"My only feeling about superstition is that it's unlucky to be behind at the end of the game."
Duffy Daugherty
CHAPTER XXIX
Annette smiled as she looked down at her sleeping daughter. Once her head had hit the pillow, Catalina had fallen asleep in a matter of moments. The little girl's mouth was curved up in a smile, and her mother caught her breath. In that instant, Catalina so strongly resembled her father that Annette had to look away. For the second time that day, she found herself wondering—what if?
She knew no good could come of pursuing that line of thought. The past was now the past. Athos had a clever, pretty young wife who seemed to adore him. And she had Andrés. He was the best of husbands—responsible and thoughtful, with a wry sense of humor…and he had accepted her and loved her from the start, despite her unconventional looks. He himself was attractive in a classically Spanish way, with dark hair that flowed to his shoulders and warm brown eyes that could be incredibly seductive when he wanted them to be.
I cannot wait to tell him that I felt the baby today. She had been waiting with eager anticipation for that magical moment when the smallest fluttering sensation in her belly would let her know her little son was growing strong and healthy. He will be so excited.
As she slipped into the library, Annette saw her husband sitting up on his chaise longue, a thick woollen blanket spread over his lap. His eyes were focused on the fire, and he was entirely unaware of her presence. He seemed lost in thought, and she was reluctant to break his reverie. Finally, he glanced up and saw her.
"I assume our angel is asleep?"
"You assume correctly," she answered lightly.
"It seems as if she had quite an eventful evening," he said, his voice casual.
"Perhaps in her mind," replied Annette with a smile, "but I can assure you it was quite ordinary. She had a bath, a short bedtime story, and then went off to sleep."
"Ah." He was silent for a moment. "When she came to say good night, she told me that Athos had stopped by to visit."
"He did." She kept her voice carefully neutral. "He and Catalina got on quite well. He seems to have a knack for relating to children."
"Then hopefully he and Charlotte shall have some of their own soon. They seem very much in love."
"They do," she agreed equably. "I am glad for him."
"Are you?" he asked casually, giving her a speculative look that she found unnerving. Please, God, for the sake of my daughter-do not let him suspect the truth.
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As Charlotte sank to the ground, Athos managed to catch her in his arms. Aramis struggled out of bed, and slowly made his way over to them, wincing at the pain in his abdomen.
"Charlotte! Charlotte!" Athos tried in vain to rouse her, but she remained limp in his arms, her face deathly pale.
"Aramis, what's wrong?" Aramis was used to seeing Athos remain coolheaded and unflappable in the most dire situations, so the panic in his voice was unsettling. "Her skin is damp with sweat! You know…" he swallowed heavily, "there was an outbreak of the plague in Macherin several weeks ago…that's scarcely ten miles from here. You don't think.."
"No, I don't," replied Aramis firmly. "What I do think is that she has been working herself to the bone taking care of the injured, and has spent next to no time caring for herself. She is also worried about you, Athos."
"I can take care of myself," muttered Athos, chafing Charlotte's wrists. She moaned softly and tried to sit up.
"Not yet, my love," he said, his voice gentle. "Get your bearings first."
"Where…where am I?"
"Aramis' room. When did you last eat?"
"I…I don't know. Maybe this morning?"
Aramis shot Athos a knowing look. "Let's get you back in bed, then Athos and I will get you some tea and toast while you rest."
Athos picked up Charlotte carefully, and made his way over to the bed, tenderly lowering her onto the pillows. She mumbled something unintelligible as he pulled the duvet over her, then fell fast asleep.
"We need to have a conversation. Now." Aramis' voice had regained its strength, and he fixed a piercing eye on his comrade.
"There is nothing to say," replied Athos coolly, leaving the bedroom for the adjoining sitting room.
Aramis followed. "Oh no, Athos. Not this time. You are not putting me off by playing Master Moody Grapefruit. Charlotte and I had heart to heart conversation before you showed up, and it seems that you have not been entirely upfront with us, my friend."
Athos arranged his face into a perfectly neutral expression. "Is there a particular reason you feel compelled to be dramatic this evening? I have a wife to take care of."
"Yes, you do!" hissed Aramis, his eyes blazing. "The question is, why does it take you finding her in bed—purely innocently, I might add—with another man to get you to pay attention to her? Athos, she is not Milady!"
"Really? I hadn't noticed," replied Athos sarcastically. "Now, if you are quite done…."
"NO, I AM NOT! According to Charlotte, you have been threatened with execution by the same shadowy group that finished off your former blacksmith. True?"
tAthos rolled his eyes. "Not exactly. I have merely been given a summons to appear at the Court of the Archangels of Justice several days hence."
"Ah, I see. And that group seems to have a track record of mercy, so I am sure there is nothing to worry about!" Aramis' voice dripped with irony. "Athos, Charlotte has no father or brothers to look out for her, so I have appointed myself in that role. How can you be so cavalier about this? Your wife is beside herself with worry, and you appear to have no interest in making a plan to ensure that you are around to celebrate your first anniversary."
"I am working on it." Athos crossed his arms defensively, leaning against the wall.
"Working on it….while you make up for lost time with Annette."
"Mind your tongue," Athos growled. "You have no idea what went on between the two of us when we were young, Aramis, so do not even try to take that tack with me. It was not just puppy love…"
"So I gather." Aramis stared accusingly at his friend. "Because Charlotte inadvertently revealed to me that Catalina is your daughter."
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With the King's arrival in his private dining room, the whole situation suddenly seemed incredibly surreal to Denise. After all, she was just a simple seamstress from a small town in the French countryside. She had come to Fontainebleau on a lark with Charlotte, looking forward to spending some time with Porthos. Somehow things had gone horribly wrong, and now she was having dinner with the King of France, who obviously planned to have her share his bed that evening.
"You look even more fetching by candlelight," murmured Louis with a grin, kissing her hand as she curtsied to him. He waited expectantly, then cleared his throat when she remained silent. Denise suddenly realized that he was obviously anticipating a compliment.
"And you look…..very…" she wracked her brain for an appropriate word. "Umm…" I have no idea how to address him. This is such an… "unusual!"
His face contorted into an expression of bewilderment. "Unusual? What does…Ah, I get it.." He giggled, then winked at her. "I'm not like most other men! Yes, my sweet, you are correct! And you will find out just how special I am tonight. But first…we must satisfy our appetites at the table before we move on to other delights. Come with me."
Tucking her hand under his arm, he led her to the table, then stopped. "You may pull out my chair," he declared grandly.
There are no words for this, thought Denise acidly as she pulled out the monarch's chair. Suddenly, all her fears vanished, and an idea came into her head, giving her the urge to laugh hysterically. I believe I know exactly how to get out of this mess.
As the seamstress pushed his chair in, she allowed her elbow to hit the carafe of wine sitting on a small stand next to the main stable. It fell to the floor with a crash, splashing the red liquid all over her dress and the King's clothes.
The King jumped up. "My new silk breeches!"
"My apologies, Your Majesty. It is a mystery to me how I can be so skilled with needlework as a seamstress, and yet so clumsy in other endeavors. My mother always says disaster follows me everywhere."
"Ah, you are a seamstress! Well, my dear, you have won yourself a new commission," he pronounced, his voice jovial. "I didn't really care for the cut of these breeches anyway. I suspect that your work, on the other hand, would exceed my every expectation." He chuckled to himself, leering at her as she returned to her seat. "Of course, you will have to take my measurements…but that can wait for later on tonight."
Some of your measurements may change if you continue to act like a lecher, thought Denise in annoyance. A footman quickly replaced the carafe, and poured them each a glass of wine.
Sitting down and arranging her skirts, she frowned as a second footman brought in the first course, a cream colored soup. As he went to place it in front of her, she raised a hand imperiously.
"Stop! What IS this?"
"Potage à la Reine, my lady.
"And what is the stock made from?"
"Fowl. I believe the cook mentioned it was grouse."
She looked at up him with suspicion. "Did it have a white breast?"
The footman raised an eyebrow at her. "I cannot say, my lady. The cook did not give me a detailed description of the bird she used to make the stock."
"Take it away!" she shrilled. "I will not take the risk. Everyone knows that the appearance of white-breasted birds is an omen of death! Please, Sire…do not risk it!"
Louis gave her an odd look, then waved away the footman impatiently. "Skip it."
He gave her a smile. "After all, we have so much to look forward to. The soup is of no consequence."
Denise blushed. "I have to admit, your interest in me took me completely by surprise. It is no secret that my reputation has been made my life quite difficult. But tonight could change everything for me. If things go well, Porthos may be convinced that I am really the woman for him."
Louis, who had just raised his glass of wine to his lips, inadvertently inhaled, and began to cough vigorously.
"Your reputation?"
"Yes. Don't tell me you are unaware of it?" Denise's face fell. "I had assumed…but I must have been wrong," she whispered.
"Now you have piqued my interest, sweet Denise." He settled back in his chair, his expression one of keen interest. "What dark secrets are in your past? Were you mistress to a dissolute aristocrat? No, no…perhaps you have had a storied career as a courtesan to the highest echelons of society? And why are you even mentioning a musketeer as an object of your affections when you are currently basking in the glory of your King?"
"You have heard of the Black Widow of Moret-sur-Loing?" she asked, her voice quivering, and barely above a whisper.
"Of—of course," responded Louis with assurance, having no idea whom she was referring to. "But explain how that relates to you."
"I am she," she intoned, schooling her face into a perfect mask of agony and desperation. "And yes, it is true-every man who has ever made love to me has died." Not a lie…Alain was the one and only. Forgive me, my darling husband.
"Well, that is just ridiculous! How can such a vision of loveliness like yourself be an..an instrument of death?" Louis thought for a moment, then asked hesitantly, "On second thought, how many deaths have there actually been?"
"The number is unimportant…" Denise said mournfully. "It is the manner of the deaths that has been so disturbing. A sudden illness, then death following within twenty four hours. But before they pass, the men endure the most hideous suffering imaginable. It has been several lonely years for me since my reputation has spread, and I had begun to fear I would never find happiness again. However, I believe I may have found love with Porthos." She sighed bitterly. "The problem is that he has heard the stories, and he is afraid…afraid of marrying me and consummating our love, then dying a horrible death. But you could be the key to changing everything."
"And why would that be?" inquired Louis uneasily.
Denise leaned forward, her voice rising in excitement. "A month ago, I was desperate, and I consulted a renowned wise woman. I just had to find out if there was any way of breaking the-the string of destruction I have wrought on the men in my life. She said there was one possible way to end the curse. If I slept with a King and he survived the night, the spell would be broken."
"Did she..did she happen to mention the likelihood of the King surviving such an encounter?" he asked, his voice strained.
"Oh, she said there would be a 50-50 chance," replied Denise breezily. She gave him a knowing smile. "But I bet you are the kind of man who would laugh at such odds. You are the kind of man who would look death in the face and welcome the chance to possibly cheat it. So I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Your Majesty…if you live to see the dawn, I will owe you a debt of thanks I can never repay."
A footman returned to the table, placing a loaf of bread in front of the King. "May I, Sire?"
"Go ahead, please cut it," Louis answered absently, his thoughts racing.
The man cut into the loaf, and as he removed the crust, a large, gaping hole was evident in the center.
The servant smiled fondly. "A hole like that in the bread always reminds me of my granny." He waved the knife in the air with animation. "She was a superstitious old woman, Your Majesty. She believed in that old saying that if you found a hole in a loaf of bread you cut, it symbolized a coffin and meant that someone was soon to die." He chuckled and shook his head. "I am sure you are too educated a man to give credence to such silliness."
The King stared at the bread. In his mind, he saw his coffin being carried out of Notre Dame, with a weeping Anne carrying his son in her arms as she followed behind.
He bolted to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor. "I have suddenly remembered that…I...I...have a pressing matter of state…yes, a national emergency to attend to. Please accept my apologies, Mademoiselle Denise. Perhaps…another time. You may go."
Denise forced herself to look disappointed. "But…but…"
"Duty calls, my dear!" He gave her a weak smile. As he turned to leave the room, he caught the arm of the footman, and whispered in his ear. "Send for Milady de Winter, and ask her to come to my bedchamber immediately. Please also set out my jewel cask." He sighed, resigned to the fact that the green-eyed beauty would no doubt expect a handsome peace offering. "I suspect I will have to make a substantial gift in order to make amends."
"Yes, Your Majesty." The man bowed.
"And for the love of God, escort Mademoiselle Denise out of my apartments as soon as possible. By the way, is there a priest about? I may need for this room to be exorcised before I set foot in it again."
Credit to LadyCavil for the moniker of "Master Moody Grapefruit" as she so christened Athos in one of her reviews...it was just begging to be used in a story!
Next time...Athos and Charlotte have a conversation (they were derailed by other events), and Anne pays another visit to Aramis.
Much love to all readers and reviewers! If you have a moment, let me know what you thought...
