Whatever was going on in the king’s mind, or in the heart of his wife, France had no heir.

That wasn’t quite true. There was the king’s younger brother Gaston. But what a disaster he would be. Constantly plotting against Louis and Richelieu, unreliable, untruthful, disloyal and still without any male heirs of his own in any case, Gaston was the last person that any responsible courtier wanted to see on the throne of France.

No wonder, as he felt his own health failing, that Richelieu had been secretly doing all he could to provide France with an heir. Some time ago, he had persuaded the royal couple to resume their marital relations, and they’d done so. Such things could be known, and Richelieu knew. But nothing had come of it yet.

One could only pray.

They were at the queen’s apartments. He was told to wait. Then the door was held open.

She received him in an anteroom. Her bedroom was just beyond. She was wearing a nightgown. It seemed she was already retiring to bed. But she smiled at him pleasantly as he bowed.

“Good evening, Monsieur de Cygne. I’m sorry if you got wet coming to see me. You have a private letter from the cardinal?”

Despite her strict Spanish upbringing, there was a gentle playfulness in her manner that was entirely pleasant. She was certainly a good-looking woman, Charles thought. Her hair had a natural hint of red, her eyes were large and brown. She was full-breasted, her skin perfect, her hands especially beautiful. For just a second his face may have given away that he was thinking how delightful it must be to share her bed, but he quickly lowered his gaze. If she noticed, she probably didn’t mind.

“I was to deliver it personally, Majesty, into your hands alone.”

“Then I thank you, monsieur.” She smiled again. “Good night.”

“Your Majesty.” He bowed again and began to withdraw.

It was as he did so that the door of the queen’s bedroom beyond slowly swung open, allowing him a glimpse into a large, high room, softly lit with candles.

And then he saw the man. It was only a fleeting glance, since he instantly looked down, pretending to have seen nothing as he backed out of the anteroom. A moment’s vision of a man in the candlelight.

It could have been King Louis. He thought the king had gone away hunting, but it could have been King Louis, certainly. Only, in that brief glimpse, he could have sworn it was another face he knew.

Mazarin. The Italian. It had looked like Mazarin.

He’d been away in Italy recently, and on his return, Richelieu had sent him off on another commission. Charles had not thought that Mazarin was in Paris.

Ten minutes later he was back in Richelieu’s office.

“It is done, Eminence. I spoke with the queen and gave her the letter myself.”