* * *
Richelieu spent the morning refusing to die, concentrating ruthlessly on his work while trying to withstand the pain. After calling in his secretary, he managed to dictate two despatches and respond to a report. The words came slowly, in short sentences through taut lips. However, as the day wore on, he showed a few signs of recovery, managing to sign a backlog of documents and even drinking a cup of water. Then, at a few minutes past noon, the priest arrived.
After being let in by the guards, the clergyman waited in the corner as Richelieu completed his review of the King’s accounts. Once satisfied that the books were in order, the cardinal turned to his visitor. He was dressed simply – in cassock and collar – but it was his shoes that drew Richelieu’s eye. They were clean and sharp-toed, made for silence and comfort, not the weather-beaten boots of a man who spent his days trudging a parish. Then he noticed a tell-tale glint from inside his robe.
‘Quid defluis?’ he asked, only to be met by a baffled smile. ‘You’re no priest . . .’
‘But I’ll bring you closer to God,’ the man replied, producing a pistol and motioning the secretary to the corner. ‘The gun under your pillow. Throw it on the floor.’
‘You’ve been well informed.’ Wincing from the effort, Richelieu managed to pull out the weapon and toss it onto the tiles before collapsing back onto the mattress. When he finally spoke it was with closed eyes, concentrating only on what he had to say.
‘I’ve done as you ask. Now, since you’re about to kill me, at least tell me why.’
‘For money.’
‘If I pay you double?’
‘I’ve given my word.’
‘And you know who I am?’
‘Who doesn’t? You’re Cardinal Richelieu, the most hated man in France.’
A smile passed across the cardinal’s lips. Despite the situation, he still took pleasure in his notoriety. ‘Be that as it may, you realise what you’re about to do?’
‘Don’t try your clever words on me.’
‘I won’t, but at least assure me you understand the consequences.’
‘I know the consequences. I’m not afraid.’
‘I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about your family, your town, your country.’
The man nodded, his pistol still levelled at Richelieu’s forehead.
‘This is a kingdom at war, and it is not a war we’re winning. We’ve been attacked mercilessly. Four years ago we almost lost Paris. If our enemies hadn’t run out of money, we wouldn’t be talking now. Since then they’ve attacked us from the south-west, and remain a threat from both north and east. Make no mistake, they will invade at the first opportunity. But there is hope. The people are tired of battle. Both Portugal and Catalonia have rebelled against Spain – revolts that I am paying for, that would not survive without my help. If these uprisings continue, even spread, there could yet be peace. After twenty-three years, this war that has ravaged our continent might actually come to an end. But if I was to die unexpectedly, ask yourself what would happen then?’
‘You’re saying we’d be attacked.’
‘I can’t read the future. But we’ve survived until now, and if you kill me, we may well not. You hold the fate of an entire people in your hand. The people you serve, Gaston and Chevreuse, they mean to ally with Spain – have no illusion about that. We will be ruled from Madrid. Our taxes will go to Philip and we will suffer the inquisition. Now you may still choose to fire that pistol. All I ask is that you give it the consideration it deserves.’
The cardinal’s response was met by a conspicuous pause, then his eyes snapped open.
‘Hurry. You still have time.’
Once the room was empty and the footsteps had receded into the faraway hum, Richelieu turned to his secretary, who was still staring at the spot where the assassin had just been.
‘I imagine that’s the first time you’ve been at the wrong end of a weapon?’
The secretary gave a jolt, seemingly having forgotten the cardinal’s presence, then mumbled his agreement in a still-shocked tone.
‘A word of advice, next time you face an armed man, remember he’s every bit as scared as you. Murder is a hanging offence, slow death at the end of a rope. You can be sure he’s looking for an excuse not to do it. Any reason will do, just give it to him and he’ll do the rest.’
‘But why not kill him? What if he comes back?’
‘He won’t. Not once Chevreuse finds out what he’s done. I give him a week at best.’
* * *
The chess set was from the Far East, ivory-carved with one side stained black. Its pieces were sculpted in human form, with peasants for pawns and men-at-arms for the bishops and knights, the king and queen fine-carved in their robes of state. Each had been created by a different craftsman and there were subtle variations even from pawn to pawn – some carrying cleft staves, others scythes, some clubs and hatchets.
Each man’s play reflected his personality, both searching for glory and the heroic attack – the double Muzio Gambit, with white sacrificing a knight and bishop in the first eight moves. Louis, now with king exposed and under attack from queen and rook, decided against any hasty response and chuckled to himself before looking across at Cinq-Mars.
‘This will leave one of us looking like a fool.’
‘Better foolish than forgettable.’ Then Cinq-Mars hesitated a moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added. The apology explained the pause. Remorse didn’t come easily to him. ‘I’ve spoken harshly about the cardinal. It’s not fair, he’s done great things for France.’
Louis stared back in astonishment, momentarily silenced. It was the first time he had heard the marquis express regret.
‘My only worry is that he’s too great a man, too important, irreplaceable.’ Cinq-Mars paused again, tiptoeing forward, giving Louis every chance to respond. ‘To the point where his death would put us under immediate risk of attack.’
‘Guh-guh-gathering an army that quickly is difficult.’
‘But it can be done. I believe the cardinal himself has managed it before.’ The reply was too quick, too rehearsed and Louis sensed it. He looked away, his eyebrows accented with suspicion.
‘Perhaps. Buh-buh-but as we have established, the cardinal is an exceptional man.’
‘I agree, but he’s going to die. The whole court knows it, and so will Spain. They must have something planned.’
Louis didn’t respond and considered the marquis’ words while adopting a suitably regal pose: rubbing his lower lip, head turned away a fraction, gaze fixed on the far distance.
‘The thought had crossed my muh-mind.’
‘All I’m suggesting is relieving him of a few powers, just to reassure people that something’s in place. So there’s no confusion when Richelieu goes. Wasn’t it you who told me of the need for continuity?’
‘And if the cardinal recovers?’
‘What of it? All you will have done is highlight his successor. Anything you’ve handed over you can return. But I can’t imagine it happening. The man hasn’t left his bed in months. Last time I saw him he could barely speak. In truth, I’m amazed he’s lived as long as he has.’
‘I too am sick.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous . . .’ The marquis dismissed the remark with a smile. ‘But even if that were the case, wouldn’t it be doubly important to put someone in place? I mean if you were both to die . . .’
‘That still leaves the problem of telling the cardinal,’ Louis murmured. It was a vague reply but the change in the conversation was concrete – if had now become how.
* * *
With a deep breath, Sebastian skimmed the documents in front of him. Despite the impossibility of the task, he didn’t have time to waste being despondent. His only chance was to look and hope. None of them resembled the treaty. He remembered a stamp of lapis blue and gold leaf, but all he could see were piles of bare parchment and plain wax seals. Then he noticed movement to his left and glanced round to see the man at the desk. He wa
s wearing a gold-stitched doublet and pantaloons. The face was familiar: a beard, plump lips, the palest of skin and bulbous eyes. He couldn’t put a name to it at first, but then he remembered the portrait from the corridor outside. God almighty – he was looking at Philip IV, ruler of Spain, Portugal, the Netherlands and the New World. The most powerful man in Christendom was two yards away and staring directly at him. Philip’s mouth moved, producing a phrase which the echo of the helmet rendered completely unintelligible. He remained paralysed, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the situation. His mind had emptied itself and though he knew he had to do something, he had no idea what. Fighting the urge to flee, he stumbled forward and hugged the King’s leg. It was at that precise moment, as he turned his head, that he caught a flash of blue. The treaty, or something similar to it, was lying beside the desk. His instinct was to grab it and run, but he had no chance of passing the guards on the door. Looking back at Philip, he could see the King’s mouth emitting a further stream of gibberish. Then his surroundings transformed. Noise, light and air – the world outside was rushing into his head. It took him a moment to comprehend it. Philip was pulling off his helmet, no doubt to kiss him. Stiffening with panic, he flung up his hands and managed to haul it back in place. Hurriedly he glanced across to check the King’s reaction. But he was smiling, seemingly amused by this act of petulance, and had already returned to his work. Then, as Sebastian was tottering for the door, his moment came – and during the instant his back was to Philip, he managed to grab the paper, sliding it beneath his breastplate before escaping the room.
* * *
‘Is that what I think it is?’ the cardinal’s voice sharpened with interest. Sebastian had found him in the steam-room in Arles, where he was currently being treated with a series of hot baths. Surrounded by smoke, he appeared half-dead, floating midway between heaven and earth, his arms outstretched along the ledge behind him. A man who had made peace with the world and whose mind had turned to less earthly matters. However, as he caught sight of the paper in Sebastian’s hand, the torpor seemed to lift and the bridge of his nose crinkled slightly as he peered through the mist.
Sebastian nodded.
‘I would say I’m surprised, but you’d probably find that offensive.’
‘I would.’
‘It has his signature and seal?’
‘Of course.’
As the cardinal reached out to take the document, he smiled with an unfamiliar innocence, forgetting himself in delight. Unfolding it carefully, he examined the contents while shaking his head with disbelief. The seals and the names were all there, in a neat line: Lorraine, Gaston, Fontrailles, Bouillon, Philip and, right at the end – Henri Coiffier de Ruzé. He continued to stare. Something had to be wrong – the text could be inconclusive, the signatures could be false. However, after checking and rechecking, there was no doubt: the words were explicit, the meaning clear, the crest of every signatory present. He turned back to Sebastian and asked to hear the story from the beginning. Delighted to oblige, Sebastian regaled the cardinal with his various triumphs and failures, finishing with a spectacular account of a hailstorm while crossing the Pyrenees on his return. After which Richelieu drew the performance to a close.
‘Thank you, it appears I’m going to have a rather busier day than I had anticipated,’ he said, lifting himself upright with some difficulty and calling for the steward to bring his clothes. Within the hour the building was frenetic with activity: people packing, giving orders, carrying boxes and trunks, horses being fed and coaches being prepared. The order had been given; they would be returning to Paris immediately.
* * *
The design of the chapel was simple, almost stylised – its nave without aisles, flanked by rounded arches leading to the altar. A single beam of light shone down into the transept from a window in the dome overhead, while the only decoration consisted of the candles in tall sconces, one placed in each of the eight corners. A solitary figure knelt at the chancel, head bowed, deep in prayer. Dressed in a white shirt and loose trousers, he resembled a priest of some sort, and Sebastian suspected it was either Père Joseph or Mazarin. It was only when they were a few feet away that the man turned around to reveal the face of Louis XIII. Sebastian had spoken to the King before, but this time was different – it was just him, Louis and the cardinal. He thought back to his encounter with Philip and felt the same sense of awe, knowing he should do something but not sure exactly what. Then he noticed his eyes were at the same level as the King’s and realising the breech of protocol, flung himself to the ground.
‘Your Majesty, I had no idea it was you.’
Smiling, Louis got up off his knees and shook his head, motioning him to stand. The cardinal remained upright, head lowered, evidently unable to bow and clutching his crosier for support.
‘Armand. I wasn’t expecting a visit so soon. The marquis told me you were breathing your last.’
‘He may come to wish that I had.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This treaty has recently fallen into our hands. I was wondering if you would care to take action.’ Sebastian noticed a difference in the cardinal’s voice. It sounded meek and nasal, bereft of its usual snap. Servility didn’t suit him. It felt wrong – as though he was looking at him undressed, nothing but grey and sagging flesh – and he stared down at his feet. Louis, however, seemed well accustomed to flattery and took the document without a word. Examining it briefly, he grimaced and shook his head.
‘Have them all arrested and Gaston exiled.’ His voice was calm, a hush of disappointment, nothing more. Sebastian was surprised by the lack of reaction. It seemed callous bordering on blasé. With a glance and a couple of words, he had condemned his favourite to death. A man he had been infatuated with for the previous two years, who had dominated his every waking hour, was now facing torture and the executioner’s block. He didn’t even seem surprised, so used to people being corrupted by power that he had simply come to expect it.
‘Your Majesty, I would also like to introduce the agent who uncovered the plot.’ Richelieu motioned at Sebastian, who continued to scrutinise his toes, alarmed the King might somehow find his gaze impertinent. He could hear muttering, no doubt Richelieu confirming to Louis that his saviour was indeed a dwarf.
‘You are allowed to look at me. I’m not so repulsive, you know.’
Sebastian was too nervous to observe Louis’ joke. ‘It truly is an honour, Your Majesty . . .’
‘I remember you,’ the King interrupted. ‘You’re the one who jumps out of the pie on my birthday . . . How did you get hold of this?’
Sebastian began to explain but could see the King lose interest after a minute or so. Though he was nodding along, his stare had drifted into the middle distance and his smile was thin and forced, similar to the boredom of a child being introduced to an unknown relative. Understandable enough – the man probably spent half his life having to be polite to complete strangers. So, after cutting his story absurdly short, Sebastian departed as quickly as was possible while both walking backwards and adding appropriate salutations and bows.
Richelieu had clearly intended the meeting as a reward, for him to be acknowledged by the King for his services, but he found the experience profoundly unsatisfying. He had hoped that three years of ridiculing himself in front of the man might have left some impression, but evidently not. Instead, it was merely another reminder of his own unimportance, as though he had met God only to be mistaken for someone else.
* * *
Richelieu approached the cell prepared for confrontation, head and chin lowered for the charge, his crosier clanging the stone flags to the rhythm of his walk, its echo plangent as an iron bell. Dressed in his black soutane, collar and wig, he looked more like a judge than a priest as he stared fixedly at the metal door in front of him, his eyes if not as bright then at least as hard as they had ever been.
After being let in by the guard, he advanced into a low-ceilinged chamber of oppressive pr
oportions, its stone walls glossed with slime, the damp thick in the nose. A figure sat crouched beneath the slit window at the far end, chained by its left ankle to the wall. Hearing the visitor’s footsteps, it looked up sullenly. The face was not immediately recognisable as Cinq-Mars. Roughened with beard and whitened from the dark, he was already succumbing to the conditions and greeted the cardinal with a hacking cough.
‘Come to gloat, I see.’
‘I take no pleasure in this.’
‘Why don’t you sod off then?’
The cardinal shook his head, his nostrils pinched in disgust. ‘Do you know why I wear this soutane?’
Cinq-Mars didn’t reply.
‘It doesn’t stain. I reserve it for those occasions when blood may be involved.’ Despite his assurance to the contrary, Richelieu lingered over the words with considerable malice. ‘Do you think there will be blood involved?’
‘Judging by the fact I’m not going to tell you a damn thing, then yes, I’d say there’s going to be blood involved.’
‘Don’t play the hero. You’re a traitor. If you don’t co-operate, you’ll regret it – at your leisure and in considerable pain. Confess quickly and you may just survive.’
‘And Gaston? Is he being tortured too?’
‘Gaston? The man’s an irrelevance. He betrayed you long ago. Not that we needed him to. We already have all the evidence we need.’ The cardinal drew the treaty from his soutane and held it in front of Cinq-Mars.
‘Are you going to talk at me all day or get this over with?’
‘Very well.’ The cardinal turned to walk away, then paused and looked back – his eyes softer now. ‘At least tell me this. What possessed you? You were the King’s favourite. You had money, power . . . Why?’
‘You never understood . . .’ Cinq-Mars clenched a smile. ‘What it’s like to be powerless, to mean nothing. Knowing you’ll be forgotten, an addendum – not even that. This was my chance. You would have done the same.’
‘No, I would have waited. That was always your problem, Henri. You were always too greedy. You never had the patience.’
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