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Cardinal Richelieu clasped his cold, aged hands behind his back and under his cape as he strolled along behind the covered arcading of the castle. The quickly setting sun cast a protective shadow over nearly the entirety of the courtyard off of the foreboding cream walls of the castle. He made a sharp left into the garden, stopping just inside the shrub-lined lawn.
Armand had begun taking walks in an effort to minimize his headaches by getting some fresh air. The easy sights of fluttering birds, the calming breeze, and sound of soft running water eased the tension behind his eyes and within his sinuses. It allowed him a break from his desk and paperwork.
His eyes followed his hand, which he had placed under the petals of a cerise flower. He cradled it like a baby bunny before pulling sharply upwards to release it from the nest of greenery. Part of the stem came with it, which he held in his other hand and twirled around with his index and thumb. He observed the petals and pistils of it engulf each other as the perspective changed by his own will. Armand recalled the bush to belong to the camellia family.
He set walking once again, enveloping himself further into the castle’s inner bailey, as he continued to observe the flower in detail. Rows of bushes provided refuge to mating pairs of blue tits which sang in a distinctive pattern. Armand watched one of the yellow-bellied birds hop along a branch then fly off in front of him. As he followed the bird with his eyes across the garden, he set his sights on something of far more importance.
A woman, hands and fingers interlaced within a flower bush resting in a hanging planter, staring at it like it was a sister of hers. He couldn’t exactly make out her expression, but her demeanor was that of joy and serenity. He descried over her naturally wavy strawberry blonde hair, which reached down past the middle of her back. Her coral-coloured gown was that of a peasant woman’s, lacking any sort of frills or gemstones, yet fitted her wonderfully. The sash that tied at her waist did not match the rest of her outfit, likely handmade and purchased or found secondhand. She clearly was not of royal descent. For that reason, the Cardinal picked up his pace and approached her.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” He barked, not realizing he still had the flower in his hand. She slowly released her grip on the bush and turned nonchalantly. Her face was that of a beautiful young woman’s. He reminded himself to not be allured as they continued conversation.
She bowed in respect. “I am Maeve de Laborde. Your reputation precedes you, your eminence.”
Armand huffed, taken aback by her unconcerned and unafraid demeanor. “What are you doing here?” He repeated.
Maeve clasped her hands together. “In my father’s absence, I have taken over his occupation as gardener. I apologize for any confusion or worry I may have caused with my presence, your eminence.” She bowed again.
He straightened out his back, raising his head high in a manner of superiority. He looked at her down his nose. “Do not let it concern you. You’ve caused neither.” He approached and circled her like a curious, yet predatory animal.
She nodded, receding away from his inquisitive movement. He lowered an eyebrow. Maeve inhaled, “Is there something I can help you with, Cardinal?”
He stopped, looking into the planter she was examining earlier. “Who was your father?”
“Sabastien de Laborde, your eminence.”
“And why is he absent? Has he no sons that can take over a semi-brutal job instead of a gentle creature like yourself?” He spat in disdain for this man he’s never met.
Maeve looked down at the flower in his hand, a saddened expression washing over her sweet face. “My father has succumbed to tuberculosis.”
Armand’s expression changed from arrogance to sympathy. “God rest his soul.”
“Indeed, your eminence. I have no brothers, nor any siblings for that matter... I am alone.” She turned and tipped the watering can, showering a bed of tulips. Maeve glanced onto his face, a look of pity still remained. She continued, “I am alone, your eminence. However, do not mistake that for loneliness. My father was a long-time sufferer of the ailment. Death, as I like to think of it, was the final blessing God brought him. His misery ended, finally. I take comfort in the idea that he is beginning his second life beyond the cloudy gates of Heaven, joined by my mother and his fellow deceased friends.”
He straightened out his back, nodding.
Maeve gasped, realizing what she’d said could come off as rude. “Apologies, your eminence, for speaking out of turn.” She stood up straight again and bowed.
“No need for apologies… mademoiselle.” He approached her, and once again she backed away. Like how a marionette moves at the will of strings and sticks, she maintained a constant distance of at least 5 paces.
He curiously raised an eyebrow. “Why do you retreat from my person?” The Cardinal aggressively approached. She clamoured away. “For your own safety, Cardinal,” She began loudly, which stopped him in his tracks. Maeve lowered her voice, “I’d advise you to stay away from my being.”
“For what purpose?” He said, growing angry.
She sighed, “Every person I come in contact with grows sick from the same illness as my father. The doctors I’ve seen are baffled at my case. My breath is poison for others, yet I feel no symptoms.”
Once again, a wave of sympathy came over him. “You truly are alone.” He said.
She swallowed, not fearing his presence for her own safety, but instead for his. “That’s correct, your eminence.” Maeve lowered herself onto her knees and began pulling nuisance plants out of the tulip bed.
He studied her, staying out of her personal space. She worked tirelessly, collecting weeds into a pile then disposing of them into a wheelbarrow. Her nature was astounding and gorgeous to Armand. Her duality of personality, from strength and command to ladylike civility and submission, tempted him into the psychological need for close proximity. He had to remind himself to stay away, for his own health’s sake. But the inability to physically praise her caused such internal turmoil. He settled on imaging her beauty amplified by the camellia in his hands.
She turned to face him, brushing her hands together to rid them of filth. “I do appreciate your kind presence, Cardinal. Not many take notice of the lone peasant gardener.” Shadows cast dramatically over her features. Woefully he admired her heaven-blessed face, cracking the tiniest, toothless smile. “Dusk is upon us, your eminence. I’m sure you’re a busy man. I don’t mean to keep you.” Maeve shook her head.
“Not at all.” Armand responded. He held out the flower at arm's length. She hesitated briefly before taking it, also at arm’s length. Their fingers touched for a brief moment as they passed gifts. She massaged a petal of the flower between the first two of her fingers, letting the softness be a form of therapy. “Thank you, Cardinal. I should be going.”
“Will you be tending to the gardens tomorrow, as well?” He asked.
She giggled, looking down at the ground and then back at him “Sure. I’ll be seeing you then, I assume?”
He nodded. Maeve smiled, “Then I bid you adieu, your eminence.” She curtsied.
“To you as well, mademoiselle.”
The following afternoon, Armand stood at his study's towering windows waiting for her to appear once again. Staring down at the garden from his study wasn’t the same as standing within it. Sure, he could see the bird fluttering and the water flowing in the fountain, but both of these things seemed like tiny dots to him. He climbed down the grand staircase and out into the garden once again.
He felt much better, once he inhaled deeply the sweet breath of fresh bundles of flowers and the cool breeze of mother nature’s swirling breath. An aquamarine-coloured roller spun in-flight above his head, nearly colliding with another of its species and ruffling a few feathers. He watched a golden feather flutter down and land in the bushes. He trailed past the rows of bushes and towards the fountain that held the king’s likeness.
His attention caught on Maeve again. This time, though, it was warm and welcomed. Her hair, the colour of a fox’s coat, blew in front of her face in the gentle gale. She was picking at an olive topiary, which lived in a decorative pot at about waist height. She hadn’t noticed him by the time he was within safe distance of her.
“Hello, mademoiselle.” He said quietly, hands clasped behind his back.
She perked her head up, immediately curling her lips into a kind smile. “Good afternoon, Cardinal Richelieu.” She bowed. “Are you doing well?”
“I’m doing fine, yes. What are you doing, if I may ask?” He inquired, seating himself on the edge of the fountain.
She turned her attention to her hands, which were still working. “Oh, I’m pruning this little olive by hand. As my father taught me, you must be delicate with olives, especially those of the topiary variety. Killing one is like killing an angel. Each and every topiary plant is so carefully crafted. The process of weaving two plants around one another in a spiral with twine and patience takes years.” She plucked a spotty leaf off, examining it in her hand. “Apologies, your eminence, I was rambling once again.”
“No apology needed. I had no idea the complexity of them.” He shook his head.
She nodded, joining him an appropriate distance away on the fountain cement. He looked at her, admiring her side profile as she stared down at the leaf in her hand. She chuckled, “This looks to be the work of caterpillars. Not harmful in handfuls, but can destroy an entire garden in armies. Luckily, the birds make meals of these insects.”
“Have you any experience in literature, mademoiselle?” He interjected.
Maeve looked over at him, confused. “I’m sorry?”
The Cardinal repeated, “Have you any experience in literature?”
“Ah, no.” She glanced back at him, crushing the dead leaf in her palm. “No, I never learned how to read. Nor did either of my parents.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got a beautiful command of words, for someone who doesn’t read.”
She smiled, staring at the ground, allowing the bits of leaf to catch the breeze and blow away. “Thank you, Cardinal.”
He inhaled, “How long have you been ill?”
“I assume at some point I became infected from my father. He died about a month or so ago. Ever since then, I’ve been pestilential. I’m not sure how long I’ll remain so.”
“Is it… painful? Emotionally, I mean.”
She sighed, blinking away tears. “Infinitely so. I live in existential heartache, unsure of whether or not I’ll remain infectious for the rest of my days. Unable to feel intimacy, or behave normally. But, I ask myself, what is the alternative? Inflicting others with the same pain? No, I’d rather suffer alone for the greater good of Paris and my fellow mankind.”
He admired her, slightly bewildered. “I hope you don't mind me saying this, mademoiselle... but your sacrifice is incredibly noble.”
“Oh, Cardinal, I’m just doing what I hope anyone would do.” She shook her head. “But I accept your compliment.”
He softened his gaze on her eyes, grinning. Her light, endless, brilliant eyes entranced him. Without thinking he scooted his body closer, to which she immediately retaliated by jerking her body to her left. “Cardinal…” She whispered to herself.
“What’s the chance I’ll actually catch it, though?” Armand uttered impatiently.
Her troubled look said everything for her. He continued, standing up, “I’m an antiquated man, Maeve. I’m unwell. I fear I do not have many years left.”
She lowered her eyebrows, pursing her lips. “Please, just… Allow this old Cardinal a bit of grace?” He stuck out his hand towards her. She sighed, reluctantly taking it and rising to her feet.
Her hand was as soft as the scruff of a cat and as warm as the radiating heat of a dying fire. “Walk with me?” He asked with puppy-dog eyes. She tried to hide her smile, but eventually nodded.
Their walk in the garden was pleasant. Armand pulled her in, turning hand in hand contact to arm and arm. It took Maeve by surprise. “Cardinal…” She said in a hushed voice, “What if someone sees us?”
“Don’t you worry, dear. The only people who have free access to this bailey are the king and queen, yourself, and I.”
She gave a perturbed look. “Won’t the king and queen be suspicious?”
“Nothing I can’t explain away.” He smiled, stopping and turning to her. He clasped her hand in his, kissing it softly. Her cheeks grew flushed, smiling sweetly.
She inhaled, hesitating with her next phrase. “Forgive me, if this is rude to say, your eminence, but… You’ve been incredibly trusting of me, despite your reputation.”
He released her hand, beginning to make pace around her. “What reputation would that be?”
“Well,” she paused to think, figuring out how to word it as kindly as possible, “For someone of your power, people are naturally a bit intimidated by you. I mean, you can order to have anyone killed at any moment, and needless to say there’s a lot of people who… want you dead.”
He raised an eyebrow, shifting his gaze from the ground to her face. “I suppose. But to be completely honest, mademoiselle… You strike me as someone who’s trustable.”
Maeve cocked her head. Armand stared at her, gauging her reaction. “How so?” She asked.
He chuckled, approaching her and cupping her face, staring down at her lovingly. “It’s in your eyes. Those darling blue eyes.”
“Armand…” She whispered, a mix of loving reciprocation and worry painted on her face.
He kissed her softly and fairly quickly. When he ceased, she slowly opened her eyes, the setting rays of sunlight glinting off of them. “Won’t you join me in my chamber, Maeve?”
She nodded, “Yes.”
Their meetings became more frequent, the Cardinal paying visits to her in her own home. The saddening sight of her home. How drafty and lonely of a meeting spot was it? Armand couldn’t let her continue to sleep on haystacks infested with weevils. Eventually, he paid for her to have a nicer place just next to the castle. He paid for her everything out of his own pocket. One could mistake it as a whiff of generosity, coming from his starkly contrasted prideful and wrathful reputation.
While being spoiled by him, Maeve never ceased her gratefulness. Every gift to her was as unexpected as that first camellia. He admired that within her.
Soon, though, Armand grew sick, inflicted with the illness that she had warned him about upon their first meeting. More and more days he spent in the bed made for two. She resigned from her royal gardening occupation to spend more and more of her days in his quarters, looking after him. Much like her indebtedness, her level of sickness hadn’t wavered. She strangely remained nearly unaffected. Much like the nesting songbird and a tree branch, their mutualistic relationship proved to be perfect.
One morning he woke up in the early hours from a coughing fit, self-induced while he was asleep. He searched for a cloth on his bed stand blindly, spitting out his excess blood into it. His vision focused on Maeve, standing in the intruding sunlight, hands clasped in front of her. He nearly mistook her for an angel.
“Maeve…” He called out, raspy-voiced and weak. He reached out his hand towards her. She swiftly made her way over to him and took it, kneeling down next to him.
“Yes, my love?”
He could barely keep his clutch on her. She brought her other hand to his, rubbing them together to try and give him some warmth. In recent months, he had grown hollow-cheeked and pale as a goat’s fur. His angular hands bluntly jabbed into her soft, lively hands.
He wheezed another series of coughs out. She closed her eyes, letting a tear drip down her face silently.
“Maeve… I fear I don’t have…” He paused to gasp air in, “I do not have many hours left.”
He reached out and touched the hair framing her face. “Stay with me.” He said, which they mutually knew was his final command.
She gasped, sobbing now. She nodded quickly, “Of course, my love.”
She waited patiently at his bedside, not getting up to grab a stool or a more comfortable position in case he passed in the time it took to do so. She didn’t care what discomfort she was in. All that mattered was him. The only action she dared to do was to place a kiss on his hand or his cheek every once and awhile.
With his other hand, he held something out to her. She cradled his palm, tenderly opening it to reveal his polished metal rosary. She bit her lip, looking into his eyes, which said a thousand words without making a sound.
He breathed his last choking breath, the scent of death beginning to assault her senses. She wailed, holding his deceased hand and burying her face into his lifeless shoulder. She shouted his name repeatedly in vain, desperately attempting in any form to catch his attention. Other people, who didn’t matter to her, filled the room one by one, as if they were watching an increasingly pathetic play. She required three musketeer men to detain her and pull her away from the body. Maeve hysterically watched the faces of everyone in the room, solemn indeed, however nowhere near the amount of grief needed to her. He deserved all the tears in the world, to her.