The Cardinal's Blades (36 page)

“Please forgive my intrusion, monseigneur. But I have some important news.”

“We are listening.”

“The comte de Pontevedra has just informed me that the chevalier d’Ireban is in Madrid. Although he was thought to have disappeared here in France, in fact he decided to return to Spain by his own means and without letting anyone know.”

The cardinal and Père Joseph exchanged a long look: they did not believe a word of what they had just heard. Then Richelieu settled back into his armchair with a sigh.

“Whether it’s true or not,” said the Capuchin monk, “the mission entrusted to your Blades no longer has any reason to continue, monseigneur.…”

Richelieu nodded thoughtfully.

He nevertheless took time to reflect before declaring: “You are right, father. Have Captain La Fargue come in.”

17

Back at the Hôtel de l’Épervier, where Marciac had returned just a quarter of an hour before them, La Fargue and Saint-Lucq found the rest of the Blades gathered together in the main room.

“Richelieu refused,” announced the captain upon entering.

Dismayed, they all fell silent as La Fargue poured himself a glass of wine and emptied it in one gulp.

“Does he know …” Ballardieu started to say in a voice buzzing with anger. “Does he know that Agnès is in danger? Does he know that she is being held prisoner by the Black Claw? Does he know—?”

“He knows!” said La Fargue sharply.

Then he added in a quieter tone: “He knows all that because I told him.”

“And despite that, he still refuses to return Malencontre.”

“Yes.”

“This time, it has not taken His Eminence long to desert us,” said Leprat whose dark gaze was lost in a limbo where he saw the outline of La Rochelle standing before him.

“But there’s more, isn’t there?” guessed Almades, standing in a corner where he leaned with his arms crossed. “Richelieu was not simply satisfied with refusing to allow you to speak with Malencontre.…”

“No,” admitted the Blades’ captain.

He paused for a moment and then said: “Our mission has been cancelled. The chevalier d’Ireban has supposedly turned up recently in Madrid. Therefore we no longer have any reason to continue searching here in Paris.”

“But Ireban does not exist!” exclaimed Marciac. “He and Cécile were always one and the same person! How can he be back in Spain now?”

“Nevertheless, this is the case. At least, if one believes the ambassador extraordinary of Spain.”

“It’s absurd!” objected Leprat. “The cardinal can’t be taken in by this lie—”

“It was at Spain’s request that Richelieu entrusted us with this mission, and it is once again at her request that he has called us off. The stakes of the negotiations that are currently taking place in the Louvre go well beyond us. It was a matter of pleasing Spain. Now it is a matter of not displeasing her.…”

“And we are suddenly asked to forget all about the existence of Ireban,” said Marciac. “And about Malencontre. And about the Black Claw which is scheming in the very heart of the kingdom!”

“Those are our orders,” insisted La Fargue.

“Are we also to forget about Agnès?” Ballardieu demanded.

“There is no question of that.”

Leprat rose and, despite his wounded leg, could not stop himself from pacing back and forth.

“Malencontre remains our best hope of finding Agnès quickly,” he said, thinking out loud.

“The cardinal only deigned to tell us that Malencontre was being held at Le Châtelet, awaiting transfer to the prison in the Château de Vincennes,” indicated Saint-Lucq.

Leprat stopped pacing to and fro.

“I will go and speak with Malencontre,” he declared.

“But he’s being held in solitary confinement!” the half-blood pointed out. “No one can see him without a signed order.”

“I am only on leave from the Musketeers. I can still wear the cape and monsieur de Tréville will not refuse to help me.”

They all fell silent while they considered this idea.

“All right,” said La Fargue. “Let’s suppose that you manage to reach Malencontre. Then what? You have nothing to propose in exchange for his information.”

“Just let me have two words with him,” suggested Ballardieu, balling his fists.

“No,” replied Leprat. “Malencontre and I are almost old acquaintances by now. Let us do this my way.…”

Later, while the Blades were getting ready, La Fargue took Marciac by the elbow.

“Did you find Cécile?”

“Yes. At the Saint-Louis hospital, at the bedside of the man she loves, just as I guessed. She was listening at the door when you announced that he was dying there. She fled the house in order to be with him.”

“Is she in a safe place at present?”

“She is in rue de la Grenouillère. No one will go looking for her in a brothel and Gabrielle and the girls will take good care of her.”

“I thought you and Gabrielle had … ?”

“A falling out … ?” said the Gascon with a grin. “Yes, we did, for a while.… Let’s just say that she did not particularly appreciate the fact that I was returning to active service under your orders. She remembers how things ended the last time only too well.” He fell silent, thinking, and then with a shrug concluded: “Bah! She can always marry a haberdasher, if that’s what she wants.”

He was turning away in a fairly good mood, when the captain called him back: “Marciac!”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Puzzled, the Gascon frowned but said nothing.

18

At Le Châtelet, the guards and other personnel were relieved at five o’clock in the evening. Wearing his blue cape with its silver fleur-de-lis cross, Leprat presented himself twenty minutes before the hour at the admissions counter with an authorisation signed by the hand of monsieur de Tréville, captain of His Majesty’s Musketeers, and was led to Malencontre’s place of detention. The man was being held in Le Puits, or the Well, one of the individual cells in the gaol’s lower depths. There reigned a dark and putrid dankness that would have undermined the health and courage of even the most solid of men.

The gaoler left his lantern with Leprat, saying that he would remain within earshot at the other end of the corridor and then shut the door. The light it gave off was dim, barely illuminating the miserable hole, but it sufficed to dazzle the prisoner. Filthy and tired-looking, stinking of urine and refuse, he was sitting on a carpet of rancid straw, his back toward the wall to which he was chained by the wrists. His position forced him to keep his arms raised, his long pale blond hair hanging before his face.

“Leprat?” he asked, squinting. “Is that you, chevalier?”

“It’s me.”

“You are very kind to pay me a visit. Would you like some foul water? I think I also have an old crust of bread that the rats haven’t carried off yet.…”

“I came to speak with you.”

The musketeer swept his ivory rapier back, crouched before Malencontre and set the lantern down between them.

“Do you know what awaits you?” he asked.

“I wager that I will soon be asked lots of questions.”

“And will you answer them?”

“If that can save my life.”

“Then talk to me. If you talk to me, I will help you.”

Malencontre stifled a small chuckle and made a grimacing smile that highlighted the scar at the corner of his thin lips.

“I doubt that you have anything to offer me, chevalier.”

“You’re wrong. Those who will come after me will ask you the same questions, but in a different manner. Le Châtelet has no lack of torturers.…”

“The cardinal will not send me a torturer right away. He will first seek to learn if I am disposed to talk. I will reply that I am and I will be treated well. I am no hero, Leprat. I am quite ready to collaborate and only ask for some small consideration.”

His crouching position becoming too uncomfortable due to his wounded thigh, Leprat stood up and, spying a stool in a corner, sat down on it, leaving the lantern where it was.

“You work for the Black Claw,” he said.

“Not really, no. I work for a gentleman who may, perhaps, work for them.… You serve one master, I serve another.”

“Except that I happen to be free to come and go.…”

“True.”

“Which gentleman?”

“A very good question.”

“The cardinal’s agents will not make the distinction. For them, you belong to the Black Claw.”

“That only increases the value of my modest person, wouldn’t you say?”

“You will never see the light of day again.”

“That remains to be seen.”

The musketeer sighed, searching for some means of gaining the upper hand with a man who had already lost everything and to whom he had nothing to offer. If he failed to make Malencontre speak of his own free will, the only solution that remained revolted him.

But the life of Agnès was at stake.

“The cardinal knows nothing of your visit to me, is that not so?” the prisoner remarked. “So tell me, what brings you here?”

“I am going to offer you a deal that you cannot refuse.”

Outside, in front of Le Châtelet, La Fargue and Almades were waiting. They were on foot, the other Blades guarding the horses a short distance away at the entrance to rue Saint-Denis.

“Do you think Leprat will succeed?”

“Let us hope so.”

Those were the only words they exchanged, both of them anxious as they remained there, keeping track of the time and observing who was coming out of the enormous, sinister-looking building.

As the half hour tolled, they saw the large felt hat and cape of a limping musketeer appear at last.

“He’s favouring the wrong leg,” noticed Almades.

“What does it matter?”

They hastened to flank Malencontre as closely as possible on either side, without attracting attention.

“You will not be set free until you have told us everything we wish to know,” La Fargue told him in a firm voice.

“And who says that you won’t do me an evil turn afterward?”

“I do. But if you try anything at all …”

“I understand.”

They moved quickly toward the other Blades and their horses, fearing that at any moment someone would call after them from the doors of Le Châtelet.

“Who are you?” asked Malencontre. “And how did you manage this?”

“We took advantage of the changing of the guards,” explained La Fargue taking a discreet look all around them. “Those who saw Leprat enter were not the guards who let you leave. The hat, the musketeer’s cape, the pass from Tréville, and the white rapier did the rest. You will return that rapier to me, by the way.”

“And Leprat? Aren’t you worried about him?”

“Yes.”

“How will he be freed?”

“It’s possible he never will be.”

19

It must have been around eight o’clock in the evening and night was falling.

Still held prisoner, Agnès had seen enough to understand what was going on in the great fortified castle. The preparations were now complete. On either side of the open-air stage, the three tiers of benches had been erected and covered with black cloth. On the stage itself, an altar had been placed before a thick velvet cushion. Tall banners had been raised that now floated in the wind, bearing a single golden draconic rune. Torches already illuminated the scene and bonfires waited to be lit. The men and dracs who had installed everything were not workers but hired swordsmen commanded by Savelda and under the direction of a very young and very elegant blond cavalier whom Agnès did not know but who was addressed as marquis: Gagnière. Their task finished, the swordsmen who were not on watch were now gathered around campfires, away from the stage they had set up, near the makeshift stable and the enclosure for the wyverns, and at the foot of the partly collapsed ramparts.

For the past hour, the places along the benches had been filling with men and a few women, most of them sumptuously dressed, whose horses and coaches had been left by the main castle gates. They wore black eye masks embellished with veils of red lace covering their mouths and chins. They waited, visibly anxious and saying little to one another.

Agnès realised why.

She had never taken part in the ceremony that was about to occur, but she had learned something of its nature during her years as a novice with the White Ladies, the religious order devoted to preserving the French kingdom from the draconic contagion. The Black Claw—whose sinister emblem decorated the banners and was even carved into the wood of the altar—was no mere secret society. Led by dragon sorcerers, its power was founded upon ancient rituals that ensured the unfailing loyalty of its initiates by spiritually uniting them with a superior awareness: that of an Ancestral Dragon who came to impregnate their being. A Black Claw lodge was much more than a meeting of conspirators avid for wealth and power. It was the product of a rite that permitted a fanatical assembly to offer itself as the instrument and receptacle of an Ancestral Dragon’s soul—thus bringing the dragon back to life through those who had sacrificed a part of themselves, and allowing it to once again exercise power over a land it had been driven from in the distant past. The ceremony could only be performed by a dragon—one who was thoroughly adept in the higher arcana of draconic magic. In addition, it required an extremely rare relic, a Sphère d’Âme, from which the Ancestral Dragon’s soul would be freed at the most propitious moment.

A little while before, Agnès had seen a black coach arrive. An elegant woman in a veil, wearing a red-and-grey gown, had descended from it in the company of a gentleman. The latter had paused for a moment to adjust his mask and Agnès, incredulous, had the time to catch a glimpse of his face. It was Saint-Georges, the captain of the Cardinal’s Guards. He and the woman had watched the completion of preparations before being joined by Gagnière and Savelda, with whom they exchanged a few words before turning toward the ruin in whose cellar Agnès was being held captive. The prisoner quickly withdrew from the window where she was spying on them and feared for a moment that they would come to see her, but the coach left with all of them except Savelda, driving off in the direction of the keep, which it entered by means of a drawbridge over a ditch filled with bushes.