The Cardinal's Man

by M. G. Sinclair

  The reaction was immediate. She spun around, rigid and indignant.

  ‘How dare you? Listening to that dwarf’s lies. If you ever repeat that . . . I swear . . .’ Then she caught herself mid-sentence, realising her anger had given her away. He observed her with a schoolboy smirk – the master outwitted.

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell.’

  She paused and looked away. ‘Don’t talk about what you don’t understand. You’ve no idea what it’s like to be cold, hungry, covered with lice every night. All the time looking for shelter, your next meal. Like some . . . animal. Then to see a life like this. Who wouldn’t give everything for such a chance? I worked for that woman for four years. Watching her try on beautiful dresses, eat off silver, play paille-maille. And when she was dying, I did all I could. No, I did nothing wrong.’ Unsettled by the memory, she flinched and looked back at him. ‘Now look at me. We will never discuss this again, do you understand?’ And Chevreuse angled her head, peering into Cinq-Mars’ pupils, searching for light in the dark.

  * * *

  As the journey continued, its futility became increasingly obvious. Every day the cardinal grew sicker. What was once a man had now become little more than a husk, cratered with bedsores and flaked dry. Even so the spirit remained. He was determined to catch the King, insisting on early starts every morning and urging the coachman to use the whip. But the body couldn’t keep up and he would invariably pass out or vomit within the hour, forcing them to stop. Eventually he would recover enough to speak, then pronounce himself fine and order them forward – only to collapse a few miles later, at which point the whole performance would begin again. Towards the end, it bordered on pathetic. They couldn’t even keep pace with their retinue, who had already slowed to a dawdle, forcing them to spend nights incognito in cheap inns, huddled alone in their beds, trying to keep out the chill. Looking at the cardinal’s skeletal body in the dank, unfurnished rooms, Sebastian was often reminded of his mother’s final days and inevitably her death – the screaming mouth and naked body scrambling for escape.

  A few miles before Narbonne, Sebastian decided he’d had enough. It wasn’t simply the pointlessness of the journey but the indignities the cardinal had inflicted on himself: the vomiting, the exhaustion, the incessant commands to keep moving, clinging to moribund hopes. He couldn’t see that a determination that had once seemed admirable now simply appeared desperate. The guards had even started a lottery, betting on the day he was going to die. It was an insulting end for a great man; twenty years of serving France deserved more than ridicule.

  They had just finished the tenth stop of the day, brought on by the cardinal spewing into a bucket which Sebastian kept nearby for use at a moment’s notice – holding the pail in place while trying to keep his nose away from the reek. Eventually, after half an hour of intermittent retching, Richelieu recovered enough to demand they get back on the road, only for Sebastian to interrupt.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Lord Cardinal, I’d like a word in confidence.’

  ‘In case you hadn’t realised, I’m in a hurry. We can discuss this in the coach.’

  ‘I’m afraid it can’t wait.’

  ‘It’s going to have to.’

  Sebastian didn’t reply, instead fortifying himself with a deep breath before turning to face both doctor and coachman.

  ‘Leave us,’ he demanded, pointing them out of the carriage without giving either one the chance to reply, then closing the door. The cardinal remained speechless throughout, glaring across from his stretcher.

  ‘Do not defy me.’

  ‘Forgive me, Your Eminence. You know I would never disobey you without good reason, that I’ve risked my life for you many times. But I can’t let you do this. You’re killing yourself. This has to end.’

  Without the strength to sustain his anger, the cardinal fell back and yielded with a sigh. ‘You forget there’s an assassin out there, waiting for me to stop.’ He motioned at the wilderness. ‘We must keep going. I have no other choice.’

  ‘What about the paper? The one Cinq-Mars signed.’

  ‘I sent an agent but he arrived too late. It’s already in Madrid, locked in the King’s cabinet. There’s nothing anyone can do. It’s over.’ Then he paused. ‘Though you know what annoys me most. I’ve seen the back of so many – Chalais, Marillac, La Vieuville, Marie de Medici, Montmorency. So many giants, brilliant minds, and to be defeated by an idiot . . .’ His voice tailed off, rueful yet resigned.

  ‘The treaty, I’ll get it for you,’ Sebastian responded with a shrug. At the time it seemed a perfectly reasonable suggestion. He’d never failed the cardinal before. There seemed no reason why he should now.

  ‘You’re a good agent, one of the best I have. But this? No. It’s in the King’s cabinet in the Royal Alcázar. It’s the most secure place in the most powerful kingdom in Europe. An army couldn’t get it out.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Eminence, but please understand I’m not doing this on your account. If I don’t find some way to stop him, Cinq-Mars is going to kill me. You say you don’t have a choice, well neither do I. I’m asking you, please let me go.’

  The cardinal winced. Ill or not, he was not accustomed to losing arguments. ‘Hmm . . . perhaps . . . and in truth you’ll probably be safer once you’re over the Pyrenees. I’ll send a letter by horse. I’ve a man at court. He can arrange work when you arrive.’ He was about to call for assistance when Sebastian interrupted.

  ‘One thing, Your Eminence.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If I do manage this, I’d like a pension, about four hundred livres a year . . . with no duties at court.’ He wasn’t used to making demands of the cardinal and the words were hesitant as he tried to gulp them back down his throat.

  Richelieu seemed more amused than surprised by the request and shrugged agreement. ‘Not much to ask, I suppose . . . but I’ll need his signature. And don’t try to pass off some forgery, I’ll know.’ Then he called for the guard. It was an awful noise to hear, the voice guttural, as if crying out of torn flesh.

  ‘Bring me a coach and a hundred livres.’

  * * *

  The cardinal took treatment in the abbey near Narbonne, where each day he was carried out into the garden to bake away his sores in the midday sun. Otherwise he would lie in bed, nibbling on dry crackers to suck up his phlegm, which resulted in raging thirst and endless bouts of coughing as the flakes caught in his throat.

  His room was medieval, walled in a patchwork of mortared stone, the only light from a small window, which offered a view onto ripening vines. After centuries sheltered from the elements, it had acquired that undercurrent of ancient places – a scent of baked earth waiting to be released by the rain. Mostly he would sit alone, contemplating his accelerating decline as his world grew smaller and smaller, now nothing more than the sixty square feet of his cell and the lawn outside. Soon he wouldn’t even be able to go outdoors and just the chamber would be left; after that only his bed and the ceiling above, his domain forever retreating as his senses continued to fade. Until that day when his universe would extend no further than the confines of his body – before the final indignity when he would lose control of even that. First the bladder and last of all the guts, when he regressed to worm; a tube with a mouth and an anus, immobile and abandoned to solitary, stinking death.

  His one solace remained the town of Richelieu, which he commanded to be brought from Paris and reassembled in his chamber. After twenty years it was finally complete, the bare spaces now replaced by houses, shops and families, civilisation where once there had only been grass and soil. At the centre of it stood his palace, now finished in every detail bar one – its owner. Twenty years had gone by and still he had never found time to visit it. Except in his mind, when during quieter moments he imagined a secluded retirement in contemplation of its arcs and symmetries.

  The model pleased him to look at: clean, straight, orderly, his to control – so unlike the outside world. This would be his leg
acy. Somewhere not built along Norman, Breton or Parisian lines. Instead, a logical grid, where everything was in its place, its people united by shared belief and culture, that showed France as it could and should be. Above all, a place that would survive.

  * * *

  Spain looked different – stern and imperial. It lacked the freedom of France – that fevered atmosphere of a country under siege. Instead it was conservative and enduring. A country which had given itself up entirely to God, its capital lined with abbeys and churches, where every stone and window seemed dedicated to the Almighty – whether through inscription or stained glass. Women wore huge ruffs known as devil’s cartwheels and the men tightly buttoned doublets. They stood still as ravens, lined before the altars as they waited to confess their transgressions and submit themselves to Christ. Even when they walked the streets, it was as if they had never left the pew. Sedate and silent, they kept every emotion contained; the men holding out a stiff arm, their wives’ limp hands resting in the crooks of their elbows.

  Yet, for all the displays of piety, the decadence was there for all to see. The country was overflowing with gold from the New World. It was everywhere: painted on walls and cornices, threaded into clothes, moulded into garishly proportioned brooches and altar-screens, and in such quantities that it seemed almost tawdry and Sebastian became nostalgic for the simple sophistication of silver and semi-precious stone.

  With nothing beyond a promise from Richelieu that he would be looked after, Sebastian had no idea what to expect when he first arrived at the Royal Alcázar. He had no friends, no patron – nothing beyond a reasonable memory of Spanish from his years with Père Jean. However, the moment he stepped off the coach he was astonished to be greeted by a royal footman who, after checking his name, announced that he was expected and his letter of introduction was exemplary. Unsure whether the man was a fellow agent or not, Sebastian limited his conversation to a brief thank-you and followed him inside.

  The Royal Alcázar turned out to be every bit as stifling as its surroundings, if not more so – choked by protocol and tradition. In their oversized ruffs, embroidery and dour colours, the courtiers looked as if they were from a bygone age. Pinched and squeezed, they stood in file before the throne, waiting for the herald to call their name, the royal chamber utterly silent except for the drone of petitions and responses. The building was no more welcoming than the people it contained; its rooms vast, lightless and lined with stern-faced forebears, wound together by a labyrinth of twisting corridors.

  Other aspects of court were more familiar. Much of his time was still spent enduring the indifference of people with an unwarranted sense of worth, and he was still required to perform the same moronic pastiches, though for considerably better pay at least.

  He was also able to spice up his act with a wicked impersonation of his master, performed with all the cruelty that familiarity brings. He took particular pleasure in mocking the cardinal’s pomposity, adopting his most pedantic and ponderous voice, along with a few smaller touches – his stiffness of movement and taste for the dramatic pause. For all its taboo thrill, though, there was always the nagging suspicion that somehow his every word was reaching Richelieu’s ear.

  Remarkably, it never once seemed to occur to anyone that he might be an agent of France. Despite the fact he spoke with an unashamedly French accent and had only arrived a few days earlier, they asked him no questions – even giving him a room and allowing him to wander the palace at will. Yet again his appearance seemed to have had its desired effect. He was rendered invisible to them, defined by nothing other than his size – an amusing insignificance.

  Sebastian devoted his spare time to Philip’s cabinet. Like Richelieu’s, it was hidden away and hard to find – a small, plain door in an unremarkable corridor on the second floor of the palace. The only indication of its importance were the guards flanking each side, along with the occasional officer of state waiting in the corridor or emerging with a suitably grave expression. A circuit of the area revealed the room to be windowless. Its ceiling and floor were reinforced, preventing any access from above or below, and it seemed to be almost permanently occupied.

  Initially, Sebastian was overwhelmed. Richelieu was right – there was no way in. Not that he let this put him off, partly from innate stubbornness, mostly from a lack of choice. With the alternatives exhausted, only one option remained: to enter directly, straight through the door. Clearly there was no obvious reason for a court dwarf to go inside, so it would have to involve some kind of deceit. Various outlandish schemes came to mind – creating a form of diversion while the door was open and sneaking in, concealing himself in a box and being carried inside, hiding beneath a large object as it was transported into the room – none of which held the slightest promise of success.

  At a complete loss, he trusted to chance and spent his spare hours wandering the corridor, observing the cabinet and hoping for inspiration. It made for dispiriting work, repetitive in the extreme: trudging the same sixty yards, looking at the same portraits and the same people walking in and out – the King, his secretary, the Count of Olivares, Don Baltasar de Zúñiga. After a while it felt like a prison, locked between narrow and windowless walls with no one to talk to, nothing to do and no hope of an end. Despite the toil and tedium, he persevered, no longer sustained by hope but simply the absence of anything else to do. Until on the sixth day a new visitor arrived. It took Sebastian a while to believe his eyes, but he appeared to be looking at a four-foot-tall knight dressed in a full suit of armour.

  * * *

  The cardinal awoke in the dark, devoured by pain. He knew he was going to die. The agony was excruciating, a blade churning in his gut. He couldn’t get up, couldn’t think and writhed in his sheets, praying for a death that refused to come. Remorseless as crucifixion, the pain continued. It reached the point where he couldn’t bear it any more, and still it did not stop. Eventually he gave up and broke down, weeping and pleading for mercy. He hadn’t cried in forty years but it made no difference. Finally, out of sheer desperation, he scrabbled for the pistol beneath his mattress, intent on putting an end to his misery with a bullet to the head. It was futile, of course. He barely had the coordination to find the gun, let alone fire it.

  Respite arrived only with morning, by which time he was simply too tired to feel anything. Instead he lay prone for half an hour, numbing himself in the silence before at last being able to open his eyes and take in the light, after which he managed to roll into a sitting position and call for his doctor. The physician, always close by, appeared in moments.

  ‘I can’t move. I’m dying.’

  ‘Rest, you’re ill. You need time to heal.’

  ‘I’m dying, you idiot. I don’t need rest.’ Despite his condition, Richelieu had lost none of his disdain. ‘Now fetch me . . .’ He halted mid-sentence and his body stiffened with pain.

  ‘It seems to be an obstruction of some kind. Now if you’ll let me examine your phlegm . . .’

  ‘Bring me a priest.’ The words were hissed through gritted teeth.

  ‘Don’t give up, Your Eminence. There’s still hope. Many times I’ve seen patients recover from your circumstances – often worse.’

  ‘You’ve seen them die too. Fetch me a priest.’

  ‘There is no priest here.’

  ‘Père Joseph.’

  ‘Père Joseph has left for the Holy See, Your Eminence. He has an audience with the Pope. I would have to go to the local village.’

  ‘Then go.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Go. I will not enter the next world unblessed.’

  * * *

  After putting on the armour, Sebastian walked out into a different and more unpleasant world. His vision was restricted to a thin slit and all he could hear was the pant of his own breath. Moreover, the suit was too large and exceedingly uncomfortable, digging in from all directions, the iron bitter in his nose. The helmet was particularly cumbersome, far too roomy and threatening to toppl
e off at any moment. If it hadn’t been for his hours spent pacing the corridors he would have found it impossible to find his bearings, but even with only a sliver to navigate by, he knew which way to go.

  As he moved forward, he could feel the metal still slippery with the boy’s sweat. It had been a devil of a business to get hold of, three days of trailing after Prince Balthasar and his nurse until finally the weather became hot enough for the wretched child to remove his prized possession. Even now, it could be only a matter of minutes before he realised it had disappeared.

  Rounding the corner, Sebastian tried to advance in a straight line while keeping his balance. Only at the door, when he caught a glimpse of the guard’s panache – a dazzling white feather reminiscent of Henry the Great – did he fully comprehend the danger he was in. But the guard was staring at him and it was too late to turn back. He had no choice except to lumber forward, aiming for a space between the sentries while praying to God that the door was going to open. Miraculously it did, and the room revealed itself before him: a sepulchral twilight in which a single figure was hunched over a desk beside a guttering candle.

  Suddenly he felt a sharp strike on top of his helmet and jolted to a stop, terrified he’d been discovered. Unable to see, he steadied himself to run, planning to fling himself out of the nearest window in the hope the armour might somehow break his fall. Then he heard an echo of laughter and realised the sentry was simply patting his head. Staggering forward once again, he could now see recesses and shelves lining the walls of the chamber, and above all, documents. Documents on the desk, stuffed in alcoves, piled in corners, stacked on ledges. Documents on documents, documents in documents; half-open, locked away, scattered on the floor; some labelled, some torn, some that seemed to contain nothing at all; more documents than he could count, let alone read. It felt like staring into infinity, a lifetime’s work when he only had a minute or two at the most.