The Cardinal's Blades

15

There were three riders waiting at Place de la Croix-du-Trahoir, which was a modest square in the neighbourhood near the Louvre, where rue de l’Arbre-Sec met rue Saint-Honore. Silent and still, they sat on their horses near the fountain with an ornamental cross which gave its name to the square. One of them was a tall gentleman with a pale complexion who had a scar on his temple. Not many passersby would have recognised the comte de Rochefort, the cardinal’s henchman. But his sinister bearing never failed to disturb those who saw him.

Drawn by a handsome team, a coach without any coat of arms pulled up.

Rochefort descended from his horse and gave his reins to the closer of the two other riders, saying: “Wait for me.”

And then he climbed into the coach which immediately drove off.

The leather curtains were lowered, so that the interior of the vehicle was bathed in ochre shadow. Two white wax candles were burning in wall holders fixed to either side of the rear bench of the coach. A very elegant gentleman had taken a seat on this bench. With thick long hair and greying temples, he wore a brocade doublet with braids embellished by gold and diamonds. He was in his fifties, a respectable age for these times. But he was still robust and alert, and even exuded a physical charm that was enhanced by maturity. His moustache, as well as his royale beard, was perfectly trimmed. A thin scar marked his cheekbone.

By comparison, the man sitting to his right was rather undistinguished.

Short and bald, he was modestly dressed in a brown outfit with white stockings and buckled shoes. His manner was both humble and reserved. He was not a servant, yet one perceived him to be a subordinate, a commoner who had risen above his state by dint of zeal and hard work. He was perhaps thirty or thirty-five years in age. His features were of a type that did not attract much notice and were easily forgotten.

Rochefort was seated opposite these two persons, with his back to the direction of travel.

“I’m listening,” said the comte de Pontevedra in perfect French.

Rochefort hesitated, glancing at the little man.

“What? Is it Ignacio who worries you…? Forget him. He does not matter. He is not here.”

“So be it… The cardinal wishes you to know that the Blades are already at work in this matter.”

“Already?”

“Yes. Everything was prepared. It only remained for them to answer the call.”

“Which they did promptly, I suppose… And La Fargue?”

“He is in command.”

“Good. What does he know?”

“He knows that he is searching for a certain chevalier d’Ireban, whose disappearance upsets Madrid because he is the son of a Spanish grandee.”

“And that is all?”

“Just as you wished it.”

Pontevedra nodded and took a moment to reflect, the candlelight highlighting his forceful profile from the side.

“La Fargue must remain unaware of the true underpinnings of this affair,” he said finally. “It is of the utmost importance.”

“His Eminence has seen to that.”

“If he should discover that-”

“Do not be concerned about this, monsieur le comte. The secret you evoke is well guarded. However…”

Rochefort left his sentence unfinished.

“Well, what?” said Pontevedra.

“However, you should know that the success of the Blades is by no means certain. And if La Fargue and his men should fail, the Cardinal is anxious to know what-”

The other interrupted: “It is my turn to reassure you, Rochefort. The Blades shall not fail. And if they do, it will be because no one could succeed.”

“And so Spain…”

“… will keep its word, come what may, yes.”

Once again, Pontevedra looked away.

He suddenly seemed struck by great sadness, and in his eyes there was a flicker revealing a profound worry.

“The Blades shall not fail,” he repeated in a strangled voice. But rather than asserting a sense of conviction, he seemed to be addressing a prayer to Heaven.