1636: The Cardinal Virtues (31 page)

Chapter 41

Cambrai

It was almost too difficult to undertake: shifting the entire focus of their situation from one of concealment and flight to one of display and presence. The weeks of travel, of constantly changing settings and makeshift sleeping arrangements, had taken their toll.

But for all that
, Mazarin reflected,
she is still every inch a queen.

The most resplendent dress in Anne’s luggage had been brought out—it was the one that she had intended to wear when she and her husband returned from Beville-le-Comte after the baby was born. It was cream-colored and richly decorated with pearls, with a matching headpiece that held her hair in place and framed her face—on her entry into Paris she would have been radiant like the sun, but here she would be reserved and regal, a proud and defiant widow.

He and Achille d’Étampes de Valençay had outfitted themselves as well as they could. He wore his best soutane and cape, and Achille had the decorations and equipage of a knight of Malta. César de Vendôme had produced a clean doublet and silk blouse, and he and his sons proudly wore the arms and symbols of their house.

The king of France had been swaddled against any possible chill—it had rained in the morning and now was merely damp and almost unseasonably cool. The duchesse de Chevreuse carried His Royal Highness, and Kate Matewski followed close behind; Madame de Chevreuse had made sure to find her a suitable gown to replace her up-timer clothing.

A brief correspondence with the archbishop assured them that they would be received. Accordingly they left their lodgings near the priory of St. Agnes and made their way in procession past the church of St. Aubert, named for the patron of bakers, and into the great plaza before the church of Saint-Sulpice. A crowd of onlookers had gathered in the square—apprentices absent from their masters’ work, religious men and women pausing in their devotions, vendors closing their stalls there and in the Grande Place a few hundred yards away to see the commotion.

◊ ◊ ◊

François Van der Burch, archbishop of Cambrai, had donned his full episcopal attire, including miter and cope, and held his bishop’s crook in one hand and a rosary in the other; he stood at the top of the stairs at the entrance to his cathedral, with others arrayed to his left and right. Van der Burch was nearly seventy; he had come to his see in 1619 after serving as bishop of Ghent. It might be said that, like Cambrai, the archbishop’s best days were behind him—but he also knew that by choosing to publicly receive Queen Anne, he was making a statement, one he hoped would be appreciated by his patroness, Isabella Clara Eugenia, archduchess of the Low Countries, widow of his late patron Albert of Austria and aunt to the queen of France, the woman whose procession now approached the steps of his church.

It would not have been his desire to turn her away in any case. He had heard the rumors, read the proclamations, and perceived the real danger in which she found herself. Her entourage—a few loyal servants, now recently joined by the duc de Vendôme, bastard son of King Henry IV and brother to both the dead and presently enthroned kings of France—would not be enough to fend off any determined attempt to seize her and return her, against her will, to Paris (or wherever King Gaston wanted to hold her, for whatever reason). It simply could not be that hard.

For her to have avoided such a fate suggested either incompetence, or the protection of someone, or someones, unseen. Archbishop Van der Burch had wondered if it was either—or both. Vendôme, he was told, had ridden into Paris in the company of Gaston and had stood by him when he was crowned and enthroned at Reims a few weeks later; why was he here now?

The archbishop had sent a trusted messenger on a fast horse to Brussels, to present the tidings to the king in the Lowlands and the Infanta Isabella. He certainly
might
have waited for their Majesties’ reply before acting, but time was fleeting away—and he didn’t want a body of armed men to arrive at the Porte Saint-Denis (or for that matter any other gate of his city) demanding the queen’s person and menacing dire consequences for failure to comply. If it was to be his problem, he was going to embrace it—and then hand it to someone else as soon as might be possible.

Brussels

The messenger from Cambrai arrived as Archduchess Isabella of the Low Countries had just sat down to her evening meal, a blanket tucked across her lap and a shawl draped over her shoulders. It was usually warm at this time of year, but even the younger folk in the Coudenberg complained about the draftiness of the palace. For her it was just another indication of her advancing age.

As if I need to be reminded
, the archduchess thought to herself, looking down at the bowl of soup set before her.

But even before she could apply her spoon, a gentleman-in-waiting entered, bowing and apologizing for the intrusion. If anything, it was welcome: she had let her thoughts chase themselves around in her mind and needed the interruption. No need to let him know that, of course.

“Can I not be left even to
eat
in peace?”

The young man cringed very slightly, but, undeterred, walked to her dining table, bowed, and offered a sealed envelope in one gloved hand, then stepped back and waited.

“Well?” she said, picking up the envelope and examining it. The seal bore the impression of the double-headed eagle, claws extended, with the escutcheon in its center . . .

“The messenger awaits your reply, Your Grace.”

“Young monsieur,” she said, laying her spoon carefully on the table and fixing him with her gaze—said to frighten lesser men; to his credit he did not look away.
Good
, she thought.
Duty before fear.
“If this is a matter of importance, I shall certainly compose a reply at once. When I do,” she continued, gesturing toward the little bell in close reach, “I shall ring for you. In the meantime you have leave to go.”

Shoo
, she almost added, but did not. He looked almost relieved to be dismissed; he bowed again and withdrew.

She had been looking at correspondence before being settled for dinner, so a letter-opener was conveniently in reach. She took it up and carefully slit open the envelope.

Before she had read half of the letter, she had rung for the young man and asked for her nephew, the king in the Low Countries, to attend her.

◊ ◊ ◊

“No,” Isabella insisted. “It is far more than that. We are making a
statement
, Fernando, and it is a statement that cannot be unmade.”

“Giving refuge to my royal sister and her child is a statement? Aunt, we have given refuge to Queen Marie, to Monsieur Gaston himself—this is only the latest instance of French royalty seeking a place to stay due to a dispute in our neighbor’s realm.”

“You are overlooking the obvious.”

Fernando leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Very well, madame: what
obvious
part of this business am I missing?”

“You have read the pronouncements from Monsieur Gaston, I trust. He considers Anne an outlaw, a traitor and possibly complicit in the death of her husband. Yes, yes, I know it’s unlikely, especially the last part,” she said, waving her hand before Fernando could reply. “But Gaston has made overtures of peace to my nephew in Madrid. Who is also your brother. An affront to Gaston might be seen as an affront to Spain.”

“I did not realize that we were now concerned with affronts to my royal cousin, Aunt. As I see it, we are simply exercising Christian charity.”

“Oh, for the love of God!” Isabella snapped. “Whether you think so or not, whether Lady Anne thinks so or not, we will be
taking sides
. And when we choose a side, we make ourselves friends with some and enemies of others. It represents a final, definite break with Madrid. You wanted the Netherlands to be separate? We will be. We will be a third Hapsburg principality—not Spanish, not Austrian.”

Fernando thought about it for a moment, then said, “It means work for our diplomats, for certain. Assuming we decide to offer refuge to Queen Anne.”

“That is already done.” She picked up the letter, as if weighing it, and laid it back on the table. “Archbishop Van der Burch has—”

Fernando held up his hand. “We have not offered anything to the queen, Aunt. The
archbishop
has given refuge to Queen Anne. We must properly respond to His Grace’s inquiry regarding our intentions, but even if you think this is the river Rubicon for us, we have not crossed it yet. We need more information.”

“How do you intend to obtain it?”

“We’ll send our friend Pieter Paul Rubens,” Fernando said, smiling. “He’ll enjoy admiring his own work in Saint-Sulpice, and he’ll find out what’s
really
going on.”

Paris

When they came for him, it was the middle of the night.

It was an inconvenience of perhaps an hour; Tremblay had accustomed himself long since to rising at the Matins bells from Notre Dame: one would ring, bringing him out of deep sleep, and then a few seconds later the others would join. It was a testament to the unwelcome creep of old age that he was annoyed when he was awoken early.

“Jean,” he said, not opening his eyes, “I shall thank you to let an old man sleep.”

“Not Jean,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Wake now, old man, or be dragged from your bed.”

He opened one eye and saw little other than a bright lantern and a gloved hand on his arm. He could not make out any details of the man who disturbed him, nor place the voice that had spoken.

“I would ask the meaning of this intrusion, but I suspect that I would receive no courteous answer. Where is my manservant?”

“I am not directed to answer any questions. You are to accompany me, at once.”

Tremblay reached slowly over and removed the hand from the sleeve of his nightshirt. “Then you will step aside for a few moments and permit me to rise and dress.”

The man evidently thought this either desirable or prudent, or perhaps both. He retreated from the bedside toward the doorway, and in the glow of the lantern and the light of the shrouded moon Tremblay could make out three or four indistinct shapes; a welcome party had apparently come to fetch him.

He decided at once that he had no intention of being intimidated. He swung his legs onto the floor, and began the process of getting dressed. Once his sandals were on and he was ready to leave, he made sure to arrange the pectoral cross so that it hung properly.

He thought about feeding the cat, but it was nowhere to be found.
Too bad,
he thought.
There seem to be rats about.

“Since no questions will be answered, I will not ask if I may make use of the chamber pot. Very well, I am ready to go wherever you wish to take me.”

“I expected more resistance,” the man said, holding the lantern so that his face was visible. Tremblay recognized him, but could not recall a name—a former member of the Cardinal’s Guard, a recent addition he thought.

“Yes, I imagine that would have given you no end of entertainment. Now how would it look if you brought me—wherever you propose to bring me—and delivered me in damaged condition?”

“It would look as if I were diligent and fastidious.”

“I suspect that you flatter yourself, monsieur. Since you haven’t chosen to murder me in my bed, I think that whoever summons me cares even less about your skill than about my condition. Now take me to him—or is it
her
?”

The man flinched very slightly when Tremblay said
her
, which confirmed his suspicions at once. This midnight intrusion was not an arrest—it was an abduction.

He reached into a pocket, which immediately made two of the other men reach for their swords; he very slowly withdrew a well-worn wooden rosary.

“You wouldn’t deny me the right to pray, I assume?” Tremblay said, allowing himself a tight smile. “Oh, forgive me. You do not answer any questions.”

◊ ◊ ◊

His three captors were all former Cardinal’s Guard, all inducted in the last year; no doubt one or more had been placed by someone—an agent of Gaston, or of one of the many other plotters against Richelieu, or even the king himself—
the king
, he thought:
Louis, of fond memory, the last king we have had; not his brother who falsely claims crown and throne.

Does he know that his mother is taking this action? Did he command it—or will he find out about it after the fact?

There was the obligatory closed carriage, intended—he supposed—to conceal their destination. That was utter folly. He could have been hooded like a criminal headed for the gallows and he would have been able to tell them where he was at almost every turn. Some of the journey was intended to confuse him, he thought; he sat serenely, fingering his rosary, but he knew this was unlikely to be pleasant.

When the carriage finally arrived at its destination, one of the former Guardsmen drew out a hood, but Tremblay held up his hand.

“We are at the Grand Châtelet,” he said. “If this little exercise was intended to conceal that fact from me, then I think we can dispense with it.”

“Our orders were—”

“Oh, very well. If your mistress wishes to subject me to further indignity, have at it.”

They pulled the hood over his head and pulled him roughly to his feet and out of the carriage, then once his feet were on the cobblestones, they pulled his hands behind his back and bound them tightly. He kept hold of his rosary, clutching it tightly, but said nothing; if there was any chance to speak, it would come later, and not be addressed to these ruffians.

The Grand Châtelet was an old structure, imposing and ramshackle, dating as far back as the ninth century. The stink of blood from the slaughterhouses only deepened the sense of dread for those who were brought to it, something the
prévôt de Paris
found appropriate; the law courts met there, so that the business of criminal prosecution could be conducted conveniently for the accusing authorities.

Tremblay was led in through some side door and down a flight of circular stairs; they gripped his arms tightly and made sure that he did not trip, clearly under instruction to bring him whole. They led him along an underground corridor, where he could hear the steady drip of water, coming at last to a room where he was seated upon a stool. His hood was removed, and he found himself facing a small table holding pen, ink and parchment, a beeswax candle that gave the only light in the room, behind which sat Marie de Medici, dowager queen of France. The door was drawn shut, leaving only the two of them.