1636: The Cardinal Virtues (33 page)

Chapter 43

Madrid

In the hazy predawn of summer, Gaspar de Guzmán, count-duke of Olivares, knelt on the hassock in his usual place in the nave of San Jerónimo el Real, hands folded, his eyes cast downward. Above him, where he did not look, the crucified Savior gazed down—the Man of Sorrows who oversaw his own sorrows as he passed through his own vale of tears. His master the king was likely awake as well, listening to the Mass from his royal bedroom above the presbytery.

The count-duke’s mind was not on his devotions as it should be. That was not the fault of his own piety. Since the death of his daughter María ten years ago, he had turned ever more to the solace of faith and worship. But the earthly matters that concerned him crowded that solace away. This morning in particular the holy office had seemed no more than rote. It provided no serenity and conferred no peace.

When at last the officiating priest spoke the words
Ite, missa est
, he scarcely heard himself speak the
Deo gratias
response; without noticing how he had gone from his hassock to the west end of the nave he was away and gone out of the church, not even offering his customary personal thanks.

He emerged from the long gallery into the bright morning sunlight and walked slowly into the manicured garden, nodding to the servants who gave him respectful bows as he passed. Ahead, at the fountain, he could see someone waiting for him.

“Good morning, Cousin.”

“Diego,” Olivares said, embracing his cousin, the Marquis of Leganés. As usual, Diego Mexía Felipez de Guzmán y Dávila was dressed all in black, only relieved by the chain and cross of the Order of Calatrava on his breast. His carefully trimmed hair and beard and freshly laundered formal attire made him a striking figure—suitable for impressing a king.

“If I am not far from the mark, Gaspar, I should say that you have no good news.”

“Walk with me,” Olivares said, and the two men began to stroll leisurely along the carefully tended path. Leganés was nearly ten years older and a foot taller than the
valido real
, but he made his stride correspond with the pace set by his younger cousin—to whose influence he owed much of his rank and authority. He had many questions, but waited for Olivares to begin.

“I would like to say that I had good tidings, Diego,” he began at last. “But to do so would require me to dissemble. I thought matters were well in hand. After years of effort all that we desired had nearly been placed in our hands. And then . . .”

“And then,” Leganés said, “things took a turn. I have read Mirabel’s letter.”

“Gaston is a snake,” Olivares said, disgust in his voice.

“Surely you knew that.”

“The identification and handling of snakes is a part of my brief as
valido
to His Most Catholic Majesty,” Olivares answered. “
Ecce dedi vobis potestatem calcandi supra serpentes et scorpiones,
after all.”

Leganés had spent more hours commanding troops from the saddle than studying his breviary, but he knew it must be a Biblical verse; he piously crossed himself, and his cousin did so as well.

“‘
Behold, I have given you power to tread upon serpents and scorpions
,’” Olivares obligingly translated. “The Gospel according to Luke. Yes, of course I knew he was a snake. But he was
our
snake: we bought him, we paid for him. And he either betrayed us or he has lost control of his own kingdom.”

“If so, then there is an opportunity. France at war with itself cannot but help Spain.”

Olivares stopped walking, squinting at his elder cousin in the bright early-morning sunlight. “Truly? What do you suppose we should do, Diego? We’ve already chosen sides.”

“I think you know what my answer would be, Gaspar. There are some problems that can only be solved by the sword.”

“This is not one of them.”

“Our tercios—”

“The rifles of the devil-spawned up-timers destroyed three of our tercios in Béarn three weeks ago, Diego, suffering few casualties in the process. Our swords, cousin, and our muskets and our pikes and all the rest, are stacked in an impressive, impotent pile in the camp of the army deployed just across the Pyrenees. Instead of
solving
problems by the sword, we have shown just how impotent our swords can be.”

Leganés took his time before answering. This was new information; he had known that his cousin had ordered troops to be deployed across the mountains, in accordance with the ongoing plan to “support” the new king of France. Their fate was clearly part of his cousin’s ill tidings.

“Destroyed.”

“Utterly. Along with elite cavalry, whose commander thought it prudent to charge massed rifles that could hit his troops with ten concentrated volleys before his men could fire a single aimed shot.”

“Are there any of these riflemen on the northeast frontier with the Low Countries?”

“No, but—”

“Then we attack from that direction, Gaspar. If I leave today I could be there in a matter of weeks.”

“
No
,” Olivares said. “No, cousin. That is not an option. His Most Catholic Majesty’s aunt and his younger brother Ferdinand have decided to choose sides as well—and not Gaston’s side. My informants tell me that they are sheltering, or very soon will shelter, His Majesty’s sister Anne and her infant son, whom they acknowledge to be rightful king of France.”

“What does . . . his Most Catholic Majesty think of this turn of events?”

“He does not yet know.”

“Surely he has informants as well.”

“Not with the same means as mine. This decision was taken only a few days ago.”

“Then how do you . . .”

The marquis of Leganés was not schooled in the study of Latin, and though he was punctilious in his conduct in the highly formalized court of Madrid, he lacked much of the refinement of a courtier. But he was no one’s fool, and it took scarcely more than a few seconds for him to deduce the obvious.

“And is his Most Catholic Majesty aware that you possess an up-timer device to communicate with your
well-equipped
informants? And what of His Grace Cardinal Monti—is he, too, aware of this transgression of the royal command?”

“Of course not.” Monti was the papal nuncio and a consultant to the Holy Inquisition. “In either case. Monti might suspect, but I believe that a time will come when he might be glad of the facility. There’s a reason he hasn’t returned to his see in Milan, Diego: our Cardinal Borja doubts his loyalty and not without reason. As for the king . . .”

“Now we come to it, don’t we?”

Olivares looked away from his cousin, back at the buildings of the
Buen Retiro
. Somewhere within the complex centered on San Jerónimo el Real, his Most Catholic Majesty, King Philip IV, was likely rising to greet the day, serene and isolated within his
cordón sanitario
, as the more cynical courtiers called it.

He knew what they thought of his royal master, and what the up-timer books said of him: that he was weak and unduly pious, prone to indecision, even brutish and stupid. In Olivares’ experience he was none of those things: royal, but not autocratic; pious, but in a monarch—especially a Catholic monarch—this could only be counted a virtue; decisive when he was presented with clear and honest information, which was always Olivares’ intent; and though he could be arbitrary, he was keenly intelligent, with good command of French and Italian and surprisingly skillful at Latin as well.

It was not Olivares’ place to seek to correct any of his master’s faults, any more than it was his desire to correct any of Philip’s subjects’ misconceptions about him.

“You misspeak, Cousin,” Olivares said. “Now
I
come to it.”

“And what would you have
me
do?”

“At this moment I cannot venture to say—it depends on how His Majesty takes the news I am about to impart to him. If he permits me to keep my head and my freedom, Diego, then I shall have a great deal for you to do.”

He turned back to his cousin once more. “And in the meanwhile, I can only ask you to pray for me.”

Paris

He had quickly learned the streets and courts of the city when he first came to serve here, and Jean d’Aubisson knew them like no one else; the others in the Guard had always sent him on errands they could not be troubled to do themselves. There were places in Paris that the other, more experienced, more
indolent
ones had never been interested in visiting.

But his time in Paris had been different: and now it stood him in good stead.

The Châtelet had been built in the time of Philip Augustus, but had fallen into great disrepair since: the mortar was set, the iron posts placed in the windows and across the entrances to the cells centuries earlier. Trust—or fear—or simple indolence had made the guards in the Châtelet confident that that cement and those posts were plenty good enough to hold the likes of an aged priest and a young former Cardinal’s Guardsman as long as necessary, particularly when they had been given a good healthy beating and tossed into cells.

But if there was one thing that youngest brothers from the countryside knew how to do it was to survive and overcome a good healthy beating.

After matins bells rang and all was quiet in the Châtelet, Jean d’Aubisson began to work on the bars that secured a small window on his cell where the plaster was loose and broken. He assumed that it would take some time, perhaps several nights—but to his surprise one and then another bar came free.

He couldn’t believe his luck.

◊ ◊ ◊

The Châtelet stood at the head of the Pont du Change, and the window to his cell overlooked the Plâce du Châtelet. Once he squeezed himself through it and climbed down to the pavement, he was able to creep onto the bridge and in a matter of a few minutes he was across the Seine and into the narrow streets and dark alleys beyond.

Not all streets were narrow. Under the moonlit sky he emerged onto the Rue du Condé. He straightened his clothing as best as he could manage and approached the entrance to the Hôtel de Condé, which was guarded by two men wearing the prince’s livery.

“I need to speak with His Grace,” d’Aubisson said.

The guards didn’t seem impressed. One chuckled, and the other lowered his pike at him and wasn’t amused at all.

“And why,” the angry one said, “would my lord of Condé want to speak with the likes of you? I’m thinking I should give you another beating like the one you’ve obviously just gotten.”

“He will see me.”

“He will have us whipped for wasting his time, you insolent lout. Now off with you, before—”

D’Aubisson reached inside his doublet and drew out a strip of cloth bearing a heart surrounded by rays of light. It had not been of any interest to his captors or those who took out their anger on him. He extended it toward the smiling guard, moving it slowly around the point of the other’s pike.

“And what is this?”

“He will see me,”
d’Aubisson repeated. “I know it is late, and I know it is impertinence, but show him this. When he sees it, I will be admitted.”

“And if he decides to have us whipped instead?”

“Then I will take two blows of the knout from every one delivered to you.”

Smiling guard looked at menacing guard, who shrugged. Smiler reached behind him and knocked on the gate without turning around. Another guard, pike in hand, opened the gate from the inside and took the scapular from his comrade’s hand and closed the gate.

“I really don’t want to be whipped,” Angry said.

“You won’t be,” d’Aubisson said. “You’ll be rewarded once monsieur le prince hears what I have to say.”

“And what might that be?”

“It is for the prince’s ears alone,” he answered. “He may impart it to you afterward, but I must do my duty first.”

Angry thought about this reply, and then said, “Duty,” and spat on the cobblestones a foot from d’Aubisson’s right boot.

A few minutes later there was another rap on the gate. The guard behind it opened it and beckoned to d’Aubisson.

“Well,” Smiley said. “Looks like there’s to be no whipping after all.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Condé reclined on a couch in his dressing-gown and cap. He had been summoned from bed, but seemed more intent than discomfited. D’Aubisson bowed respectfully and waited for him to speak.

“You look as if you’ve had a rough time, young Guardsman.”

“Just a little knocking about, Your Grace,” d’Aubisson said. “Nothing that can’t be set right by a good night’s rest.”

“To be young again.” Condé fingered the scapular that he held in his hands. “What brings you to my door?”

“I have lately been a guest of Monsieur le Prevôt in the Châtelet,” d’Aubisson said. “He had the charge of myself and His Eminence the cardinal de Tremblay.”

“Tremblay? In the Châtelet? Is he still there?”

“If he still lives, Your Grace. I . . . escaped on my own. There was no chance to try and rescue him. I thought perhaps you—”

“How did you come to be imprisoned?”

“It was . . . on order of the queen mother.”

“Marguerite?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“God’s mercy—Queen Anne?”

“No. I beg Your Grace’s pardon—there are too many queens and too many queen mothers. I meant to name Her Majesty Queen Marie.”

“She—she imprisoned you in the Châtelet? She has no right and no authority.”

“Apparently the prevost does not care to gainsay Her Majesty. At her order we were taken prisoner and . . .” D’Aubisson spread his hands.

Condé went from reclining to standing up in one smooth motion; remarkable, d’Aubisson thought, for a man his age.

“I will have words with King Gaston about this, young man. In the meanwhile, you will consider yourself under my, and my house’s, personal protection.” He gestured to a servant. “See that this gentleman is fed and given comfortable accommodations, and that his injuries are treated by Monsieur Chrétien. Monsieur d’Aubisson,” he added, turning back to his visitor, “you shall want for nothing while under my roof; and if you require a position, you are welcome in my household.”

“Your Grace is extremely kind. I . . . would like to compliment the men who guard your gate, Sire, for their diligence and attention—and also for their sensible honesty for conveying the token of my adherence to the cause of His Eminence and yourself.”