by Pierre Pevel
“Captain!” Agnès exclaimed in relief when she saw who was riding the reptile.
“Hurry!” yelled La Fargue.
He held out a gloved hand to her, but the young woman pointed instead to Laincourt.
“He’s coming too!”
“What? No! Too heavy!”
“He’s coming too!”
It was not the time or the place for an argument: around them, the hired swordsmen were beginning to rally themselves.
Agnès and Laincourt climbed onto the reptile’s rump behind La Fargue, who dug in his spurs to launch the wyvern. The beast took a few lumbering steps toward the parapet. Seeing his prey escaping, Savelda ran toward them, taking aim with his pistol while yelling at his men to move out of the way. He fired and the pistol ball passed through the wyvern’s long neck at the very instant when it was taking to the air. The reptile flinched. Its surprise, pain, and the over-heavy load on its back toppled it over the edge, and it fell. It opened its wings as the ground approached and La Fargue hauled with all his might on the reins … and the wyvern pulled out of its dive at the very last second. Its belly brushed against the cobblestones and its claws scraped over them, raising a spray of sparks. It was moving too fast across the small courtyard to have any chance of climbing again. La Fargue barely succeeded in turning its head toward the keep’s gate. The reptile swept at full speed beneath the vault. But its span was too wide and the impact broke its leathery wings. The wyvern screamed. Moving like a rock down a hillside, it crossed the lowered drawbridge, rolled over in a whirlwind of dust and blood, and threw off its passengers before finally crashing into one of the great bonfires that had been lit for the ceremony.
* * *
Ballardieu saw the wyvern burst forth from the keep and three bodies flying through the air.
“Agnès!” he screamed as the reptile with its broken wings smashed into the flaming pyre and vanished beneath it.
He vaulted over the parapet, landed six metres below, and began to run without paying any heed to the pain from a sprained ankle. Two drac swordsmen attacked him. He did not slow down or even draw his sword. Instead, taking his sack, weighed with a few remaining grenades, by its bandolier, he swung it round, crushing a temple and dislocating a scaly jaw. Still running, shoving aside everyone in the terrified crowd who stood in his way, he yelled at the top of his lungs: “Agnès … ! Agnès … !”
He saw La Fargue picking himself off the ground and went to him.
“Agnès! Where is Agnès?”
The captain, in a daze, was staggering on his feet. He blinked and almost tripped over. Ballardieu had to steady him.
“Captain! Where is she? Where is Agnès?”
“I … I don’t know.…”
Marciac arrived.
“What’s going on?” he asked, trying to making himself heard over the din of thunder that accompanied the magical lightning bolts.
“It’s Agnès!” explained the old soldier anxiously. “She’s here! Somewhere! Help me!”
Grimacing, with a dazed look in his eye, Laincourt struggled to drag himself from the ground, remaining for a moment on his hands and knees. He coughed and spat out a mixture of dirt and blood.
Then he stood up.
Around him the chaos of the battle drawing to a close blended with that of the incredible storm above, whose windy moans were rising to a high-pitched screech. The destructive bolts of lightning gained in intensity and the furious roaring shook the entire castle to its very depths, dislodging its stones. No one thought of fighting any longer, only of escape. The surviving followers and mercenaries of the Black Claw pressed toward the gate which Ballardieu no longer defended with his grenades.
Laincourt, too, should have been fleeing without delay.
But he had one last task to accomplish.
* * *
Still holding the unconscious vicomtesse in his arms, Gagnière arrived in the courtyard of the keep at the same time as Savelda and his men, coming down from the upper floors.
“We’re under attack!” said Gagnière sweating.
“Yes,” replied the one-eyed Spaniard. “And we’ve already lost.… Give her to me.”
Without waiting for a reply, he seized hold of the vicomtesse.
The marquis let him take her, too stunned by the turn of events to even protest.
“We must flee!” he said. “By the passageway. Quickly, while there’s still time!”
“No.”
“What?”
“Not you. You stay.”
“But why?”
“To protect our retreat … against him.”
Gagnière turned around.
Saint-Lucq was entering from beneath the vault, armed with a rapier in his right hand and a dagger in his left.
“You and you, with me,” ordered Savelda. “The rest of you, with the marquis.”
And, followed by the two men he had selected, he disappeared through a door leaving the gentleman and four swordsmen in the courtyard.
Gagnière went over and tried to open the same door, only to find it had been locked from within. He then stared at the half-blood, who met his glance and smiled at him from beyond the row of freebooters, as if they were an insignificant obstacle separating the two of them. This idea wormed its way into the mind of the marquis and he became frightened.
Gathering up a sword from a dead body that had fallen from the walkway above, he cried: “Attack!”
Themselves unnerved by Saint-Lucq’s predatory calm, the hired swordsmen flinched and then rushed forward. The half-blood parried two blades with his rapier, planted and then left his dagger in the belly of his first opponent, and spun round and slit the throat of the second with a reverse thrust. In one smooth motion he ducked down in front of a drac who was preparing to strike high, slipped under his arm, and stood up, throwing the reptilian over his shoulder. The drac fell heavily on his back and Saint-Lucq lunged to pierce the chest of the remaining mercenary, whom he disarmed. Then, completing his murderous choreography, he brought the rapier he had just acquired to a vertical position, and without looking, pinned the drac to the ground with it.
Expressionless, the half-blood turned to stare once again at Gagnière.
There was still a wyvern in the enclosure, although no doubt it would have fled earlier if it had not been chained up. Saint-Georges struggled to saddle it and he already had one boot in the stirrup when, amidst the racket of the storm, he heard distinctly: “Step back.”
Bruised, wounded, and bleeding, Laincourt stood a few metres behind him, pointing a pistol. He was a sorry sight, but there was an almost fanatical light in his eyes.
“Obey,” he added. “I’m just waiting for an excuse to blow your brains out.”
Without making any sudden moves, Saint-Georges set his foot back on the ground and stretched out his arms. He did not turn around, however. Nor did he move away from the wyvern and the pistols tucked into its saddle holsters. Pistols that Laincourt, behind his back, could not see.
“We can still reach an understanding, Laincourt.”
“I doubt that.”
“I am rich. Very rich.…”
“Your gold is the reward for your treachery. How many men have died because of you? The latest of your victims were no doubt the couriers from Brussels, whose itineraries you gave to the Black Claw. But before them?”
“Gold is gold. It shines everywhere with the same brightness.”
“Yours will be worthless where you’re going.”
Saint-Georges suddenly spun about, brandishing a pistol.
A shot rang out.
And Laincourt watched the traitor fall, his eye burst and the back of his skull torn out by the ball.
Then he gazed at the saddled wyvern.
The storm was now at its height. Whirlwinds of energy had formed at ground level and lightning bolts fell from the sky every second, digging craters wherever they landed. The castle looked as if it were being battered by a cannonade that was determined to dest
roy it.
“Over here!” La Fargue yelled suddenly.
He was crouching near Agnès whom he had just found and was raising her head. The young woman was unconscious. Her hair was sticky with blood at her temple. But she was still breathing.
“Is she … ?” asked Ballardieu, who had come running, fearing the worst.
“No. She lives.”
A rider appeared from a breach in a rampart. It was Almades, who towed the Blades’ mounts behind him. They were good warhorses, fortunately, and thus did not panic in the din of battle.
“Agnès is in no fit state to ride!” declared La Fargue.
“I’ll carry her!” replied Ballardieu.
A lightning bolt struck nearby and showered them with smoking earth.
“Look!” cried the Gascon.
The vicomtesse’s black coach was coming from the keep, driven by Saint-Lucq.
“Bless you, Saint-Lucq,” murmured Ballardieu.
The half-blood pulled up the coach in front of them. He had great difficulty controlling the team of horses. They whinnied and reared at each explosion, making the vehicle lurch backward and forward. Marciac seized the animals by their bits to settle them.
La Fargue managed to open the door and saw a form inside.
“There’s someone in here!”
It was Gagnière. Fainted away, after receiving a sword wound in the right shoulder.
“A new friend!” joked Saint-Lucq. “Come on! Hurry!”
Ballardieu climbed aboard holding Agnès in his arms. La Fargue closed the door for them, then mounted the horse whose reins the Gascon, already in his saddle, held out for him.
“Come on! All hell is going to break loose!”
Saint-Lucq cracked the lunges against the rumps of the harnessed horses. The riders spurred their own mounts and opened the way for the coach and they were all soon moving at a full gallop. Miraculously spared by the explosions whose blasts lashed their faces with various bits of debris, they crossed through the gate just before a violent flash brought it tumbling down. The convoy hurtled down the winding road, pitilessly running down any escapees in their path, leaving the ruined castle behind them in the grip of the full destructive fury of ancestral energies.
There was a second of tremendous silence and then a dazzling force broke forth from the sky. It swept away the last vestiges of the castle in an apocalyptic blast whose brightness drowned out the silhouette of a lone wyvern and its rider winging their way from the scene.
At the same moment, a quarter of a league away, a gate was pushed open in a thicket of undergrowth. Savelda came through first, battling with the thorns, soon followed by the two men carrying the vicomtesse. Drained of the draconic energy which had sustained her youth, she had regained her true age, becoming a haggard and ancient-looking old woman: her face was hollow and wrinkled, her complexion had lost its freshness and beauty, her long blonde hair had shrivelled into grey locks, and her pretty lips had dried and thinned. A thick black bile ran from her mouth and nostrils, and she breathed with difficulty, moaning and hiccupping.
But she lived.
1
Two days went by and then, in the morning, Rochefort came seeking La Fargue. Less than an hour later, La Fargue was received alone by Richelieu. Sitting at his desk, elbows placed on the arms of his chairs and his fingers gathered into a steeple against his lips, the cardinal stared at the impassive old captain for a long while.
Finally he said: “Monsieur de Tréville displayed great kindness in liberating monsieur Leprat from Le Châtelet, did he not? If it were up to me …”
Sitting stiffly and keeping his gaze fixed straight before him, La Fargue did not reply.
“If one is to believe monsieur de Tréville,” Richelieu continued, “the man known as Malencontre duped your man, stole his things, and escaped his prison cell in disguise, taking advantage of the changing of the guards. If monsieur Leprat were not the man that he is, this might be believable.…”
“No one is infallible, monseigneur.”
“Without a doubt, indeed.… Naturally, the most regrettable aspect, beyond monsieur Leprat’s hurt pride, is the loss of Malencontre. Do you have any idea of where he is to be found?”
“None at all. But it seems to me that the capture of the marquis de Gagnière compensates for his loss. Malencontre served Gagnière. And the master always knows more than his creature.”
“So we have come out ahead in this exchange.”
“Yes, monseigneur. Considerably.”
“We shall see.…”
The cardinal turned his gaze to the window.
“How is the baronne de Vaudreuil?”
“She is recovering.”
“And the others?”
“They’re all in the best of form. These last few days of rest have been very beneficial for them.”
“Good, good.… But there still remains the fact that I ordered you not to interfere.”
“That’s true.”
“Père Joseph warned me about your insubordination. Do you have anything to say in your defence?”
“Yes. I believe that Your Eminence did not wish to be obeyed.”
“Really?”
“I believe that Your Eminence knew that I would not abandon one of my … one of your Blades. I believe that Your Eminence had foreseen that I would be led to confront the Black Claw. Finally, I believe that Your Eminence could not do other than to give me the orders that he gave me, out of fear of displeasing Spain. But despite all that, Your Eminence wanted me to pursue matters.”
“And from where do you draw this sentiment, captain?”
“First of all, from the concern you have for the welfare of France, monseigneur.”
“Very well. And then?”
“Nothing obliged you to tell me where Malencontre was being detained. In doing so, you gave me the means to take the next step without risk of annoying the ambassador extraordinary of Spain. Thus, appearances were saved.”
The cardinal smiled. His eyes crinkled and shone with an unspoken satisfaction.
“You will understand, captain, that I can only deny all this.”
“Indeed, monseigneur.”
“Know then that I condemn your initiative …”
La Fargue nodded.
“… and that I congratulate you.”
The old gentleman betrayed a hint of a sly smile.
He realised that he would probably never know what Richelieu had or had not known since the beginning of this affair, what he had chosen to say or had preferred to keep silent, or what he had pretended to believe or had secretly guessed. The Blades were a weapon that the cardinal used as he pleased.
Richelieu rose and, a signal honour, accompanied La Fargue to the door.
“I should like, captain, for you to reflect on the proposal that I am about to make to you.…”
“Monseigneur?”
“It concerns a certain young man of great worth who has served me well. Unfortunately, things turned out in a manner that prevents him from regaining his position among my Guards. Nevertheless, I do not wish to lose him. But if you should deign to accept him among the Blades …”
“His name?”
“Laincourt.”
“Is he the man who—”
“One and the same, captain.”
“I promise you that I shall think upon it, monseigneur.”
“Excellent. Think upon it. And give me your accord soon.”
2
“It’s me,” announced Leprat after knocking on the door to Agnès’s bedroom.
“Come in.”
The young woman was still in her bed, more out of laziness, however, than necessity. She looked well and the scratches on her face would not spoil her beauty. The platter Ballardieu had brought her was set down next to her. Leprat noticed with satisfaction that it was almost empty.
“I came to see how you were feeling,” said the musketeer.
Then pointing to a chair: “May I?”
/> “Of course.”
Agnès closed her book, looked at Leprat as he sat down, taking care with his wounded leg, and waited.
“So?” he asked after a moment.
“So what?”
“Are you feeling well?”
“As you can see … I’m resting.”
“You deserve it.”
“I believe I do, yes.”
There was an awkward silence during which Agnès became amused by Leprat’s embarrassment.
But she finally took pity on him and said: “Go ahead. Say it.”
“You were reckless in letting yourself be abducted by those men.”
“I didn’t know who they were, in fact, and that was precisely what I was counting on finding out. Furthermore, there were five or six of them and I was unarmed.”
“Nevertheless. When you saw Saint-Lucq in the street, you could have … Between the two of you, with surprise on your side …”
“I know.”
“Things could have turned out very badly.”
“Yes. The Black Claw could have established a lodge, here, in France.”
“That’s one way of looking at it. But why did you go there, to begin with?”
“To Cécile’s house?”
“Yes.”
“You know very well. To find out what she was hiding there. To find whatever Saint-Lucq managed to find before me, acting on his secret orders from the captain. If I had known that …”
Leprat nodded, with a distracted gaze.
Agnès narrowed her eyes and leaned forward to look at him squarely.
“That’s what you’ve come to speak to me about, isn’t it?”
“He’s changed. He’s not the same as he was.… I … I think he’s distrustful of us.”
And with an ill-tempered gesture, his voice vibrant with impotent anger, Leprat added: “Of us, damn it! Of his Blades!”
The young woman, sympathising with him, laid her hand upon his wrist.
“We have Louveciennes to blame for that. When he betrayed us at La Rochelle, he might as well have stabbed La Fargue in the heart. He was his best friend. His only friend, perhaps.… And that’s not even including the death of Bretteville and the shameful dissolution of the Blades. That memory must be branded by a red-hot iron in his mind, and it burns him still.”