As always, none of this would make a lick of sense if not for the magic work of my fantastic beta! Thank you Laurie_bug!
~§~
"What is the meaning of this?"
Treville tried to hide his smile of satisfaction as he detected a hint of concern under the all the disdain and anger in the Cardinal's voice.
The King had been reluctant to summon the First Minister when the Musketeers' Captain had presented his evidence. The Comte de Rochefort was seen as a friend of the Royal family for his connection to the young Queen and Richelieu was quickly becoming the only voice that the King would listen to in affairs of State; His Majesty was not eager to displease his trusty right-hand man.
However, presented with the possibility that the Cardinal might have been, in fact, abusing the trust he had been afforded and making important decisions behind the King's back, Louis had no other choice but to confront Richelieu or otherwise be seen as weak and foolish.
"Do you forget yourself?" the King warned, trying to impress upon his young voice the gravitas needed for such an admonishment. "We are not in the least pleased by what We've been hearing about your machinations, Cardinal," Louis went on, raising a regal eyebrow. "You would do well to explain yourself. Is there any truth to Captain Treville's accusations?"
Exchanging a heated look with Rochefort, the Cardinal bowed low, his black cloak flaring like bat wings to his sides. "My apologies, Your Majesty. My mind was preoccupied with other important affairs," he said quickly, his tone changing from strict to condescending in the same breath. "And what accusations might those be?"
"Very disturbing ones, Richelieu, very disturbing indeed," Louis pronounced. "Tell me, how goes the questioning of the Musketeer? Has he confessed yet?"
The Cardinal looked surprised at the sudden change of topic. From the deep frown he was sporting, Treville was certain that the juxtaposition of such – apparently- unrelated subject matters was raising all sorts of warning bells within the astute man.
"I am told that a signed confession is nearly at hand," the Cardinal answered carefully, measuring his words to not give anything away. "My men tell me that this Musketeer might have been implicated in much more than just the death of one man. From what I hear, the murdered man was actually the Musketeer's accomplice in the garrison attack a few months past. More than an assassination, this was a tying up of loose ends."
Treville bit his lip, stopping himself from defending Aramis' honor, to avoid speaking of the tireless way the young man had labored to see that none of the injured went without treatment or comfort, of how he had driven himself to exhaustion in the wake of the attack. How dare the Cardinal actually voice such a suspicion, when Aramis had played such a vital part in saving so many of his fellow soldiers that day?
It was, however, a discussion for the King to conduct. Anything Treville said out of turn or any show of emotion was liable to aid the Cardinal, and that was positively the last thing that the Captain of the Musketeers wished.
"And yet, I have just read another confession that says otherwise," the monarch pointed out, sounding anything but pleased.
It had taken some convincing on Treville's part to persuade the King into making decisions this early in the day - despite the fact that the sun had risen many hours before - but the moment Louis' eyes landed on the words in front of him, his countenance had quickly changed from bored to decidedly not pleased.
"Sire?" the Cardinal enquired, the perfect image of innocence. The King was not pleased with that, either.
"Do not take Us for a fool, Cardinal. You know of what I speak! The signed confession of one of the men who dared to attack My Musketeers inside their garrison," Louis snapped, his face turning red with anger. "A Red Guard! On your orders! Rochefort, your man, had it in his possession!"
The Cardinal's jaw clenched involuntarily. He was not a man accustomed to being shouted at, even if the one doing the shouting was the King himself. "May I see this paper you speak of?" he asked, his voice carefully submissive and respectful.
The King tossed the letter to the floor at his feet, a gesture of childish petulance that made the Cardinal's face turn dark with anger and humiliation. Having no other choice in the matter, the older man bent to pick up it up, the parchment slightly shaking as he held it. Treville fought hard to hide his amusement as the Cardinal read the fake confession.
"How peculiar that you would happen upon one of the few Red Guards who actually knows how to write," Richelieu commented, his eyes barely lifting from the paper to look at the Captain. "I was under the impression that most of them can barely sign their own names. Almost all of them, I would dare say."
Treville faced his stare in silence. He knew that the Cardinal would not be fooled by the forged confession for long, and now that the First Minister finally understood the workings of the trap, Treville could, at last, pull the net from under his feet.
Of course the Cardinal had sent illiterate men to search for such important papers. He couldn't risk any of them stumbling upon a compromising sentence or reading anything by accident. Treville knew that much, the Cardinal knew that much, but what was more important, the King had no idea about the importance of that fact...unless the Captain or the Cardinal admitted to their respective lies.
"So, you do not deny that this man truly was one of your Red Guards?" Louis asked, his eyes narrowing to slits.
The Cardinal actually smiled and Treville's blood started to run cold.
"Flattering as Your Majesty's trust in my memory seems to be, it is hardly conceivable to expect me to know the names of all five hundred of my Red Guards, Your Grace," he conceded with a bow, looking for all purposes like a man preparing himself to leave. "I shall have to look at the records to ascertain that, at once."
Treville stepped forward before the Cardinal could take a step away. They had come this far; he wouldn't allow the slippery man to escape so easily. "We can do so right now, if it pleases the King," he offered, pulling a roll of paper from his coat. "It just so happens that I have them right here," he announced, offering the scroll to the King. "As you can see, Jacques Bennoit, Etienne Cussac and Gerard Gillion had all been recent additions to the Red Guard ranks."
The look that the Cardinal sent his way could have melted ice in the midst of a snowstorm.
"Treville is right," the King declared, his eyes moving from the list back to the First Minister. "Were these men under your orders, Cardinal?" he asked very directly, his tone of voice promising the rolling of heads. "Did you ordered an attack on my Musketeers, destroying thousands of livres in weaponry and housing?"
Treville's breath caught, choosing to ignore the King's show of hand at what had really bothered him in the attack. Not the lost lives, not the injured and disabled, but the lost livres. This, however, was the moment of truth, the deciding question where he would know whether the lives of his men would be avenged and given justice. Whether Aramis' sacrifice had been worth the result.
"Certainly you are not suggesting that I should be held accountable for every deed of every man in my service. If the same was to be expected of Treville and Your Majesty's Musketeers, one would be left wandering what their Captain had to gain from the murder of Gerard Gillion. After all, it was one of his men who slit the man's throat."
"According to that signed confession, the only one who stood to gain anything at all was none other than you, Richelieu," Treville pointed out. "After all, why chance the man's loyalty and risk a loose tongue when a blade could just as easily assure his silence?"
The Cardinal's look of hurtful insult was perfectly believable, down right to the surprise and righteousness indignation in his voice. "Mind your words, Captain...you have no proof of what you speak of."
Treville's teeth found the inside of his cheek and pressed down, hard, until his mouth was filled with coppery flavor. The Cardinal had called his bluff, knowing perfectly well that, if such proof existed, the Captain would not have wasted so much time and effort in a fictitious confession.
"Tell me, Cardinal, what is exactly the nature of the business the Comte du Rochefort conducts for you?" Louis asked, his voice a dangerous mixture of curiosity and boredom.
The question did not disturb the Cardinal carefully-constructed facade in the slightest, like he had been waiting for such query all along. "None whatsoever. This man does not currently work for me, nor has he ever."
Rochefort, standing silently between two guards behind Treville, sputtered in surprise. The Captain looked at him just in time to see color blanching from the pale features, as he digested the magnitude of the Cardinal's treason. "Your Eminence..."
"Is that why this man is here?" Richelieu cut in before the Comte could utter anything else. "You truly thought that he was mine to command, whatever his charges are?"
Treville kept waiting for Rochefort to speak up, for him to call the Cardinal a liar and defend himself, but the Comte's lips were a thin white line across his pale face. "He is charged with treason, for impersonating a King's Musketeer without the King's consent," he informed the Cardinal, hoping that a reminder of his charges would stir Rochefort from his stupor.
No such luck.
"And why was he doing so?" Richelieu asked, sounding honestly intrigued.
"Given that he was in possession of a secret letter that had been left with someone of trust to be handed only into the hands of a Musketeer," Treville explained, his eyes fixed on the Cardinal, "one can imagine he did it to procure something that was not his to take."
~§~
Musketeers were not children's dolls. Despite its complexity, there was not a single piece of a Musketeers' uniform that was without purpose, not one item whose intent was merely decoration, every single thing possessing its usefulness and function. They were elite soldiers, not ornaments.
Their hats, though some with more flair than others, protected them from the elements, kept their heads warm and their eyes shielded from the glare of the sun and the flare of their muskets' discharge.
Their shoulder pauldrons, more than identifying them as the King's personal regiment, served as protection against swords and daggers in combat. The measure of valor and experience of any Musketeer in the regiment was not counted in years, but in the number of creases in his pauldron, the number of marks he carried as testament of his service and skill.
Their cloaks, much like their hats, protected them from the elements, certainly, but they possessed one more utility that no Musketeer liked to dwell much upon. In a pinch, they could also serve as makeshift carrier for their wounded. For their dead.
Buttoning their two cloaks together had been easy enough for Athos and Porthos. Making sure that Aramis would not fall down -or throw himself off of - the cradle they had arranged, was much harder.
Their friend kept shifting from unconsciousness, lying still as a corpse, to a state of complete confusion in which he had no idea of where he was or who they were and tried his best to escape them. It was impossible to decide which was worse.
It made for very slow progress, as the two Musketeers fought to navigate the confusing twists and turns of the tunnels, carrying their injured friend between them. Instead of guiding them back to the apothecary's house, Charlotte told them that exiting through the Notre Dame's gardens would be closer from where they were, so that was the path they took. It was also the same path they had seen Rochefort use, which made their progress slow and filled with danger. The last thing they needed was to come face-to-face with the Comte, even if Athos' treacherous heart was begging Fate to send Rochefort his way. His sword was itching to taste that vile man's blood.
With his ankle screaming in pain and the added weight of Aramis, the distance seemed impossibly far and getting longer with each step he took. The thought of stopping, however, never crossed his mind. Behind him, on the other end of the load, he could hear the tired grunts that escaped Porthos' lips whenever the ceiling dipped lower, forcing the tall Musketeer to hunch over.
With his coat protecting Aramis from the cold, Athos had finally been able to catch a glimpse of the wound on Porthos' side. There was a trail of dark blood running from his waist to the edge of his breeches. In the dark, it was nearly impossible to determine if the wound was still bleeding or not, but Athos knew without a doubt that every time Porthos was forced to bend to fit the tunnel, his injured side was aggravated.
Stubborn as he was, and certainly still irked by the events at the bridge, Athos knew that it would be pointless to ask his companion if he wanted to stop and regain his strength. Neither of them could ignore the state Aramis was in and, even if it took the last of their reserves and they were forced to drag themselves out by the tips of their fingers, Athos was sure that neither of them would think twice about doing it, not if it meant getting Aramis away from that dreadful place. Their own wounds were mere nuisances in the face of what he had been through.
The narrowness, the dark and the stillness of the air inside the tunnels lent itself to silence and introspection. In a way, it reminded Athos of the confessional at the church where his family used to attend mass. Instead of confessing his many sins, however, Athos was filled with questions. Questions he dare not ask yet, for the timing was anything but right. He doubted that such a time would ever present itself.
Porthos' face had lost all trace of color when Aramis had spoken about that Marsac person, his warm brown eyes bright with unshed tears and his whole body trembling in reaction. As far as Athos was aware, Porthos did not know Marsac, even though his strong reaction spoke of recognition. And whatever he had recognized in that name, it had filled the tall Musketeer with sorrow.
Athos could not imagine why. Well...he could, but the enormity and dreadfulness of what he was imagining were such that Athos refused to acknowledge his vile imagination. He, too, had heard Aramis' words, speaking about death and dripping of shame for having survived something that he should not have survived. Remembering the way Aramis had been when they had first met, not that long ago, and everything Athos had witnessed since, it was impossible not to ponder the possibility that there was some sort of connection between this Marsac, Aramis and the massacre at Savoy.
It was a well-known fact around the garrison that there had been no survivors. An indisputable truth that no one had ever dared to question. And yet...
From what he heard tell, Athos knew that Aramis had been a completely different person before Savoy, more quick to smile, mischievous and impossible to keep still. Athos, like so many others, had believed that such changes had been brought about by grief and sorrow, for Aramis knew those who had died more closely than most of the new recruits that came after and no one could possibly stay the same after such a loss. But maybe there was more to it than grief...
Small details otherwise pushed aside or ignored started to make sense, started drawing together to form a painting. A bloody one.
Suddenly, it made sense why Treville would keep in the garrison a Musketeer who refused to be a Musketeer. Helpful and masterful as Aramis was in the arts of healing, it was not a motive good enough to keep him around if he was of no use with a sword. Now, Athos could see that the Captain had been giving him time to recover, to return to his brothers and embrace his calling once again.
When Athos had first met Aramis, the man's hair had been short, too short for a proper gentleman, barely reaching his neck. Lice, Athos had imagined, not putting too much thought in the matter and figuring that to be a common enough problem when too many people lived together as happened in a garrison. At the time, it had felt like a reasonable enough motive to shave one's head. Now, he had to wonder if the shaved hair had not been related to some kind of injury that his friend had received in Savoy, for he dared not hope that Aramis had survived unscathed.
Other things, little things - like Aramis' aversion to muskets and firearms in general, despite having proved time and again what an excellent marksman he was – spoke to wounds deep inside his soul, that had nothing to do with a lack of courage or unwillingness to do his job as a Musketeer; it spoke of pain and powerlessness in the face of ghostly musket-balls that Aramis seemed unable to neither dodge nor forget.
If he were to believe Aramis' feverish words in the tunnels, however, the motives for his despair were much grimmer than mourning the loss of his brothers-in-arms. It spoke of guilt and shame, of sorrow not only for the lost lives, but for the ones who remained alive.
Athos was more than grateful for having taken position at the front of their little procession, following Charlotte's quiet steps and wavering light, for that made it impossible for Porthos to see the angst and sadness that took hold of his expression as he let himself admit the possibility that Aramis carried such a heavy burden in silence.
The irony of the matter was not lost on the former Comte, not when he carried an equally dark past within himself. But while Aramis' burden came from a place of unmerited guilt - for Athos could not contemplate for a single second that his friend's survival had been a result of dishonorable actions – his own guilt had been more than earned, as he had failed both his brother and the only woman he had ever loved.
When the feeble light of a new day greeted them at the end of the long tunnel they had been traveling, Athos' thoughts had turned too dark for him to be able to even tell the difference, his feet following blindly until he almost collided with Charlotte when she stopped.
Notre Dame was devoid of people that early in the morning. The sun seemed reluctant to do its job and whatever fragile light there was to guide them, showed nothing more than empty streets and a sickly, white fog that clung to the wet cobblestones in a desperate attempt to prolong nighttime. It suited their purposes.
They couldn't take Aramis to the garrison; that much was clear in Athos' mind. He would not be safe there, and the rest of the regiment would find it suspicious if the escaped Musketeer was returned to the sickroom rather than the brig.
The situation, while not related, only served to convince the former Comte that his growing desire to find lodgings outside of the garrison was a wise decision. Unfortunately, it was one that he had yet to take and now both he and Porthos found themselves with no place to take their sick and delirious friend.
There was, of course, the possibility of paying for a room at a tavern, but Athos could not think of a single one nearby that could assure them of the anonymity that they so desperately needed, or was even clean enough to tend to the wounds covering his friend's body.
"Wha' about those people we left t'Captain's letter with?" Porthos suggested, his words coming in breathless pants.
His face was beaded with sweat, the skin pale and tinged with grey. Neither of them was in any condition to wander aimlessly through the streets of the capital.
The sun was starting to peek over the rooftops. Their need to find a place to hide was swiftly moving from urgent to desperate. "The Bonacieux house?" Athos inquired with a frown. It had been hard enough to convince the cloth merchant to hold onto a letter in exchange for a purse filled with coin...asking him to open the doors of his house to a wanted criminal would be like hoping for the sun to rise in the west. "Should we risk it?"
"Don't seem like we have much choice," Porthos shrugged as best as he could. Aramis was all but a dead weight between them.
Athos pondered their rapidly deteriorating situation. Treville had already placed a tremendous load of responsibility on the Bonacieux, even if they were unaware of such. What if they placed the whole plan at risk by showing at their doorstep a second time? What if the Cardinal's men found them there? What of Aramis' fate then? "We need to know their door will be open for us before we take Aramis there," Athos surmised. Despite what he knew he needed to do, he was reluctant to take action. "I'll go ahead and try to talk them into-"
"I can go," Charlotte offered, a shy smile on her face. In the growing light of the day, it was becoming harder and harder to pretend that she anything other than a child. "She won't know who I am, but neither will this Cardinal ya talk about."
"Charlotte..." Athos started, licking his lips as he searched for the right words. She was a child and he'd rather not risk her life any further than he had done. "You've done enough already...more than enough," he corrected, aware that they would've never found Aramis if it hadn't been for her. "You do not have to-"
"Before Bourdon," Charlotte cut in, stopping his words with a look that was far too old for her years. "Before...Maman...Maman used to tell me these stories, church stories, 'bout people helping each other and being good. I don't remember'em all," she went on, her eyes turning watery as if the fading memories hurt all the more for their blurriness, "but I remember t'one 'bout the traveling man who got beaten and robbed on the road. And how only one person was good enough t'help'im."
Athos nodded, realizing where her thoughts were leading. How could he deny this young girl, who life had turned into a thief, her chance to be a good Samaritan? "We will follow you, at a safe distance," he simply said, his hand resting gently on her bony shoulder. "Do not knock on their door if you see anyone outside, especially men who look like soldiers, yes?"
Charlotte nodded, a bright smile contrasting with the tears in her eyes.
"And if a woman comes to the door, give her this," Athos said, his fingers fumbling with the straps holding his paldron to his shoulder, "and tell her that, once more, the Musketeers are in dire need of her service."
~§~
Constance led a boring life. There was no soft way to put it, there were no gentler words to describe it.
Jacques, bless his soul, was a good man, but his spirit of adventure went no further than risking to buy a length of striped cloth when all the other merchants were betting on flowery patterns. And that alone was enough to make him sweat and turn his stomach into knots.
When he was at home, he spent most of his time talking about the other merchants and the corners they cut to fetch better prices and customers. Constance could never quite decide if he disapproved of their actions or if, deep down, he envied their shrewdness for making more money than he ever could.
It wasn't like they lived poorly, quite the contrary. The house had belonged to Constance' parents and it was more than big enough for the two of them. Lord! It would even be big enough for a horde of children, should they ever be blessed by those, but it certainly wasn't a palace. And it wasn't in some fancy part of Paris, like some of the other merchants that Bonacieux traded with. After all, Butcher Street wasn't all that far their house and, on the days when the wind struck just the right way, the smell was just vile.
But it was a nice house, a roof over their heads, and Jacques had even been talking about finding a maid to help her, like a proper lady should have. Only, the last thing Constance had ever wanted in her life was to be a proper lady.
Proper ladies had lives even more boring than hers, if such a thing was possible.
Constance was folding the newest batch of fine cloth that her husband had bought the previous day, when she heard the knocking on her door. Her heart jumped into her mouth and she dropped the roll of linen with a soft curse that went unheard in the otherwise empty house.
Served her right, to go on and on, complaining about her boring life. First thing in the morning there had been that nasty fellow knocking on her front door and now...what if he'd decided to come back and get some answers out of her? It wasn't like she knew exactly what was going on to tell him anything, but she wouldn't say a word about Treville and the two Musketeers who had come to her house a few days before, she vowed as much to herself. And she most certainly wouldn't say a word about her suspicions that this was all part of some plan that the Captain had arranged to capture the man who, for all she knew, was now knocking at her door!
"Coming!" she shouted from the steps, hoping that whoever was on the other side hadn't been able to hear the quiver in her voice as clearly as she had. Why had she refused the two Musketeers that Treville had offered to guard the house? Jacques wasn't even home...
Peeking through the window showed her nothing other than an empty courtyard outside. And yet, the knocking resumed.
Constance looked around, grabbing the nearest thing she could use as a weapon. The candlesticks were new, a wedding gift from one of Jacques' cousins, but she'd never liked them much. They were ugly, but heavy.
Holding her improvised weapon behind her back, Constance carefully opened the door. She was forced to adjust her line of sight as she realized that it was not an adult knocking so insistently, but a young girl. "Oh! You're not..." she let out, suddenly feeling silly for the way her heart was racing. "What can I do for you, sweetie?"
Constance had never seen the girl before, but it was easy to see where she was from, just by her clothes. It broke her heart that she could do nothing for the children living in the Court of Miracles, and the fact that this one had tear tracks down her dirty cheeks only made her heart ache worse.
"The Musketeers need you," the girl whispered, pulling something from behind her back, hidden by her long cloak. "He's hurt."
That...was not what Constance had expected. At all. "What do you mea-"
The embroidered leather piece that the girl handed her was impossible to mistake for anything else but part of a Musketeers' uniform. And, unlike the stolen cloak that the other man had been wearing to get the letter from her, this one she could believe to have been given willingly. The buckles were intact, there was no dirt or blood smearing it. In fact, it still smelled of new leather.
She didn't know many Musketeers, but one thing she knew for certain. No Musketeer parted with his paldron unless he had a very good reason. "Lead the way, young lady," Constance whispered back, closing the door behind her.
Still, she took the candlestick with her.
Just in case.
~§~
"And why was this confession not brought to the King the minute it was obtained?" Richelieu countered, not missing a beat. "Seems hardly honest to keep something as important as this hidden from His Grace's knowledge."
Louis' attention perked up at that. Unfortunately, his brown eyes were now fixed on the Captain rather than on the First Minister. "Good question, Cardinal. Why indeed, Treville?"
Treville forced his jaw to unclench. The King had asked him a question and he would do well to answer it, even if all he wished to do at the moment was to put his fist through the Cardinal's smug face.
A thought came to his mind and Treville steeled himself, casting a different kind of net. If Rochefort wouldn't turn on the Cardinal, for fear what might happen to him, maybe Treville could pressure the Cardinal to turn on his man and force the Comte into acting to save his own life. "I did not wish to bother Your Highness with theories and thoughtful constructions," he said carefully. To steer the King's anger in his direction, at this point, would be a sure defeat. "The confession was kept secret in the hopes that it would attract the rest of Gerard's accomplices, possibly even the person who gave him his orders," he said, a pointed look in Richelieu's direction making it obvious who Treville believed that person to be. "One can only assume that the man responsible for his death was the same one who paid him to act as he did."
The Cardinal looked at the letter in his hands one more time, a careful smile creeping over his thin lips. "Then, perhaps it is not I who stood to gain from this Gerard's death, but the one you caught stealing the confession," he said, voicing the exact words Treville had hoped he would.
Check-mate. Discreetly casting his eyes in the Comte's direction, the Captian held his breath, waiting for the man to speak. One word from him, and the Cardinal's involvement in the whole sordid affair would be unmasked. Surely such a blatant accusation would be more than enough for Rochefort's self-preservation to stir and loosen his tongue?
"Are you suggesting that Rochefort was the one behind all of this, that he was not following the Cardinal's orders but his own wishes?" Louis asked. From his words, it seemed like he had been as much convinced of the Cardinal's claim that the Comte was not his agent as Treville. Which was nothing. "What say you, Rochefort?"
The Cardinal cut in before the Comte could open his mouth, once again, preventing the man from speaking freely. "As I have said, I do not know this man, but I do know of him, as do you, Treville," Richelieu voiced. His stern look in the Comte's direction had the effect of closing the man's mouth without a single sound coming out. "It is no secret that he tried to buy his way into the Musketeers' ranks some time ago, a request that was summarily refused after a single conversation with their Captain. I am sure that the thought that this might be nothing more than petty revenge has already entered your mind..."
Treville resisted the urge to grab his hat and bite on the thick wool. Of all the plausible excuses that the Cardinal could've come up with, that was certainly the most...truthful.
He remembered well the Comte's attempt to join the Musketeers, right after the regiment had been formed. He had arrived at Treville's office with a purse filled with coins and a head filled with illusions that his nobility entitled him to a position of superiority over the rest of the soldiers in the regiment. The man had no experience in the arts of war and, even though Treville was sure his education was as good as any other nobleman's, he had shown a lack of interest and concern for the lives of others that had left the Captain with absolutely no doubt that Rochefort would never be a Musketeer.
As far as he knew, the Comte had started working for Richelieu soon after that.
"Maybe we should let Rochefort himself explain his reasons," the Cardinal prompted, brazenly.
The Comte's pale eyes darted furiously in between the Cardinal and the King, who was starting to look impatient as he waited for his answer. "Your Majesty, I...I..." he whispered, stumbling through the words. "The Cardinal is right," he finally said, looking straight ahead with an air of defiance. "I orchestrated the attack on the garrison because they thought themselves too good for me, preferring low life commoners than someone of proper birth. The Red Guards were easy enough to convince, as they shared my lack of love for the Musketeers."
Treville could not hold back his surprise. Was the man's loyalty such that he would condemn himself to avoid involving the Cardinal?
"And the murdered man, Gerard?" the Cardinal pressed, reciting the words like he and the Comte were in a theater play of their own making.
Rochefort closed his eyes, defeat descending over him like a mantle of darkness. "I killed him in his prison cell, prevented him from pointing a finger at me."
It would be futile to point out that Gerard had been in prison for months before Rochefort decided to kill him, and that the only reason he had done so eventually, was because the timing had been right and Richelieu had seen his opportunity for a scapegoat when Aramis had suffered his unfortunate mishap at the King's hunt.
Treville kept his mouth shut, even though he could see clearly through the veil of lies and altered truths. Rochefort could simply claim that the chance had presented itself, and he had taken it and the Captain had nothing but logic and common sense on his side. In the face of the King's justice, those were not enough. "Why Aramis, why the extra effort to make him look guilty in your stead?" Treville couldn't help asking.
The vicious glint that came into the Comte's eyes made the Captain fear for the life of his soldier. "Found him drowned in wine at the tavern, his wits long-gone," Rochefort said, his words laced with malice. "It was quite easy to lead him down to the cellar and lay him next to a dead man."
Treville couldn't control his anger any longer. "I will see you hanged for this, Rochefort!" he spat, his hand unconsciously gripping the hilt of his sword.
"There you have it!" The Cardinal interrupted the building tension with a clap of his hands, his fingers remaining clasped as if in prayer. "A spoken confession, certainly more honest and trustworthy than a piece of paper that we know nothing about or under what circumstances it was obtained. What do you wish us to do with the Comte, Your Majesty?"
The Captain resisted the urge to grind his teeth at the subtle emphasis that the Cardinal had managed to give to Rochefort's noble title. He need not be a fortune teller to guess how this would end.
Justice was justice, as long as no nobleman was ever put to death for crimes committed against someone beneath his station. Gerard was a commoner and as such, his death was only as important as the amount of dirt it took to bury him.
Louis squirmed in his seat, looking between the stormy expression on Treville's face and the openness and warmth in the Cardinal's expression. "What do you suggest, Cardinal?"
Richelieu smiled, walking towards the monarch, perfectly aware that his position, threatened as it had been merely minutes before, was now safer than ever. "I have a few ideas, Your Majesty," he whispered with a bow. "Perhaps we should address the matter in private?"
"Your Majesty," Treville voiced before the King could further escape his grasp. "My man is innocent. I wish to secure his immediate release from the Cardinal's hold, if it pleases You," he asked, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. Now, however, was not the time for wounded pride; Aramis' life was worth much more than a few groveling words.
The King nodded, even if his expression was the same as when asked if dinner should be pheasant or trout. "I suppose," he said. "See to it, Armand."
"It will be taken care of, Your Highness," the Cardinal assured, a vicious smile creeping over his lips. "It will most certainly be taken care of."
Treville's blood froze inside his veins. It had not sounded like a promise of freedom at all and, if he knew the Cardinal's dislike for loose ends as well as he believed, it sounded more like a promise of something else entirely.