Chapter 25
Treville stood in the chilly antechamber and seethed inwardly, his face an impassive mask. Hours now, the Cardinal's whining functionaries had kept him here. My apologies Captain—His Eminence is at prayer… in a meeting… in conference with His Majesty. Liars. This was another of Richelieu's games. At his side the satchel of documentswas a comforting presence, an unusual weapon to be sure, but it should be effective.
It had better be effective. Joan and his men, desperate to save Porthos, talked him into this scheme and he couldn't see any alternative that didn't end with Joan a prisoner or Porthos a fugitive. But that didn't make him blind to the risks of his current course.
Everything depended on the Cardinal's sense of self-preservation outweighing his devotion to France. If Richelieu called his bluff—if the old snake was confident he could convince the King to forgive his financial improprieties—the whole plan would come to nothing. Then it would be their competing priorities that tangled them in an impossible web of conflicting duties and loyalties. It would fall hardest on Athos of course; the transformation of the last few months had been extraordinary, as he fell ever deeper in love with Joan and settled into his place in the family he had thought was forever denied him. If Athos was forced to choose between Joan's liberty and Porthos' life, it would destroy him.
Perhaps it had been a mistake, to encourage their affair. Thérèse had been all for it, hopeless romantic that she was. But Treville was a soldier, a sworn servant of the King. Did he have the right to conceal the truth of the Circle from His Majesty's most trusted advisor? Not to mention what Marcel Corday might say if he could see his daughter now—gone from a life as a respectable farmer's daughter to a soldier's mistress. She was happier now, as besotted with Athos as he was with her, and revelled in the freedom her new life granted once Athos' menacing presence had driven those pernicious suitors away. But did that make it right? The Church's teaching said No, but those very sermons were delivered by clerics who stepped from the pulpit and went to the luxurious homes they bought for their mistresses.
God, how he hated politics. It made him tired. The endless maneuvering for position, Richelieu's intricate many-layered plots, and the King at the centre of it all. The poor, bewildered King, kept childlike by his advisors so they could distract him with brightly coloured schemes for new streets and palaces, and keep him away from the real matters of State.
The door to the inner office swung open and one of the Cardinal's minions appeared. "His Eminence will see you now." The man's bow was too shallow for a someone as much in His Majesty's confidence as Treville; a calculated insult he chose to ignore.
He strode into the room, his long strides contrasting with the lackey, who tottered along in silly high-heeled shoes that clattered and slipped on the polished tiles. The Cardinal watched him approach, the calm reptilian stare as unreadable as ever.
"You wanted to see me Captain?" Richelieu sounded bored, half his attention on the papers scattered on his desk.
Careful now, don't waste your shot. "The Red Guards arrested Porthos du Vallon. I want him released."
The Cardinal raised one eyebrow. "The man is accused of murder. I can't interfere in the course of justice."
"Porthos is innocent."
"I am told," Richelieu sighed and shook his head in hypocritical sorrow at the sins of his fellow man, "it was common knowledge the victim owed Porthos a great deal of money."
"Calvert was a gambler—a bad one. He owed money to half the men in Paris. His father had to sell property to settle his debts when he went missing."
Richelieu shrugged. "Gentlemen, Captain. The other creditors are men of good breeding who understand matters of honour."
"Are you suggesting it's honourable to play for stakes you can't cover?"
"Of course not. But there are witnesses who say your man threatened to kill Calvert if he failed to pay. One cannot expect someone born in the gutter to behave like a gentleman in these situations."
Witnesses. Of course there were witnesses. It was hardly the first time Treville had seen one of the Cardinal's carefully staged trials. A whole parade of His Majesty's loyal subjects would deliver damning testimony to support the prosecution. Porthos didn't stand a chance. Treville glared at Richelieu. Come on man, say it.
"Of course, I could mention your doubts to the judge…" Richelieu paused for effect. Treville knew how much the man savoured these moments of power, as his latest victim struggled hopelessly in his coils. Treville leant forward slightly, his sign of interest enough to make the Cardinal continue. "And I'm sure any… unpleasantness… could be avoided for your man. Even in such a grave matter as this. But I must ask for some evidence of your good faith in return."
"Such as?" Treville couldn't keep the contempt from his voice.
The Cardinal's cold eyes met his. "The identity and location of Corday's apprentice."
"I don't see what the Circle has to do with this."
"And I see no reason why I should save a Musketeer from a well-deserved fate."
"Because he's innocent."
The Cardinal sneered. "Hardly an appropriate description for any of your men Captain. Whatever his guilt or lack of it in this matter, I have no doubt his crimes more than justify his present incarceration."
Treville shifted uncomfortably. Much as he'd like to dispute that point, his sense of honour made it difficult to do so. He tried to stay ignorant of some of the stratagems Athos and the others employed, but the regiment's love of gossip meant many stories reached him anyway. "He didn't kill Calvert."
"If you wish to put your faith in French justice Treville, be my guest. Corday's apprentice will seek me out in any case."
"You're very confident of that."
"I have experience," the Cardinal studied his perfectly manicured fingernails "of making men offers they can't refuse."
"Not this time." Richelieu jerked back in his chair as the bundle of pages hit the desk, fanning out to reveal the neat columns of figures.
The Cardinal's long fingers touched the documents, his face expressionless. "Where did you obtain these?"
"I'm afraid you need to find yourself a new steward. Soult has left Paris, I believe he was advised to go somewhere warmer, for his health."
"Really? I can't imagine it will help." Richelieu had recovered a little, his voice a menacing whisper full of the promise of sharp knives in back alleys for his fugitive steward.
"Corday's apprentice wasn't tempted by your offer. You'll notice this material is incomplete. Return Porthos—unharmed—and you can have the rest."
"I make a bad enemy."
"So does the Circle. It's served us faithfully for years Richelieu. Don't throw that away. Leave Corday's apprentice in peace and let Porthos go." Treville didn't try to hide his desperation. If anything happened to Porthos, or if Joan feared for the children, her love for Athos might not be enough to make her stay in Paris. And if she ran, with all her knowledge of the mercantile networks in Europe, they might never catch her.
The Cardinal sat frozen in his carved and gilded chair for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought. "I had du Vallon moved from the Chatelet earlier today. I'll send a messenger to his guards and tell them to return with all speed."
Thank God. Treville let out the breath he'd been holding as unobtrusively as he could. "I'll send the remaining documents as soon as Porthos returns to the garrison."
"I expect you to bring them yourself."
Treville bristled with resentment at the demand. Still, who else could do the job? The only ones he could trust with the papers were the men who already knew of their existence. And the potential for disaster if he put Athos, Aramis, or d'Artagnan face-to-face with the Cardinal in the near future… "Very well."
The long, pale fingers swept the loose pages into a neat bundle and deposited them in some hidden compartment of the massive desk. No doubt they would find their way to the fire, as soon as there were no witnesses who might interrupt their destruction. The emotionless eyes met Treville's gaze. "Was there anything else, Captain?"
The dismissal was another insult, but missed its mark. Treville couldn't find it in himself to be anything but relieved at the chance to leave the Cardinal's sinister presence. He strode out of the Louvre the empty satchel flapping at his hip, relaxed at last. He would go home and spend the rest of the day in his room with a bottle of the Burgundy he'd managed to hide from Athos and the others, basking in Thérèse's admiration.
His good mood shattered as soon as the footman opened the door, with the unmistakable air of a servant who had bad news to deliver. The man shrivelled under his exasperated glare and finally mumbled, "Madame Clemenceau asked me to inform you that she and the rest of the household have removed to the garrison."
Next time Treville saw Athos, he was going to shoot him. "Why?" he snarled at the footman, who stepped back a pace. Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan were supposed to be guarding Joan and Thérèse unobtrusively at their home, not taking them to headquarters. They might as well have made a parade to draw the attention of the Cardinal's agents. All that work, to make Joan seem nothing but an unremarkable young woman who'd caught the eye of a soldier, and those three fools had destroyed it.
"I believe Monsieur Athos and his companions have left the city. A matter of great urgency."
"Left the…" Porthos. They'd heard the Cardinal was moving him out of the city and rushed off in pursuit. If Richelieu demanded compensation for damage to the Red Guards (again), Treville would make them all pay. With pleasure. And interest.
His plans for a peaceful day in ruins, the only thing that remained was the Burgundy. Ten minutes later, the leather satchel weighed down with dusty bottles, Treville set out for the garrison.
TMTMTM
The fire had burned down to embers in the grate, their faint red glow the only light in the guest room. Joan sat by the hearth in a plain wooden chair, her eyes gritty with exhaustion, but her mind too troubled for sleep. On the other side of the room, Luc and Clothilde lay huddled together in the bed, finally asleep.
Where were Athos and the others now? Had they caught up with Porthos and his guard before the ambush? Her thoughts swirled with unanswered questions. She imagined every possible outcome from triumphant rescue to tragic failure. She'd seen them fight, that day in the woods, knew how good they were in battle. It didn't help.
A soft tap on the door made her look up. Thérèse slipped into the room, her hair hanging loose down her back, clad in a linen shift and a loose woolen robe that must belong to Treville, its too-long hem trailing on the floor. "I've come to help you with your laces."
Joan couldn't imagine going to bed—better to sit by the fire than toss and turn disturbing the children. But at least if she were undressed, she'd be more comfortable. "Thank you." She stood and turned her back. "Has Treville calmed down yet?"
Thérèse laughed as her fingers worked on the knot and then began to loosen the laces of Joan's bodice. "I left him sleeping—it didn't me take long to turn his mind to happier things." She tugged on the last loop of the laces and pulled the bodice open. "There you are."
Joan took off her dress and draped it carefully over the back of the chair. She hadn't had time to pack before Athos had hustled them all out of the house. If she had to leave everything behind… No, best not to think about it. Porthos would be fine.
"Have you told him yet?" Thérèse asked.
Joan froze. "Told him what?" Her voice was steady, but she couldn't help the way her arms wrapped tight about her body.
"That would be 'no', then." Thérèse moved to stand beside her, one arm round her shoulders in a comforting hug. "I've seen the way Athos looks at you love—he'll be thrilled, I promise you."
"I was going to, yesterday. He wasn't on duty, we were going to take the children out.. But then Porthos…" Joan stopped and wiped her eyes with her fingers. "How did you know?"
"You mean apart from the housekeeper telling me every week that you've not sent rags for washing?" Thérèse said, her voice full of amusement. "Never forget how much the servants love to gossip, my dear."
"Oh." She hadn't thought of that. Everyone knew everybody else's business back on the farm, but she'd never been a person of interest before. So long as she kept the place running smoothly on her father's behalf, she'd been almost invisible.
"Not to mention," Thérèse continued "that you can't lace your dress so tight any more. I could feel the old kinks in the strings." Her arm tightened around Joan's shoulders, steering her inexorably towards the bed. "Come on, lie down. You'll do no good sitting there worrying about him all night."
The bed was intended for important guests at the garrison. The mattress was comfortable and the fine linen sheets felt soft against Joan's skin. Without meaning to, she rolled over and snuggled up against Clothilde, reaching one arm over the girl's slender body to rest her hand on Luc's shoulder. Sleep claimed her before Thérèse reached the door.