The stone by the crossroads marked the grave of a witch. One of Satan's mortal servants, or just some pitiful wretch who didn't know when to run? The woman who had been Milady had no idea, and didn't care. Decent, Godfearing folk avoided this place after dark - she was neither, and it was perfect for her purposes.
She tied her horse to a tree leaning out of the hedgerow and walked up to the boulder. The almost full moon cast just enough light for her to manage without a lantern. How considerate of her former employer (never master), to have finally betrayed her on a night that was ideal for making a clean getaway. But he'd never troubled himself with the practicalities of life.
The weeds around the stone were tall and tangled. Nobody had disturbed them. She knelt and forced the tough stems aside, ignoring the sudden burn of the nettle stings and the sharp prickles of the brambles. She was used to pain. She dug into the soft, damp earth at the base of the stone with her hands, tearing through the mat of thin roots and feeling the soil work its way deep under her fingernails.
The box was only a few inches below the surface. A long sigh escaped her lips as her fingers touched the rough wood. She freed her little prize from its hiding place, and returned to her horse. The coins and jewels in the box, together with the little cache of oh-so-embarrassing letters would be enough to set her up in whatever new life she chose.
Under the circumstances, she wouldn't risk trying for any of the other caches of spoils she had hidden around the outskirts of the city. Athos and his toy soldiers were a bunch of romantic fools – having let her go free, they wouldn't pursue her now unless she provoked them. Her obsession with her former husband was a folly she could no longer afford; it had cost her far too much already. Richelieu was a different matter. He saw her as a dangerous loose end, a liability to be dealt with. The last five years had shown her how long his memory was, and how far his influence extended.
Nowhere in France was safe. England was out of the question – the de Winters were no more forgiving than the Cardinal. She was a city dweller at heart. Cities offered so much: luxuries, crowds to hide in, victims to prey on. She needed somewhere that would offer protection from the Cardinal; somewhere where a rich patron would welcome her unique talents.
Maybe somewhere where her knowledge of Richelieu's secrets would be a valuable commodity? Yes, that would serve very well.
Discarding her old identity and allegiance as easily as a snake shed its old skin, the nameless woman who had once been Milady rode off along the moonlit road. Heading for Rome.