Chapter 7: Complications in the capital...Things rarely go as planned.
Unto Dumas:
Pax, Disney and United Artists too
Give credit where credit is due,
I'd be writing something subtly different…
If not for all of you.
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Chapter 7: Close call
Louis, as a contentious ruler, worked between 7 and 10 hours a day... Mazarin and the Queen decreed this be so. His time was managed with near military efficacy. There were lessons…sessions in court…meetings with advisors, emissaries, dignitaries and various and sundry nobles…All of them many years his senior and, for the most, part ill equipped to deal with the psychological and emotional needs of a royal 10 year old.
However, in repayment for his nominal participation in affairs of state (and stately affairs) it was agreed that Louis would have several hours of total and complete freedom a day. This was his time to throw tantrums… break things…or do whatever he wished (which meant in general to wreak havoc.) Pity those assigned to guard him during the time of his majesties time of Liberté.
Captain Duval assigned Siroc that most odious duty on more than one occasion in preparation for this day. Surprisingly the soft-spoken inventor had been able to channel the monarch's nervous energy in (more or less) constructive endeavors. Unfortunately, this was not such a day.
A flash of gold amongst the bushes in the wildest part of the gardens drew the musketeer's attention first. A shoe buckle, a pair of hoes, a peach colored trouser leg -- muddy and torn, the brush parted to reveal a half naked savage in a feathered headdress (the tip of each plume suspiciously ink stained)
"I am a great chief from the Americas." Louis XIV exclaimed puffing out his rouge-stained chest.
"I can see that." Siroc nodded.
"I order you to climb yonder redwood and retrieve my medicine wheel or I shall have your sunny-bright scalp French man!" Louis announced. By way of emphasis, he kicked the curly blond wig he had discarded on the grass.
"Of course great chief" Siroc bowed. He climbed the tree easily enough, crossed his legs around a branch and hung up side down. From that undignified position he drew his sword and reached out to pluck "medicine wheel" (I.e. the circlet of state) which had been wound with grape vine and trailing feathers.
Louis laughed, capered about and whooped gleefully, very like the barbarian he claimed to be. "You make useful prisoner" the king declared, "I think I keep you."
After that 'display of courage and loyalty' it was surprisingly easy to convince the lad to exchange one costume for another and clad a tunic marked with single fleur-de-lies "Lew the lackey" mounted the pillion behind Siroc's saddle, and they rode with surprising ease through the gates of the Palace Royal and into the city.
-o-o-o-o-
The crown of France – still twined with vines -- lay on the Queen Anne's pillow…beneath it was a note.
This read:
Mother dear,
Do not worry. I am well and safe. Need I remind you that although I am King you and Uncle Mazzie are the State; at least for the time being. I am sick to death of that wretched parliament business. Please take care of it quickly for me. I do not intent to return to Paris until you do. That way, once I have tired of the countryside, I will come back to court and be free to move on to more interesting matters.
I did not ask permission because I knew you and that wearisome de Batz would never let me go -- at least not with out a retinue of a hundred or more. I do not want or need those men following me about like hounds. Don't trouble yourself with me. You should know that, despite what Bouillon, Turenne and de Gondi say I am neither stupid nor irresponsible. I have selected companions brave, trustworthy and resourceful to protect and entertain me whilst I am away from the capital. I'm sure you will have things well in hand while I am away.
Your loving Sun
+XIV+
-o-o-o-o-
She was not the Regent of France at the moment…nether could it be said she was Queen. She was simply Ann. The frightened mother who recognized her son's cramped hand yet was unable to comprehend or accept what his note said… She turned to find comfort, not for the first time…in the arms of her stalwart captain -Her Charles.
"Our little boy is gone." She sobbed and collapsed bonelessly against his chest. He held her and let her cry.
"Don't fret my rose." The elder D'artagnan crooned and smoothed her hair. "He can't have gotten far. I'll have horseman check every inch within a hundred miles of the capital, we'll have him back in no time."
Moments later the din began… Fire! Fire! The cry came in the night.
-o-o-o-o-
On the outskirts of Paris is le Tuileries: A series of long, narrow buildings with high roofs. Most have been divided into warehouses and shops. But this has not always been the case. For Catherine de Medici this had a palace. Now the one major and two minor courtyards were crowded with poor hawkers selling goods, newly arrived at nearby Porte St. Honore, from hastily constructed wooded stalls.
Ramón surveyed the once magnificent gardens as he waited. With his poets eye he could perceive the shadow of what once had been and dreamed of what could be again. Closing his eyes he could imagine le Tuileries a royal residence again or perhaps even a theater. The possibilities were endless.
The Spanish musketeer stayed away from the port, wary of drawing attention to the ship, which had arrived earlier in the day. The ever colorful Captain Porthos gave his word that his vessel (currently sailing under the name i 'Promising Alley' /i ) would set sail immediately after the passengers were on board.
Many of the shops were closing now as dusk deepened into evening but there were enough comings and going near the wharf to justify his presence. The Spaniard leaned against one of the empty stalls and enjoyed an alfresco dinner. Suddenly a body slammed into him HARD causing his exquisitely seasoned chicken leg to fall into the dirt.
"Sangre De los Dioses!" he exclaimed in a fit of piqué. "Watch where you are going in such a hurry señor else, you will surely not arrive at your destination." Ramón declared angrily shaking what was left his coffee off his sleeve…
"Are you challenging me?" The man sneered and then followed the question with 22 inches of gleaming steal.
"A swashbuckler…I should have guessed." Ramón growled. He HAD been trying not to draw attention to himself. But it appeared this 'gentleman' was not going to oblige him in that. To make matters worse HE spoiled a perfectly good chicken. Ramón drew his sword.
Truth be told, it wasn't much of a fight. The bully in the buff coat was both strong and quick but lacking imagination. In fact, it was very like dueling one of the Cardinals guards.
Shortly after their swords, clashed Siroc and young Louis intruded upon the scene. Seeing Ramon it the midst of a duel confounded the inventor. His thoughts raged… 'How could he…possibly… Why? Why now!…What would warrant…such …such…risk Urrrgh!'
Thankfully though, the young inventor had been schooled to keep an impassive face and asked casually, "What is this about!" not bothering to dismount.
"Be with you momentarily Siroc." Ramón said sending his opponents blade skidding across the cobbles.
Siroc's undisguised royal blue uniform and Lewis's lackey's tunic made them easily identifiable. "Musketeers!" the man spat angrily.
Siroc thought he recognized that voice but quickly had other matters to concern him. As if on que, shadowed figures emerged seemingly conjured from the darkness. One stopped the sliding blade with a booted foot…and kicked it up into his hand.
"Bernard." Siroc groaned and winced inwardly, 'We haven't time for this!' His mind screamed very much aware of the young King clinging to his waist.
No less than six companions accompanied Bernard. Though they dressed as middle class merchants, they carried themselves like guardsmen – all with the same distinctive cloak as Ramón's attacker.
"Well, well, well, what have we here? A pair of Musk-a-rats." Bernard smiled smugly. "You ought-not wander about after dark. There are dangerous peoples about tonight."
The Ever observant inventor was quick to notice this was something other than coincidence. In his experience Mazarin's guards were by in large, a solitary lot. He'd never known more than a handful to spent off-duty time together and most of those, pointedly avoided Bernard--Unless they were up to something.
So the question was; 'What would require eight guardsmen in civilian dress?' All wore the same rough leather cape over their garments, protecting them perhaps from some grimy chore. There was also one other accessory all had in common.
"A sling?" Siroc matched scorn for scorn "That is hardly the weapon of a nobleman…Bernard. Have you been breaking windows again?" Siroc said in a carefully schooled sneer. The inventor alluded to the recent rash of vandalism that was the talk of Paris.
Bernard flinched, the accusation hit very close to the mark. He recovered quickly, "I wouldn't need a noble's weapon to take you down – Schiavo…I can do that with fists alone. Shall we have a go? Wouldn't be the first time I BEAT you, would it." The guard menaced, handing the blade back to its owner. "And who might this be?" he nodded to Louis "Your personal entertainment for the evening or is he a regular esprit de corps boy?"
'Schiavo… Animale domestico,' the Italian language still made Siroc cringe, (as did the reminder of his frequrnt beatings.) But he was not Mazarin's 'Slave' or 'Pet' any longer. What is more he learned to use what he'd gleaned from that ruthless instruction. Still part of him yearned to accept the bullyboy's challenge. Bernard would be quite surprised to find what happened when the master was not around to command him to let the guard win.
Siroc could not forget the power of the master's command, voice cold as ice yet edged like steal…He could mimic it "Enough!" Siroc said His tone, so like Mazarin's all eight guardsmen responded instinctively -- almost coming to attention. Even Louis (who had been about to ask what a 'Schiavo' was) closed his mouth with an audible snap. "The boy is my nephew." Siroc lied convincingly. "And while I'd love an opportunity to ram your accusations down your throat I simply can't be bothered at the moment."
The inventor was distracted from his tirade for only a heartbeat when a nearby warehouse visibly erupted in flame. The sign over its door illuminated clearly by the blaze.
"I expect you haven't much time either tonight. Isn't that your fathers building on fire Bernard? I'm sure He'll be well paid for all the perishable goods in that empty warehouse…. But he will not thank you (I think) if the entire building turns to ash. You'd best not delay too long in calling the fire brigade." Siroc stated, fixing Bernard with an unblinking stare and spurred his horse past them.
The ringleader ground his teeth together in undisguised rage. Bernard hated to admit it but the fire had indeed grown out of control. It was high time to summon help to put it out.
Over his shoulder the inventor called almost cheerfully, "Come along Ramon, we must be going!"
The astonished Spaniard had all he could do to trail after his departing companion. He had never before seen this dimension of their mild mannered Inventor. If he had not seen it, he would not have imagined Siroc had trading insults with Mazarin's favorite bullyboy... What is more, he actually made the unpleasant blaggard back down.
-o-o-o-o-
Chapter 8: Departure, the adventures take their leave of Paris.
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