1636: The Cardinal Virtues (27 page)

Chapter 35

Picardy

It was less than ten miles from Rumigny to Amiens, not half a day’s journey even in Queen Anne’s much-traveled carriage. But in the early morning it had begun to rain, causing the roads to clog with thick, sticky mud that made progress difficult.

The rain came with a thunderstorm, first a distant echo but growing in intensity as it came closer. The lightning was impressive: Achille sat on the box, watching it cascade across the sky—every time it cracked and the thunder rumbled he had to strain to control the horses. It made him wonder whether it might be prudent to turn back: but it was only ten miles—then eight, then five, and once Amiens was closer ahead than Rumigny behind, the prudent course was to press onward.

The road was largely deserted: most sensible travelers were not abroad in the storm. But on at least three occasions the bright flash of lightning showed one or more horsemen behind—never approaching but keeping their distance.

“There’s going to be trouble at Amiens,” he told Mazarin when they stopped to water the horses. They were out of the rain, but only just: an overhang from the roof of a half-collapsed barn provided shelter from the downpour.

“That’s a welcome bit of news,” Mazarin answered. From the carriage they could hear the cries of the baby, who had not been pleased with the crack and rumble of the storm.

“Well, I don’t make the news, Monseigneur. I just report it.”

“Our new-found friends?”

“I’m afraid so. I can’t imagine anyone else would be fool enough to ride out in this storm.”

“You mean other than us.”

“You would rather have stayed in Rumigny?”

“It would have kept us dry—” Mazarin removed his hat and tipped a long rill of water from it, then settled it back on his head. “But I agree, it would not have changed the situation. You have a safe location in Amiens, I assume.”

“I hope it is still safe.” Achille looked back at the carriage. “But I think that any pretense of secrecy is gone. Someone knows where we are.”

“And who.”

“And who we are, yes,” Achille agreed. He adjusted a strap on the harness near him. “And I know what you are thinking.”

“Do you, now?”

“You continue to suspect me, Monseigneur.” He held up his hand before Mazarin could respond. “Despite protests to the contrary. When we reach Amiens I will have words with my contact there; I will report faithfully what I learn.”

“I don’t suspect you.”

“You don’t? You should. Not because I am disloyal, but because you should suspect everyone. Should our noble lady return to her proper station, she will need someone to act as her Richelieu, eh? Were you not the next minister of France, in the up-time history? And . . . more?”

“That future is gone, Achille. It will never be, because the past that created it no longer exists. I am Queen Anne’s protector, as are you, as long as we can manage it. As for a position at court . . . that is too far distant to even consider.”

“Yes,” Achille said, giving the horse a gentle pat and climbing up onto the box. “Isn’t it.”

◊ ◊ ◊

They entered Amiens at Port Gayant, after passing through the
faubourg
of Vignes. The city skyline was dominated by the great cathedral’s two towers, one higher than the other, thrusting above all the other buildings.

The rain had not stopped but the storm had driven south and east and largely left them behind. Achille guided the carriage along a narrow lane and into a partially covered courtyard; he climbed down from the box to the rough cobbles; a young groom was waiting to take charge of the horses.

Mazarin was holding the carriage door slightly ajar; Achille could hear the baby crying from inside.

“Are we stopped for the night?”

“Blessedly, yes,” he answered. Mazarin opened the door and came down the step, hunching against the dripping rain. “My lord king is out of sorts.”

“I can imagine. Actually, Monseigneur, I don’t
need
to imagine—I can hear him.”

“Inside the carriage there is further evidence of his upset. I am relieved to be in the open air, rain or no.”

“We should get His Majesty and the queen inside,” Achille said.

“Yes, certainly.” Mazarin stepped up and handed down Madame de Chevreuse, who carried a heavy rucksack. Katie was just behind. “By the way, where are we?”

“
La Maison des Fleurs.
A safe hostelry, I hope.”

“I hope?” the duchess of Chevreuse said.

“On the list,” Mazarin added, ignoring the duchess. Achille nodded. He turned and sloshed to the front of the carriage where he began to undo the harness.

“I smell bread,” the duchess said. “Shall we get inside and confirm it?”

◊ ◊ ◊

The common-room of the
La Maison des Fleurs
, two floors below the guest rooms, was nearly empty, other than a servant who brought them wine and bowls of stew of indeterminate origin. Within a few minutes the queen and the baby, accompanied by the duchess, prepared to move upstairs; Mazarin went with them to make sure all was secure, leaving Katie and Achille alone.

“Should I be worried that there’s no one else here?” she asked.

“Perhaps. You know—”

“We are being followed.”

“You know.”

“You seem surprised. Both you and Monseigneur Mazarin have been speaking in low conspiratorial tones, and you spend a lot of time looking around. If we’re not being followed, you guys are just bad actors.”

“We didn’t want to worry the queen.”

“What, you think she isn’t worried? Achille, she’s
terrified
. You must see it too—every night we stop and she looks around like it’s Custer’s Last Stand.” At his blank look she said, “Sorry. Like this is where she’ll have to make her final defense of the baby and herself. So who’s following us? Soldiers?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “They’d be more rash, riding in and making a big show of it. No, it’s a small group. There’s probably a reward, and they want to collect it.”

“That’s just great. Can you stop them?”

“It is my intention,” Achille said. “But they have to make an attempt.”

“How did they find us?”

“As I told Monseigneur Mazarin, it is a wonder that they have only just found us. Unless they have been following us all along and have finally gotten close enough.”

“Are they close enough now?”

Achille thought about it for just a moment, then said, “I believe so.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Stop them,” he said. “Or die trying.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Anne was rocking her son, who was whimpering very slightly. The thunderstorm had frightened the infant king for a time; he had refused to be held by anyone other than his mother, and she had only just gotten him settled.

The door opened and Achille entered. He had clearly been out in the rain. He shrugged off his wet cloak and tossed it on a settle, followed by his hat, which dripped slowly on to the floor. Katie picked them up and found a peg to hang them on.

He gave the semblance of a bow to Anne and dropped into a seat. “I hate this weather,” he said.

“Rain makes the crops grow,” Mazarin said.

“I’m not interested in the crops. But I
am
interested in this.” He reached into a sleeve and pulled out a scrap of parchment.

Mazarin picked up the parchment and read through it. It was a portion of a letter, from its appearance—the second and final page. At the bottom of the sheet was a signature:
CVB
.

“Where’d you find that?”

“Someone dropped it. I picked it up.”

“Oh?”

“He was spying through the window. He’ll sleep awhile. Apparently there are a number of people in Amiens looking for us.”

“That’s what I think it is, is it, Achille?”

“What is it?” Anne said. “What’s on the page, Monseigneur?”

“It’s a signature. If I am not mistaken,” he added, “it’s the hand of César de Vendôme.”

Anne stood in alarm, still holding Louis. The baby began to fret again. “He knows where we are?”

“I fear so. When I came through, the common-room was empty: not even a tap-boy or serving-girl.”

“We must get out of this inn,” Anne said. She handed the baby to Mazarin and began to gather things from the room, with help from the duchess of Chevreuse. The two women looked alarmed and afraid.

“You look quite calm, sir Knight,” Mazarin said.

“I’m just catching my breath. Give me a moment. If I were to hazard a guess: someone has betrayed the Company of the Blessed Sacrament. Much to my surprise, I don’t hesitate to add. But there it is.”

Anne stopped gathering.

“Would you care to reveal the identity of the betrayer, monsieur? Or is he sitting in front of me?”

Achille’s face, which had been bemused, became serious. “No, Majesty. He is not.” He reached into a pocket within his vest and drew out another piece of parchment. “This is all the direction I was given: a list of safe places, and instructions to carry out if your life was in danger. I regret only . . . that I assumed that I could keep you safe.”

He stood and drew his weapon. Mazarin began to step forward to interpose himself between Anne and Achille, but realized he was still holding the infant king.

But Achille made no move toward the queen; instead he walked to the door and placed his weapon at the ready, his back to his companions.

“And now,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “I shall prepare to be the first one slain in your defense.”

◊ ◊ ◊

The common-room was now only nearly empty; it was occupied only by a single Capuchin friar, sitting at his ease with a mug of ale and a mostly-empty plate in front of him. The door to the street was blocked by two burly soldiers, well-armed and wearing unpleasant grins.

“Brother Gérard,” Achille said. It was the monk that had hosted them in Evreux; he looked as if he had been out in the rain. Achille’s sword was in front of him as he descended the last few stairs. Mazarin was just behind; he had a pistol in his hand, but held it pointing downward. The other members of the queen’s party remained behind, in sight but in position to run back upstairs.

“Monsieur Achille.” Gérard took a drink from his mug, and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe. “Well met.”

“I would not characterize it thus. Perhaps you will explain yourself.”

“What is there to explain? The queen—
pardonnez-moi
, the dowager queen—is a wanted woman. A traitor to the Crown, along with all of her companions. A fine reward is given for her return.”

“You would take Gaston’s thirty pieces of silver.”

“
King
Gaston, if you please,” the Capuchin said. “Your gift for metaphor is unparalleled, Monsieur Knight. Yes, it is true that King Gaston has offered a handsome reward for the safe delivery of his dear sister-in-law and his nephew.

“It is his intention,” Gérard continued, picking up his mug, examining it and then setting it back down on the table, “to settle Her Majesty in some convent where she can live out her days, praying for his health and the peace and stability of the kingdom of France. Oh, and incidentally, to
hang
the rest of you—except your up-timer nurse, whom—for the sake of peace—he would have escorted to the boundaries of his realm and delivered into the USE.”

“And the infant? The king?”

Gérard smiled, very slightly. “What infant?”

“The—” Achille began, and then he stopped and glanced up at Mazarin. “You would not dare.”

“Please do not go on about what I would or would not dare. But we were not speaking of that, were we? I merely detailed what King Gaston intended for Queen Anne, and for the rest of you, safely delivered into his hands.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I do,” Mazarin said. “Our Capuchin, here, is not interested in Gaston’s reward, is he? Brother Gérard works for someone else.”

“Really?” Achille frowned, pointing his sword at Brother Gérard. “Who?”

“I would assume that he is in the pay of the king of Spain. Am I correct, Brother?”

Achille frowned even further, as if the idea had not even occurred to him.

“It is small wonder that your future was so brilliant, as the up-timers account it, Monseigneur Mazarin,” Gérard said. “You are so much less dense than this knight of Malta. His Most Catholic Majesty is eager to have his sister return to her native land, and would honor her and welcome her son. The rest of you would be more likely to receive the king’s mercy were you to come quietly.”

“You’re going to take the queen back to Spain?”

“I believe that’s what I said,” Gérard said. “Really, weren’t you listening?”

Achille walked slowly across the common-room toward Gérard, but stopped when one of the soldiers at the doorway raised his musket, aiming directly at him.

“At this range,” the Capuchin said laconically, “even that woefully inferior musket would blow quite a hole in you.”

“Not before I take your head off your shoulders,” Achille answered, but he hesitated.

“Care to try?”

“Achille . . .” Mazarin began. He still held his pistol ready, but made sure it was in plain sight and pointed down at the stairs.

“No,” Anne said after several tense seconds. “There is no need for bloodshed. I would not see anyone die on my son’s account.”

She came slowly down the stairs past Mazarin, her son swaddled and held gently in her arms.

“No,” Achille said. “No!”

“Achille—” Mazarin said, but it was too late: the knight of Malta had already launched himself at the Capuchin, who was barely able to stand before Achille landed on him. The man aiming another musket discharged it, striking Achille in the leg just as he leapt across the table.

Mazarin pushed Anne behind him and fired at the other man at the door who was aiming his musket at her; the shot went wild, but the man ducked for cover behind a nearby table.

“Get back upstairs!” Mazarin shouted without turning, and cocked the pistol for another shot. Anne retreated a few steps, and the baby began to howl at the noise and the smoke from the weapons.

Mazarin was torn between keeping himself between Anne and the musketeers, and finding cover for himself. The man who had fired his weapon was going through the drill of reloading: opening the breech, adding a cartridge . . . Mazarin knew it would be thirty seconds at least before he could aim and fire again. The other man, however, was primed and ready. Meanwhile, the wounded knight of Malta was grappling with the Capuchin, sword still in hand, blood spouting from his leg.