Sebastian looked out from his room at the ragged city below. He could make out the usual tide of carts, donkeys and traders, slowed to a trickle in the crush. From above, the mob lacked individuality, its colours and forms mixing together as they moved between one nowhere to another. He was glad of the distance. The streets grew more miserable with every passing year: the animals bonier, the stalls more dilapidated, the people sicker and their stoop more pronounced. For nearly two decades, he had been observing a country in slow decline, ravaged by war, the land wealed with battlefields and trampled by armies, whole towns decimated until only women and children remained. But over the previous six months, the descent had steepened.
Cinq-Mars was the source. Since Richelieu had first introduced him to Louis, his rise to power had been spectacular. The King was infected with love for him, to the point of fever. Within a week of their first meeting, both his old mistresses – de Hautefort and de La Fayette – were forgotten and dismissed. Within a month, the marquis had been made grand écuyer, obliging everyone to refer to him as Monsieur le Grand. Cinq-Mars responded with typical ingratitude, simply demanding more. Not that this seemed to bother Louis, who dismissed his insolence, infidelity and tantrums as foibles, seeming to find them somehow endearing. Even one notorious occasion when the marquis was too exhausted to meet Louis, having spent all night with the notorious courtesan Marion Delorme, went unpunished. If anything, his transgressions only seemed to increase the King’s infatuation.
Their relationship came to follow a familiar pattern. Exasperated by Cinq-Mars’ demands, Louis would lose his temper and scold the marquis, who invariably responded with breathtaking indignation, often insulting the King to his face and then disappearing for days on end. Wracked with remorse, Louis would then shower him with gifts and money in an attempt to win him back. Of course, whatever Cinq-Mars received was never enough: silks, braids, embroidered doublets, Semper Augustus tulips, coaches, servants, fireworks, chinoiserie, a pair of the latest flintlock pistols inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a stable of Fresian horses – nothing ever satisfied him for long. Until, having squandered away twenty fortunes, Cinq-Mars found himself with everything a person could wish for – except for one thing. Despite his fifty-two suits, he could never change the man wearing them – the world outside was simply not as large as the space within.
Now, six months later, the marquis’ triumph was complete. Untouchable, he lorded over the palace with a retinue of associates and hangers-on, demanding audiences with and often insulting whomever his caprice happened to settle on, no matter how elevated their title or position. Unable to retaliate, his victims were forced to laugh along through locked teeth. Despite their fury, as long as Cinq-Mars remained the King’s favourite, there was nothing they could do, and they were forced to invite him to every banquet, tournament or event they wanted Louis to attend.
Sebastian spent an increasing amount of time avoiding the marquis and his coterie. Unable to visit the garden or wander the palace, he passed most days shut in his room, only able to leave during the marquis’ occasional retreats with Louis to Saint-Germain. One thing he couldn’t escape were his evening performances. Previously, the marquis had tolerated them with unalloyed disdain, sitting stiff-backed in the audience and observing proceedings with the scorn of the impotent – Sebastian had even grown to delight in his sour stare. However, those same performances had since taken on an entirely different complexion. Cinq-Mars’ scowl had now been replaced by the smirk of impending revenge, and whenever Sebastian looked across at him, he met the same disquieting grin. Trapped within the confines of the stage, Sebastian would try to ignore him, but the marquis remained an angry smudge in the corner of his eye, as conspicuous as imminent and violent death.
Richelieu remained Sebastian’s only protection but he was rarely present at court, occupied instead with the recent revolts in Catalonia and Portugal. Ever fearful of the threat from Spain, he was doing all he could to support the rebels in the hope of tying down the Emperor’s troops.
The cardinal’s absence didn’t go unnoticed by Cinq-Mars, who was continually grasping further, feeling for the edges of what the King would permit. It began with slight insubordination, just the odd remark, that the cardinal seemed overworked or that he seemed to take to his bed more frequently nowadays. Then more direct, that he was old or not what he once was. Soon he realised there was no check at all, except for the occasional admonishment from Louis, who clearly enjoyed hearing his chief minister being taken down a peg or two. Alarmingly, Richelieu remained either oblivious or simply didn’t consider it worth bothering with. Like Louis, he seemed to regard the marquis’ behaviour as youthful exuberance, no more dangerous than that of a child.
* * *
It was two days before the Assumption that Cinq-Mars finally made his intentions known. Sebastian had been performing a pastiche of the imperial general, Jean de Werth – considerably improved by the absence of the marquis, doubtless off debauching himself in the depths of the city. Then, after taking the opportunity for a brief walk round the garden, he returned to the sanctuary of his room, only to find the door ajar.
Sebastian knew immediately that something was wrong. After the previous attempt on his life, he was careful to keep his door locked at all times as well as sealing any gaps before going to sleep – someone was most certainly waiting inside. Turning back towards the stairwell, Sebastian abruptly found his path blocked by a guard, his arms crossed and defiant. The face was familiar, seamed by a scar that ran from scalp to jaw, and he recognised him as one of the marquis’ bodyguards.
‘You’ve a visitor,’ he stated, nodding him back towards his room.
Sebastian instinctively reached for the pistol in his pocket, then decided against it. Shooting a guard was a capital crime. If Cinq-Mars wanted him dead, better to make it as difficult for him as possible. Instead he let the guard put a hand on his shoulder and steer him to the door.
The marquis was slouched by the desk, his clothes glinting, liquid in the candlelight. Both his left eye and cheek were scooped in shadow, making his face appear half flesh, half skull, and his right hand rested on his rapier. He watched Sebastian, letting the silence hang.
‘You’ve come to kill me.’ Sebastian was oddly unafraid. Having spent so long fearing this moment, he found it almost dreamlike, as though acting a part he had played many times before.
‘No, this is just for pleasure.’
‘No pleasure for me, Monsieur le Grand.’ He pronounced the title with mocking reverence.
Cinq-Mars shook his head with a smile, and when he spoke his voice retained its murderous serenity. ‘Insolent to the last, dwarf. And you will suffer for it . . . be certain of that. I’m a patient man, or at least patient enough. I’ll wait until the right time, when I can work on you at leisure. A few days, maybe a week if you last that long.’
‘That’s what you came to tell me? Don’t you have anything better to do? I was under the apprehension that you are a very important man.’
‘In fact, I am here on business. Your room is required. I’ve had enough of your stink around the palace and I’ve a spare clerk I need lodgings for.’
Sebastian considered asking if the cardinal had been informed, then thought better of it. Why would the man need the cardinal when he had the King? ‘Well, I’d best get packing.’ He accompanied the remark with a pointed glance at the door.
‘Don’t play the hero, dwarf. It doesn’t suit you,’ the marquis replied, noisily drawing up a glob of mucus and spitting it at Sebastian’s feet – a parting gift. And with that, he turned for the door.
Then Cinq-Mars was gone. Except he wasn’t. The after-image remained in front of Sebastian as he stood, battling with the implications of what had just taken place. Cinq-Mars was right. It wasn’t an if but a when. His thoughts immediately turned to escape – and with it came disorientation. His room was his refuge from the world and the prospect of being cast from it was profoundly unsettling; as though he had been ejected from the womb, some shivering newborn thrust into a cold and terrifying world. Where was he to go? For a moment, he considered the streets, hiding away among the poor and anonymous. But there was no safety there. It had been hard enough before, let alone now. Besides, he was too used to his comforts to go grubbing round the cobbles or sleeping in doorways again. Better to take his chances at court than die on some lonely corner with one of the marquis’ brutes come to stove his head in.
To begin with, Sebastian tried the local area around Les Halles. It seemed a good place to lose oneself in as any, the beating heart of the city, if it possessed one at all: a hive of costermongers, bargain-hunters, fruit-traders, thieves, artisans, sharpers, metalworkers, beggars, soon-to-be-beggars and people simply looking to try their luck. However, the crush was intense and the stink almost unbearable – predominantly fish, transported from the coast and bloating in the August sun, mixed with fetid pickles and meat. Consequently, his search didn’t last long. After a few minutes of wincing his way through the stench while lost in the dark and the scrum, he gave up and headed for the Porte Saint-Martin and the faubourgs – intent on finding somewhere quiet on the road towards Saint-Denis. He expected a long journey, but half a mile beyond the walls, he stumbled upon a sign advertising a cheap room. The house belonged to an ageing widow, clearly looking to support herself. She seemed amused by him at first, then gained sudden interest when he mentioned paying two months in advance. The low price was explained when she led him to a bare room overlooking Saint-Lazare prison. Not that it bothered him in the slightest. In the circumstances, anything that kept people away seemed an advantage, especially considering it was walking distance from the Louvre. So, after ordering a cart to fetch his things, he moved in right away.
It turned out to be one of his better decisions. Liberated from the urban chaos, he woke up to clean air, open sky and chequerboard fields flumed with barley. Cinq-Mars was no longer a distraction and he was able to leave the confines of his room, allowing him space to think and to concentrate on making final revisions to his play. Determined to make the most of what time he had left, he no longer listened to his doubts and his writing acquired the fluency and energy common to those near death, the last grains of life flaring like powder in a flame. One loose end still remained, however – the cardinal. Over time, Sebastian’s anger towards Richelieu had faded, to the point where he wondered if it had simply been frustration, the need to blame. After all, Richelieu had treated the revolt no differently to any other. And loath as Sebastian was to admit it, there was truth to the cardinal’s words. He had no more leeway than an executioner did with an axe. He was and had to behave as chief minister; it was impossible to expect him to be otherwise.
* * *
Richelieu sat in his official rooms at the Palais-Cardinal. He had been working much of the night and slumped on his throne, his hands laid on its oversized armrests, a heraldic canopy behind. To compensate for his condition, his attendants had dressed him in overwhelming pomp – a soutane of silver thread set against the deepest black. And rather than his usual biretta he was crowned with a mitre that rose a full two feet above his head. Instead of glorifying him, it made him look all the more exhausted, his face leeched against the splendour, its only lustre provided by a thin gloss of sweat. Conscious of his appearance, his guards stared ahead from their posts, eyes steady, refusing to acknowledge his condition.
Sebastian’s arrival was enough to raise leaden eyelids and the cardinal leaned forward, peering down and allowing himself a smile.
‘Hello, Sebastian. Last time we spoke, your departure was . . . emphatic. Has something changed your mind?’
‘It’s Cinq-Mars. He means to kill me.’
Richelieu dismissed the concern with a flick of his hand, as if being informed of some schoolboy prank. ‘Is that all? The boy’s a braggart. It means nothing. He knows I won’t allow it.’
‘Even so, if I do die, I want you to know who’s responsible.’
‘You exaggerate. If he meant to kill you, he would have done so by now.’
‘He’s already tried to burn me alive.’
‘That was before I spoke to him. Besides, what harm has he actually done?’
‘He means to kill me, Your Eminence.’
‘You forget he’s my ward. I’ve been responsible for him for the past seven years, and he is answerable to me. Whatever he may claim, the fact remains I am still Chief Minister of France and head of the Conseil d’État. He will not break his word.’
‘Your Eminence, I’m not sure you quite understand the situation . . .’
Raw from lack of sleep, the cardinal was in no mood to brook dissent and rose out of his seat – stiff-backed, glaring down from on high with his gemstone peer.
‘Mind your words. I tolerated your previous outburst because of your brother. Don’t assume I’ll do so again. I understand the situation perfectly well. In fact, after twenty-three years at court, I might possibly understand it a little better than you.’
‘Of course, Your Eminence. Please accept my deepest apologies. You know I would never mean to offend. But surely you agree the fact you’re his guardian might affect your judgement?’ Sebastian’s frantic efforts to rephrase seemed to succeed and the cardinal nodded, dropping back on to his throne, seemingly too tired to maintain his annoyance.
‘Perhaps, but what threat does he pose? What are you asking me to be afraid of? His intelligence? His political skills? His ability to persuade? Chevreuse or Philip of Spain I could understand, even Gaston. But Henri? He has ambition, and precious little else.’
‘Louis is infatuated with him. He has the King’s ear.’
‘Yes, but I have his. You forget it was I who introduced him to the King in the first place. Besides, you say my relationship with Cinq-Mars affects my judgement. Don’t you think the same applies to you? That your belief he’s trying to kill you might make you think him more dangerous than he actually is?’
‘Yes, Your Eminence.’ Sebastian conceded, not because he thought Richelieu was right but because he knew any further argument was futile. At worst he would infuriate the cardinal, at best merely irritate him. Anyway, who was he to lecture the Chief Minister of France? The man had been at court as long as he’d been alive, longer even.
During the ensuing lull, the two men glanced at each other, both aware that the conversation wasn’t over and of what had been left unsaid.
Richelieu ended the silence. ‘The tomb for your brother and mother, it’s complete.’
‘Thank you.’ Sebastian’s voice was flat, acknowledgement more than gratitude.
‘I had an extra plot put in. I didn’t know whether you wanted to be buried alongside them.’
Sebastian didn’t reply, then looked back at the cardinal with a baffled smile. He knew Richelieu was probably just being meticulous. Even so, it seemed a very human consideration – and there was humanity in the cardinal’s face. Tiredness had softened the veneer and a curl had wrinkled its way into the corner of his mouth, barely perceptible beneath his beard.
‘Yes, I would like that very much indeed.’ Sebastian nodded. Then they glanced at each other again and smiled, this time knowing the meeting was at an end. And long after Sebastian had begun the long walk home, he ambled at a contented pace, oblivious to the knocks and blows of the passing throng, pleased to have seen his master again.
* * *
Despite Richelieu’s predictions, the rise of Cinq-Mars continued unchecked. He was made successively Master of the Wardrobe then Master of the Horse, given authority over the royal stables, along with the right to every horse and saddle in them upon the King’s death. He had power over the retinue, ceremonies and even the royal coronation. Along with both titles came ample salaries as well as whatever tidbits Louis would throw his way. But it still wasn’t enough. He wanted glory, military command, and above all what he could never have – the respect of others.
Richelieu, meanwhile, was content to tolerate the marquis’ requests, viewing them as distractions, irrelevant to matters of state. It wasn’t until the King informed him of his agreement to Cinq-Mars marrying Marie de Gonzague that he realised the gravity of the situation. Louis mentioned it casually as they were discussing some petitions for tax exemption. Unable to hide his shock, Richelieu reacted as if the King had announced he was marrying Cinq-Mars himself.
‘You can’t possibly do this . . .’
Louis wasn’t used to being given orders and was stunned by the cardinal’s response. Richelieu seemed equally surprised at his own lack of control and gazed back, momentarily forgetting what he meant to say.
‘By which I mean of course that you can do it, Your Majesty. However, in my opinion, it would not be the wisest course of action.’
With a sniff of displeasure, Louis nodded at Richelieu to continue. Due to his stutter, he often communicated using little more than a nod or shake of the head, preferring to avoid the embarrassment of speech.
‘Marrying into the house of Gonzague would destroy our entire Italian policy. The woman governs Mantua. She’s an ally of Spain.’
‘You think it matters so muh-muh-much?’ the King replied with an innocence that Richelieu found half-endearing, half-contemptible. Sometimes he felt Louis was like a man locked in a tower, to whom reality was nothing more than a hazy jostle far below.
‘I’m afraid so, Your Majesty. Aside from the political considerations, there would be the risk of a royal favourite being intimately linked to our enemies.’
‘But I would be breaking my word, and a king does not break his word.’
‘You would not, Your Majesty. I would be unable to allow it on religious grounds.’
‘What religious grounds?’
‘A sign from God, Your Majesty, a vision that the children of the union would be cursed.’
Louis laughed at the flagrancy of the lie. ‘You’re a good man, Armand. He will hate you for it.’
‘Better me than you, Your Majesty,’ Richelieu replied, shuffling backwards out of the room before Louis had the chance to change his mind. Then, closing the doors, he snapped upright and requested the steward to bring Cinq-Mars to his chambers of state without delay.
* * *
Despite his magnificent surroundings, Richelieu dressed plainly in a black soutane sans biretta and lace. Now in his mid-fifties, he was forced to use a stick, but shunned it today and stood beside his throne, gripping the armrest as a prop and staring ahead with the conviction of a messiah. The impression was of an austere figure, shorn of decoration and dressed for purpose, determined to exercise his will, the only sign of weakness the shake of his hand as he struggled to support an ageing frame. Yet even his frailty somehow added to the zeal, each spasm and waver showing his will to fight.
Cinq-Mars entered the room with the air of someone who wants to leave as soon as possible. Disregarding the usual pleasantries, he gave a cursory bow before enquiring what precisely it was that the cardinal wished to discuss. Richelieu left a brief pause to express his disapproval, and when he spoke, the words were as slow and accurate as a chisel on stone, their sharp edges stressed by a voice that seemed to take grim pleasure in the task.
‘This marriage cannot happen. It is not the will of the Lord.’
Cinq-Mars listened with inevitable disbelief then exploded into fury, screaming outrage and defiance. Richelieu ignored him, letting the marquis’ anger exhaust itself before repeating himself in blunter terms.
‘Nothing you say can change this. I will not question a sign from God.’
‘But you can’t do this.’ Cinq-Mars was now reduced to a whimper. The cardinal looked back, still struggling to hold himself upright. Then he too softened.
‘Henri, if I could spare you this pain I would. But Marie de Gonzague? Don’t you see the consequences of that?’
‘But this is the woman I love. This is my life. Does that mean nothing to you?’
‘It means everything to me, Henri, and I rejoice in your happiness. But what I feel has nothing to do with the needs of France.’
‘I want to forgive you, but I can’t, not for this. I’m giving you a last chance – reconsider.’ Cinq-Mars looked at the cardinal with an expression which reminded Richelieu of the moment he first arrived after losing his parents. A traumatised, consumptive stare, the eyeballs aimless and without moorings.
‘There’s no point, Henri. I can’t sacrifice Italy for anyone, not even you.’
‘Very well, but remember this was your choice not mine,’ the marquis finished, pulling himself upright before turning his back and striding out of the room. Even the clack of his shoes sounded abrupt.
* * *
The situation was compounded a month later. After his humiliation by Richelieu, Cinq-Mars’ first reaction had been to implore the King to change the cardinal’s mind, pleading with him almost daily. Tortured, Louis was desperate to oblige and hunted vainly for a substitute bride, but not one of the noble houses was interested. His opportunity arrived with rumours of the Habsburgs approaching Arras and the raising of an army to meet them. Knowing the marquis’ desire to command, Louis immediately offered it to him – to Cinq-Mars’ delight – only for Richelieu to visit the following day and have it withdrawn.
This time Cinq-Mars’ fury was unrestrained. Marching straight to the Palais-Cardinal, he demanded an immediate audience. Richelieu, however, was occupied in a meeting with the papal legate and left him to seethe for twenty minutes, and by the time the marquis was finally permitted entry he was in a state of murderous rage: striding in, cape over shoulder and hand on sword. Richelieu’s guards responded in kind, lowering their pikes and taking a step forward. Unperturbed, the cardinal defused the situation immediately, motioning the guards back with a wave of the hand before asking the marquis if he would care to let go of his weapon in return. Cinq-Mars left a defiant pause before unbuckling his rapier and letting it clash onto the floor.
‘Don’t you dare take my command. The King gave it to me, you’ve no right.’
Richelieu shook his head, then raised an index finger, parent to child.
‘A year ago I told you that being a favourite was one of the most difficult positions in France. You have no power, only what the King chooses to give you. I suggest you act accordingly.’
‘Why? You serve the King just as I do.’
‘Don’t make an enemy of me.’ Richelieu’s voice was disconcertingly measured, the opposite of bluster. ‘I know what you’ve been saying. That I’m an old man. That my judgement isn’t what it used to be. That I need to be replaced. I’ve let it pass for now. But take this command and it will be the end of you.’
‘No more lectures, Armand. Don’t you understand? You can’t just threaten me any more. I’m not afraid.’
The response was treated with a slow sigh and Richelieu shook his head, more disappointed than angry. ‘That was always your problem, Henri – speaking without thinking. What do you suppose would happen if I asked the King to choose between you or me?’
‘Probably you, but only probably. You’d be taking a risk, and if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you hate taking risks if you can avoid them. So why do it? Why gamble everything? You don’t need to do this.’
‘You’re right, Henri, I detest unnecessary risk, which is exactly why I won’t put our largest remaining army in the command of a man with no military experience. If we lose at Arras, the Habsburgs will invade. I can’t allow that, not under any circumstances. So reflect on this – if you take command and fail, I won’t just go to the King and ask for your resignation, I’ll ask for your head.’
The axeman’s shadow had a sobering effect on Cinq-Mars who paused and took an unusually long time to reply. ‘I get nothing?’
‘All I ask is that you prove yourself. First lead the cavalry. Fulfil your duties and then we can consider higher command.’
After a brief hesitation, Cinq-Mars acceded with a petulant nod before turning heel and leaving the room. Richelieu remained a moment then forced himself upright and shuffled to an antechamber, closing the door behind him. Taking the nearest chair, he sat back, opened his collar and stared at the opposite wall, his face hollow with exhaustion. The mask had grown heavier in recent weeks. Time – it used to seem an ocean stretching from boundless past to boundless future. Now it had become a puddle boiling away in the sun, its waters growing more brackish by the day.
* * *
Arras was a triumph and Marshal Châtillon its hero. Cinq-Mars, lauded in the Gazette, played a supporting role, having his horse shot from beneath him after heroically charging the enemy guns. Yet on his return, far from boasting of his exploits, the marquis was curiously subdued, refusing to discuss what had happened except to bad-mouth the marshal to anyone who would listen. Mostly, he sulked in his room, only emerging to go hunting with the King or play the occasional game of faro with his friends. Some thought he had been changed after witnessing the horrors of war, others had less flattering explanations.
Richelieu, meanwhile, was becoming an increasingly peripheral figure at court. His age had become apparent to all, though he did his best to hide it, wearing wide-brimmed hats to disguise his hairline and using his crosier rather than a stick. More often he spared himself the embarrassment of public scrutiny by staying in his palace, restricting his official meetings to the Conseil d’État and his twice-weekly audiences with the King.
His one indulgence remained his village of Richelieu. He had spent nine years watching over it, hiring a legion of masons to work its stone. Too busy to visit, he had the model of the town moved to his private apartments: walled and quartered, a lavish gate centred along each side. Each house was carved in wood, with spaces left for the few remaining plots. Arranged in a perfect grid, the buildings were close-fitting, making the whole resemble a chequerboard dotted with missing squares.
At the very end of the town stood Richelieu’s palace, three wings of colonnades and domed splendour set amid elaborate topiary and shaded avenues. Despite never having been there, the cardinal still knew its precise dimensions and the contents of every room, even the patterns on the cornicing. He visited it almost daily in his mind. Somewhere to escape the pressure of work and imagine the day when there would be nothing left to be done.
Currently he was by the circular window in his private apartments, seated at a table and idly tracing its swirls. The top was inlaid with ivory and mother of pearl, quartering into four separate designs meeting at a circle in the centre, also quartered and with the pattern rotated to opposing sides – a bewildering vortex of diamonds, vines, fleur-de-lis, and crosses. Staring at the track of his finger, the cardinal specified the measurements and decoration for a small gatehouse to be added to the castle entrance at the head of the moat. Each part was described in detail, from the wood of the frame to the height of the portcullis and the spacing of the crenulation. His instructions were fluid, recited without notes, as if he was simply reading off a chart – the voice a tranquil monotone.
The cardinal’s reverie was shattered into a thousand splinters as the door flew open and smashed a side-table into the wall. The only people present were a doctor and an amanuensis, who gaped at the figure advancing towards them. Even when it stopped, they remained motionless, unsure what it meant to do.
‘Good day, Henri, do you have something you wish to discuss?’ the cardinal remarked, not even turning to look.
Cinq-Mars didn’t reply, scowling at the attendants and jabbing a finger at the open doorway. In their eagerness, they scampered for the corridor without so much as a farewell.
Long after the door had closed, Cinq-Mars remained silent. His face, initially creased with fury, changed now that they were alone, the wrinkles flattening into something far more calculating. Richelieu suspected he had realised there was nobody else present and was considering whether to kill him. Not terribly wise considering the two witnesses and the twenty guards between him and escape. Eventually the marquis seemed to reach the same conclusion and looked across at the cardinal, admonishing him with a gentle shake of the head.
‘How did it come to this, Armand? You’re my guardian. You took care of me, introduced me to court and to the King. I owe it all to you. But now you hold me back. You block me at every turn. My marriage, my command at Arras, you even threaten to have me executed. I’m asking you to stop. I’ve been understanding until now, but this must end.’
‘Henri, you’ve risen a long way. Why risk it all now?’
‘It wasn’t me who chose this battle, it was you. You made a fool of me at Arras.’
‘From what I heard you did that perfectly well yourself. Ordering your troops straight into the guns, what were you thinking?’
‘It would have worked if it hadn’t been for Châtillon.’
‘Really?’ The cardinal stopped his meandering of the tabletop and glared at the marquis. He had a curious ability to look down on people even from a sitting position. ‘I heard he told you specifically to stay in reserve. That one of your men was forced to shoot your horse from beneath you so he could sound the retreat. Not only that, but you made repeated requests to charge again and the marshal actually had to overrule you in person.’
‘That’s a lie. I saw a gap and charged to split the enemy. But Châtillon wanted all the glory and ordered me back. The man knows nothing.’
‘Does it matter? We won. History will say you led the cavalry. Isn’t that enough?’
‘No. If you hadn’t taken away my command, none of this would have happened. Besides, you’ve heard the rumours I assume? People are laughing behind my back. I’m being made to look an idiot.’
‘You may be right, but it doesn’t mean I was wrong. Do you really expect me to put an army in the hands of someone with no experience at all? It would have been insanity. You can’t judge a decision through hindsight . . . only context.’
‘But all I’ve ever wanted were the same chances you’ve had – to prove my worth. You’re on the Conseil d’État. You’ve led on the battlefield. Why can’t I?’
‘Henri, it’s not the same. You’re twenty years old. You’ve already had a military command and a senior position of state, and now you tell me you want to be on the Conseil d’État. I was thirty-one before I had that chance – and thought young for the post. It isn’t fair, Henri. The nobles won’t stand for it. And without the nobles, we can’t raise the troops. You’d be bringing the temple down on our heads.’
‘You disappoint me, Armand. Is that really the best you can come up with? That I’m twenty years old.’ Cinq-Mars stood up and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back. Looking out, he saw Paris through drunken eyes – roofs and streets pooled together in its whorled glass. ‘Louis was sixteen when he became king. I didn’t hear of anyone saying he wasn’t old enough, least of all you. Just admit the truth. You don’t want me on the Conseil d’État because you don’t want change. You’re the one who isn’t ready.’
‘You do yourself no favours with these outbursts. The more I listen, the more I know I made the right choice.’
‘What in God’s name is that supposed to mean? Are you losing your mind, old man?’ Cinq-Mars jeered, turning round and tramping towards the door. He stopped by the model in the corner before picking up one of the dwellings and peering at it. ‘Look at you. Is this what you do all day? Play with your toy houses? You might have been a great man once, but you’re nothing now.’ Then he placed the building down in the castle courtyard, upside down, as if blown there by a particularly capricious hurricane. ‘Either way, remember this. I gave you a chance, Cardinal. Whatever happens, you were warned.’
* * *
Sebastian arrived at the Palais-Cardinal with a black eye and a split lip, having narrowly avoided being robbed the previous night. It wasn’t the first time. He’d been returning from a pleasant few hours shared between Michelle and a bottle of wine when, despite his best attempts to keep to the shadows, two men had seen him silhouetted on the Porte de Nesle and grabbed him as he made his way towards the Pont Neuf, pulling him into an alleyway before he could reach for his pistol. He had only escaped by hurling a handful of coins into his assailant’s eyes and vaulting over the wall into some canal-cum-sewer. After which he was forced to squelch the three-mile walk home slathered in stinking foulness.
Consequently, Sebastian had spent much of the morning trying to remove the stench from his clothes and was in the middle of his fifth scrub when one of Richelieu’s aides arrived and announced the cardinal was expecting him. Naturally Sebastian accepted, while keeping his distance from the man’s nose and managing to beg enough time to finish cleaning himself and apply some lavender water.
After being taken to the palace, he was led through a side door, up two flights of stairs and through a suite of rooms, finally emerging in the antechamber outside the cabinet. Its architrave appeared incongruous amidst the book-lined walls – the only hint of its importance was the soldier stood at each side. A few minutes passed before the quiet was broken by the ring of a bell from within, at which point one of the guards opened the door and nodded him in. Sebastian hesitated. It was not an appealing entrance – instead a slab of black, which swallowed what little light there was, while casting an unnatural shadow that appeared to spill out beyond the door. Eventually, after a few moments peering into the gloom, he inched towards it, wavering at the brink before daring to step inside.
As the door closed behind him, Sebastian experienced the same unease he had felt walking up to his father’s deathbed. There was no sound or light to guide, and he was forced to grope through the murk, spreading his arms in front of him as he made his way forward. Then he stopped, sensing the presence of someone nearby, straining for a clue but unable to hear over his own laboured breath.
‘Who is it?’ The voice came from his left.
‘Me – Sebastian.’
There was a pause followed by a grunt of realisation. ‘Sebastian Morra . . . you sound different.’
‘Perhaps because you can’t see me. People often confuse my height and my mind.’
‘My God, what is that stink? Lavender and . . .’
‘My apologies, Your Eminence. I fell into a canal.’ Sebastian interrupted as the cardinal searched for a word to end the sentence. ‘An accident,’ he added, wanting to change the subject as quickly as possible.
‘An accident? Odd that a man of your stature should fall over a wall. What sort of accident?’
‘I didn’t look where I was going. My apologies again, the surroundings certainly draw one’s nose to the scent.’
‘Quite so . . . ’ the cardinal gave a chuckle. ‘Anyway, do excuse the dark. A relic from my migraines. I prefer to be away from light and noise when I think. It clarifies the mind.’
‘Of course. You asked to see me.’
‘Yes, I would like your assistance with something. If you’re still working for me, that is?’ He glanced across at Sebastian.
It was a pointless question; Sebastian was hardly going to refuse the only ally he had left. Though out of respect for his brother, he did at least pause before replying.
‘What do you need from me?’
Nothing immediate, though considering the situation at court, I can’t rule out a plot. I imagine later I’ll need information relating to Henri . . . I mean Cinq-Mars.’
‘Actually I’ve been meaning to ask. I was reading the Gazette and I noticed a favourable account of his . . . exploits at Arras. It seemed odd. I mean it’s an open secret your relationship has soured of late.’
‘I hoped to spare him embarrassment.’ Richelieu’s voice thinned and he drew a breath. ‘I thought he might be grateful, but it only seems to have infuriated him.’
‘Infuriated him? I think you’ve done considerably more than that. You know he wants you replaced?’
‘I’m fully aware of Henri’s intentions,’ the cardinal snapped, curt with annoyance. His diminished situation appeared to have made him more sensitive – even to the slightest of quibbles. ‘Rest assured I will do what is necessary.’
‘But why are you allowing this? Cinq-Mars is just some glorified country squire. You’re the Chief Minister of France. Can’t you just remove him?’
‘It would jeopardise my relationship with the King. I would have to threaten resignation. It’s not a risk I care to take.’
‘It’s not a risk.’
‘Disobeying a monarch is always a risk. Louis is ultimately a man, as capricious and unpredictable as anyone else. It’s easier to wait. Cinq-Mars will slip up. He’s too greedy, too rash.’
‘And if you’re wrong? If Cinq-Mars doesn’t make a mistake?’
‘Henri will make a mistake. To make no mistakes, you need to have no flaws. Henri has flaws.’
‘But what if the flaws make no difference?’
This was followed by a long and considered silence.
‘Explain.’
‘I think you’re underestimating the King’s infatuation with Cinq-Mars.’
Another pause.
‘Not relevant. If the King is so infatuated with Henri, there’s nothing I can do in any case.’
‘Also, Your Eminence . . .’ It was not the momentary pause for dramatic effect, but the longer silence of a delicate subject. ‘Your position may not be as secure as it once was.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m still doing everything that’s required of me. Our recent victory at Arras. Who do you think raised the men? Made sure they were equipped? Provisioned them? I still run the Conseil d’État, manage the King’s affairs.’
‘Didn’t you once tell me the difference between image and truth?’ Freed of his body, Sebastian’s voice had become surprisingly bold, to the point where a listener might have had difficulty telling cardinal from servant. ‘It’s Cinq-Mars people see every day at court. It’s Cinq-Mars who sits by the King’s side, whom we all bow to and call Monsieur le Grand. It doesn’t matter what the truth is.’
‘I don’t care what the court thinks. The only person I answer to is the King. Anyway, even if I were to be replaced, we’ve already made arrangements. A successor has been agreed.’
Sebastian didn’t ask whom. He didn’t need to. It had to be Jules Mazarin. For three years he had been the cardinal’s deputy in all but name, and Richelieu had already pressed for him to be given a cardinal’s hat. Besides, he was godfather and probably actual father of the dauphin, trusted by both an oblivious Louis and the Queen.
Though Sebastian had never considered the possibility of Richelieu being replaced, it didn’t surprise him that the cardinal had something prepared. Richelieu planned everything in his life. For all his intelligence, he was in many ways a profoundly predictable man, always thinking in straight lines with that undeviating and methodical logic. His own death was treated no differently – just another strategic consideration. In an odd way, the environment suited him – locked in his dark and silent chamber, removed from any distractions of humanity or morality, like some mind in a jar manipulating an imagined world. And it occurred to Sebastian that perhaps this was the only way he could govern the country, that the only way to make hard decisions was to divorce himself utterly from their results.
* * *
There had been a sense of things coming to a head for some time – shadow-talk and whispers mostly. Bereft of the cardinal’s stabilising presence, France became a wheel without an axis. The court whirled with rumours, all unconfirmed: that the uprisings in Catalonia and Portugal had been crushed; that a Habsburg army of a hundred thousand men were waiting to burst across the Pyrenees; that a Spanish fleet was crossing the English Channel, sailing for Normandy; that another revolt against the gabelle was planned. Hysteria took hold and people gave way to abandon: wine cellars were emptied, courtesans exhausted, everyone cheating and being cheated upon. There was no tomorrow so there could be no regrets.
The cardinal battled the situation as best he could, trying to trace each rumour, or amassing piles of reports, documents and notes which he was perpetually poring over and reshuffling in an effort to uncover a link. Continuing to avoid the court almost entirely, he worked harder than ever – requiring the help of three scribes to keep pace with his commands. This lack of contact with the outside world only seemed to heighten his suspicions, making him keener for knowledge and more demanding of detail. Information would be sifted and judged, and anything important written in a small notebook he kept by his bed – the left pages reserved for questions, the right for answers.
To begin with, it wasn’t apparent what the cardinal was looking for. The requests were broad and Sebastian couldn’t see any pattern to the people he was being asked to observe: courtiers, Spanish residents, even some of his fellow spies. Over time, the demands became more specific and the names more familiar: Gaston, Chevreuse and the marquis. Not that this made matters any clearer. All three knew they were being watched and restricted themselves to small talk so dreary that it was obviously a masquerade. Anything deemed important would be scribbled, passed between them and thrown in the fire.
Richelieu’s frustration at the lack of progress was clear. He was constantly irritable, and while he seemed to be having no problem finding questions for the left-hand side of his book, the right side remained infuriatingly empty. Until he reached the point when he was too tired to be angry any more and would ask for news in an exasperated drone, anticipating the inevitable answer – that nothing had changed.
The breakthrough, when it came, arrived from an unexpected source – the principality of Sedan. A letter from the Count of Soissons, a former accomplice of Chevreuse, declaring he would invade through Champagne with the support of the Dukes of Guise and Bouillon. Richelieu leapt upon the information with rabid enthusiasm. Everyone was put to work amassing material to build a case: intercepting letters, searching for military movements and contracts, bribing people who might have been approached. Within a fortnight, Richelieu had all the evidence he needed and was able to bring charges before the King. The verdict was a formality but also meaningless so long as Soissons remained at large. Its only purpose was to bring the enemy out into the open. Now the count was left with no choice but to respond, and within three days there were reports of his troops marching along the river Meuse.
With battle imminent, the rumours were replaced by real and concrete fears. During the two weeks it took the royal troops to reach the border, people discussed little else. It was generally felt that though Soissons had the smaller force, he was the better commander, at least on open ground. Up against him was Marshal Châtillon, hero of Arras. Though respected, the marshal was known as a siege tactician, preferring defensive formations, and the consensus was that he would favour conventional battle, Soissons the surprise attack. What was not disputed, however, was that a defeat would make the cardinal’s position untenable. With an enemy marching on Paris, France would need more than an ageing priest to lead the state. Richelieu knew this full well and became desperate for news from the field, requesting hourly updates on any visitors for the King or diplomatic business, the principal result of which was a succession of false alarms – riders appearing at the gates and being rushed through to the royal chambers, only to offer the greetings of a foreign dignitary or tax rolls from the provinces.
When the messenger finally did arrive, Sebastian was midway through a performance in the great hall. This time there could be no doubt. The man was dusty and hot from his travels, a smudge against the bright tapestry of court, so weary that he seemed unaware of the rows of eyes upon him, all searching for a clue. Then, without a glance in either direction, he marched up to the King’s apartments and was gone. The room remained in utter silence for a moment before bursting into hubbub. Some were convinced they had seen a giveaway smile, others a frown of defeat – though most remained unsure – and the discussion roiled round the chamber for five minutes or so before a herald eventually appeared and announced a victory for the King.
A victory it might have been, but it was not a glorious one. Châtillon had been ambushed while negotiating muddy ground. Attacked on the flank, over six hundred royal troops had been killed and half the remaining army captured. Yet, having completed the rout, Soissons had gathered his officers around him to celebrate when one of them had shot him in the face – apparently one of the cardinal’s agents. Left without a leader, the rebels abruptly found themselves marooned without orders and more importantly without pay. So, after looting the nearest town, they promptly disbanded. It was an unsatisfactory conclusion. The army was lost and the country left wide open. There would be more to come.
* * *
When discussing the conspiracy, both men began hesitantly, discussing the latest theatre along with recent news. Neither of them took comfort in the exchange and there was a sense of the unspoken, a mutual knowledge that they were merely passing time. Eventually the conversation ran out, replaced by pin-drop silence. Both men glanced around the room, each waiting for the other to speak. Gaston had chosen to meet in a rarely visited outcrop of the Louvre. A small guestroom, it was inconvenient to reach as well as bitterly cold at night, due to its crumbling windows and lack of a fireplace, and was generally used to house unpopular visitors. The oak panelling was broken by white covers and throws spread over the squares of furniture, combined with a black and white checked floor that gave Cinq-Mars the impression of sitting inside a folded chessboard. Gaston, who was more familiar with conspiracy, spoke first.
‘I’ve heard there have been . . . differences between you and the cardinal.’ He twirled a piece of card, perhaps to occupy nervous fingers.
‘It’s his fault, not mine. Whatever I do, he blocks it. He even vetoed my marriage. Claimed it was a sign from God. My army commission at Arras as well. The man’s shameless. He clearly sees me as some kind of threat. I’ve no choice, I can’t just let him carry on.’
Gaston listened while continuing to spin the card. His pose was relaxed, slouched, even submissive – awaiting an indiscretion rather than inviting one.
‘Richelieu’s been carrying on for fifteen years. I don’t see that there’s a great deal you can do.’
‘I’ve been telling Louis to ignore him. Just to remind him who’s in charge.’
‘I see it’s working well for you.’
‘It’ll take time of course . . . but what alternative do I have?’
The card stopped moving and was placed on the side-table with the same flourish Gaston used when laying down a winning hand.
‘That depends what you’re willing to consider . . .’ He didn’t complete the remark, leaving it to dangle – unfinished. Cinq-Mars didn’t take up the invitation, instead looking round at a door he already knew to be closed. There was no one nearby – nor was there any way of avoiding a response. He turned back to Gaston.
‘I know what you’re going to say.’
‘Then it would seem I don’t need to say it.’
‘You want me to support a union with Spain.’
‘What an interesting thought.’ Gaston returned one of his more ambiguous smiles, keeping on just the right side of treason.
‘I can’t. They’d have my head on the block. It’s easy for you. Louis is your brother. You won’t be touched. No, it’s too great a risk.’
‘No more risk than you’re taking already.’ Gaston shrugged and raised an eyebrow. His indifference was persuasive.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Your fate’s tied to that of the King, as I’m sure you realise. I mean if Louis were to die tomorrow . . .’
This time it was the marquis’ turn to shrug. His was sharper and more aggressive than Gaston’s, dismissive rather than indifferent. ‘That’s ridiculous. Louis won’t die.’
‘I’m sorry to disillusion you, but you appear to be forgetting that both my father and grandfather were assassinated. Besides, Louis is hardly the picture of good health. Six years ago he was on his deathbed. I saw him given last rites. Frankly it’s a miracle he’s lasted as long as he has,’ Gaston finished wistfully, recalling dashed hopes.
‘But what can I do? I can’t keep him alive.’
‘You can make sure you’re protected.’
‘Go on.’
With the bored tone of a man explaining the obvious, Gaston pointed out that there were only two possible candidates for the throne – most likely the Queen as regent, if not the Habsburgs. Both loathed Richelieu and would clearly be well disposed towards any man who got rid of him. Cinq-Mars listened, observing him carefully. Gaston seemed convincing: the smile was sincere, the eyes wide, the palms open. But he had a reputation for being untrustworthy, and you don’t acquire such a reputation without persuading people to trust you in the first place.
‘It seems to me that you have more to gain by this than I do. Once Richelieu’s gone, the Spanish will make you king.’
‘Rather late for that I think. I had my hopes of course. What prince hasn’t? But now? Do you know what it’s like to stand outside a door with all the riches of the world behind it?’ Drawing in a sigh, he shook his head and gave a smile, clipped at the corners. ‘You stand there in the cold and the wet, waiting. But it doesn’t matter. Not when you know all paradise is just a few inches away. And you wait and you wait, telling yourself it’s going to be worth it, that at any moment that door will open, nursing that dream in your heart, sustaining yourself with it – while all the time you become sicker and wetter and older. Until the moment comes when you realise your best days are behind you and you’ve wasted your entire life away standing on a step.’ He shook his head again and drew another breath. This time there was no smile. ‘My chance has long gone. With just Louis maybe, but two children as well . . . no . . . the most I could hope for would be a regency.’
‘I don’t understand. So why do you want rid of the cardinal if you won’t profit by it?’
‘Aside from the fact that he’s had me exiled twice, I think he’s going to destroy France. This war needs to end – and soon, or it’ll be the death of us all. We have to ally with Spain – it’s inevitable. And Richelieu will not even consider it. I mean he’s a clever man. No one would dispute that. But better to be right than clever.’
‘And who to replace him?’
‘Mazarin, Séguier . . . perhaps even yourself.’
Despite his reservations, Cinq-Mars had to concede that the argument had merit. He knew the perils of power well enough from Richelieu, that it would invariably end in resentment and revenge. And it would end. The King would not outlive him. Even for the eighteen months they had been together, he had noticed Louis beginning to grey, the colour leeching from his face, like a painting left too long in sun. But now he realised it was not a painting but a mirror. It wasn’t simply the King’s decay he was seeing; it was his own.
* * *
The table was set for fourteen, a cloth of purple velvet ringed with goblets and silver cutlery. The cardinal sat at the head, alone, dipping a crust into a bowl of bouillon. The chef had prepared something more elaborate but he sent it back. Like most older men of court, a lifetime of swan, port and lard had left his stomach unable to hold down anything but the simplest food. Even the brioche was a struggle and his lips writhed with disgust, as if trying to swallow earth. Midway through the torture, he was interrupted by Sebastian, flushed with haste. Evidently he had news – and news that was worth running for. Thankful for the break, Richelieu put down his bread and beckoned him in.
After the briefest of hellos, Sebastian burst into an account of how he had been visiting the Louvre for his evening performance when he observed Gaston walking with Cinq-Mars. Their body language had been odd – side-by-side and not speaking – and he could see they were searching for somewhere they wouldn’t be overheard. Judging by their direction of travel, he’d guessed the most likely location – an antechamber overlooking the Tuileries with a lockable door. And after taking a short cut, he’d been able to hide a moment before they arrived. Then he related Gaston’s attempts to influence Cinq-Mars, as well as their mentioning of Spain. Richelieu appeared interested but not surprised.
‘It’s inevitable. They’re all joining together – the Queen, Cinq-Mars, Gaston, Guise, Bouillon. Chevreuse, of course. Every time there are more.’ His voice was subdued, meditative and almost acceptant. ‘It’s the curse of power – enemies. Every decision you make, someone benefits and someone suffers. But the good is soon forgotten, the bad always remembered. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a man left in France who doesn’t want me dead.’
‘Does it matter? You still have the King on your side.’
‘Everything matters. Every change brings new possibilities, new uncertainties . . .’ The cardinal left the sentence half-finished. It was unlike him to be distracted and Sebastian noticed it immediately. Disconcerted, he forgot what he was about to say and in the lengthening silence simply blurted the first thing that came to mind.
‘I forgot to congratulate you over Soissons – a masterstroke. I don’t know how you did it.’
The compliment met with an acidic laugh. ‘But I didn’t.’
‘What do you mean? The whole court knows it was you.’
‘I know, remarkable isn’t it? One of the odder episodes of my life. I mean Soissons had a good mind, one of the best France had to offer. Yet this man, versed in Latin and philosophy, had a habit of opening his visor with the barrel of his pistol. I assume I don’t need to inform you of the consequences.’
‘He shot himself in the face?’
‘I’m astonished it didn’t happen sooner. Obviously his comrades weren’t keen to disclose the fact, so they put about some rumour that I had him killed. Naturally I’ve no wish to deny it. If people choose to believe I have an all-powerful control over France, I’m not going to disillusion them.’ Richelieu spoke with amused disbelief, but also satisfaction. He was proud, almost vain when it came to his reputation, his power over people and their evident unease in his company, the fact they could never hold his gaze, the awkward silences that were not awkward to him.
After talking a little more, the cardinal drifted into contemplation, seemingly forgetting that Sebastian was in the room before remembering to excuse him after a minute or so. Once alone, he stared at the soup below him and sighed. It wasn’t the pain that hurt so much as the indignity. The greatest mind in all of France – a leader of armies, a prelate of the church and advisor of the King – now defeated by a bowl of bouillon and a few crusts.
* * *
As 1641 drew on, the revolts in Catalonia and Portugal continued. Determined to keep the Spanish occupied, the cardinal did all he could to support the rebels, even providing a French force to reinforce the Catalans and taking Roussillon along the way. Nevertheless, they were few in number and fighting the greatest power in Europe. It couldn’t last and ultimately would change nothing – no more than chaff in a gale.
Meanwhile, the triumph of Cinq-Mars continued unabated. Everyone had hoped the relationship would end, that Louis would tire of his sulks and tantrums. But if anything his passion seemed to have intensified. It didn’t seem to matter what the marquis did or whom he insulted, Louis would invariably indulge him, admonishing, but with an almost parental forgiveness. Many found it impossible to watch, seeing the King of France, heir of Clovis, ridiculing himself over young flesh while the marquis flinched at the touch of Louis’ wattled skin or crinkled his nose at the sickly perfumes he used to mask his decay.
Richelieu was the most notable victim. Previously the marquis had at least limited his insults to private conversation, but now he began to treat him with open disdain, most memorably during the Conseil d’État.
While not officially a councillor, Cinq-Mars still managed to engineer access as a guest of the King – though being a spectator he wasn’t permitted to speak. And for the first few weeks he managed to remain silent, making his thoughts abundantly clear through grimaces and eye-rolls, usually at the cardinal’s appeals for caution or diplomacy. After a month or so, following a budget statement from Chancellor Séguier, he could restrain himself no longer and interrupted Richelieu midway through his response.
‘So, Armand,’ he said. ‘Broadly, would you describe your administration as a success?’
The whole room glanced across at him, shocked by the unexpected voice – as if a piece of furniture had just spoken. But on seeing Cinq-Mars, they choked back their disapproval and turned towards the cardinal, awaiting his reply. And for that moment, the room was utterly still, its entire focus on Richelieu – the bewigged nobles and councillors gazing down the table whose perspective narrowed onto the bright crimson figure at its tip. The cardinal remained silent, looking upwards as multiple responses passed through his mind, all of which he suppressed. Aware of the eyes upon him, he restricted himself to a tight smile.
‘Yes, I would say our administration was successful.’
‘Then can you tell me, after seventeen years of your leadership, why the people are starving, the army is destroyed and the treasury is bare? Why France has suffered defeats to the Empire and the Spanish? In fact, tell me anything that has improved at all.’
The cardinal didn’t reply. Everyone, including the marquis, knew the reason – the words that couldn’t be said. I did not choose this. I didn’t want to drag this country into some insane war, wasting everything we have to pay for our people to be killed. This is not glory or honour. This is butchery, plain and simple. And every day I pray for it to end. The only person who seemed unaware was Louis, who smiled then motioned at the cardinal. ‘So, what have you to say, Armand? It seems that the marquis has silenced you.’
Richelieu paused, his face puckered with frustration. ‘Your Majesty, I’m sure you will concur when I say I have executed your policies with the utmost precision.’
‘But, cardinal,’ Cinq-Mars interrupted again. ‘The problems we face must either be the result of the King’s orders or your carrying out of them. If you say you executed them perfectly, then doesn’t that mean the commands themselves were wrong? That the King was in error?’
‘The King, as you know, is God’s representative on earth. For him to be wrong would be for God to be wrong. The only possible explanation is that these events are preordained, that it is the will of the Lord and for the greater glory of his subjects,’ the cardinal replied, ending the conversation. The marquis might have been able to argue with him on secular matters, but not spiritual ones.
Even so the damage was done. The cardinal’s humiliation was total. He had been ridiculed in front of the King and every great person of state, and for the remainder of the meeting he remained silent, his head bowed as he contemplated what had just occurred. The distance between him and the rest of the table, normally a sign of primacy, now isolated him instead.