"Surrender." Athos growled, his glare even more intense than usual.
Rochefort despairingly took in the three blades aimed at him. Aramis was stood immediately behind him, ready to plunge his sword into the First Minister of France's back once more. He felt his own weapon grow heavy in his hand, somehow feeling useless and unfriendly, as though it too had abandoned him. He had no musket to switch to; even if he had, he would only be able to take out one at best before he got his head blown from his shoulders.
He hadn't felt such pain since he had been in the Spanish prison. Blood was running down his back, hot and thick, from where the blade had entered and where the musket ball still was lodged deeply in his shoulder. There was a small pool forming on the floor by his boots, where his shirt was soaked and dripping slowly.
He was aware that Anne was watching, wrapped quietly in Constance's embrace. His heart thudded with something that almost felt like embarrassment. He didn't want to be like this in front of her, standing in his own blood, not having made a single scratch on Aramis' sickeningly handsome face. A man unable to fight back, a man for whom failure was inevitable, weak and unable to prove his love. He felt a lump in his throat.
He looked at each Musketeer, loathing the sight of each one; Porthos, with his eye scarred, but not by the one he loved; d'Artagnan, impulsive to the point of foolishness; Athos, infuriatingly loyal.
Aramis, with Anne's crucifix around his neck.
He could not fight them.
He hated to admit it. But he could not lie to himself now as he had so often lied to himself in the past. The same lie he had told himself as his Spanish captors burnt his flesh, half-drowned him, left him to starve for days on end. The same lie that he uttered in his oath to Vargas, his pledge of allegiance to a country that did not care if he lost his head in their service, so long as he brought down France before the sword fell.
I am not afraid to die.
But he was afraid.
If he fought on, he would die.
And Anne would never see his love in all its strength.
He dropped his sword, hearing it hit the wooden floor with a final clatter. He stared at the ground, panting heavily and trying to ignore the pain that radiated through his back. Aramis grabbed his arm and forced him to his knees. He cried out in agony. For a brief moment, his stomach dropped. Were they going to kill him anyway? He remembered d'Artagnan's protestations at Louis' order of execution of one of his kidnappers. The boy could be merciful. But the others?
Would they execute him without even taking him to the king?
Athos nodded at Porthos, who swaggered over and knelt down beside Rochefort. The Comte braced himself for a dagger at the heart or throat. But the blow never came.
Instead, he forcefully pulled off the traitor's leather gloves and removed the ring that was the symbol of his power. He tossed it to Aramis, who silently approached Anne and presented it to her. Her fingers closed around it and Rochefort somehow knew that that was the closest that he'd ever be to her touching him again.
"Take him to the King," Anne ordered quietly, "We will explain what he has done."
"We have no guarantee that he'll believe us. Even with Vargas' testimony. He already thinks us traitors and attacking the First Minister isn't going to look great." Porthos stood to address them.
Rochefort felt Aramis binding his hands behind him, then gagging him with a torn strip of his shirt sleeve. The cloth tasted bitter in his mouth. He could smell Anne's perfume on the Musketeers' skin, on the strands of hair that fell forward. Was he just imagining it?
They have no more evidence against me than they did before. The king will not believe them. Perhaps his luck was changing…he'd have another chance to get Aramis arrested and broken on the wheel. Then, he'd put Anne's death warrant to good use- show her that her life depended on him, that she need only love him and he'd burn it.
"I think that he will believe us when he sees this," Anne broke away from Constance and bent down to pick up the garrote. Rochefort felt his heart sink. His crest was engraved into the metal.
Louis had ordered her death. But not by his hand. Only a royal executioner was technically allowed to see through a royal death warrant.
The King would see through any pleas he made. He'd find out that his most trusted advisor, the man he'd made First Minister was a Spanish agent. That he'd lied, murdered and cheated his way to the top. That he'd threatened the Lady Marguerite, made her poison the King and tormented her into suicide. That his wounded eye was not from hunting, but from forcing himself upon the Queen.
There was no way to talk himself out of this.
"What is that?" d'Artagnan asked as he approached to comfort Constance.
Anne took a deep breath before answering.
"It was to be my crucifix."
"On your feet," Athos ordered and Rochefort found himself being dragged along the ornate corridors of the Queen's quarters, towards the King's. Captain Treville appeared seemingly from nowhere to grip one arm, d'Artagnan the other. Anne walked at the head of the group, carrying herself with such a regal grace that one would never guess how shaken she was. Constance held her hand.
Doors and rooms were passed with barely a glance, each empty and silent. The watchful eyes of dozens of portraits judged from the walls, hundreds of years of French kings casting their verdicts on the traitor. The bright light of the midday sky flooded through the tall windows.
It was the longest walk he'd ever made, his mind brimming with lies he could use to defend himself, but none that were convincing. Porthos disappeared down a flight of stairs as they paraded through the palace, confused servants, courtiers and Red Guards filing back in to witness the Comte being hauled along, bound and gagged like a common criminal.
As they approached the door to the King's bedroom, his stomach churned with nerves, something he was unaccustomed to.
The doors swung open and he was flung to the floor before the weak figure of Louis XIII, gasping as the skin on his back tore open again.
Louis stared at the party who had just burst in with wide eyes. Rising from his chair by the fireplace, wrapped in an ornate dressing gown, he seemed unsteady on his feet. He looked first at the injured body of Rochefort, before turning angrily to the Musketeers.
"What is the meaning of this? How dare you attack…!" His words trailed away as Anne appeared in the doorway. "What…why are you doing this?"
Anne gently walked over to him and took his hand. She moved her lips to her husband's ear and whispered softly. Rochefort writhed at the sight of it, jealousy gnawing away at him. When the queen pulled her dainty hand away, the garrote lay in Louis' palm. The king slowly held it up, examining it, taking note of the coat of arms chiseled into its cold metal. Then he noticed the red mark on his wife's neck and realization shone upon his face.
"He tried to strangle you."
She nodded.
"But… but I ordered... not like this… not by his hand… ungag him. I wish to hear what explanation he can provide."
Rochefort felt d'Artagnan pull the cloth from his mouth. He coughed from the sudden freedom to breathe clearly, before words spewed from his lips.
"Your majesty, whatever accusations these people bring against me… I can assure you… this all an elaborate scheme to remove me from your side… designed so that the Musketeer… Aramis… can continue his sordid affair with the queen, to make you, France, the dauphin, vulnerable to Spain's advances…"
Louis cut him off with an oddly firm hand.
"Is this, or is this not your crest?"
"Your majesty…"
"Answer the question Rochefort."
Rochefort nodded slowly. The King already knew the answer- it would be foolish to deny it.
"It is."
"Did you, or did you not try to kill the queen?"
"I…you signed the warrant, your majesty…."
He lifted his head to meet the King's gaze, suddenly very aware of the patch he used to hide his scarred eye, the only gift ever exchanged between Anne and himself that would never be given away to another.
"Your majesty, I love the queen. I… I would never want to hurt her. Never. I was merely acting on your orders…"
"I ordered it to be quiet… and humane, not for you to throttle her like an animal!" Louis could not see Anne's face, but Rochefort could see the betrayal set in her eyes as she realised what her husband had done.
"I beg your forgiveness… I misinterpreted. I assure you, had I known, I would have… your majesty, I thought it best she not go through the torment of a formal execution… a sign of my… our respect and love…"
"He does not love the queen, he lusts after her!" Aramis charged forward, spitting as he spoke, and pulled off the eyepatch, revealing the bloodshot, useless eye. "Your majesty, this was no hunting wound, but one from a hairpin. One he gained when he forced himself on her! He could not have her so he tried to…!" His chest heaved with anger.
"Aramis." Athos cautioned.
Aramis paused to regain his composure, before whispering:
"I beg you, please do not be taken in by his lies. This attack was no misinterpretation, no act of compassion, but an act of jealousy. Anyone, anyone would have known what you meant under the circumstances."
"Aramis speaks the truth." Constance confirmed, stepping forward to stand beside the passionate Musketeer, "This man is a murderer and a liar. Jealous of the love the queen has for you, your majesty. He turned you against her and when she would not love him back…"
Louis absorbed the angry words being hurled at him, face contorting with confusion.
"I cannot believe that a servant of France would behave in such a way!" He finally argued back, though his hand still gripped the garrote. "Rochefort has been nothing but loyal to me. He has saved my life on several occasions when you Musketeers failed to do so! He has protected the queen and my son from many threats, including…" He pointed accusingly, "…from Madame Bonacieux's reckless medical practices. And I refuse to believe that… that he would manipulate… that he would intentionally…well, if he was not an ally to…"
"Rochefort is no friend of France."
The voice was solemn, with a thick Spanish accent. Vargas was pulled around the corner by a smug looking Porthos, hands chained.
"Who are you?" Louis looked startled.
"Vargas. I am in the employ of the Spanish King."
"Dealing in what?"
"Infiltration of the Royal Court."
He fell silent, and Captain Treville stepped forward.
"Explain to the king why you were stationed in France."
Vargas caught Rochefort's eye and the Comte knew that it was all over.
"Your First Minister speaks Spanish very well. His reports were most fluent."
The King gawped at the spymaster. Everything seemed still and silent, endlessly, as he processed the evidence before him. Then, he looked back at Rochefort, with a look that the Comte knew well; the childish anger that often struck with no chance of easing it or changing his mind. He refused to break eye contact, knowing that it would just prove his guilt. Instead, he vowed, he would remain steadfast, brave, as a noble should. He would hold his head high and show Anne that he was just as brave as Aramis, more so, in the face of certain death. If she loved a man who was dedicated to his duty and his God, then he would perform his duty of love to her until he was finally reunited with whatever God had cursed him with such a miserable life.
Perhaps then, when I stand on the scaffold, she will beg for mercy for me?
"Take him to the dungeons." A vein in the king's neck was throbbing with rage. His eyes screwed tightly, a frown heavily resting on his brow.
Rochefort found himself manhandled once again by the king's guard dogs, on his feet and d'Artagnan stuffing the rag back into his mouth, making him gag.
"What are you charging him with?" Treville asked seriously.
"High treason…" the King began.
"Murder. Attempted rape. Assault on the queen." Constance spat.
"Espionage?" Vargas added, leading to Porthos' heavy elbow in his side.
Louis took a step forward to face the Comte. Such a repulsive little man, trying to look authoritative, he thought. It had been so easy to manipulate him. And there was so much more to come. He doubted that they would execute him without a trial. He would have his say, defend his cause.
And he would win.
For Anne.
"You will die for this Rochefort." Louis threatened.
Anne stood unmoving beside the bed. The condemned man searched for any sign of emotion, a tear in her eye or a shaking hand, but found only a cold stare.
He could not look away from her beautiful face.
"You will look at me when I address you." Athos' gloved hand closed around his chin and pulled his focus away from her hauntingly blue eyes. Rochefort was forced to come face to face with the sniveling king that he so despised, to feel the breath that condemned him on his bruised cheeks, to hear a strength in his voice that had been so skillfully suppressed, return.
"You will die for this."
Rochefort swallowed heavily.
"And when the executioner has taken your head, I will send it back to Spain as a warning. To anyone else who thinks that they can touch my queen."