Flight
(1643)
The King first fell sick in February, during one of his many retreats from Paris to Saint-Germain. Despite recovering briefly, he soon suffered a relapse and was forced to his chambers, where he lay in bed making preparations for his death: summoning his councillors, writing his will, apologising to his wife for any pain he had caused, and blessing his children. The doctors treated him as best they could, with a course of enemas and bleeding, which he endured with the royal dignity demanded of him – though it did no good. Every day he more closely resembled the marble figure that would mark his tomb: lying on his back, his body hardening and growing ever colder while his skin lightened into a preternatural white, his hands locked in never-ending prayer.
As the King’s illness worsened, the court became consumed by worry and inaction. Without their monarch, the nobles had no purpose and wandered the Louvre aimlessly – queenless bees, milling about the hive in hope of their ruler’s return. Strangely, there was little conspiracy, no reports of plots or scheming. People wanted certainty, not intrigue – for life to return to the way it had been. Nobody disputed the succession. Jules Mazarin was already serving in the cardinal’s place and Louis made it clear his wife would be regent during his son’s minority. Without rumour or dissent, instead the court was dominated by silence, and though Louis was still alive, it felt as if the funeral had already begun.
Concerned as Sebastian was for the health of the King, he was far more worried about his own. Anne would be regent, which meant the return of Chevreuse, who would undoubtedly want to finish off what she had failed to achieve the first time round. France was no longer safe for him – which immediately raised the question of where to escape. He knew nobody in Flanders or Italy, leaving only one alternative; to flee for Madrid. Fortunately, his stealing of the treaty seemed to have passed unnoticed so he could be sure of finding work at court, a necessity as he could no longer claim his pension. The only real obstacle would be the cost of the journey, a ruinous undertaking as he needed to travel by coach and alone due to the risk of being robbed. What little money he had left would barely cover a quarter of it, and after visiting the court bursar he was politely informed his next payment wouldn’t be due for another four weeks. Having no choice but to wait, he spent the intervening time unobtrusively, hoping to be forgotten and left to make his escape. To make every sou go as far as possible, he lived frugally: only venturing outside to buy food and the occasional necessity, and making do with tallow candles which made his room stink of beef fat – not even spending money on paper and ink. He kept his mind off the confines of his room by working furiously, rereading all the books in his collection and writing short compositions on chalk and slate. Without even the money to spend on pamphlets, he lost all sense of the city outside except for the bells of Notre-Dame as they called the faithful to prayer and rang out the ends of each hour. He came to chart his day by them, beginning his work after matins before taking a meal on the stroke of lauds and finishing his day at vespers. Over time he was able to decipher their code – which occasions merited all five bells and the ones when the great Emmanuel tolled alone. Then one night, long after compline, he heard it: dirge-like, a slow vibration through the midnight air, repeating its single unchanging note. The time was so unusual and the pace so leaden that he knew instantly what it meant.
The King was dead.
After a momentary pause, Sebastian transformed into a flurry of motion, flinging whatever he could find into a hessian sack: money, books, clothes, even his blankets. Scampering downstairs, he reached the side entrance just in time to see a couple of soldiers arrive at the door. In his desperation to escape, he barely noticed and only looked round when the larger of two shouted something, then grabbed him by the collar. Bewildered, he gazed up to see a florid face with a cratered nose, the mouth gaping mid-guffaw as the man shared some inane joke with his colleague – doubtless about his height. It didn’t make sense. How could they be arresting him already? It was too soon.
‘I don’t understand.’ The words were muttered, not spoken – his mind thinking aloud. ‘The King’s only just died.’
Still laughing, the soldier choked out an unintelligible reply that Sebastian eventually deciphered to mean the King had died that afternoon and the Queen had dispatched them before issuing the announcement.
‘And where are you taking me?’
This time the words were all too clear.
‘The Bastille.’ The soldier steered him forward and out onto the street. ‘I see you’re already packed,’ he added, noticing Sebastian’s sack. While the man’s colleague seemed amused by the remark, Sebastian barely registered it. The world had suddenly acquired an unreal quality, as if he was already looking at it through the eyes of the dead, and he plodded forward unaware of the hubbub around him while people spilled onto the streets, all agog with the news.
Sebastian’s abiding memory of the journey was the front of the Bastille. Previously he knew nothing about the prison beyond its reputation as a fortress. It was a place of rumour, by necessity as no one had ever escaped its walls and its guards were the king’s finest, not the type to talk. All the stories followed the same broad theme, of a place without hope, its prisoners locked away until the end of their days – never to emerge again. And while Sebastian tended to be sceptical of hearsay, walking through the gate he was confronted by an impregnable cliff of stone and cement, its windows narrow as squinting eyes, its turrets jutting upwards – a crown of sharp horns. Each block of its ramparts weighed at least a ton, hewn to resist cannonballs, let alone men, and there were many, many blocks. The single entrance comprised a needle-thin doorway, flanked by sentries on each side, dull-eyed from the monotony of guarding its unchanging walls.
Despite the imposing entrance, the interior was relatively comfortable. His cell was clean, with space to walk and sleep. There was a small window, though far out of reach and offering only the tiniest crack of blue. In the corner was a mattress – filthy, but no worse than his childhood one in Camoches, along with a chamber pot deep in the corner, bulging out of the gloom.
After examining his new home, Sebastian threw himself on the bedding, trying to make sense of his situation. The Queen meant to execute him, of that he had no doubt. Her choice to imprison him as one of her first acts was a clear statement of intent. Memories of the marquis’ execution flashed through him: the crunch of the adze, the spray of blood, the dangle of his half-severed head. And for a moment he could feel the breeze of the axe on his neck. Jolting upright, he began to pace the room in furious circles, pawing at his face as he listened for the approaching footsteps of his executioner.
But no one came. And as the hours slipped by, he started to tire and his terror subsided into a morose acceptance that there was nothing to do but wait – for the moment at least.
It wasn’t until Sebastian’s eyes became attuned to the dark that he noticed the graffiti. The writing was everywhere, etched into the rock like a thousand tiny fossils, ranging from simple, scratched initials and dates, to chiselled epigrams – one even in ancient Greek. He couldn’t look at them without imagining the history of each one, though they were all sad stories and always with the same unpleasant conclusion.
Out of obligation, he added his own name to the list, rather unobtrusively, low down in the darkest corner. The work was slow as, having nothing sharp to hand, he was forced to use the side of a coin to wear away the stone. It took him over a day but he found the toil pleasantly absorbing. Forcing himself to concentrate on something, however mundane, allowed his mind to drift and his worries were replaced by an unexpected calm. He wasn’t sure why. And though he knew he should be frightened, in the silence and the emptiness it was hard to feel any sense of danger. Besides, he had nothing to fear from death. As the cardinal once said, he had achieved far more than had ever been expected of him. He had been born a malformed peasant boy, ignored and laughed at, unable to use even a net or a scythe. Yet he had lived. He had m
et, even crossed swords with, some of the greatest names of state, stayed in palaces beyond his childhood imaginings, received the thanks of a king. Because of him, France had a dauphin and had been spared civil war. His name might not go down in history, but he was one of the great anonymous: the negotiators, the diplomats and the spies who comprised the hands of state. He had still made his mark, every bit as indelible as the letters carved in front of him.
And yet . . .
Something didn’t sit comfortably. It seemed a poor death, to meekly accept his fate and whimper his way to the grave. He could still run, scream, love, hate, argue, punch, bite. And as long as he was alive, wasn’t there some chance of escape, however small? Admirable as nobility seemed, surely it was better to fight, to be heard, to end life as he would like to be remembered – with an exclamation mark rather than a full stop?
The thought inspired him, the chance to write his epitaph, his final cry before departing this earth. But what to say? What he had learned or remembered? Perhaps it was better not to discuss himself at all. And what emotion to instil? Pity, in the hope of being spared? Or defiance to the end? Intrigued by the possibilities, he immediately set to work and circled the few yards of floor, muttering alternatives under his breath.
His greatest problem was finding a way to take notes. Eventually he improvised, grinding the handle of his wooden spoon into something approaching a nib. For ink he used a thimbleful of blood, and a corner of his bed sheet for paper. Due to the limited size of the material and the pain of bleeding himself, he was careful not to waste a word and spent at least an hour composing and refining before putting spoon to cloth. It took him three days in all, but eventually he managed to write a speech that was, if not perfect, then at least the best he could make. His remaining time he devoted to his performance, rehearsing each gesture and pause, when to impose himself on his audience, when to pull back and allow them to consider what had just been said. Until, with the last of the light, he would flop back onto his palliasse, calming himself in the distant slit of stars or else reciting some Gargantua and Pantagruel – murmured, maternal as a lullaby.
* * *
Walking into the hall, Sebastian looked up to see columns so high they appeared to bend space. Above them, thin windows slit the darkness. Below, the emptiness was amplified by an expanse of bare stone floor, unfurnished apart from a single candelabra in each corner, their flames burning fatly in the still air. He advanced towards the distant throne, aware of the doorway disappearing behind him and suppressing the urge to flee. Ahead he could see the silhouette of the Queen, her jewels like a constellation, the crucifix glittering from her neck, her dress threaded with beads of pearls. Beside her stood another figure. Contempt personified, it was tilted back on one foot, chin up and glaring down over crossed arms.
After making the long walk to the dais, Sebastian stopped and bowed deeply, hands stiff at his sides. Both women were dressed with imposing formality, Chevreuse in a long dress of taffeta, its sleeves lined with fox, along with a velvet cap and curling feather. It had only been a year since he’d last seen her, yet she had aged – still attractive, but robbed of what innocence she had left. Clearly aware of the change, she had compensated with make-up and was masked in white, flattening her already soft features and removing all expression from her face. Anne, meanwhile, appeared every inch the queen: chin raised, eyes fixed, mouth downturned with gravitas. Previously, her only power had been through her husband, and now that her time had come, she was determined to make the most of it.
‘Plead for your life, dwarf,’ she declared.
Maintaining decorum, Sebastian responded with another deep bow.
‘If it pleases Your Majesty, I would prefer to be called Sebastian.’
The Queen arched then peered forward, narrow-eyed.
‘By God, are you being insolent?’
‘Not at all, Your Highness. I am a dwarf. More than that, a dwarf who was born in poverty. People laugh at me. They’ve laughed at me all my life. And for what? Because of something I never chose. And I’ve endured it these past thirty-three years. I’ve been kicked, beaten, insulted, spat at and pissed on. And here I am in the grandest hall of the royal palace, in audience with the Queen of France herself. I would like this one time to be called by my name.’ He looked at the Queen with bravado, the strength people acquire when they know they are going to die – not because they have no fear, but because they have nothing left to lose. The Queen met his stare with distaste, the same way a fox might eye a limping shrew. There was no enthusiasm for the kill.
‘Do not play the innocent with me. I suffered at your hand. So tell me, why should I not have you executed?’ Her accent still had an undercurrent of her native Spanish, that precise diction of a foreign tongue.
‘You’ve every right to execute me, Your Majesty. It’s your prerogative. But I never meant to harm you. I didn’t have a choice. I’ve never had the power to choose. Caught between Richelieu, yourself and Cinq-Mars, what chance did I have? The fact is that I’m a dwarf and I live in a world of titans.’
‘Small you may be, but you still have the power to refuse. You could still have said no.’
‘You’re right – I had the power to refuse the cardinal. We all have the power to commit suicide, Your Majesty. Just because we choose not to exercise it, it doesn’t make us evil men.’
The Queen seemed amused by Sebastian’s candour but restricted her smile to a twitch of the mouth. She paused and Sebastian sensed indecision, as did Chevreuse, who immediately bent down towards her ear.
‘You could always exile me,’ he interrupted.
‘And if I did, then where would you go?’
‘To Spain, Your Majesty. They would take me at court.’
Anne cocked her head. ‘You would join our enemies?’
‘I doubt I’ll be too much of a threat.’
This time the Queen’s smile was accompanied by a nod and Chevreuse, now concerned, whispered to her behind a cupped hand. Anne considered a moment then responded with a shake of the head. ‘You must,’ Chevreuse muttered, the words hissed and barely audible.
‘I am regent. I shall do as I wish.’ Anne drew herself upright and stared down at Sebastian with rarefied disdain. Luxuriating in her power, she made him wait a moment before announcing her verdict.
‘You are sentenced to death. Guards, take this creature outside and hang him from the nearest tree – without delay.’
Sebastian gazed back, disbelieving, as large bodies burst from the shadows, bulbous with muscle and glinting iron. This was the end. He remained rooted to the spot as one of them grabbed him by the neck and hauled him back the way he had come. Within a few strides he was already at the doorway, squinting to keep out the dazzle of the sun. Disorientated, he stumbled forward, the arm shackling his head like a yoke.
Eventually they stopped, though the soldier kept his head fixed in place, leaving him unable to see much beyond his feet. There was a brief silence followed by the hiss of rope being pulled over a branch and a twang as it was pulled taut. His death would be crude and inexpert, a slow dangle as he flailed under his own weight. Perhaps his size would make it impossible, forcing them to pull down on his legs as he kicked furiously for escape. It seemed somehow fitting, that after a lifetime of outsized chairs, cutlery, furniture, saddles and clothes now even his noose wouldn’t fit him properly. Then he remembered his final words. In all the drama, he had forgotten them completely. But before he could speak, the rope was already round his neck and drawn tight, leaving him unable to manage more than a rasp.
A pair of hands reached from behind, lifting him for the drop. He attempted to break free but his hands were tied behind his back. He could hear the rattle of a carriage approaching, doubtless the Queen come to watch his demise. It slowed then clattered to a stop, until the only sound he could hear was the horses’ lathered breath.
‘Gentlemen, you know who I am.’ The voice was unfamiliar – foreign, but only faintly so. It was male.
>
Male?
Sebastian felt a rush of hope. This was not the Queen or Chevreuse. This was someone new. Someone passing by who had decided to stop, a person of authority.
‘Yes, cardinal.’ Mazarin, it was Mazarin – the cardinal’s protégé. But it made no sense. What was he doing here?
‘Release this man immediately.’ Sebastian felt himself being placed on the ground and the grip loosen from his neck. He tried to look at his saviour, though it took his eyes some time to recover from the glare of the sun.
‘But the Queen said . . .’
‘The Queen will not know. This man will be placed in my care and taken to the border immediately.’ The cardinal was dressed in soutane and skullcap – no different to his predecessor – though his beard still had a trace of the Italian fop, a curled and trimmed moustache, the chin below broken by a single flared line. Above all, he had that same command, his dark eyes emotionless as glass, and the guards were fixed as targets in his stare. To Sebastian, however, he resembled some kind of deity. Not the cold, imperial almighty of a Richelieu, instead the face of a kind and welcoming divinity, a parent come to rescue a child who was lost but not forgotten.
‘As far as anyone knows this man will be dead, unless either of you is intent on telling the Queen?’
‘Of course not, Your Eminence.’
‘Good, then release him.’
As the hand let go its grasp, Sebastian looked round at the guards, still uncertain whether it was some form of trick. However, observing their fear, he knew it to be true. He was a free man. He immediately turned to Mazarin.
The Cardinal's Man Page 29