“That means that Agnes is in the hands of the Black Claw,” concluded La Fargue. “She allowed herself to be taken in order to unmask our adversaries, but she couldn’t guess that-”
“I’m afraid I have another piece of bad news to announce,” declared Marciac. “Cecile has disappeared. She has run away.”
“Merde!”
The captain’s profanity rang out like a musket shot in the courtyard.
The Blades searched the Hotel de l’Epervier from top to bottom and, when Cecile’s disappearance was no longer in any doubt, they gathered in the main room. The young woman had almost certainly slipped out through the garden, where they discovered the gate ajar-from there, she would have had no difficulty losing herself in a maze of alleys and passageways. A wider search would thus have proved futile.
“I think she must have been listening at the door during our meeting,” said Marciac. “No doubt wishing to avoid answering the questions that we intended to ask her, she preferred to duck out. We were too trusting of her. She wasn’t the poor orphan that we believed, mixed up against her will in a dark intrigue. I would even wager that her sister, who supposedly disappeared at the same as the chevalier d’Ireban, never existed.”
“She and Ireban are one and the same,” announced Saint-Lucq, throwing a small bundle of documents on the table. “I found these in her home. Reading them, you’ll discover that Cecile is the daughter of a great Spanish lord, that she and Castilla are lovers, and that they fled Spain together, Cecile disguising herself as a man to fool any spies. You’ll also see therein that Cecile and Castilla not only feared the wrath of her father but also that of another mysterious enemy.”
“The Black Claw,” guessed Leprat.
“Must I remind you that Agnes is in the Black Claw’s hands?” Ballardieu interjected in tight voice that barely concealed his contained anger. “Isn’t that the most important thing?”
“Yes,” said La Fargue. “However, it is perhaps only by getting to the bottom of this whole story that we will find a way to rescue Agnes
…”
“And I tell you that we need to do everything in our power to save her. Starting right now!”
“Agnes voluntarily placed herself in the lion’s jaws,” Leprat reasoned, “but she may not have known which lion was involved.”
“She passed right in front of me,” Saint-Lucq pointed out. “I heard the one-eyed man talking to her as they took her away, and by all appearances, they mistook her for Cecile. That won’t last. Ballardieu is right: time is running short.”
“Who can help us?” the old soldier asked. “The cardinal? Castilla?”
“I doubt that Castilla is in any state to talk,” said Almades. “As for the cardinal…”
Silence fell upon them, heavy with worry compounded by a sense of impotence.
“Malencontre,” said Leprat after a long moment.
The others stared at him, while Almades explained briefly to Saint-Lucq who this Malencontre was. That done, Leprat continued: “Malencontre belongs to the Black Claw; otherwise we would not have surprised him beneath Castilla’s windows. And he must know a great deal, or the cardinal would not have taken him from us.”
“But if I follow the chronology of events correctly,” said Saint-Lucq, “this man can’t know where Agnes is being held today, because he was arrested yesterday-”
“He certainly knows enough to put us on the right track!”
“Yes!” exclaimed Ballardieu. “Yes! That’s an excellent idea!”
He turned toward La Fargue and solicited his opinion with a glance.
“The idea is a good one, yes… But-”
“But, we don’t know were he can be found at present,” Marciac filled in for his captain. “Moreover, we will not be able to reach him without permission from the cardinal. And, finally, he won’t talk unless we can offer him something in return.”
“Freedom,” said Almades. “Malencontre knows he is lost. He will not talk in return for anything less than his liberty.”
“We’ll persuade Richelieu to offer Malencontre his freedom!” declared Ballardieu. “If he knows that Agnes’s life hangs in the balance…”
He wanted to believe it, but the others were less confident. What price did the cardinal currently place on the life of one of his Blades? He had never hesitated to sacrifice them on the altar of political necessity in the past.
“I can arrange a meeting with His Eminence quickly,” proposed Saint-Lucq.
“Then let us try that,” concluded La Fargue.
They all rose and Marciac took the captain to one side.
“With your permission, I would like to go in search of Cecile.”
“Do you know where she went?”
The Gascon smiled.
“If Agnes were here, she would tell you that you do not know women very well, captain.”
“That may be. Go ahead, follow your idea. But we will have need of you soon.”
“I won’t be long.”
13
In 1607 Concino Concini, an Italian adventurer who, together with his wife, enjoyed such influence over Queen Marie de Medicis that she made him marquis d’Ancre and a marshal of France, built a vast mansion on rue de Tournon. Greedy and incompetent, he was hated by the population, who pillaged his mansion for the first time in 1616 and then again, after his death in 1617. Louis XIII resided there from time to time, and then gave it to one of his favourites, only to buy it back later. From then on, and up until 1748, the beautiful house in rue de Tournon became a residence for visiting ambassadors extraordinary.
The creation of permanent ambassadors was not yet a widespread practice. With rare exceptions, European kingdoms only employed ambassadors extraordinary to conduct particular negotiations or represent their monarchs on grand occasions-princely baptisms, betrothals, marriages, and other important ceremonies. These envoys-always great lords expected to maintain appearances at their own cost-would return to their country once their mission was completed. Diplomacy was yet to become a career.
Thus, in Paris, ambassadors and their retinues were the guests of the king in the marquis d’Ancre’s former mansion. Having been appointed by King Felipe IV of Spain, the comte de Pontevedra had been lodging there for several days and would no doubt remain there as long as was necessary to ensure the completion of a mission that was surrounded by the greatest secrecy. What were the comte and Richelieu discussing during the course of their long daily meetings-meetings at which even the king himself made appearances? The royal court was filled with rumours on this subject and everyone either claimed to know or made educated guesses. The truth, however, went beyond any of their expectations. It involved nothing less than preparing, if not an alliance, then at least a rapprochement between France and Spain. Was such a thing even possible? If it was, it would represent an enduring upheaval in European politics and would affect the destinies of millions of souls.
On this day, the comte de Pontevedra returned rather earlier than usual from the Louvre. He rode in a luxurious coach, surrounded by twenty gentlemen in arms whose role was both to protect him and to enhance his prestige with their numbers and their elegance. At the mansion in rue de Tournon he hurried alone to his apartments, sent his servants away, and even refused his valet’s assistance to remove his brocade doublet and his gold-trimmed baldric. He poured himself a glass of wine and settled down in an armchair. He was preoccupied, eaten away by worry. But it was not the difficulty of the delicate diplomatic negotiations he was engaged in that spoilt his days and haunted his nights.
A door creaked.
The ambassador rose, furious, ready to drive away the unwelcome visitor and then suddenly froze. He glanced around for his sword which, unfortunately, he had abandoned out of easy reach.