The Cardinal's Blades

17

“What?” exclaimed a merchant. “That Amazon with the flying hair who galloped past us this morning? A baronne?”

“God’s truth!” confirmed the old soldier. “Just as I told you!”

“It’s beyond belief!” blurted another merchant.

“And yet,” added a pedlar who knew the region well. “Nothing could be truer.”

“And since when did baronnes carry swords, around here?

“Why, since it pleased them to-”

“It’s simply extraordinary!”

“The baronne Agnes de Vaudreuil…” sighed the first merchant dreamily.

“It’s said she’s of excellent birth,” said the second.

“Old nobility of the sword,” declared the veteran of the Wars of Religion. “The best. The true… Her ancestors went on the crusades and her father fought beside King Henri.”

This exchange took place at the Silver Cask, a village hostelry on the road to Paris. The two merchants had stopped there after concluding their business at an excellent market in Chantilly, which explained their shared good humour. Two more men had invited themselves to join their table. One was a quaint, garrulous local, an old soldier with a wooden leg who lived on a meagre pension, passing the greater part of his days drinking, if possible at someone else’s expense. The other was a pedlar who seemed not at all eager to resume his rounds, carrying his heavy wicker pannier on his back. It was an hour after dinner and, with the afternoon rush over, the tables had quickly emptied. With the aid of wine, the conversation rolled along freely and vigorously.

“She seemed very beautiful to me,” said a merchant.

“Beautiful?” repeated the veteran. “She is more than that… Her firm tits. Her long thighs. And her arse, my friends… that arse!”

“The way you speak of her arse I would swear you’d seen it?”

“Bloody hell! I’ve not had that good fortune… But others have seen it. And felt it. And enjoyed it. For it’s a very welcoming arse, indeed…”

The drinkers were talkative, the subject ripe for discussion and the wine pitchers quickly emptied, all to be replaced immediately. However, the prospect of a handsome profit was not enough to gladden the heart of master Leonard, owner of the Silver Cask. Anxious, but not daring to intervene, he kept an eye on another customer sitting all alone at a table, visibly fuming.

The man wore sagging funnel-shaped boots, brown leather trousers, and a large red velvet doublet left open over his bare chest. His body was of a robust build but weighed down with fat-large thighs, broad shoulders, and a thick neck. He might have been fifty-five years old, perhaps more. Beneath a close-cut beard, his lined face was that of an old soldier who had grown soft over the last few years, and interlacing crimson veins-which would soon blossom into blotches-decorated his cheeks. Nevertheless, his eyes remained sharp. And the impression of strength which emanated from his person was unmistakable.

“And where are they, these happy arse-samplers?” gaily demanded the most cheerful, and most drunk, of the merchants. “I would like to hear more from them!”

“They’re all about. This beauty is not shy.”

“It’s said she kills her lovers,” interjected the pedlar.

“Nonsense!”

“You might better say that she exhausts them!” corrected the veteran with a bawdy wink of the eye. “If you know what I mean…”

“I see, yes,” nodded the merchant. “And I say, myself, that there are worse deaths than that… I’d gladly flirt with her myself, the naughty wench!”

Hearing that, the man who had been listening to them unnoticed rose with the air of someone resolved to carry out a necessary task. He advanced with steady steps and was halfway to the table when master Leonard nimbly barred his path, a somewhat courageous act, since he was two heads shorter and only half the other man’s weight. But the safekeeping of his establishment was at stake.

“Monsieur Ballardieu, please?”

“Don’t be alarmed, master Leonard. You know me.”

“Precisely. With respect… they’ve been drinking. No doubt, too much. They don’t know what they’re-”

“I tell you, there’s no cause for concern,” the man said with a friendly and reassuring smile.

“Just promise me you won’t start anything,” begged the innkeeper.

“I promise to do everything possible to that end.”

Master Leonard stepped aside with regret and, wiping his damp hands on his apron, watched Ballardieu continue on his way.

On seeing him, the veteran with the wooden leg turned pale. The three others, in contrast, were taken in by his easy manner.

“Please excuse me, messieurs, for interrupting you…”

“Please, monsieur,” replied a merchant. “What can we do for you? Would you care to join our table?”

“Just a question.”

“We’re listening.”

“I would like to know which of your four heads I shall have the honour of breaking first.”