The Cardinal's Blades

"Well, yes . . ."

"And what does this work speak of?"

"Draconic magic."

A bell tower, and a few others nearby, sounded three quarters of the hour, indicating to the assembled guards it was time to prepare for the roll call. Neuvelle returned the book as though it were some compromising piece of evidence and Laincourt slipped it beneath his cape and into his doublet.

At that moment, a lackey wearing the cardinal's livery walked toward them.

"Monsieur Laincourt, the service of His Eminence calls you before monsieur de Sainr-Georges."

"Now?" Neuvelle was astonished, seeing the troops being formed up.

"Yes, monsieur."

Laincourt reassured the young guard with a glance and followed the lackey inside.

After climbing a staircase and a long wait in an antechamber, Arnaud de Laincourt saw, without real surprise, who awaited him beneath the high carved ceilings of the captain's office. The room was vast and impressive in length, its gold and its woodwork burnished to a high gleam in the daylight which shone in through two enormous windows in the rear wall. These windows opened onto the main courtyard and through them came the sound of roll call, now almost over.

Stiff and impassive, six guards renowned for their loyalty stood at attention, three ro the right and three ro the left, opposite each other, as though showing the way to the grand desk at which captain Saint-Georges was sitting with his back to the light. Standing close to him, and slightly further back, was Charpentier.

The presence, in this place and under these circumstances, of Richelieu's private secretary could only signify one thing, and Laincourt realised this immediately. He waited until the lackey had closed the door behind him, then took one slow step forward between the guards. Old Brussand was one of their number and seemed to be struggling with his emotion; he stood more stiffly than the others and was almost trembling.

As all present held their breath, Laincourt pulled himself together and saluted.

"By your order, monsieur."

Sainr-Georges, his gaze severe, rose and walked around his desk.

And holding out his hand before him, he ordered in an irrevocable tone: "Your sword, monsieur."

At the same moment, the beat of a drum outside announced the end of the roll call.

26

You know that it's not your fault, don't you?"

Agnes de Vaudreuil jumped as though she'd been poked in the kidneys with a blazing poker. She had been dozing and, startled by the voice, dropped the book which had been lying open on her lap. A feeling of surprise tinged with fear took hold of her, but a second was enough for her to realise that she was alone. Besides, the voice that she had heard or dreamed could only have been speaking from beyond the grave.

As soon as she returned from the inn with Ballardieu she had shut herself away in her favourite room in the manor, a very long hall almost devoid of furniture, where, when it fell, the silence seemed greater than anywhere else in the house. On one side, old suits of armour on their pedestals alternated with panoplies and racks of mediaeval weaponry. On the other side, through four tall windows with stone mullions, daylight fell in oblique rays—against which the armour seemed to be mounting a resolute guard. Two large chimneys opened their blackened brick mouths at each end of the hall originally intended to host banquets. But the chairs and the immense table had been removed, and the great iron chandeliers now looked down on empty flagstones.

Agnes was drawn to this room when times were bad, either alone or with Ballardieu. She liked to take refuge here to read, reflect, or simply to wait until another day, or sometimes another night, was over. For this purpose she had arranged an area for her use around the one fireplace which could still serve against the early frosts. There was an old leather-covered armchair there, a table polished by age and use, a worm-eaten old chest, some shelves where she stored her treatises on fencing, and an old quintain.

Her entire world was here.

On this afternoon, Agnes was taking her ease with a book. She had hung her belt over the quintain, removed her boots and her thick red leather corset, and then she had ensconced herself comfortably in the armchair, legs stretched out and ankles crossed on the chest before her. But she was clearly more tired than she had thought. Sleepiness had won as she thumbed through a chapter dedicated to the comparative merits of quadruple and sextuple parries against a point lunge delivered by an adversary with the advantage of a longer reach.

Then there came the voice: "You know that it's not your fault, don't you?"

Agnes's gaze fell on the quintain.