Chapter Thirty Five
Earlier, Simeon had left Treville's office in thoughtful but purposeful mood.
This was his redemption. Treville had offered him a lifeline and some modicum of honour could be retrieved. His heart had been so heavy of late he had felt like a dead man. The tattoo on his arm, that had seemed to warrant his attention so many times during the last few weeks, seemed now to have faded almost.
As he walked down the staircase, he was aware that the Musketeers that lingered in the yard were watching him leave. Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan all acknowledged him with subtle eye-contact, which he found he could hold, for the moment at least. Foubier turned away but only after giving him the slightest tilt of his head and a subtle smile that he covered by engaging d'Artagnan in a tale. It was their way of keeping his identity to themselves, for which he was grateful. To the other soldiers in the yard, he was merely one of Treville's visitors.
When he reached the archway entrance, he was surprised to see Athos in the shadows, leaning against the wall with his arms folded.
He stepped beneath, and they came face to face.
"Athos," he said, cautiously.
Athos pushed off the wall and stood in front of him, blocking his exit, before dropping his hands to his side and locking eyes with him.
Simeon found he was holding his breath and then Athos spoke.
"I would not be standing here if you had not pushed me out of the gates of La Rochelle," he said simply. "I have thought what would have happened many times over the years and your simple act saved me, as a Royalist soldier, untold anguish. Of that, I am certain. I doubt I would have withstood the combined hatred of an entire population."
Simeon stared at him, before swallowing dryly and nodding.
"It was instinct," he said, softly.
"Driven by your unique insight and knowledge of the horrors deep in the city," Athos replied.
A look of pure emotion passed across Simeon's face.
"I cannot unsee it," he groaned, sagging slightly, his voice breaking.
He almost fell against the wall before Athos stepped forward and took hold of his elbow to steady him.
"The children, Athos," he said, a sob breaking from his throat. "The children.
"And Richelieu," he ground out, "Striding around the ramparts as though he were God himself."
Athos's eyes flicked over Simeon's shoulder, ensuring they were alone and no-one could hear Simeon's anguish.
"Take your time," he murmured.
"I am sorry I could not save you in the grain store," Simeon said then. "Someone was coming ..."
"It was Foubier, as you now know," Athos said. "Circumstances ensured my rescue."
"But it could have been one of them!" Simeon replied. "I was ..."
"Simeon," Athos said, quietly, "Put it behind you, it serves no purpose." A man can only bear so much guilt.
Simeon straightened, and rubbed his face with both hands.
"Everything in its place," he whispered, as he lowered them.
"Indeed. It is the only way to function, I find. Head over heart. That, and wine."
Simeon looked up at him and huffed out a strangled laugh.
"I envy you," he said, then. "All this. The camaraderie. The order."
"It has its advantages," Athos agreed, leaving the sentence hanging.
Simeon smiled, a little more naturally. "But solitude is a blessing too?"
"Quite," Athos replied, ruefully.
He reached out and grasped Simeon's shoulder firmly.
"Tomorrow then," he said.
"I have work to do tonight, but yes," Simeon replied. "Tomorrow."
Athos knew of his task, but did not comment. Instead, he held out his hand.
"Thank you," he said, simply.
"Don't thank me until it is done," Simeon replied, though he took his hand.
"My thanks have nothing to do with your task," Athos replied, gently.
Simeon nodded, as Athos stepped back, clearing his way.
"May God be with us," Simeon whispered, before he headed off.
Athos watched him go, before he disappeared into the crowd.
Working his way through the streets, Simeon made his way to a small church he often used, where the priest kept his counsel and allowed his patrons their peace, unless they asked for more.
Stepping into a pew, he almost fell to his knees, retrieving his father's rosary from his pocket and running it through his fingers. The church was quiet and smelled comfortingly of incense and candle wax. He raised his eyes to the many icons and statues that were displayed around the walls, on tables and on shelves, before pulling in a breath and rising, making his way to the enclosed confessional.
As he closed the door, peace descended on him in the small space, where he breathed quietly and thought over the last few hours; how he had approached the Garrison in trepidation, his blood thrumming in his veins. Not sure of the reception, not sure of what he would say, or how he would say it. Not sure if he had the strength to say what he wanted to say to men who he had wronged. Honourable men, who he had once worked alongside. They had respected him, despite knowing nothing about him. Not even his name. His actions had spoken back then. His actions since had not been worthy of their respect.
The door on the other side of the open-metalwork partition opened and light filled the small space briefly. The priest sat, settling himself and his robes about him before leaning in to hear his confession, his face in shadow and in profile.
Simeon curled his hand tightly around the rosary beads and spoke the words he had not said for a long time:
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."
The father he spoke of included the one who had given him life.
/
Later, as Porthos and Aramis were teasing information from two despondent boys in The Wren, Simeon was pinning cryptic notes in various places.
They were signed, "Masonne," and held the insignia of The Wolf, a red mark at the bottom of the page. It was an order to meet in the derelict warehouse and it said, "The time is upon us," and beneath, the lines that none of them yet understood:
Between the Bear and the Stork.
It was a call to arms.
He was not worried about the Musketeers or Red Guard taking him up on the invitation, because Treville was taking care of that.
He wrapped his cloak around him and slipped away. In the morning, he would climb the stairs of an old clock tower near the warehouse and watch. Below, he would be able to see clearly the people who made their way through the streets, going about their business.
Some, he hoped sincerely, eager to take part in the final conflict, would go no further.
/
Easter Sunday:
Preparations were complete, horses and men, resplendent in their ceremonial uniforms, were despatched to the Louvre to accompany the Monarchs and to line the streets. Soon the bells would ring and services would commence across the city. Treville had left early with a contingent of Musketeers.
Armed with the knowledge Porthos and Aramis had brought back from The Wren, The Inseparables and Foubier rose as dawn broke and set out for The Temple d l'Oratoire. They were not in uniform and went on foot, so as not to draw attention, for even at this early hour, the streets were beginning to come alive in anticipation. There would be many more traders on the streets today, taking advantage of the festivities.
The Temple came into view, set at an angle at the end of rue Saint-Honore. The scaffolding had been removed and the sun shone on the pale stone, the tall narrow edifice rising above the surrounding buildings. The inside renovations were not complete but Richelieu had been in a rush to have the altar pressed into service. However, they had no time to admire the building fully and quietly walked toward the door, their hands on their weapons unsure but ready for what they would find.
The door was unlocked and they entered cautiously, expecting to see preparations for Richelieu's service.
The polished tiled floor stretched beneath a high vaulted ceiling, supported by pillars. A gallery ran on the upper floor along each side of the building and over the altar. Several arches ran along each side of the building, in itself, a security nightmare.
However, the nave was empty. Indeed, the whole building was still.
Cardinal Richelieu was evidently not in residence and there was nothing to suggest he would be any time soon.
"Are you sure your information was correct?" Athos said, tersely, as his eyes raked over the first floor balconies, hand still on the hilt of his sword.
Aramis and Porthos looked at each other in confusion.
"Absolutely," Aramis said, quietly, walking quietly toward a door to their left.
Suddenly, the door opened, and they drew their swords as one.
A priest emerged and held up his hands in shock, crossing himself, as surprised to see a group of soldiers as they were he.
"Apologies, Father," Aramis said, re-sheathing his sword, though the others did not.
"I was just about to lock up," the priest stuttered, taking a step back.
"Where is the Cardinal?" Aramis asked, walking forward quickly.
"He is not here," the priest replied. "He has changed his plans."
Aramis turned around, hands on hips and looked at his brothers and Foubier.
"That was sudden," he said.
"He will proceed to the Cathedral later to join the Royal Party at the required time," the priest added. "His Eminence sent word he does not want to distract from the main services in the Cathedral."
"I bet he doesn't," Porthos growled.
"I don't believe this," Aramis breathed, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
"What's going on?" Foubier murmured, voicing what they were all thinking.
"We have been wrong-footed," Athos murmured, tersely, turning quickly and striding out of the Temple. The others followed more slowly, utterly confused, the realisation beginning to descend that they would not defeat Masonne here today and that Richelieu was not the target.
They emerged into bright sunlight to find Athos standing outside staring up at the Temple facade.
The priest appeared and locked the doors before joining them.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said, reverently. "I can see how the Cardinal was in haste to use it. It is the perfect place for his funeral."
"His funeral?" Aramis asked with a frown.
"His Majesty too," the priest said. "When the time comes, of course," he added, hastily.
"His Eminence's attitude makes sense, now," Aramis sighed. The man already had designs on a State Funeral.
Above them the two turrets shone in the early morning light.
"What do we do now?" Porthos growled. "The time ..."
Just then, the Great Bells of the Cathedral began to announce the advent of the Holy day, ringing out over the city.
The celebrations were underway and they were out of time.
To be continued ...