The sound of the doors being opened echoed throughout the room. The long hall, sparsely furnished, contained five chairs behind a long table that was stationed horizontally from the walls. The chair in the center was larger, more ornate, and upholstered with blue velvet. The table was covered with a white tablecloth and there were five glasses and a port filled with water. A closed book lay on the left, and lit silver candelabras stood at each end. The window drapes were open and pushed aside to allow the sun to cast its glow toward the natural stone floor. Dust particles danced in the stillness of the afternoon hour.
Milady de Winter stood with her hands clutched at the skirt of her long blue dress that was stained and dirtied near the hem. Her long brown, nearly black, hair cascaded down her back and over her narrow shoulders. Even in disarray, she was beautiful. Two guards stood at either side, and she waited anxiously for the king to make his appearance. It was the first time in many years that she felt fear. Genuine fear, a feeling that could not be denied as the threat of her crime breathed down her neck. It was something she hated, an emotion she had spent her life working to control. She had moments of weakness, when powerful men had threatened her life, but even then she stood strong. Scared, yes, but strong all the same. But now it fed on her soul like that of a leach, pulling out her insecurities and feeding off her sins, all of which she had in abundance of. This time was different, and she knew it.
The echoes of footsteps on the travertine floors resounded, powder tins chimed, and swords were stilled at the sides of Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan as they entered the room and stood shoulder to shoulder to the left of the table.
Milady whispered, "Please," through parted lips and looked at Aramis, who looked at her. He glanced away, clenched his jaw, and listened as the door at the back of the room opened and King Louis entered the hall, followed by three court officials and Minister Treville. Milady curtsied, the guards bowed, and King Louis took his seat with an annoyed sigh.
He leaned back, clenched his jaw, and looked straight ahead. His long black hair draped over his shoulders. His blue and cream-colored doublet was adorned with silver buttons and a sash that draped over his right shoulder and across his chest. He placed his hand on the table and watched her as she tried to take a step toward him but was held back by a guard, who grabbed her elbow and forced her to stand quietly before the king and the council.
The silence was awkward as King Louis collected himself. His normally vibrant and jovial features were stern. He flared his nostrils and set his jaw. He slipped long fingers beneath the bulb of a glass and took a sip of water.
"You murdered the Marquis de Feron," King Louis said. He looked to his left as the sun's rays shifted.
"I defended myself." Milady said on impulse. She shifted, shrugged her arms out of the guards' grasp, and then squared her shoulders.
"From a cripple?" Louis looked at her. "A man who suffered chronic pain… a man who could hardly walk, much less fight off a healthy woman who has made a life as a schemer… as a fraud. A woman who took advantage of her position as my guest and — if I remember correctly — you left me and my family in the perils of danger —"
"I went to get help, Your Majesty."
"There are ways to conduct yourself, Milady de Winter, ways that you failed at… ways that do not," he shifted uncomfortably and quickly composed himself, "that do not emphasize the weakness of those around you in situations that require discretion and fortitude."
"My sincere apologies, Majesty," Milady said and quickly cast her gaze downward. "I did not realize." She glanced from Aramis to Treville and then toward the king. She ignored d'Artagnan's refusal to meet her gaze and Porthos' tense posture. There were several directions she could take, and all of them raced through her mind at once. She could play the victim, the poor woman taken advantage of in a moment of weakness, but she looked at d'Artagnan and knew he would not believe her story. Nor would the others. Perhaps it was an accident. The marquis fell into her while reaching across her as he went to pour a drink. Maybe, just maybe, someone else had killed him, and she had tried to save his life. There were many vagrants on the docks, strange men looking to rob those who appeared wealthy. She could even think of concocting a story where one of the Marquis' own men had found the chest full of cash and wanted to rob him. Her statement of defending herself could be twisted and turned to her benefit. It was a tactic she had used her entire life, manipulating words and the emotions of those from whom she could would evoke sympathy.
For Milady, all the options were plausible, and she could tell the story and have them all feeling her tears, her fear, and her frustration. She looked at all of them, glanced from those council members who looked at her critically, while King Louis looked at her with such hatred and bitter disappointment in his eyes. She didn't understand why, but she knew she had to win him if she were going to survive. Whatever his relationship was with the Marquis, she knew he needed to be portrayed as a victim, and she an innocent bystander. She looked at Treville and the musketeers and realized that any story she told would be viewed as a lie. Athos had turned them against her, even after she had saved Aramis' life. She looked down, took a deep breath, and decided on her story.
"We met on the deck," Milady said. She shrugged and then brushed a few stray hairs from her face. "He was very kind, and he offered me a refreshment in his cabin… it was cold that night and my wrap was not enough to keep me warm." She curled her lips into a gentle smile. Her eyes appeared larger, and she stretched her neck. She was undeniably beautiful, and she used it in such a way to to refocus their attention on her appearance rather than her words. "The Marquis — Feron, was showing me his collection of keys…" she paused suddenly and wiped at the stray tear that fell from her left eye. "My shawl caught on the latch to the cabinet — we tried to release it, but I asked him to just cut it away… As the ship pulled into the docks we hit the pier — it wasn't bad, but he…" She stopped, looked out the widow as she collected her breath. "He fell — I didn't know he was so frail, your Majesty." She returned her gaze to him. "Had I known, I would never have asked him to cut away my shawl."
King Louis cocked his left eyebrow in skepticism.
D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and shook his head. He stilled when Treville looked toward him in warning.
Aramis clenched his jaw again and pursed his lips. He watched her brush away the tears, make herself look weak and fragile and unable to murder a man so brutally. The only indication he could see that she was nervous as she spoke was the rubbing of her fingers within the folds of her dress. She lied as easily as most told the truth and it unnerved him how good she was, how her emotions matched her story. He wondered if she believed her lies. Had he not known her, not been familiar with her deceit, he too may have believed her story.
King Louis ran his fingers along the curve of his glass and watched the shimmer of light across the water. He saw himself as a just man. Someone who could evaluate the evidence placed before him and come to a logical and justified conclusion. His half brother was dead, murdered, and he looked at the woman who killed him. She took his life without remorse, and he silently wondered how someone so beautiful could be so cruel… so wicked. He leaned to his left and listened to a council member whisper in his ear, and Louis shook his head. "I will not wait…" he said and took a deep breath.
"The Marquis was my brother, Milady. Why would a man of his standing collect keys and for what purpose?" King Louis frowned and looked at her in question. "To impress young women in the calibrations of locks?"
Milady swallowed and said, "He mentioned to me his interest in a young locksmith who was using designs of coats-of-arms and religious symbols to improve the appearance of the architecture of estates."
Aramis cocked an eyebrow. Porthos shook his head, and d'Artagnan rolled his eyes again. Despite her complete fabrication of the story, she told it as though she lived it… she told it as if it were true.
"My brother was foolish, he was provincial, but he never turned his back on me… he never betrayed me, and he certainly never collected keys or consorted with… locksmiths," King Louis said distastefully. "I cannot say the same for you." Louis looked at her. "I find sentencing women to death abhorrent…" He pursed his lips and clenched his jaw as his impatience and frustration grew. "Under any other circumstance you would have presented your case in front of a local justice, but given your lies, your history and knowledge of the crown, and your lack of appreciation for life." He squared his shoulders, rested his elbows on the table, and folded his fingers together. "Milady de Winter, I sentence you to hang. You will be held in the Bastille until a time I see fit." He stood. His men bowed. "I do not know the full extent of damage you have done in your life… but I have no doubt that you have murdered for much less and I question my own logic that I allowed you into the palace." He walked toward the door, then paused and turned toward her. "I regret, Milady de Winter, that your time will be short."
The guards grabbed Milady's arms as she struggled.
"Aramis!" she shouted. Her hair fell around her face and past her shoulders. "Please… I need to speak with you… Please!"
The guards dragged her toward the doors.
"Please, Aramis, I need to speak with Athos… I need to speak with him!"
Her voice faded as the guards pulled her through the doors and down the hall. Aramis took a deep breath, rubbed his face, and then looked at Treville.
"This," Porthos said and shook his head in disgust and disappointment, "is goin' to get ugly."