Judith Rock - Plague of Lies

“I suppose we could walk to Marly,” Charles said, without enthusiasm. “People walk to Versailles.”

“Montmorency could be halfway to the coast with the girl by then.” La Reynie pushed open the door, jumped from the carriage, and strode into the traffic jam, holding his silver-headed stick like a weapon.

Perhaps it would have taken longer without his furious orders, but it still took long enough before they were on their way again. They made good time along the rue des Cordeliers after that, and La Reynie was visibly relaxing into his seat when the driver pulled the horses to a bone-jolting stop.

“Now what?” La Reynie shouted.

“They’re taking down a piece of the old wall, monsieur ,” the driver shouted back. “Some of it fell on the street.”

Charles looked out and saw the end of a stretch of city wall straight ahead, beyond a little street that curved to join the rue des Cordeliers. Traffic on the little street was stopped, too, and pedestrians and drivers were gathered where the streets met.

“The stones of the wall are enormous,” La Reynie said, opening the carriage door. “We’ll never shift the damned things.”

He banged his way out of the coach and Charles climbed out after him. A clutch of workmen, stoutly declaiming that it wasn’t their fault, stood leaning on massive hammers as a steady stream of pedestrians picked their way across the huge stones. But the carriages and carts were blocked.

“Turn,” La Reynie told his driver, who had come to stand beside him. “Somehow.” He looked at Charles. “Get in. I’m going to help the driver.”

The driver climbed onto the box, Charles got into the carriage, and La Reynie began working miracles. Standing in the middle of the road, wig flying, he scythed the air with his stick, bellowed directions like a war drum, ran and lunged and turned, and had the traffic reversed and his carriage turned within minutes. Sweating, he flung himself back into the carriage and they were off again.

“We’ll have to take rue de l’Enfer past the walls and turn west again when we can,” he said. “Dear God, I wish I had a drink.”

“Rue de l’Enfer? Why do they call it Hell Street?”

“Because of the traffic,” La Reynie growled. “Why else?”

Once outside the line of the walls and heading more or less west again, the driver whipped up the horses and the carriage leaped forward.

“Making up time,” La Reynie said. “Whatever other treachery is afoot, pray we get there in time to at least stop Montmorency running off with the girl. If that happens, hell will be nothing to the consequences.” He swore as the carriage rounded a curve and he slid across the seat into Charles. “My apologies, maître .” He pulled his coat straight. “There’s been no time to tell the relatively good news I have for you. Your Lulu did not poison Bouchel. One of my court spies learned that Bouchel was helping the Prince of Conti get the reports about our border fortifications. I’ve thought for some time-and so has Père La Chaise-that Conti has a spy in Louvois’s entourage inspecting French fortifications along the eastern border. Though Louvois has returned, the inspections continue. And the spy is still with the inspectors. No, I won’t tell you who he is. We’re giving him a long rope so he can hang himself more thoroughly.”

Charles frowned. “I got to know Bouchel a little at Versailles. You know he looked after Père La Chaise. I never saw sign of any hostility toward the king.”

“He would have made sure you didn’t. And maybe he had none, I don’t know; maybe he was only helping Conti for the money. But I do know that Bouchel’s father was a mason at Versailles when the place was first being built. His father fell from a wall and the overseer forced him back to work, though his leg was badly hurt. The leg made him unsteady and he fell again. That time he broke his neck. Not long after, the king came to inspect the building, and the mason’s mother-Bouchel’s grandmother-spit in Louis’s face and called him a murderer. The king had her flogged. I’ve been told that Bouchel grew up hearing the story.”

“Blessed Mary.” Charles winced. “I would surely hate the king for that.”

“It seems that when Conti heard the story, he saw that he could make use of Bouchel. Bouchel in turn recruited one of the king’s couriers, a young man his own age, whose family is from the village and who knew the story of Bouchel’s father and grandmother. This courier is the one who carries the spy’s letters from the border to Troyes, where he disappears into the old town and passes the letters to someone else. Then someone else brings them to Paris. To the Grand Duchess of Tuscany, it seems. Possibly through your Montmorency.”

“Or his tutor,” Charles said suddenly. “Montmorency could not leave the college or receive anything unexamined. But the tutor could.”

“Yes. While I waited for you, I sent two men to arrest Père Vionnet for questioning. So. The chief of my court spies thinks that Bouchel was killed because Conti is about to change the letters’ route. And that the footman not only knew too much, he was growing greedy for more pay. For his work and for his continued silence.”

“Which is now assured,” Charles said sadly. He was thinking that if Bouchel had demanded more money, it might have been for Lulu. “Well, that’s very good news about Lulu, anyway. That she didn’t kill poor Bouchel.”

The coach leaned precariously as they rounded a corner, and La Reynie clutched at the straps hanging from the carriage roof. Charles braced himself on the seat, wishing more every moment that he were on horseback, though the miles seemed to pass like single footsteps as they hurtled through the bright June evening. He’d never traveled much by carriage and never so fast. Trees, fields, houses, people whirled by so fast, they made his head spin. To his relief, the carriage slowed as the driver pulled the horses to a trot and then to a resting walk.

“What would happen between France and Poland if Lulu did run off with Montmorency?” Charles said. “Would King Louis lose the Polish king’s goodwill?”

La Reynie shrugged. “I don’t know. Jan Sobieski is nobody’s fool. He might be able to see past the antics of two idiot children. In which case, he’d shrug and look for another bride for his son.”

“They’re not idiots. Not even Montmorency. I’ve always found him dull-witted, but he truly cares for the girl. And she is certainly bright enough. But no creature thinks clearly when it’s struggling in a trap.”

“So your sympathies are with those two, are they?” La Reynie said sourly.

“Far more than they are with the king’s greed for glory and power.”

“You’d better hope I didn’t hear that. The king is the head of France’s body. He is responsible for France’s wealth and glory and power.”

“And he’s selling his people, including his daughter, to get it.”

The horses began to trot again, and La Reynie bounced nearly to the roof of the carriage as the wheels hit what felt like a boulder.

“Even if the boy’s not intentionally passing letters,” he growled, “he commits treason if he rides off with the girl. And if he does, for two sous , I’d leave them to get on with it and take the consequences.”

“There’s always the possibility that Montmorency may not come near Marly. God send he doesn’t.”

La Reynie slapped his wig straight after another bounce. “Maybe he’s gone home to his terrifying mother. Or to Siam. Someplace where I have no jurisdiction.”

“If he does try to take the girl, and is caught, what will happen to him?”

“If he’s only being used with regard to the spy’s letters, he might only be exiled. If he’s working with Conti-he could lose his head.” The lieutenant-général lurched against the side of the carriage. “At the moment, damn him, I wish he’d already lost it!”