Catching a whiff of the city gutter, Sebastian winced as the stink burrowed its way up his nostrils. Looking up, he caught a sign – La Rue Merderelle. Appropriate at least. He always loathed the crush of Paris. It had the relentless and unstoppable power of the sea. He would pry his way through the bodies but without any idea of where he was going. All he could see was bulk in every direction, towering and blocking out the light. No signs, landmarks or anything beyond shapeless, clothed flesh. Occasionally he would catch a chink of space – an empty street or square – and rush towards it only to be knocked off course. Other times he would be jostled down cul-de-sacs, squashed against the sides of buildings or else trapped behind a huddle of bodies, forced to wait for a break in the scrum before being able to move again.
The only alternative was to stay away from the main thoroughfares. However, keeping to the smaller streets brought its own problems. Aside from their twists and dead ends, they were unpaved, thick with mud, dung and whatever stinking foulness poured out of the tanners, which, while bearable enough during dry weather, became intolerable in the wet.
He had been intent on doing all his chores for the week – dropping off some clothes at the tailor, buying ink, visiting the barber and picking up his rebound Gargantua and Pantegruel, read and reread until it was little more than a collection of loose and dog-eared sheets. However, after visiting the bookbinder, he had decided to leave the rest for another day. The journey had been worse than pointless. He had spoken to no one and done nothing except be reminded of his own deficiencies. So it came as a considerable relief when, near the postern to the east of the palace, he was finally able to escape the stink and walk the last hundred yards in the open air.
Relaxing in the space and light, he paid no attention to his surroundings and only became aware of Cinq-Mars when he felt a tug at his elbow and noticed the book was gone. Turning round he saw the marquis staring back at him, standing among a group of friends.
‘Well what have we here . . . The dwarf can read, can he?’ There was a degree of surprise mixed in with the scorn.
‘Can you kindly return it, my lord? That book is very important to me.’ Mindful of Richelieu, Sebastian tried to restrain himself. It was difficult – the sneer and the puff of the clothes, the voluminous collar and broad-brimmed hat, that greedy stare pleading to be slapped off.
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Please. It’s mine.’ Sebastian made a grab for the manu-script, which Cinq-Mars pulled out of reach then dangled, wanting Sebastian to jump. Instead he received a cocked head and rank disdain.
‘I’m not going to beg.’
‘Why? Don’t you want it?’
‘Yes. But making a fool of myself isn’t going to help.’
‘It might.’
‘I don’t see how. You won’t give it back no matter what I do.’
‘Who do you think I am, dwarf? I’m a marquis. I keep my word. I’ll return this . . . thing when you do what I say. Now jump.’
If it had been anything else, Sebastian would have walked away. But it meant too much. It was the one thing he had kept from Camoches. Even when he was hungry and penniless, he’d never been able to sell it. The pages were smudged and barely legible in places, but he didn’t care. He knew it all by heart anyway.
And so he jumped. And waved his arms and grunted and strained and did everything that was demanded of him. But it wasn’t enough. The marquis seemed delighted with this new-found power and now decided he should try to bite his own ear.
‘And not half-heartedly. Properly. Snap your teeth. Bend your neck. And I want you to growl like a dog.’
Sebastian obeyed, until he could barely look round after craning so much and had half-lost his voice from snarling. But it still wasn’t enough. Now Cinq-Mars decided to amuse himself with discovering the truth of the rumour about dwarves being compensated for their shortcomings elsewhere.
‘You mean my brain, I assume.’
‘I mean your cock. Undress dwarf.’
So Sebastian did as he asked, pulling down his pantaloons and sullenly exhibiting himself to the amusement of all. Still it wasn’t enough. Not content with having made a dog of him, the marquis now commanded him to put his face in the dirt and chew grass like a cow, and swallow it too, which he did until his belly ached and his mouth leaked green. Nevertheless, he suffered it out. He had been through worse. Tonight he would be back in his room, safe behind his locked door, and tomorrow this would be a memory. Cinq-Mars was already beginning to tire. He was talking among his friends now. It wouldn’t be long. He took another bite and tasted the bitterness as the grass collected into a rough and indigestible ball, its blades catching in his throat. Then he heard the marquis’ voice. It sounded mildly disappointed.
‘Very well, dwarf. You’ve amused us long enough. You may leave.’
Struggling to his feet, Sebastian spat out the cud and held out a hand, expectant. ‘The book.’
Cinq-Mars smiled before tucking the volume inside his doublet. ‘You know what. I might keep it. Call it . . . protection.’
‘You promised.’
‘I said I’d give it back, not when.’
‘That’s ridiculous. You call yourself a man of honour? You’re nothing . . .’
Sebastian was cut off by Cinq-Mars grabbing his shoulder and throwing him to the ground. Pinning him down with a foot, he watched him thrash, an upturned beetle flailing for escape. ‘Hasty words, dwarf. What do you have to say now?’
Powerless, Sebastian lashed out with the only thing he had left – his tongue.
‘Why don’t you fight someone your own size? Or are you too frightened without the cardinal to protect you? That’s the truth, isn’t it? Without Richelieu, you’re no one. Some jumped up squire who thinks himself a man.’
Frigid silence followed. This was the King’s court. In 1636 servants didn’t insult masters, let alone marquises, and certainly not in public. Shocked, the nobles looked across at Cinq-Mars, awaiting his response.
It wasn’t long coming. Notoriously conscious of his ancestry, which was considerably less exalted than he made out, Cinq-Mars grabbed Sebastian and hauled him out of the dirt.
‘Well, dwarf, it seems you’re stupid as well as contemptible,’ he said, locking his arm round Sebastian’s head and marching forward, yanking him behind.
Barely able to keep up with the taller man’s strides, Sebastian was pulled across the gardens and through a side door. He was in the main hall, though all he could see of it was the stone-flagged floor. Ahead of him was the fireplace, piled high and blazing, and momentarily he scrabbled, terrified of being hurled into the hearth. Instead Cinq-Mars halted abruptly, raising his head to face the heart of the flames.
‘The book, it fell out of my doublet. Someone bring it here.’
‘No. Don’t.’ His voice rose to shrieking panic as he realised what Cinq-Mars was about to do. ‘Not that. You can’t. My mother gave it to me. She saved for months. No, no, please God, no.’
‘Nobody cares what you think, little man.’ Cinq-Mars bent down towards his ear, making sure he could hear every word. ‘You’re nothing. Something that should have never been born . . .’ And with that he tossed the book into the fire. For a brief moment, it remained intact and Sebastian scrabbled to rescue it but was held in place. Screaming, he struggled to break free as the paper first scorched then lit, disappearing in a matter of seconds.
It was as if his mother was burning in front of his eyes. The book had been his companion, shelter and sustenance – almost literally, considering the nights he had gone without food rather than sell it. The comforting feel of it inside his jerkin, warm as an embrace, now nothing more than ashes. He continued to watch the final few fragments cling to the logs before evaporating to dust. And then when it had all gone, his neck dropped as if cut and he stared slackly at the floor.
Now the excitement had passed, Cinq-Mars soon bored of Sebastian and let him drop to the ground.
‘Anything else to say?’
Sebastian didn’t seem to hear him, let alone reply.
‘I thought as much. You brought this on yourself, dwarf.’ The marquis strode for the door, marking his exit with an emphatic slam. Sebastian, meanwhile, remained where he was. Alone, he sat slumped, searching the fireplace with an empty stare.
Ignoring the chill of the stone floor, he continued to gaze into the flames before finally making his way upstairs, though he might as well have been sleepwalking, for he had no memory of how he got there. It wasn’t simply the loss of the book but the reminder of his inadequacies – that talent and effort are not always enough, that not all obstacles can be overcome. And, closing the door behind him, he fell onto his bed, giving way to hot and shaming tears which only reminded him further of his weakness – though he did his best to fight them, refusing to give way to self-pity as he waited for the pain to subside. Eventually, with the sound of birdcall and the tread of feet in the corridor, the outside world made itself apparent and he composed himself once again. It was another setback – nothing more.
Besides, if nothing else, there was always the prospect of taking his revenge.
* * *
Sebastian’s retribution was short and brutal. Cinq-Mars was not a hard man to mock, forever proclaiming his lineage despite the fact his title was unknown outside Auvergne. His crest, a phoenix with wings outstretched above a ring, was emblazoned on his armour, clothes, furniture – even on his underwear if rumour was to be believed.
He didn’t indulge his quill with anything too elegant. He wanted Cinq-Mars to understand each and every word. The result was more fist than knife. The adventures of a knight called Sir Clucksalot, an over-dressed dandy whose crest was a chicken rising from an egg, boasting of his great deeds while in fact being terrified of everything and everyone. After twenty minutes of swagger and braggadocio, the play climaxed with Sir Clucksalot being publically humiliated and sentenced to eat ginger for a year in the hope it might instil courage.
The performance, if not the content, was one of Sebastian’s finest. Jerome and Claude were terrified of offending one of Richelieu’s creatures and refused to take part, leaving Sebastian to act out all the roles:
King Clovis: a wise and beneficent monarch
Sir Clucksalot: a cowardly braggart
Lady Clucksalot: his long-suffering and patient wife
Sir Morefed: Sir Clucksalot’s portly and over-watered nemesis
Pierre Lickpenny: Sir Clucksalot’s grasping yet unctuous servant
From the start, Sebastian performed the work with a hard edge born of violent hatred, glaring at Cinq-Mars throughout. Cinq-Mars stared back, first with amazement then with murderous, stewing fury. Sebastian continued, unconcerned. If anything, the marquis’ anger spurred him on, his impersonation growing ever crueller and the laughter of the court ever more raucous. At the end, just to prevent any possibility of misinterpretation, he dedicated the piece to ‘Henri Coiffier de Ruzé, Marquis de Cinq-Mars, the most honourable and courageous man in all of France’, before the jeers of the entire court.
After the performance, Sebastian didn’t even bother getting changed and took a stool in the changing room, awaiting his visitor. He wasn’t long coming. Sebastian anticipated a furious entry, but it was careful, a creak of the door and click of the latch. The entrance of a man who didn’t want to be noticed. And it was only once they were alone that the marquis let his emotion show – a face ugly with rage, at odds with his silk and lace.
‘I thought you were a freak. Now I know you’re a bloody abomination.’
Sebastian didn’t move, staring back with verminous hatred. ‘Henri.’ He pointedly ignored the title. ‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’
‘I think you’re a corpse.’ Cinq-Mars drew his rapier. It was a courtly thing, as much ornament as weapon, and was met with a laugh.
‘God almighty, do you really think I’m such a fool?’ Sebastian shook his head and drew a duelling pistol from his inside pocket. ‘Didn’t it occur to you that I might take precautions?’ The gun was too large for him and he had to hold it in both hands, clearly battling with the weight, his short fingers barely reaching the trigger.
It was enough to stop the marquis, though not enough to make him sheathe his sword. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t use that thing. It’s not even loaded.’
‘To be honest, I’ve no idea. I bought it from a pawnbroker a month ago. But considering you’re four feet away, do you want to find out?’
‘Runt. You’re only making it worse for yourself.’
‘Perhaps.’ Sebastian was still struggling to hold the gun upright and it had started to wobble.
Cinq-Mars stayed where he was, eyeing the downward tremble of the barrel as it trickled down his neck and chest before finally halting over his heart, at which point Sebastian braced it with his one hand, holding it musket-fashion.
‘It doesn’t have to be this way.’ His voice softened and he looked at Cinq-Mars with a smile, more rueful than pleasant. ‘We’ve both suffered enough already. Can’t we just leave it be?’
The marquis shook his head, taking a pace forward then another until the pistol was touching his chest. ‘Do you really think you can threaten me, dwarf?’ He glared down as he spoke. ‘You’re nothing. Besides, I’ve no intention of killing you now. I’m not going to be executed on your account. There’ll be a better time. When you’re out on the street, or in the courtyard, or at night in your room. All I want you to remember, when that moment comes and you’re praying for death, is that it was me.’
Then with a shrug, he turned on his heel and left. Sebastian observed his departing figure with exasperation rather than fear. Pride had always struck him as a particularly ridiculous fault – most common among those least deserving of it. Besides, Cinq-Mars was bound to come to his senses eventually. Fool that he was, he had to realise he had no choice. The humiliation had been too public. He couldn’t retaliate without everyone knowing it was him. Instead he would have to react as rank demanded – to show good grace, display the noblesse oblige and laugh it off as best he could.
Then, after a hot meal followed by a stroll round the gardens, Sebastian returned to his room and a life that seemed to have returned to its reassuringly normal self. And that night as he put his head on the pillow, snug behind his locked door, he even allowed himself a momentary grin – smug with the memory of what he’d done.
* * *
Carefully the woman pulled the sheet to one side before levering herself upright. Sitting on the side of the bed, she slipped on her dress and pulled on a pair of threadbare stockings. Then she turned to the mound alongside her. The bulk of it was hidden beneath the crumpled sheets, apart from a loose arm which hung as though from a corpse. A close examination revealed no movement beyond the slow rise and fall of ribs beneath the covers, and she promptly directed her attention towards the pile of clothes that lay in the corner of the room. Creeping over, she took another glance at the bed, then bent down and lifted the doublet, carefully feeling for each pocket and dipping a hand inside. Finding nothing, she moved onto the trousers. This time her efforts produced a candle stub and accompanying fragments, which she was sliding back into place when a voice emerged from the bedclothes.
‘Lost something?’
She startled, narrowly repressing a shriek of alarm, then turned to face the voice – where Sebastian’s head had now revealed itself from beneath the sheet. Still in the early morning fog, he stared at her through heavy lids.
‘Don’t worry. Stay a little longer. I’ve got coin.’
‘How much?’
‘Do we have to negotiate everything?’ He sighed and rubbed his face. ‘It does ruin the illusion somewhat.’
‘I’m sorry, my liege. It might be pleasure for you, but it’s work for me.’ She noticed him wince and softened a fraction. ‘Look, I’m sorry . . .’
‘God, is that pity? Please no.’ Horrified, he cut her off instantly. ‘I’m quite aware of the situation. I’m no woman’s dream. Anyway I don’t need your . . . services. Just to talk.’
‘It’ll still cost you.’
‘Four sous.’ His remittance to his mother would have to be a fraction short this month.
‘Six.’
‘I’m short, not a fool. I advise you learn the difference.’ The comment was followed by the chink of coin dropping onto the floor.
Sweeping up her prize, the woman smiled and returned to the bed. ‘Is that a book in your bag? Are you some sort of priest?’
‘Priests aren’t the only ones who can read, you know. But I’ll take your confession if you like.’
‘You’d be here a long time.’ She had a cackle of a laugh and he couldn’t help smiling. ‘Anyway, all this reading. What have you learned then?’
‘Too much to tell.’
‘That’s no answer. This book here – what’s it taught you?’
‘Martial? That those who mock the rich will always be poor.’
‘Don’t need a book to tell me that.’
‘There are whole civilisations in books. History. Philosophy. The minds of some of the greatest people who have ever lived. I can hear those very same thoughts Julius Caesar had sixteen hundred years ago – make those dead lips speak. Does that not amaze you?’ He looked at her soft-eyed, seduced by his own words.
‘Can’t shag a book, can you?’ She flashed a tit for effect.
‘No . . . no, you can’t.’ A sadness fluttered across his face and he closed his eyes. However, it only lasted a moment, and he looked back at her with a drowsy smile. ‘Tell you what. There’s a baker opposite. How about you go and get us a couple of brioches for breakfast and we carry on talking then?’
‘Give me the money then.’
He aimed another glance upwards. ‘What about the four sous I gave you?’
‘That’s for working. Not to buy you breakfast.’
‘Here’s another two. Should be more than enough.’ He placed the coins in her outstretched hand. Then, once she left, he changed into his clothes, flattening down the creases and fastening each button tight. Seating himself on the side of the bed, he retrieved his Epigrams and began to read while waiting for her to return. It wasn’t until the fifth page that he glanced across at the door. He looked again on the eighth page, this time with a frown, and again on the tenth. However, it wasn’t until the twentieth page that he took a deep breath, snapped the book shut and left the room, closing the door behind him.
* * *
Sebastian woke up choking and blind. The heat was unbearable and acrid smoke was burning his eyes. FIRE. Scrambling out of bed, he smashed his foot into the wardrobe. Then, sucking in a chestful of fumes, he choked again, this time coughing so hard that he bent double and barely managed to stay upright. Suffocating, he made another futile attempt to draw breath and stumbled to the desk, where he propped himself up and pressed his nightshirt to his mouth, straining for air that would not come. He couldn’t see anything. The smoke was impenetrable and his eyes were flooded with tears. The only thing he could locate was the heat, which was now at his back, somewhere near the door. He needed another way out – the window. Groping round the bureau, he grasped the edge and pulled it to one side. The desire to breathe was overwhelming, pounding his chest. He was starting to lose consciousness. Feeling first the wall then the uneven glass and lead, he sucked against clamped lips as his fingers found the frame and then the latch. He gave a tug but it didn’t give. Desperate, he forced the matter, hurling himself against the glass. Suddenly a crash followed by the thud of tile and the cold of the night on his skin. He was lying on the roof, heaving great, ragged breaths, then coughing again, the freezing air every bit as sharp as the smoke had been. For all the relief, it wasn’t long before sense took hold. He was still in mortal peril. Whoever had just tried to kill him must be nearby. He needed to hide. A look around revealed a chimney pot to his right. Rolling onto his hands and knees, he crawled over and hid behind it, crouched and listening for approaching footsteps. Hearing nothing, he remained motionless, but there was only the distant crackle of his life being reduced to ash and he sat in his nightshirt, wrapping his arms round his legs as he sheltered from the wind as best he could. A short eternity passed before he picked out voices nearby. After satisfying himself that the sound was coming from his room and that help was finally at hand, he ventured out and crept back the way he had come.
Looking across the rooftop, he gazed dumbly at the scene. The fire had mostly burned itself out and he watched as the last of the flames were quenched, leaving his window soot-blackened and pouring smoke. It looked like some chimney turned wrongways, the surrounding wall stained with plumes of ash. Though what struck him most of all was the blackness of the chamber. He could see figures walking within, presumably servants come to deal with the mess. Unless Cinq-Mars was among them, checking if he was dead. The thought was enough to make him reconsider and he stole up to the ledge and peeped inside, checking the livery of each person in turn. And it was only once he had satisfied himself that he was safe that he finally climbed the sill and dropped into the room.
What had once been his life was now nothing but cinders. Everything he had ever read, written or owned: every book, every memento, every coin he had saved, all his clothes, his pen, his play – his refuge, the one place in the world that was created for him and him alone. Only the barest remnants survived: scraps of paper, half a bedstead turned to charcoal, the brass feet of his wardrobe laid in a perfect rectangle on the blackened floorboards. He had trouble recognising anything in the chaos and stared, half-expecting it to suddenly make sense, but nothing changed. He simply remained where he was, uncomprehending, until the soot overpowered his throat and he had to leave.
Out in the corridor, he lay by the stairs, exhausted. All he could taste, see and feel was smoke: stinging his eyes and chest, furring his tongue and throat and pouring in black streams from his nose. But he couldn’t rest. Not yet. His attacker was still at large, and he would try again. He still couldn’t understand how the marquis had managed it; his door had been locked and the window closed. It was only after stumbling back to the scene that he noticed the blot gouged into the boards by the door, where the fire had burned deepest. Instantly he realised what had happened. Someone must have poured oil in from the corridor outside, then set it alight. Looking closer, he could even see a smear on the unburnt side of the door, tell-tale as blood. Quite simple, really – well within the capabilities of Cinq-Mars, or whichever stooge he had employed to do his bidding. The flurry of people was increasing. A number of servants had been woken by the noise and were tending to the mess, eager to finish and return to their beds. Some were carrying buckets of ash and soot, while others held mops to swab the walls and floors. Returning upstairs, he could see them filing in and out of the doorway at a steady pace, oblivious to his presence.
It was the chamberlain who first noticed him. A squarely built man of middling years, he was wearing an oversized wig, and his robe was unbuttoned, exposing the shirt and paunch beneath. He had been freshly roused from his slumber and didn’t seem concerned by his appearance, or indeed anything beyond getting back to bed, judging by the near-permanent yawn as he shuffled down the corridor.
‘So, you’re the source of my troubles, dwarf,’ he declared, without giving Sebastian the chance to speak.
‘No, sir. It’s the Marquis de Cinq-Mars. He tried to murder me.’
Sebastian expected at least a word of sympathy but instead met with indignation. ‘What did you say?’
‘The Marquis de Cinq-Mars. He tried to burn me alive.’
The chamberlain deliberated a moment, straining with thought. The effort was taxing and he soon gave up. Bending down, he pressed a stiff finger to Sebastian’s chest. ‘I am not a man who sleeps a great deal.’ This was evident from a pair of bleary and wrinkled eyes. ‘And what little rest I do get, I am thankful for. Consequently, I like my nights to be simple – making sure the palace is in good order, that the loaves are ready in the oven and that the guards are on watch, while occasionally returning a drunk student back to the Sorbonne. This allows me to catch what sleep God allows and to retain my good humour. But tonight, not only do you nearly burn down the palace and wake up half the staff, you now inform me that the ward of Cardinal Richelieu wants to kill you. Well, Monsieur Morra, I am not interested . . . in fact, I wish the man good fortune. He might at least make my life a little simpler.’
Sebastian stared in astonishment as the chamberlain turned round and strode back up the corridor. He felt an overwhelming desire to grab the man and scream, to make him understand he was dealing with a fellow human soul, no different to himself. But he knew it was pointless. The chamberlain could do nothing. Cinq-Mars was protected by the Chief Minister of France. And it was at that precise moment Sebastian realised what he needed to do. He had to see the only man who had influence over the marquis – Cardinal Richelieu.
* * *
As Sebastian trudged through the Louvre, he appeared out of place in the magnificence; a ragged figure set against jasper and marble, fluted pilasters and coffered ceilings. Not that he noticed the contrast. Deep in thought, he didn’t even slow his pace as he walked barefoot onto the snow outside. He had more than enough to keep him occupied – principally, how to engineer an audience with the Chief Minister of France at an hour past midnight when uninvited and dressed in a tattered nightgown. The best he could hope for was that the cardinal might somehow remember their previous meeting. However, bearing in mind it had been over a year ago and the subsequent invasion by Spain, it seemed unlikely to say the least.
Sebastian’s first attempt to enter the Palais-Cardinal was abrupt, almost comical. Even before reaching the door, he looked ridiculous beside the edifice – an ant facing a cliff – and stood overawed for some time before venturing a knock. Shortly afterwards he heard the slow approach of footsteps and the sound of a bolt being pulled aside. Then a hatch opened, framing a mistrustful stare. The eyes were looking a foot above Sebastian’s head and he was forced to shout for attention. Peering down, they narrowed with disgust.
‘On your way, beggar,’ a curt voice snapped as the hatch slammed shut. Having no alternative, Sebastian pounded the knocker again.
‘I’m not a beggar. I need to see the cardinal. Let me in.’
After a brief pause, he heard the turn of a key in a lock and the door opened a slit. A face appeared in the gap – one of Richelieu’s personal guards. He was plainly dressed, with the official insignia of three chevronels and galero.
‘Begging your pardon, Sir, but can you let me in? I am hoping to arrange an appointment to see His Eminence, the Cardinal.’
‘He’s busy. State your business or leave.’ The guard spoke in a military manner and was evidently more used to giving orders than asking questions.
‘Please. My life is in danger. Someone just tried to burn me alive.’
‘Your problems are no concern of His Eminence. He’s got more important things to worry about.’
‘But we’ve met before. Don’t you remember? Last year he asked for me.’
The guard gave a rasping, abrasive laugh. ‘I’d remember you.’
‘Where I met him, the wallpaper, it was green. The floor was chequered black and white. Behind you, in the hall, there’s a picture of a woman in a blue dress.’
The guard didn’t speak and his face contorted as if being pulled in two directions. He glanced behind him, only to confirm what he knew was there. Then he looked back at Sebastian.
‘Wait here – I’ll check with the secretary,’ he replied before slamming the door. Sebastian was left marooned on the step, not only shoeless but also pitifully underdressed, clad in only a scorched nightshirt; and it wasn’t long before his feet grew brittle, forcing him to hop from one to the other to keep off the freezing stone. Hugging himself, he sheltered in a corner but the wind was in his face and soon he began to shiver uncontrollably as the cold sharpened to a blister then a burn. Resisting the urge to scream, he closed his eyes and withdrew into the darkness. And when the door did eventually creak open, he was too numb to hear what the guard said, only able to make sense of the arm beckoning him inside.
Barely able to walk, Sebastian was handed a blanket and allowed to warm himself for a few minutes before being led to an unfamiliar wing of the palace. It lacked the usual overbearing splendour, consisting instead of wood-panelled corridors which all looked much the same, so he soon lost all sense of his bearings.
He expected another overwhelming chamber and was surprised to be led into a pleasant but unremarkable room, hung with faded and badly rendered portraits. Perplexed, Sebastian took a few moments to notice the family resemblance and realise they were there for sentimental value rather than to impress. He observed other objects that appeared equally personal – a wooden pig, a flaking grandfather clock and a crewel-work tapestry crumbling to threads. The room felt private, unsettlingly human. Richelieu was not a man he associated with emotion and nostalgia, and it felt somehow inappropriate, as though he had walked in through the wrong door and found the cardinal undressed. His immediate instinct was to leave, but instead he averted his eyes and looked at the floor, trying to concentrate on what to say.
The wait didn’t last long. After a few minutes Richelieu appeared from a side door, wearing a red biretta and plain cassock. The only hint of his station was the intricate silver crucifix shining out of the black of his soutane. Immediately he cocked his head and peered closer, intrigued by Sebastian’s appearance. After a moment he appeared to reach some kind of conclusion and glanced across at the guard.
‘Why haven’t you given him some clothes? Money? Food?’
‘You didn’t ask, Your Eminence.’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ His voice had the hiss of acid. ‘Look at his face and arms. The man’s patently been in a fire and he’s walked here in bare feet. I think he deserves a modicum of hospitality.’
The guard scurried to make amends and two minutes later Sebastian was in the kitchen holding a bowl of hot soup and a slab of bread with five livres stacked on the table top in front of him. The clothes took longer to find and he had to make do with a billowing shirt and sleeves rolled up to the elbow, along with knickerbockers that made him feel as if he was wading through a bog. However, his appearance was the least of his concerns. In five minutes, he was due to have an audience with the governor of France, and he hadn’t the slightest idea what to say. Not only did he possess nothing of interest to the cardinal, but Cinq-Mars was the man’s ward and the closest thing he had to a son. Nor did he have any hope of lying his way out of the situation, which left him with no alternative but to rely on Richelieu’s compassion – not a quality for which the man was renowned.
Returning, Sebastian was led into Richelieu’s private chambers, where he found the cardinal sitting on a small cushioned throne. Sebastian looked up at him, hoping for some sign of acknowledgement, only to find himself confronted by unblinking authority. He felt the same terror of breaking protocol as when they had first met, and shuffled forward, keeping his head bowed. He was unsure whether to meet Richelieu’s gaze and his eyes flitted between the cardinal’s feet and chin.
‘I’ve come to plead for my life, Your Eminence.’
‘I’ve no memory of ordering your execution.’
‘You’re the only one who can help me. Your ward, the Marquis de Cinq-Mars . . . he tried to burn me alive in my room. Speak to him, please, I beg you.’
‘Henri.’ Richelieu sighed and closed his eyes. ‘Always so rash. He took offence to your play, I imagine. I heard it was somewhat unforgiving. Amusing but certainly unforgiving. You must have realised the consequences?’
‘No, Your Eminence . . .’
‘Dispense with the formalities. I’m a busy man.’
‘Yes, Your . . .’ Sebastian narrowly managed to stop himself. ‘I mean it was only satire. Nobody murdered Dante or Boccaccio.’
‘They were wise enough to have patrons, and rather better suited to defending themselves than you. Anyway, it’s beside the point. The fact remains that Henri is both my ward and a peer of the realm, whereas you are a court dwarf born of peasant stock. I must act in my own best interests, and much as I would like to help, I’m afraid it’s not worth the price.’
‘I will be forever in your debt.’
‘Be that as it may, you still humiliated my ward in front of the entire court.’ The cardinal shook his head, lifting a hand to end proceedings, only for Sebastian to speak again.
‘I have a thought.’
‘Make it brief.’
Sebastian hesitated, aware of the significance of the moment – his cornered mind searching for escape. But what on earth could he offer the Chief Minister of France? What use would such a man have for someone whose only discernible talents were as a trickster and beggar of coin? Then, as ever it came from nowhere – accompanied by that disconcerting sense that his mind was cleverer than he was, that he was no more than a mediocre rider fortunate enough to be saddled to a fast horse.
‘I can serve you. Bring you information.’
‘How? What do you know?’
‘What do you want to find out?’
‘Don’t play with me.’
‘I’m not, Your Eminence. But you’d be amazed what I hear. Nobody pays attention to me. I’m a buffoon, no threat to anyone. Besides, I’m already a known face at court. All I need is guidance and I’ll find out all you care to know.’
The cardinal chuckled at his impudence. ‘I somewhat doubt that. But go on . . . tell me about yourself. What languages do you speak?’
‘Spanish, Latin . . .’
‘Dicasne lingue Latina?’
‘Satis agnoscare illa quaestio.’
‘Very good. Where did you learn?’
‘I listened in church.’
‘An all too rare phenomenon . . .’ The cardinal paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had fallen into a murmur. ‘Very well. There’s no harm in trying, I suppose. I’ll tell Henri to keep away. For a month or so at least, if only not to draw suspicion over the fire. After that . . . well . . . we’ll see.’ He glanced across at Sebastian, his eyes two dots of pinpoint concentration. ‘Now, you’re an intelligent man. I assume I don’t have to remind you that anything we discuss remains between you and me.’
‘Of course.’
Richelieu nodded at Sebastian to leave, but the dwarf held his ground, drawing a raised eyebrow from the cardinal.
‘Is there something else?’
‘If you don’t mind?’
‘You’re hardly in a position to make requests.’
‘I know, but my books were burned. I’d like to borrow a few from your library.’
Richelieu’s mouth convulsed into a smile. ‘Is that all?’
‘You agree?’
‘I’m not going to stand in the way of a man trying to educate himself. There’s some Lucan and Petronius you might enjoy. The Bellum Civile I find particularly entertaining. As regards the other matter, one of my representatives will meet you tomorrow evening by the north-west door at six.’
‘How will I know him?’
‘I wouldn’t worry; I suspect he won’t have difficulty recognising you. His name is Ambroise. He’s a cousin of mine.’ The cardinal glanced across at the clock in the corner, an elaborate affair with four dials: one timing the earth, the others astronomical, set to the sun, moon and stars. ‘Anyway . . . it’s late and I advise you get some rest. I’ll have some men attend to your room.’
‘Thank you, Your Eminence. I will repay your faith.’
‘I’ve no doubt you will,’ Richelieu finished, nodding at him to leave. The implication was clear enough.
Then, after taking a brief tour of the cardinal’s library and picking out some Petronius, Lucan and Plautus, Sebastian returned to the palace, alone with his thoughts. He felt a certain sense of relief, of course, but tempered by the knowledge that he had not been saved out of compassion or mercy, but to serve a purpose. This was an agreement that once entered could not be undone. For better or worse, he had become the cardinal’s man.
* * *
It was only on returning to the Louvre that the lateness of the hour became apparent. Sebastian had a dim memory of being led to the kitchens and shown a palliasse in the corner, draped with a sheet. He didn’t care. He didn’t even bother waiting for a pillow. The crook of his arm was comfortable enough, and after a long and dreamless sleep he woke up to find himself in what appeared to be a store room, complete with a pile of cooking apples in the corner. He could hear clanking and shouting from outside, the hubbub of people at work. Then, as he drew in a breath, he felt an ache in his chest immediately followed by the cold spike of reality. It’s all destroyed. You have nothing.
Lurching upright, he ambled half-dressed through the kitchens and back to his room, hoping that it was some trick of the mind and everything would be its same normal self. In a way he was right. Everything was orderly and in its place, just not as he expected it to be. The room had been transformed. The same elements remained but the effect was entirely different. Plain walls had been replaced by oak panelling, the desk and wardrobe were walnut, the embroidered bed with its canopy looked more like a ship. On the bureau stood a stack of paper, quill and full pot of ink – all perfectly arranged. There was even a new library, complete with the works of Montaigne and Rabelais, gold-stamped and leather-bound. Indeed the only hint of what had taken place was a mild whiff of charcoal.
He continued to look about, bewildered. It didn’t feel like his room any more, as if he had awoken to find himself in someone else’s life. He prodded and poked, opening the wardrobe and lying on the bed, searching for something he could recognise. But it was all unfamiliar, and he continued to peer around while finding nothing to settle on.
Eventually, after a few trips to the corridor and a brief walk outside, he began to find the room if not comforting, then at least less disconcerting. He was able to think of other things: the blankness of the paper on his desk, the play already disappearing in his mind, the fact that he still had four hours until his meeting with Ambroise. And, after a deep breath, he marched to his desk and began to write. Desperate to save what he could, he didn’t bother with details and paraphrased where possible, scrawling down the memories before they could fade away. However, it was dispiriting work and each half-remembered character and misplaced scene only reminded him of how much he had lost. The words seemed inadequate – dots and scratches, nothing more.
* * *
After walking to the rendezvous, Sebastian searched for Ambroise, but the corridor was empty. The only person in sight was a man in the garden outside, leaning on the edge of a fountain while observing the sunset. His back was to Sebastian but from what he could see of the man’s attire, it appeared inconspicuous: well-cut but neither elaborate as a noble nor plain as a servant. Hearing his approach, the man turned round and stood up. If he was a cousin of Richelieu’s, he was a distant one and, judging by his weight, he had none of the cardinal’s discipline either. Aside from his girth, his face was plump as a pillow and his nose rosy from drink. Below it was a parody of a mouth, pinched at the top, with the lower lip sagging beneath. On seeing Sebastian, he introduced himself by chortling under his breath in a mildly insulting manner.
‘I’ll be damned. I thought I’d misheard.’
‘I see you’re amused by my size. Oddly enough, it seems quite normal to me.’ Sebastian shook his head, more weary than annoyed.
‘Sorry, don’t mean to offend. But you look pretty different to the usual . . . people he sends. Who’s going to spot you, eh?’
‘Yes, I’m small. Yes, I’m unlikely to be noticed. Now are you going to carry on being an ass or can we discuss the business at hand?’ Sebastian replied, amazed the cardinal would employ such an idiot. Clearly he prized loyalty over intelligence.
Ambroise was visibly taken aback. The grin disappeared and he replied with the only thing he could think of – his orders. ‘The cardinal says I’m to take you to the great hall and give you your instructions.’
The hall was on the other side of the palace – a five-minute walk. Evidently uncomfortable with silence, Ambroise insisted on chattering the entire way, primarily about the cardinal. Despite being Richelieu’s cousin, he admitted to knowing relatively little beyond childhood recollections. ‘Armand doesn’t like talking about himself. Thinks it’s a weakness. He listens to what people tell him and he gives orders. Nothing else.’ Sebastian reflected that this said as much about Ambroise as Richelieu. The cardinal wasn’t the type to waste his time conversing with fools.
Aptly named, the great hall was a palace within a palace, its hammer beam ceiling engraved with coats of arms and interweaving ivy and honeysuckle. Long tables were lined in two symmetrical rows, leading up to a central dais and the King’s table, complete with throne and canopy. Sebastian stood on the balcony that stretched across the far wall, listening to the chatter of the court as they ate, oblivious to the spectators overhead. From above, he had a better sense of the room. He could see the swarms of flies around the chandeliers as the insects caught the flames and fell onto the tables below. The room was of an imposing height, the candlelight fading into the gloom of the roof above; and rather than glorifying the King, the space diminished him – reducing him to a speck in the void. He considered sharing the observation with Ambroise but decided it would be pointless. Instead he waited, until eventually Ambroise produced a few scribblings from his pocket and peered at them for a moment, struggling to decipher his own words.
‘The Duke of Saint-Simon, do you see him?’ He nodded at the people below.
Sebastian spotted the man at a glance. Everyone knew Saint-Simon. Once a favourite of the King, he had long since lost his looks and now bore the effects of a life spent on the battlefield – his face flattened, shaped like clumsily-handled clay, his voice that of a soldier, blunt and terse. Yet Louis remained attached to him, finding his candour a relief from the usual timidity of his subjects. At present he was three seats away from the King, sharing a joke with his neighbour while rubbing the food off his moustache.
‘Yes. He’s on the royal table. Dressed in green.’
‘Good . . . now put this in his drink.’
Sebastian looked down to see a vial of clear liquid in Ambroise’s hand.
‘You are joking?’
Ambroise shrugged. ‘No joke.’
‘I’m not killing him . . . besides, he’s sitting right next to the King. I’d be struck down on the spot. I’m not doing this.’ With that he marched downstairs and back towards his room. Passing through the hall below, he noticed the cardinal seated a few places down from his victim, picking at a dry-looking plate of vegetables and chicken. Richelieu’s insouciance revolted him. That someone could eat his dinner a few yards away from the man he was about to have murdered. It seemed beyond callous. The cardinal seemed to sense his displeasure and glanced up. His eyebrows twitched with surprise; then he realised what was happening and the look hardened. Not with rage but intent. The stare of a man who had not just killed, but killed many times before – and would have no compunction doing so again. Still the eyes did not move. Sebastian remained trapped, paralysed through sheer will. Seconds passed before he was finally able to break the spell and look away. He had no time, only a few minutes at most. Long enough to scurry to his room, grab whatever possessions he could and flee before Richelieu’s men arrived.
* * *
After stuffing a few clothes into a sack, Sebastian poured his remaining money on the table. Eleven livres and six sous – perhaps enough to reach Orléans. He could eke out some kind of living there, or at least find somewhere quiet to consider what to do next. Then came a knock knock from the corridor. Unexpected. Sebastian dived to hide beneath the bed. Too late. The handle dropped and he was still flat on his belly when the door opened to reveal a footman looking down at him, queer-eyed with puzzlement.
‘The cardinal sent me. I’m to bring you to him.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. He just ordered me to follow you. I’d advise you don’t keep him waiting.’
Sebastian momentarily considered escape but it was too far. Even if he made it to the corridor, the entrance was three flights down and he always struggled with stairs. So, after pushing himself upright, he trudged behind, grimacing as he followed the man back the way he had come.
To the right of the great hall was a side-chamber – occasionally used for business when it required the King to interrupt his meal. Domed and colonnaded, it enjoyed an excellent view over the grounds. The cardinal stood by one of the windows, staring at the winter garden. Its blooms were now scaled with frost, the grass gleaming like upturned icicles, the moonlight catching the crystals and scattering into tints of violet and indigo. As Sebastian entered, Richelieu turned to meet him, his cardinal’s cape purpled in the evening light.
‘I like to come here in the evenings. Finding peace in Paris can be hard at the best of times.’ The menace was not overt. Instead, the politesse of a functionary – a man in complete control of his manner and tongue.
Sebastian gazed back, his own fear magnified by the cardinal’s lack of emotion. His guts seemed to have turned to water and his skin was damp with sweat. He remained silent a moment, too frightened to speak, then blurted out the only thing he could – the truth. ‘Please, Your Eminence, you can’t make me do this. He’s done nothing wrong. You must understand. I mean, you’re a man of God.’
‘I am a man of God. And I fulfil his purpose by serving the King, his divine representative on earth.’ The reply was mechanical and clearly a phrase he had repeated many times before. ‘Like you, I take no joy in killing a man. Nevertheless, it is in the King’s interest and therefore the Almighty’s.’
‘But why?’ Sebastian couldn’t meet the cardinal’s eyes. The sweat was pouring now. His entire body seemed to be turning to liquid and he was straining from the effort of containing his bowels.
‘Do you not understand the danger this country faces? We control barely half our domain and the dukes will betray us at the slightest opportunity. Our borders are weak. We have no natural defence, no Rhine to the north, no Pyrenees to the south. Our enemies are richer and more powerful than us. We have neither the gold of Spain nor the merchants of the Low Countries. Most of our land is forest and we are ravaged by starvation. Rarely has our country faced such a predicament. There is no time to waste. I need my orders carried out without question and to the letter. I cannot start debating the merits of my commands.’
‘I understand what you are saying, Your Eminence, but you’re asking me to murder someone. And magnificent as your words are, I need to know the reason.’ The reply was gabbled and desperate, and so brief it seemed almost insolent. Mindful of the situation, however, Richelieu limited his reaction to a thinning of the eyes.
‘You want to know the facts.’ He nodded. ‘Very well. Saint-Simon is the King’s most trusted military advisor. He is also in the pay of Madrid. Unfortunately I don’t have the evidence to prove it, and the King trusts him beyond reproach. He’s already convinced Louis to send emissaries to King Philip and I believe in a matter of weeks we will be a dominion of Spain.’
‘I don’t understand, Your Eminence. Does that mean you don’t know?’
‘Of course. My work is based on uncertainty. I have to make choices even when I have next to no information – an intercepted letter, an interpretation of events, someone who could equally well be a spy. In this case I’ve received assurance from two sources who have been proved right a number of times before. Can I be sure? No. But it seems likely, and frankly the risk is too great not to act. Morality isn’t worth losing a country over.’
‘But you’ll end up chasing shadows.’
‘Yes, and I’ll never know if what I did was right. It’s something I live with. Be glad you do not.’ The cardinal completed the remark with a flourish of the index finger and looked across at Sebastian, expecting the conversation to be at an end.
‘Your Eminence.’ The sweat was stinging Sebastian’s eyes and he had reached the point of desperation. ‘Forgive me but I must be frank. If there’s something you’re not telling me, I must know. I’m risking my life. I need to be sure I’m not killing an innocent man.’
Sebastian’s suspicions were confirmed when the cardinal responded with a pinched, almost apologetic smile. ‘There are many things I don’t tell you, Sebastian. My work requires a choice – either to lie or not speak. I prefer the latter. Now I’m afraid I have another engagement. So I need an answer. Will you do what has been asked of you?’
It was the weight of Richelieu’s face which betrayed him – that pendulous gravitas of a judge pronouncing sentence. It could mean only one thing. The simple fact Sebastian had known from the moment he entered the room – which had never once been mentioned. That refusal meant death. Saint-Simon was a close friend of the King. The cardinal would never allow himself to be connected to the murder. He hadn’t summoned him to have a debate. He was giving him a final chance to save his life.
Two minutes later Sebastian left the room, shaking his head with self-disgust. However much he told himself Richelieu had convinced him, he knew it wasn’t true. The cardinal had told him nothing of significance. From the moment he stepped into that room, he had been searching for some way to submit. His questions had not been asked out of courage but a desire to believe the cardinal. He was too weak to do otherwise. Richelieu would always be Richelieu and he would always be a dwarf.
Sebastian’s unease only grew when he walked back into the hall and saw Saint-Simon smiling benignly, taking the occasional sip of his drink. The man didn’t look anything like a Spanish agent. He was a retired soldier, a monument, cracked with age and sprouting tufts. The idea of him posing a threat to France, or indeed anyone, was beyond ridiculous. It felt like having to murder a well-meaning uncle and Sebastian looked away, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand.
Matters only became worse when he reached the table. An oaken construction of monstrous proportions, it was thick-beamed and level with his head. He could barely reach the brim, let alone Saint-Simon’s glass. Initially he considered poisoning the drink while it was being served but didn’t dare risk it for fear of picking the wrong cup, leaving him with only one alternative, to climb up and dispense the poison directly.
Sebastian chose an old routine, where he would hold a fork like a magic wand and pretend to be an ugly fairy with the power to grant warts. It wasn’t one of his better acts, but it did allow him to tour the table, visiting each person in turn while bestowing or removing his gifts from increasingly amusing parts of his anatomy. And after clambering up onto the tabletop, he abruptly found himself concealing a vial of poison with a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on him. He felt exposed. Naked. As if each and every one of them knew what he was holding and what he was about to do. Cupping the vial in his left hand, he turned towards the Count of Soissons and muddled through the start of his act. It was enough to raise a chuckle, and he was soon able to progress round the table while all the time the vial sat in his palm, hot and ever-present. As he approached Saint-Simon, he found it impossible to look at the man, and concentrated instead on his cup. Thankfully, it was distinctive – a soldier’s tankard, beaten and tarnished pewter which looked out of place among all the silver and glass. However, passing the duke of Anjou, he failed to notice a slick of grease and tumbled to his left.
Instinctively he slapped down an arm to brace himself. It was only then that he thought of the vial. Fortunately, a quick check revealed it to have remained intact, and looking round, he found himself at almost kissing distance from a bewildered duke. Then, giving the man a quick peck on the cheek to the considerable amusement of his neighbours, he stood up. Saint-Simon was no more than ten feet away, and after taking a few moments to pick up his thread, he turned his attention back to the cup. The act itself was surprisingly simple, a quick misdirection as he pretended to toss a shower of carbuncles in the air with one hand while emptying the vial into the tankard with the other. Much worse was the moment afterwards, those few sharp seconds as he remained frozen, staring down at the tabletop, listening to the hubbub from the crowd and hearing his own death in every raised voice. But the chatter continued, and after reassuring himself that his crime had passed unnoticed, he drew the performance to a close. Then, after bowing briefly and the usual round of scattered applause, he retreated as quickly as he had arrived.
Nevertheless, the ordeal was only half-complete. In spite of his desperation to escape, Sebastian knew better than to flee. Being seen leaving the hall just as the concoction took effect would be unwise in the extreme. Instead he tried to look inconspicuous while occupying his churning mind as best he could: counting the flies angling around the candelabra, calculating the number of chairs, the height of the ceiling and any other distractions within eyeshot. In between he would glance across at his victim, who continued his meal, unaware that he was already dead. However, the poison acted more slowly than he had anticipated, and ten minutes passed before Saint-Simon turned red in the face and began to splutter. Sebastian stared at him, transfixed, and time slowed as he watched, acutely aware of each and every moment: Saint-Simon grabbing his tankard, lifting it to his lips, the look of confusion as he felt it take effect, then the tranquillity of expression as he began to tire and weaken, sinking back into his seat as he entered his death throes . . . and then inexplicably leaned forward and took another sip of his drink before turning to his neighbour and resuming his conversation. Sebastian continued to stare, scrutinising the man with great intensity as he stubbornly continued not to die. Quite the opposite. Instead he appeared most content with life and looked about the table with the serene appearance of someone who knows his hard work is done and his rest well-earned, occasionally interjecting some bon-mot of military wit. There was no sign of discomfort, no choking or coughing, not even a reddening of the face.
Sebastian felt the vial, still warm in his left hand. Turning to face the wall, he inspected it. There was still some liquid at the bottom, and after a few moments’ further examination, he tipped out the remains – three shivering droplets on his palm. He stared at them intently, sifting their translucence for colour, then sniffing for any sign of perfume, but to no avail. Glancing up at the balcony, he noticed Ambroise leaning over the balustrade, eating some pastry with a vacuous stare. He seemed bored, as though he was passing time rather than waiting for something to happen. Sebastian flinched as if slapped and choked back a scream.
Furious and cursing his stupidity, he strode up the steps as fast as he could manage before marching straight to Ambroise. His face was knotted with anger – locked so tight he could barely force out the words.
‘Damn your eyes, that wasn’t poison.’
Ambroise responded with a wide and braying laugh.
‘You looked bloody terrified. Never seen anyone do it that way before.’
Sebastian flung the empty vial at Ambroise. ‘I thought I was going to die, of course I was bloody terrified.’
‘Don’t be annoyed, what do you expect? We need to know you’re loyal.’
‘You lied to me, you bastard.’
‘Yes, I lied, the cardinal lied, we all lie. You’re in the King’s court, my friend. We don’t come here for amusement. We come for glory and money and we say whatever we have to.’ Ambroise shrugged and retrieved the bottle from the floor.
‘And if they saw me poisoning him? I could have been killed.’
‘It’s happened before. They would have made you drink the cup, nothing more.’
Sebastian hissed out a sigh of displeasure . . . but also resignation. Ambroise was a hard man to be angry at. He meant no harm. Life was easy and simple to him. Like the pet of some wealthy master, he spent his days lying around and gorging himself, his only requirement to follow the occasional basic command.
‘In any event,’ Ambroise finished. ‘I don’t see what you’re so concerned about. It’s over. You wanted to serve the Chief Minister of France and now you do. Don’t complain, rejoice.’