by Pierre Pevel
“This missive has just arrived from Ratisbonne,” he said, presenting a letter. “No doubt you would like to read it before tomorrow.”
Born François-Joseph Leclerc du Tremblay, and known to the world as Père Joseph, he was of a noble family and had received a solid military education before joining the Capuchins at the age of twenty-two, by religious vocation. A reformer of his order and also founder of the Filles du Calvaire congregation of nuns, he had distinguished himself through his zeal and his sermons to the royal court. But above all, he was the famous “Grey Eminence,” the most intimate and influential of Richelieu’s confederates, to whom His Eminence was prepared to entrust certain affairs of state. He sometimes took part in the deliberations of the king’s Council and later became a minister of the Crown in his own right. A sincere friendship, a mutual high esteem, and a shared view on the policies needed to counter Habsburg influence in Europe united the two men.
Closing his copy of Plutarch’s Lives, the cardinal took the missive and thanked him.
“There is one other thing,” said Père Joseph.
Richelieu waited, then understood and ordered his secretaries out. When the one who was on duty had wakened and accompanied his colleagues into the next room, the monk took a chair and the cardinal said: “I’m listening.”
“I would like to speak to you again about your … Blades.”
“I thought this matter was settled between us.”
“I yielded to you without being persuaded by all of your arguments.”
“You know that men of such temper will soon be necessary to France—”
“There are other men beside these.”
Richelieu smiled.
“Not so many. And when you say ‘these,’ you’re thinking ‘him,’ aren’t you?”
“It is true that I have little love for monsieur de la Fargue. He is inflexible and has disobeyed you too often.”
“Really?”
Père Joseph launched into a rapid inventory, ticking each item off on his fingers.
“To refresh your memory: in Cologne, in Breda, and in Bohemia. And I’ve not even mentioned the disaster at La Rochelle—”
“If La Rochelle was torn from the bosom of France to become a Protestant republic, I do not think that the responsibility can be laid at Captain La Fargue’s door. After all, if the dam we built had resisted the force of the ocean tides for a few more days, the outcome would be quite different today.… As for the other events you mention, I believe that La Fargue only ‘forgot’ his orders when doing so increased the chances of his mission’s success.”
“He will always be headstrong. He is one of those men who never change.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Père Joseph sighed, reflected a moment, and then returned to his argument: “And what do you think will happen when La Fargue uncovers the secret motives behind the task we are about to confer on him? He will feel deceived and, in view of his grievances against you, he could be tempted to ruin everything. If he stumbles across the comte de Pontevedra’s true identity—!”
“He would have to stumble across the comte’s existence first.”
“He will, without question. Your Blades are spies as much as they are soldiers. They have no end of craftiness and imagination, and we have seen them unravel far more complicated knots than this.”
It was His Eminence’s turn to utter a sigh.
“If it comes to that, we shall take the necessary measures.… For the moment, what matters is that this mission is vital for France. And for reasons with which you are well acquainted, the Blades are the ones best able to carry it out successfully—as well as the ones who must be prevented from learning about this cabal.…”
“A curious paradox.”
“Yesterday I told the captain that I do not always have a choice of weapons. It’s very true. In this business, the Blades are the weapon which I must employ. Spain has set her conditions. I have preferred to give her some degree of satisfaction rather than seeing her harm us.”
Père Joseph nodded resignedly.
“You’re tired,” continued the cardinal in a solicitous, almost affectionate, tone. “Take some rest, my friend.”
In the Palais-Cardinal the monk’s chamber was next to Richelieu’s. Père Joseph glanced at the door leading to it.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re right.”
“And if it helps you sleep, remember that we are speaking of a ship that has already set sail and cannot be recalled to port.”
Père Joseph look puzzled.
“At this very moment,” explained the cardinal, “Rochefort is briefing La Fargue on the details of his assignment.”
“So the dice are thrown.”
3
“Thank you,” Marciac said to Naïs as she placed a bottle of wine on the table. “You should go and lie down, now.”
The pretty young servant thanked him with a smile and, looking truly tired, took her leave accompanied by an admiring glance from the Gascon.
He and Almades were in the main room of the Hôtel de l’Épervier, where Naïs had just served them an excellent dinner. The remains of their meal and several empty bottles stood on the long oak table around which the Blades used to meet and, so it seemed, would be meeting once again. For the time being, however, there were only the two of them and the immense room seemed bleak. The fire in the hearth was not enough to brighten it, any more than it was enough to warm it. It crackled, sang, groaned, and seemed to throw itself fiercely into a battle already lost against the advancing shadows, and the silence and the cold of the night.
“She’s lovely, that girl,” offered Marciac, to make conversation.
The Spanish master at arms didn’t respond.
“Yes, quite charming,” Gascon tried again.
Less carefree than he wished to appear, he drew a pack of cards from his pocket and proposed: “Shall I deal you a hand?”
“No.”
“Name your game. Or a throw of the dice?”
“I don’t play.”
“Everyone plays!”
“Not me.”
Discouraged, Marciac fell against the back of the chair, which creaked ominously.
“You’ve always been dreadful company.”
“I am a master of arms. Not an exhibitor of bears.”
“You’re an entirely dismal individual.”
Almades drank three small sips of wine.
“Always in threes, hmm?” said the Gascon.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
With a heavy sigh, Marciac rose and walked around the room.
He was one of those men whose roguish charm and nonchalance is emphasised by their neglect of their appearance. His cheeks bore a three-day stubble a shade darker than his blond hair; his boots were in need of brushing and his trousers of ironing; his unbuttoned doublet gaped open over his shirt; and he carried his blade with a studied but unforced nonchalance that seemed to say: Don’t be fooled, old chap. I have a good friend at my side whose weight is so slight that she’s no burden to me, and upon whom I can always rely. His eyes, finally, glittered with laughter combined with a mocking intelligence; the eyes of a man no more easily deceived by himself than by life’s great comedy.
Almades, on the other hand, was severity incarnate. Fifteen years older than the Gascon, black-haired, and with a grizzled moustache, he was as economical with his gestures as he was with his words, and even at the best of times his long angular face expressed nothing but an austere reserve. He was neatly dressed despite wearing an old mended doublet; the feather was missing from his hat, while the cuffs and collar of his shirt bore lace that had seen better days. It could thus be guessed that he was poor. But his state of destitution in no way altered his dignity: it was simply one more test in life that he faced with a stoicism as proud as it was unshakeable.
While Marciac paced fretfully, the Spaniard remained like marble, head lowered, his elbows on the table, and his hands clasped t
ogether around the tin beaker he was turning round and round and round.
Three turns, then a pause. Three turns, a pause. Three turns …
“How long have they been in there, do you reckon?”
The fencing master directed a dark, patient eye toward the Gascon. With a thumb, Marciac indicated the door behind which La Fargue and Rochefort were closeted together.
“I don’t know.”
“One hour? Two?”
“Perhaps.”
“I wonder what they’re saying. Do you have any idea?”
“No.”
“And it doesn’t intrigue you?”
“When the time comes, the captain will tell us everything we need to know.”
Marciac, thoughtful, ran his nails up his stubbled cheeks.
“I could press my ear against the door and listen.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I forbid you from doing so, and I shall also prevent you.”
“Yes, of course you would. That’s an excellent reason.”
The Gascon returned to his chair like a scolded schoolboy.
He drained his glass, refilled it, and, rather than say nothing, asked: “So what were you doing, during the past five years?”
Perhaps with the intention of diverting Marciac’s attention from the door, Almades made an effort to reply.
“I practised my trade. In Madrid to begin with. Then in Paris.”
“Ah.”
“And you?”
“The same.”
“Because you have a trade.”
“Err.… In fact, no,” the Gascon admitted.
But he added quickly: “That’s not to say I have not been very busy!”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“I have a mistress. That can keep you occupied, a mistress. Her name is Gabrielle. I shall introduce you to her when she stops hating me. Very beautiful, nevertheless.”
“Prettier than little Naïs?”
Marciac was known for his many amorous adventures.
He caught the allusion and, a poor loser, shrugged his shoulders.
“The one has nothing to do with the other.”
A silence fell beneath the dark ceiling, which the sound of the fire was barely able to fill.
“They don’t care much for one another,” said the Gascon finally.
“Who?”
“La Fargue and Rochefort.”
“No one likes Rochefort. He does the cardinal’s dirty work. A spy, and no doubt also an assassin.”
“And what are we, then?”
“Soldiers. We fight in a secret war, but it’s not the same thing.”
“Nevertheless, there’s a feud between those two which goes far beyond the ordinary quarrel.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure of it. You’ve seen the scar Rochefort bears on his temple?”
Almades nodded.
“Well, never mention it in front of Rochefort when the captain is present. Rochefort could take it as a mocking reference. He might think you know how it got there.”
“And you … you know?”
“No. But I act as though I do. It gives me a certain air.”
The Spaniard let this remark pass without comment, but said: “I’d like you to shut up now, Marciac.”
The door opened and Rochefort crossed the room without sparing a glance for either of them. La Fargue appeared behind him. He walked to the table, sat down astride a chair, and, preoccupied, began to pick at the remaining food on the plates.
“So?” asked Marciac innocently.
“So we have a mission,” replied the veteran of numerous wars.
“Which is?”
“Briefly put, it is a question of serving Spain.”
Spain.
The sworn enemy of France: Spain, and her Court of Dragons.
The news fell as heavily as an executioner’s axe on the block, and even the exceptionally reserved Almades raised a wary eyebrow on hearing it.
4
Armed with the information that the Grand Coësre had given him, Saint-Lucq waited for dawn before springing into action.
The location proved to be perfect for his purpose: discreet, hidden from the road by the wood that surrounded it, and less than an hour from Paris. It was on the farthest fringe of the faubourg Saint-Jacques, a short distance from a hamlet whose presence was indicated by a silent bell tower. An old mill, whose large waterwheel no longer turned, had been built on the bank of the river. Its stones stood firmly in place, but its roof—like those of the other buildings in the vicinity: a woodshed, a granary, a miller’s house—had suffered from years of exposure to the weather. A solid wall still enclosed the abandoned property. Its front porch opened on to the only road which passed by, not much travelled since the mill had stopped working.
How did the Grand Coësre know the Corbins—the Crows—had established one of their hideouts in this place? And how did he know that Saint-Lucq would find what he wanted here? Perhaps it was of minor importance. All that mattered, in the end, was that the information was accurate. The reasons that had persuaded the king of the Cour des Miracles to help the half-blood remained shadowy and unclear. Certainly, it would be in his interest if Saint-Lucq’s plan succeeded and he made some mischief for the Corbins. The gang had held sway over the province and the faubourgs for the past two years and their attention had now turned to the capital. A battle for territory was brewing, which the Grand Coësre no doubt wished to forestall. But above all he feared that the Corbins’ activities, even indirectly, would harm him to some greater or lesser extent in the long term. These highwaymen plundered, raped, were quick to use torture, and often murdered. They terrorised the population and infuriated the authorities, who would ultimately react brutally and instinctively, mobilising a regiment out of necessity and erecting dozens of gibbets. The Corbins were running to their own destruction. However, not all of the blows directed against them would strike the gang. The Court of Miracles would also suffer the consequences and its leader wished to avoid them. Nevertheless, Saint-Lucq had played a dangerous game in going to find him in his fiefdom on rue Neuve-Saint-Sauveur and demanding information in such a challenging manner. Time was running short, to be sure, and the half-blood would stop at nothing to achieve his objectives. But one day he would pay the price for his audacity. The Grand Coësre’s hand could not be forced with impunity.
A man was dozing in a chair in front of the miller’s house, his sword hanging from the back of the chair and his pistol resting across his thighs. His hat was tipped down across his eyes, and he was wrapped up in one of the big black cloaks which were the gang’s distinctive sign. He had been on guard, shivering in the cold, all night.
Another Corbin left the house. Dressed in leather and coarse cloth, he stretched, yawned, scratched his side with one hand and the back of his neck with the other, and then shook his accomplice by the shoulder. The guard sat up and stretched in turn. They exchanged a few words and then the man in leather walked away, undoing his belt as he went. He went into the woodshed where the horses were stabled, pulled down his trousers, squatted, urinated loudly with a sigh of ease, and had begun to defecate when Saint-Lucq garrotted him from behind.
Unable to call for help, the brigand tried to seize the thin strap which bit into his flesh and stood up abruptly. The half-blood matched his movement without reducing the pressure on the strap and drew his victim with him as he backed up two steps. The Corbin’s ankles were trapped inside his dropped breeches. His arms thrashing, he tipped over backward but could not fall as Saint-Lucq held him suspended halfway to the ground, strangling him under his own weight. The man fought, struggling as much as he could. His heels frantically dug into the urine-saturated ground. A death rattle was torn from his chest as his face turned crimson. His fingernails scratched deeply into his tortured throat, clawing uselessly at the leather garrotte. Then he tried to strike back, his fists furiously pummelling the air in f
ront of the half-blood’s face. Saint-Lucq, impassive and focused, simply drew his shoulders back. Terror emptied the remaining contents of the unfortunate man’s bowels. Brown, sticky faeces stained his thighs before falling to the ground with a soft squelch. With a final spurt of effort, the Corbin searched desperately for a foothold, for some support, for a rescue which was not coming. His struggles weakened. Finally, his windpipe collapsed and his sex released its last, smelly dregs. His tongue hanging out, his eyes rolling up, the man slowly collapsed into his own excrement, still held by his torturer.
The horses had barely stirred.
Dropping the soiled corpse, Saint-Lucq rewound his garrotte and pushed his red spectacles further up his nose before going to look outside.
The brigand on guard duty was still at his post. Legs stretched out and ankles crossed, fingers interlaced over his stomach, and his hat covering his eyes, he was dozing in a chair, its back tipped against the wall of the house.
The half-blood drew his dagger and, advancing with a determined step which he meant to be heard, walked toward the man. The other heard his approach but mistook it for the return of his companion.
“So? Feeling better?” he asked without raising his nose.
“No.”
The Corbin jumped with a start and dropped the pistol resting across his thighs. Swiftly, Saint-Lucq slapped a hand against his mouth to both silence him and force him back down into his chair, and struck with his dagger, upward from beneath his chin. The blade went home with a dry thump, pierced the brigand’s palate, and dug deep into his brain. He died in an instant, his eyes wide-eyed and full of pain.
The half-blood dried the dagger on the Corbin’s shoulder and left the body slumped limply on the chair, its arms hanging. He had counted six horses in the woodshed. Six minus two. Four men remained.
He went to the front door and pressed an ear to it before gently pushing it open. Inside, two brigands who had just risen were talking while eating a frugal meal. Both had their backs turned to him, with one sitting on a small upturned barrel and the other on a wobbly stool.
“We’ll be running out of wine soon.”