Sign of the Cross
By JeanTre16
Chapter 15
King Charles' II Chance
King Charles II of England, Scotland and Wales, was an ambitious, young ruler living in precarious times. Restored to the throne after his exile in France, suddenly he found himself confronting an annoying war with the Netherlands. To the recently returned royal, his only intent was to squash those who would be a thorn in his flesh. Power was necessary for such things and power was to be leveraged in bridging alliances with wealthy nations and under the shroud of the rich and influential church. At present, England was declared Protestant, but if need be, he vowed he would change his religion. Ultimately, he would play whomever he saw fit to form the most beneficial allies. To him, it was all a game to acquire what one wanted, and he was a man who knew what brought him satisfaction.
When it came to the acquisition of anything that brought him pleasure, Charles was also a risk-taker. Although he was reputed as a generous and fun-loving king, in truth, it was merely the political glossing over of his immoral and dissolute court. England's new monarch masqueraded his indulgent behaviors behind his good deeds and political savvy. Pressing for revenue to back his sport, he pushed for colonial, maritime and commercial expansion. Tactfully, his debonair societies and scientific funding satiated the nobility to his cause. Thus, when he received word that Jacqueline had come to him, he vowed he would not squander his second chance to get what he wanted.
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Disembarking the Maiden Castle, Captain Morgan had sent a message ahead to His Majesty, apprising him of his visitors. Intending to see the monarch first to discuss the pair of captives, he was surprised when he had received word back that the king wanted to see them without delay. This seemed to confirm, rather than contradict, the Frenchwoman's story. Consequentially congratulating himself for bringing the lady to London and leaving the supplies, Morgan dressed in his finest attire and insisted on personally escorting his prized stowaways before the male sovereign. Immediately the trio commenced to the palace on the premise that the figurehead of England had 'proposed' to the mademoiselle.
As relieved as the d'Artagnans were to be on dry land again, there was a certain dread in the air of what faced them at the mercy of Charles Stuart. They were genuinely surprised at how quickly he had agreed to see them. It was Jacqueline who voiced their shared sentiment, "Remind me, if we live through this, that I never want to leave solid ground again once we get back home."
Not answering his wife's quip, d'Artagnan's thoughts trailed elsewhere. He had a bad feeling about where their predicament was leading when he saw the fortification of the Tower of London—the dual functioning royal residence and prison. Reluctantly, he had memorized his father's tales of his London visit. But his senior's visit had revolved around the residence of the Duke of Buckingham, not the king's Tower. The looming stone fortress before them held a bloody reputation, and it made the forced visitor apprehensive about the man who called this place 'home'. "I'm beginning to wonder if that prison cell back in France wasn't a better idea than this," he stated, sarcastically. His soldiering instincts took to the forefront of his senses; he avidly began studying the layout for weaknesses.
The d'Artagnans entered the opulent tower room where their old acquaintance awaited them. Charles stood with hands clasped behind his back, facing the wall opposite their entry. He offered a greeting to Jacqueline without as much as a glance. "Madame d'Artagnan," he said coolly. Then his haughty, lustrous personage turned to view her.
Captain Morgan turned his large-eyed gaze upon her as well; his stun at the contradictory title and name His Majesty attributed to her was apparent. His long moustache hairs twitched as though they released his pent-up electrical charge. She was not only a married woman, but it suddenly became evident that she was married to the young man who accompanied her. 'D'Artagnan!' The name sunk in.
It was a well-known name to the ship's captain. The French Musketeer's legends were favorites among even English seafaring vessels—although taking on a more villainous angle. All the previous day's events came back into play, clarified in light of the couple's identity. Evidently, there would be more tales borne by the famed man's namesakes. Morgan scorned to think that those stories would bear his name as well—to a less favorable degree. There was no other way to look at it; he had been had by d'Artagnans. Anger swelled behind his observant orbs, but he held his temper in check before his supreme commander.
Holding her own defensive air against Morgan's cannons, she raised a brow and shrugged. In actuality, she had never confirmed that she accepted the monarch's proposal.
When Morgan shifted his eyes toward the man next to her and scowled the famed name, D'Artagnan, the Frenchman merely raised a nonchalant corner or his mouth and shrugged his shoulders in like response as his wife.
King Charles II turned to Morgan in appeased amusement over gathering Jacqueline's playing the seaman for a dupe. "Never earn the scorn of a woman," he advised with sarcasm, "not this one, in particular." Then he dismissed the privateer. "I'll take it from here, Captain Morgan." And for the first time since their arrival, the sovereign could not suppress the smile that begged to surface from under his cool exterior.
At the request for him to leave, Morgan rescinded, "Your Majesty." He bowed with a tilt of his head and left the ruler to deal with this troublesome woman and her consort.
Returning his attention to the couple, the distinguished man's brows knit at the sight of his guest's condition. The tell-tale signs of a week's travel without proper grooming made them look like a couple of sea dogs. But the tactician chose to overlook their appearance for the time being, and quickly flinching, he relaxed his facial muscles to remove his outward repugnancy. At least one of them, he relented, held more worth than perhaps even they themselves realized—despite the state they were in. He would appease them for now.
The king's absorbing shock of their visage was obvious. "Apologies, Your Majesty," the ragged-looking nobleman offered, bowing with civility. "We haven't had time to wash before seeing you." As before, d'Artagnan approached the man with respect and caution. Although he was wary of the ruler, the man before him was a 'majesty' and the Viscompte knew his place.
The royally attired man opposite of the rumpled, apologetic traveler edged his response with laughter. "That's what I admire about you, Monsieur d'Artagnan. You have finesse, much like you father, I hear." Then looking at the woman by his side, he donned an affectionate smile. "And you are a courageous woman," he genuinely relayed. His eyes met hers in an overly warm manner that caused her to shift her gaze uncomfortably.
D'Artagnan's observant eyes darted back and forth between the two, noting the exchange. Protective jealousy instinctively swelled over him.
But before Charles' look could be marked as entirely inappropriate, he redirected his attention. "As I was saying, Madame—" he interjected a slighted nod of acknowledgment to the man standing next to her before adding "—d'Artagnan."
The married couple shot each other confused glances as Jacqueline bid a delayed greeting, "Your Majesty." Each Musketeer was deep in thought as she made her civil display. The way the monarch singled her out and avoided him immediately worried the husband. But both wondered how the man behind the calm exterior had known they were married.
Reading their surprised expressions, their host loftily explained, "England, under my rule, is a modern and forward country. News travels fast. I received word of your nuptials last fall…from Marseille." He maintained his placid, stately expression while taking in their reactions from the side of his half-lidded eyes.
The thought of King Charles knowing so much about their whereabouts troubled d'Artagnan. It was one thing for him to know they were married, yet even that seemed out of alignment for a powerful figurehead to be aware of a Viscompte and farm girl's wedding in France—even if she was a former love interest. But in his mention of Marseille, the powerful ruler relayed that he also had his informants well placed on foreign soil. What puzzled d'Artagnan was why this man who was way out of their league would go through all that trouble to get intelligence on Jacqueline and him? It was only one more concern to add to his list of reasons to keep an eye on this sneaky and powerful man.
Having diplomatically made it past their awkward introductions, Charles left behind his reserved demeanor and progressed to his next objective. His countenance suddenly warmed to one of the perfect host. With a smug grin, he boasted energetically, "Let me be the first to extend to you the olive branch." Springing into motion, he gestured with arms held open wide. "Welcome! Welcome to jolly England…and my home," he articulated with an upbeat aristocratic inflection. "Here, my servants will see to your comfort." He kept his actions cordial and gave the appearance of pampering to their needs; yet, his interest was explicitly tuned to the Frenchwoman. With a barely civil allowance to the man at her side, he impressively offered, "Allow me to put you up in a royal palace suite."
As the powerful figurehead walked past them to show the way, Jacqueline and d'Artagnan breathed out heavily. They were relieved that their old acquaintance had presented himself as pleased to see them. But the young husband also had reserved feelings; he noticed that there had been no congratulations on their marriage, only a brief acknowledgement.
The descendant of the house of Stuart returned his sight to his guests once they progressed through the doorway. Training his eyes on Jacqueline, he drank in her appearance with pleasure. Smiling, the regally clad man of wealth moved to her side as an escort and extended his arm to place it behind her waist.
Without a word, d'Artagnan smoothly moved in and intervened the over attentive man from further latching his tentacles onto his wife. The three continued down the corridor—with the protective spouse in the middle—and made their way toward the suite. In the Frenchman's opinion, their host was offering a little too much hospitality toward the woman he had married.
The ambitious ruler's eyes watched his charge contemptibly as he personally showed them to their royal apartment. "I trust you will be comfortable here," he said, with a little less warmth than before. He gave them both one final, expressionless examination, and then turned to leave. As the couple was about to relax after his departure, he faced them again with sudden recollection, and added, "Oh, and dinner today will be served in your honor. I trust my servants will see to it that you have something of exquisite taste to wear." He gave a brief, diplomatic smile and finished on an informative note before leaving. "And English dinners are traditionally served at noon."
D'Artagnan's eyes narrowed as he watched the man disappear; he did not trust him. While in France, Charles II had promiscuously admitted to the Musketeer that Jacqueline would be 'two handfuls'. The nobleman had not liked the way the exiled man had referred to her so freely then, and he certainly did not like the way the man's eyes seemed to leisurely handle his wife now.
Having kept her thoughts to herself until then, Jacqueline finally spoke. "Well, what do you make of that?" she asked. "It's nice to see that he holds no ill feelings toward me. He must figure he owes me for sparing his life and for showing him hospitality in France." She smiled as the king walked out of sight.
D'Artagnan's expression became baffled at hearing her statement. 'Was she seeing the same play of events that he was?' he wondered, as he eyed his smiling partner who was still watching the receding host. 'Was she blind?' his face cringed at her obliviousness. Scoffing silently to himself, he begged to differ in judgment. He did not trust the man. The schemer was up to something…But what? D'Artagnan fought the urge to shake his wife from her delusion by saying something that he might regret later.
The displaced feeling Frenchman and husband considered that the head of England could pretty much do as he pleased. He was much more powerful now than he had been when they had seen him last overseas. The young married man's thoughts trailed. He considered it to be common knowledge that England was not a country where the sacredness of matrimony historically prevailed. All the covetous royal had to do was behead the spouse of the woman he wanted and lawfully she could be his. He put his hand to his throat and swallowed hard. It had crossed his mind before, but now, having seen the king's behavior toward Jacqueline, it outright vandalized him. No matter how he looked at it, he could not bring himself to believe this man genuinely cared about the concerns of the woman standing next to him. If she could not see that, d'Artagnan decided that he would have to be extra careful in protecting his wife from this now enthroned man.
The Musketeer was even less impressed with the Englishman on their second meeting. "I should have turned him over to Cromwell when I had the chance," he spoke under his breath as they entered their private suite and shut the door.
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Calais port was a busy place on any given 'normal' day, but this morning there was more commotion than usual. A shipment of goods had just returned on a French vessel that claimed their foe had been so terrified of their pursuit, that they had simply abandoned their cargo and fled. Crowds of men swarmed about the crates and English longboat that bore the name Maiden Castle on its side.
One spectator in particular was interested in their boastings. Cloaked in dark attire, the quiet one observed the crowds. Though not old, this man looked seasoned and intelligent in years. His countenance breathed of health and meticulous grooming. Neatly below his soft dark eyes he wore a solitary moustache line, and when acknowledged by a stranger, he courteously bowed and revealed his well-cared-for teeth. This was done without as much as a word before he walked off to another spot, being careful to keep his anonymity among the throngs of people. With purpose, he walked around the boxes, paying special attention to the ongoing stories. As he listened, a clamor arose from one of the inspectors.
"Now this is unusual," the uniformed man announced loudly, removing his hat to scratch his head. And the inspector replaced his brimmed headpiece to then pull out two rapiers from amid a barrel. "Look what I found in this crate marked 'food'," he quipped.
The dark, peaceful eyes of the onlooker widened at the discovery. Turning quietly away from the crowd, he crossed his arms and raised one gloved hand to pinch his earlobe out of habit as he processed the find. Two rapiers hidden amongst that crate could only mean one thing to him: The two he sought had been on that English vessel.
Placing his hands at his waist, he looked out toward the horizon at sea. Grasping what had to be done, he slowly nodded his head. He would inform the others and send word to Paris. The Vestige would set sail for England. Perhaps, he grinned to himself in recollection; this time the three of them would make the journey only their fourth comrade had accomplished the first time out those many years ago. But that was decades past, and now their friend's son, not a sealed letter to deliver on behalf of royalty, compelled their campaign.
Stepping away from the rabble, he exclaimed with a frown, "Two d'Artagnans—" he paused to reflect "—no, three d'Artagnans to London before the others," he corrected. "We shall have to make it an even mark with the remaining trio then," he smirked to himself before walking off.
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Author's Note: Had a bit of trouble posting this; thus, the reason it's almost a week late. Hope you're enjoying this story. Your thoughts in a review would be nice to hear.