‘You don’t understand. Yes, I’ve served the King, lasted out his fads, seen favourites come and go. And you know how I’ve survived? I’ve never been complacent. I’ve seen how quickly things can change. My life, everything I’ve worked for, it could all be gone in a moment. You forget I’m at the mercy of a man’s mood. All it takes is a poorly chosen word, a change of heart, even plain boredom – and I’ll be gone. It’s happened to me before. I was on the Conseil d’État, serving Concini, the Queen’s consort. Then Louis took power and that was that. Within the hour, I lost my position, my pension, everything. Two years I had to spend in Luçon. I thought I’d never come back.’ Richelieu’s glazed eyes snapped into focus and he nodded at Sebastian. ‘Now I need to catch the King. So whatever you want to tell me, tell me en route.’
Sebastian did as he was bidden and took a seat. Almost immediately, he felt ill at ease, enclosed in the compartment. The proximity of the cardinal was unsettling and he didn’t know whether to look at the withered body alongside him or out of the window. Both felt awkward and somehow rude; instead he examined the carriage studiously, observing the whorls and eddies of its bare wood, along with the seats, which appeared to be the one concession to luxury, quilted in oxblood leather and stuffed to near distension. Eventually he was interrupted by the cardinal’s voice to his right.
‘Your arm. I hadn’t noticed. What happened? Cinq-Mars, I imagine.’ The sentence emerged piecemeal, unmeasured, a flurry of thought. Evidence of a mind that had lost none of its speed, only the ability to judge and filter.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘We have time.’
‘We do,’ Sebastian replied, struggling to hear the cardinal over the echo of the horses’ shoes from the quadrangle as they left. Then he explained what had happened, as briefly as he could and without detail. Richelieu listened politely, though it was only when Sebastian mentioned the treaty that he became interested. His head jerked from the stretcher and he stared at the dwarf with wide eyes, pursing his lips in an effort not to interrupt – cutting in the moment Sebastian drew to a close.
‘This treaty. You say it’s signed by Henri, Gaston and Lorraine. Are you sure?’
‘Why would I lie?’ Sebastian replied with a shrug.
‘And you know where it is now?’
‘Across the border more than likely. I can’t imagine Cinq-Mars keeping it. He must have known I’d tell you.’
‘I assume Chevreuse didn’t put her name to it.’
‘How did you know?’
‘We share an aversion for incriminating ourselves in print.’ The cardinal gave a half-smile and shook his head. He always spoke of Chevreuse with grudging admiration. Perhaps he appreciated her talents better than most. Then he nodded at Sebastian and closed his eyes. ‘You’ve done well but now I must sleep.’
The following half-hour ranked among the most awkward of Sebastian’s life. Everything was so normal: the carriage, the view, the noise. It could have been a journey like any of the hundred others in his life. The only difference was that the most powerful man in France was lying asleep a few inches away from him. Every time he had met Richelieu before, there had been a guard or attendant or someone nearby. Now they were completely alone, just him and a shrunken and vulnerable body. He could see the veins threading his neck and the hollow beneath his ribs beating in time with his heart. Surreptitiously, he brushed a hand across the knife in his belt, perhaps just to check it was still there. The fact it was alarmed him and he stiffened at the thought. Then he looked away, trying to concentrate on the view. His hands were clasped on his lap, the fingers mottled red and white from the tightness of the lock.
* * *
As a result of the late start, they arrived at Angerville two hours after dusk. Sebastian was asleep, having long since succumbed to the rhythm of hoof and wheel, and he woke up to see fire – two soldiers holding torches, the shadows rippling across the quilted seat in front of him. One of them gave him a prod on the shoulder and motioned him to follow.
Standing up, Sebastian pressed his hands to his face, rubbing himself back to life. Outside, the night air was damp, and it smelt of furrowed ground, when the rind of the earth has been split and fresh soil left open to the air. Two rows of tents lined a field of scrubby pasture, all erected with military conformity, their doors facing inwards. The soldiers were eating dinner round various campfires, sitting on chopped logs or their bedding to keep off the wet grass.
At the end of the camp stood a pavilion. Aside from its cleanliness, it appeared unremarkable – a block of perfect white topped by a tasselled fringe and two pennants. The inside was a different matter. Walled and roofed with silk, it was floored with exotic carpet, thick as sphagnum and soft on the tread. In the centre stood a low table laid for six, its porcelain, cutlery and glass perfectly arranged, set around a fruit bowl and lighted candelabras. The cardinal and his doctor were eating soup, the doctor’s bowl empty, the cardinal’s barely begun. Ever conscious of his appearance, Richelieu had somehow mustered the energy to change into soutane, zucchetto and full regalia, disguising the wasted body beneath. However, even sitting was an effort and he was breathing heavily, his mouth crinkled from the pain. With the cramped movement of someone not entirely in control of his body, he gestured Sebastian to take a seat. Observing the cardinal’s discomfort, Sebastian tried to tempt him into lying down, pretending to be exhausted from the journey and flopping onto a nearby cushion.
‘It’s been a long day, Your Eminence. Join me.’
‘Thank you for your sympathy. However, I will eat as I have always done.’ As Richelieu spoke, the doctor glanced upwards with exasperation.
‘Only the doctor and I are here – please rest.’
‘I’ll recover, Sebastian. I’ve spent the past thirty years being told to rest. If I’d listened to that advice, where would I be today? Besides, if this is the end, I’d rather die this way than on my back.’
The meal was four courses of small talk and protocol, interspersed with unbearable silence as Sebastian had to watch the cardinal struggle through the rest of his soup while he and the doctor made their way through venison, fowl and cherry pottage. Every mouthful was excruciating and before each swallow Richelieu would steady himself then force it down, his face crumpled with pain. Nevertheless, the merest mention of his illness would be met by silence, sarcasm or outright contempt. The doctor, meanwhile, seemed distracted throughout and was continually leaning towards Sebastian then checking himself. Judging by his facial contortions, he wanted to discuss a delicate matter but wasn’t sure how to broach it, and it took three glasses of wine before he finally summoned the courage to open his mouth.
‘I don’t quite know how to say this.’ He was picking at his moustache in an effort to mask his words. ‘But would you consider . . . well . . . selling me your body . . . I mean only once your soul has departed it? It’s just that you are, well, such a unique specimen.’
Sebastian’s immediate reaction was disgust. The thought of being anyone’s specimen revolted him. However, he still had a beggar’s instinct for coin, and thinking the matter over for a moment, he soon reconsidered. After all, it was free money, and what use is pride to a corpse?
‘How exactly am I going to spend it if I’m dead? You’ll have to pay upfront.’
‘That’s ridiculous. You could leave and never come back.’
‘You can trust me. I’m a man of honour, as I’m sure the cardinal will attest.’ Sebastian glanced at Richelieu, who concurred with a smile, either amused by the conversation or else simply relieved at being able to take a rest from his food. ‘Now you have the guarantee of the Chief Minister of France. Is that enough?’
Left with no choice but to accept, the doctor flinched with dissatisfaction before sullenly agreeing. They had moved to haggling over details, specifically the cost of Sebastian’s remains, when they were interrupted by the sound of raised voices and weapons being drawn. A moment later a soldier appeared at the door, announcin
g that the Marquis de Cinq-Mars had arrived and was demanding to speak to the cardinal. Richelieu steadied himself for the occasion, drawing himself upright, then wiping his face and locking it into place. Looking back at the night-sparkled entranceway, he instructed the guard to lead the marquis inside.
A few moments later Cinq-Mars appeared. He looked pointlessly handsome, sporting a flamboyant hat and black feather, his short ruff rising from a collar of Chantilly lace. Even his boots were ostentatious: crafted from the softest Swedish leather, their tops red with yellow trim. Glancing down, he noticed the cardinal – then Sebastian.
‘Dwarf, what a pleasure to see you, and your master too. Truly, I’m honoured.’ Striding in, he sat down – unasked.
‘As are we,’ Richelieu replied, brutally cordial. ‘Would you care for some wine?’
‘No, thank you, I’ve already shared a bottle with the King.’ The implication was clear enough. ‘Doubtless Sebastian has informed you of his stay at the Château Dampierre.’
‘Naturally, and be assured you’ll suffer for it.’
‘Do you really think you can intimidate me, old man?’ Cinq-Mars enunciated each word to prevent any misunderstanding. ‘Take a look at yourself. You can’t even stand. Why not just give up and die?’
Sebastian stiffened, expecting an eruption. No one spoke to Richelieu that way: with anger perhaps, hatred even, but never contempt. Instead there was only silence. Curious, he looked around and saw a washed-out face straining for breath. ‘I won’t die, not for you, Henri.’ The words were grated, forced out of the back of the throat.
‘You know what offends me most. It’s not what you’ve done, it’s what you haven’t. You wasted your power. You brought no glory to France, no victories worth the name – Arras and Soissons, a siege and a farce. You made cowards of us and now we don’t even have the men to attack our enemies. Yes, we survived, but at what cost? Our youth is dead. Our borders are open. What was the purpose of it all?’
Richelieu rasped out a cough, then motioned Cinq-Mars closer. ‘You’re an idiot, Henri.’ Despite the weakness of his voice, it had lost none of its snap. ‘You think you’re some modern Alexander, that you can somehow march out and conquer Europe. It’s fantasy. We never had the men or weapons to protect ourselves, let alone invade. Even if we did, we’d simply be leaving ourselves open to attack. All I can do is keep the country safe – guard it. A lamp in the storm.’
‘A lamp? That’s the best you can come up with? You think I’ll be impressed? There’s no glory in a lamp. We’re remembered for the wars we fight, for our boldness, our courage. Not giving up without so much as showing our claws.’
‘What pretty words, marquis.’ The cardinal’s voice remained feeble and his face was flushed with the effort of concentration. ‘However, had you governed anything of significance, you might have learned it’s rather easier to lose a battle than avoid one. Unless you haven’t realised, we’re surrounded on three sides. We cannot possibly win. All we can do is keep our enemies occupied and away from us. There simply is no other way to survive.’
Cinq-Mars was barely paying attention and gazed at the tabletop, deep in thought. After a few moments he seemed to reach some kind of conclusion, nodded briskly to himself and stood up.
‘You know what . . .’ he said, drawing his sword. ‘It doesn’t matter what you think. You’re of no interest to me. I could kill you right now.’ He took two paces forward, resting the tip of his rapier on the centre of the cardinal’s chest. Richelieu looked down at the blade with mild disappointment, not afraid in the slightest. Sebastian, however, was transfixed, so concentrated on the weapon that he forgot entirely about the person at the end of it.
‘Henri, please stop these cheap displays. There’s nothing heroic about threatening an unarmed man, especially when you’re never going to carry it out. You know as well as I do that there’s an entire garrison of soldiers outside. You wouldn’t even reach the door . . . anyway, why kill me yourself when you’ve already paid an assassin to do it for you?’
The sword-point wavered before returning to position.
‘Yes, I know you’ve hired someone to murder me . . . which is a treasonable offence, in case you were unaware. So if one of us should be making threats, it isn’t you.’
The rapier remained horizontal a moment longer before flicking up and returning to its scabbard. On the way Cinq-Mars couldn’t resist nicking one of the cardinal’s sleeves, exposing a diamond of shirt below, as white as the pale skin it covered.
‘You can’t win. I’ll always have time on my side.’
‘Time is on no one’s side. It defeats us all in the end.’
‘Some more than others, and frankly I have no time left to waste on you,’ Cinq-Mars finished, striding out of the tent without giving the cardinal a chance to reply. The remark was intended to be emphatic but instead appeared petulant, that he was leaving because he had nothing left to say.
Once the marquis had departed, there was a moment of unearthly silence, reminiscent of the interval between the last line of a play and the subsequent applause, as the audience waits, unsure whether to end the illusion. Sebastian was the first to speak, turning to the cardinal.
‘How did you know? About the assassin, I mean?’
‘I didn’t.’ Richelieu wheezed. ‘It seemed reasonable they would try every possibility. Chevreuse put him up to it, no doubt.’
‘You don’t seem afraid.’
‘Of course not. People will try to kill me. It’s inescapable, a fact of power. I take what precautions I can, as those before me have done. They may work, they may not. But I’ll worry about the things I have control over, not those I don’t.’
The remainder of the night was subdued, barring the ongoing and heated negotiation between Sebastian and the doctor, which was completed shortly after dessert with his mortal remains being valued at three livres and four sous, a livre for each foot and a sou for every inch left over.
* * *
The King had reached Valance. It had been a long and tedious journey. Every trip seemed more boring than the last. Having criss-crossed his realm over the years, Louis’ main conclusion was that it was above all extremely flat – with the notable exception of the Massif Central where no one seemed to live. The hours spent on his horse would merge into the same view of sky and earth, until the journey was finally over and he could drop onto his mattress, drained from the heat and the saddle. This particular evening, he was staring at an expanse of ploughed fields, their emptiness broken by a lone elm in the distance. He was, however, unable to make out the two people beneath it. Both were trying to stay out of sight, keeping close to the trunk so that their forms merged with its shadow.
‘How is he?’ one asked. Hidden beneath a cowl, the figure was anonymous – though the voice was a woman’s. She had a narcotic perfume, thick with helichrysum and neroli, and wore a ring of amethyst on her left hand.
‘I left him in the tent, to think.’ Her companion was taller – a young man, judging by his voice, still cracked from adolescence.
‘Think what? Did you tell him everything I said?’ The words were spoken sotto voce, the voice easy on the ear – that lullaby rhythm of fairy tales.
‘Of course. You were right. His resentment of Richelieu. I’d never realised.’
‘It’s hard to live in another man’s shadow – doubly hard if you’re a king.’
‘I know. When I told Louis to get rid of him . . .’
‘You did what?’ The interruption was more stabbed than spoken.
‘I told him to get rid of Richelieu.’
‘Never tell a king what to do, never.’ She was furious, jabbing a finger, the digit leading the whole body behind. ‘You can’t give orders to the ruler of a country. Don’t you understand? The man’s been brought up as a god. People don’t tell him to do things, they suggest or imply. He’ll think you’re a fool. Your purpose is to put the ideas in his head, then let him decide . . . What did he say, anyway?’
&n
bsp; ‘He said I didn’t understand. That the cardinal held the country together, kept control, that without him, it would all fall apart. Even so, he was definitely considering it. It won’t be long now.’
‘It’ll be a damn sight faster if you do as I say. It’s not difficult. Just use Louis’ arguments against him. Tell him he’s right, that the whole country depends on Richelieu. That no one can replace him and when he dies everything’s going to fall apart. Then something casual. Maybe about how they’ll have no problem in Madrid finding a successor for that fool Olivares. That’ll sow the seed in his mind.’
‘What? About having a successor? How’s that going to make a difference?’
‘I’ve told you before. We’ll never get enough support as long as that bastard’s in power. It doesn’t matter how old and sick he is, people are still terrified of him. The name’s enough.’
‘So who should it be? Mazarin?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Once the cardinal’s gone, the rest will follow. The moment there’s a whiff of crisis they’ll start fighting among themselves.’
The man moved behind her and cupped her breasts. She lay against him, resting her head on his shoulder. Then her hood fell back, revealing a face made young in the evening light. The man was younger still, his features blank from their lack of years. Uncomplicated, early love – two innocents starting on a life together. After a moment or two, she broke the illusion, pulling away from him. Much as she was attracted by his youth she also found herself repelled by it. With the spontaneity came a thoughtless idiocy. He remained a constant frustration, following instructions but without elegance, like a cheap and shoddy puppet. No matter what she did, the strings would tangle and every movement seemed to jar and stutter.
‘One thing I’ve been meaning to ask,’ he added. ‘What the dwarf said; it’s true isn’t it? That you were born a commoner?’
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