9. The Past Haunts Again

Late that night, Olivier Comte de la Fère quietly joined his old friends in a dimly lit back room of the Musketeer garrison. It had been many years since he had set foot in this building, and then he had been known as Athos, serving under Monsieur de Treville and drowning his past in drink. He had resigned shortly after Milady de Winter had been executed in order to devote his life to his son, Raoul. Now Raoul was having adventures of his own in the army and Olivier had nothing to keep him home. A request for a meeting from d'Artagnan was sufficient enough to draw him from his estates in the late evening.

Charles d'Artagnan stood on the far side of a table, bent over some papers. He had obviously turned the room into a makeshift command center. Porthos already sat at the table, glowing in his newly acquired title of Baron du Valon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds. "Isaac, Charles, how are you both?"

"Well enough, Olivier. I trust you've kept up with the latest news?" Isaac still remained the Porthos he had always been.

"Congratulations on your title, Baron," the Comte de la Fère replied graciously.

The impatient d'Artagnan interrupted the reunion. "We are here to discuss Aramis. He has returned to find the Roget girl."

"I've been making quiet inquiries as to her whereabouts, but she seems to have disappeared. Mazarin is still intent on bringing her to justice," Isaac said pointedly, referring to Charles' not-so-secret career in Mazarin's espionage service. The issue had built a wall between the friends, Charles and Isaac against Olivier and Aramis.

"I'm working on getting him to drop the charges. The Cardinal is much different from Richelieu," Charles replied firmly.

Olivier looked at both in turn. "What can I do? I had the farm watched for months and only the neighbor ever came. She's gone, probably left France if she was smart. The Gerard boy never came back either."

"I will ask Duval to have the Musketeers search Paris for her. Aramis is arriving the day after tomorrow, and he vows to remain in France until Roget is found," Charles told him. "Put the farm on continuous watch, and we'll see if we cannot chase her there with the search."

"And what does this mean for your son, Charles? Will you hold him to your promise?" Olivier asked him, thinking of his own son's amorous adventures. He could not imagine forcing him to marry someone his father had picked; arranged marriages were for politics.

Charles eyed his old friend sharply, "The agreement stands—a d'Artagnan's word lasts for all of time."

Isaac pardoned himself first. "I must return home to my wife. I will meet Aramis when he arrives."

Olivier broke away from Charles' gaze as well. "I found an inn down the street. I will assemble with you again in two days." He nodded goodbye and left the room behind Isaac.

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D'Artagnan the younger paced outside the door where his father met with Athos and Porthos. He could not work up the courage to barge into their meeting, so he waited for his father to emerge.

Charles burst out angrily and seemed surprised to see his son standing there. "Perhaps I should tell Duval that your talents are better tuned to spying on private conversations."

"Father, I came in good faith to tell you something," d'Artagnan answered patiently, hoping to keep the conversation positive.

Charles d'Artagnan nodded hurriedly. "Well get on with it; I have things to do."

"I thought you should know that I intend to ask for a woman's hand in marriage. I love her," d'Artagnan said simply. He did not know what he expected from his father. After this many years of letdowns, did he think the man would give him a pat on the back and ask about his soon-to-be bride?

The reaction he got was totally unexpected. "I forbid you to do any such thing. Call it off and forget her," the older man said gruffly.

"I can't do that," d'Artagnan said. "I don't care if you disapprove; I wasn't asking for your permission. I just thought you would like to know your son was happy for once."

Charles shook his head. "I know I wasn't always around when you were a boy, but that is not what this is about. You are already promised to marry someone. I had thought that it had been called off when the girl disappeared, but now we will get her back and the agreement will stand."

"Promised? You arranged my marriage?" d'Artagnan fumbled in a rage. "I cannot and will not go along with your little promise. I already love a woman, and there is no way I will give her up." He turned to leave, but his arm was caught by Charles.

"Don't be a fool, boy. The honor of a d'Artagnan's word is at stake; if you back out of this, you bring shame on all those that bear your name."

D'Artagnan looked his father in the eye. "Honor is not worth living the rest of my life without her." He pulled himself out of his father's grip and left.

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Jacqueline tossed and turned in her bed. She had blown out the candles in her room hours ago, yet sleep continued to evade her in the darkness. There was too much to think about, from Ramon's sister to the secret meeting of the legendary Musketeers. Something was happening right under her nose, but Jacqueline could not find a way to connect the dots to see the whole picture. It tortured her like an itch right between the shoulder blades—it was just out of reach.

She finally sat up; there was no point in suffering alone. Jacqueline pulled on trousers and her jacket just in case she ran into someone and left her room. She tiptoed down the hall to d'Artagnan's room. A slight hesitation convinced her that she should not go to him tonight. Now she had three men to support her, and d'Artagnan was the last one she should visit late at night.

Continuing down the hallway, she saw light flickering from the crack in the door of Siroc's workshop. Pushing open the door slowly so as to not disturb a delicate experiment, Jacqueline was surprised to find Siroc lying on his back, hands behind his head, in front of the dying fire. He was staring up at the ceiling, seemingly focused on a model of his flying machine which hung in a perpetual dive heading straight for him.

Siroc looked over calmly, not in the least ruffled by a nighttime visitor. Jacqueline crossed the room and lowered herself down beside him. Siroc pulled himself up into a sitting position to face her. The firelight danced across their faces as both Musketeers stared into the flickering light, content to rest in amiable silence.

"Jacqueline—" the name still came strangely to Siroc's lips.

"Siroc—" she said at the same time. Both laughed nervously, and Jacqueline told him, "You go first."

Siroc took a deep breath. "Now that I know the secrets of your past, I thought you should know mine." Jacqueline nodded and braced herself for his story. Siroc began.

"I was born in a village tucked away in the Pyrenees between France and Spain. When I was around six years old, my parents were killed by slave traders, and I was taken along with my sister. I lived for eight months in a caravan of unfortunates who were destined for the trading block. A servant of a Bishop took pity on us and purchased my sister and me into the man's service.

"I was happy for awhile. They made me do small odd chores, like sweeping the fireplace or delivering messages. Whenever I was free I would sneak into this huge library; the Bishop had the greatest collection of literary masterpieces anywhere in Spain. I taught myself to read French, Spanish, and English. Those were the greatest moments of my childhood.

"One day the Bishop caught me in his library. I thought he would kill me for touching his treasured volumes, but instead he had me to sit down in one of his velvet armchairs and told me stories of the royal Musketeers of France. He spoke of great battles and sieges, of brave men, of political intrigues, and of amorous adventures. He was a sad man, and I seemed to give him comfort just by listening. He would call me at all hours of the day just to tell me a story."

Siroc swallowed hard. "While all this was happening, I never realized that they were slowly taking my sister away from me. I saw her less and less, but it never occurred to me until one day she was just gone from my life. Another few years passed, and I was fifteen when I saw my sister again."

Now he was all choked up; Jacqueline stared in wonder at the man she knew to be logical and rational all the time as he fought to keep from crying. Her womanly instinct to comfort took over and she scooted closer to her suffering friend and wrapped him in a warm, reassuring hug. Siroc clutched her back, struggling to control his breathing, salty tears watering his eyes.

He whispered into her ear, "The priests, supposed holy men, used my sister as a plaything. I walked in on one of them forcing her…" Siroc shuddered, trailing off.

Jacqueline stared out into the darkness of the laboratory over his shoulder. Now she could see why her Musketeer friends cared for her so fiercely—they had both lost their sisters to the world and didn't want to lose Jacqueline, their new sister, too. She loved them back more than ever. "What did you do?" she asked softly.

"I charged the man with a sword, but I was blind with hatred and knew nothing of fighting. He wrestled it from me and gave me the scar across my back. My sister recognized me and fought the man to stop, and he ran her through. He left me for dead, but the maid who had treated me as a son found me soon after and healed my wounds. She risked her life to hide me."

Siroc now regained his emotional strength and pulled away from Jacqueline. He stared into the fire once more. "I ran from Spain as soon as I could walk and came all the way to France and Paris and the Musketeers. The Bishop taught me that they fought for justice and goodness. Duval showed me it was true by taking me in as a starving boy with nothing but a sharp mind. He gave me free rein to learn and experiment in my own workshop."

Jacqueline was now hit with the full intensity of Siroc's eyes. "The Bishop de Vannes probably believes me dead still, and he is coming here. I can't let him find me and take me back to Spain."

"We would never let that happen. Musketeers, remember? All for one, one for all," Jacqueline said. They both winced at the legend d'Artagnan's motto. "The Bishop will never have to see you; just stay locked up in your workshop when he comes and no one will find out your connection. I think we can manage to keep him distracted."

Siroc looked at her solemnly. "You did right, Siroc. Nothing can change what happened, but you can be happy for your sister." She flashed an encouraging smile. Siroc nodded.

Jacqueline gripped his shoulder one last time before leaving. Now she had even more to think about as she tossed and turned in bed.

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D'Artagnan left the garrison early the next morning, leading his horse through the narrow streets. He had a hard day's ride ahead of him to get to his estate. A note slipped under Duval's office door would explain his absence for only two days. He was just disappointed that he could not tell his friends the truth; d'Artagnan could not risk any questions until he had asked Jacqueline the most important one of all.

His mother had given him her wedding ring before she died, and he had hidden it in a secret compartment in his fireplace. It would be the perfect way to make his intentions clear to Jacqueline and their friends.

So wrapped up in his thoughts, d'Artagnan did not hear his followers and draw his rapier in time to stop a sword hilt from knocking him down to the cobblestone ground.