1636: The Cardinal Virtues (15 page)

Chapter 21

Pau

If Servien had been given to lyrical prose, he might have been moved to write about the sweeping vista visible from the plateau upon which the capital of Béarn was built. Beyond the town he could see the Pyrenees, verdant and sculptured against the backdrop of a late spring sky, like the frame of a grand tapestry that held the fortified castle and settlement that surrounded it. The beauty of the place—serene and quiet, far from the bustle and grime of Paris—might have been enough, had he the temperament for it, to forget the seriousness of his mission.

As Servien paused on horseback with the scene before him, he allowed himself a grim smile. Of all the things he was, a lyrical craftsman of prose was not one of them and the mission was not far from his mind. The Pyrenees, beautiful as they were in the sunny afternoon, merely marked the boundary between his native land and its greatest potential enemy, the kingdom of Spain.

He wondered for just a moment how much Spain might be involved in this: whether Monsieur Gaston had enlisted France’s rival in order to gain the throne—and what price the Spanish would exact for their assistance.

Then he shrugged off the thought and concentrated again on the mission, following the road that led steeply down toward the river and the town for which he was bound.

◊ ◊ ◊

When he reached the drawbridge to the Castle of Pau, which was lowered to give access to the town, he was approached by a soldier in Brassac livery. Servien had already dismounted from his horse; the soldier looked bored and disdainful, as if dealing with petty civilians from Paris was not part of his brief.

“I have business with Monsieur le Comte,” Servien said. “I would be obliged if you would direct me to him.”

The soldier smiled, showing what few teeth he had. “Business with the comte, is it? Well, then, monsieur. You must realize that His Lordship is an extremely busy man.”

“He will receive me.”

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Perhaps today, perhaps next week—”

“Yes,” Servien interrupted. “And today. You may tell him that I come at the behest of Cardinal de Tremblay.”

“I do not know that name.”

“That His Lordship does not confide in you is not my concern. You may take my message to him and be rewarded; or you may be difficult and recalcitrant, and afterward be punished.”

He looked dubious, possibly weighing the possibilities of
reward
in view of the lack of dignity at being an errand-boy.

“Despite your stubbornness, I shall reward you as well. Now, if you please, I should like to enter.”

At last the soldier determined that it was above his pay grade to interfere, and looked over his shoulder, making a gesture to some unknown person on the nearby battlement. Then he turned and began to walk across the drawbridge, beckoning Servien to follow.

Tremblay’s name carried a particular cachet. Within a few minutes a groom had emerged to attend to Servien’s horse, and Servien himself was escorted by a gentleman—who gave the soldier a disdainful glance, but only after Servien had made sure to provide him with coin—into the castle.

It was a beautiful place, more palace than the fortification it had been centuries earlier. He was led along a wide, airy corridor covered by a paneled vault and crowned by an exquisite chandelier; on the wall he passed a large tapestry showing a royal hunting-party that his gentleman guide identified as being Francis I, king a century past. At last they came to a grand staircase and into a wide salon, which held a great table made of a slab of highly polished stone, and a set of plush armchairs drawn up before an elaborately sculpted fireplace decorated with the quartered arms of Béarn and Brassac. Despite the sun outside it was still chilly, and a banked fire was burning, helping to cast off the chill. The gentleman bowed and left him there.

He was alone only for a few moments before a middle-aged nobleman entered from another doorway. Servien offered a gracious leg and waited to be addressed.

“I am Louis de Galard de Béarn, Sieur de Semoussac, the comte de Brassac et de Béarn,” the man said. “You have invoked a powerful name in order to be admitted to my presence, monsieur. I am sure that you are ready to explain yourself. To whom do I speak?”

Servien looked up at the comte. He was in his mid-fifties, fit and strong but gone a trifle to overweight. He wore his clothes well, and was clearly attentive to his toilet. His glance was not hostile, but it was unwavering. Servien had not been told what Tremblay’s relationship was to this nobleman, but it was sufficiently cordial to allow Servien to be admitted to his presence.

“My name is Étienne Servien. I come at the instruction of Cardinal de Tremblay, my lord,” Servien said. “But I serve as
intendant
for my master, the cardinal de Richelieu.” He reached into his wallet and withdrew Richelieu’s signet, and walked across the
salon
to present it to Brassac.

The comte took the ring and examined it, paying particular attention to the inscription within and the stone without.

“This would not leave Cardinal Richelieu’s finger except in dire emergency,” he said at last, handing back the signet to Servien, who put it away at once.

“My master instructed me to take it as a surety to others that I speak on his behalf,” Servien said. “He lies in peril, having barely survived an ambush while riding. His Majesty the king was traveling with him.”

“The king?”

“The . . . late king,” Servien said, looking down at the polished floor and crossing himself. “His Majesty was killed.”

“Who could have committed such a heinous deed?”

“His murderer was his half-brother, César de Vendôme. I witnessed it with my own eyes, my lord. But Cardinal Richelieu believes he acted on behalf of another. I am inclined to believe it as well.”

The comte de Brassac walked slowly to the great table and ran his index finger along it, following the whorls and patterns almost absently.

“The cardinal de Tremblay was wise to send you to me, monsieur. The duc d’Orleans has some unsavory alliances and could make some injudicious choices now that the kingship is his.”

“It is his by possession, my lord, not by right.”

“What do you mean?”

“The rightful king of France is his nephew, the son of King Louis and Queen Anne. He was born a few hours before his father was murdered.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I am sure, my lord. It is indisputably true.”

“Does Gaston know this?”

“I do not think that he does, my lord, and even if he did I cannot expect that his course would change.”

“And where is Monsieur now?”

“It is my understanding that he wintered with his lady mother in Tuscany, and has most recently visited his sister in Turin. If word of the king’s death has reached him—or if he has already been informed of the deed—he is most likely
en route
to Paris.”

“And the queen and . . . the young king?”

“They have departed the place where Her Majesty was in seclusion. I do not know their present whereabouts.”

Brassac thought for several moments, then looked directly at Servien. “Some provision will have been made. I shall have to return to the capital in due time. What are your orders, Monsieur Servien? Or your plans?”

It was Servien’s turn to think. The answer did not immediately present itself; he had followed Tremblay’s—and Richelieu’s—instructions to come to Pau and inform the comte de Brassac of the terrible events in the forest of Yvelines; he had not even had time to think past that.

His king had been murdered; his patron was dead, or near death. When he returned to Paris—if that did not prove unwise—he could contact his cousin Abel, the Marquis de Sablé . . . but for the moment he had no place to go: his duties had been discharged.

“I have neither orders nor plans, my lord.”

“I believe I can make use of your talents,” the comte said. “In the meanwhile, you are a welcome guest. You have ridden far, and you must have time to think.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Servien had never been given much to reflection on his future. The present had kept him busy in his role as
intendant
. He knew, and his cousin Abel had frequently reminded him, that there would certainly come a time when his patron would no longer be there to employ him, but this fact was pushed out of his mind in his day-to-day interactions with the cardinal. While Richelieu was alive and in power, he refused to give it a second thought.

Now that he was gone, Servien found himself in the uncomfortable position of considering what up-timers called “Plan B.”

Over the next few days he was comfortably accommodated as the guest of the comte de Brassac within the Château de Pau. He was given the freedom of the place, to walk where he would, without restriction.

The comte neither demanded nor required anything of him. He suspected that Brassac was sensitive to his own restlessness, his desire to take some action—but there was nothing for Servien to do, from Pau, right now.

It didn’t make waiting any easier. But it was unclear to him just what the comte was waiting for.

Three nights after his arrival at Pau, Servien found himself in an upper hall of the Château at vespers, admiring a particularly impressive tapestry depicting the famous Field of the Cloth of Gold, a great knightly contest and tournament from the previous century. It took him far away from the conflicts of the present day; it was a restful pause in the quiet of the early evening.

As he stood there trying to identify some of the more famous participants in that long-ago ceremony, he became aware of a murmuring sound not far away. It was almost too soft to hear; but he made it out—a man’s voice, speaking a Latin prayer in a steady, regular cadence. He considered leaving, but curiosity overcame him; he walked slowly and quietly along the hall until he came to a slightly open door. Light spilled into the hallway from the room beyond.

He was hesitant to interrupt; he moved the door very slightly to see what was within and saw before him a small chapel. Below the crucified Savior was an ornately carved
prie-dieu
and a small table; something—he could not see just what—was laid upon the table, and the comte de Brassac was kneeling on the hassock, his back to the door, softly praying. At the soft creak of the door he stopped and turned, and noted Servien.

After a moment’s pause he continued the prayer—an
Ave
—to its conclusion, then picked up the object from the table and tucked it within his vest. Standing and genuflecting, he turned to face his guest.

“You find me at my devotions, monsieur.”

“I apologize for interrupting.”

“It is nothing. I . . . merely had need of counsel.”

“I hope you found what you needed.” Servien glanced from Brassac to the now-empty table, and then back to the comte.

Brassac looked ready to move on, then seemed to reconsider. “Please close the door, if you would. I thought I had done so, that I might not disturb others. But perhaps it is fortuitous that you came upon me.”

Servien did as he was instructed. He walked into the room, crossing himself as he faced the
prie-dieu
.

“I have not explained to you why Père Joseph . . . the cardinal de Tremblay . . . directed you to come here in case of emergency. I have been trying to decide what I might share with you, but I have concluded that in fairness, it is appropriate that I explain.”

Servien did not answer, waiting for Brassac to continue.

“Cardinal de Tremblay and I, and others whose names you would know, share a common interest in the defense of the realm and the crown. We belong to a . . . society for the maintenance and protection of our beloved country. Its name is the
Compagnie du Saint-Sacrament
—the Company of the Blessed Sacrament.”

“I cannot say that I have ever heard of that society, my lord.”

“It is a
secret
society,” Brassac said. “And your master was aware of it, but we do not count him among our members.”

“Ah.”

“The Company is devoted to the Crown of France,” the comte continued. “We have known for some time that the queen was with child, and that there were . . . forces looking to intercept the succession.”

“And kill His Majesty the king?”

“Every monarch has enemies, Servien. King Louis was no exception. But if your question is whether we expected this attack—the answer is definitively
no
. Gaston was always a threat, but has been exiled for many years. As for Vendôme . . . there is no question that he is capable of regicide, but his greatest enemy was your master, not his brother the king.”

“I think you underestimate his desire for revenge, Monsieur le Comte. You and your—Company—seem to have overlooked an obvious alliance.”

“We are not the only group seeking to protect crown and kingdom. And we cannot be everywhere.”

Servien bit off an angry reply: he was without his patron, in the presence of a member of the
noblesse d’épee
. He wanted to give vent to his frustration and bitterness, his resentment that the world had been turned upside down.

Brassac was telling him of a society that pledged to protect the crown and defend the kingdom . . .
but they were not in the Forest of Rambouillet, at Yvelines, when Vendôme and his men rode out of the dark and struck down King and Cardinal.

“Kill them all . . . leave none alive,”
he heard in his mind.

“You seem dubious, Monsieur Servien.”

“I do not intend to convey that sentiment, my lord.”

“Then . . .”

“I entreat you to continue, Monsieur le Comte.”

“Our worst fears have not been brought about,” Brassac said. “If what you say is true, the infant king and the queen mother still live, but are in peril. We will do everything we can to protect them.”

“May I ask a question?”

“By all means.”

“What position do you hold within this Company?”

“I am its superior.”

“And Cardinal de Tremblay?”

“He is a member of our society. An important one.”

“I am gratified to hear that he is so highly regarded,” Servien said. “And now that you have revealed the existence of this secret company to me . . . what happens next?”