The Cardinal's Blades

by Pierre Pevel

  Pulling himself together, Laincourt replaced the letter in the box and the box in the cupboard, which he relocked with his key. He assured himself that he had disturbed nothing, and then departed silently, taking his log-book with him.

  But Laincourt had barely gone when someone pushed open another door, left ajar and hidden behind a wall hanging.

  Charpentier.

  Returning in haste from the Louvre to fetch a document which Cardinal Richelieu had not thought he would need, he had seen everything.

  10

  Having saddled his horse, La Fargue was strapping on the holsters of his pistols when Delormel joined him in the stable, amidst the warm smell of animals, hay, and dung.

  “You’ll come see us again soon?” asked the fencing master. “Or, at least, not wait another five years?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know you are always welcome in my home.”

  La Fargue patted his mount’s neck and turned round.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Here. You left this in your room.”

  Delormel held out a small locket on a broken chain. The old gentleman took it. Worn, marked, scratched, and tarnished, the piece of jewellery seemed worthless, lying there on his big gloved hand.

  “I didn’t know you still kept it after all this time,” added the fencing master.

  La Fargue shrugged.

  “You can’t give up your past.”

  “But yours continues to haunt you.”

  Rather than answer, the captain made to check his saddle.

  “Perhaps she didn’t deserve you,” Delormel commented.

  His back turned, La Fargue went rigid.

  “Don’t judge, Jean. You don’t know the whole story.”

  It wasn’t necessary to say anything more. Both men knew they were speaking of the woman whose chipped portrait was to be found inside the locket.

  “That’s true. But I know you well enough to know that something is eating at you. You should be delighted by the prospect of reuniting the Blades and serving the Crown once again. So I’d guess that you only accepted the cardinal’s proposal under duress. You yielded to him, étienne. That’s not like you. If you were one of those who yielded easily, you would already be carrying a marshal’s baton—”

  “My daughter may be in danger,” La Fargue said suddenly.

  Slowly, he turned to face Delormel, who looked stunned.

  “You wanted to know the whole truth, didn’t you? There, now you know.”

  “Your daughter … ? You mean to say …”

  The fencing master made a hesitant gesture toward the locket which the captain still held in his fist. La Fargue nodded: “Yes.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty. Or thereabouts.”

  “What do you know of the danger she’s in?”

  “Nothing. The cardinal simply implied there was a threat against her.”

  “So he might have lied to you in order to secure your services!”

  “No. I doubt he would have played this card with me without good reason. It is—”

  “—despicable. And what will you say to your Blades? These men give you their blind trust. Some of them even look on you as a father!”

  “I shall tell them the truth.”

  “All of it?”

  Before mounting his horse, the old captain admitted, at some cost: “No.”

  11

  Fiddling distractedly with his steel signet ring before returning it to the third finger on his left hand, Saint-Lucq watched the everyday drama on display in the crowded tavern.

  Located on a miserable-looking courtyard in the Marais neighbourhood, tucked away from the beautiful private mansions with their elegant façades being built in the nearby Place Royale, the Red Écu was a cellar tavern whose poor-quality candles gave off more soot than light, in an atmosphere already poisoned by sweaty bodies, bad wine-soaked breath, tobacco smoke, and a potent whiff of the muck picked up by shoes walking the streets of Paris. Here, everyone spoke loudly and forced others to raise their voices in turn, creating an infernal uproar. The wine being drunk had something to do with this. Loud laughter burst out, as did the occasional sharp quarrel. A hurdy-gurdy played songs on demand. From time to time, cheers and applause greeted a lucky throw of the dice, or the antics of a drunkard.

  Saint-Lucq, without appearing to do so, kept a close eye on all.

  He observed who entered and who left through the small door at the top of the stairs, who used that other door normally reserved to the tavern keeper and the serving girls, who joined someone else and who remained alone. He stared at no one, and his gaze slid away whenever it met that of another. But those present barely took any notice of him. And that was exactly as he liked it, in the shadowy corner where he had chosen to sit. He was constantly on the lookout, keeping track of any anomalies that might indicate a threat. It could be anything: a wink between two people who otherwise pretended not to know one another, an old coat concealing new weapons, a faked fight designed to distract attention. Saint-Lucq was always wary and watched for such things automatically, out of sheer force of habit. He knew that the world was a stage filled with deception, where death, disguised in everyday rags, could strike at any moment. He knew this all the more, for it was often he who delivered the mortal blow.

  Upon his arrival, he had ordered a jug of wine, none of which he drank. The young woman who served him offered to keep him company, but he declined the offer with a calm, cold, definitive “No.” She went off to talk with the other two serving girls, who had watched her approach the new customer. From their reaction, it was obvious that they found Saint-Lucq both attractive and intriguing. He was still young, well dressed, and a handsome man in a dark way which hinted at sinister and exciting secrets. Was he a gentle­man? Perhaps. In any case, he wore his sword naturally, his doublet with elegance, and his hat with a quiet, gallant confidence. His hands were exquisite and his cheeks freshly shaven. Of course, his boots were muddied, but despite that they were made from excellent leather, and who could go unsullied by the disgusting muck of Paris, unless they travelled by coach? No, clearly, this cavalier dressed in black had plenty of pleasing assets. And then he had those curious spectacles with red lenses perched on his nose, which concealed his eyes and rendered him still more mysterious.

  Since Saint-Lucq had turned away a slim brunette, a busty blonde tried her luck. And met with the same lack of success. The serving girl returned to her friends, irritated and disappointed, but she shrugged and said to them: “He just left a brothel. Or he has eyes only for his mistress.”

  “I think he prefers men,” added the brunette, with a pout which betrayed her hurt feelings.

  “Perhaps …” the third trailed off. “But if he does not touch his glass and he is not seeking company, what does bring him here?”

  The other two agreed, in any case, that there was little point in persisting with their advances, and Saint-Lucq—who was watching their debate out of the corner of his eye—was led to hope that they would now leave him in peace.

  He returned to his surveillance.

  A little after midday, the man Saint-Lucq had been expecting to appear entered the tavern.

  He was tall and badly shaven, with long greasy hair, a sword at his side, and a surly air about him. He was called Tranchelard and, as was his habit, he was accompanied by two scoundrels, no doubt hired for their brawn rather than their brains. They picked a table—which emptied as they approached—and did not have to order the wine jugs the tavern keeper brought to them with an apprehensive look.

  The third serving girl, whose eyes had remained fixed on Saint-Lucq, chose this moment to act.

  She was redheaded and pale-skinned, very pretty, no more than seventeen and knew—from experience—the effect that her green eyes, rose-coloured lips, and young curves had on men. She wore a heavy skirt and, beneath her bustier, her open-necked blouse left her shoulders bare.

  “You do not drink,�
�� she said, suddenly standing in front of Saint-Lucq.

  He paused before replying: “No.”

  “No doubt because you don’t care for the wine you have been served.”

  This time he said nothing.

  “I could bring you our best.”

  Silence again.

  “And at the same price.”

  “No thank you.”

  But the girl wasn’t listening. Adolescent pride dictated that, after the unsuccessful attempts of her two colleagues, she could not fail.

  “In return, I shall ask you only to tell me your name,” she insisted with a smile full of promise. “And I shall give you mine.”

  Saint-Lucq held back a sigh.

  Then, expressionless, he slid his red spectacles down his nose with an index finger and gazed back at the young girl …

  … who froze when she saw the reptilian eyes.

  No one was unaware of dragons, of the fact that they had always existed, that they had adopted human form, and that they had been living among men for centuries. To the misfortune of all of Europe, a great number of them were now to be found within the royal court of Spain. And their distant racial cousins, the wyverns, served men as winged mounts, while the tiny dragonnets made valued pets and companions. Despite that, a half-blood always made a powerful impression. They were all born of the rare love between a dragon and a human woman, provoking a malaise which became hatred in certain people, horror in others, and in the case of a few men and women, an erotic fascination. Half-bloods were said to be cold, cruel, indifferent, and scornful of ordinary human beings.

  “I— I’m sorry, monsieur …” the serving girl stammered. “Forgive me.…”

  She turned on her heel, her lower lip trembling.

  Saint-Lucq pushed his spectacles back to the top of his nose and interested himself anew in Tranchelard and his bodyguards. As they had only come to drink a glass of wine and extort their protection fee from the tavern keeper, they soon left. The half-blood drained his glass, rose, left a coin on the table, and followed them out.

  Tranchelard and his men moved steadily through the packed streets where their ill manner alone was enough to open a path for them. They chattered and laughed, unaware of any danger. The crowd protected them, although it also provided cover for Saint-Lucq as he tailed them discreetly. As luck would have it, they soon turned off into a winding alley, as rank as a sewer, which offered a shortcut to the old rue Pavée.

  It was too good an opportunity to miss.

  Suddenly pressing forward, Saint-Lucq caught up with them in a few strides and took them totally off guard. They barely had time to hear the scrape of the steel leaving its scabbard. The first man fell at once, knocked out by a blow from Saint-Lucq’s elbow which also broke his nose, Tranchelard was held immobile by the caress of a dagger blade at his throat, and the third man had barely moved his hand toward his sword when a rapier point, an inch from his right eye, froze him in midgesture.

  “Think twice,” the half-blood advised in a quiet voice.

  The man did not delay in taking to his heels, and Saint-Lucq found himself alone, face-to-face with Tranchelard. Continuing to threaten him with the dagger, Saint-Lucq pressed him back up against a grubby wall. They were so close that their breaths blended together; the street thug stank of fear.

  “Look at me carefully, my friend. Do you recognise me?”

  Tranchelard swallowed and nodded slightly to the man with red spectacles, sweat beading at his temples.

  “Perfect,” Saint-Lucq continued. “Now, open your ears and listen.…”

  12

  As his feet touched ground in the courtyard of a beautiful mansion recently built in the Marais quarter, near the elegant and aristocratic Place Royale, the gentleman entrusted his horse to a servant who had rushed up at once.

  “I’m not staying,” he said. “Wait here.”

  The other nodded and, reins in hand, watched out of the corner of his eye as the marquis de Gagnière climbed the front steps with a quick and supple step.

  Sporting a large felt hat with a huge plumed feather, he was dressed in the latest fashion, with such obvious care for his appearance that it bordered on preciousness: he wore a cloak thrown over his left shoulder and held in place beneath his right arm with a silk cord, a high-waisted doublet of grey linen with silver fastenings, matching hose decorated with buttons, cream lace at his collar and cuffs, beige suede gloves, and cavalier boots made of kid leather. The extreme stylishness of his manner and attire added to the androgynous character of his silhouette: slender, willowy, and almost juvenile. He was not yet twenty years old but seemed even younger, his face still bearing a childish charm and softness which would take a long time to mature, while the blond hair of his moustache and finely trimmed royale beard preserved a silky adolescent downiness.

  An ancient maître d’hôtel greeted him at the top of the steps and, eyes lowered, accompanied him as far as a pretty antechamber where the marquis was asked to wait while he was announced to the vicomtesse. When the servant finally returned he held a door open and, with a bow, ushered the marquis through. Remaining by the door, he again avoided meeting the young man’s gaze as though something dangerous and troubling emanated from him, his elegance and angelic beauty nothing but a façade disguising a poisonous soul. In that respect, the young marquis resembled the sword which hung from his baldric: a weapon whose guard and pommel had been worked in the most exquisite manner, but whose blade was of good sharp steel.

  Gagnière entered and found himself alone when the maître d’hôtel closed the door behind him.

  The luxuriously furnished room was plunged into shadow. Drawn curtains shut out the daylight and the few scented candles that burned here and there created a permanent twilight. The room was a study for reading. Shelves full of books covered one wall. A comfortable armchair was installed next to a window, by a small side table which bore a candelabrum, a carafe of wine, and a small crystal glass. A large mirror in a gilded frame hung above the mantelpiece, looming over a table and an old leather-backed chair with a patina of age.

  Upon the table in the middle of room, supported by a delicate red and gold stand, reposed a strange globe.

  The gentleman approached it.

  Black, gleaming, and hypnotic, it was as though the globe was filled with swirling ink. It seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. One’s eye soon became lost in its deep spirals.

  And with it, one’s soul.

  “Don’t touch it.”

  Gagnière blinked and realised he was leaning over the table, his right hand stretched out toward the globe. He pulled himself back and turned, feeling perturbed.

  A young woman dressed in black and purple had made her appearance through a concealed door. Elegant yet severe in a gown with a starched bodice, her low neckline was trimmed with lace and decorated with a grey mother-of-pearl brooch representing a unicorn. She was beautiful; blonde and slender, with a small sweet face that seemed to have been designed to be adorable. Her sparkling blue eyes, however, showed no sign of any warm emotions, any more than her pretty, but unsmiling, lips.

  The vicomtesse de Malicorne took a slow but assured step toward the gentleman.

  “I … I’m sorry,” he said. “… I have no idea what—”

  “There is no need to reproach yourself, monsieur de Gagnière. No one can resist it. Not even me.”

  “Is it … is it what I think it is?”

  “A Sphère d’me? Yes.”

  She spread a square of brocaded golden cloth over the ensorcelled globe, and it was as though an unhealthy presence had suddenly deserted the room.

  “There. Isn’t that better?”

  Straightening up, she was about to continue when the marquis’s worried expression stopped her.

  “What is it?”

  Embarrassed, Gagnière pointed a hesitant finger toward her, and then indicated his own nose: “You have … there …”

  The young woman understood, touched her uppe
r lip with her ring finger, and found its tip fouled by a blackish fluid that had leaked from her nostril. Untroubled, she took an already stained handkerchief from her sleeve and turned away to press it to her nose.

  “Magic is an art which the Ancestral Dragons created for themselves alone,” she said, as though that explained everything.

  She faced the large mirror above the mantelpiece and, still dabbing at her lip, spoke in a conversational tone: “I recently charged you with intercepting a covert courier between Brussels and Paris. Have you done as I required?”

  “Certainly. Malencontre and his men have undertaken the task.”

  “With what result?”

  “As yet, I don’t know.”

  Her pretty face now clean of all foulness, the vicomtesse de Malicorne turned from the mirror and, with a half-smile, said: “Allow me to enlighten you then, monsieur. Despite all the opportunities he has had to lay an ambush, Malencontre has already failed twice. First at the border, and then close to Amiens. If the rider he pursues continues at the same pace, Malencontre’s only hope of catching him is at the staging post near Clermont. After Clermont, he will proceed straight on to Paris. Is it truly necessary to remind you that this letter must under no circumstances reach the Louvre?”

  The gentleman didn’t ask how she knew so much: the globe, with all the secrets it deigned to reveal to any who sacrificed part of themselves to it, was sufficient explanation. He nodded in reply: “I remain confident, madame. Malencontre and his men are quite used to these missions. They shall succeed, no matter what the cost to themselves.”

  “Let us hope so, monsieur le marquis. Let us hope so.…”

  With a gracious, urbane gesture the vicomtesse invited Gagnière to take a seat and took one herself, opposite him.

  “Right now, I would like to speak with you on an entirely different matter.”

  “Which is, madame?”

  “The cardinal is about to play a card of great importance, and I fear that he means to play it against us. This card is a man: La Fargue.”