CHAPTER TWENTY
With the King well hidden, Olivier moved to the wall that held the open passageway door, slipping in behind it, sword held tight to his chest.
He did not have long to wait to spring his trap.
Sure enough, movement in the passageway heralded the stealthy approach of someone intent on entry. Keeping still and holding his breath, Olivier held himself in check, lest it not be Dubois but one of his Musketeer companions.
The blade that appeared ahead of the person though, was easily recognisable and Olivier immediately engaged, his own blade dropping hard on to that of Dubois.
Dubois staggered but managed to get his foot into the room and he pushed forward, his eyes scanning the room for any other threat to the one before him.
"So, you retreat into a bed chamber, Musketeer coward," he snarled as he parried an attempt by Olivier to get behind his defence and skewer him in the chest.
"You are mistaken. I am not a Musketeer," Olivier ground out, as they locked blades, once more their faces inches apart.
"What are you then!" Dubois shouted. "You wear the pauldron. You fought against us. And Milady knelt to you with your men around you. The Bonaceiux whore – are you going to deny knowing her too?" he growled, as he swung his blade and nearly succeeded in cutting the Musketeer's face, who suddenly appeared stunned by his words.
"What's wrong with you?" the man taunted. "Is your brain addled from too much wine? I've seen you in The Wren. I've seen how the brawler makes sure you get home at night!"
"Shut your God-damn mouth," Olivier ground out. That in itself added to his own confusion. His words were alien to him. He had never blasphemed in such a manner, and yet it had come easily.
"Touched a nerve?" Dubois laughed, swinging his blade in small tight circles as he approached.
Olivier staggered back a pace or two, unable to form a response to the strange accusations hurled at him, not least the allusion to Madame Bonacieux, the kind young woman who had provided him with the clothes he now wore.
Breathing heavily, he shook his head, trying to clear his mind.
Dubois took advantage of his opponent's evident confusion and moved quickly to take advantage, his sword held straight before him like a lance.
Olivier twisted away just in time, his hip hitting the table at the end of the King's bed, sending items crashing to the floor. Spinning away, he took a deep breath and cleared his mind, lunging now at the man who was busy avoiding the broken wine glasses and two heavy candlesticks that rolled beneath his feet.
Steel clashed against steel, and the room reverberated with the grunts of two increasingly exhausted men.
They neared the bed, Dubois's blade broadsiding one of the carved wooden bed posts.
Olivier cast a worried look at the curtains, fearing for the King, who hid behind.
"If you wish to die in bed, Musketeer, I can accommodate you!" Dubois snarled as he threw himself toward the confused man.
The sheer power in his lunge threw Olivier off balance and he staggered backward, falling against the heavy drapes of the bed. They gave, and, unable to catch himself, he fell through onto the bed, bringing one of the curtains down with him.
The King hidden within gave a cry, but before Olivier could throw off the curtain and defend himself, Louis gave a bellow and brought something down on his head.
Beneath the curtain, Olivier was momentarily stunned, which gave Dubois the opportunity to thrust his sword into the curtain. However, Louis raised the tome he held in his hands once more and brought it down, diverting the blade, which embedded itself in the bed.
"My bed!" the King cried, "I will have your head!" he seethed, as the man pulled the blade from the bed and, outnumbered, ran back to the passageway.
Olivier extricated himself from the curtain, his vision clouding, head throbbing, but otherwise unharmed. Dubois's blade had missed him by mere inches.
"After him, Athos!" the King cried as he pushed him off the bed and firmly pulled the remaining curtains closed.
Olivier's knees buckled as his feet hit the floor and he grabbed at the bedside table to steady himself.
"Don't let him escape!" Louis's muffled call came as the Comte stared at the wall of heavy brocade, raising his arm to swipe at a trickle of blood on his temple with the back of his closed hand, still wrapped around the unfamiliar sword. Staring then at his hand, he turned and followed Dubois into the gloom of the passageway, the King's words echoing in his head.
oOo
A little while later, Aramis approached the King's quarters. Noting there were no guards on the double doors, he feared the worst.
"Sire!" he called, urgently rattling the gold door handles. "It is the Musketeer Aramis. Are you alright?"
All was silent and Aramis was preparing to put his shoulder to the doors, when a familiar voice came;
"Yes!" the King called out. "Athos was here. He drove the assassin away."
"Away?" Aramis shouted back through the closed door.
What on earth was the King talking about?
There was a noise from within the room as the King pulled the chair aside and pulled the door open, beckoning him inside. Aramis dipped his head in a show of respect and stepped into the room.
"Here!" Louis continued. "They were fighting here, in my bedchamber!"
Aramis looked cautiously around. There was no-one there, other than the two of them, though a chair had been overturned by the window and there were several objects on the floor, which the King now began to pick up and place back on the ornate table at the end of the bed.
"I hit him though!" the King said, proudly, carefully avoiding the broken glass.
"Who did you hit, Your Majesty?" Aramis asked, warily.
The King paused.
"Now that you ask," he replied with a sheepish grin, "I don't know. He was beneath the curtain and it all happened so fast."
"What did you hit him with?" Aramis pressed, tentatively, looking at the candlesticks on the floor. Please God, no.
"The King picked up a weighty volume from the floor.
"This," he said. "Though it was not a direct him. He moved."
Aramis gritted his teeth as he took the book from the King's hands and looked at the spine.
"Roman History," he murmured.
"Faret's translation of Eutropius's work," the King said. "Much easier to read than the original," he added, with a grin.
"No doubt," Aramis said, dropping it on the bed with a thunk. "But no less of a weapon, I fear."
The King looked a little confused and Aramis moved on. The chances were the King had hit the wrong man, though whoever it was still obviously had the wits to leave the room.
"How did they get out?" Aramis asked, looking back at the chair that had barred the door.
"Through the passageway, of course," the King replied, as though it were obvious. "I thought it best to close it after them," he added.
Aramis followed his Sovereign's ringed finger to the wall in front of them.
"I must have it blocked up," the King sighed.
"Sire, just to be clear," Aramis said. "Who was fighting here?"
The King sighed.
"Athos and a brute dressed as one of my own Palace Guard! I was right to sent those guards on my door away, Aramis. How am I to trust anyone around here!"
"You can trust us, Sire," Aramis replied, tersely, as he walked toward the wall and ran his hands over the panelling.
"How does it open?"
"I have no idea," the King replied, throwing his hands up. "Perhaps it can only be opened from the inside. It was Milady who drew my attention to it," he added, with a wide grin. "She quite surprised me when she appeared one evening,"
Aramis continued to look for a mechanism that would open the hidden door, but there was nothing to be found. It was either quite ingenious, located in an entirely different part of the room or could only be opened from inside the passage, as Louis had suggested. Aramis had no time to find it, so he turned to the King.
"You must come with me, Sire," he said, softly and, hopefully, encouragingly. "You are in danger," he added.
"Where are we going?"
Aramis had no idea, but he knew he must protect the King and get him away now that his rooms had been compromised.
"Trust me, Your Majesty," he said, softly.
With a sigh, the King took a look around the room, picked up his jacket and held it out for Aramis.
Aramis looked at it in confusion, before realising what the King wanted and took it from him. The King turned his back and Aramis had to put his sword aside before holding the garment up for Louis to place his arms in the sleeves, before turning and waiting for Aramis to fasten it for him.
Aramis had nimble fingers and made quick work of it, before picking up his sword and bidding the King follow him.
He had no idea where they were going, but he had no option but to remove the King from this part of the Palace and hopefully, reunite with his brothers.
All of them.
To be continued …
oOo
A/N: Nicholas Faret (Bourg-en-Bress, 1596-1646) was a French statesman, writer, scholar and translater. He translated Eutropius's Roman History (Paris, 1621).