CHAPTER ELEVEN

Father Pascal showed them through to a small room at the back of the Chapel. Shuffling to the boarded window at the end of the room, he pulled at the old shutters, allowing a dim light to creep into the room through dusty windows. He then busied himself lighting candles to add to the one that stood burning on the wooden table in the centre of the room. Although it was only midday, the room itself was dark.

"We have more candles than windows," he chuckled, waving for them to sit at the table.

Elizabeth remained standing, ready to help the old priest, should he need it.

Rummaging around in a cupboard, Father Pascal joined them and passed a sewing box across the table.

"Even old priests have the need of a darning needle sometimes," he said, smiling.

He turned to a wooden cabinet behind him and withdrew a bottle of wine and three pewter cups, his old fingers stretching around the rims as he held the three in one hand; his knuckles cracking at the unexpected strain.

"I have little use for the sacramental wine these days."

Catching Treville's eye, he smiled;

"Do not worry, this one has not been blessed yet. Most of my flock have flown."

"I am sorry for that," Treville offered, allowing a groan to escape as he shifting position.

No doubt this man had been a good, kindly priest to those who sought him out.

"No matter," Father Pascal replied in a matter-of-fact way, before looking up and pointing to the ceiling with a tremulous finger;

"He knows where they are; and He and I still talk every day."

Elizabeth smiled, but seeing the Priest's shaking hands, it had dawned on her that, if there was sewing to be done, it would probably be she who would be doing it.

Hopefully, Treville would not be in need of the fancy embroidery stitches that had been drummed into her by her mother since she was a young child. But she cast her mind back to those times and sent a small prayer for her fingers to be as nimble and quick in their next task as they were then.

Treville met her eye as she sat down opposite him to open the box.

"If there are needles in there," he said, "choose a robust one and drop it into boiling water before you use it."

She raised her eyebrows at him, wondering whether he was delirious. But he gave her a serious look.

"I would never hear the last of it if I did not comply with that particular teaching. Aramis is most insistent on it."

"Aramis...?" she said, frowning slightly.

He smiled. She had met Aramis briefly at the Royal Lodge in the Forest, but they all soon became otherwise engaged in their battle for survival against two sets of assassins.

"The one who tends his beard like a Royal Gardener," Treville said, a smile spreading across his face, despite his discomfort.

"Ah," she laughed.

Father Pascal came back and refilled Treville's cup. The wine really was good. Elizabeth refused his offer but Treville picked up the bottle and poured her a small amount and passed it to her.

"Drink, it will fortify you," he said, firmly. It was no easy task to stitch skin.

As she took it, she laid her hand on his, and nodded.

They were becoming a strange partnership indeed.

She watched as the old priest put some water on to boil on the fire.

oOo

All in all, she made a good job of it. Her stitches were neat and she had been both swift and gentle. Her patient had been still, which had helped in her task.

He had stood up immediately afterwards, pulling his shirt back down from his shoulders. A soldier once more; wanting to get on with it.

It was Father Pascal who stilled him, with a hand gently placed on his shoulder.

"There are rooms here, stay and rest. The old women will not say anything; we have taken in many waifs and strays over the years; we make no judgement."

Treville nodded; suddenly very weary.

Later, after Father Pascal had retired for the night, they sat together in the candlelight.

"You are close to your men," Elizabeth said, picking at the bread and cheese Father Pascal had left for them before he took to his bed.

Treville seemed lost in thought, staring into the fire.

When she saw this closed man was not about to speak, she gently prompted him.

"Tell me about Athos. I saw little of him at the Hunting Lodge."

Treville smiled then.

"Athos is a great support to me," he said quietly. "He has a fine mind for negotiation, and I will always trust him to do the honourable thing. He will be Captain one day, though I doubt he would thank me for it."

"He fully supports you in this venture?" she asked him.

She had seen how Athos had hesitated at Treville's house when he had brought them the Cardinal's letter of authority. He had not been willing to leave them, she thought, but had obeyed his Captain.

"Perhaps not fully," Treville replied, his eyes crinkling in a gentle smile as he thought of his Lieutenant's initial reaction in the Armoury:

"You are speechless ..."

"And you are insane ...with respect."

That seemed now, a long time ago.

"He and I spoke about this injustice after I returned from escorting you to The Chatelet," Treville continued. "But, in this; a lot is down to his planning. So, yes; he does support me."

He picked up the poker and shifted some of the coals around, bringing flames once more to the glowing embers.

"Athos is the finest swordsman I have ever known. I would always have him at my side," he added.

Elizabeth poured wine into his cup and pushed it toward him.

"And Porthos? " she asked; fascinated now by his candour and wanting to hear more. "He brought me food at the Hunting Lodge. He was very kind."

Treville looked a little sad then and pursed his lips, gathering his thoughts.

"Porthos is grieving for Aubin Fabron. It was a cruel twist of fate that that young man died. Apparently, my men all thought he was Musketeer material."

"It was very sad, and so unnecessary," she whispered.

He had never heard her speak ill of Sir Edmund Temple, despite what he had done to her. This was the closest to recrimination that he had heard.

"Porthos is angry," Treville said; "but he will settle. He is spirited; he is always in the front line. And he is fearless; he relishes a challenge. Sometimes, his deeper feelings get the better of him. He is fiercely loyal and, occasionally," he laughed, "he is very wise. He and Aramis have a similar attitude to life."

"Aramis," she said. "He of the well-tended beard," she smiled.

Treville laughed.

She was holding his gaze; wanting more.

"Aramis," he sighed. "What can I tell you of Aramis?"

"He is impatient; he wants answers quickly. He is playful, but he has a good heart. His love of women is well-known; he likes to think of himself as a romantic hero but he does care for them. But he is a fierce soldier," he added thoughtfully, nodding to himself. "He fought bravely and was wounded in the Siege of Montauban and Ile de Re in 1621 and 22. He is the best shot in the regiment."

"You love your men," she said, simply.

"As brothers," he said. "But they will be the death of me," he laughed quietly.

She was still for a moment, before leaning forward; her elbows on the table now, resting her chin on her folded hands.

"And what of you? Jean," she murmured; using his name for the first time.

"What of me?" he said, puzzled.

He had not thought she would be interested in adding his character to her understanding.

"You are a loyal servant of France; a man of honour," she replied, gathering her courage under his steady gaze. "You are guarded, but brave. Responsibility sits heavily on you because you must uphold it. You have the hard exterior of a soldier who does not show weakness," she said. "And yet, you love your men with all your heart."

He huffed, his blue eyes peering at her.

"And they love you and would follow you wherever you lead them," she finished.

"And what of you, Elizabeth," he said quietly, turning her own question on her.

"Me?" she asked, surprised.

"I am equally able to make an assessment," he said, amused at her startled expression.

"You are resourceful. Brave. Willing to try," he began. "Accepting, without judgement. You have borne your recent trials well. Your family should be proud of you."

They fell into a comfortable silence then; their discussion serving to give them succour and strengthen their resolve.

They spent a restful night, all in all.

Two days behind them in the barn they had vacated, Athos was attempting to catch his breath on a pile of hay that Treville himself had painstakingly gathered; but Treville knew nothing of that.

This night, he had lain in a soft bed listening to the sounds of the old chapel building creaking around him, before succumbing to sleep. For Elizabeth, apart from her stay in the Chatelet and her night at Treville's house, it was wonderful to have her own room once more. This one was surprisingly pleasant, with whitewashed walls and a nice quilted counterpane on the bed.

Later, as they made ready to leave, Elizabeth reached inside her cadet jacket and removed a small book, placing it in the old Priest's hands.

He looked down and turned it over. It was an exquisite Bible. When he opened the pages, he saw that it was beautifully illustrated. He was completely lost for words for a moment, before he looked up at her with shining eyes.

"This is a treasure!" he exclaimed, making to push it back into her hands. "It is too much!"

She resisted, and finally, his old hands wrapped reverently around it.

"Do not say anything," she whispered, "it is Cardinal Richelieu's own."

His eyes widened and he looked about to decline once more; the name striking fear even in his old bones. However, she placed both her soft hands on his and shook her head.

"It is alright. He sent it to me." It was not a lie, she thought.

And so, she left this small book, but the help she was receiving was beginning to overwhelm her and she had nothing more to give this gentle man who had taken them both in, cold and bedraggled and bleeding, and had quietly helped them.

"Then, thank you my dear," he whispered, nodding quietly, but unable to meet her eyes again.

There was food on the table in the back room when they gathered their meagre belongings together.

"I told you they would not betray you," Father Pascal said, silently thanking the two old women, his stalwarts in these difficult times.

As they took up their provisions and packed them into their saddlebags, Elizabeth briefly wondered if it was in their rooms that she and Treville had slept in.

"God speed," the old man said, as Treville shook his hand, and Elizabeth gave him a quick smile and a practised curtsey. She had thought to place a kiss on his cheek, but did not know how it would be received; so overwhelmed had he been at her gift.

"Thank you, Father," Treville said. "You do not know the extent of your assistance."

"I know this is something important," Father Pascal replied, meeting his eye. "You are a French man of military bearing and you escort a young English woman. I wish you both well. Be careful, sir."

Treville nodded and then they moved their horses quietly back onto the road.

Elizabeth turned in her saddle and the old man raised his hand, before disappearing back into his own gentle world.

"Let us hope Richelieu does not miss his Bible," Treville said, as they rode off.

Elizabeth caught her breath. She had not known he had seen her part with the book.

Treville's smiles were scarce and his demeanour could sometimes scare her; but she swore she heard him laughing softly as he rode ahead.

To be continued ...