The Cardinal's Blades

From a mere hamlet, the village had grown up around its church at the crossroads between two roads which wound between wooded hills. It was still only a staging post on the Chantilly Road and it owed its incipient prosperity to the Silver Cask, an inn renowned for the quality of its cellar and kitchen, and the amiable company of its serving girls. Local people went there for a glass of wine on occasion and well-informed travellers would happily sleep there—on their outward journey if their business did not require them to be in Chantilly at daybreak, or else upon their return.

Agnes slowed as she passed the first houses. In the streets her horse trod the same beaten ground as on the road, and she guided it into the heart of the village at a trot. In front of the Silver Cask's porch, the villagers were dispersing. They smiled and chattered with one another, sometimes making grand gestures. One of them climbed onto a mossy stone bench and raised a laugh by miming blows and vigorous kicks up the arse. All of them seemed delighted, as though they were leaving a theatre where they had seen an exceptionally funny farce. Agnes guessed who might be behind this festive mood, which didn't bode well. Just because the spectators were delighted did not mean that the spectacle itself had been pleasant. In these times, crowds gathered to witness the public punishment of condemned criminals and were greatly amused by the many howls and twitches of the unfortunates being thus tormented.

On seeing the horsewoman pass, some of them doffed their caps, and the clown climbed down from his bench.

"Who is that?" asked someone.

"The baronne de Vaudreuil."

"Our Lady!"

"As you say, my friend. As you say. . . ,"

The Silver Cask was a picturesque sight with its crooked buildings, its old and beautiful grey stone, its facades covered with ivy, and its red-tiled roofs.

Agnes dismounted just beyond the porch, her spurs jingling as the heels of her riding boots touched the cobblestones of the courtyard. She wiped her shining face with the back of her sleeve, unbound her hair, and shook her head to make her heavy black curls fall into place. Then, dishevelled, dusty, and yet heedless of anyone's glance, she looked around.

She recognised the innkeeper standing in front of the main building, trying to calm the impatience, if not the anger, of several patrons. Nervous and agitated, they were vying with one another for the chance to roundly scold the man, punctuating each angry point with jabs of their index fingers at his chest. The innkeeper made appeasing gestures expressing his most fawning respect, all the while preventing anyone from entering the building. But his efforts proved unsuccessful. His customers would not be soothed, and Agnes noticed that the appearance of a few of them—if not quite as disorderly as her own— left something to be desired. One had the right sleeve of his doublet, torn at the shoulder, tightly wrapped around his elbow; another, shirt hanging out from his breeches, was pressing a wet cloth against his face; a third was wearing a badly dented hat, and his lace collar hung down miserably.

Finally, remarking on her arrival, the innkeeper excused himself from the gentlemen. They grumbled while he hastened to greet Agnes. On his way, he hailed a stable boy, who abandoned his bucket and pitchfork to busy himself with the baronne's horse.

"Ah, madame! Madame!"

She walked toward him with a firm step. And as she neither slowed her pace nor changed her course when they met, he was forced to make an abrupt about-turn and trot along at her side.

"What has he done now?" asked Agnes.

The innkeeper was a small, dry, thin man, although sporting a pot belly as round as a balloon. He wore a short waistcoat over his shirt, and his figure was squeezed by the belt of his apron, which fell to his thighs.

"Thank the Lord, madame. You're here."

"Rather than heaven, thank the boy you sent to warn me, master Leonard. . . . Where is Ballardieu? And what has he done?"

"He's inside, madame,"

"Why are all these people waiting outside?"

"Because their coats or bags are still within, madame."

"Then why don't they collect them?"

"Because monsieur Ballardieu will not let anyone in."

Agnes halted.

Caught unawares, the innkeeper was two steps past her before he followed suit.

"Pardon me, master Leonard?"

"It's just as I said, madame. He threatens to shoot anyone who opens the door in the head, unless it is you."

"Is he armed?"

"Only with a pistol."

"Is he drunk?"

Master Leonard had the air of a man who was not quite certain he understood the question and was afraid of committing a faux pas.

"Do you mean: more drunk than usual?"

The baronne gave an aggravated sigh.

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean."

"Then yes, madame. He is drunk."

"Plague on the old tosspot! Can he not indulge within reason?" she said to herself.

"I believe he never learned how, madame. Or else he has no desire to do so—"

"So how did all this start?"