A/N: I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get back to this story. There's just been so much going on. But after catching up on S2, I feel so inspired again. My intention is not to have this story follow the show's canonical timeline. I will be veering off in my own direction, but might, at times, borrow some scenes if it suits my purposes. Obviously, in my story, Fabien and Claudine are not, and will never be, romantically linked. Please let me know what you think!
Sophie fled from the room, her heart beating wildly in her chest, a lump of misery burning in her throat. Running back the way she'd come, she grasped her voluminous skirts with both hands to prevent from tripping over them. She had gravely miscalculated the situation she was in. Fabien Marchal did not have a sympathetic bone in his body and she would find no compassion from him. He was a hard, cold man and he could crush her without even trying.
And she was completely and utterly at his mercy.
She'd also just struck him.
Sophie stifled a sob. She was not prone to fits of violence, but his cruelty had provoked something alien inside of her and she'd allowed instinct to take over. He'd said the most vicious things and attacked her character in a manner that was grossly unfair. She hated that his malice had hurt, deeply. It was clear that he actually believed her capable of all he'd accused her of. And damn him, she'd be lying if she didn't acknowledge that in a hidden corner of her sundered soul, she wondered if he was right.
Hastily drying her tears, she carefully navigated her way back to her apartments, making sure to avoid any late-night partygoers before locking herself in for the night. Her maid had long since retired, but she did not care about having to undress herself. She had bigger concerns. Throwing her cloak onto a velvet stool, she paced restlessly. The things Monsieur Marchal had said…the way he'd looked at her, with so much contempt it bordered on hatred. And all because of her mother.
Mother. Sophie's heart squeezed so tightly in her chest that for a moment it was hard to breathe. A murderer, he'd said. And a whore. Sophie could not comprehend it, could not reconcile the mother she'd known with the sadistic woman he'd described. Yes, her parent had been an ambitious social climber, but a killer? Sophie stopped pacing, her face dropping into her hands in despair. Dear God. She seemed to be trapped in a nightmare, only there was no hope of waking up and leaving it all behind. She took a deep breath and swallowed. She hadn't even asked where her mother was buried. Though it did not really matter. Beatrice was a traitor and she'd died a traitor's death. There would be no grave to visit, no physical monument left behind for Sophie to direct her grief towards. It was as if her mother had simply vanished, never to return, leaving Sophie alone to navigate a world she feared would swallow her whole.
Who had Beatrice de Clermont really been? Had she worked alone? Surely not, Sophie thought. So who were her accomplices? Were they still at court? And more importantly, were they responsible for Princess Henriette's illness? An unsettling thought flitted through her mind. Had her mother used her as a means of striking at the heart of the monarchy? Yes. Instinctively she knew it to be true. Her eyelids prickled with renewed tears. The sense of betrayal was crippling.
A fresh tide of misery threatened to overwhelm, but she stopped short of bursting into tears. She straightened and sniffed. She could not afford to rail against her misfortunes, at least not yet. She needed to plan. Her very survival depended upon it. She resumed pacing, thinking.
The Duc de Cassel…
Sophie already knew that the he found her attractive. She'd endured enough of his leering to make that abundantly clear. So getting close to him would not be a problem. But how would she be able to extract information without having to…? She shuddered at the thought of allowing such a man to touch her intimately. Instinctively she knew Cassel would hurt her, even enjoy doing so. No, she would not let him have her. She would rather die. There had to be another way. Since he was out of favour with the king, rumour had it that he was staying in very cramped quarters somewhere in the palace. She needed to find out where. Perhaps she could gain access while he was in the salon playing cards, or drinking, to see if he was hiding anything in his rooms. Though she didn't feel particularly hopeful. Monsieur Marchal would have been thorough in his investigation of the fallen duc. His rooms would have been searched, his belongings ransacked. Her heart sank. Cassel would have to be stupid to leave anything incriminating in plain sight. But at least it was a start. And it might give her an opportunity to check if he was hiding any recent correspondence. That was really the only avenue she genuinely believed might yield results. She would have to make the man her study, follow him, get to know his habits, determine whom he favoured at court. And she'd have to do it quickly. Her usefulness depended upon her ability to gain information. If she failed…no, failure did not bear thinking about.
Slightly calmer now that she had some semblance of a plan - granted, a flimsy one - but a start at least, Sophie stepped closer to the windows, opening the shutters to allow the crisp autumn breeze to wash over her. It was bracing, but she didn't mind the cold. It helped to focus her, to steady the emotions roiling around inside of her. Staring out into the darkness towards the magnificent gardens below, she could see the king's guards patrolling the grounds, flame lit torches held aloft.
I am one of them now, she realized, her stomach in knots. She was a soldier in His Majesty's army and she was bound by duty.
She shivered, gooseflesh breaking out across her shoulders and down her arms. How quickly her life had been turned upside down. A few short days ago she'd believed that her future might contain an advantages marriage with a comfortable home, children and perhaps if she was lucky, love. Now she wasn't sure about anything. Only that in order to survive, she was placing her trust in a man who despised her, but whom she had no choice but to depend upon. Like it or not, Monsieur Marchal was literally all that stood between her and complete ruination.
Slowly Sophie drew the shutters closed and retreated into the sanctuary of her bedroom. She undressed and climbed into bed, staring at the draped canopy overhead. She knew she needed to get some rest, but sleep was elusive. There was too much to consider. She didn't know how long it would take to gain Monsieur Marchal's trust, but she had to try. She needed him and by God, he needed her. If he didn't, she would surely have been wandering the streets of Versailles by now. There was some comfort in that. She was needed. Now all she had to do was prove her worth. And I will, she silently vowed.
Turning onto her side, she burrowed deeper under the covers and exhaled, allowing the evening's events to flood back to the fore. Her tiny frame shuddered as scalding tears slid down her cheeks and soaked into the fine bed linens. More alone than she'd ever felt in her life, Sophie cried for the mother she'd lost but never really knew, for the future she'd never have and for the innocence she no longer possessed.
Versailles was in mourning. With daybreak had come the news of Princess Henriette's demise and Sophie was deeply sorry for it. The princess had been kind to her. She'd also been one of Versailles' crowning jewels, her constant cheer and good humour spreading to all those who surrounded her. She'd not only been beloved by everyone at court, but also by her husband, the Duc d'Orléans and his brother, the king. It was well known that His Majesty and the princess had been lovers, a fact that was overlooked by Monsieur only because he preferred the company of men.
But Sophie did not have the luxury of pondering the great loss to the royal family. Monsieur Marchal's terse note at dawn had hammered that point home. He wanted results and so she was doing her best to get some. To that end, Sophie stood on the fringe of the salon, her focus on the Duc de Cassel who was conversing some way off, with a few lesser nobles. She'd been furtively observing him all morning, trying to discover his routine, if indeed there was any. Thus far all she'd managed to determine was that he loved to gamble, overindulged in alcohol, and cared little for his appearance. Her nose shriveled inadvertently as she watched him out of the corner of her eye. He reminded her of a drowned sewer rat – pale and greasy – but with a hint of cunning she'd be foolish to ignore.
He caught her eye and Sophie forced her expression to remain neutral. She nodded politely, then deliberately moved her gaze past him. He excused himself and made his way towards her. Instinct told her to flee, but she remained rooted to her spot.
"Mademoiselle de Clermont," he said as he approached. He moved to stand beside her. He reeked of wine. "I have not seen your mother for a while. I hope she is not unwell?"
"She is well, Your Grace," Sophie replied, pleased that her voice did not tremble. "Family business called her back to Pau."
"Ah," he mused, his beady eyes roving across her person, making her feel dirty. "And are you enjoying your solitude? Chaperones can be so tiresome."
"How would you know, Your Grace?" Sophie asked, keeping her voice light, as though she were teasing. "I doubt you have ever been forced to have one."
"Indeed," he smiled. "Although I have much experience trying to get rid of them." Sophie raised a brow and he clarified. "Metaphorically, of course."
"Of course," she echoed, not believing a word of it. "And are you glad to be at Versailles? It is splendid, is it not?"
His mouth tightened. "I would prefer to be home, on my own land."
"And yet the king would have you near. You must be very important to him."
"Not particularly," he hedged, his voice betraying mild suspicion. "His Majesty merely prefers to have all the nobles at court."
She forced a smile. "It does make the palace rather crowded, I think."
"Unfortunately," he drawled, an unsettling light entering his eyes.
A man Sophie recognized but did not know personally, stepped up to the duc and whispered in his ear. Whatever news he was imparting made the duc go rigid. The man moved away again as quickly as he'd approached.
"Is everything alright?" Sophie prompted casually.
"Just some…business that needs my attention." He bowed slightly, starting to move away, then hesitated. "Do you think I could entice you to save me a dance later this evening, mademoiselle?"
Sophie barely suppressed her revulsion. "It would be unseemly to enjoy such lively pursuits in light of the recent royal death, do you not think?" His eyes shuttered. "In fact, I doubt there will be any festivities this evening. I suspect most might spend their time in prayer." The duc actually grimaced. Extending her hand towards him, Sophie forced herself to say, "Perhaps another time?"
He leaned over her fingers, his clammy breath wafting over her skin. "It would be my pleasure."
Sophie waited until he turned away before she rubbed the back of her hand against the skirt of her gown, hoping to remove all trace of him from her skin. She watched as he exited the salon and then moved to follow. She made sure to stay hidden as she tracked his movements to a secluded alcove below a staircase leading to the royal apartments. It was here that she saw a servant girl slip a note into the duc's hand before scurrying off. Cassel glanced around before hastily breaking the letter's seal. He obviously liked what he was reading, a slow smile spreading across his face.
Footsteps could be heard from overhead and the duc turned quickly and headed down the corridor in the opposite direction to her. Intending to follow, Sophie's plan was thwarted when she bumped into a passing figure.
"Oh!" Sophie exclaimed when they made contact.
A large brown leather bag landed on the ground with a thud. Glancing up, Sophie recognized the wavy blonde hair and clear blue eyes of Mademoiselle Masson, the king's private physician. She looked rather comical dressed as a man in brown trousers, a white shirt and matching brown doublet. She even had a fake mustache to complete the ensemble. A mustache that was presently quite askew.
"I am sorry, mademoiselle, I did not see you there," the other woman apologised, reaching for her bag which had fallen partly open. There was an array of glass bottles inside as well as a plethora of medical instruments.
"Uh, I think your…" Sophie gestured towards the physician's upper lip.
"Oh!" Mademoiselle Masson's eyes widened and then filled with embarrassment as she reached for the strip of fluff that hung limply from one side of her face. She tried to smooth it back into place, but it kept coming loose.
Amused, Sophie asked, "May I inquire as to why you bother? It is clear to anyone with two eyes that you are not a man."
"To work as His Majesty's physician I need to appear to be a man." The other woman was still trying to stick the mustache back. She shrugged, giving up. "Even a bad one."
"So if the king says you are a man, then it must be true?"
"Exactly," she replied with a tentative smile.
Sophie cocked her head to the side. "If that is the case, then surely this pretense is not really necessary?" Despite her words, she reached for the mustache and placed it back on the woman's upper lip. "There. That will do."
"Thank you," she said, looking somewhat surprised. She bent down to retrieve her bag. "And you are right. It is not really necessary, but it does make the men at court feel more at ease."
"I am Sophie de Clermont."
Recognition flickered in the physician's eyes. "Claudine Masson."
By tacit agreement they started walking down the hallway together. "How is His Majesty?"
Claudine exhaled loudly. "Deeply saddened. As is the whole family."
Sophie nodded, then said, "Forgive me, but I got the impression just now that you already knew who I was?"
"I recognised your name." Claudine hesitated. "Monsieur Marchal mentioned you." Sophie froze, alarmed. "No, please, do not fret. He said nothing unkind." Sophie shot the woman a dubious look, gratified when she flushed with guilt. "Or rather nothing too unkind."
"What did he say?" Sophie asked tentatively.
"That from time to time he may send you to see me in his stead."
"That is not all, though?"
Claudine's lips curved into a smile. "It is all that bears mentioning."
She is kind, Sophie thought, grateful for her discretion. "So you know that I am…that I am —"
"That you are in his…employ?" Claudine suggested gently, then nodded. "Which makes you and I similar."
"Somehow I doubt that. You do not seem as though you are on the verge of being tossed into the street," Sophie said resentfully, hating the flash of pity in the other woman's eyes.
"Perhaps not," Claudine admitted. "But I also serve the crown when circumstance demands it."
"How so? What type of assistance do you provide Monsieur Marchal?"
"My skills as a physician primarily, but also as a toxicologist." Claudine glanced at Sophie. "And every now and then I am called upon to save his life."
Sophie's heart leapt into her throat. "So you know—"
"—that your mother tried to poison him? Yes."
They walked in silence for a moment, the only sound the swish of her gown against her legs. "He hates me because of her," Sophie confessed softly, surprised by her admission. She hardly knew Claudine Masson, but there was an air of integrity about her that set Sophie at ease. Or perhaps it was her desperation to have a friend, a confidant, someone who she did not have to pretend with.
"He is a man and your mother wounded his pride. So because he cannot punish her, he will try to punish you. Do not allow it. Stand up to him. He might not like it, but he will respect you for it…eventually."
"You seem to know him well. A-Are you and he lovers?" she blurted, blushing at her boldness.
"God no!" Claudine exclaimed. "I have no place in my life for unwanted distractions. And even if I did, Fabien Marchal is not the kind of man I would want to become involved with."
"Whyever not?" she asked automatically, though she knew the answer. The words fierce, uncompromising and dangerous sprang to mind.
"Ah, I see you have already discovered the truth," Claudine said, sounding amused. They reached the servant's entrance. "What has he asked you to do for him?"
"Gain the Duc de Cassel's trust. Try and get information about his activities at court. In fact, just before we stumbled into one another I saw him take possession of a note that seemed of some importance." Sophie glanced back the way they'd come. "Though it might already have been destroyed by now," she said dejectedly.
Claudine tilted her head thoughtfully. "I may be able to help."
Sophie's eyes lit up. "Truly? How?"
"Come with me."
"Poisoned! Under my roof! Under my protection, Fabien!" King Louis XIV railed, pacing back and forth in his bedchamber. "Tell me, can I expect to be next?!"
"Sire, I assure you, we are close to cutting off the head of the serpent. Beatrice de Clermont was not working alone," Fabien said, keeping his tone even as he met the furious gaze of his sovereign. "As soon as I determine who her accomplices are in the palace, order will be restored."
"But until then? Am I to be a sitting duck?" the king demanded. "I have enemies who are invisible to me and my most trusted men cannot identify them! That makes me – no, that makes France, vulnerable! If they could get to Henriette—" The king's hands clenched at his sides, his eyes closing briefly as he struggled to compose himself. "None of us are safe."
Fabien stiffened. The princess's death weighed heavily on him because it was, in part, his fault. Had he not allowed himself to be swayed by a woman's charms, he would have known something was amiss. He should have seen, should have—
"Sire, if I may," Alexandre Bontemps interjected, putting an end to his frustrated train of thought. "Monsieur Marchal has tripled the guards, employed additional tasters and taken every necessary precaution. We are satisfied that any opportunity to reach Your Majesty, or any member of the royal family directly or by foul means has been quelled."
"I am close, sire. I know it."
The king lowered himself into a plush velvet chair angled towards the roaring fire in the grate, contemplating first Fabien and then Bontemps in turn. The rich fabric of his robe spread out around him, its sumptuousness somewhat at odds with the slightly dishevelled look of the man wearing it. His Majesty's eyes, usually a brilliant blue, were red-rimmed and inflamed, his hair in slight disarray around his drooping shoulders. France's ruler was in mourning for the woman he'd loved since childhood. The woman who now lay dead in the chapel royal because Fabien had failed in his duty.
"If you value your employment you will find them quickly, Fabien," the king said at last, fixing him with a hard stare. "Now leave me. Both of you."
Fabien bowed and departed, Bontemps hot on his heels. "Well that went better than I had expected," the king's valet quipped as he closed the bedchamber doors behind them.
Fabien gave the guards some terse instructions before moving along. "His Majesty's censure is deserved. The princess's death was avoidable."
"I will accept that her death was tragic, but you are but a mere mortal, Fabien," Bontemps said, keeping pace with Fabien's larger strides. "And as dedicated as you are to His Majesty's safety and security, you cannot know everything."
"It is my job to know everything," he contradicted harshly. The king's disappointment in him burned a hole in his gut. He owed His Majesty everything - his loyalty, his trust, his very life. Standing by helplessly as a member of the family he was sworn to protect at all costs was killed, was unforgivable.
"There are limits to what any man can do," Bontemps reasoned.
"Is that what you will tell the king should any harm come to another he cares for? The Dauphin perhaps? Or the Queen?"
Bontemps opened his mouth as though he wished to argue the point, but closed it again once he noted the fierce look on Fabien's face. Instead, he asked, "Have you any solid leads?"
"A few, but nothing concrete as yet." Fabien's eyes were watching the guards as he moved through the palace, making sure they were all stationed correctly, focused, alert.
"I have been informed that you have taken young Sophie de Clermont into your employ."
"What of it?" he asked, surprised by the swift change in subject.
"I would not like to see her come to any harm."
Fabien scowled. "Since when are you concerned about the fate of inconsequential women at court?"
"She is an innocent," Bontemps reminded him, the heels of his shoes echoing off the marble floors.
"Your point being?" Fabien asked, stopping to confront the man walking beside him. They knew each other well having both been in the king's employ for many years. Fabien would have called him a friend if he had any, but since he was careful to avoid any emotional entanglements, the point was moot. Although he was certain that Bontemps might think differently on the matter. He did, however, trust and respect the older man implicitly, and there were very few people amongst his acquaintance of which he could say the same.
"Fate has dealt her a cruel blow and she is now at your mercy. Under your protection," Bontemps stressed, clearly unconcerned at the thought of rousing his ire. "It is your duty to see that she remains out of harm's way."
"I never took you for such a sentimentalist," Fabien deflected, ignoring the pangs of guilt that clawed at him. He stepped past Bontemps."Mademoiselle de Clermont has a role to play at Versailles, much like we all do. If she plays it well, then she has nothing to fear."
"Fabien—"
"Stay out of it," he warned, walking away. He was not in the mood for a lecture on morality from a man who knew that none existed at Versailles. It was a pleasure palace, a decadent, glamourous jewel that housed some of the most depraved men and women in all of France. Some of whom were plotting treasonous acts right under his nose. He needed every available resource to catch them.
And speaking of resources, perhaps he needed to check on his newest acquisition. He had not seen or heard from her since her short reply to his note earlier that morning. Turning away from the corridor that would have led him to his office, he retraced his steps and veered off towards the salon.
It was already dark outside, but the interior of the vast palace was illuminated by thousands of candles, its brilliancy chasing the shadows into the far corners of the opulent rooms he traversed in order to get to his destination. Strangely all the light made him uncomfortable. He preferred the shadows, felt more at ease on the fringe where he could observe rather than be observed.
He was but a short distance from the salon when he spied a familiar head of dark hair dashing through one of the concealed passageways. Frowning, he followed.
Furtively, he opened the door and peered inside, a stream of pale pink satin disappearing ahead of him. He trailed behind, the corridor dimly lit and narrow. It was not used by anyone other than servants or those who were up to no good and did not wish to be seen. Rounding the corner, he froze. Not in a million years would he have guessed the sight that awaited him. It was Mademoiselle de Clermont, bent over the Duc de Cassel, her pert bottom high in the air as she wriggled over his prostrate, seemingly lifeless form. Intrigued despite his better judgement, Fabien remained where he was, watching as she ran her hands inside the lining of the duc's evening coat. Finding what she was looking for, she squealed in triumph, lifting it up to the light. It was then that he noticed it was a letter.
Without thinking, he stepped forward and snatched it out of her hand. She gasped, rounding on him, her hands flying to cover her heart. As recognition dawned, her eyes flooded with relief "Oh, it is you," she breathed.
Then startlingly she smiled, and she was transformed. Her face lit up, her eyes coming alive as she radiated pure, unadulterated delight. It was a look of triumph, of accomplishment. Fabien stood rooted to the spot, incredulous that she was directing her pleasure at him. No one ever smiled at him like that, without fear, without guile. The sight evoked a strange burning sensation deep in his chest.
Ignoring it, he snapped, "Have you lost your mind?"
As his tone registered, her pleasure dimmed and her smile wilted. Fabien should have been pleased, so he refused to examine why he felt anything but.
"I-I am sorry," Sophie stammered, nonplussed. "I was just—"
"Is he dead?" he clipped, moving to Cassel's side.
"No!" she denied. "He is just…well…drunk."
Fabien kicked Cassel firmly in the ribs. The man did not stir an inch. He glanced at Sophie, brow raised and her cheeks flooded with colour.
"He is drunk," she insisted. When Fabien remained silent, she gave an exasperated sigh. "Oh alright, I drugged him, too. And that there," she said, gesturing excitedly towards the missive still clutched in his hand, "is my reward for doing so."
