1636: The Cardinal Virtues (20 page)

Chapter 27

Pau

After Maddox’s Rangers had gotten themselves settled, they began to perform regular patrols south of the Gave de Pau, the river that ran south of the town. Servien assumed that this was with the consent—or, at least, the cognizance—of the comte.

The group of forty would ride out in the morning and return in the late afternoon; they would look as if they’d had some exercise, with evidence of maneuvers in the dense wooded hills in the Pyrenees foothills present in their clothing. Brassac did not make any particular observation regarding their activities until the end of their first week at Pau, when, shortly after their arrival—a bit later than usual—his manservant presented the comte’s respects and asked Servien to attend him in his private quarters.

Servien attended briefly to his toilet, making sure that his attire was presentable and his hair and beard were combed, and then accompanied the man to the part of the chateau near where he had happened upon the comte’s private chapel.

Colonel Maddox was in the comte’s sitting room when Servien entered. The manservant bowed briefly and closed the doors, leaving Brassac, Servien and the up-timer alone.

“Monsieur Servien,” Maddox said. She was standing next to a long, plain table that bore a heavy canvas sack.

Servien looked from Maddox to Brassac and raised an eyebrow.

“Colonel?” he said.

“I thought it best that you see this as well, monsieur,” she said, and took the sack and dumped it on the table. What emerged was a disorderly pile of what looked to be boot soles, some of which had some fragment of the boot upper attached. Several were missing heels or parts of the toe.

“I am told that Monsieur le Comte employs an excellent
cordonnier
,” Servien said. “Though some of these may be beyond repair.”

Brassac sighed. “The royal court is known for its wit, Colonel Maddox,” he said, and continued, “perhaps you should clarify for Monsieur Servien what he is looking at.”

Maddox picked up one of the boot soles. “These are from the boots of a small group of Spanish scouts we—encountered—in the hills west of Oloron, perhaps twenty or twenty-five miles from here.”

“And you knew that they were Spaniards . . .”

She reached into a pocket and tossed a wallet onto the table. Servien opened it and pulled out a number of rank insignia, all recognizable as Spanish.

“We’ve been looking for groups like this one. They probably came down through Somport or St. Jean Pied-de-Port.”

“How many?”

Maddox picked up a few of the items on the table. “I think it was nineteen or twenty.”

“All dead.”

“You’re not suffering a bout of sympathy, are you, Monsieur Servien? I thought you’d been Richelieu’s man.”

“I assume you are being witty,” Servien said. “I assure you that this is no time to try out for a position at the royal court. Even veteran jesters are having trouble finding a job.”

Maddox shrugged and smiled. “Monsieur de Brassac, you’re right on target with your comment about court wit.” She turned back to Servien. “Yes, monsieur. They’re all dead. We set a trap and led them into an ambush. Pretty simple, really: we let them see an obvious retreat from our sharpshooters’ crossfire, and when they withdrew there our regular guys took care of them.”

“And the boot soles?”

“To send a message,” she said. “The count tells me that his man of business knows a tavern keeper in St. Jean who is used to dealing with Spanish traders and merchants; this sack will be delivered there. The message will be taken over the mountains quickly enough.”

“Did you kill every man?”

“We can’t be sure. It’s possible that one or more of the scouting party got away.”

“Did you lose any of your own company?”

“One of our men nearly broke his neck when he fell down into a gully, but that’s just bruises. Their boys had flintlock muskets; we set up the crossfire to start shooting when they were more than a hundred fifty yards away. We dropped ten of them on the spot and the rest when they retreated. Our boys were out of range for the whole exchange of fire.”

“Thus ending the invasion,” Servien said. He picked up a sole from the table and looked at it.

“No, I don’t think so,” Maddox answered. “The invasion is still coming—probably soon. We just took away the element of surprise.”

Paris

Gaston d’Orleans stood in the front-most pew of the Basilica of St. Denis, his hands clasped in front of him. He did not turn as the Archbishop of Paris, Jean-François de Gondi, entered the nave. The sweet, cloying smell of the incense being aspersed filled his nostrils as the archbishop entered his view. The cantor intoned the psalm:
“asparges me hysopo et mundabor, lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor”—
“Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, and I shall be cleansed: thou shalt wash me, and I shall be made whiter than snow.”

The prelate slowly made his way up to the high altar, followed by the other celebrants, offering a prayer to bless it. Without turning, he raised his hands toward the ceiling and pronounced a blessing on the congregation. A deacon stepped behind and carefully removed his cope and set it aside. To either side of the archbishop, the deacons knelt and sang:
“et introibo ad altare tuum ad Deum, laetitiae et exultationis meae, et confitebor tibi in cithara Deus Deus meus”—“I will go in to the altar of God: to God who giveth joy to my youth.”
Then they ascended the steps and separated to the left and right while the archbishop genuflected and stepped forward to the credence table.

The introit, the
Kyrie
and the
Gloria
followed, along with the collects. Then Gondi raised the epistolary and began to read.

Custodite sabbata mea et pavete ad sanctuarium meum ego Dominus . . .

Dabo pacem in finibus vestris dormietis et non erit qui exterreat auferam malas bestias et gladius non transibit terminos vestros . . .

Ponam tabernaculum meum in medio vestri et non abiciet vos anima mea . . .

Ponam faciem meam contra vos et corruetis coram hostibus vestris et subiciemini his qui oderunt vos fugietis nemine persequente . . .

Conteram superbiam duritiae vestrae daboque caelum vobis desuper sicut ferrum et terram aeneam . . .

As the words from Leviticus were intoned, those near Gaston could see him growing more and more angry, particularly when Gondi intoned the nineteenth verse:
I will break the pride of your stubbornness: and I will make to you the heaven above as iron, and the earth as brass.

◊ ◊ ◊

King Louis’ tomb was no more than an unfinished marble slab with the dates of birth and death and the Bourbon arms. A monument, a more grand and suitable memorial to the late king, had already been commissioned but its completion was months away at least.

When the mass was completed, Gaston and his party descended into the crypt to view the tomb. When they approached, Gaston held up his hand and walked slowly to the slab, where he knelt and placed his hand on the marble. Tears welled in his eyes.

The archbishop stepped forward.

“Sire,” he began, “I—”

Gaston rose and turned to Gondi. “A word with you, Your Grace,” he said, grasping the elder prelate’s elbow firmly. Gaston escorted the archbishop a few dozen feet away, out of the hearing of his companions. He released Gondi’s elbow and stepped away. The archbishop looked alarmed; Gaston brushed a tear away and looked fiercely at Gondi.

“Is there . . . some problem, Your Majesty?”

“Leviticus,” Gaston said. “Leviticus 26.
I will break the pride of your stubbornness: and I will make to you the heaven above as iron, and the earth as brass.
This
is the message you choose to give to the congregants in the memory of my royal brother?”

“My choice from the epistolary is a matter of conscience, Sire. A prerogative of my office.”

“You should tread carefully, Your Grace. If it is your wish to exercise your
conscience
on a regular basis, your tenure in that office will be shorter than you think.”

“Are you threatening me, Your Majesty?”

Gaston scowled. “Why do people keep
saying
that? His Holiness confers the office of archbishop, Your Grace, but the king of France has something to do with the process. And with the current difficulty attending Pope Urban, I can assure you that I will have a
great deal
to do with it. A great deal.”

Gondi looked at Gaston, aghast. “You are not king of France yet, Sire, and I will have a great deal to do with the placement of the crown on your head.”

“And now you threaten
me
, Your Grace. You have no idea what is happening here.” He lowered his voice. “You will know very soon. And if you have any notion regarding the coronation, I suggest that you lay it aside. Permanently. Do you understand?”

“Sire—”

“
Do you understand
, Your Grace? Do you completely understand me?”

“Every word, Sire.”

“I will keep you to that, my lord Archbishop. Now, if you will excuse me, I must mourn my brother and
our
king.”

Evreux

The Auberge Écossaise was a few hundred yards from the cathedral, at the end of a
cul-de-sac
in sight of the
plâce
. The carriage gate was ajar and opened as they approached; Mazarin and Achille looked at each other, but it was obvious that they had been observed.

Achille stepped down from the driver’s bench, his hand near his sword. A short paunchy man in a Capuchin habit emerged from a door opposite; he glanced at Achille and held his hands up.

Mazarin climbed down and walked to the carriage gate and closed it.

“We have been expecting you,” the Capuchin said. “Monseigneur Mazarin?”

“Your servant,” Mazarin said, walking back toward the monk. “I am Jules Mazarin.”

“Her Majesty is—”

Mazarin nodded toward the carriage.

“Convey my compliments, if you please,” the monk said. “But with respect, we should get inside.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Brother Gérard bustled around the little pantry, placing mugs and plates. A loaf of bread and a quarter-wheel of cheese appeared from somewhere. Queen Anne sat in an armchair with the baby in her lap, watching, bemused. The others sat around the trestle table, staying out of the way.

“I had expected you to arrive two days ago,” Gérard said, placing a crock of butter on the table along with a half-dozen spoons.

“We were unaccountably delayed, brother,” the queen said. “But you come highly recommended.”

Gérard began to cut slices of bread. “I accept the compliment with humility.”

“It is occupational, I assume,” Mazarin said. “Actually, it was our friend Achille who recommended you.”

“Of course,” Gérard said. He began to sit down, hesitated with a glance at the queen and then shrugged and sat. “He is a
confraternatarius
.”

Mazarin looked directly at Achille. “Truly.”

Queen Anne looked up. “Of what fraternity, brother?”

“I . . .” the monk looked flustered. “I thought you were aware.”

“Perhaps you can enlighten us,” Mazarin said. He had not taken his eyes off Achille.

Brother Gérard picked up a slice of bread and looked at it, then put it down. “I fear I may have already said too much. Clearly the cardinal de Tremblay would have told you if he meant you to know.”

“Cardinal de Tremblay?” the queen asked. “What does—what does Père Joseph have to do with this?”

“A great deal. He sent word that you would be coming, and that Monsieur Achille, here, would be escorting you.”

“It seems to have been arranged quite some time ago,” Mazarin said. “Months ago. A plan has been in place—a plan of which I was completely unaware,” he said with a nod to Anne—“to protect Your Majesty. It is apparently led by the shy and retiring cardinal
in pectore
.”

“Not
led
,” Gérard said. “But he is a principal part of the Company of the Blessed Sacrament. For the last several years, the Company has had as its particular charge the protection of the royal family of France.”

“The king and queen,” Mazarin said. “One failure, one success.”

Gérard looked away. “Yes. I know.”

“Brother Gérard,” Anne said after a moment. “I do not hold you responsible for the death of my husband the king. There is one particular person to blame: César de Vendôme. My brother-in-law killed—” she looked away from the Capuchin and down at her son, who was whimpering and reaching for her. “He . . . Vendôme. The duc de Vendôme is the culprit.”

“And we could not prevent it,” Gérard said. “We are in a state of mourning, Majesty. It is difficult for us to bear that we have lost the king whom we had sworn to protect.” He looked at the queen, almost desperately. “We will not fail you.”

“I am confident that you will not,” Anne said. “I am grateful for your loyalty.”

“It is our duty,” Gérard said. “And there are many of us. When you leave here you will travel to another place where another of our Company will receive you. We will continue to do so as long as you are in danger.”

“That would make our progress easier,” Mazarin said. He still had not taken his eyes off Achille. “Still, with the stakes so high, I would have liked it better if I had been informed of this plan.”

“Monseigneur,” Gérard said. “With the stakes so high, it is far more important that you
not
be informed . . . until absolutely necessary.”

Madrid

Gaspar de Guzmán, Count-Duke of Olivares, was singularly unhappy with the news that the informants had brought. They confirmed so many of his worst fears: that a substantial force had been moved to just north of the Pyrenees; that the level of skill and capability of French arms—with the help of the devil-spawn up-timers—was far more powerful than he had realized; and that, despite Mirabel’s assurances, Gaston of France was nowhere near as pliable as he had been led to believe. Not to mention that the finest scouts he had been able to employ were either incompetent or very badly outclassed.

He looked at the object sitting on his desk—the sole of a military officer’s boot. The heel was partially separated, as if it had been twisted off. He wondered, once again, who might have once worn this particular boot—which of the hand-picked men sent over the mountains to scout possible routes for Spanish troops. He had picked it at random from a sack that had been left with a tavern keeper at St. Jean Pied-de-Port, at an establishment where men with tidbits of intelligence could pass them to one of his operatives.