1636: The Cardinal Virtues (25 page)

Chapter 33

Pau

From the parapets of the Chateau de Pau, Étienne Servien and Sherrilyn Maddox watched the army approach in the cloud of dust kicked up by the passage of thousands of men and horses.

“I’m relieved,” Sherrilyn said. “I bet
they’ve
got some news.”

“True,” Servien answered. “We have news as well. I wonder what they’ll make of it, and what’s going to happen next.”

“Oh? Has the plan changed, monsieur?”

“Colonel Maddox,” Servien said. “You have not been in contact with Marshal Turenne’s main force for several weeks. There is no way to tell if he is still in command, or if he has received—or accepted—new orders.”

“You mean changing sides to serve Gaston? He’d never do that.”

“Are you sure?”

“I—”

Sherrilyn stopped herself as she began to answer. How well did she know Turenne? She’d be working for him for six months. She knew that he was a client of Richelieu . . . a
former
client of Richelieu now, she guessed—and that he didn’t think much of Gaston. But he was a Frenchman first and foremost.

Gaston was king now: crowned in Reims a few days ago—word had come to the comte de Brassac by radio. Turenne might know that, or suspect it—and he did not have the intelligence that Servien had brought regarding Monsieur’s perfidy. He could have changed sides. He could be marching here on Gaston’s behalf.

“I really don’t know,” she said at last.

“No. There is no way you can know, is there?”

“I’m just a soldier, Monsieur Servien.”

“And I’m just an
intendant
. But we each have former obligations, do we not?”

“Yes,” she answered. “But the difference is that you’re a Frenchman. I’m a hired soldier. I’m an American, a citizen of the USE.”

“You think that will matter?” Servien said. “You think that
Gaston
will have any scruples with regard to your citizenship, or your contractual status? Do you really think that it ever will? As for me—I rely upon the patronage of a person of authority, but my patron is likely deceased or, at least, out of power. I might as well be a foreign national.

“Marshal Turenne is a young man, Colonel. He has a role as a peer of France. He has his family to consider. It is unclear what he may be willing or able to do.”

“Which leaves us . . .”

“On the parapets of the Chateau de Pau,” Servien said, smiling. “Fortunately, if things don’t go well, the border of Spain is nearby, you are well armed, and my Castilian is passable.”

“Ever the pragmatist.”

He offered her a perfect courtly bow. “At your service, Colonel.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne, the comte de Turenne, turned the shattered watch over and over in his hands.

“This is hard to accept,” he said.

Servien stood at the head of the table. At Brassac’s direction he had presented the watch to Turenne and explained what it was, and how it had come to be so badly damaged.

Turenne placed the relic on the polished stone table and laid his hand next to it; then he pushed it slowly toward François de Bassompierre, who picked it up and let it catch the gray light from the late afternoon sun.

“As hard for me,” Bassompierre answered. He let the watch dangle by its broken chain and then flipped it and caught it in his hand. “If it is true that Louis left a son, then Gaston is no king. But he holds the
main de justice
; he wears the Bourbon crown; he sits upon his father’s throne.”

“It makes him a usurper and a traitor,” Turenne said. “It makes the son of King Louis and Queen Anne the rightful king, wherever they are. If he and his mother are even still alive.”

“I think we can assume that they are, Marshal,” Brassac said. “Gaston d’Orleans would not hesitate to tie up that loose end. That no word has reached us here that he has found them—alive or dead—is a reasonable assurance that they are still at large.”

Bassompierre slid the watch to Brassac. “If they turn up safe, monsieur, then we face the possibility of civil war.”

“They will turn up safe.”

“How do you know that?”

“I am not at liberty to furnish that information to you at this time, Marshal Bassompierre. But let me assure you that it is true. So I now have a question for you: who is the king of France?”

“Meaning—”

“Just that.” Brassac fixed the old soldier with a steely glance. “A simple question.
Who is the king of France?
”

“There is no simple answer.”

“I disagree. The answer is as simple as the question.”

“If I respond in a way you find unacceptable, what will you do with me? Lock me in a prison? Believe me, though I would not choose that fate, it no longer presents any dread.”

“I would hope that it would not come to that.”

“And if it does?” Bassompierre made a fist of his right hand on the table. “What if it does, Brassac? Are you prepared for civil war? My friend Turenne here is too young to remember, but you and I are of another generation. We recall
le Grand Alcandre
,
Henri le Grand
, born in this very house. We were children during the War of the Three Henries—when
Henri le Grand
took Queen Elizabeth’s shilling and drove his enemies from the field at Arques and Ivry. The Catholic League wanted another man to wear the crown because he was not of the true faith, but in the end even that was not an issue.”

“‘Paris is well worth a mass,’” Turenne said.

“Yes, well.” Bassompierre looked down at his fist and snorted. “He may not have even said that; it may be a fiction of the Jesuits, who called him
le Hercule Gaulois
and every other damn thing. But my point remains: do you want this strife to return to France—now, when the stakes are higher, the weapons are more deadly, the evidence”—he gestured to the watch, which lay on the table between them—“so dubious?

“Consider this,” he continued. “Gaston d’Orleans is no saint, God knows. But neither was Louis. It was Richelieu who was the devil. Now that he’s gone, I would give serious thought to the possibility that Gaston would make a decent king. He’s shrewd in his own way and he might be able to give this realm the one thing his brother apparently could not: a son.”

“Louis
did
give France a son.”

“Who was conveniently born just before he was slain by his bastard brother—on orders, you say, from Gaston himself. All I can say is
prove it
. What I see is a broken watch—which anyone could have broken at any time—a king on a throne, and a chain of reasoning that is as brittle and fragile as a newborn babe. You are a man of honor, Monsieur le Comte,” he added to Brassac. “I would not sit in your house, at your table, and accuse you of being anything other than that. I am a practical man who loves his country and would not see it tear itself apart to displace a strong king with a weak regency. The last three kings of France have been assassinated: think about that. Would you care to make it four?”

Paris

“Have you read this?”

“Yes.” Vendôme tossed the letter on the table. “I read it. Rather insulting, actually. I assume you’re going to tell him to go to hell.”

“I wish it were that easy.”

“It
is
that easy, Gaston. You’re the king now.”

The king’s apartments were still in the state of disorganization that Louis had left them: a small easel held a half-finished portrait; several books sat a low table, two of them opened and marked; a hunting-horn on its strap and a few bits of harness, with a pen-knife and an awl beside sat on an occasional table. The restless king, no longer restless, had left his varied diversions and interests half-finished.

Gaston was leaning back on a couch, his boots propped upon a fine hassock. He looked relaxed but worried: the sardonic half-smile had not left his face, but Vendôme knew that it was more of a façade than usual.

“No. It’s not.”

“What did you offer them?”

“The Spanish made no
specific
demands. They said that they would be satisfied to see me on the throne.”

“These are the demands, then.”

“So it seems. And Mirabel will be here in a few minutes to get my answer.”

“Which will be to tell him to go to hell,” Vendôme said. “What can the Spanish possibly do?”

Gaston did not answer.

“Gaston,” Vendôme said. “I have known you for your entire life. At no time have you ever been completely truthful, completely true to your promises, or completely without an alternate plan. Have you made a commitment to the Spanish that you feel obliged to fulfill?”

“Let us say that I did.”

“Then I would say, dear Brother, that you are a fool or a very good liar. And since I know you are both, I can imagine that it is the case. What? What did you promise, and
why
are you going to go through with it?”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand very well indeed,” Vendôme spat at him. “As if weren’t enough that you planned Louis’ death from the start—and got me to do it for you—now you’re going to let the Spanish take our
country
? Are you mad?”

“You dare talk to me like that? It’s been a month. A
month
, César. Where is Anne? Where is Richelieu? I have it on reliable information that the cardinal is assembling an army to overthrow me. Instead of lying dead in the Forest of Yvelines, he’s got all of his Cardinal’s Guard assembled and ready to march on Paris. That’s what I’m dealing with, Brother. You’ve been useless.”

He took his feet off the hassock and jumped to his feet, pointing his finger at Vendôme, who stood his ground. “You’ve brought me nothing—except excuses. I’m blaming Anne for Louis’ death; maybe I should simply announce to the world the identity of the
actual
culprit.”

“I don’t take kindly to threats,” Vendôme said levelly.

“At least you have the sense to know one when you hear it. Do you have anything new to tell me on the simple tasks I have set before you?”

“I think the Richelieu rumor is no more than that. I believe he’s dead, Gaston, and there are
agents provocateurs
circulating these rumors to make you anxious and worried.”

“I’m not anxious and worried.”

“Like hell you aren’t. The devil has gone back to his master. As for Anne—”

“Yes. What about Anne?”

“Her seclusion was probably somewhere west of Paris; the day she went into labor was the day Louis and Richelieu died. They were on their way to see her. If you draw a circle around the city a solid day’s ride, you take in a number of small manors and chateaux. I think she was somewhere near Chartres. My informants tell me that Bishop Léonore left the city for two days just afterward—and his brother, a knight of Malta, hasn’t been seen since. I suspect he’s with the queen.”

“Marguerite is the queen, César.”

“With Anne, then. But where she
was
doesn’t matter; it’s where she’s
going
. Almost certainly she’s looking to leave France.”

“She could be headed for Spain.”

“I doubt it. She’d be walking right into the wolf’s den. Italy would be the same. England—not a very friendly place, especially for Catholics. That leaves the Low Countries and the Germanies.”

“And?”

“I would guess that she’s headed for the USE. The up-timers are unpredictable, annoyingly sentimental, and fond of the underdog. Of course, to give safe haven to Anne and possibly an heir to the throne brings them into direct conflict . . . but they might do it anyway.”

“I agree,” Gaston said. “Up-timers—everywhere I turn: with Turenne, with Anne, and now possibly involved in this . . . this treason. I think that after I speak with Mirabel, I should summon the USE consul to have a little discussion. Does that mean I’ll be talking with the Jewess, the one who so charmed Richelieu?”

“I don’t know if she’s still in France,” Vendôme said. “The permanent ambassador is a military man, the cousin of the emperor. His name is Hand. But I don’t imagine he’ll come out and tell you they’re granting asylum.”

“No,” Gaston answered. “But what he
doesn’t
say will give him away. These military types have no subtlety or guile.” When Vendôme tensed, Gaston added, “present company excepted, of course.”

“You are too kind.”

“I am too patient.” Gaston jabbed his finger at Vendôme again. “This has gone on long enough, César. You have a fortnight: two weeks to find our wayward queen and our rogue cardinal, if he still lives. If at the end of that time you have accomplished neither task, I will have to take drastic action.”

Vendôme considered an angry reply, but instead nodded, turned and walked toward the door.

“Not even going to ask my leave to go?”

He stopped and didn’t turn around. “I have a fortnight and a task. If you wish to waste my time with idle courtesies, then it makes my job harder.”

Gaston did not answer; Vendôme stalked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

◊ ◊ ◊

The Marquis de Mirabel was accustomed to waiting. It was an integral part of the diplomat’s trade: every monarch, every minister, every nobleman of standing assumed that keeping an ambassador waiting was not only customary, it was
expected
.

At least the gentleman who had admitted him had escorted him to the gardens; it was a beautiful late-spring afternoon, and the noise and stink of Paris was invisible and well-nigh out of hearing. There was just the fragrance of flowers and the chittering of songbirds—a thoroughly bucolic setting.

The king of France appeared after he had been waiting for several minutes. Mirabel offered him a courtly bow, which Gaston acknowledged with a curt nod. He spoke briefly to the duc de Villemor, who appeared ready to accompany him, but after a moment the nobleman bowed and was dismissed.

He wants to keep this private,
Mirabel thought.
So much the better.

Gaston made his way across the garden atrium to where Mirabel waited, rather than beckoning him. Mirabel bowed even more deeply and awaited the king’s command.

“Señor de Mirabel,” the king said. “Rise. I thank you for answering my summons.”

“I am at your command, Majesty,” he answered.