The Cardinal's Blades (3 page)

“Still,” said Neuvelle in a lowered voice, “I would love to know who the man His Eminence received in such secrecy last night was. And why.”

When Brussand, leaning on the card table, did not react, the young man insisted: “Think about the fact that he did not pass through the antechambers. The musketeers who guard the little gate were ordered to do nothing but announce his arrival, and not ask questions. All the other guards were kept away. And it was Captain Saint-Georges in person who escorted him to the cardinal’s apartments and accompanied him back!”

“Our orders,” Brussand finally replied, without raising his eyes from his game of patience, “were to be deaf and blind to all that concerned this gentleman. You should not have watched the doors.”

Neuvelle shrugged.

“Pff.… What harm did I do? … And anyway, I only caught a brief glimpse of a silhouette in the corner of a very dark corridor. He could have shook hands with me without my recognising him.”

Brussand, still absorbed by his game, smoothed his salt-and-pepper moustache without comment, then with an air of satisfaction laid the wyvern of spades, which had appeared at the opportune moment, upon the previously troublesome knave of hearts.

“All these mysteries intrigue me,” Neuvelle blurted.

“They shouldn’t.”

“Really? And why is that?”

Although he gave no sign, Brussand, unlike his young companion, had noticed Laincourt’s discreet arrival.

“Would you explain it to him, monsieur de Laincourt?”

“Certainly, monsieur de Brussand.”

Neuvelle watched Laincourt, who turned a page and said: “Accept that there are secrets into which it is better not to pry, nor even to pretend to have stumbled across. It can prove to be harmful. To your career, of course. But also to your health.”

“You mean to say that—”

“Yes. I mean to say exactly that.”

Neuvelle mustered a weak smile.

“Go on! You’re trying to frighten me.”

“Precisely. And for your own good, believe me.”

“But I’m a member of the Guards!”

This time, Laincourt lifted his eyes from his book. And smiled.

Neuvelle wore his scarlet cape with a mixture of confidence and pride, convinced, not without reason, that he was protected to the same degree that he had been promoted. Because he entrusted his life to them, Richelieu chose all his guards personally. He wanted them to be gentlemen of at least twenty-five years in age, and required most of them to have served for three years in the army. Perfectly trained and equipped, subjected to an iron discipline, they were a company of elite horsemen. The cardinal preferred them by far to the company of musketeers—foot soldiers—that he also maintained and which recruited professional soldiers from the ranks of ordinary folk. And he rewarded his guards for their devotion by extending his protection to them in turn.

However …

“To be in the Guards, Neuvelle, is an honour which particularly exposes you to dangers that the common run of people do not even suspect—or which they exaggerate, which amounts to the same thing. We are like the fire dogs before a hearth which holds an eternal flame. This blazing fire is the cardinal. We defend him, but if you draw too near, you risk being burned. Serve His Eminence faithfully. Die for him if circumstances require it. Nevertheless, only listen to what he wishes you to hear. See only that which you are given to see. Guess only at what you are supposed to understand. And be quick to forget the rest.”

His tirade complete, Laincourt peacefully returned to his reading.

He believed the matter was settled, but still Neuvelle persisted.

“But you—”

The ensign frowned.

“Yes?”

“I mean …”

Searching for words, Neuvelle’s eyes implored for help from Brussand, who rewarded him with a black look in reply. The young guard suddenly understood that he had ventured into territory which was delicate, if not dangerous. He would have given a great deal to have been suddenly transported elsewhere and was very relieved when Laincourt chose another target.

“Monsieur de Brussand, have you spoken to monsieur de Neuvelle about me?”

The interested party shrugged his shoulders, as though excusing himself.

“We’re often bored, when we’re on guard.”

“And what have you said?”

“On my word, I said what everyone says.”

“Which is?”

Brussand took a breath.

“Which is that you had intended to become a lawyer, before the cardinal noticed you. That you joined the ranks of his personal secretaries. That he soon entrusted you with confidential missions. That on one of these missions you left France for two years and, when you returned, you took the cape and the rank of ensign. There. That’s everything.”

“Ah …” said Arnaud de Laincourt without betraying any emotion.

There was a silence in which he seemed to reflect on what he had heard.

Finally, with a vague glance, he nodded.

Laincourt returned to his reading while Neuvelle found other things to do elsewhere and Brussand began a new game of patience. A few minutes passed, and then the veteran guard blurted out: “To you, and you alone, Laincourt, I would say—”

“What is it?”

“I know who His Eminence received last night. I saw his outline as he was leaving, and I recognised him. His name is La Fargue.”

“This name means nothing to me,” said Laincourt.

“At one time, he commanded a troop of highly trusted men and carried out secret missions on the cardinal’s behalf. They were called, in a whisper, the Cardinal’s Blades. Then there was some nasty business during the siege of La Rochelle. I don’t know the details but it brought about the disappearance of the Blades. Until last night, I had believed they were permanently disbanded. But now—”

Arnaud de Laincourt closed his book.

“The same prudent advice I gave to Neuvelle also applies to us,” he said. “Let us forget all of that. Without doubt we shall be better off for having done so.”

Brussand, thoughtful, nodded.

“Yes. You are right. As always.”

At that moment, Captain Saint-Georges summoned Laincourt. Cardinal Richelieu wished to go to the Louvre with his entourage, and his escort needed to be prepared. Saint-Georges was taking command and Laincourt, in his capacity as an officer, was to watch over the cardinal’s palace during his absence.

4

Two coaches sat at some distance from each other in a meadow by the road to Paris. Three elegant gentlemen surrounded the marquis de Brévaux by the first coach while, by the second, the vicomte d’Orvand paced alone. He went backward and forward, sometimes stopping to watch the road and the horizon as he nervously stroked his thin, black moustache and the tuft of hair beneath his lower lip and sent impatient looks toward his coachman, who remained indifferent to the entire proceedings but was beginning to feel hungry.

At last, one of the gentlemen detached himself from the group and walked toward d’Orvand, passing through the soft, damp herb grass with a determined step. The vicomte knew what he was going to hear and struck as appropriate an attitude as possible.

“He’s late,” said the gentleman.

“I know. I’m sorry, believe me.”

“Will he come?”

“I believe so.”

“Do you even know where he is, right now?”

“No.”

“No?! But you’re his second!”

“Ah … well, that is to say …”

“A quarter of an hour, monsieur. The marquis de Brévaux is willing to be patient for a little longer—for another quarter of an hour, by the clock. And when your friend arrives, if he arrives, we—”

“Here he is, I believe.…”

A richly decorated coach arrived. Drawn by a splendid team of horses, it stopped in the road with a spray of dust and a man climbed out. His doublet was entirely undone and his shirt hung half out of his breeches. His hat in his right hand and his left resting on the pommel of his sword, he kept one boot on the footplate in order to embrace a pretty young blonde leaning toward the open door. This spectacle did not surprise d’Orvand, who did, however, roll his eyes when he saw another farewell kiss exchanged with a second beauty, a brunette.

“Marciac,” murmured the vicomte to himself. “You never change!”

The gentleman charged with conveying the marquis de Brévaux’s complaint returned to his friends while the luxuriously gilded coach made a half turn in the direction of Paris and Nicolas Marciac joined d’Orvand. He was a handsome man, attractive despite, or perhaps even because of, the disorder of his attire. He was in need of a razor and he bore a wide grin on his face. He tottered only slightly and was the very image of a society-loving rake enjoying his evening, entirely heedless of the morrow.

“But you’ve been drinking, Nicolas!” exclaimed d’Orvand, smelling his breath.

“No!” insisted Marciac, shocked. “Well … a little.”

“Before a duel? It’s madness!”

“Don’t alarm yourself. Have I ever lost before?”

“No, but—”

“All will be well.”

By the other coach, the marquis de Brévaux was already in his shirtsleeves and executing a few feints.

“Good, let us finish it,” Marciac declared.

He removed his doublet, threw it on the vicomte’s coach, greeted the coachman and asked after his health, was delighted to learn it was excellent, caught d’Orvand’s gaze, adjusted his shirt, unsheathed his sword, and set out toward Brévaux, who was already walking to meet him.

Then, after a few steps, he changed his mind, turned on his heel without fear of further exasperating the marquis, and pitched his words for his friend’s ear alone: “Tell me just one thing.…”

“Yes?” sighed d’Orvand.

“Promise me you will not be angry.”

“So be it.”

“Well then, I have guessed that I am to fight the man in his shirtsleeves who is watching me with that rough gaze. But could you give me some idea as to why?”

“What?” the vicomte exclaimed, rather louder than he had intended.

“If I kill him, I should know the reason for our quarrel, don’t you think?”

D’Orvand was initially lost for words, then pulled himself together and announced: “A gambling debt.”

“What? I owe him money? Him too?”

“Of course not! Him! … It’s he who … Fine. Enough. I shall cancel this madness. I shall tell them you are unwell. Or that you—”

“How much?”

“What?”

“How much does he owe me?”

“Fifteen hundred livres.”

“Good God! And I was going to kill him … !”

Light-heartedly, Marciac continued to walk toward the furious marquis. He assumed a wobbly
en garde
stance and declared: “I am at your disposal, monsieur le marquis.”

The duel was speedily concluded. Brévaux took the initiative with assertive thrusts which Marciac nonchalantly parried before punctuating his own attack with a punch that cut his adversary’s lip. Initially surprised, then enraged, the marquis returned to the fray. Once again, Marciac was content to merely defend, feigning inattentiveness and even, between two clashes of steel, stifling a yawn. This offhandedness left Brévaux crazed with anger. He howled, struck a foolish two-handed blow with his rapier, and, without understanding how, suddenly found himself both disarmed and wounded in the shoulder. Marciac pressed his advantage. With the point of his blade, he forced the marquis to retreat to his coach, and held him there.

Pale, breathless, and sweating, Brévaux clutched his shoulder.

“Very well,” he said. “You win. I’ll pay you.”

“I am afraid, monsieur, that a promise is not enough. Pay me now.”

“Monsieur! I give you my word!”

“You have already promised once, and you see where we are now.…”

Marciac tensed his arm a little and the point of his rapier approached the marquis’s throat. The gentlemen of Brévaux’s retinue took a step closer. One of them even began to draw his sword while d’Orvand, worried, came forward and prepared to assist his friend if necessary.

There was a moment of indecisiveness on both sides, but then the marquis removed a ring he wore on his finger and gave it to Marciac.

“Are we now even?”

He took it and admired the stone.

“Yes,” he said, before sheathing his sword.

“Damned Gascon!”

“I hold you in high esteem as well, monsieur. I look forward to seeing you again.”

And as he turned toward d’Orvand, Marciac deliberately added: “Splendid day, isn’t it?”

5

In a small study to which she alone possessed a key, the very young, very blonde, and very charming vicomtesse de Malicorne removed the black silk cloth protecting the oval mirror before which she sat. With only two candles burning, one to either side of the mirror, the room was shrouded in a half-light.

In a low voice, with her eyes closed, the vicomtesse chanted words in the ancient, dread language of the Ancestral Dragons, the language of magic. The surface of the precious silver mirror rippled, moving like a puddle of mercury disturbed by movement deep within it, then solidified again. A dragon’s head appeared in the ensorcelled mirror—all bloodred scales, gleaming black eyes, a bony crest, and pale, large and prominent fangs.

“Greetings, my sister.”

“Greetings, my brother.”

Someone, thousands of leagues distant, had answered the vicomtesse’s call. Wherever he was, he must have been human in outward form. But the mirror did not lie: the images it portrayed were an accurate reflection of the true nature of those who used it, so that the pretty young woman also presented a draconic appearance to her faraway contact. For although neither of them were Ancestral Dragons, they were both descendants. In their veins ran the blood of a race which had evolved over centuries and millennia, a race which had given up the superior draconic form to become part of mankind. But their race was no less feared for having changed, and with good reason.

“There is some concern about your progress, my sister.”

“Who is concerned?”

“I am, in the first instance. But there are others as well who, unlike me, are not favourably inclined toward you. Not everyone within the Black Claw is your ally.”