The Cardinal's Blades (22 page)

The riders halted for a moment at the crossing with the track. Then they split up into two parties, each taking a different direction. A short while later they had all disappeared off into the distance.

“There,” said Saint-Lucq before spurring his mount.

Bailleux caught up with him as they descended a grassy slope at a slow trot.

“I think the baptism was held here. That’s why—”

“Yes, of course,” the half-blood interrupted.

They soon dismounted on a patch of ground in front of the chapel and then entered the building. It was low-ceilinged, cool, bare of decorations, and the air was laden with dust. No one seemed to have visited for quite some time, although perhaps it served occasionally as a refuge for travellers caught in bad weather.

Saint-Lucq took off his spectacles in the dim light and rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger before surveying their surroundings with a slow circular gaze. Almost at once, the notary pointed to a statue of Saint Christophe standing on a pedestal, in a niche.

“If the testament speaks truly, it’s there.”

They approached and examined the statue.

“We’ll need to tilt it,” said Bailleux. “It won’t be easy.”

The weight of the painted statue would indeed have posed a difficulty if Saint-Lucq had desired to preserve it intact. But he braced himself, pushed, and simply tipped the effigy of Saint Christophe over, to fall heavily onto the flagstones and break into pieces. Bailleux crossed himself at this act of sacrilege.

Someone had slipped a slender document pouch beneath the statue, and the cracked leather now lay exposed on the pedestal. The notary took it, opened it, and carefully unfolded a page torn from an old register of baptisms. The parchment threatened to come apart at the folds.

“This is it!” he exclaimed. “This is really it!”

The half-blood held out his hand.

“Give it to me.”

“But will you tell me, finally, what this is all about? Do you even know?”

Saint-Lucq considered the question, and reached the conclusion that the notary had a right to this information.

“This piece of paper proves a certain person’s legitimate right to an inheritance. One which is accompanied by a ducal coronet.”

“My God!”

Bailleux wished to read the prestigious name which appeared on the page, but the half-blood swiftly snatched it from him. At first taken aback, the other man decided to be reasonable.

“It’s … it’s no doubt for the best this way.… I already know too much, don’t I?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s over now. I won’t be troubled again.”

“It will be over soon.”

Just then, they heard riders arriving.

“Our horses!” gasped Bailleux, but keeping his voice down. “They’re bound to see our horses!”

The riders came to a halt before the chapel but did not seem to dismount. The horses snorted as they settled. Inside the chapel the long seconds flowed by in silence. There was no means of exit other than the front doors.

Panicking, the notary could not understand the half-blood’s absolute state of calm.

“They’re going to come in! They’re going to come in!”

“No.”

With one sharp, precise move, Saint-Lucq stabbed Bailleux in the heart. The man died without comprehension, murdered by the man who had initially saved him. Before he died, his incredulous eyes found the emotionless gaze of his assassin.

The half-blood caught the body and laid it gently on the ground.

Then he wiped his dagger carefully and replaced it in its sheath as he walked toward the door with an even step and emerged into broad daylight. There, he put his red spectacles back on, raised his eyes to the heavens, and took a deep breath. Finally, he looked over at the five armed riders who waited before him in a row.

“It’s done?” one of them asked.

“It’s done.”

“Did he really believe we were chasing you?”

“Yes. You played your part perfectly.”

“And our pay?”

“See Rochefort about it.”

The rider nodded and the troop left at a gallop.

Saint-Lucq followed them with his gaze until they disappeared over the horizon and he found himself alone.

13

It was early afternoon when they came for Laincourt.

Without a word, two of the gaolers at Le Châtelet took him from his dungeon cell and led him along dank corridors and up a spiral stairway. The prisoner did not ask any questions: he knew it would be futile. Both his ankles and his wrists had been unbound. Overly confident of their strength, the gaolers were only armed with the clubs tucked into their belts. But escape was not on the agenda as far as Laincourt was concerned.

They reached the ground floor and continued upward, which told Laincourt that they would not be leaving Le Châtelet. On the next floor, the gaoler walking ahead stopped before a closed door. He turned to the prisoner and gestured to him to hold out his wrists while his colleague bound them with a leather cord. Then he worked the latch and moved away. The other gaoler tried to push him forward, but Laincourt shoved back with his shoulder the moment he felt the other man touch him and entered of his own accord. The door was shut behind him.

It was a cold, low-ceilinged room, with a flagstone floor and bare walls. Sunshine fell in pale, oblique rays from narrow windows, former embrasures now equipped with frames and dirty panes of glass. There was a fireplace, where a fire had just been lit, and the heat was still struggling to dispel the prevailing damp. Candles were burning in two large candelabras on the table at which Cardinal Richelieu was sitting, wrapped up in a cloak with a fur collar. Wearing boots and dressed as a cavalier, he had kept his gloves on, while the wide hat he used to remain incognito outside the walls of the Palais-Cardinal was resting in front of him.

“Come closer, monsieur.”

Laincourt obeyed and stood before the table, at a distance which offered no threat to Richelieu’s security.

The cardinal had not come alone. Without his cape or anything else that might reveal his identity or his function, Captain Saint-Georges, the commanding officer of the Cardinal’s Guards, was standing to the right of his master and slightly behind him, wearing his sword at the side and a look on his face that expressed a mixture of hatred and scorn. One of Richelieu’s innumerable secretaries was also present. He sat on a stool with a writing tablet on his lap, ready to transcribe the details of this interview.

“So,” said the cardinal, “you’ve been spying on me.…”

The secretary’s goose quill began to scratch across the paper.

“Yes,” replied Laincourt.

“That’s not good. For a long time?”

“Long enough.”

“Since your overextended mission in Spain, I should think.”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

Saint-Georges quivered.

“Traitor,” he hissed between his teeth.

Richelieu immediately lifted a hand to command silence and, seeing that he was obeyed, addressed the prisoner again.

“I would say, by way of reproach, that I have honoured you with my trust but, of course, that is a prerequisite in the exercise of your profession. After all, what good is a spy if one is wary of him … ? However, it does seem to me that you have been well treated. So why?”

“There are some causes that transcend those who serve them, monseigneur.”

“So it was for an ideal, then.… Yes, I can understand that.… Nevertheless, were you well paid?”

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

“Spain.”

“But more than that?”

“The Black Claw.”

“Monseigneur!” Saint-Georges intervened, seething with anger. “This traitor doesn’t deserve your attention … ! Let us hand him over to the torturers. They’ll know how to make him tell us everything he knows.”

“Now, now, captain.… It’s true that, sooner or later, their victims will tell an expert torturer everything. But they will also say anything.… And besides, you can see for yourself that monsieur de Laincourt is not at all indisposed to answering our questions.”

“Then let him be judged, and be hanged!”

“As for that, we shall see.”

Richelieu returned his attention to Laincourt, who, throughout this exchange, had remained unperturbed.

“You do not appear to be afraid of the fate that awaits you, monsieur. Yet I assure you that it is an unenviable one.… Are you are a fanatic?”

“No, monseigneur.”

“Then enlighten me. How is it that you remain so calm?”

“Your Eminence knows the reason, or already guessed it.”

The cardinal smiled, while Saint-Georges could no longer contain himself, taking a step forward, hand on his sword.

“Enough of this insolence! Answer!”

Richelieu was once again forced to dampen his captain’s ardour.

“I wager, monsieur de Laincourt, that you have a document that protects you hidden away somewhere safe.”

“Indeed.”

“It’s a letter, isn’t it? Either a letter or a list.”

“Yes.”

“There is always too much being written down.… What would you require in exchange for it?”

“Life. Freedom.”

“That is a lot to ask.”

“Furthermore, there will not be an exchange.”

Saint-Georges was dumbstruck, while the cardinal frowned and, elbows on the table, gathered his fingers to form a steeple in front of his thin lips.

“You won’t exchange,” he resumed. “Will you sell?”

“No, I won’t sell either.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“The letter in question will cease to protect me once it is in your hands, and one does not remove one’s armour when faced by the enemy.”

“The enemy can promise to make peace.…”

“The enemy can promise all it likes.”

This time Richelieu lifted his hand even before his captain reacted. The secretary, on his stool, seemed hesitant to take down this retort. A log shifted in the hearth, and the fire gained new strength.

“I want this letter,” the cardinal declared after a moment. “Given that you are not prepared to divest yourself of it, I could turn you over to the torturer. He will make you reveal where you have hidden it.”

“I have placed it in the care of a reliable person. A person whose rank and birth protects them. Even from you.”

“Such people are rare. Throughout the entire kingdom, they can be counted on the fingers of one hand.”

“A hand wearing a steel glove.”

“English steel?”

“Perhaps.”

“A clever move.”

Laincourt bowed slightly.

“I attended a good school, monseigneur.”

Richelieu dismissed the compliment with a vague gesture, as one might wave away an annoying insect.

“This person of whom we speak, do they know the nature of the paper you have entrusted to them?”

“Certainly not.”

“So what do you propose?”

“Monseigneur, you are misleading when you say you desire to find this letter.”

“Really?”

“Because instead you wish to destroy it, don’t you? What you desire, above all, is that this letter should remain unread by anyone, ever.”

The cardinal sat back in his armchair and signalled to the secretary to stop writing.

“I think I guess your intentions, monsieur de Laincourt. You want your life and your liberty, and in return you would pledge that this overly compromising letter remains where it is. And thus it would continue to guarantee your safety: if I were to incarcerate you for too long, or kill you, its secret would be revealed. But what guarantees can you offer me in return?”

“Nothing will protect me from you if I reveal the secret of this letter, monseigneur. And I know that wherever I go, it will never be far enough to escape you. If I want to live—”

“But do you want to live, monsieur de Laincourt?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, think instead of your masters. Think of the Black Claw. The lever that you employ with me will not work with them. On the contrary, the Black Claw has every interest in seeing the secret that binds us be revealed. So, who will protect you from them? I should even say: who will protect
us
from them?”

“Do not trouble yourself on that account, monseigneur. With respect to the Black Claw, I have also made certain arrangements.”

The cardinal then drew the secretary’s attention and indicated the door. The man understood and went out, taking his writing tablet with him.

“You also, monsieur,” said Richelieu addressing Saint-Georges.

The captain at first thought he had misheard.

“Excuse me, monseigneur?”

“Leave us, please.”

“But monseigneur! You cannot seriously think I would leave you!”

“Never fear. Monsieur de Laincourt is a spy, not an assassin. Besides, I only need to call out to have you return, is that not so?”

Regretfully, Saint-Georges left the room and as he was closing the door, he heard: “You are most decidedly a very prudent man, monsieur de Laincourt. Explain to me what this is all about.…”

14

“He no longer lives here, messieurs.”

“Since how long?”

“Some time.”

La Fargue and Leprat were questioning the owner of an inn on rue de la Clef, in the faubourg Saint-Victor. While Almades guarded the horses outside, the other two had taken a table, ordered wine, and invited the innkeeper to bring a third glass for himself.

“Have a seat, monsieur. We’d like to talk to you.”

The man hesitated for a moment. Wiping his big red hands on his stained apron, he looked around the room, as if making sure that he had nothing better to do. Then he sat down.

La Fargue knew that Castilla, the chevalier d’Ireban’s companion in debauchery, had been lodging here. Unfortunately, that was no longer the case.

“Be more precise, if you please. When did he leave?”

“Let me see.… It was about a week ago, I think. He took his things one night and never returned.”

“In a hurry, then.”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Had he been lodging here long?” asked Leprat.

“About two months.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“No visitors?”

Suddenly wary, the innkeeper moved back in his chair.