In the Name of the King Page 31

  The Musketeer blinked. ‘Madame –’

  That was as far as he got. There were shouts of ‘Fuck off!’ ringing all through the column, and a great crush round us as people surged forward, streaming between André and the militia, pushing him back towards the rear. Messant’s wife was screaming ‘Where were you when we needed you?’ and people took that up too. ‘Where were you?’ ‘Where were fucking you?’ The smith got to the front, hammer in hand, bawling ‘You get your hands off him, you oughter be ashamed.’ The soldiers who’d joined us in the fields were there too, the blinded one shouting ‘God bless you, Chevalier, we’re all right, get away!’ Oh, yes, highly blasphemous no doubt, the poor sod wasn’t even facing the right way, but it’s his voice I remember most, Abbé, his ‘God bless you, get away!’

  Oh, André knew what they were doing all right, I saw the wetness in his eyes. He waved gratefully back at the crowd as they swept him away towards the darkness and safety of the open road at the rear.

  Then the shot. A bang, a spray of cloudy sparks somewhere to my left, voices shrilled in alarm then abruptly stopped.

  The Musketeer lowered his smoking pistol. ‘That was in the air, de Roland. The next is in the crowd.’

  Jacques de Roland

  The horsemen all levelled their pistols and I heard heavy metallic clicks as they cocked them to fire. The crowd shrunk in on itself, getting closer together and further from the guns, but they didn’t open to leave André exposed, they were tightening round him to form a fence.

  The Musketeer stood in his stirrups. ‘We’ll shoot if we have to, Chevalier. My orders are to take you at all costs.’

  Those women, those frightened children. André was close to the edge now, he could have just run, but I saw the rippling movement in the crowd and knew he was coming back. His voice called ‘Don’t shoot. I’m coming.’

  I shoved frantically into the crowd towards him, I spread out my arms and said ‘They won’t shoot, just run.’

  He said ‘Look after them, won’t you?’ then pushed past me for the open. I grabbed for his arm, but people were moving between us and I couldn’t reach him. He cleared the crowd, the lead Musketeer dismounted, and the horsemen closed all round him.

  I struggled to the front. I couldn’t see the boy, he was lost in all the horsemen, then he seemed to rise above the crowd as they mounted him on a horse so he could ride into captivity like a gentleman. I cried just ‘André!’

  He turned his head to find me and our eyes met. Then he drew his sword.

  The crowd gasped. The militia drew their own blades together with one great zing of sound, but he never even looked at them, he raised the sword and kissed it in salute to the crowd. A few cheered, I think all the children did, but most of us were silent, and I heard a woman saying to her boy ‘Remember this, Dédier. That is the Chevalier de Roland. Remember this.’

  And I did, I did remember. When he bent his elbow I knew exactly what he was going to do and was willing him to do it. So were the crowd, I heard someone say ‘Throw it, Chevalier!’ and knew that was another story that had gone ahead of us. We stared at his hand, waiting to look upwards, but he hefted the sword round, then threw it, not upwards but down. He threw it to me.

  It looked so easy when André did it, but the swept hilt was all steel swirls that bashed against my knuckles, I had to snatch at it twice before I caught it. I heard a faint sigh of disappointment from those around me, but I was just gazing stupidly at the rapier in my hand.

  They were leading him away, the horsemen ushering him through the gate towards the horror I know now was awaiting him on the other side. It wasn’t my fault, there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it, but I stood there watching with my father’s own sword in my hand, and all I remember is the coldness of the metal in my palm and a chill in my heart I knew was shame.

  Nineteen

  Carlos Corvacho

  Well naturally it was a blow, Señor, our leader dropping dead at the moment of victory. Lamboy had orders to pull out, the Duc de Bouillon had lunch with Puységur, why, the whole thing was over in a week.

  And all because of your Chevalier. My Capitán was brooding on it all the way home, and one night he says to me ‘Do you think I was wrong not to kill that young man when I had the chance?’

  I said I understood it, that was all.

  ‘Do you?’ he said, rubbing his palm thoughtfully down the side of his face. ‘Then tell me why I did it.’

  ‘That’s easy, Señor,’ I said. ‘You wanted to fight him again.’

  He stopped rubbing and stared at me, then back went his head and he burst out laughing. ‘Well, perhaps. But next time there’ll be no mercy from either of us.’

  I hoped so, Señor, I did really, but can’t say I was sure. He’d had another chance to kill him in the forest, he could have pulled his pistol without so much as jumping off his horse, but he didn’t do it, now did he? Oh now yes, I won’t deny your Chevalier spared him too, but that was only right and proper, seeing as my Capitán was wounded and that filthy tanner looking to take advantage. Yes, we recognized him, and M. Ravel was someone else my Capitán couldn’t wait to fight again, don’t you doubt it.

  But there was worse on its way, and come the winter we hear they’re going to give your Chevalier a trial. It mightn’t have mattered in the summer, Señor, there was an amnesty for the Soissons rebellion and no harm done, but it was nothing less than fatal now we were trying again.

  Now naturally we were, Señor, but there’s no denying the Chevalier’s an even bigger problem than before. Last time we’d mostly dealt with your M. Gondi, but this year Fontrailles was the main go-between, he was coming to Madrid himself with a treaty for our King. Last time Cinq-Mars had been a sop to keep the court quiet, but this time he was our principal his own self, him and Orléans and Bouillon as before. We couldn’t have your Chevalier exposing them in court, Señor, he had to be silenced at all costs.

  We met up with our Paris contacts on the border to discuss it. A low breed they were, in my opinion, especially this Bouchard we were to call Duc de Montmorency. Everything had to be handed him on a tray as if my hands were dirty, and even then he’d sit polishing it in case I’d touched it in the kitchen. As for the way he talked about your Chevalier, well it’s not what I was used to from a gentleman. My Capitán looked at him very doubtful indeed.

  ‘Quite, Monseigneur,’ he says. ‘But will he be a problem at this trial?’

  Bouchard snorts. Snorts, Señor, like a bull. He says ‘God no, that’s only Fontrailles panicking again. It’s going to be held in camera, no one who matters will hear it.’

  My gentleman raises his eyebrows. ‘But surely His Eminence, the Cardinal –’

  ‘Richelieu doesn’t matter,’ says Bouchard rudely. ‘The King won’t take his word against his dear Cinq-Mars. Why, Fontrailles has seen the boy carried to the King’s bed slathered in oil of jasmine and dressed as a bride!’

  That’s no laughing matter, Señor, that’s filth and perversion as you know yourself, and not something a man wants to think about before food. My gentleman turns the subject quick and says ‘But if the verdict goes against you, Monseigneur. Surely His Majesty will pay attention then?’

  ‘It won’t,’ says Bouchard, a smile slinking over his face that makes me want to reach for a crucifix. ‘I’ve personally taken steps to ensure it. Poor de Roland is going to be very, very sorry he’s put me to the trouble.’

  He didn’t tell us what he had in mind.

  That night my Capitán stood a long time at the window watching the snow fall. Very pretty it was, we don’t get it so much in Spain outside of the mountains, but I’m not sure my gentleman even saw it.

  ‘You were right, Carlos,’ says he. ‘I should have killed de Roland back in 1640.’

  ‘You weren’t to know, Señor,’ says I. ‘Who could have seen a boy like that growing up to give us all this trouble?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he says. ‘But that’s not what I meant.’

&nb
sp; Jacques de Roland

  It was so bloody unfair. All these people who’d been traitors got away with a ticking-off but André was locked up in the Château de Vincennes with that death sentence over his head. I’d hoped giving back the money would save him, but Bouillon handed over the rest when peace was signed so we hadn’t really made much difference at all. It helped me and Stefan, I suppose, Châtillon was grateful enough not to charge us for harbouring André, but that only made me feel worse. The boy had fought so hard and done so much, and the only person he hadn’t saved was himself.

  I thought of him all that autumn, André in prison, pacing up and down in a room maybe six feet square, kicking the door, punching the walls, and maybe to be left like that for ever. I was almost relieved when we heard they were going to give him a trial. We didn’t stand much chance really, but I’d hidden Bernadette, Stefan and Grimauld at the Porchier farm, and the Comtesse was confident Richelieu would help.

  We went with the Comte to see him at Fontainebleau. It was the beginning of February and my uncle was swathed in blankets, but I could still feel him shivering through the seat. The fields we passed were all silvery with frost.

  I think it was even colder when we got there. Fontainebleau’s the size of Dax, and the cour d’honneur wasn’t the usual square with stables and servants’ quarters round the sides, it was a whole bloody crossroads and the wind blowing right through. Inside was just terrifying. Servants led us through grand chambers and long corridors with tall doors flanked by bored-looking halberdiers, and I was feeling really insignificant when a tall officer in a curly black wig stopped and exclaimed at the sight of the Comte.

  ‘Vallon!’ he said, seizing my uncle’s hands, and if he minded the gloves he didn’t show it. ‘This is splendid. What brings you here?’

  ‘Hullo, Gassion,’ said the Comte, and his voice was suddenly stronger and younger. ‘Nothing good, I’m for His Eminence.’

  Gassion made a face. ‘Sooner you than me.’ He glanced at our footman and lowered his voice. ‘Something’s up there, Hugo. He was in with the King last night, and everyone heard Louis shouting. At Richelieu – imagine! I passed him in the corridor afterwards, and I’ll swear he was shaking. People say –’

  He broke off abruptly as a group of gentlemen strode down the long salon, talking and laughing like women at a soirée. The one in front was dressed all in gold, seeming almost to shimmer in the grey daylight, and his shoes had the biggest silk bows I’d ever seen. His face had the same petulant prettiness I’d noticed on the road outside Amiens.

  Cinq-Mars.

  He drifted past in a waft of jasmine. His friends came simpering behind, but last in the procession was Bouchard. He smiled at me, the bastard, he actually went and smiled, and I felt my nails digging into the palms of my hands. Then they were by, with more chattering and laughter, someone saying the word ‘Vallon’ and them all giggling like girls. My uncle didn’t move, but his cheek where the mask ended flushed a dusky red.

  Gassion went on his way with an eloquent gesture, and the servant led us to Richelieu’s apartments. I’d expected something spectacular, but it was a bit dingy, actually, with lots of secretaries packing stuff into trunks for a journey. He himself was in a little dark room behind a desk covered with papers, and when he looked up I felt something drop inside me like a stone. His skin was all mottled and his eyes bloodshot, it was hard to believe he was the man who’d got André out of Paris.

  He lifted a pale blue-veined hand and said at once ‘I cannot help.’

  The Comtesse didn’t blink. ‘Your Eminence will forgive me if I find that difficult to believe.’

  He gave a pale smile. ‘So do I. But only the Chevalier can save himself now. He could stop the trial at once if he accepted the verdict of the first.’

  ‘And if he did?’ said my uncle.

  The Cardinal picked up a quill from his desk. ‘Then he would be on the mercy of the court and I might assist him. But he will not be helped. He is determined to make a full statement and justify everything he has done.’

  He would, of course, he’d go on being honourable right till the end. I thought of the executioner holding André’s head in his hands and nearly vomited.

  ‘You’ve seen him?’ said the Comtesse. ‘How was he, Monseigneur?’

  He rippled his finger along the feather’s edge. ‘As you would expect. They have given him a foil and I found him practising fence.’

  That sounded right. André fighting the empty air.

  ‘I would like to help him,’ said the Cardinal, brushing the feather backwards and forwards over his papers. ‘I have tried. I spoke to His Majesty last night about the Marquis de Cinq-Mars, but we are not of one mind.’

  I remembered what Gassion had said and guessed that that was an understatement.

  He went on brushing. ‘I have, I think, secured an honest president for the judges. I have obtained a pass for the Comte de Vallon to watch the proceedings, but I can do no more.’

  ‘And us?’ said the Comtesse. ‘What must we do?’

  He tossed the quill aside. ‘Change his mind, Madame. That is all.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘Order my grandson to confess to a murder he has not committed?’

  Richelieu looked up. The gleam I remembered was back in his eyes, only harder and hungrier than before. ‘Then find me evidence. Give me that and I will save more than just your grandson.’ His thin hand clenched and gave the desk a single, desperate thump. ‘For the love of God, Madame, give me a weapon I can use.’

  Anne du Pré

  Extract from her diary, dated 3 February 1642

  Bouchard arrived back from Fontainebleau in high spirits, announcing that my father is to become a marquis after the coup, Florian will be chevalier, and d’Arsy will become a baron.

  ‘If we can trust Cinq-Mars,’ said d’Arsy ungraciously. ‘There’s nothing about it in Fontrailles’ treaty, is there?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Bouchard, spreading himself in front of the fire so the rest of us were excluded from its warmth. ‘He’s agreed I can draw up a separate agreement and get d’Estrada to endorse it. He can’t renege if Spain’s involved.’

  D’Arsy said ‘How the hell did you …?’ then swiftly turned to me. ‘I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, I do apologize.’

  I thought how strange it was that they should think it wrong for me to hear the word ‘hell’.

  ‘Cinq-Mars thinks it’s for his sake,’ said Bouchard, massaging his neck with abominable complacency. ‘I told him we could guarantee the decision of the judges.’

  ‘Can we?’ said d’Arsy.

  Bouchard smiled lazily. ‘What do you think?’ He pulled a sheet of paper from his coat and passed it to Florian. ‘Here. Would you like to see a carte blanche?’

  I looked over Florian’s shoulder and saw the paper was not blank at all. At the bottom was the signature of Anne of Austria, the Queen herself.

  ‘That’ll fetch de Fresnoy,’ said Bouchard. ‘He’ll bring in any judgement we want, and think he’s serving his country too.’

  ‘What about the other judges?’ said d’Arsy. ‘Have you got any more?’

  ‘No need,’ said Bouchard. ‘Two are our friends, and du Pré’s esteemed father has given us the money for the others. Trust me, d’Arsy, it’s dealt with.’

  D’Arsy grunted and stared down into his glass. Florian too had the decency to look uncomfortable, but neither stood up and said ‘This is an innocent man, this is wrong.’ I am in a world where such things no longer matter.

  Jeanette says I should be pleased they speak openly in front of me, but in truth I feel stained by their trust. I have now been playing this terrible charade for a whole year, and it is as if I have truly become one of them.

  They believe it themselves. Last night Father asked again if I would consider a betrothal with Bouchard, and it horrifies me that he could even imagine it. He will not insist, he says Bouchard will only take me if I am willing, but I do not understand w
hy the man even wants me. He may believe me loyal, but he must know he disgusts me personally, he must. Sometimes I think I am going mad.

  And what use is it anyway, what I have discovered? I could write to the Comtesse, but she will not believe me, nor would it help her if she did. I had thought to somehow escape and give a statement myself, but if the judges are corrupted then nothing I say will ever be heard. They are going to destroy André and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

  Jacques de Roland

  The trial started the day after we got back. They’d made some concessions to nobility, it was in the Hôtel de Ville rather than the Palais de Justice and at least he’d got a chair rather than the selette, but it was still vile and got viler. André gave a full statement, he told them everything that had happened except about us telling Richelieu, but the Comte said the judges never even blinked. He said ‘They knew it already, Jacques. They’ve been bought somehow, every last man of them, even de Fresnoy.’

  I’d still got to go. There was a monitoire out, anyone with information had to give their statement or get excommunicated, so I’d given my name and got called the next day. André wasn’t there, of course, it was just me and the judges and scribes with a few nobles watching from the gallery. Crespin and Gaspard couldn’t get in, it was only friends of Cinq-Mars who seemed to be allowed past the guards. My uncle leaned over the rail in a corner all by himself.

  It was a waste of time anyway. They got me to admit I hadn’t seen the start of the fight, I hadn’t seen the face of the monk, I’d never heard anyone mention Cinq-Mars, they made me confess I knew bugger all and by the end I almost agreed. I did say Dubosc went for André first, but they just said ‘Ah yes, you’re his brother, aren’t you?’ and that was the end of that.

  That night Charlot fetched our witnesses from the Porchiers’. I watched them climbing out of the carriage like refugees in the dark, and it was hard to feel confident. Stefan and Grimauld were far too rough to impress the judges, and Bernadette looked so small and fragile under a big travel cloak that I just wanted to pick her up and run. She wasn’t, though, she ran across the courtyard, hugged me savagely and said ‘We will save him, Jacques. Do you hear me? We’re going to get him out.’ The Comtesse was watching, but she didn’t look disapproving, I saw her give a quiet little nod.