Afternoon, all.

Many thanks for reading and leaving comments yesterday.

Now, the wait begins to take its toll.

CHAPTER 113

I

Time was playing cruel tricks on the mentality of those at Versailles.

For the royal couple and their guests ensconced on an upper floor within a series of inter-communicating rooms, there was the knowledge that all that stood between them and potential death were the stout wooden doors locked from within and the dedicated Musketeers and Red Guard who held the corridors beyond.

Louis fretted and worried in isolation, denying himself the solace his Queen wanted to offer. He was not even in the comfort of one of his own rooms as originally planned. Once he had witnessed Gaston being led away by some of his Musketeers, the Cardinal and Captain Tréville had had a last-minute change of mind, realising that if any of the rebels infiltrated the lodge, they would possibly know the precise whereabouts of the King's apartment. Moving him somewhere else would not save him in itself but might buy his men valuable time in protecting him. So he had changed position from one wing to the rear of the lodge.

Shutters at the windows had all been closed save one and he stood before it now, having sworn that when the fighting looked about to commence, he would shut that too and move to the other side of the room in case a stray shot penetrated the woodwork and glass. The mattress had been pulled from the bed and set on the floor as far from the window as was possible. Other furniture had been positioned to create a further barrier. There was no other access to the room except through the heavily guarded door.

So, when the fighting started, when his men were prepared to lay down their lives to keep him safe, he – the King of France - would be curled up on cushions and pillows piled on a mattress on the floor. It was undignified but, in his terror, he would comply.

Yes, he did feel terror. It was a mix of that, anger and a deep hurt brought about by the knowledge that his brother had lied to and betrayed him yet again. He would survive this attack for he had faith in the Cardinal and the Captains of the Musketeers and the Red Guard; he also had an unshakeable belief in their men and, when the rebels were defeated, he would decide what to do with his brother. There would be no forgiveness this time, no second or third chances. Gaston had brought this upon himself and only had himself to blame.

Louis' rooms had enabled him to watch activity around a significant part of the lodge as the men prepared to defend it. This new accommodation looked out more directly at the ground between the hunting lodge and the forest beyond. Through that same forest or along its edge – he was not sure which route they would follow – the nobles who betrayed him would soon appear. Before that were the camps of the two regiments, largely abandoned now as the tents' residents took up positions elsewhere.

The King took in a shuddering breath as it occurred to him that some of his men would not see the day's end; lives cut short doing that for which they trained long and hard. Looking down, he could see the places where many had secreted themselves. They were so still, so silent! How could they maintain that? He could never sit or stand still long enough even when supposedly relaxed. Then Louis imagined their nerves, taut as the strings of a lute, as they watched and waited for the signals that would send them into battle. Did they know trepidation in the face of combat? Did they share his fear? Perhaps, on another day, it was a question he could put to his Captain of the Musketeers.

It was not something he had ever contemplated before, not even when he sent men to Genoa, the Île de Ré, La Rochelle, Saint Kitts and Nevis and the recent battle of Veillane. So much conflict in less than five years and not all had brought him victory! Some were short campaigns and others drawn out for many months. That was without dealing with his mother and discord such as this current one with the nobles. It was serious enough when the enemy was foreign such as the Spanish and the English; it did not seem to help that he was married to the sister of the Spanish King and his own sister was married to the English one! He had been raised to believe in the efficacy of diplomacy. Why was it so inconsistent then? But somehow, the severity of those conflicts did not bruise him in the same way as when the enemy came from within his own realm. Was he to spend his days living in fear of the assassin like his father before him? Not that Henri had ever shown fear, of course.

Louis felt a pang of regret that he had been deprived at the impressionable age of ten of his father's guidance and example. Henri would know how to deal with the nobles. Whom could he – Louis - trust in the future beyond Richelieu and the Captain of the Musketeers, of course? Whenever a courtier looked at him and smiled in the weeks and months ahead, Louis would always suspect ulterior motive, the deeper desire to thrust an ornate dagger into his heart.

He whimpered, clutched at the window frame and rested his forehead against the cold glass.

There were some days when he did not enjoy being the King.

II

Aramis was in a room on the top floor of the north east wing, pistols and muskets laid out at his feet. He had already knocked out the glass in the window for the opening mechanism was unwieldy and failed to provide the sufficient range of angles and aim he desired.

The Musketeer with him, Idoine, was crouched further within the room, laying out his store of powder and shot so that he could do his work to reload and set out weapons for the marksman without impeding him. A candle stood ready for lighting in its holder on the floor. It would be used to ignite the first of the match cords whilst spare ones lay on an empty saddle bag.

There was nothing the two men could do now except wait. Aramis watched the distant tree line for any sign of movement, but all was still and quiet. An eerie silence had descended upon the lodge, one heavy with anticipation.

The men about to fight would have done all that was necessary in preparing their equipment and so now they prepared themselves. Some, like Aramis, sent a prayer heavenward that the Almighty would guide their hand and keep them safe from harm. Others thought of loved ones and wondered if they would meet again whilst still more emptied their minds of all distraction, focused only on the battle about to erupt and their part in it if they wanted to come out of it alive.

Aramis held the cross that hung about his neck and whispered his own appeal to God that he and his brothers would be kept safe this day and that victory would be theirs as they fought to protect the King against those who would wrong him.

His intercession concluded, he kissed the cross and let it fall against his chest. His shoulder was nudged and, turning, saw that Idoine was holding out bread and a piece of hard cheese.

"Got this from Serge before I left the camp. Thought we might need something to keep us going."

Aramis grinned, turned and sat down on the floor, his back against the wall and windowsill.

"Well done. It is an age since we broke our fast and who knows whether there will be an evening meal." He bit into the cheese and moaned appreciatively. "Funny how in the moment of tension, the little things of life take on a whole new meaning and become so much more precious."

And he thought of the precious individuals who were his closest friends; the men he hoped he would never take for granted. He knew that his was an important role as marksman on the upper floor, yet he wished fervently to be outside where he could stand shoulder to shoulder with his brothers, that they would fight together.

He tried to dismiss the sense of foreboding he had with the present arrangement.

Whilst he was relatively safe on an upper floor of the lodge, Porthos and d'Artagnan were below him almost. He had spied them from the window and smiled to himself as he saw them deep in conversation. This would be the young Gascon's first significant conflict and no doubt Porthos was dispensing words of wisdom, vowing in his head to watch out for the lad.

That left Athos who had yet to appear. Athos - currently in command of a regiment who usually hated the very mention and sight of all things Musketeer. Athos – who only had an unruly giant to rely upon for support.

Athos – who was the target of a madman on the loose.