This is the final chapter. It's been really enjoyable to write, I love this period in history and have read quite a few books about the post-Elizabethan century (1600-1700).
There was at least one failed assassination attempt on The Cardinal in 1636, (see Chapter Five. I Will Give) and during the time of 'the Great Conspiracies' there were probably several more. History has painted Richelieu as a monster, mostly taken from the pen of Alexandre Dumas. He was ambitious, certainly, but also fiercely patriotic and increasingly concerned by the actions of a weak King and the influence of his powerful wife's family, the power of the Nobility and the strength of the Hapsburgs. His demonisation in literature is largely false. I've tried as much as possible to avoid the Dumas version of Richelieu, and stick more to the historical events of the time, but from the point of view of the TV show and The Musketeers generally, one can't help but let Dumas' version creep in occasionally!
CHAPTER TWELVE.
FOR FRANCE.
Having returned to The Residence the day before, she was alone. She spent the previous two days at Richelieu's side, barely leaving his rooms. He returned to her frequently during the course of the day, whenever time allowed. He seemed to derive great comfort from her presence and spending even a few minutes in her calm air, seemed to ease the stresses and strains of his difficult day. Tiredness overtook her when she returned, and that night she fell into a deep sleep.
Minette woke from a torrid dream. There had been a black shadow, cloaked, the flash of a blade, and a thick ooze of blood.
Bathed in sweat, she stumbled from the bed, to fetch a drink. So vivid was the vision that she trembled from head to foot.
By the time, later that day, and much earlier than usual, the carriage arrived for her, Minette was anxious and not a little surprised. She ran up to his chambers, thinking he must be sick...
"Armand?"
He was seated at his desk, when she entered, poring over documents and letters, his face dark and troubled. Head pounding relentlessly.
Perching on his lap, she kissed him, caressing his face.
"I have to go to Vienna."
"What? Why?" Her voice fearful, she knew this to be the most perilous of journeys.
"War is imminent. If France is not to be swept away, we need alliances."
Her stomach churned and her voice grew louder, almost shrill.
"But...it's so dangerous. You have only just returned home, you cannot travel again so soon. France needs you here, the King needs you here, please Armand, please, I don't want you to go, you must not!... I won't let you!"
He pushed her from him, roughly, she fell onto the floor at the foot of his chair. His voice was raised too, harsh and cold.
"I am the King's First Minister, it is my duty to go. Just as it is your duty to do my bidding without question. I am not being strict enough with you, I am becoming soft where you are concerned, you have ideas above your station. Do not presume to tell me what to do, or you will receive a beating for your trouble."
Grabbing the birch stick, from behind his chair, he raised it to her, eyes blazing. Holding one of her hands firmly, he bought it down across her upturned palm with a thwack and she cowered away, weeping. Then, just as suddenly, he saw the look of anguish on her face, and his anger subsided, he sat down in his chair, again, slumped over, hands against his throbbing forehead.
Minette stood before him, small but suddenly braver than she had ever been. Shaking, crying, but looking defiantly at him.
"I'm sorry, Armand...I'm terrified for you, I dreamed a horrible dream, and I don't know it's meaning...there was a cloaked figure...I saw blood.
I'm so frightened for you...I LOVE YOU! ...I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! ...I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
He stared at her in astonishment. Eyes of ice blue bored into her own.
"You love me?"
"OF COURSE I LOVE YOU!...I worship you. I am yours. Even when you no longer want me."
Flushed and bewildered, he raised himself. He leaned his hands against the desktop, back toward her, shoulders hunched, head bowed.
"Leave me." He said quietly.
"But Armand..."
"You are dismissed!" He cried. "GO!... NOW!"
"When I first saw you, I thought you cruel, and I've since heard others tell of your cruelty, and I've defended you," she said quietly, still clutching her stinging hand, she crossed the room, towards the door, " but you have NEVER been more cruel than you are right now."
Her words stung him.
The door closed noiselessly behind her. He stood still for many minutes after, staring at his trembling hands, ashen faced, eyes damp.
It was a month or more before he sent for her again. He returned from Vienna more than a week previously, and she feared he would never summon her again. Her anger had vanished moments after leaving him that day, she deeply regretted her words. She loved him, she swore never to say it to him, but he was everything, he was her life.
Richelieu was at prayer, when she was shown in to him. Making the sign of the cross, he made to rise from his knees, but stumbled forwards. Minette instinctively reached for his elbow to steady him. The change in him was marked, following his journey.
She was shocked to see him.
His face was grey with weariness, bone tired, slack and drawn. Long days of coach travel exhausted him. Fruitless meetings and discussions made his head spin. She helped him to his chair and poured him wine. The hand that reached for the cup shook.
Pity filled her heart.
"You are tired, Master," she said, "you should rest."
"I cannot. My head...my body won't allow me."
"Rest with me."
She led him to his bed, tenderly, he disrobed and she bade him lay down. Then crawled under the coverlet next to him and cradled him against her bosom, gentle massage to his head, until his breathing changed, chest rising and falling gently, he slept deeply.
He'd thought to punish her for her rash words, by not sending for her, but he only punished himself. She alone could soothe him.
His power over her seemed to have diminished, he seemed to lack the strength to wield it. It was almost is if their roles were reversed. Minette, however, remained her same impassive self. Impervious to the change. He seemed old, suddenly, and sick, he needed her, although he would never admit it, either to himself or her.
All his efforts had been in vain, France was at war, and he was worn out. Everything he did, he did for France. Minette knew that he alone was vital to the survival of the country, without him, France could be overrun.
His beloved country, that he sought to preserve, the monarchy he sought to protect, the power of the nobles he sought to curb, all in vain.
Both waking, in the early hours, he turned over in her arms, a tiny whimper leaving his lips. She kissed him gently, touched and stroked him, and it drove him almost to madness; he had denied his own need, tried to ignore it all the time he'd been away, and following his return, but it just made him think of her night and day, whilst he was apart from her. He was desperate, enflamed, barely able to control himself.
"Take me." She murmured, "I'm yours to take."
She moved herself under him, positioning him by her entrance. Without a word, he slammed into her, grunting animal-like, straining every sinew in his desire, he needed to be inside her, each stroke more powerful, he needed to know he was still in charge.
She knew this.
So she began to beg.
She begged and pleaded with him, to allow her to come, he was her Master...she whispered to him...she belonged to him, she would do anything he asked...and...there he was, with his final thrusts as he emptied himself into her, and she followed him with her own pulses of climax.
Exhausted, he rolled away, curling up, debauched, still wet with his own seed and her arousal, he breathed deeply and slept again, wrapped in her embrace.
With the morning, a faint drizzle dampened the streets.
Opening his eyes, he felt her warmth beside him. She was still sleeping. He took her hand in his own and kissed it. Her eyes fluttered, she was awake. She touched his face, and smiled.
"Did you sleep well, Your Eminence?"
He felt more rested than he had for many days.
"I did, thanks to you." He replied.
"God Bless you, and keep you." She said softly.
They broke their fast, briefly, together. Outside the relative peace of his privy chamber, messengers came and went, the corridors teemed with people. Everything seemed upside down, urgent and hurried. Missives were hastily penned and despatched. Brisk meetings over a cup of wine, bread and cheese, desk covered in parchments, maps, papers. Soldiers to deploy, borders to protect, food and lodgings for visiting dignitaries to prepare.
Religious rites to perform, morning Mass to be celebrated, prayers offered, psalms sung. So much to attend to, so easy to be off guard.
There, in the shadows, a hidden menace. Black cloak, hooded, blade concealed. Waiting.
Her coach arrived, to return to The Residence, and, unusually, Richelieu took a few moments to escort Minette down to it himself, his hand resting on her sleeve protectively. Concerned for her safety in these uncertain days, and eager to spend a few more precious moments at her side, although he did not express the feeling to her, or to himself. Carriages and horses were clattering across the outer court, men at arms marching, vendors and tradesmen thronging, bringing supplies to the Palace kitchens.
She spotted the hooded man, at the last moment, just as Armand took her hand to help her inside. As in her dream, he seemed to materialise from nowhere, a flash of metal was all she saw, as he lunged.
Screaming a warning, she threw herself across her Master's body, knocking him to one side, both of them falling almost between the legs of the horse, as it stood harnessed in the traces.
Servants rushed forward to help, some tried to grab the assailant but he melted into the crowd.
Richelieu lay on his back on the damp cobbles, stunned for a moment, Minette sprawled across him, a warm wetness seeping through his tunic.
For a minute he couldn't understand why he felt no pain. Then the realisation hit him, the wetness was not his own.
He raised his head, peering down, feeling for her, she groaned in agony, as he eased himself from under her, cradling her head in his hands and letting her body rest across his legs. A dark ooze seeped from her chest, thick and coagulating, soaking into the material of her dress and into his jerkin.
He cried out, in anguish,
"NO! Minette. NO!"
"Armand..." she whispered, clutching the chain of his cross, pulling him down to her, "it hurts...it hurts...hold me...stay with me...please..."
"WHY? Minette?" He let out a sob, smoothing back her hair with his fingers, "why did you do it?"
"Because I love you, Armand, I am yours."
His face tilted skywards, rain falling faster now, into his eyes.
"Lord in Heaven, I beg you, don't take her." He wailed into the empty air.
His fingers pressed against the wound, red and sticky, as he tried to stem the flow. He lifted her, shunning all help, limp and pale he bore her to his rooms, where he lay her down and bade his manservant send for the physician.
He leaned over her, face close, and placed a kiss on her cool lips.
"Minette, my dear one, my own little one, mon petit chou...don't leave me."
Her eyes opened again, and she smiled.
"Do you love me?" She whispered, a trickle of blood came from the corner of her mouth.
"God! Yes!... More than my life!... I love you for a thousand lifetimes! I love you so much that my heart aches with it. Oh, Minette, why did you do it?" He cried.
She reached to touch his face, and smiled again...
"For France..."
Her hand fell, her eyes closed, and her last breath left her lips with a sigh.
How long he sat there, holding her, rocking gently, he couldn't say. Tunic and cloak soaked with her blood. Weeping. Whispering ' I love you' over and over. Whispering prayers and incantations. His man-servant, stood outside the doorway, letting no one enter, keeping the curious at bay, fending off even the most important. No one must be allowed to intrude on his stricken master.
She was buried quietly in the small cemetery at the city limits. A simple stone, bearing her name, and that she was loved. He could not attend, either as himself, or incognito. It could not be. A wreath of lilies, the only sign of her connection to him. On the funeral day, he remained in his chamber, with strict instructions not to be disturbed. His altar candles lit, he knelt in silent prayer for over an hour, lacking the will or the capability to rise. Empty, bereft, sick at heart.
Armand Jean Du Plessis was not long following her; his enemies circled, his health was failing. His power waned. His personally trained successor, Mazarin, was ready to take his place.
He died the following year, still plagued with headaches that none but she could assuage, and, after lying in state, was interred at The Sorbonne.
On his own instructions, unbeknownst to anyone, his faithful man-servant saw to it, that he was buried with her locket. He wore it at all times, close to his heart. It contained the lock of her hair and her portrait. Shortly after her funeral, onto the outer casing, he instructed the jeweller to add an inscription...
Mon Amour, Ma Vie, Minette.*
(*My Love, My Life, Minette.)
Well, that's the end. Sorry to disappoint you all by killing the heroine, but it was always my intention, right from the start. The story grew as I went along and I'm hoping I've not gone for quantity over quality, considering it was only going to be four chapters originally.
I also swore it would not be a love story in the conventional sense, and, of course, that's exactly what it turned into! I'm a hopeless romantic, I can't help myself! I hope, ultimately, you enjoyed my first attempt at writing The Cardinal. Thanks for reading and thanks for all your comments, they are much appreciated.
