1636: The Cardinal Virtues (11 page)

Chapter 16

Paris

It began as nothing but a rumor.

The absence of both king and cardinal was scarcely something unusual; but their absence for more than a few days—without information about a royal progress, or some other such event, was certainly out of the ordinary.

When it became known in the fall that the queen was with child, bells were rung in every church in Paris and across France. Masses and prayers had been said continuously through the winter and early spring in hopes that a new prince would be born. It was common knowledge that the queen had retired to some quiet place to have her child, after the many difficulties and disappointments that had accompanied earlier pregnancies. It was widely rumored that His Majesty had gone recently to join her.

But when no word had come either of prince or king, stories began to circulate. The king had taken ill (as he had done six years earlier while on campaign in Savoy); the queen had chosen to flee to Spain to have her baby, and the king and his minister were in pursuit . . . and so on.

At last the rumors had coalesced, like bits of iron gathering around the poles of a magnet, to a story that had reached Paris from the countryside to the south. There had been a battle, or an ambush, and some villain had struck down the king and all his party—including Cardinal Richelieu and several of his guardsmen. Rumors on Paris streets were usually unreliable . . . but sometimes they came true.

On a cool May afternoon, a large procession of mounted soldiers with Urbain de Maillé-Brézé, Marshal of France, leading, approached and then entered the Porte Saint-Germain. The marshal was a serious, imposing figure, rarely given to levity or joy in public; this day he was particularly somber.

Twenty feet behind him was a carriage bearing the royal arms, and word soon spread that it bore the king—or, more precisely, the body of the king. Covered carts followed the royal conveyance, carrying the remains of other victims of some terrible battle—or ambush—in which His Majesty had been involved.

The procession made its way slowly into the city, stopping for no one, crossing the Pont Neuf and turning into the gardens of the Tuileries, where it was met by guardsmen from the palace of the Louvre. Not long afterward, a proclamation was given to the criers to announce all over Paris. Louis, Defender of the Faith and Most Christian King of France, was dead—like his father, the victim of a violent murder.

But where was his minister, Cardinal Richelieu? Where was his queen? And to whom did the crown now belong—to an infant prince or to an exiled brother?

Turin

SPAR SPAR SPAR CQ CQ CQ.

Terrye Jo heard it and recognized the fist at once: it was GJBF, signaling with an intensity that she could almost feel. Henri was standing nearby; it was nearly the end of her afternoon shift—the dinner bell hadn’t rung yet but would do so soon. The duchess had recently begun to insist that she appear at meals in “appropriate” attire, which meant something other than flannels and jeans and work boots, so this time of the day had been assigned to one of the junior operators.

GJBF SPAR KN.

SPAR GJBF NOUVELLES IMPORTANTES POUR MONSIEUR.

GJBF SPAR
, she sent back.
BON ATTENDEZ POUR LUI.

She took off the headphones before GJBF replied. “Henri, go and find Vachon.” Vachon was Monsieur Gaston’s valet, who had been making life hell on the serving staff since the prince returned to Turin. “Tell him that—” her first impulse was to say,
tell him that his master should get his ass up here at once
, but realized that she shouldn’t, and Henri
couldn’t
, say anything like that. “Tell him that I am receiving an urgent message for His Highness, and ask that he convey my respects to his master and that he should come at once.”

Henri’s eyebrows went up. Monsieur Gaston had visited the radio room a few times in the last several days, mostly in the evenings and not by arrangement—he came and went as he pleased.

“That sounds a little too much like a demand,” she said after a moment.

“It does, Mademoiselle Teresa.”

“Very well. I . . . damn. Tell Vachon that there is a message for the prince, and that I will receive it and bring it to His Highness personally unless he’d like to come up here and get it directly.”

“He won’t like that either.”

“Will he like it less than the first version?”

“No, this is better.”

“Good. Go.” She waved toward the door and put the headphones back on.

GJBF SPAR
, she sent.
KN.

SPAR GJBF NOUVELLES IMPORTANTES POUR LE PRINCE
, she heard, then a long pause.
LE ROI EST MORT.

A chill came over her. She hesitated over the telegraph key, and then sent:
QSM
.
Send it again.

SPAR GJBF LE ROI EST MORT.

That was not the message she had been expecting. Ever since their first exchange, she had been waiting for word that the queen of France—the woman she’d worried about, and that the duchess had seemed to dismiss so casually—had given birth to a child. Terrye Jo understood the situation much more clearly than she had done in the fall. A prince would replace Gaston as the king’s heir; a daughter would be cause for celebration, but wouldn’t change the political situation.

The death of the king, though, promoted Monsieur Gaston to king of France.

Apparently Henri knew how to speak to a valet, and apparently Vachon—for all his arrogance—wasn’t about to get Monsieur Gaston angry. It took no more than twenty minutes for him to appear in the radio room. Terrye Jo expected Louis to be with him—but Gaston came completely alone.

“Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Tillman,” the prince said. He came over to stand next to the bench, and waved Terrye Jo back to her seat as she began to stand. “I am informed that there is an important message.”

She handed him the transcription pad, on which she had written the words
LE ROI EST MORT
. “This came in from the telegrapher GJBF.”

Gaston looked from the pad to Terrye Jo and back to the pad. His Guy Fawkes face made an attempt at shock and sorrow, but she wasn’t convinced. It was a put-on: it was as if he already knew that something had happened.

“My brother is dead,” Gaston said, placing the pad on the bench. “What else does my
créature
have to say?”

“I’ll ask for details,” she answered. She turned away and settled the headphones on her head.

SPAR GJBF COMMENT EST-CE ARRIVE?
How did it happen?

GJBF SPAR UNE EMBUSCADE DANS LES BOIS.

She wrote down the message. Gaston watched the pencil as she noted each letter. “They were attacked in the woods,” she said. “An ambush.”

“The king would go nowhere without an escort,” Gaston said. “If he was attacked, it wouldn’t be a lone assassin like our father. It would be an armed troop.”

“Shall I ask if there is more information, Highness?”

“If you please.”

She sent an inquiry. After a moment GJBF began to send a description. There was a lot of it; she could keep up, but her correspondent had to stop at intervals. Gaston watched her write each part of the message, then stop and go back, going over it as GJBF repeated it.

At last she sent an
SN
acknowledgement and turned away from the radio set.

“He has told me what he knows,” she said. “Apparently the king was riding out from Paris in the company of Cardinal Richelieu, and there was an attack by a large group of armed bandits. There . . . were no survivors, and a group sent out afterward found the bodies. They have returned to Paris with the king’s body.”

“And the cardinal’s as well?”

“It wasn’t mentioned, Highness.” She looked at the pad, running her finger slowly down the long message. “The king and a number of guards. That’s what he said.”

“Ask him,” Gaston said. “Ask if the cardinal’s body was recovered.”

Terrye Jo looked at Monsieur Gaston curiously, but after a few seconds she turned her attention to the radio and sent the question.

The answer came back quickly:
NON.

“No,” she said. “It wasn’t recovered.”

Gaston made no secret of his anger this time: whether or not he was upset by the news of the king, he was clearly upset that the incident had not killed Cardinal Richelieu. It was almost as if . . .

“He is certain?”

“I made sure to have him repeat the message, Sire. The soldiers were his guards—Cardinal Guards—”

“The Cardinal’s Guard. Yes. They have a distinctive uniform.”

“Your servant said so. He said that the king was dressed as a Cardinal’s Guard.”

This time it was even more confusing: Gaston was upset, but in a different way—she wasn’t sure why—but she was even more convinced that this report wasn’t a surprise for him.

He knew this was coming.

“The king is dead,” Gaston said at last. “I am now king. I shall have to proceed to Paris at once.” He turned away, adjusting the lace on his cuffs. “There is much to do. I . . . may require your assistance.”

“The duke made it clear that I am to help you in any way you require, Highness,” she said. “If there is a message—”

He turned back to her. “I will need a skilled telegrapher in Paris. It is my wish that you accompany me.”

“I’d have to discuss that with Duke Amadeus—”

“I shall speak with him, mademoiselle.” He walked to the door. “You should prepare to leave as soon as possible,” he said, and left the radio room before Terrye Jo could answer.

Lyon

Turenne’s commanders tramped up the hill through the rain to the villa, stomping into the entry room with their muddy boots. The marshal had arranged for three grooms to be on hand to clean them, so as not to ruin the carpeting in the ground-floor morning room where the council was to take place.

He was not much inclined toward that sort of meeting. Turenne’s army was as much a modern, professional force as Sherrilyn had seen down-time: particularly over the winter and into the spring, it had become more and more like the sort of army that the USE was developing—organized, well supplied, with specific tasks and responsibilities. It still had some good old-fashioned seventeenth-century brawling (and the occasional duel: that was illegal in France, but Turenne turned a blind eye to it—he would rather have such deep-seated feuds resolved in camp than on the battlefield); but by and large, it was a well-delineated chain of command, with a small number of senior officers that dealt directly with their marshal and handled their respective departments.

Thus, when he called the commanders—including her—together for a
conseil de guerre
, it was an occasion. It took a little time for them all to assemble, and a little longer for them all to settle into seats. She found a place in the back near Johann Glauber, Turenne’s munitions expert and the man who had developed the new percussion caps. Most of the commanders steered clear of him. He was a little wild-eyed and had a sort of persistent chemical smell around him that tended to spook down-timers.

When the marshal came into the room they all got to their feet. He was accompanied by another man who bore a distinct family resemblance, though he was older and a little more weathered. Most of the people in the room knew who he was, and some of them doffed their hats to him. He caught Sherrilyn’s eye and seemed to fix his attention directly on her, as if there was no one else in the room.

“Most of you are acquainted with my older brother Frédéric,” Turenne began. “As prince of Sédan and duc de Bouillon, he outranks me—everywhere but
here
.” He smiled. “I thought his insights would be valuable.

“We have received confirmation of something that some of you may have already heard. Our sovereign lord, King Louis, is dead.” Turenne took his hat off and bowed; everyone else did likewise. “There was an attack of some sort at some distance from Paris, on a party that included His Eminence Cardinal Richelieu and His Majesty. The king’s body has been conveyed in state to Paris, but there is no word on the cardinal—whether he is dead or alive, there is no news.” The officers began to murmur, and Turenne held up his hand, quieting them.

“There is no way to know,” he continued, “who might have performed this criminal act. The person who benefits the most from the king’s death is his brother, but I have intelligence that indicates that he spent the winter in Tuscany with the queen mother and is now visiting his sister, the duchess of Savoy, in Turin.”

“He was behind it,” de la Mothe said. “You can count on it.”

“There is no way to know that. It is possible that a group of Spanish horsemen ambushed the king’s party; there are certainly
agents provocateurs
for Spain within our borders, reporting to—or working with—the marquis de Mirabel, King Philip’s ambassador in Paris. It is known that in the past he corresponded with Her Majesty.”

“There is no reason to believe that the queen is complicit,” the duc de Bouillon said quietly. His voice was very similar to Turenne’s, quiet but forceful. “At least at this time.”

“She wouldn’t benefit from his death,” de la Mothe said. “With the king dead, Gaston would have no more use for her—he’d send her back to Spain.”

“These are reasonable inferences,” Turenne said. “But there is a further complication: the queen is with child, and is due within the month. Monsieur Gaston has no son: if the queen gives birth to a boy, he would be Gaston’s heir. That makes her either valuable—or
vulnerable
.”

“I have a question,” Sherrilyn said, raising her hand. The other commanders turned to her; she lowered her hand to her side, feeling a bit silly at the gesture.

“Frédéric,” Turenne said. “It is my honor to present my commander of sharpshooters, Colonel Sherrilyn Maddox, a
Grantvilléuse.
”

Bouillon made his way across the sitting-room to where she sat. As he approached she stood, wondering if she should bow or curtsey. Instead she stuck out her hand and he took it, offering a firm grasp. Before he let it go he turned it this way and that, as if examining it.

“A pleasure,” he said at last, letting it go. “Henri has told me a great deal about you, and I have made the up-timers a matter of personal interest. I have collected reprints of a number of interesting books from your wondrous future world.”