For Jean and Daring ... without your subtle pokes, this one would have never come.
SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Twenty-One: Knowing Thy Place
A roar sounded in the distance, bringing d'Artagnan's attention skyward. The dark clouds looming above were still too far off for it to be thunder. He scanned the cityscape, searching for that violent sound. He inhaled sharply as a billowing cloud of smoke rose into the sky. Only seconds later, he could hear the bells ringing, sounding the alarms at the Bastille.
The Gascon grabbed Ramon's arm, drawing his friend's attention to the smoke over the prison. "I hope they're safe," the Frenchman let slip out. His mind raced, replaying various scenarios as to why the Bastille was now engulfed in flame. None of them ended happily. He swallowed hard. His body ached to move toward the commotion and search out his friends, to know with certainty that they had made it out of the prison.
"Jacqueline can take care of herself, and Siroc and Sancia, mi amigo," Ramon countered as if sensing his friend's thoughts. One hand came up to gently squeeze d'Artagnan's shoulder and pull him from his thoughts.
D'Artagnan shook his head, forcing the disparaging thoughts from his mind. As apprehensive as he was about letting Jacqueline go it alone with Sancia, he knew it had been the right thing to do, the only thing to do. As musketeers, as men of honor, they could no more leave Siroc in the Bastille than they could let the children Sancia was trying to protect suffer in servitude. The blonde woman had left more questions for the Gascon than she had answered; but what he did know was that those children had family somewhere and those families supported his king.
For the sake of those young lives, d'Artagnan and Ramon had changed into civilian attire and managed to escape the military compound undetected after the women had set out on their mission. It amazed d'Artagnan how easily people came and went from the garrison, especially with everyone on alert because of last night's events and the forthcoming auction. He wasn't going to question their luck though, because it meant they were free to do what they needed to. But now … he wondered if perhaps Jacqueline had pressed her luck this time.
The Frenchmen's brown eyes widened, giving Ramon a mournful expression. "I hope you're right, Ramon," he said. He really wanted to go find them now.
"I am," Ramon returned with the usual confident air. "Besides, mi amigo, Jacqueline will skewer you for not following the plan if we try to find them now. We'll meet up with them later tonight like she said." His words were pointed. "You are worrying like a woman." The Spaniard's eyebrows rose quickly, daring the Gascon to refute him.
D'Artagnan grumbled. "Let's go, Ramon." He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the urge to go to his friends. His eyes stole two more glances at the distant flames before he flipped the hood of his cloak up. Begrudgingly, the Frenchman continued up the rue not far behind his brother-in-arms.
By the time the duo reached the Places des Vosges, the rain was lightly splattering Paris. Overhead, a bright flash, followed fifteen seconds later by the crack of thunder signaled the next round of the storms that had hit the city. The bodies that had filled the street, making use of the precious time between downpours, now sought cover where they could find it — in shops, in cafes or even pressed up against the buildings to make use of the small overhangs above.
The musketeers hustled into a series of barns that ran along the Vosges grounds. The gentry of this city section used them as stables, but for the purpose of the next few days, they had been converted into slave quarters. The weather outside had stalled the auction, but it had not stopped those wanting to view the merchandise from patrolling through the four buildings to peer at the stock. Under such pretenses, d'Artagnan and Ramon had entered the structures. They left their hoods up to shield their features from anyone who might recognize them.
Slowly, they made their way through the crowd of nobleman and wealthy merchants, or their stewards. D'Artagnan leaned close to his friend. "Who was it we were supposed to find?" d'Artagnan whispered, lest they be heard.
"Sinjon or Ciel, I think are who Sancia said," Ramon reminded. His dark eyes scanned the chained figures, huddling in the damp hay. He lifted a hand to cover his nose and mouth, hoping to stifle the stench of unwashed bodies. "You go that way," the Spaniard gestured with his free hand. "I'll look down here."
D'Artagnan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth and nose with it. He too was having problems choking down the disgusting odor of this place, but it also served as an additional shield for his face. "Ciel, Sinjon," he called softly as he slowly made his way past the slave stalls. "Ciel, Sinjon."
He paused within a small crowd, examining a mother and her child. Her skin was as black as night and her eyes nearly matched the hue of her flesh. Her downcast eyes held a sadness that pained any man with a soul, yet it did not phase the creatures that gawked at her like she was livestock. Thin, white lines marked the exposed areas of her arms; the markings of a Cat whip were unmistakable. The woman wasn't even granted the decency of proper attire. Instead, she donned a burlap wrapping that barely covered even the modest parts of her body; her child wasn't even offered that.
D'Artagnan fought back the bile rising at the back of his throat. 'Was this what Siroc's life was like?' he wondered briefly, but in that moment, he knew he would never let the inventor or his sister live this life again, even if it meant leaving France forever.
He took a deep breath through the filtering cloth on his face and continued to the next stall of slaves. Once more, he called the two names, but not loud enough for it to draw much attention. He kept walking when no one responded to the subtle inquires and tried again to no avail. He started forward again, but yielded when someone grabbed his boot.
The musketeer looked down at a feminine hand gripping the leather at his ankle. His brown eyes scanned from the hand, up the arm to the face of a woman in her thirties. Her hair was matted at one side, but otherwise drawn back away from her round features into a bun; her face was dirty, dry and worn with lines that aged her beyond her true years. Unlike the last slave, she wore a gray dress with an apron over the front of her bodice and skirts. She also looked as if she had enough to eat — most days. Her copper-brown eyes spoke of wisdom, yet held a flicker of distrust.
Mere seconds passed before the woman released his leg. When she did, the musketeer ducked around the stall and crouched down so that only wooden boards stood between them. "Are you Ciel?" he asked. His mind was on the conversation, but his eyes scanned for any sign of detection.
The woman shifted, sitting back against the stall wall she was chained to. "Yes," she answered, choosing to keep her words simple in the face of not knowing the man's identity yet.
"My name is d'Artagnan," the Gascon identified. "Sancia sent me."
"Sancia!" The woman's voice raised half an octave, drawing the attention of a gentleman close by, but only briefly. She held her breath until he moved along. "You are Sirocco's friend then, a musketeer?" She paused, but not long enough for her converser to answer her questions before adding another. "Are they safe, Sir? Please tell me they are safe."
D'Artagnan opened his mouth, but quickly closed it, unsure of what to tell her. To tell her that they faired well would be lie. He just didn't know the answer, only what he hoped to be true. He sighed, making a choice on the matter. "They are safe, madam." He chose hope. "Sancia sent me to find you. We need to know where the children were taken."
"I-I cannot say for certain, Sir," she told him, a tinge of sadness to her gentle voice. "After Sancia ran away, we were separated."
"Can you…" d'Artagnan's voice cut. Three men entered the far end of the barn, two of which he recognized as Vesey's men. He slipped deeper into the unoccupied stall, finding shadows to hide in. His back pressed to the wood. It wasn't until they passed into the crowd that d'Artagnan relaxed again. "Can you tell me anything about who took them then? Anything to help?"
"A man. He wore a uniform like a musketeer yet it was red. Black hair, slicked backed like the master's." She shook her head, trying to recall any other detail. "Someone called him, Captain, I think."
"Bernard," d'Artagnan growled with disgust. He should have known that Vesey would have the Cardinal's help in his endeavors. What dark deed wasn't the holy man involved in?
"That was it, Sir. Captain Bernard," she affirmed. "But I do not know where he took them." She turned, pressing her cheek against the wall. "Please, Sir, you must save them. I was born to this life, but them… they are like the twins. They were not meant for this life, they…"
"The twins?" d'Artagnan inquired, confused at the reference. His brow furrowed, creasing his forehead.
"Sirocco and Sancia, Sir," she answered. "They were not born to this life. Did they not tell you of their family?"
"Only a little, Madam." In truth, Siroc had told him nothing and Sancia only what pertained to the current situation.
"They were such sweet children." Ciel sighed wistfully. "I remember them from when I was the master's consort, before he destroyed their father, their lives. It is a pity I am but a slave, Sir, for I wish I could have saved them."
"What do you mean he destroyed their father?" More pieces of the puzzle fell together, but still not enough for d'Artagnan to see the picture of Siroc's life clearly.
"Monsieur Donatien, their father, he was not a nobleman, but he was of good family and wealth. He served as a musketeer long before the children were born, perhaps even before I. My master sought his cooperation when the nobility revolted against the young king after his father died." She stopped there. Tears formed on the edges of her eyes. It was as much her fault as it was Vesey's that so many lives were destroyed. Vesey used Ciel much like he used Sancia now. "Monsieur Donatien would not join my master. In fact, he had obtained information on the master and was prepared to take it to the musketeers. Vesey found out and destroyed the Marcellus family before Monsieur Donatien could take the evidence to a friend at the garrison. Alas, he and his wife were executed, for heresy of all things, and the twins came to me. It was Sinjon and me who cared for them, raised them."
"You knew all this, yet you said nothing?" d'Artagnan asked. As a musketeer and man of action, he found it difficult to fathom why anyone could stand idly by and watch a man like Vesey destroy people's lives. Briefly, pity for his friend filled the musketeer's heart, but d'Artagnan forced it away. It was the last thing Siroc would want, to be pitied. The Gascon took in a deep breath. He now knew why Siroc hid so much of his life from his friends. The inventor did not want to be seen as a former slave or a creature of pity, he wanted to be seen for what he was today. That was something even d'Artagnan could respect.
"Sir, I am but a slave," she reminded, as if it were the answer to all things. "My word has no meaning. Who would believe one as humble as I?"
There was no arguing with her logic. Slaves had no rights. She was powerless to save his friend in his youth, but at least she was helping to save him now. "Forgive me, Madam."
"I am not offended, Sir. I am what I am, but please, please protect Sirocco and Sancia. I-I am sorry I cannot give you more on the children, but you must find them as well." Her voice filled with the same agony that filled her soul. Her sins were great, and no amount of confessing, she was sure, would change her place in the afterlife. Ciel, like Vesey, had done too much. Her help was too little, too late.
D'Artagnan took another deep breath through the cloth on his face. "You've given me enough, Ciel. I thank you."
"Please, Sir, I require no thanks," she returned modestly. "If you are a friend of Sirocco's, then it is the least I can do." Thoughts of the little blonde boy as a child filled her mind. She smiled whistfully. She loved the boy, as if he were her own. "Sirocco is choosey in all things, particularly his friends. If you have earned his trust, I cannot deny mine."
With that, d'Artagnan crawled to the edge of the stall and then slipped back into the crowd before rising to his full height.
It wasn't until d'Artagnan was several stalls down that he spotted the commotion at the end of the long barn. The trio that came in while he spoke to Ciel stood in front of Ramon. He could see the Spaniard's mouth moving, spitting venomous words from the look on his face. His brown eyes almost glowed with hatred for Vesey's men. It was only a moment later that he saw the poet reach for the hilt of his rapier hidden beneath his cloak.
The Frenchmen uttered a curse as he set into a run. His right hand dropped the handkerchief and withdrew the musketeer weapon also beneath his cloak. The Gascon reached the fray just as the attack began, evening the odds a bit. His weapon came up to block a downward strike. He shoved the man back, giving him some room to scrimmage. He advanced, continuing to force Vesey's man back, when he caught the other two double-teaming Ramon. The Spaniard was slowly being backed into one of the stalls, no matter how he danced. Surprised murmurs swept through the onlookers.
D'Artagnan retreated a few steps to grab a bucket hanging on the wall, allowing his opponent the upper hand briefly. The Frenchman swung the bucket, forcing the man to jump to the side. It was the opening he needed to throw the make-shift weapon directly for one of Ramon's two. It smacked the sandy-blonde haired man right in the back of the head, sending him down to his knees.
Ramon took the opportunity to leap over the fallen man and side up with d'Artagnan. Behind them was the exit. Any other fight, both musketeers would have been more than happy to carry through to the end. But given the nature of their mission, they needed to be free to keep working. Not getting away before the musketeer and Cardinal's guards came to stop the fray would only hinder their investigation – one that was completely unsanctioned by the captain.
D'Artagnan ducked a slice at his head. He dropped down and kicked out, swiping the man's feet out from underneath him. He toppled back and to the right, knocking into his companion and taking him down as well.
"Ramon," the Frenchman shouted. He threw his arm in a wild motion, gesturing for him to get moving. They had to escape from the Vosges. The musketeers sprinted into the downpour and right into eight uniformed musketeers with their swords drawn. Thunder cracked above them. In the middle of the formation was the last person either one wanted to see.
"D'Artagnan, Ramon, what is the meaning of this?" Duval's booming voice silenced all, even the crowd. The soldiers had responded to reports of a disturbance in the stables, but instead the musketeer captain found two of his best men trying to leave in a rush. The day could not get any worse.
D'Artagnan put on an innocent expression as he sheathed his rapier. "Not a thing, Sir," he said, almost too happily. "We were just out for a walk." Inwardly, the Gascon swore like a sailor on leave.
"Si, Capitanee," Ramon agreed with his friend. The large smile enveloped his face, but slipped when Vesey's men came up behind them with their weapons drawn. Spanish expletives escaped under his breath. There was no way they were getting away with this.
"A walk?" Duval retorted coolly, eyeing the soldiers in civilian dress and Maurice Vesey's lackeys behind them. From the state of the three men, there was no doubt in the captain's mind what these two had done besides disobey his orders to stay at the garrison. He was madder than a hornet. "Then I'm sure you won't mind walking with us, under escort, back to the garrison." He glared at each of his defiant corpsmen. "Men, take d'Artagnan and Ramon's rapiers please." They had a lot of explaining to do, but none of it was going to be shared in such a public place.
Ramon was the first to relinquish his weapon, begrudgingly, while d'Artagnan hesitated just a moment too long for his captain. "Surrender that weapon, Private," Duval ordered in a stern voice. At his wits end and on shaky ground with the king, the man would stand for no further defiance from any of his men.
The legend's son growled as he pulled his baldric over his head and placed it in the outstretched hand of the corporal who had taken Ramon's weapon. There was no point in arguing or trying to convince the captain that their actions were innocent. They were caught; they had failed.