Familiarity In Shadows

### Summary

Seven years after tragic circumstances caused the disbanding of the original Cardinal's Blades, l'Armand finds himself summoned before Richelieu once again, with a proposition that he may be unable to refuse...

Midnight blanketed Paris, the darkness obscuring much to the eye of the untrained as it draped over the Palais-Cardinal, both the office and residence of Cardinal Richelieu. Constructed under command of Louis XIII, it was a gift to his most trusted and loyal advisor, a complex spanning several grand buildings and gardens, located within a stone's throw of the Palias des Tuileries itself.

Completed two years past, it not only housed the Cardinal, but his entire staff and military force. While the King was protected and accompanied by his musketeers, the Cardinal had his own regiment, the Red Guards as they were known. Unlike the musketeers, easily recognised by their blue capes and emblazoned with a silver Fleur De Lys, the Cardinal's men were instead cloaked in scarlet, and their Fleur De Lys a striking silver. As of the latest count, the Red Guard stood at over two hundred members. Wherever the Cardinal went, he was accompanied at all times by forty guards, while the remaining force stood on duty of various manners within his residence, or spent their time off either sleeping, maintaining their equipment or making themselves useful. Richelieu demanded the utmost perfection from his Red Guard at all times. They must be military men, having served in the King's army for a minimum of five years. And then they were tested, for obedience and loyalty, having to swear an oath to protect the Cardinal with their lives, as they would have done so for the King. Their outfits and armour must be immaculate at all times, and their apparel in the finest condition; Richelieu suffered nothing less.

It was under cover of this night that three figures strode through the courtyard, the sound of their boots against the dusty ground the only disturbance. The men to either side were of the Red Guard, while the man in the middle was a tall and imposing character.

Dressed entirely in dark colours and leather, a cavalier hat typical of the military regiment of France stood atop his head, with a matching feather that blew softly in the night-time breeze. There were no words exchanged between the men as they made their way towards the entrance of the grandest of the buildings belonging to the complex. They were spied on through a nearby window. As the Cardinal's guards were required to be stationed at the Palais at all times, a sizeable barracks had been built to provide both room for training and accommodation. It was here that the guards slept and wasted away any free time they had, playing cards, dice and passing the hours. Eager eyes stared out into the dark, trying to paint a picture of the obscured figure that was being led on by two fellow guards. “Whoever it is, it'll be someone important. His eminence wouldn't be receiving just anyone at this time of night.” A young voice came from the man staring out the small window, his eyes still fixated on the scene beyond, trying to get a semblance of what was occurring.

“Whoever His Eminence is receiving, and for what purpose is His Eminence's concern only, and not ours.” This new voice belonged to an older gentleman, with a gruff tone that conveyed minor annoyance towards the voyeurism of his younger colleague. “It is our job to guard the Cardinal, not speculate on his affairs.”

He sat on a stool, part of a small round table and observed the hand of cards he had drawn, fanning through them and placing two upon the surface. “Two kings. At this rate, you should actually learn to play before you lose any more of your wages.”

The doors of the building opened, and the three men were greeted by the sight of a marble hallway, lined with Red Guards, armour polished and gleaning, while armed with muskets and halberds, ready to strike at a moments notice of any disruption. They three continued down the corridor, coming to another set of doors, leading into another hallway of the same type, with the same armed soldiers. There were three of these before access to the Cardinal's chambers was available, and the protocol was for any who came before the Cardinal to be searched and questioned at the beginning of each hallway, as precautions. Richelieu was the second most powerful man in France next to the King, with some even saying it was Richelieu who ruled, with the King a mere puppet and figurehead. But protocol it seemed, would not be at play tonight. The three reached the final hallway, the doors leading into an antechamber. The two guards accompanying the man took their leave, making their way back through the corridors, while the man stood face to face with another. He was dressed similarly, though all in black, from his doublet to the feather in his fat. The most distinguishing feature was the ornate patch that covered the man's left eye.

The silence was only momentary before the man in black spoke.

“His Eminence will see you now.” His words were swift and direct, but his tone oozed caution and a hint of distaste. The other man strode towards the grand door of the Cardinal's chambers, before being stopped by the man in black. “I would have left you to drown in the gutter.” He whispered threateningly, his lips next to the man's right ear. This evoked no reaction from his target, who instead paused next to the door.

“Then it has never been clearer that we are men of different calibre Rochefort.” With that, he pushed the doors open and walked into the study before him, closing the doors behind him, much to the chagrin of the one named Rochefort. The room was large, plush and cosy, though poorly lit, with only the light of the log fire burning and a small candle upon the desk in front of it. The man's eyes surveyed the room's inhabitants, with the Cardinal seated before him, another, likely an assistant standing beside the desk, and in the corner, a gilded cage of gold, containing a sleeping dragonet, whose ruby coloured scales were reflecting the light of the flames. There was silence in the air before the man spoke.

“Cardinal.”

The man to the side of the bench, clearly some sort of scribe and fellow member of the clergy, practically leapt to action at the utterance.

“You will address His Eminence accordingly! Do not take your foul presumption that......” Without speaking, the Cardinal slowly raised a hand for silence, with his assistant immediately ceasing.

“Enough Pierre-Joséph.” The scribe bowed low. Pierre-Joséph was Cardinal Richelieu's most senior scribe, a position he held among several others, and it was his 'senior' title that gave him both his unwaiverable defense of the Cardinal, as well as his arrogance.

“My apologies Your Eminence. I only wished to....” Again, more wearily this time, the hand was raised, and several moments passed. “Your presumption for what I wish is not what I require of you. Now, leave us.” The scribe seemed to be puzzled by the command. “But Your Eminence, do you not wish me to....”

Though he did not show it through any language of his body, the Cardinal's growing annoyance was clear to all in the room.

“I have no interest in engaging in a debate on the matter. Leave us. And shut the door on your way out.” Pierre-Joséph knew when he had overstepped his boundaries.

“Of course Your Eminence.” He bowed low, before scurrying like a rat from the study, emphasising the slow close of the doors behind him and leaving the two men alone. After another round of silence, Richelieu broke the stalemate.

“I trust you didn't find the journey too taxing.” He addressed the man before him with a dry tone of seeming disinterest, but with his eyes fixed on him like a hawk.

The man who had been summoned at this strange hour was Etienne du l'Armand, a former musketeer of the King with great renown, or infamy depending on who you asked. l'Armand stood taller than most men, possessing the hardy build and stoic demeanour of a soldier. He wore a dark doublet, with a leather baldric containing his blade, a heavy rapier of German origin known as a Pappenheimer, sturdy but lethal as the mirror its owner.

Well past his fiftieth year, his face was still handsome, but worn from battle, a scar displayed upon his cheek, while his dark brown eyes conveyed all the emotion in the world, but none at the same time. His salt and pepper beard and greying hear completed the weathered look, giving him a dignifying but intimidating visage.

“You summoned me, Your Eminence.” There was not an unfamiliarity between the two. While a soldier of the King, l'Armand had served under the Cardinal seven years prior to their current meeting, though not as a Red Guard. He had in fact been the Cardinal's chosen leader of a band of highly skilled military men, tasked with carrying out missions of great importance to King and country, but that were to be carried out in secret.

“An astute observation, Captain.” The word caused l'Armand to wince. He knew that Richelieu used his old title as a barb against him. “How long has it been? Seven years?” Richelieu knew exactly. A meticulous schemer, nothing escaped his notice. His body may have been racked with rheumatism and ongoing struggles against tuberculosis and fevers, but his mind was as sharp as it had ever been.

“Yes, Your Eminence. Seven years almost to the day in fact.” The back and forth between the two seemed akin to a game of chess, with each contemplating the minimal, but more successful counter to the other. Richelieu huffed weakly, groaning as he forced himself up and out of his chair, slowly making his way over to the cage, where he unlocked the latch, causing the dragonet inside to stir. He took several chunks of meat in a dish beside the cage, and held them out in his palm for the beast to consume. At first, the dragonet lashed them with his tongue, analysing their authenticity, before greedily gobbling them up with an almost violent foray. Richelieu stroked the creature's long neck, with the dragonet almost purring in response, before the latch was once again placed, and Richelieu returned to his chair, seating himself once more with clear strain.

“Marechál was another gift given to me by the King. I have come to adore him, and him I, and spend much of my time doting on him. But as is the nature of animals, if I were to suddenly deny him of sustenance, he would not hesitate to turn on me, even attack me.” He was toying with the other man, and l'Armand knew it. Richelieu was never one to reveal his intent immediately. He loved nothing more than to play a game of intellectual cat and mouse with those around him, hoping they would indulge him. But l'Armand was not in the mood.

“I assume you summoned me for a reason Your Eminence. Or am I here only to verbally spar with you?”

“Blunt as always Captain. You have clearly not lost your jagged edge over the years.” As if Richelieu would not know, l'Armand thought to himself. He would have known l'Armand's very footsteps over the past seven years, so flush with spies was he, and so armed with details in order to carry out his whims on others. “So let us get to the point. Though I will confess, I was always disappointed that you refused to humour me. But so be it, not all victories can be won.” He turned in his chair slightly, leaning more towards the warmth of the fire. “I have need of your services once more. France has need of your services once more.”

The words stirred a mixture of feelings and emotions with the soldier. All his life, he had lived to serve his country, serve his King. He had enlisted into the military as soon as age would allow, and risen through the ranks faster than nearly any other had in living memory. He was seen as the perfect soldier, the perfect commander of men. One of the most accomplished swordsmen France had ever known. He had influence, admiration, wealth. But his fate had changed once he had accepted to serve under the Cardinal.

He had led and carried out many successful missions with his secretive cohort, dubbed 'The Cardinal's Blades'. They were then utilised at the infamous Siege of La Rochelle, tasked with infiltration behind enemy lines to break the siege. But they wee betrayed from within, and all but himself, the traitor and another were slaughtered. As shadow operatives, Richelieu cut his ties to them, but not before stripping l'Armand of his titles and renown, leaving him to his own devices. For the best part of the last seven years, l'Armand had lived as a vagrant, a drunk plaguing the streets of Paris, and had only come to resemble his old self once he had been tracked down and required to attend and audience with Richelieu, though he was not old as to what the meaning of his presence being required was. Being told he was once again in need, stirred the flames of pride within him, but also those of anger, and betrayal. Richelieu never made a move without purpose, and without some sort of personal gain in play.

“And why does France have need of me after all these years Your Eminence?” He spoke politely, but with clear scepticism in his voice.

“You know of France's troubles Captain. The English come from one side, the Spanish from the other. The Huguenot criers seek my head, and the nobility seek my displacement from office. These matters, I do not require your assistance with.” He paused, placing his fingers in alignment with one another and to his lips, staring into the fire, before turning to face l'Armand. “Old enemies are gathering in the shadows, and are posing a greater threat than ever before. I therefore, require your oath once more. The Blades must be reformed.” l'Armand had suspected as such, but it was still a shock to hear. Seven years ago, Richelieu had mercilessly cut off any ties from the remaining blades, leaving them to rot in obscurity, after having saved France a handful of times. And now he wished their reform, just like that?

“It is with regret that I cannot carry out that which Your Eminence wishes. I cannot lead a group of dead men.” There was a sliver of a smirk from the corner of Richelieu's lips, but it was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

“Just so Captain. But I speak not of the men who fought beside you and died at La Rochelle. I happen to know that over the past seven years, you have made many new......acquaintances. Several of these individuals being of no small notoriety.” l'Armand was taken aback.

“Your Eminence, you cannot expect me to once again lead a band, when that band is comprised of a rag tag bunch with barely any military experience between them? The blades, all of us were soldiers, all of us......”

“Are no longer alive.” the Cardinal interjected. “I am aware Captain. And yet I cannot lend you men serving under the King, and think their absence will go unnoticed. I am afraid l'Armand, that the circumstances call for you to be.....flexible.” Richelieu reached into a desk drawer, and withdrew a ring. Made of silver, it was scuffed, but the motif was still clear: the Fleur De Lys, behind a pair of crossed rapiers. He analysed the piece before placing it on the desk. “I believe this is yours.”

“And what if I were to say no?” Richelieu flared his nostrils in apparent amusement.

“You are free to refuse me Captain. This is a request, not a demand. Only, understand that in refusing, you may never again take back that which you lost.” Richelieu was dangling a carrot in front of him. After the disbandment of the blades, l'Armand had lost everything. And here he was, presented with a chance to regain it. But to what end? Richelieu would have obviously been desperate to ask for his aid once more, after he so casually threw him away. With the Cardinal, there was always an angle at play.

“If I agree to this. What do I gain?”

“Why, the knowledge that you are once more serving King and country. Is that not enough?” l'Armand knew he was playing a dangerous game, by seeing just what the Cardinal would offer, and whether he would return l'Armand to his former life.

“So you would no longer call me Captain out of jest? And what of my former holdings?” Richelieu gently stroked his moustache, keeping his eyes affixed to l'Armand.

“For one in such a low bargaining position l'Armand, you seem to be expecting an unwarranted return. However.” He paused once more, returning his fingers to their triangular structure as they touched the tips of one another. “Provided your efforts this time do not result in failure. I shall return to you that which you covet so dearly. But. Fail me, and your name, and all that goes with it, shall be consigned to the void of history.”

Minutes later, l'Armand emerged from the building doors, the same of which he had entered flanked by the two members of the Red Guard, again accompanied by them. The dark was still covering the world in its embrace. Mothers and babes still slept. But the tarnished ring now sat upon l'Armands finger.

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