1636: The Cardinal Virtues (24 page)

Chapter 32

Picardy

The secrecy, the constant travel, the fear of discovery all preyed upon Anne as her little party made its way northward and eastward, moving from manor to guest-house to Capuchin hostel. Her infant son—
the king of France
, she constantly reminded herself, as she and her up-time companion and her single lady-in-waiting attended to the many needs a tiny child requires—had somehow become accustomed to it: he woke and slept and took milk from her breasts; he soiled his diapers. Katie had an
Américain
expression for it, and for the chores that went with it:
lather, rinse, repeat
, she said—it defied direct translation into French—but the meaning was clear enough and quite descriptive of the care the three women gave to the child that they hoped would return to the Bourbon throne.

Achille and Mazarin had a brief conversation after one particularly arduous day; they had both noticed that they had acquired a “shadow”—someone, or some group, following them, but never approaching closely enough to be recognized or confronted. It would have been the purest good luck to have avoided notice, particularly since the would-be king of France was looking for them.

They concluded, after their discussion, that they would not discuss this with their queen.
No need to add to her burdens,
Achille had said.

◊ ◊ ◊

It was in Rumigny near Amiens, while staying a single night at the Chateau Cour-des-Prés after a long day of travel, that Anne first saw the proclamation that designated her an outlaw, an enemy of the state. They had learned of Monsieur Gaston’s “invitation” for Anne to attend his coronation as king in Reims, a week or so earlier: it had apparently been circulated throughout the country, followed closely by a rumor that she had been involved in the murder of King Louis.

Achille had found a copy of the proclamation, reprinted in an Amiens broadsheet; he had ventured into the city for supplies and rumors, and returned to the old fortress at night to report it. He found her sitting in a dimly lit sitting room with Mazarin conferring in low voices, almost drowned out by the steady drum of rain. Anne looked up when she heard his footsteps.

Katie, who was sitting near the fire inventorying their medical kit, stood and bowed as if to leave, but Anne gestured to her to sit.

“You look as if you’ve seen something unpleasant,” Anne said. “Please share it with us.”

He drew a rolled bundle of cheap paper from within his cloak, and spread it out on a nearby table. The others gathered around as he spread it out; Kate set a candelabra on the table, bringing the scene out of the shadows.

“I was in a tavern near St. Martin’s Church near the Porte Gayant, and came across this. It’s a newspaper—”

“I’ve seen one before,” Mazarin said.

Achille looked at Mazarin, as if he was trying to decide the most prudent way to react. “I mention it only to say that this account is unofficial, but is obviously out in public.” He pointed to a section on the lower left side of the front page. “The man who calls himself king of France has named you a traitor and a murderer, Your Majesty.”

Anne looked closely at the broadsheet for some time, reading the badly printed words, her lips moving as she did. Her expression became more and more angry. When she reached the end she stood up straight and looked from one companion to another, finally resting on Achille.

“I do not have any way of responding except by deeds,” she said. “I don’t know if Gaston expected me to present myself and permit him to take the crown: but two things are clear: first, he does not know where we are at present, and second, he doesn’t know where we are going.”

“Where
are
we going, Majesty?”

“Wherever your . . . friends are available to give us refuge, Monsieur Achille. I assume you had a destination in mind.”

“You know that is not quite true, my Queen. I do not know your ultimate destination.”

“Well.” She looked down at the newspaper once again. “It is clear that my
ultimate destination
cannot be in France. Monseigneur Mazarin and I were discussing that when you arrived.”

“And?”

“And,” she said, “We have considered a number of alternatives. I cannot go back to Spain without being rightly viewed as a traitor to the realm. The Italian states are in turmoil—and even if they were not, Savoy is an ally of Gaston, and that is the closest approach to the peninsula. England has its own difficulties. Scotland is a long and dangerous voyage. And America . . .” she looked at Katie, who had looked up sharply. “It is even longer and even more dangerous, and I will not risk my son thus.

“That reduces our choices to the Germanies and the Low Countries—Brussels, Amsterdam, or the up-timers’ empire.”

“Amsterdam,” Mazarin said. “Full of schemers. Brussels, full of Hapsburgs, begging Your Majesty’s pardon. And I’m not sure how we would be received in Grantville or Magdeburg—I don’t know if the up-timers, or Emperor Gustavus, would have any desire to be drawn into the internal politics of France.”

“Schemers, Hapsburgs or neutrals,” Anne said. “Is that what we have come to?”

“What have we come to,” Mazarin said carefully, “is a choice. For the past few weeks, madame, we have been in flight from danger—real or perceived—and we have accomplished nothing but to remain out of the hands of the king of France.”

“My son is the king of France,” Anne said levelly.

“Your son is the rightful king, true. But as far as every court in Europe is concerned, the king of France is Gaston Jean-Baptiste d’Orleans, son of
Henri le Grand
, fourth of the name—and it was confirmed not long ago when the archbishop of Paris placed the royal crown on his head.

“You know what Gaston is, Your Majesty. You know what he has always wanted—and now he has it.”

“He is a usurper. He sits on the throne that belongs to my son. He—” She let the sentence trail off. She balled her fists, controlling her anger, as if she was trying to shape it into a weapon.

Mazarin leaned down over the table, rereading the proclamation in the newspaper. At last he looked up.

“Fifteen years ago, my queen, your husband and
his
mother went to war. Each had supporters, soldiers. Each wanted to become the ruler of the realm. They had two campaigns and, in the end, reconciliation. Queen Marie lost in the end, of course, as you well know: your husband chose his red-robed cardinal over his manipulative mother. But during the decade before her exile, the queen mother and the cardinal worked together—or at least reached an accommodation.

“I think it is possible that you could do the same with Gaston.”

“Are you suggesting that we—surrender—to him?”

“Not surrender. Make peace. I believe that the up-timers no longer consider France an antagonist, but France still has many enemies, beginning with your royal brother King Philip. For France to descend into civil war over . . .”

“Yes? Please tell me, Monseigneur,” Anne said. “We do not want France to descend into civil war over what? Over
my son
. Over his right to be king. Over justice. You are ready to give in because you do not want France to suffer. What about my suffering? What about
my
justice? What about my . . . my vengeance?”

Mazarin gestured to Achille, to Katie, and placed a hand on his own breast. “This is your army, Your Majesty. These are your paladins, your champions. There may be others, if we can find them. If Gaston’s men don’t find us first.”

“What are you saying?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

“Oh, you know. You know very well, Giulio. Jules. You are telling me that you have lost faith in our cause. You no longer wish to serve me—so be it. Go back to Gaston, then. Go serve the usurper.”

“I have no intention of doing anything of the sort. In the event that we continue to pursue the cause of your royal son, I am your man—now, and until the end. But I beg you to consider the other choice—not for yourself, not for your loyal servants, but for your son.”

“Is that your
wise counsel
?”

“No. It is not. It is my wise counsel that you consider the alternatives before you, my Queen, and that you make a choice. Make sure it is the correct one.”

Paris

Marie de Medici, the former regent of France and the mother of Louis XIII and Gaston d’Orleans, stood in the unfinished great hall of the
Palais-Cardinal
and scowled.

Above her on the east wall of the large room was a mural depicting the entry of the king and cardinal into the defeated city of La Rochelle—eight years ago during the suppression of the rebellious Huguenots. It was unfinished; the renowned architect Jacques LeMercier had undertaken to construct a great theater for the hall but had scarcely gotten underway.

The cardinal de Tremblay stood patiently, his hands tucked into his sleeves, watching the scene. The dowager queen—he refused to think of her any longer as the “queen mother,” for that title truly belonged to another—had her ladies around her. None were so resplendent as Queen Marie: they were adornments, minor satellites orbiting the great luminary. Marie was clearly unhappy. Tremblay assumed that she was considering to what better purpose this room, and that wall, could be put. After all, Gaston was in the mural: but he was in the background, one among many beyond the two principals in the scene.

Gaston was certainly not in the background now.

Have a care
, Tremblay thought.
This is not your residence. At least not yet.
But Marie de Medici did not appear the least bit interested in having a care.

She looked up and noticed him standing there, waiting to be noticed. Her demeanor changed: it became darker and more hostile, as if the sun had gone in behind the clouds. The crowd around her dispersed even before she waved them away. For his part, Tremblay did not wait to be called to her presence; he began to walk toward her, crossing the room with measured strides.

He had considered the possibility of emerging into the room through the hidden door in the muraled wall. It would have taken Marie by surprise, to be sure: but on reflection, he decided that if Marie didn’t know about it—which was likely—there was no reason to provide any additional information.

When he reached her, he considered extending his cardinal’s ring to her; but instead he simply adjusted the position of his
biretta
, as if to emphasize his status.

“Father,” she began, and then said, “Your Eminence.”

“Highness.”

“Are you curious why I have summoned you?”

“I . . . do not recall being ‘summoned,’ madame. I merely thought it courteous to call upon you.” He looked around. “Did you find the Palais du Luxembourg unsuitable?”

“My son . . . my late son turned that residence to other purposes. This place was vacant.”

“Regrettably.”

“As you say. Walk with me,” she said, and began to walk slowly around the great room. “It is clear that it can be turned to better purposes.”

“As you say,” Tremblay said.

“Yes.” She frowned; Tremblay’s wordplay did not amuse her. “Cardinal Richelieu—are you pained by his death?”

“His
absence
. We do not know whether he has passed from this earth.”

“He is
dead
,” Marie said. “He would otherwise have made his grand return by now.”

“As you say,” Tremblay repeated. “I would not venture to argue with you, madame.”

Marie sniffed, as if she did not believe it.

“You have not answered my question.”

“I think you know my answer, Highness. We were close friends and associates for many years; his work is unfinished. In the world the up-timers describe, he had years yet to come—and up-timer medicine and God’s grace might well have granted him more.”

“This is a different world, Eminence. All things are changed: a new Heaven and new Earth, one might say.”

“Not everything has changed,” Tremblay said. “Right and wrong have not changed. His Eminence Cardinal Richelieu was ambushed and assaulted, madame. Whatever you think of him or his work, he has been a faithful servant of God and his king. He was attacked because of what he did for France because someone did not think it worthy.”

“The king and cardinal were killed by rogues and bandits.”

Tremblay stopped walking. Marie was a few steps beyond; she stopped and turned.

“Madame,” Tremblay said levelly. “You truly do not believe that any more than I do.”

Tremblay folded his hands in front of him and met Marie de Medici’s glare with his own.

“I accept this explanation,” she said. “So does the king.”

“The king is dead.”

“I meant Gaston,” she snapped back.

“I know you did.”

“You are being insolent, Cardinal de Tremblay: I find it quite unseemly. You would be wise to consider your position and mine and decide whether angering me is in your best interest.”

“Are you trying to frighten me? Please spare me, Highness. I served Cardinal Richelieu for many years. You do not present anywhere near his menace.”

“Let me be clear,” she said. Her voice was level and icy. “I will not dissemble with you. This
Palais
was Cardinal Richelieu’s official residence, where he conducted much of his business. To my surprise, I have noted that a number of things are absent from his chambers and office.”

“Such as?”

“State papers. Diaries and personal records. They seem to have disappeared.”

“Imagine.” Tremblay folded his hands in front of him. “Well, Highness. I
do
have the cat. The one that the lady Rebecca Abrabanel presented to him several years ago. He had grown quite attached to it, and I see why—it’s a very useful animal. Perfect for catching vermin.”

“I do not care about some animal a Jewess presented to your master,” Marie snapped. “You know exactly what I am looking for. What is more, while I may not scare you,
Cardinal
,” she added, sneering, “Eminence, if you have taken crown property and this fact is discovered, your red beret will not protect you. And yes, this time I am most definitely threatening you.”

“I find
this
unseemly,” Tremblay said. “And if you wish to commence your return to Paris by issuing threats, you will most certainly meet with resistance. If I may be so bold, Highness, let me suggest that I would make a far better friend than an enemy.”