Read 1636: The Cardinal Virtues Online
Authors: Eric Flint,Walter H Hunt
Tags: #Fiction, #Alternative History, #Science Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #General
1636: The Cardinal Virtues (23 page)
Chapter 30
Albi
Alain de la Croix, captain in the King’s Musketeers, cantered slowly toward Marshal Bassompierre, who was consulting a map with two other men. His superior did not look up right away, which was a bit off-putting, but not unexpected: the gaunt, older man seemed to have a positive disdain for his entire subordinate command—and, as Alain had seen during the ride south, just about everyone else.
A few years in prison does that for you, I suppose,
Alain thought.
With no other choice, he waited patiently, waving at a few flies that seemed to want to take up residence in his horse’s left ear.
Apparently the motion caught Marshal Bassompierre’s eye, and he looked up from the map, fixing Alain with a scowl.
“Do you have a report for me, de la Croix?”
“Yes, my lord Marshal. We have located the pickets of Marshal Turenne’s command.”
“Well? Where are they?”
“On the outskirts of Albi, my lord. On the high ground overlooking the Tarn.”
“Did they see you?”
“On your orders, sir, we remained hidden and observed. They are not numerous, but they seem alert and attentive, merely watching this road.”
“Not numerous?”
“We counted two groups of three soldiers, monsieur.”
Bassompierre snorted. “This young Marshal Turenne is very confident in his troops—or does not expect a reconnaissance in force. Very well; inform the men that we will advance in order.”
◊ ◊ ◊
It was as Captain de la Croix had described it. The pickets were lightly manned and made no attempt to conceal themselves; as Marshal Bassompierre and his staff approached, the musketeers behind, an officer came out into the road, his weapon held loosely in his hands.
“Good day, my lord,” the man said. “I am Colonel Jean de Gaisson. May I ask your business?”
“I am Marshal François de Bassompierre,” he said. “I am directed by his Majesty King Gaston to take command of this force. Take me to Marshal Turenne, if you please.”
The man squinted at him as if the words made no sense.
“Did you not hear what I said?”
“Monsieur,” the man answered, “I have no orders from our commanding officer on this matter. I can send word—”
“You will do as I command,” Bassompierre interrupted. “You do not need to
send word
or do any other thing than as I command. Do you understand?”
“I understand very well, monsieur,” the man said. “But I am following orders.”
“Your orders are
overruled
by my orders, Colonel,” de Bassompierre snarled back. He beckoned behind him; Alain de la Croix turned and nodded to the musketeers, who began dismounting and forming up.
“You say your orders are from . . .”
“King Gaston, you insolent oaf. I will not repeat myself. Escort me to Marshal Turenne. If you do not choose to follow those orders, you will suffer the consequences.”
De Bassompierre cantered his horse a few feet to the right. A half dozen musketeers had formed a line, and had their weapons out, their slow-matches lit, and powder-horns in hand.
“We were not informed that the king’s brother had been crowned,” Gaisson said carefully. “And with respect, my lord, I advise against this.”
“Advise against what?”
“A firefight, my lord,” he said. He looked from Marshal Bassompierre to the six musketeers proceeding through the process of preparing their muskets to fire, and the thirty-odd more who were a few steps behind them.
Then he began to walk backward, slowly and deliberately, keeping his weapon pointed downward.
The marshal’s face reddened. He drew his sabre from its scabbard and began to charge the man, who turned and ran for the trees. A moment later, four shots hit the ground directly in front of Bassompierre’s horse, causing it to rear.
The musketeers, and Turenne’s riflemen, responded almost at once.
◊ ◊ ◊
Before Turenne reached the camp, his cavalry commander François Lefebvre galloped up to meet him. The firing had stopped by the time he reached the bridge across the Tarn.
“Report, Commander. And there had better be a damn good reason for this.”
“He—they issued outrageous demands, Monsieur le Comte.”
“Who did?”
“The commander.” He gestured out beyond their camp. “He claimed that he had orders to take command of our army. Colonel de Gaisson offered to send a runner to fetch you, but the commander . . . initiated hostilities.”
“And you responded.”
“. . . Would you have wanted us to do otherwise, Marshal?”
“No. Of course not. What happened next?”
“After the commander charged Colonel de Gaisson, they fired in front of the horse, which reared. The musketeers managed a volley and one of Olier’s men was hit. He returned fire. The enemy didn’t stay in range for long.” Lefebvre smiled, but quickly stopped when he saw his commander’s stern glance.
“The . . . ‘enemy’? How do you know them to be enemies?”
“They
shot
at us, Marshal. By your leave, that seems good enough to me.”
Turenne did not answer, but rode past Lefebvre, galloping toward the place he had indicated.
A few hundred yards up the road he could see the picket where Lieutenant Olier and his company were crouched; Olier didn’t stand upright, but did wave his hat; a musket shot rang out from beyond, but was off target or, more likely, fell short.
“God curse it,” Turenne said, digging his boots into the stirrups and charging forward. He took his own hat off and raised it in the air, keeping the other hand on the reins.
It was the sort of thing a man did at age twenty-five; if he was ten or even five years older, he might not have considered it. But whatever was going on, he wasn’t about to let it go further.
He heard a shouted command—but it wasn’t an order to fire. He saw motion ahead of him, and a mounted officer, an older man with sunken cheeks, rode slowly out from cover, holding a sword across his saddle.
“Hold your fire,” the officer said, tilting his head imperiously toward the troopers, crouched in cover.
“Monsieur,” Turenne said. “I would be obliged if you would identify yourself.”
“You must be the
Maréchal
de Turenne. Monsieur le Comte, your soldiers are most insubordinate.”
“Perhaps you should explain yourself. And once again I ask you who you are.”
“I am the
Maréchal
François de Bassompierre, monsieur, and I am directed strictly by His Majesty King Gaston to take command of your forces. I have ridden a considerable distance in pursuit of you, and I demand your compliance.”
“To which end you have
fired
on my men?”
“They fired first.”
“I should like to see those orders in writing. It is fortunate that any of your men are still alive.”
“Four of them lie dead, Monsieur le Comte. You will answer to King Gaston for their deaths. Once again, and for the last time, I
demand
that you surrender your command to me instantly or prepare to—”
“Or prepare to be fired upon again?”
“Yes.”
“Do not try my patience. Marshal Bassompierre, I invite you to join me in my tent to discuss matters; or I encourage you to leave the way you came.” Turenne turned his horse away, wanting to show perfect confidence that he would not be shot at by Bassompierre’s men. He was close enough that even a bad marksman could blow him off his horse, or worse.
He slowly cantered his horse away from the position, waiting for the shot, but it never came. Instead, he heard a hushed exchange and then the sound of another horse following him.
◊ ◊ ◊
“No,” Turenne said.
He had set two camp chairs outside his tent. Marshal Bassompierre sat in the other chair, and did not look happy.
“I am not prepared to return to the king with that answer.”
Turenne set the parchment document on his lap. “You can take any message you like to Gaston. But he is not yet king, and that means that my orders—”
“Richelieu’s orders?”
“The
king
’s orders, monsieur. King Louis.”
“He is dead, Monsieur le Comte.”
“I know he is. But Gaston is not king yet, Marshal Bassompierre. Until he is, this—” he tapped the parchment—“is no order I am prepared to follow.”
“He is to be crowned king at Reims, Marshal. This is treason.”
“I . . .” Turenne picked up the parchment as if to examine it, then let it fall back into his lap. “I have considered that, since you told me that you were directed by Monsieur Gaston to take my command from me. But until I am informed that he has had the crown placed on his head, I do not consider myself obliged to follow his orders. The safety of the realm is in my hands, monsieur, and I will protect it with the force given into my charge.”
“There will be a reckoning for this.” Bassompierre stood; several of Turenne’s men who stood nearby stepped forward, as if the elderly marshal might do something violent. “I will return to my master and inform him of your insubordination.”
Turenne stood as well. “No,” he said. “You will not. You and your troop will accompany this army to its destination. The men will be properly treated as soldiers of France, and you will be accommodated as befits your rank and station. I will await official word, and then decide the next appropriate action.”
“And if I—and my force—resists this coercion?”
“Please, Monsieur
Maréchal
. Do you truly think that is even a choice?”
Chapter 31
Reims
Three days before the
sacre
, in which Gaston d’Orleans was to be crowned as king of France, he made his formal entry into the cathedral city of Reims astride a white horse, passing slowly under triumphal arches made of woven flowers into the
plâce
before the gate, which was packed with spectators. A gold-painted chariot drawn by a matched pair of white horses was driven slowly toward him; it stopped a dozen feet away and a woman in a white gown dismounted and walked slowly to stand before him, carrying a velvet pillow which bore an ornate key on a purple ribbon. She lifted it so that he could take the key; when he took it up, the crowd roared its approval.
◊ ◊ ◊
On the morning of the
sacre
, Gaston arose before the first light crept over the horizon. Vachon had drawn a ceremonial bath for him in the great marble tub in the king’s chamber in the Palace of Tau; he took his time in his preparations, suffering himself to be barbered and prepared before his valet dressed him in the many layers of royal vestments. When he emerged, Vachon assisted him in dressing in a shirt of Dutch linen, an overshirt of crimson satin and a long-sleeved robe of cloth-of-silver.
A few minutes after nine o’clock, Gaston descended to the ground floor of the palace, preceded by Séguier, the keeper of the seals, dressed in a gown and hood of scarlet, a white baton in his hand and a cloth-of-gold mortar-board upon his head. A dozen bishops were waiting for them; the Bishop of Laon, Philibert de Brichanteau—another man forced into exile by Richelieu, a middle-aged ecclesiastic from an ancient diocese, and only lately returned to his see—had been chosen to represent them. He stepped forward between the others, who had arranged themselves in two lines.
When he reached Gaston and Séguier, he thrice rapped the foot of his crozier on the marble floor and asked, “Who are you?”
“Monsieur Gaston, of the House of Bourbon, son of Henry IV.”
A second time the bishop asked the question, and once again Séguier gave the same answer. He asked once more, but the third time, the keeper of the seals answered:
“Gaston, heir to the throne of France, whom God has given us as king!”
Bishop Philibert offered a respectful bow and turned away, followed by Séguier and Gaston; the other clerics fell into line behind. A dozen gentlemen ushers in white satin holding their maces of office lined the vaulted corridor between the Palace of Tau and the cathedral, and the steps of the procession matched the rhythm of drums and
hautbois
. The duc de Vendôme, acting in the capacity of chamberlain and carrying a naked sword held out before him, waited at the entrance of the church; the same questions and answers were exchanged, and at the final answer Vendôme turned and proceeded into the church, leading the keeper of the seals, Gaston, and all of the others between a line of uniformed King’s Musketeers. When Gaston crossed the threshold a choir of monks began to intone Psalm XX,
“à faux-bourdon”—The king shall rejoice in thy judgment, O Lord.
Where the nave and transept crossed, Marguerite and her principal ladies, including his daughter Anne-Marie-Louise, awaited his arrival.
Archbishop Gondi waited before the high altar dressed in full episcopals, with the
ampulla
of sacred oil from Saint-Rémy held in his hands; four monks, dressed in white, held a canopy over him. The cathedral was full of dignitaries, domestic and foreign—representatives of lands from England and Spain, the Germanies and Scandinavia and Italy;
noblesse de robe
and
noblesse d’épee
.
When Gaston reached his queen, he took her hand and turned to face the rear of the nave. A herald, bearing a tabard with the coat of arms of the House of Bourbon, walked slowly forward toward the high altar. When they reached Gaston and Marguerite, Séguier raised his baton and spoke.
“Vive le Roi Gaston I de Nom, par la grace de Dieu Roi de France et de Navarre, très-Christian, nostre très-souverain seigneur et bon maistre, auquel Dieu doint très-heureuse et très-longue vie!”
God grant him a very happy and long life!
Gaston heard those words echoing in his mind through the joyous cheers that filled the cathedral, echoing from one end of the nave to the other and from the floor to the vault of the ceiling. He had composed himself with the intention of showing no emotion during the ceremony, but he could not help but give way to a smile—the goal of his entire life was close at hand: soon, very soon, he would indeed be consecrated and crowned
très-Christian, très-souverain seigneur
. . . the Most Christian King of France.
After bowing deeply to the archbishop, Gaston settled himself into a gilded chair provided for him.
When the attendees were quiet, the archbishop placed the
ampulla
in the hands of an assistant and raised his hands in benediction, then returned them to an attitude of prayer in front of his chest, turning to face Gaston.
“Most gracious Majesty,” he said. “Do you promise upon your honor to protect, defend and support the one true and universal Catholic Church and to promote orthodoxy in worship?”
“Upon my honor, I do so promise.”
“Most gracious Majesty, do you promise upon your honor to protect and defend your realm, the laws of your kingdom and the ancient rights and privileges enjoyed by its subjects?”
“Upon my honor, I do so promise,” he repeated.
A baron of the realm descended from the high altar with a beautiful and elaborately decorated volume of the Gospels; he stood before Gaston and lowered the book before him; Gaston placed his hands upon the open book, and kissed it once, twice, thrice.
Archbishop Gondi stepped back, not turning his back on Gaston, and turned his head toward the congregation.
“And do you, people of France, accept Gaston Jean-Baptiste de Bourbon, son of Henry, the fourth of that name, and brother of Louis, the thirteenth of that name, our late beloved king, as your monarch, and puissant lord and sovereign, Most Christian King of France?”
Shouts and cheers were the response.
He turned back to Gaston. “In consequence of the affirmation of your people, Your Majesty, and your acceptance of the oaths incumbent on the king, I shall, with your permission, proceed to invest you with the apparel and regalia of coronation.”
Two gentlemen-ushers approached and stood before Gaston, who rose from his seat. The three men, with the archbishop behind, approached the high altar where the relics of the kingdom had been placed.
Gaston genuflected and then stood upright before the altar.
“The
moyenne
,” Gondi said. “The imperial crown of France.” He lowered it slowly to Gaston’s head.
“
Le main de justice
,” he continued, placing a gold scepter in Gaston’s left hand; it bore a unique finial—an ivory hand bent in a blessing gesture.
The duc de Vendôme then approached, sword upright before him; when he reached the altar he reversed it, bowed, and placed it hilt-first in the hands of the archbishop, who in turn presented it to Gaston.
Vendôme then bent down and attached silver spurs to the heels of Gaston’s boots.
“
Joyeuse
,” Gondi said. “The sword of Charlemagne, and the spurs of knighthood. With these symbols, Majesty, you are accorded honors as the first peer of the realm, and the dignities of knighthood oblige you to seek truth, defend the law, protect women and use your strength and skill to do right as you perceive the right.”
The spurs were then removed. Gaston kissed the sword on its hilt and returned it to Gondi, who took it back and placed it again in Vendôme’s hands; he backed slowly down and assumed his former position.
“I now display to you the sacerdotal garments indicating your divine authority as king,” Gondi said, gesturing toward the remaining items laid out before Gaston. “The monastic sandals and dalmatic; the tunic made of cloth-of-gold; and the royal mantle.” He took up the mantle and placed it on Gaston’s shoulders. “Upon your shoulders rests the blessing and the burdens of the realm of France.”
Gondi then opened the
ampulla
, removing a small bit of oil with a golden spoon, and mixing it with the chrism prepared in the paten for the anointing of the king. The mantle was unfastened, and his outer garments were loosened by two assisting bishops, one of whom took the scepter from his hand. He then prostrated himself before the altar, his hands extended outward, his head bowed almost to the floor.
“The holy oil bestowed by Heaven,” Gondi said. “The king alone on earth shines with the glorious privilege of being anointed with this oil.” He reached into the paten with his right thumb, and placed a drop on the crown of Gaston’s head, the top of his chest, and the palms of his hands; he then placed Gaston’s hands together and raised him to an upright position, after which he touched Gaston’s chest above his heart, then his left and right shoulders, and at last upon a spot just above his upper lip. When he finished the anointing, Gaston’s clothes were returned to their proper positions. A pair of loose-fitting gloves were offered to him, so that no earthly thing might touch the holy oil; the scepter was then returned to him. At the direction of the archbishop, he turned to face the congregation.
He descended to the chair and sat, as his daughter Anne-Marie-Louise approached with a satin cushion in her hands, upon which was an ornate ring. Though she had been carefully rehearsed in this role, she too could not keep from smiling as she knelt before her father, lifting the cushion to him.
Gondi, who had descended to the level, took the ring and offered a brief blessing, then placed it on Gaston’s gloved right hand.
“With this ring, Majesty, you are sealed to the realm of France as its sole and sovereign king. May your reign be long and happy, peaceful and prosperous. Long live the king!”
A thunderous shout of “Long live the king!” rang out from the congregation, spoken by subject and friend alike.
As the echoes died away, there was a commotion of some sort at the back of the nave. King Gaston was to have remained seated for the rest of the ceremony, as further hymns and adulations were to be performed; but in order to see what was happening he stood, holding the scepter in his hand. He exchanged a brief glance with Vendôme, who looked equally mystified.
The crowd began to part, and a group of richly dressed persons became visible, slowly approaching the new king of France. After a moment, one individual walked forward, coming at last to stand before King Gaston. She curtseyed deeply, but never took her eyes off him.
After a moment, Gaston extended his right hand to her, aiding her to rise upright.
“Madame,” he said. “We were not aware that you had returned to our sovereign realm.”
“I could not stay away from the supreme pleasure of seeing my son crowned as king of France,” she said. “Those things that were impediments to my return have been removed. Now, by your leave, I return—to be the first to offer you allegiance and fealty.”
In the moment that stretched out, with Gaston holding his mother’s hand, the new king of France considered the possibility of refusing and dismissing her—she had, after all, waged war against his brother, assumed unsanctioned privileges during and after her regency, and sought to undermine Louis’ reign. Last winter when he had visited her in Tuscany, when they had discussed returning to France, he had demurred: she might seem to be here at his invitation or by his leave, but it was not part of the plan that had been set forth for the day of his coronation.
You want me to choose
, Gaston thought.
You forced Louis to choose—and he decided to send you away. You play a dangerous game, Mother.
“We welcome you back to our kingdom, Highness,” Gaston said at last, releasing her hand. “And we restore to you your former honors, privileges and dignities.” He handed the scepter to the archbishop and stepped forward, embracing his mother, who returned the affection.
“We will discuss this in due course, Mother,” he hissed.
“Yes,” she said. “I am sure we will.”