The Cardinal's Blades

3

“Thank you,” Marciac said to Nais as she placed a bottle of wine on the table. “You should go and lie down, now.”

The pretty young servant thanked him with a smile and, looking truly tired, took her leave accompanied by an admiring glance from the Gascon.

He and Almades were in the main room of the Hotel de l’Epervier, where Nais had just served them an excellent dinner. The remains of their meal and several empty bottles stood on the long oak table around which the Blades used to meet and, so it seemed, would be meeting once again. For the time being, however, there were only the two of them and the immense room seemed bleak. The fire in the hearth was not enough to brighten it, any more than it was enough to warm it. It crackled, sang, groaned, and seemed to throw itself fiercely into a battle already lost against the advancing shadows, and the silence and the cold of the night.

“She’s lovely, that girl,” offered Marciac, to make conversation.

The Spanish master at arms didn’t respond.

“Yes, quite charming,” Gascon tried again.

Less carefree than he wished to appear, he drew a pack of cards from his pocket and proposed: “Shall I deal you a hand?”

“No.”

“Name your game. Or a throw of the dice?”

“I don’t play.”

“Everyone plays!”

“Not me.”

Discouraged, Marciac fell against the back of the chair, which creaked ominously.

“You’ve always been dreadful company.”

“I am a master of arms. Not an exhibitor of bears.”

“You’re an entirely dismal individual.”

Almades drank three small sips of wine.

“Always in threes, hmm?” said the Gascon.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

With a heavy sigh, Marciac rose and walked around the room.

He was one of those men whose roguish charm and nonchalance is emphasised by their neglect of their appearance. His cheeks bore a three-day stubble a shade darker than his blond hair; his boots were in need of brushing and his trousers of ironing; his unbuttoned doublet gaped open over his shirt; and he carried his blade with a studied but unforced nonchalance that seemed to say: Don’t be fooled, old chap. I have a good friend at my side whose weight is so slight that she’s no burden to me, and upon whom I can always rely. His eyes, finally, glittered with laughter combined with a mocking intelligence; the eyes of a man no more easily deceived by himself than by life’s great comedy.

Almades, on the other hand, was severity incarnate. Fifteen years older than the Gascon, black-haired, and with a grizzled moustache, he was as economical with his gestures as he was with his words, and even at the best of times his long angular face expressed nothing but an austere reserve. He was neatly dressed despite wearing an old mended doublet; the feather was missing from his hat, while the cuffs and collar of his shirt bore lace that had seen better days. It could thus be guessed that he was poor. But his state of destitution in no way altered his dignity: it was simply one more test in life that he faced with a stoicism as proud as it was unshakeable.

While Marciac paced fretfully, the Spaniard remained like marble, head lowered, his elbows on the table, and his hands clasped together around the tin beaker he was turning round and round and round.

Three turns, then a pause. Three turns, a pause. Three turns…

“How long have they been in there, do you reckon?”

The fencing master directed a dark, patient eye toward the Gascon. With a thumb, Marciac indicated the door behind which La Fargue and Rochefort were closeted together.

“I don’t know.”

“One hour? Two?”

“Perhaps.”

“I wonder what they’re saying. Do you have any idea?”

“No.”

“And it doesn’t intrigue you?”

“When the time comes, the captain will tell us everything we need to know.”

Marciac, thoughtful, ran his nails up his stubbled cheeks.

“I could press my ear against the door and listen.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I forbid you from doing so, and I shall also prevent you.”

“Yes, of course you would. That’s an excellent reason.”

The Gascon returned to his chair like a scolded schoolboy.

He drained his glass, refilled it, and, rather than say nothing, asked: “So what were you doing, during the past five years?”

Perhaps with the intention of diverting Marciac’s attention from the door, Almades made an effort to reply.

“I practised my trade. In Madrid to begin with. Then in Paris.”

“Ah.”

“And you?”

“The same.”

“Because you have a trade.”

“Err… In fact, no,” the Gascon admitted.

But he added quickly: “That’s not to say I have not been very busy!”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I have a mistress. That can keep you occupied, a mistress. Her name is Gabrielle. I shall introduce you to her when she stops hating me. Very beautiful, nevertheless.”

“Prettier than little Nais?”

Marciac was known for his many amorous adventures.

He caught the allusion and, a poor loser, shrugged his shoulders.

“The one has nothing to do with the other.”

A silence fell beneath the dark ceiling, which the sound of the fire was barely able to fill.

“They don’t care much for one another,” said the Gascon finally.

“Who?”

“La Fargue and Rochefort.”

“No one likes Rochefort. He does the cardinal’s dirty work. A spy, and no doubt also an assassin.”

“And what are we, then?”

“Soldiers. We fight in a secret war, but it’s not the same thing.”

“Nevertheless, there’s a feud between those two which goes far beyond the ordinary quarrel.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it. You’ve seen the scar Rochefort bears on his temple?”

Almades nodded.

“Well, never mention it in front of Rochefort when the captain is present. Rochefort could take it as a mocking reference. He might think you know how it got there.”

“And you… you know?”

“No. But I act as though I do. It gives me a certain air.”

The Spaniard let this remark pass without comment, but said: “I’d like you to shut up now, Marciac.”

The door opened and Rochefort crossed the room without sparing a glance for either of them. La Fargue appeared behind him. He walked to the table, sat down astride a chair, and, preoccupied, began to pick at the remaining food on the plates.

“So?” asked Marciac innocently.

“So we have a mission,” replied the veteran of numerous wars.

“Which is?”

“Briefly put, it is a question of serving Spain.”

Spain.

The sworn enemy of France: Spain, and her Court of Dragons.

The news fell as heavily as an executioner’s axe on the block, and even the exceptionally reserved Almades raised a wary eyebrow on hearing it.