A little while before, Agnes had seen a black coach arrive. An elegant woman in a veil, wearing a red-and-grey gown, had descended from it in the company of a gentleman. The latter had paused for a moment to adjust his mask and Agnes, incredulous, had the time to catch a glimpse of his face. It was Saint-Georges, the captain of the Cardinal’s Guards. He and the woman had watched the completion of preparations before being joined by Gagniere and Savelda, with whom they exchanged a few words before turning toward the ruin in whose cellar Agnes was being held captive. The prisoner quickly withdrew from the window where she was spying on them and feared for a moment that they would come to see her, but the coach left with all of them except Savelda, driving off in the direction of the keep, which it entered by means of a drawbridge over a ditch filled with bushes.
As she knew that the ceremony would not take place until night, Agnes had resolved to wait until dusk before acting, and thus take advantage of the evening shadows.
The moment had come.
In the now darkened cellar, she turned toward the dirty obese woman charged with keeping watch over her, but who in fact almost never lifted her nose from her knitting. The fat woman was the first obstacle Agnes needed to overcome. The next was the closed door and the sentry that Savelda had prudently left behind it.
“I’m thirsty,” she complained, having noticed her guard’s red nose, a clear sign of a fondness for drink.
The fat woman shrugged her shoulders.
“Can’t we even have a pitcher of wine?” Agnes wheedled in an innocent voice.
The other woman reflected, hesitated, thought about the pitcher, and ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, eyes filled with longing.
“I’d give anything for a cool glass of wine. Here, this is for you if you want it…”
Agnes removed one of her rings and held it out. In the fat woman’s eyes, greed was now combined with longing. But still she hesitated.
“We deserve a little wine, don’t you think? After all, we’ve been shut away down here for hours now.”
Narrowing her eyes, the fat woman licked her lips, her mouth dry. Then she set down her knitting, murmured something that sounded like assent, stood up, and went to knock on the door.
“What is it?” ask the sentry on the other side.
“We’re thirsty,” grumbled the woman.
“So what!”
“Go find us a bottle.”
“Out of the question.”
“Then let me go find one.”
“No.”
Although furious, the fat woman was about to give up when Agnes approached and showed her the ring again.
“The girl can pay.”
“With what?”
“A ring. Made of gold.”
After a short instant, Agnes heard the bar blocking the door being removed.
And smiled to herself.
“Let me see,” said the man as he opened up.
A few minutes later, Agnes came out beneath a sky of ink and fire, wearing the sentry’s clothes and equipped with his weapons. Their owner was lying in the cellar, a knitting needle planted in his eye as far as his brain. The fat woman was stretched out nearby, a second needle sticking out of the back of her neck.
Agnes carefully surveyed the surroundings, pulled the hat down on her skull, and, keeping her head slightly lowered, moved away praying that no one would hail her. She saw a masked rider approach who spoke with Savelda without descending from his mount and then spurred the horse toward the keep.
She went in the same direction.
20
Arriving as night fell, Laincourt discovered the old castle lit by torchlight and lanterns. He observed the stage where the first initiation ceremony would take place, had a look at the future initiates-wearing masks like him-waiting there, saw Savelda, and directed his horse toward him.
“You’re late,” said the Spaniard upon recognising him.
“They must be waiting for me.”
“Yes, I know. Over there.”
Savelda pointed at the impressive keep and Laincourt thanked him with a nod of the head before continuing on his way, not noticing that he was being followed.
If he was late it was because he had, after presenting the conditions set by the Black Claw to the ambassador of Spain, waited in vain for his contact to show up. The hurdy-gurdy player had not appeared at the miserable tavern in the oldest part of Paris where they ordinarily met and, running short of time, Laincourt had been finally forced to leave. Consequently, no one at the Palais-Cardinal knew where he was at present.
The castle keep was in fact made up of three massive towers, joined by ramparts as high as they were and enclosing a steep-sided, triangular courtyard. It was a castle within a castle, to which one gained access by means of a drawbridge, and where there was an immediate feeling of oppression.
Leaving his horse in the courtyard near a harnessed black coach, Laincourt entered the only tower whose embrasures and openings were illuminated. The marquis de Gagniere was waiting for him.
“So the grand evening is here at last,” he said. “Someone wishes to see you.”
Laincourt still did not know whether or not he was going to be initiated in accordance with his demands.
He nodded before following Gagniere up a spiral staircase that rose up into the tower, its bare walls illuminated by the flames of a few torches. They climbed three storeys filled with flickering shadows and silence to arrive in a small windowless room lit by two large candelabras standing on the floor. The marquis knocked on a door, opened it without waiting, and entered ahead of Laincourt. Located at the very top of the tower, the hall within had two other doors and three arched windows looking out over the inner courtyard far below. A curtain closed off an alcove to one side and on a chair in front of more large candelabras sat a young blonde woman, wearing a mask and a red-and-grey gown. She had a superb black dragonnet with golden eyes with her, sitting on the back of her chair. Richly attired, Captain Saint-Georges was standing to her right and Gagniere placed himself to her left, while Laincourt instinctively remained near the closed door at his back, between the two swordsmen on duty as sentries.
He removed his mask in the hope that the woman would imitate him, but she chose not to do so.
“We meet for the first time, monsieur de Laincourt,” declared the vicomtesse de Malicorne.
“No doubt, madame,” he replied. “I can only say that the sound of your voice is unfamiliar to me.”
“It is rather unfair,” she continued without acknowledging his remark, “because I know how highly I should regard you. At least if I am to believe monsieur de Saint-Georges… And even monsieur de Gagniere, normally so circumspect, tells me that you are, shall we say, a rare find.”
On hearing the compliment, Laincourt placed his left hand on his chest and bowed slightly. But this preamble did not sit well with him. He sensed a threat coming.
“However,” said the vicomtesse, “your ambitions might seem overweening. Because you are demanding nothing less than to become an initiate, aren’t you?”
“My situation is extremely delicate, madame. I believe I have always displayed perfect loyalty and I must now count on the help of the Black Claw against the cardinal.”
Laincourt knew he was risking his all at this precise instant.