A huge thank you for all your encouragement including the guest reviewers. I have particularly enjoyed the reviews in French which I regard as a compliment, although I had to turn to Google translate(not always helpful). So kudos to those of you who read these stories in a language other than your own. You have my respect!
At Debbie, my apologies for confusing you; my mistake, it was CheProfe who wondered why no-one thought to "borrow" boots from a dead Spaniard (good point)!
Hot off the press, I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. I have only just finished reviewing it so I'm sorry I'm a bit late posting tonight. It was the one I was most dreading writing as there were so many different ways the interview with the King could go. Hope you like my choice.
Chapter 29: Debrief
As they clattered up the stone ramp leading to the east gate of the palace, Athos could see unusual activity ahead. As they got nearer, the scene resolved itself into a hustle of Red Guards, footmen, stable lads... and Tréville, pacing back and forth just outside the gate, with Gasnault standing nervously at his side. A sudden feeling of utter relief surged through Athos, taking him by surprise. Never one to duck his duty, for once he couldn't wait to hand over responsibility for everyone's well-being to Tréville, and sink into a warm, soft bed. Firmly he pushed away that enticing image, and told himself to concentrate. They would all need their wits about them if they were to get through the debrief with the King.
As Tréville caught sight of their small cavalcade he strode forward towards them, shouting at the footmen to come forward. Athos drew to a halt and handed Nuit's reins to Gasnault as he ran up. Tréville bowed to the Queen, waited whilst a footman handed her down from her horse then greeted her with "Your Majesty, it is very good to see you safe and ... well." The last word sounded slightly tentative as he took in her strange clothing and the scratches on her face and arms. She stepped towards him, smiling warmly.
"Thank you, Captain. It is good to be back. But you are here so late; is the King ... up?"
He knew full well what she was really asking. "His Majesty will be very glad to see you. He has been waiting, anxiously, for the last two days." He paused, raising an eyebrow slightly in query. She turned to find Constance at her shoulder, and gave her a slightly nervous smile.
"In that case let us not keep him waiting any longer. Come, Constance," she instructed calmly, and swept towards the staircase leading to the King's private quarters with all the dignity that a borrowed peasant dress and hobnailed boots allowed her.
Tréville paused to greet Porthos and Aramis, clasping them briefly by the arm in a gesture that spoke volumes about his relief at their return. He could see the exhaustion in the way they dismounted, and the pinched look on Aramis' face hinted at injuries he couldn't spot, but the marksman mustered a smile and assured him that he was well. Tréville paused in front of him long enough to let Aramis to know that he didn't believe a word of it, before turning away with a small smile. He'd expected nothing less, of course.
Athos had dismounted and was carefully helping d'Artagnan to slide to the ground. Tréville looked as if he was going to ask a question, but thought better of it, seeing immediately that d'Artagnan needed attention. "Aramis, Porthos, take d'Artagnan back to the Garrison. Gasnault, ride ahead and let them know to expect him; we'll need Doctor Lemay, and get the infirmary warmed up, and tell Serge – "
Athos cut him off, apologetically. "Captain, with respect, the Queen has requested that d'Artagnan be present. He can give witness to more events than I."
Tréville's eyebrows shot up at that, and he gave Athos a sharp look, but acquiesced, trusting his lieutenant's judgement, and came forward to help d'Artagnan towards the stairs. Unfortunately he took him by the left elbow, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the Gascon. Tréville let go immediately as Porthos hurried forward.
"I'll 'elp 'im, Captain. I know what bits to 'old and what not to touch," he explained, putting a hand under d'Artagnan's right forearm and ignoring the mumble that could have been "I'm fine".
Tréville watched the pair weave their way towards the stairs, with Aramis hovering just ahead, and the Queen and Constance waiting at the top of the staircase.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" enquired Tréville, mildly.
Athos shrugged, managing to convey reluctance, it's-out-of-my-hands, and admiration all at the same time. "He took the brunt of it," he said, quietly.
"You surprise me," Tréville commented drily.
They caught up to the Queen and pretended not to notice as Porthos gave up trying to steer d'Artagnan on legs as uncoordinated as a newborn foal, wrapped his arms around the Gascon's upper body, and simply picked him up as if he were a tailor's dummy, whisking him up the stairs and depositing him back on his feet at the top. "Ain't nobody lookin'," Porthos assured him glibly, ignoring the exhausted Musketeer's feeble protest.
They had just turned into the antechamber when the doors at the far end burst open and the King swept out, flanked by two footmen and – of course! - Rochefort.
"Anne, my dear!" he called dramatically, "where have you been? I've been beside myself waiting for you – " He suddenly stopped dead and stared at her, aghast. "What – what are you wearing? And those boots... What happened?" He looked behind her as she approached him holding both her hands out, and caught sight of the four weary Musketeers following Tréville. "What is the meaning of this? Captain, report!"
Tréville came forward reluctantly, as yet having no idea what had transpired or how to respond. Fortunately the Queen took charge by taking the King's hands and clasping them warmly, beaming into his eyes. "You shall hear everything, Sire. We have had quite a time of it! But first let me assure you that I am well, in spite of my unusual dress. My own clothes were ruined by our adventures and I have been loaned these by the kindest of our citizens. You would be so proud to meet them, Sire. Now, I shall ask Athos to explain the start of our adventures whilst you and I get comfortable. Constance, you must retire and rest yourself. I will see you in the morning."
She cast a quick glance over her shoulder as she led the King towards the throne room. Athos swallowed, straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin as he followed, ignoring the sympathetic glances from Aramis and Porthos as they followed, steering d'Artagnan with them.
Constance hesitated then left reluctantly, appreciating the Queen's gesture in releasing her from what no doubt could be a long and uncomfortable audience with the King.
D'Artagnan stood in line with the other Musketeers in front of the throne, trying not to sway. His body was on the brink of rebellion. He had barely slept since leaving Paris five days earlier and there was a roaring in his ears which he knew was the result of total exhaustion. The cuts on his hands were throbbing; his foot felt as if it was on fire; the skin around the dog bites on his elbow was hot and inflamed; and his shoulder was agony from the mangled skin through to the pain deep in the bone.
He struggled to follow the conversation. He heard the Queen explain that Hernán had turned up instead of Emilia, and the King's subsequent explosion. He heard Athos' calm voice interject, talking about soldiers and inns but he must have drifted away as the Queen started talking again, her softer voice lulling him. A while later he was aware of a warm body on his right, leaning against him. He looked, feeling as if his head was moving in slow motion, and found it was Porthos. For a moment he wondered why Porthos was leaning on him. Then he realised it might be him leaning on Porthos. His head ached, and he just wanted to sleep...
Porthos nudged him and he wobbled on his feet, bouncing off someone standing on his left. Aramis.
"The King asked you a question," Aramis hissed in his ear. D'Artagnan jerked his head up and squinted at the throne, finding both royals looking at him with contrasting degrees of patience.
"What's wrong with him? Is he ill?" he heard the King ask, querulously.
Athos stepped in again. "He was solely responsible for keeping Her Majesty safe for most of this time, Your Majesty. He has suffered a number of injuries and – "
"Can you not speak for yourself, d'Artagnan?" the King demanded.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I apologise for missing the question. If you could repeat it...?" d'Artagnan's voice sounded hoarse and he cleared his throat.
"I said," the King emphasised tetchily, "why didn't you just stay put, meet up with the others as soon as you were safe, and get straight back to Paris? I don't understand why you dragged the Queen around the countryside for so long. And in those dreadful shoes!"
He could feel Aramis and Porthos looking at him, no doubt wondering how he would respond. Put like that it sounded quite reasonable – just meet up and get home. How hadn't it been that simple?
"Your Majesty," he began, then stopped, suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. The impossibility of explaining his decisions, and the absolute certainty that the King would not understand engulfed him and he shook his head.
"I'm waiting," the King sang out, impatiently. He shushed the Queen who had started to speak, and stared at d'Artagnan.
"Now might be a good time to faint," Aramis whispered without moving his lips. d'Artagnan blinked, and then took a deep breath. He was not going to faint. He was going to explain, then face the consequences. He started speaking about the men following them from the Pheasant Inn, and hearing more men searching the banks as they escaped across the river; looking for help at the first mansion and finding it overrun with Spaniards –
"How many were there?" interjected Rochefort, sounding bored.
"I don't know," answered d'Artagnan honestly. "I saw around twenty arriving on horseback but there were more already in the house."
"Twenty?" the King sounded slightly less sceptical now.
Athos decided to seize the moment. "Your Majesty, we estimate we dealt with around 50 mercenaries – all those that we came across – but we do not know if more remain in the area or have returned to Spain."
Porthos nudged d'Artagnan again. "Spent half the ride back tryin' to work it out. We reckoned 9 or 10 for you, sound right?" he whispered. d'Artagnan didn't have time to answer before the King was quizzing Athos, diverted from the question of d'Artagnan's decision-making by the details of the numbers they had faced and how they had defeated them. His voice sounded happier now as the evidence of his Musketeers' bravery and superior skills was laid out skilfully by Athos' concise reporting.
d'Artagnan only half listened, feeling Porthos' arm warm against his, appreciating the feeling of safety it gave him. His head was thumping and it hurt to move his eyes. He focussed on a point just past the King's right ear, concentrating fiercely on one of the ornate panels framed in gilt behind him, but the shapes swirled and pulsed in a way that made him feel sick. He swallowed convulsively, feeling bile rising in his throat and sweat springing to his brow.
Then Aramis was whispering in his ear, telling him to hold it together, to breathe, to focus, and a sudden pain in his arm brought him sharply back to the here and now. He looked down to find Aramis was squeezing his arm fiercely just above his bandages.
"Eyes front," hissed Porthos on his other side. d'Artagnan was light-headed now, breathing too fast, and for an awful moment he thought he was going to faint. He focussed desperately on the royals again, finding the Queen was whispering at the King, looking at him, and he tried to straighten: determined not to give in, not to show weakness.
Muffled voices ebbed and flowed around him. Then he caught the words "capture" and "barn" and the sounds seemed to flood back into his head. The Queen was talking urgently but the King had sprung to his feet and was striding towards him. d'Artagnan blinked sweat out of his eyes and risked a glance at Porthos, finding the burly musketeer watching him carefully, compassion in his eyes. "Keep it together," he had time to whisper, before the King had arrived in front of d'Artagnan.
"Can you explain how you came to be alone in a barn with the Queen of France, d'Artagnan?" he demanded, icily.
The Queen caught up with him, looked flustered. "Sire, I have explained that we were captured..."
"Due to d'Artagnan's incompetency!" the King shouted, making d'Artagnan jump. The King paced up and down in front of him. "How did you let yourself get captured? And just how long did you spend alone – with my wife?" The last two words were hissed and echoed around the vast room for a moment. It seemed everyone else had stopped breathing and all eyes were on d'Artagnan.
He felt, rather than saw, Athos step forward half a pace, and Tréville slide a hand out to still the Lieutenant. d'Artagnan swallowed, feeling a surge of adrenaline and using it to give him the to respond. "There were four horsemen, and I had no weapons, Sire. I tried to draw them away from the Queen by running ..."
"Leaving the Queen defenceless, on her own?"
The only honest answer to this was yes. He could feel Aramis quivering beside him, as if he wanted to speak, so he rushed on. "I hoped the Queen and Madame Bonacieux could remain hidden but I had no other options... Sire, I am so sorry to have put her life at risk."
"By running away!"
"No, Sire, I..."
"You dare to contradict me?"
"I ... was trying to protect her. If I had stayed when they saw me, I would certainly have been killed and she would have been found. I did not seek to run away – I knew I could not outrun the horses. I hoped instead to draw the men away, to give the Queen time to hide..."
"He ran so fast, in spite of his injuries, Sire," the Queen spoke softly, wary of angering the King. He scowled but didn't stop her so she carried on, eyes fastened on the King as he continued to glare at d'Artagnan. "Constance and I swopped dresses, so when they captured me they were confused and didn't realise who I was. They took us to the barn and questioned d'Artagnan to find out where I – where the Queen was. But he didn't tell them Sire, although they questioned him all night, and hurt him most grievously."
She looked at d'Artagnan now, who kept his eyes on the ground for fear of inflaming things further. He had a long list of things not to tell the King, and was afraid his eyes would give him away. Details like the way he'd suggested to their captors that the Queen was a whore accompanying the Musketeers: he really did not think the King would appreciate that this had saved the Queen from unwanted advances by the Spaniards. Nor would he be happy to hear how she had distracted the guard by behaving like a call girl in order to get the dagger. Let alone that she'd inadvertently killed that guard by whacking him over the head with a lantern and setting fire to him.
For selfish reasons he was also very keen that no one would find out how much of his interrogation the Queen had witnessed. Or that he had pissed himself in the course of the beating. The fact that the Queen had to been witness to his complete physical humiliation was almost worse than the whole whore thing, although he had a strong inkling that the King might not agree.
More than anything though, he was hoping that no one would feel the need to explain to the King just how it was that later on in the forest, his Queen had been left aiming a pistol at the mercenaries' Captain, whilst the other Musketeers lay injured on the ground or off fetching horses.
He dragged his attention back to the present, feeling the tension crackling around the room. After the Queen's mention of his 'questioning', there was a long silence in the chamber while the King stared at d'Artagnan. The Queen stood quietly by his side, her eyes flicking from the King to d'Artagnan and the other Musketeers. d'Artagnan tried to keep his breathing calm, tried to ignore the sweat dripping into his eyes and the way the floor was dipping and swaying like the deck of a boat. The silence stretched on and he finally raised his eyes to the King's.
The royal visage was impassive, his eyes unreadable as he scrutinised his Musketeer. He seemed to come to some decision and went to speak - but before he could, the silence was broken by someone clearing their throat to the King's right.
Rochefort! D'Artagnan had forgotten he was there; the man had been characteristically silent, lurking in the background like a cobra waiting for the right moment to strike. And here he came, gliding up and stepping between d'Artagnan and the King.
"How long were you alone with the Queen?"
d'Artagnan stilled, then almost laughed. Of all the things he was anxious for the King not to know, this was what Rochefort focussed on?
"We were not alone. I was being questioned, and they only left me alone when I was unconscious," he replied, quietly.
The King turned to the Queen. "Were you threatened, then, my Queen, when d'Artagnan was unable to defend you?"
D'Artagnan noticed his tone was softer now and he hoped that the focus on all his mistakes had at least lifted suspicion from the Queen. She hastened to reassure him now, telling him that the mercenaries had ignored her, thinking she was just a servant, that the guard had fallen asleep allowing her to undo her bindings, and that she had helped d'Artagnan to cut his ropes. D'Artagnan flicked her a glance at this creatively loose interpretation of the circumstances of their escape. For a moment he dared to hope that the corner had been turned in this inquisition as the King displayed his concern.
But it seemed Rochefort had other ideas. Suddenly his smug visage filled d'Artagnan's field of vision and he couldn't help but flinch as Rochefort's cold eyes bored into him from inches away.
"You expect us to believe that you were beaten, all night, by Spaniards looking for the Queen, and then they let you escape?" His maddeningly slow delivery successfully drew all attention back to him. He prowled – no other word for it – in front of d'Artagnan then reached out a hand slowly towards him. d'Artagnan's eyes followed his hand, mesmerised, trying not to flinch as a forefinger traced the bruise on his chin. "Apart from your face, they don't appear to have done much damage. Could you be ... exaggerating? Or are you Musketeers less robust than you would have the King believe?" His sing-song voice dripped each word like acid. "Shall we see?"
There was a sudden flurry of motion as d'Artagnan found a dagger pointing at his chest; seemingly simultaneously there was a growl from Porthos, a sharp command from Tréville, a protest from the Queen, and Aramis' hand pushing the dagger's blade down, away from his chest. There was a roaring in d'Artagnan's ears as he slowly raised his eyes from the dagger and glared into Rochefort's face, finding that he did, apparently, have some energy left as he clenched a fist painfully, wanting to smash that smug smile into the next room but controlling himself with an effort, aware of Athos' almost imperceptible nod of approval.
To d'Artagnan's intense satisfaction a twitch from Rochefort told him his murderous intent was obvious as the other man took a half step back. Then his stomach lurched as the King said matter of factly: "Yes, good idea, Rochefort. Let's see the damage."
He heard a sharp intake of breath from his left and a muffled, injudicious oath from his right. Then Athos was there, stepping carefully into the crowded space and ignoring another warning from Tréville.
"Sire, his injuries have been treated and bandaged. It would not be appropriate or advisable to..."
"Are you denying my wishes, Athos?" The King snapped at him, and the highly-charged atmosphere seemed to sizzle around the room.
D'Artagnan couldn't breathe. His heart was thundering, vision blurring as he tried not to drop his gaze from Rochefort, tried not to let him see just how much he loathed the man and his odious voice and his... his power. For it was power that allowed his blade to drift up the outside of d'Artagnan's shirt as he stepped close again, never taking his eyes from d'Artagnan's own. The blade snagged on the strings lacing the shirt and then Rochefort turned it and started to slice down. To be stopped this time by d'Artagnan's own hand, snapping around the blade in a white-knuckled grip.
The tableau froze and into the stillness d'Artagnan spoke softly. "This shirt was loaned to me by a man of integrity and loyalty to the King. I would prefer to return it in one piece."
Without dropping his gaze, d'Artagnan pushed the dagger away and took a small step – forward, right into Rochefort's space. Nose to nose now, d'Artagnan pulled at the strings fastening the shirt and shrugged it off his shoulders, exposing the bandages wrapped around his shoulders and chest. Pulling his own dagger, ignoring a small protest from Aramis, he sliced roughly through the bandages, his fingers ripping them away from his skin, feeling anger coursing through his body at what he was doing and not bothering to hide that anger from Rochefort. In places the bandages stuck where his wounds had bled or oozed during the ride home, but he pulled uncaring at them until they gave way, his upper lip curling in contempt and his eyes blazing as he stripped his torso and bared himself for the King's inspection.
He was lucky, reflected Athos, watching in disbelief, that it was Rochefort who had suggested stripping him, and Rochefort standing in the way of that furious gaze, not the King, or d'Artagnan would surely have been dragged away by the guards by now. As it was, his defiance raged out of every inch of him. Rochefort had clearly intended to humiliate him by stripping him in front of the King. d'Artagnan had turned that on its head by taking control, and in the process had shown the King just how bright burns the fire inside a Musketeer's belly when he is threatened.
Holding his breath, Athos dared to look at the King, who was watching with a kind of fascinated revulsion as the full extent of d'Artagnan's injuries were revealed. Behind him he heard Tréville's intake of breath at the evidence of the battering the Gascon had taken. In the ornate surroundings of the palace, the ugly bruises and torn flesh that marred his whole torso looked even worse than when Athos had treated them at the inn in La Loupe. He could see Aramis twitching in distress, hands hovering ready to support d'Artagnan, and Porthos' nostrils flaring as he struggled to remain impassive.
The silence stretched, and it felt like no one was going to back down. Rochefort was motionless, only his gaze flicking down to d'Artagnan's chest, oozing new blood where he'd ripped the bandages in his controlled fury.
Finally the Queen, who had remained almost forgotten at the King's side, laid her gentle fingers on his arm and spoke softly. "You can see how much d'Artagnan endured in order to keep my identity hidden, Sire. He could not have done more to protect me."
For a moment longer the silence quivered in the room. Then the King nodded. "Indeed," he agreed quietly.
Rochefort's face twitched, there was a flash of some dark emotion then his impassivity returned and he turned sharply and walked away. Aramis immediately gathered the shirt and began covering d'Artagnan again with a muttered "with your permission, Your Majesty" that, to Athos' ears sounded dangerously sarcastic, but fortunately the tone went unnoticed after the tension of the last few minutes.
The King turned to the Queen. "My dear, you look exhausted and we have kept you too long. You must retire and we will talk more in the morning." She nodded, and cast a quick look around the gathering as she turned to leave, offering a soft smile to the Musketeers that could have been aimed at all of them. Or just one; it was hard to tell.
"Tréville, a word, please. We need to decide on our response to this intolerable impertinence from Spain. The rest of you can go." The King turned back towards his throne as they bowed – which was fortunate because d'Artagnan simply stood rooted, swaying slightly as the adrenaline drained from his body, unable even to dip his head.
Rochefort stepped towards the King importantly but stopped dead as the King waved him away. "Not now, Rochefort." There was a snort of amusement from Porthos as he and Aramis supported d'Artagnan towards the doors, which Rochefort could not help but hear as he moved reluctantly towards the back of the room.
Suddenly the King stood again and called out "Wait!" The four Musketeers paused and d'Artagnan closed his eyes briefly, wondering if this torturous audience would ever end as he heard the King stride towards them.
"Courage, mon ami," whispered Aramis as he helped d'Artagnan turn back to the King.
The King stopped a few feet away and cleared his throat. "I am grateful that you brought the Queen back safely. You have proven your loyalty, d'Artagnan." He paused, allowing himself a small smile as d'Artagnan raised his head wearily to his King. "Thank you, d'Artagnan. All of you." He nodded once then turned back to Tréville, leaving a quartet of astonished Musketeers hastily bowing again behind him.
