The entire chapter deals with warfare, but there are two particular sections you might want to skip:
A mention of child death: "In Aramis' ears,… Guiton gave him a tired smile"
Brief mention of rape: "Guiton's eyes looked straight into the dark recesses of his heart… Aramis reared back as if he'd been shot."
"Thank you, Hassard," the man said, rising from a simple wooden chair. "You may leave us. I wish to speak to the gentleman alone."
Aramis blinked. His eyes were slow to adjust to the glaring white light flooding through the tall windows on the opposite wall. It had to be midday now.
Some silent conversation passed between the man and his underling. When he spoke again, a sharp note had crept into his voice. "I am quite capable of handling myself and you won't be far."
The gaoler grunted a reply, clearly not happy, but unable to contradict his commander. Aramis agreed with him, leaving no guards in the room even if they were close by seemed foolish to him. One on one he could take any man. Then again, a fight might create more problems than it solved. The location was wisely chosen. The windows looked out over roofs that were some distance away, perhaps across a square. An escape that way seemed unlikely unless… Aramis scanned the room for anything to aid his flight. The room was bare, all scrubbed floorboards and white walls. A long table stood in the centre and two chairs that barely looked sturdy enough to be suitable weapons. There wasn't even a table cloth.
Suddenly, Aramis was pushed forward. Pain flared in his abused body as he staggered further into the room. Behind him, the door closed with a solid thud. Aramis struggled to catch himself. They had hobbled him like a horse, tying a short rope between his ankles. While he could walk, he couldn't take big steps.
A hand caught his forearm and steadied him. Aramis flinched at the intimacy of the gesture, normal between friends, but not between captor and prisoner. The silence lingered, but Aramis was loath to end it, listening intently for steps in the corridor. Steps that never came. The guard stood right outside the unlocked door, ready to pounce. Whatever Aramis did would have to be done quietly.
He straightened and looked at his captor, putting all his defiance in his glare. The man smiled, his impeccable auburn moustache rising as the slight crinkles around his eyes became more pronounced.
"Be my guest, Monsieur," he said, moving his hand from Aramis' arm to his wrists, undoing the ties around his hands for the second time that day.
Aramis narrowed his eyes. He was a prisoner, not a guest, so why this constant untying? To make him feel safe and let his guard down?
The man smiled. "We are soldiers, you and I. I see no reason to keep you bound like an animal while we talk."
Aramis looked pointedly down at his feet and the length of rope between them.
The man smiled again. "Soldiers, not fools. I realise that your presence at this talk might require some… encouragement."
Aramis snorted. "If you encourage your horses the way your men encouraged me, you'd be lucky to have any left alive."
The man's smile faltered and a shadow passed through his eyes. He caught himself quickly and his voice remained unchanged, but Aramis was content that he had, for a moment, broken through his defences.
The man made a show of how unafraid he was of him, turning his back to Aramis. A few fast steps, two hands around his throat… with some skill and God's aid, he'd be dead before the guard even noticed. But then what? Aramis had no idea where in the city he was, nor any plan for escape. He could untie his feet and using the chairs and table as weapons, he'd overcome the guard who'd brought him in, but not without attracting the attention of whoever else might be out there. They had carefully kept out of sight as he was being led through the corridors and up the stairs, but he knew there would be others. If he lured in one guard, would another take his place? As much as he wanted to, he couldn't overcome the whole city by himself, weak though it was. Better to keep playing along with it for now. See what they wanted since they apparently weren't too keen on executing him on the spot.
"Take a seat, Monsieur d'Herblay," the man said. So he'd been listening from the start, had heard Aramis give his name. Which meant he'd heard him get beaten as well and hadn't stepped in. That much for compassion and respect. Typical Huguenot.
"Who's asking?" Aramis shot back.
"My apologies, Monsieur." The man bowed slightly. "I'm the mayor of La Rochelle, Jean Guiton."
"Jean Guiton," Aramis hissed. His hand flew to his left shoulder, rubbing the dark, round scar through his shirt. "They made you mayor now."
Guiton watched him calmly. "I see, we have met before."
The old musket wound gave an angry throb and Aramis' fingers dug into the muscle to ease the pain. Huguenot bastard.
"The Île de Ré, I suppose," Guiton said. Bastard of a Huguenot admiral. A two-hour battle that got them nowhere, followed by weeks of agony as that wound festered and ate into his flesh.
"It pains me to see you were wounded," Guiton said.
Aramis withdrew his hand from his shoulder. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing his pain. "The very purpose of your aggression against the king!"
"Capable men like you are a credit to whichever side they fight for. I'm sure you too regret having to injure them."
Aramis huffed. It was hardly the only wound he'd suffered in the king's service and many of them at the hand of better men, of god-fearing Catholics. "We got Ré in the end."
"If the Lord deigns this to be the end, it will be." Guiton's unnerving smile returned. "But Cardinal Richelieu keeps such a close eye on Buckingham, it almost seems like he doesn't believe it is."
"It's prudent to monitor every threat, however small," Aramis said. Of course if the rumours could be believed, Buckingham was anything but a small threat. With the English king's favour and the might of his fleet, there was no overestimating the danger Buckingham posed.
"As long as France has no proper fleet, it will always be at the mercy of forces like England, Spain, and even men like myself. The King has to invest in a navy."
Aramis snorted. "I wouldn't be the one to talk to about that." He'd be glad to never get on a ship again in all his life.
Guiton nodded. "Forgive me. I thought a musketeer would have the king's ear."
Was that what this was? Was he being held for his influence? Well… two could play that game.
"A trust I won't break for your benefit," he said.
"Naturally," Guiton said. "I merely wondered where you stood on the matter."
"My personal opinion of ships and naval battles is of no relevance. But a navy to rival England's and Spain's is an ambition for both the King and the Cardinal," Aramis said. "You will forgive me if I do not divulge any details."
Details that he didn't know, if they even existed. This was hardly a matter they would discuss with a soldier, musketeer or not. But if this Huguenot admiral cum mayor wanted him for his knowledge… then Aramis could certainly pretend he had some intelligence.
"Of course," Guiton said. "I would not wish for you to betray the confidence of your liege."
The confidence of a man who wouldn't know him from any other musketeer. Or the confidence of the cardinal who wished all of them to the innermost circle of hell. Guiton could rest assured that Aramis would not share any of their secrets no matter what torture he was forced to endure.
Guiton sat and gestured for Aramis to do the same.
"1622," he said. "Nearly six years this war has occupied our lives. My daughters have grown into young women in this time. And you… for you it must have taken much of your youth."
"A youth spent in the service of one's king is not taken."
"Nor one spent in service of one's God."
Aramis had nothing to say to that. He'd tried to dedicate himself to God and instead found he was much better at dispatching souls to hell. These Huguenots, however misguided, thought they'd found a way to combine the two.
Guiton didn't need a response. He nodded. "We've both been in this war too long."
Aramis smiled grimly. Saumur, Saint-Jean-d'Angély, then Montauban, the first siege they didn't win. On to Royan and the horror of Nègrepelisse. Up and down the country in service to his king, and then the peace they had signed with so much blood hadn't even lasted the decade.
A soft knock at the door made him tense.
"I hoped you might join me for lunch," Guiton said.
A young girl entered bearing a tray. She had the same dark red hair as the mayor and Aramis thought he saw a family resemblance. One of his daughters, maybe. He thanked her as she sat down a bowl and cup in front of him, but she didn't look up. It had been too long since he'd made a pretty maid blush, but now did not seem the appropriate time. The girl left and Aramis couldn't shake a feeling of loneliness. Soon it was just him and Guiton again, alone in this bare, faded room, not a sound to be heard.
Guiton said grace and Aramis respectfully bowed his head. He meant to say his own prayer, but realised the mayor found much the same words he would have liked to use, so he merely echoed the Amen. Some things, it seemed, were not so different.
Guiton obliged him with a smile, eating from both bowls and drinking from both glasses before Aramis was satisfied he wasn't about to get poisoned. The food was as bland and colourless as their surroundings, but having missed both dinner and breakfast, Aramis' stomach growled in appreciation.
"So, Monsieur d'Herblay," Guiton said. "Tell me about the musketeers."
Aramis took his time, rinsing his mouth with water while he contemplated his answer. Clearly, Guiton wanted information. The skill lay in making him believe he got what he wanted while not giving anything away. He couldn't seem too eager either.
"The king raised the regiment in 1622. Due to some of my earlier engagements, I had the good fortune to be among the first to join." Engagements that mainly involved killing Huguenots, though mentioning that would probably ruin the pleasant atmosphere.
Guiton looked at him eagerly. "Then you are a senior officer?"
Aramis swirled the water in his glass as if it were expensive wine. He wasn't even a junior officer, but saying so would hardly make him seem like a good source of information. "The captain selected me himself," he said instead. "The regiment is of course the king's personal guard."
"You must keep busy during this siege," Guiton said, seemingly focussed on his meal. If he thought he could catch Aramis off guard, he was sorely mistaken.
"As ever, our duty is to the king," Aramis said. "We protect him wherever he goes. His majesty's trust is a great honour."
"Though of course it is the cardinal who leads the siege."
Ah, didn't they all wish that weren't true? Probably too late to deny it, though. At this point there probably wasn't a soul left in all of Christendom who didn't know about Richelieu the warrior, the real supreme commander in this whole affair.
"A few loyal subjects are fortunate to be advisors to the king," Aramis said, trying to be diplomatic. "My captain among them. I am honoured to accompany him at times."
He lowered his gaze to the plate but watched the mayor through his lashes. He looked pleased. Influence mattered to him, so Aramis saw no need to mention that the circumstances under which he accompanies Tréville were very limited indeed and usually more punishment than distinction.
"Cardinal Richelieu is a man of God, but not a man of the sword," he continued. "Tréville and I can provide insights from the perspective of the soldier."
That the king usually ignored and Richelieu tried his best to discredit, but Guiton didn't need to know that either.
"You must be in quite a privileged position yourself," the mayor pressed. "An officer of the musketeers…"
Aramis allowed himself a shy smile. "I aim to serve my king well." He fidgeted a little. Porthos would laugh at the false display of modesty. Athos would roll his eyes. But this man didn't know him like they did. "I was very fortunate," Aramis said. "The Lord guided my hand in saving King Louis' life some months ago."
He tried to pitch his behaviour somewhere between devoted soldier and demure maiden. Guiton shouldn't think he was boasting, but if it was influence he wanted, Aramis would deliver.
"He must be very thankful," Guiton said. The fish had swallowed the bait.
"His Majesty values chivalry among all else. He recognises that this is a trait we share." Aramis looked into the distance as if reminiscing. The windows were unlatched, but definitely too high up. "He deems it appropriate to raise me to the order of the Holy—" He shook himself. "You must forgive me, I get too caught up in these tales."
"Fascinating," Guiton said. There was a new glint in his eyes as he examined Aramis. "I must admit I had not heard of your family until today, Monsieur d'Herblay."
He certainly wouldn't find it when looking at the books of those eligible for the Order of the Holy Spirit. In his heart, his family were the noblest in the land, but nobody else knew of them.
"We prefer to serve unseen." Aramis tried his best to sound like an enigma, but a very powerful one. If influence over the king was his ticket to a longer life, he could certainly promise that. Best not to dwell on the details, though.
"Like a sniper in the dark," Guiton said. Aramis did his best not to flinch. The impossible shot the night before… the scrawny young men it killed… He had probably been the mayor's cousin, too.
Aramis focused on his meal again. The thin strips of meat were chewy and rather tasteless.
"My compliments to the cook," he said, nonetheless.
"Our thanks to you for providing the meat."
The meat? Aramis stared at the mayor. While his whole body hurt, he was reasonably sure he would have noticed if he'd been eating his own arm or maybe his left buttock.
Guiton smiled. Really quite unnerving, particularly in matters of cannibalism. Surely, not even the Huguenots condoned that.
"You will have noticed," Guiton said, examining a piece of meat on his spoon. "That this meat doesn't quite taste like anything you've had before."
Well, no. It wouldn't if it was freshly cooked musketeer. Aramis wriggled his toes just to make sure he still had all ten. They dutifully caught in the holes of his socks.
"You see," Guiton continued. "As a matter of fact, it is something you have had for a long time, just never in quite the same way."
He took a bite, savouring it like a man who tasted ambrosia.
"We have found that leather makes an excellent substitute for meat. But none has been as fine as this prime cut—your pauldron."
"My—" Aramis sputtered and let a half-chewed piece of meat or leather, rather, drop back onto his plate. "What on earth…"
He stared at the dish. Despite not eating for nearly a full day, his appetite vanished. Eating leather. That explained the lack of boots. The thought made him gag.
"Cooked properly, it is, as you have seen, much like meat," Guiton said.
Much like… but… His pauldron. The second one he'd lost that year. Wouldn't Tréville just love that? My apologies, captain, I've eaten it.
"My eldest daughter has become quite adept at cooking it," Guiton said.
Of course, the siege, the lack of supplies. That was the point of it all. Starve them out.
"She'll cook it fricassee-style with a bit of tallow and water," the mayor continued. "Or make jams out of it with some sugar."
The most disgusting thing Aramis had ever heard and he'd had detailed conversations about gangrenous wounds.
"Why don't you eat cats and dogs like normal people?" he asked. The respectable thing that people under siege had done throughout history. But apparently that wasn't good enough for filthy Huguenots.
Guiton smiled. "If you believe any of them lasted the winter, you overestimate the number of animals in this town."
"But there are ways to…" To survive, to… Porthos had told him. The things he ate growing up...
Guiton nodded. "This was hardly our first choice. As mayor I should be proud of the new cleanliness of La Rochelle. I have not seen a mouse in months."
"The rats leaving the sinking ship," Aramis said before he could stop himself.
"I'm happy to report we did not let a single one leave," Guiton said. "And fortunately I know a thing or two about ships."
"Maybe you should have stuck to those." Maybe he was a good admiral, but this… this was beyond his skill to steer.
Guiton did not look upset with him. "We all do our duty."
Aramis jumped up to pace the room. The rope between his feet tripped him up and he stumbled, then shortened his strides.
"How many have died?"
"The old, the young…"
Guiton did not finish the sentence. He stared out the window instead. The infants and elderly were expected to die, but in the lingering silence Aramis heard about the others. He stopped and turned to face the man. Guiton kept himself very straight, his face carefully blank, but Aramis was struck by how tired he looked.
"This is madness," he said. "Eating leather, people dying. As a mayor, a father, a man… You've got to end this!"
Guiton raised an eyebrow. "As a soldier in the royal army, surely you don't mind death."
Death, death, death… Aramis braced himself on the window ledge and stared out into the glaring midday sun to clear the unbidden images from his brain. Bright light to chase away the night and heat to melt the ice. He clenched his teeth.
"I do mind."
Guiton stood and strode over to the window.
"Even the deaths of Huguenots?"
Aramis squeezed his eyes shut. Yes, they were here to starve them out, to kill them, to end this impertinence, this uprising. Duty. Duty to the king and to God. They all did their part. Deaths of Huguenots were the goal. All their weapons and yet the deadliest was the one they didn't wield. Hunger.
"We are all God's children," he said, hoping the tears did not show in his eyes.
You and your soft heart. It'll be the end of you one day.
They looked out over the city. Its colours had faded like those of threadbare clothing after too many washes. The window overlooked a square, but no market took place, no merchant offered his wares, no housewives haggled for produce. Usually, whenever there was hunger there were those savvy enough to exploit it. One bad harvest and prices in Paris rose like fireworks. In La Rochelle, nothing moved. There wasn't anything to be bought or sold.
They watched a woman trudge across the square to the fountain, her steps unsteady and slow like an old crone's. And yet her hair was dark and her back straight. She was young. They watched her clutch the fountain for support, then drink greedily.
In Aramis' ears, Porthos' voice told him that water could fill the stomach for a while and take away the worst of the pain.
"She's lost three children already," Guiton said. "Lord have mercy with us all."
Aramis' fingers turned to claws on the window ledge until he could feel the soft wood give under his nails.
"Why don't you show her some?" he asked. In his mind, Athos admonished him to watch his tongue, but Aramis didn't care. To watch a woman, young and beautiful before the hunger, struggle and stumble like this, to let her bury her children… For what?
"Wish it were in my hands to give life to my people," Guiton said.
"You dole out death instead." The little Athos in his mind grimaced and told him he shouldn't aggravate the one man who could stay his execution. Aramis pushed on regardless. "You have to end this siege. Surrender! For her sake if not for your own."
Guiton gave him a tired smile. He too looked decades older than his years. What would the consequences be? Could their fate still be averted? If any of them survived, what would their bodies be like a year or ten from now?
"I cannot surrender."
"You can. The king… Just say the word." Oh God, help this man see sense. "Your people are dying. You have to. Please."
Guiton shook his head. "I don't think you would be willing to give up your own religion like that."
"What does this have to do with—" Aramis stopped himself. Everything, of course. When the last great Huguenot stronghold fell, their special rights would disappear, their religion would wither and… was that a bad thing?
"I heard you in the cellar," Guiton said. "Your fervent prayer."
Aramis stood up straighter, ignoring the aches and pains in his body. His prayers had seen him through much worse than this.
"You believe," Guiton said.
"Of course, I do."
"You really do. Your life, your strength is built on God. It's the same for me."
"But that doesn't mean—"
Guiton stopped him with a raised hand. "Think carefully now," he warned. "You prayed, loudly and in Latin, when you knew you were captured by Protestants and helpless in their hands. You risked them taking offence and killing you for the comfort you found in those familiar words."
He hadn't thought that much. He had prayed like he always did because yes, it was a comfort to him. A way to shut the pain away and focus on… well, on the ritual. The mayor seemed to take his silence for assent.
"Your religion means a lot to you," he said. "As mine does to me."
Aramis wanted to protest, wanted to say that his religion was right and the true path to enlightenment where Guiton's was an abomination, but somehow it was irrelevant. There was a wider argument at play.
"But is religion worth more than life itself?"
"You tell me. Your actions this morning seem to suggest it is."
Did they? He was a soldier. Damn it, he knew that some things were more important than life. His life, the lives of his brothers, of all the regiment. Some things were worth dying for. He looked down at the square, the fountain where the young woman had stood. Was this one of those things?
"Despite my prayers, I didn't expect you to let me live," Aramis said.
"Do you think I expect the king to let us live?" Guiton asked.
Well… yes. Generally, that would be expected of a leader. And yet… Aramis bit down on his lip. It wouldn't be the first time.
"Let me show you something," Guiton said, beckoning for Aramis to follow.
The soldier, Hassard, was still outside the door, but once again Aramis didn't see anyone else as the mayor guided him through the corridors. Still, he was certain the walls and doors and dark corners had eyes and quite possibly weapons trained on him. His life was cheap in La Rochelle.
Guiton pushed open a tall door between a pair of imposing old portraits. The room beyond lay in darkness. As Aramis' eyes adjusted, he could make out walls paneled with dark wood. Behind him, the heavy door thudded shut. The floor was the same nearly-black wood and in the centre of the room stood a large table surrounded by heavy chairs upholstered in deepest crimson. A grand old room displaying the riches of the port.
The mayor drew one of the long curtains. Blood-red brocade slid back and blinding light rushed in. Dust danced in the air. With the sun in his back, Guiton's hair glowed like fire. But Aramis' eyes were drawn to a glimmer on the table. The huge oval of polished wood was marred by a glinting dagger thrust deep into its heart.
Aramis was drawn to it as if by invisible reins. He stretched out his hand, but let it hover awkwardly. The handle was gilded, the workmanship striking. A fine weapon. Not a ceremonial weapon either if the slight marks and notches were anything to go by. Well cared for, but also well used. And currently half embedded into what looked like the city's council table.
"I told them I would be mayor if they really wanted me to," Guiton said. "But behold this knife."
He stroked the coat of arms on the pommel, his hand so close that Aramis could almost feel the crackle of invisible lightning between them.
"I swore I would stick it in the heart of the first one who talked of surrender and asked to be stabbed likewise if I should ever propose to capitulate."
"Not ever?"
"The King of England could be mediator between our two sides. I would accept is intercession."
Aramis shook his head. "Richelieu would never allow it."
"King Louis could meet him as an equal," Guiton insisted.
"Never."
"We need somebody to speak for us." Guiton kept staring at the dagger in the table, his face unreadable. Regret? Determination? A desperate plea? Aramis couldn't tell.
"Why?" he asked.
Guiton smiled bitterly. "What is one city against a kingdom?"
Aramis raised his eyebrows. "A rather lengthy inconvenience, if you ask me."
The hint of hurt in the other man's eye made him regret his flippant tone.
"Why negotiate if you won't surrender?" he asked more kindly.
The mayor traced his fingers slowly along the hilt of the dagger. Whose heart would he most like to pierce with it?
"Not unconditionally," he said so softly Aramis could barely hear.
"Conditions?" Aramis snorted. What conditions did they want? Did they want a reward for their revolt? An extension of their religious freedom? Was that worth so much?
"You must understand." For the first time, Guiton sounded pleading. "I have five daughters."
And Aramis had a mother and sisters he cared about. And he would never… he would not watch them die for some illusion. Not even for the truth, the religion he and they lived and breathed.
"And you sacrifice them in this life for glory in the next?" he asked. "You let your daughters starve and lead them to certain death because you cannot swallow your pride? What sort of father are you?"
Guiton's hand tightened on the dagger. Fine, then. He could give Aramis an excuse. He'd be easily disarmed. Easily killed. And maybe killing the lunatic would be better for all concerned. Aramis couldn't believe that he had been drawn in by that man and almost convinced to show sympathy for his plight. A father who would sacrifice his children on the altar of his vanity.
"Starvation rather than…" Guiton's voice broke. He took a moment to compose himself. "What if we surrendered without condition? What would happen? You start killing here and then? A second Saint-Barthélemy?"
Aramis frowned at the mention of that bloody day so many years ago. "There wouldn't be a massacre," he said with more certainty than he felt. Hadn't he only just thought of killing this man?
Guiton looked up at him, his eyes overflowing. "Saint-Barthélemy started with only a handful of my brethren that King Charles ordered dead and then it spread, around Paris and the whole of France, leaving tens of thousands dead."
"It would not be—"
"There are tens of thousands dying here today," Guiton said. "If La Rochelle falls… We're the last bastion between those of our faith and the next massacre. How many dead then? How many Huguenots left in France? Would you slaughter us all?"
"Nobody wants to…" Aramis couldn't finish the lie. Nobody? Really? He wasn't the only one who'd lost people in these wars. Not the only one who'd spent years of his life killing Huguenots. The last one less than a day ago. A young man whose face or name he'd never know, one more unremembered soul on his endless tally.
Guiton's eyes looked straight into the dark recesses of his heart.
"I would rather let them starve than to see my girls and all the women raped and every last person, man, woman, and child, brutally murdered. La Rochelle will not be a second Nègrepelisse."
Aramis reared back as if he'd been shot. He was overcome by a sudden nausea, the mention of that name making his stomach clench and coil. The acrid smoke scorching his throat, the screams of those unfortunates, the cobbled streets slick with blood… He tried not to think, to force all this back into the horrid pit it had lain in for all these years.
"These animals you ride with," said Guiton. "Is that what you would have me succumb to? Is that what your priests teach from their pulpits? Is that the creed of the cardinal?"