wetness was clear in the light. The sight seemed to please him and he grunted his satisfaction, giving Sebastian’s windpipe a final squeeze before hurling him into the corner, clattering already bruised limbs and leaving him a groaning heap on the floorboards.
Once the door closed Sebastian lay in the dark, waiting for the marquis to return, but he didn’t. He wasn’t like Chevreuse. To her, torture was a means to an end. But Cinq-Mars was different. He gave no sense of wanting answers. For him it served no purpose except entertainment, something to feed the void.
The pain took some time to subside but eventually he remembered the arrow. It had to be wherever the marquis had fired it. Hobbling upright, he felt his way along the side of the room. It was higher than he recalled, about two inches above his head and planted tight into the wall near the door. The height caused him some difficulties, but after five minutes’ waggling, he managed to release the barb from the wood. Immediately he set about the lock – first scratching a niche beneath the casing and next levering it up. The work was slow and hard on the hands, but his perseverance was rewarded when he finally prised up a corner and was able to reach the workings inside. After that, it was trivial; a quick twist of the tumblers, a turn of the handle and he was free.
Opening the door, he saw a round face pursed with shock as the guard stared back at him. An instant passed.
First to react, he took to his heels. There was no hope of outrunning the man and he scurried down the first turning available, followed by the second passage to his right, then left before finding himself facing three different doors. Pausing momentarily, he heard the sound of pursuing feet and ducked into the nearest room where he hunted for somewhere to hide. Under the bed – no. In the chest – no. Behind the arras – no. The cabinet – yes. It was perfect: small, innocuous, unused and with a deep drawer in the base. Yanking it open, he tucked himself in and pulled it shut from the inside.
The rush of those first few minutes contrasted with the time that followed, squashed in the dark, unable to move while listening to his own breath. First there was the sound of his pursuer pacing the room; uncertain feet that walked with an anxious tread, first here, next there, soon followed by the sounds of cupboards being opened and the bed being searched. Despite his alarm, he took comfort in the drawer’s narrow dimensions. It didn’t appear human-sized and would pass first glance at least. The feet left and then returned again, this time with a partner. Now the search was briefer, soon followed by shouts as the alarm was raised. Then long silence as he waited for the hubbub to subside.
Damn – he’d forgotten to piss. A beginner’s mistake. It wasn’t serious now, but he already knew what was coming. When the fear had taken hold and he would feel first the tingle, then the burn, as he crouched in the dark, cross-legged and gripping himself as he tried to squeeze back every last drop. The knowledge was no use to him, however. If anything it made him more conscious of the need. He still tried to hold out as best he could, but couldn’t resist forever and eventually had to yield. Wriggling onto his back, he aimed upwards and let the liquid spill over his belly and soak into his clothes. The smell was foul, but at least his efforts prevented any leaks, and after ten minutes he became almost used to it. More serious was the risk of the stench giving him away. Someone would notice, surely? He heard the sound of feet nearby.
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