The Cardinal's Blades Part 12

"What?" interrupted the man with the dented hat. "You know that raving madman?"

"Have a care with your remarks, monsieur," said Agnes de Vaudreuil glacially. "He of whom you speak began some work upon you which I could easily complete. And it would cost you a little more than a hat."

"Would you like me to accompany you?" the officer insisted politely.

"No, thank you, monsieur."

"Know, nevertheless, that I shall be ready if needed."

She nodded and entered.

Low-ceilinged and silent, the room had been thrown into an upheaval of fallen chairs, toppled tables, and shattered crockery. Splatters of wine stained the walls where jugs had been broken. Several panes of gla.s.s were missing from a window. A serving platter had been cracked. In the hearth, the spit was only held up by one forked support and the counterweight mechanism designed to keep it turning clicked uselessly.

"Finally!" exclaimed Ballardieu in the tone of someone welcoming a long-hoped-for visitor.

He was enthroned in triumph in the middle of the chaos, sitting on a chair, one foot leaning against a supporting beam to balance himself. His red velvet doublet was open over his ma.s.sive chest, hairy and sweating, and his smile was huge, seeming full of reckless joy despite-or perhaps because of-his split lip and swelling eye. Ballardieu was one of those who took delight in a good brawl.

He held a wine bottle in one hand and, in the other, something which looked like a wooden skittle.

"Finally?" Agnes was astonished.

"Of course! We've been waiting for you!"

"'We'? Who is this 'we'?"

"These messieurs and myself."

Tearing her incredulous gaze away from the old soldier with great difficulty, Agnes observed the men. They were all a sorry sight to see, having received a severe chastising.

Two very richly dressed men-merchants no doubt-were piled up one on top of the other, either unconscious or pretending to be. Another-most likely a pedlar-had scarcely fared better: he was sitting with his arms and chest pinned inside a large wicker basket through the bottom of which his head had burst, the latter now swaying woozily on his neck. Finally, a fourth member of the party was huddled up at Ballardieu's feet, and his cringing manner indicated that he feared another thump. This one the baronne knew by sight at least: he was a veteran who had lost a leg in the Wars of Religion, and henceforth, hobbling around, dedicated his days to a tour of the local inns.

"You've left them in a pretty state," commented Agnes.

She noticed that the veteran was missing his wooden peg leg, and suddenly realised it was the skittle-shaped object with which Ballardieu was playing.

"They deserved it."

"Let us hope so. Why have you been waiting for me?"

"I wanted this man, right here, to offer you his apologies."

Agnes looked at the unfortunate one-legged man who, trembling, was protecting his head with his forearms.

"Apologies? For what?"

Ballardieu suddenly found himself extremely embarra.s.sed. How could he explain, without repeating the vulgar and abusive comments that had been made about her?

"Uhh ..."

"I'm waiting."

"The important thing," continued the old soldier waving the wooden peg leg like a sceptre. "The important thing is that this lout offers his apologies. So, lout, speak up! The lady is waiting!"

"Madame," groaned the other, still seeking about for his prosthesis, "I beg you to accept my most sincere and respectful apologies. I have ignored all my obligations, which not even my poor nature, my neglected education, and my deplorable habits can justify. I promise to mind my conduct and manners in future and, conscious of my faults, I deliver myself to your goodwill. I add that I am ugly, have a mouth like an a.r.s.e, and that it is difficult to believe, having seen me, that the Almighty made Adam in his own image."

The man had recited this act of contrition in a single breath, like a practised speech, and Ballardieu had followed the tirade with regular shakes of his head and the synchronous movements of his lips.

The result appeared to satisfy him.

"Very good, lout. Here, take back your leg."

"Thank you, monsieur."

"But you forgot to mention your ugly mug, which is-"

"-so foul it turns milk into p.i.s.s. I'm sorry, monsieur. Should I start again?"

"I don't know. Your repentance seems sincere to me, but ..."

Ballardieu questioned Agnes with a look.

She simply stared at him, dumbstruck.

"No," he said again. "Madame la baronne is right: that will suffice. The punishment must be just and not cruel if it is meant to be a lesson."

"Thank you, monsieur."

Ballardieu rose, stretched, emptied his flagon of wine in two swallows, and threw it over his shoulder. At the end of a beautiful arc through the air, the aforementioned flagon bounced off the pedlar's head, who was still sitting imprisoned in his wicker pannier.

"Good!" cried Ballardieu joyfully, rubbing his hands together. "Shall we go?"

Behind him, the stunned pedlar tipped over onto his side like an overturned basket.

22.

Alerted by her son, the woman appeared on the threshold of the thatched cottage to see the rider who had just arrived. With a word, she ordered her son to go and bring her something from inside. He was quick to obey, returning with a wheel-lock pistol which he handed to his mother.

"Go and hide, Tonin."

"But mother-"

"Go and hide under the bed and don't come out unless I call you."

The afternoon was drawing to a close, with a faint warm breeze in the air. There were no other dwellings anywhere around the cottage for as far as the eye could see. The nearest village was a good mile away, and the road leading there pa.s.sed by some distance away. Even pedlars and sellers of almanacs only rarely stopped off to visit them. In this lonely corner of the French countryside, the inhabitants were by and large abandoned to their own devices.

Remaining at the door alone, the woman checked that the pistol was loaded and that the gunpowder in the chamber was dry. Then she let the weapon hang at the end of her arm, slightly behind her body, out of the rider's sight as he entered the yard where a few hens pecked at the brown sun-beaten ground.

She barely nodded when Antoine Leprat greeted her from his mount.

"I should like to water my horse. And I would be glad to pay you for a gla.s.s of wine."

She studied him for a long while without saying a word.

Badly shaven, grimy, and bedraggled, he seemed exhausted and hardly inspired either confidence or fear. He was armed: pistols were tucked in the holsters on his saddle and a curious white rapier hung at his side-his right side, as though he were left-handed. His night-blue doublet was open over a sweat-stained shirt and its sleeve, up by the shoulder, had a nasty gash through which a recent bandage could be glimpsed. Fresh blood had trickled over his hand, a sure sign that his wound had reopened.

"Where are you going?" asked the woman.

"To Paris."

"By these roads, you won't reach Paris before nightfall."

"I know."

She continued to study him.

"You're wounded."

"Yes."

After his battle with Malencontre and his hired killers, Leprat had not immediately realised that he was bleeding. In the heat of the action, he had not noticed which of his adversaries had cut his arm. Nor had he felt any pain at the time. In fact, the wound had only begun to trouble him when he saw the threads of blood running from his sleeve and making his right hand sticky. It wasn't particularly dangerous, but the gash deserved medical attention. Leprat had simply applied a makeshift bandage and immediately returned to the road.

"An unlucky encounter," he explained.

"With brigands?"

"No. a.s.sa.s.sins."

The woman didn't blink.

"Are you being followed?"

"I was being followed. I don't know if I still am."

Since leaving the staging post Leprat had followed the minor roads which, although not the shortest route, reduced the risk of being ambushed. He travelled alone and his wound made him easy prey for ordinary brigands. But also he feared there was another ambush laid for him along the Paris road, set by those who had put the mercenaries on his trail.

"I will see to your wound," said the woman, no longer making any effort to conceal the pistol she held. "But I don't want you to stay."

"I ask only for a bucket of water for my horse and a gla.s.s of wine for myself."

"I will see to your wound," she repeated. "I will look after you, and then you will leave. Come in."

He followed her into the house, whose interior consisted of one large, dark, and low-ceilinged room, poor but clean, with a few pieces of furniture on the hard-earth floor.

"You can come out now, Tonin," the woman called.

While her son climbed out from beneath the bed and offered a timid smile to the stranger, she prepared a basin of water and clean linen cloth, all the while keeping the pistol close at hand.

Leprat waited until she pointed him to a bench before sitting down.

"My name is Leprat," he said.

"Genevieve Rolain."

"And I'm Tonin!"

"h.e.l.lo, Tonin," said Leprat with a smile.

"Are you a gentleman?" asked the boy.

"I am."

"And a soldier?"

"Yes."

"My father was a soldier, too. Of the Picardy regiment."

"A very old and very prestigious regiment."

"And you, monsieur? In which regiment do you serve?"

Predicting the reaction he would provoke, Leprat announced: "I serve in a company of His Majesty's mounted musketeers."

"With the King's Musketeers?" Tonin marvelled. "Really? Did you hear, mother? A musketeer!"

"Yes, Tonin. You're shouting quite loudly enough for me to hear you-"

"Do you know the king, monsieur? Have you ever spoken to him?"

"A few times."

"Go and water monsieur the musketeer's horse," Genevieve interrupted, placing a basin of water on the table.

"But mother?"

"Now, Antoine."

The boy knew it was never a good sign when his mother switched from "Tonin" to "Antoine."

"Yes, mother.... Will you still tell me about the king, monsieur?"