Chapter Fifty-Seven, The House that Richelieu Built, by Corso

The stable is in shadows, they have only one lantern set on a pile of crates. ‘Can you saddle a horse in the dark?’ Lucien asks.  ‘I am happy to saddle yours if you find it difficult,’ Athos replies.  Lucien smiles.  His brother is tense, anxious to get on the road, but not without humor.  He hands Athos pieces of thick cloth to muffle his horse’s hooves on the cobblestone streets.

They returned from the interrogation of M Kryle to saddle horses, grab a few belongings and start on the ride toward Espandes.  Athos is galvanized by what they learned from the slippery M Kryle.

‘We knew it was Radu who took Alessandra from Saintonge, but not where he took her,’ Lucien ties down his pack. 

‘We know where,’ Athos is adamant. ‘It is the house that Richelieu built on Rochefort lands.  He is buying back his property, and he put her in that house. She is there Lucien…we are close!’  

Lucien nods in agreement, but he is worried. They have been close before.  ‘We will walk a ways to see who is interested enough to follow us,’  he says leading his horse from the stable.  ‘Do not trip over the drunks,’ Lucien advises, ‘they are pesky piratical types.’

‘They would take ill of that?’

‘They might think you’re a thief stealing their drink and make a ruckus to wake the dead.’

‘Which might get us dead.’

‘That too.’

The wind is cold, unsettled lowering clouds permit only fitful moonlight. They walk silently along cobblestone streets, Lucien directing their route through a maze of dark streets and alleyways, stopping often to listen for footfalls or hooves on cobblestones.

 ‘Where are we?’ Athos asks when Lucien stops to remove the cloth.  Lucien points to a looming building, ‘that is the Hotel de Ville. We take the ferry across the Rance Estuary and avoid the marshland. There is a good road leading inland where we can ride faster.’

‘The ferry operates at this hour?’ 

‘It will if I say so.’

The ferryman’s cottage is made of stone, with a thatched roof, set near the pier to which the ferry is tied.  At Lucien’s insistent banging, a man opens the door, gray hair sticking up, barefoot and without a shirt.  He yawns widely, showing gapped yellowing teeth.

‘Are you awake Derry?  We need a quick ride across.’ 

‘Ach! M Grimaud.  I’ll wake the lad, although your bangin’ may ha’ done it for me.’  He has the musical lilting tone of the Irish.

Lucien looks past the ferryman to a strapping youth already sitting up on his pallet and reaching for his shoes. It is not long until they lead their nervous horses from the dock to the ferry, secured firmly to the dock.  The lad throws off the ropes and steps on the deck poling into the estuary.   Lights wink on the distant shore.  They soothe their anxious horses, listening to the low voices of the ferryman and his lad, and the lap of small waves against the ferry. Lucien glances at Athos, staring intently toward the approaching shore. He can feel the force of his determination.  He blows out a breath and looks back out toward the sea.

‘What is it?’ Athos’ voice is quiet.  Lucien shrugs and continues to watch the clouds building over the sea.

‘Say it.’

‘Rochefort has misled us before.  He likes to taunt. It is how he inflicts pain.’

‘Yes.’ Athos faces him, the intensity in his eyes boring into Lucien.  ‘But I know she is there Lucien. I can feel it.’

Lucien watches the wavelets, silver tipped as the moon peeks through.  He turns to Athos, his expression grave and meets Athos’ eyes for a long moment.   ‘I understand that call,’ he says quietly. ‘I never argue against it.’

He wonders if he should try to apply a gentle braking on Athos’ enthusiasm, not wanting him to rush into a new hope, only to have it vanish once again – another one of Rochefort’s deceptions.  It would go hard for Athos.  A man can only take so much of that.

They reach the dock, and Lucien deposits a generous quantity of coins in the ferryman’s hand.  ‘You did not see us tonight.’

‘We never seen anyone,’ the ferryman grins and makes an impatient gesture.  He pockets the coins and uses his pole to push the ferry back into the estuary.

Athos sets a blistering pace. They change horses in Saint Domineuc and then in Rennes and again in Grand Fourgeray.  They cross the Loire River by ferry and continued south, with the Sevre River on their left.  In Reze, a short distance from Nantes, bleary eyed and hungry, Lucien leads them into the tidy yard of a small tavern inn.  They need to change horses again, eat and sleep for a few hours.  At least Lucien hopes they will sleep for a few hours.  They need their wits about them when they reach their destination. 

‘Does this not seem like a story to read in a chapbook, among the morality tales and fairy stories?’ Lucien spears a hunk of potato and chews. ‘A spy imprisoned, presumed dead, his lands taken by a ruthless nobleman. Then the spy turns up alive but deranged from torture and works his way ruthlessly into a king’s service and then is attacked, again considered dead! But he lives! And now he wants his lands back along with a great deal of vengeance.’ Lucien spears a chunk of meat. ‘If we were not living through it…’ 

Athos regards him frowning and seeming unamused.  Lucien shrugs, ‘you see the result of two days with no sleep, and little more than a bite of bread.  You are hereby warned.’ He drains his tankard and lifts it for the serving woman to bring more. 

Athos spears a choice piece of meat. ‘This stew is delicious. You know these small inns well.  Do you provide the wine?  It’s quite good.’   

Lucien nods,’ I have worked along this coast for many years.  Good people, they know how to cook and yes, I provide the wine.  I must have something I can drink.’  He drains his tankard, sits back, and regards Athos.

‘We know that Richelieu was here during the siege of La Rochelle, building great sea barriers and planning death through starvation to thousands of Huguenots.  He allowed the chateau to fall into disrepair, ignored the tenants and did not work the land.  So, what did he do with it?’

‘He built the house.’

‘The house built by Richelieu is now owned by Rochefort.  What do we suppose he does with it?’

Athos shrugs, ‘he has many houses and moves around among them.  It is hard to know where he could be. He might like this one because it is well hidden.’ 

‘I have been in the cove and on the beach, but I have never seen a house as you describe.  You said the walk with the sourcier was through a dense wood, and you saw a gate.  We cannot storm a gate as we did at Saintonge.’  How do you propose we get in?’

‘I know you are not fond of tunnels…’

Lucien lowers his tankard and raises his brow, ‘you are about to suggest we dig a tunnel?’

‘How do you feel about caves?’

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‘Careful!’ 

Lucien strains to hear Athos’ whisper.  He can barely make out his shape in the darkness.  If there were a moon, its light would not penetrate the thick foliage overhead. The air is cold, damp, a whooshing wind waving the upper branches of trees. In the distance thunder rumbles.  He can smell the storm off the coast over the ocean and wonders if it will stall or make land.

He stands perfectly still, looking up at the swaying trees, his senses probing, listening, and scenting the surrounding forest. He reaches out to tap Athos’ arm, a gesture to keep going.  The density of the wilderness is daunting, they move branches aside, step cautiously over shrubs, disentangle their feet trapped by vines.  Athos insisted they leave the horses at a small inn as the rough terrain and forest would be too difficult for riding.  He was right.

‘I suppose this is necessary?’ Athos’ quiet disembodied voice is impatient.  He knows where the gate is, but Lucien insisted on a more comprehensive reconnaissance, persuading his brother that they did not know the number of men inside, the interior of the house or the terrain – other than it seems practically impenetrable.  But he insisted they must at least look.  They could not go in without knowing how they would get out.  By what means would they get Alessandra through these woods?

‘Could be worse,’ Lucien murmurs.  Athos’ voice is skeptical, ‘how exactly?

‘We could be waist deep in a marsh…or already drowned in one.’ A deep chuckle from his unseen brother, ‘so we are lucky.  I feel better already.’

They struggle through tangled hanging vines, wading through stiff abrasive shrubs.  Lucien almost runs into Athos who has stopped.  ‘The fence,’ he whispers.  The fence enclosing the property is a wall covered in vines, shielded behind heavy vegetation.  They push on to follow the wall and keep the house in sight.  ‘Not too many lights,’ Athos comments.  He steps from a thick copse of trees and grunts in surprise. Alarmed, Lucien hurries to him stopping abruptly, equally startled.  They are standing on a road.  In front of them is a sturdy wooden gate, locked and chained. From behind the gate, a thin stream of smoke from a chimney rises in the air.

 ‘Interesting,’ Lucien says softly looking down at his feet on a well-kept roadway.  ‘The house is invisible within this wilderness, and yet here is a decent road leading from it.’   

‘It would accommodate a carriage,’ Athos mutters.  ‘There must be a stable,’ Lucien adds.  They exchange glances thinking the same thing.  Horses.

Hoofbeats followed by a clinking of metal break the quiet of the night and they quickly duck back behind the trees. Voices drift, indistinct but clearly men’s voices.  They peer around the trees cautiously.  Two figures are riding out, stopping for one man to dismount and relock the gate and chain. He lifts the stirrup over the saddle to adjust the girth strap.  Both men wear cloaks with hoods drawn up covering their faces.  They talk in a familiar manner, perhaps about the weather as one man looks up at the cloud cover and the threat of a storm. Thunder reverberates in the distance, followed by a flash of lightning that briefly illuminates the sky, revealing his upturned face for an instant.  They ride away into the darkness.

‘Did you see his face?’ Lucien asks anxiously. ‘I did not get a clear view.’

‘Neither did I,’ Athos grumbles.  ‘But at least two are gone.’

‘And here I thought it was going to be hard.’

‘No time to waste!’ Athos declares, turning away from the gate, ‘we can get to the headland faster this way.’

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Their plan is to use the cave to get into the house.  They hurry down the rocky path to the opening, hidden behind a wide row of hardy plants surviving rocks, salty air. and harsh ocean winds.  Lucien watches the beach and the cove as Athos goes into the cave to light the lanterns. The surf pounds against the two rocky arms enclosing the cove, throwing up white spray.   Little moonlight escapes the fits of scudding clouds and normally white tipped waves are gray in a moonless night. Seaward, Lucien sees a curtain of rain.  He shivers in the cold sea wind.

‘Here!’  Athos hands him a lantern and they move deeper inside the cave to hide the light from anyone on the beach or in the cove.

‘Slowly,’ Lucien cautions, ‘this type of rock is dangerous for drip holes and hollows to catch a foot and twist an ankle.  Sinkholes too, there might be caves under us.’  They move cautiously, the entrance widening into a large chamber, the ceiling a dark irregular shape high overhead with pointed shaped projections thrusting dangerously downward. Dark openings indicate passageways into other chambers.  Some are small and would require a man to stoop to get through it, while others are large enough to walk through. 

‘This cave has been used,’ Athos comments holding up his lantern.  Lucien moves to his side.  Scraped into the rock are crudely shaped letters.  ‘Someone tried to write their name.’ Lucien traces the shapes, ‘this is a V, this one an E?’  He stops talking as he recognizes the last letter.  Ver has been to this cave.  He walks farther into the chamber, holding the lantern up to scan the wall for more markings.  There is a crude outline of a shield.  On it is a sharp beaked bird, roughly hewn lines depicting spread wings and long talons of an eagle.  He knows what it is – a symbol from the crest belonging to the family of Benito de Soto. 

‘I found the steps,’ Athos’ voice echoes slightly in the chamber. ‘Cleverly done.’   A jumble of rocks from a previous cave-in conceal the carefully hewn steps. A chain is affixed to the wall as a handrail, and sconces designed to hold lighted torches are positioned along the steps leading upward.  Athos starts up, pausing to wait for his brother.  Lucien grasps the chain, a booted foot on the first stair.

‘Lead the way.’

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There is no landing at the top, only a wooden trap door which they must lift and set to the side as quietly as possible. They boost themselves to sit on the edge and then stand in a bare room, with a very tall ceiling and wide doors at one end.  On the floor are looped hooks to secure something to the floor.  On the wall are hooks large enough to thread cable.  A winch Lucien realizes with a start.  He had seen similar winches in Amsterdam used to move goods in multi storied canal houses.

A low door is set into a wall perpendicular to the double doors. There is no latch to open it.  Athos tentatively pushes on it and the door springs back soundlessly, revealing a wide passageway.  They step into it and listen carefully, as they are sure they are within a secret passage that runs within the walls.  If they walk along it they will find a narrow staircase to the upper and lower floors.   They pick a direction and walk a short distance stopping on either side of a closed door. They hold their breath, pressing an ear to the door, listening intently.  Athos shrugs, ‘could be ten men in there…or no one.’

‘Let us introduce ourselves,’ Lucien draws his sword and makes a sharp push on the door.  It springs open and he leaps through it crouched and ready, Athos on his heels. 

The room is empty and has been unused for some time.  White cloth covers the furniture and the paintings on the walls.   Thick damask curtains are pulled over the tall windows, and the air is stale. It has been a long time since the windows were opened to fresh air. Bookcases are devoid of books, a marble fronted fireplace cold and empty. They walk to the double wood paneled doors leading out of the room, listening and then opening it slowly into a shadowed gallery.  There are no voices, footfalls, or doors opening or closing.  The house is silent.

‘We should separate.  I will search the upper floors,’ Athos says with urgency. The men at the gate could return or there may be more men in the house or on the grounds.  He watches Athos return to the passageway, the door closing and disappearing into the silk covered wall.   Lucien turns back and steps into the gallery. 

Richelieu did not build this house on a grand scale, but he incorporated every element of design and interior style as though it were a magnificent chateau.  Decorative pilasters align with majestic windows along one side of the gallery. Silk covered cushioned benches are set within shallow alcoves. It was a private place to read or study the portraits on the opposite wall.   He remembered Marie telling him of Richelieu’s interest in art.  Men in uniform or formal attire are displayed in ornate gold frames. They stare down at him with vague disapproval.  There is series of intricately detailed paintings of household scenes that he recognizes as the work of a Dutch master.   One painting of striking color and imagery causes him to stop walking.  It is both compelling and disturbing.  He wonders what it was that intrigued Richelieu to collect a painting of a strong woman caught in a dramatic biblical scene.

He walks on and stops at a large portrait set in a separate panel indicating its special significance.  It is a woman in her middle years. She wears a black dress, blending with the black background – save for the large red swathe behind her.  Strings of pearls drape across and down.  She wears an elegant ruff on her collar and her dark hair is carefully coiffed in the style of her time.   Her gaze meets his.  She looks out at those observing her, her expression firm, not unkind or severe, but resolved.  He leans closer to see the name elegantly engraved on a discreet bronze plaque…Suzanne de la Porte.  She is Richelieu’s mother and his paternal grandmother. 

There are other portraits of men, but no plates to identify the subjects and he does not recognize anyone.  He reaches the end of the gallery and opens a door into a large room.  More furniture covered with sheets of white cloth.  There is a massive oak desk, bare save for a beautifully enameled tray for quills and an ornate silver ink holder.  He walks behind the desk and sits in the large high-backed chair, spreading his arms over the top.  He is sure this is a desk Richlieu would consider worthy of him. He looks up toward the second fireplace on the opposite wall and sucks in his breath.

A large portrait of their mother is over the mantle.  She is a young woman, her dark hair softly styled and curled to prettily frame her face.  The artist painted her with a pale complexion, her cheeks still pink with youth, her lips slightly rouged and shaped as was fashionable rather than the full expressive shape so familiar to him.  She wears an elegant low-cut gown, soft lace lining the bodice that barely covers her shoulders. Her expression is composed suggesting a quiet nature, not a woman who enters any room carelessly merry.  Her gaze is steady although averted from the observer.  He steps from behind the desk to look closer and he sees a slight melancholy in her large expressive eyes.  He has seen that look before, his fingers twitch as he wishes to take her hand in reassurance.    

He looks around the room that must have been the center of their father’s life in this house.  It served as his office, the furnishings expensive and comfortable.  He wondered at the empty bookcases, imagining the shelves filled with fine leather bound books, folios, scrolls and boxes of documents and letters. In between he would display favored gifts from foreign dignitaries.  Elegant decanters of wine and crystal glasses would gleam on silver trays set on polished tables.  Here, he could sit in total privacy, in the warmth from his large, marbled fireplace, surrounded by silk covered walls and his collection of paintings.  Portraits of Marie adorn each wall.   

There are several of Marie at different ages, starting with one from childhood with her mother and brother Francois.   Richelieu’s sister, Francoise, was a pale woman with unremarkable features and a soft smile.  She is seated between her two children who lean against her with shy but curious smiles. There are others with Suzanne de la Porte and members of the larger du Plessis family.

One painting draws his attention.  It must have been painted close to the time of her mother’s death when Marie and her brother were sent to live at the Richelieu estate.  She would have been a little older than his daughter Rosie, not a child, but still a young girl.  He steps closer to the painting, with a sense of unease.  She is sitting on a blanket, at the edge of a pond, her bare feet tucked up, her toes visible.  Her hair is down, gathered loosely with a ribbon and a gentle breeze stirs her long tresses.  A food basket is open, and her eyes cast down to the psalter in her lap.  She wears a simple gown as a girl would on an excursion to a picnic in the country.   The artist has taken the liberty of painting the dress as slipping down one shoulder, exposing her pale smooth skin.  It is an image of innocence, a naïve girl reading her psalter unaware of herself in a pastoral setting where evil should not be imagined.  Lucien curls his lip.  He has daughters and he knows very well how dresses for girls are made and fastened.  The artist took great liberty in this fiction, or he was instructed.  Lucien clenches his fist, resisting the urge to tear the painting from the frame and destroy it. Instead, he turns on his heels, yanks open the door and strides into the next room.

There is no shrouded furniture in this room. The air is not stale but scented with recent occupation.   A fire burns low in the grate and a crystal wine glass filled with red wine, a plate with crumbs of a meal are on a low table next to a comfortable chair. 

The desk is covered with neat stacks of documents and folios. Several books are on the shelves, but most of the space is occupied by leather folios, scrolls, ledger books and elegant inlaid boxes used to keep letters or important documents.  Each collection is separated by wooden markers extending from the shelves.   Names are on each marker.  He steps closer, startled to realize he knows some of those names – courtiers, rich merchants and guild presidents, nobility, priests, publishers, tax collectors, customs officials, tavern owners and brothel keepers. 

 He takes a folio from the desk to leaf through the documents inside, finding personal correspondence copied from an original, receipts, notes from watchers on daily habits, destinations, encounters with others.  Accounting ledgers filled with entries for expenses, income, debts, loans, payments, and letters from banks and lawyers.  Still holding the folio, he looks around the room.  Every wall is lined with shelves holding this massive assemblage of leather-bound folios, record books, scrolls of legal documents and finely tooled document and letter boxes.  The vast collection of information Richelieu gathered over his years in the King’s service is here – in Rochefort’s manipulating hands.

He looks up at a distant noise, trying to determine its direction.  He tosses the folio carelessly onto the desk, documents spilling out to the floor. He strides from the room knocking over the wine glass to shatter, a stain of blood red wine spreads across the expensive carpet.  Let Rochefort know that his inner sanctum has been violated. 

He steps into a corridor, an entry way and staircase in front of him.  Another corridor to his left must lead to the kitchen, storerooms and out to outbuildings or a stable. The noise repeats, water splashing, the sound of voices.  Someone is in the kitchen. He strides in that direction, sword in hand.

A middle aged woman is bent over a large worktable, its surface strewn with clumps of dried plants and herbs carefully separated.   She is grinding a mixture in a shallow bowl.  A man at the fireplace stirs a fragrant soup in a small cauldron.  He gapes at this ordinary domestic scene, comfortably familiar.  It contrasts starkly to a house secreted behind thick walls within a dense wilderness, shrouded rooms, and evidence of chilling obsessions.  Lucien sniffs – beef broth and garlic. 

The woman sees him first, gasping, one hand scrabbling at the back of the man. He looks over his shoulder and it is Lucien’s turn to gasp.

‘Dr Guenaud,’ Lucien lowers his sword. ‘How good to see you again – though unexpected.’  He indicates the cauldron, ‘garlic soup, it served my daughter well in her illness.  You must have another patient here.’

‘Your Grace!  Dr Guenaud is astonished.  He smiles, ’indeed!  Most unexpected but pleasing none the less.  I do have a ….’

‘I beg pardon M,’ Lucien interrupts with a sudden sense of urgency.  ‘We saw two men leaving, are they expected to return soon.  Are there others in the house?’

‘We Your Grace? Others?’  the doctor looks confused, ‘I do not know if …’

A sudden scream pierces the air, followed by the abrupt sound of a door slamming shut. Footsteps can be heard moving rapidly overhead.

‘Oh, my heaven,’ the woman sets down the bowl. ‘Doctor!’ she cries.

‘She is trying again to run,’ Dr Guenaud says calmly.  He is already removing the cauldron from the fire.  Lucien whirls to the door, poised to follow the doctor.  He starts to speak when Athos’ voice booms through the house…

‘Lucien!  Lucien! Come quickly! She is here!’