The Cardinal's Blades

12

They arrived at the chapel in the middle of the afternoon.

It sat in the middle of the countryside at a spot where a deserted road crossed a pebble-strewn track. A flock of sheep grazed nearby. A windmill whose sails turned slowly in the breeze looked out over a landscape of green hills.

“Here we are,” said Bailleux from the edge of the wood.

He and Saint-Lucq were side by side on horseback, but rather than watch the chapel the half-blood watched their surroundings.

He had just caught sight of a cloud of dust.

“Wait,” he said.

The cloud was approaching.

He could just make out riders trotting up the road. There were four, or perhaps five, of them, all armed with swords. It was not the first time that Saint-Lucq and the notary had spotted them since leaving the inn. Them, or others like them, in any case. But all of them had only one thing in mind: laying their hands on Bailleux and ripping his secret out of him.

“We’ll let them go by,” said the half-blood, very coolly.

“But how could they know…?” Bailleux worried.

“They don’t. They’re searching, that’s all. Calm yourself.”

The riders halted for a moment at the crossing with the track. Then they split up into two parties, each taking a different direction. A short while later they had all disappeared off into the distance.

“There,” said Saint-Lucq before spurring his mount.

Bailleux caught up with him as they descended a grassy slope at a slow trot.

“I think the baptism was held here. That’s why-”

“Yes, of course,” the half-blood interrupted.

They soon dismounted on a patch of ground in front of the chapel and then entered the building. It was low-ceilinged, cool, bare of decorations, and the air was laden with dust. No one seemed to have visited for quite some time, although perhaps it served occasionally as a refuge for travellers caught in bad weather.

Saint-Lucq took off his spectacles in the dim light and rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger before surveying their surroundings with a slow circular gaze. Almost at once, the notary pointed to a statue of Saint Christophe standing on a pedestal, in a niche.

“If the testament speaks truly, it’s there.”

They approached and examined the statue.

“We’ll need to tilt it,” said Bailleux. “It won’t be easy.”

The weight of the painted statue would indeed have posed a difficulty if Saint-Lucq had desired to preserve it intact. But he braced himself, pushed, and simply tipped the effigy of Saint Christophe over, to fall heavily onto the flagstones and break into pieces. Bailleux crossed himself at this act of sacrilege.

Someone had slipped a slender document pouch beneath the statue, and the cracked leather now lay exposed on the pedestal. The notary took it, opened it, and carefully unfolded a page torn from an old register of baptisms. The parchment threatened to come apart at the folds.

“This is it!” he exclaimed. “This is really it!”

The half-blood held out his hand.

“Give it to me.”

“But will you tell me, finally, what this is all about? Do you even know?”

Saint-Lucq considered the question, and reached the conclusion that the notary had a right to this information.

“This piece of paper proves a certain person’s legitimate right to an inheritance. One which is accompanied by a ducal coronet.”

“My God!”

Bailleux wished to read the prestigious name which appeared on the page, but the half-blood swiftly snatched it from him. At first taken aback, the other man decided to be reasonable.

“It’s… it’s no doubt for the best this way… I already know too much, don’t I?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s over now. I won’t be troubled again.”

“It will be over soon.”

Just then, they heard riders arriving.

“Our horses!” gasped Bailleux, but keeping his voice down. “They’re bound to see our horses!”

The riders came to a halt before the chapel but did not seem to dismount. The horses snorted as they settled. Inside the chapel the long seconds flowed by in silence. There was no means of exit other than the front doors.

Panicking, the notary could not understand the half-blood’s absolute state of calm.

“They’re going to come in! They’re going to come in!”

“No.”

With one sharp, precise move, Saint-Lucq stabbed Bailleux in the heart. The man died without comprehension, murdered by the man who had initially saved him. Before he died, his incredulous eyes found the emotionless gaze of his assassin.

The half-blood caught the body and laid it gently on the ground.

Then he wiped his dagger carefully and replaced it in its sheath as he walked toward the door with an even step and emerged into broad daylight. There, he put his red spectacles back on, raised his eyes to the heavens, and took a deep breath. Finally, he looked over at the five armed riders who waited before him in a row.

“It’s done?” one of them asked.

“It’s done.”

“Did he really believe we were chasing you?”

“Yes. You played your part perfectly.”

“And our pay?”

“See Rochefort about it.”

The rider nodded and the troop left at a gallop.

Saint-Lucq followed them with his gaze until they disappeared over the horizon and he found himself alone.