The Cardinal's Blades

25

Within the Cardinal’s Guards, the troops received their pay every thirty-six days. This occasion demanded a roll call, which was also an opportunity to take a precise count of the cardinal’s manpower. The guards lined up. Then the captain or his lieutenant walked past with a list in hand. Each man in turn called out his name, which was immediately ticked off the list. Each ticked name was then copied out onto a list which was certified and signed by the ranking officer. This document was given to the paymaster, and the guards would go-in good order-to receive their due at his office.

Today, it had been decided that roll call would take place at five in the afternoon, in the courtyard of the Palais-Cardinal, since His Eminence was currently residing there. Unless they were excused, all the guards not currently on duty thus found themselves collected here. They were impeccably turned out-boots polished, capes pressed, and weapons burnished. They waited to be called to attention and chattered amongst themselves, enjoying the idea of soon being a little richer. They might have been gentlemen in social rank, but most of them lacked fortunes of their own and lived on their pay. Happily, the cardinal paid well-fifty livres for a guard and up to four hundred for a captain. But above all, he paid punctually. Even the prestigious King’s Musketeers were not remunerated so regularly.

Sitting by himself on a windowsill, Arnaud de Laincourt was reading when Neuvelle joined him. The young man, delighted to be taking part in his first roll call, was beaming.

“So, monsieur Laincourt, what will you do with your hundred and fifty-four livres?”

It was the pay grade of an ensign with the Cardinal’s Guards.

“Pay my landlord, Neuvelle. And also my debts.”

“You? You have debts? That’s not like you. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t imagine you burning through money…”

Laincourt smiled amiably without replying.

“Let’s see,” continued Neuvelle. “I have observed that you don’t drink and you scorn the pleasures of the table. You don’t gamble. You’re not vain. Do you have a hidden mistress? Rumour has it that you give all you have to good works. But you can’t run into debt through acts of charity, can you?”

“My debts are with a bookseller.”

Neuvelle made a face while curling up the tips of his slender moustache, between his thumb and index finger.

“Myself, I read nothing but monsieur Renaudot’s Gazette. You can always find a copy of it lying about somewhere. The news is sometimes a little dated, but I always find myself rather well informed.”

Laincourt nodded, his blue eyes expressing nothing other than an amiable and patient reserve.

It had been two years since Theophraste Renaudot began to produce-with royal dispensation-a highly popular news journal which was hawked on the streets. Every week his Gazette comprised thirty-two pages and two slim volumes-one dedicated to “News from the East and the South,” the other to “News from the West and the North.” It also contained information pertaining to the French court. To this was added a monthly supplement which summarised and then enlarged upon the news from the preceding weeks. It was common knowledge that Cardinal Richelieu exerted tight control over everything which was printed in the Gazette. He had, on occasion, even taken up a pen himself and contributed to it under his own name. And, surprising as it seems, even the king did not scorn to comment on events which related closely to him in the Gazette.

“What are you reading at this hour?” asked Neuvelle to make conversation.

Laincourt offered him his book.

“Goodness!” said the young guard. “Is that Latin?”

“Italian,” explained the officer, abstaining from further comment.

Like most gentleman of the sword, Neuvelle was almost illiterate. However, he could not hide his admiration of Laincourt’s learning: “I’ve heard that in addition to Latin and Greek you understand Spanish and German. But Italian?”

“Well, yes…”

“And what does this work speak of?”

“Draconic magic.”

A bell tower, and a few others nearby, sounded three quarters of the hour, indicating to the assembled guards it was time to prepare for the roll call. Neuvelle returned the book as though it were some compromising piece of evidence and Laincourt slipped it beneath his cape and into his doublet.

At that moment, a lackey wearing the cardinal’s livery walked toward them.

“Monsieur Laincourt, the service of His Eminence calls you before monsieur de Saint-Georges.”

“Now?” Neuvelle was astonished, seeing the troops being formed up.

“Yes, monsieur.”

Laincourt reassured the young guard with a glance and followed the lackey inside.

After climbing a staircase and a long wait in an antechamber, Arnaud de Laincourt saw, without real surprise, who awaited him beneath the high carved ceilings of the captain’s office. The room was vast and impressive in length, its gold and its woodwork burnished to a high gleam in the daylight which shone in through two enormous windows in the rear wall. These windows opened onto the main courtyard and through them came the sound of roll call, now almost over.

Stiff and impassive, six guards renowned for their loyalty stood at attention, three to the right and three to the left, opposite each other, as though showing the way to the grand desk at which captain Saint-Georges was sitting with his back to the light. Standing close to him, and slightly further back, was Charpentier.

The presence, in this place and under these circumstances, of Richelieu’s private secretary could only signify one thing, and Laincourt realised this immediately. He waited until the lackey had closed the door behind him, then took one slow step forward between the guards. Old Brussand was one of their number and seemed to be struggling with his emotion; he stood more stiffly than the others and was almost trembling.

As all present held their breath, Laincourt pulled himself together and saluted.

“By your order, monsieur.”

Saint-Georges, his gaze severe, rose and walked around his desk.

And holding out his hand before him, he ordered in an irrevocable tone: “Your sword, monsieur.”

At the same moment, the beat of a drum outside announced the end of the roll call.