Sign of the Cross

By JeanTre16

Chapter 16

The King's Delicacies

The timing was rotten, but King Louis wasn't concerned about that. The dispute over the lettres de cachet was still in bitter deadlock, and he had been avoiding it in hopes of it resolving itself in time. Looking in the mirror, France's number one man stood tall and pulled his dark jacket down on the corners over his cream britches and riding boots. Satisfied with his appearance, he put his face to the mirror and gave his teeth one last check for the proverbial speck that made one look like a fool on special occasions. Finding none, he nodded his approval and headed for the door. "Cardinal Mazarin and Captain Duval can manage their bickering without me for one day," he spoke convincingly to himself.

All he wanted was to get away from the tensions of the Paris politics and be alone with his Marie. Or, if all went as hoped on his planned, private escape, she would be his Marie. He'd take care of the implications later with mother. He had no thought to her objection. As for the Cardinal, his intended interest was his niece, after all, how could he possibly deny him? The rule-bound novice wanted to do this without anyone else butting in; he wanted a little romance in asking the woman he loved to marry him.

After cracking his door wide enough to peek out into the hallway, the still teenaged king squinted his eyes to spy for any presences. Seeing no one, he stealthily stuck his lanky body out his royal bed chambers and slinked down the corridor.

Approaching the door of his beloved, he knocked softly and whispered, "Marie?" His eyes widened as he put his ear to the door to listen for a reply. Hearing the door unlatch, he stepped back and nervously checked one more time down either corridor before entering her chambers.

She too had on smart, but sporty clothing, appropriate for a day's romp in the country on horseback. Riding was no stranger to this versatile young lady. Besides, even if it were, Louis had gotten her to broaden her world even more since she had arrived in Paris. She would have gone anyways, just to be with him.

"Are you ready?" he eagerly asked, trying to keep his voice down.

Curtsying energetically, she playfully confirmed, "Ready, Your Majesty."

The two beamed at each other and broke out into stifled giggling at their mischievously clever plans for the day.

"Then, we're off!" The young escort encouraged his companion toward the door. And the two progressed to the palace kitchens where Louis had previously ordered their favorite delicacies for their romantic picnic—iced coffee, beignets, cheese, oysters, and red wine.

ooooooo

While Jacqueline was escorted by a handmaid to receive a thorough grooming and visit the palace dressmaker, d'Artagnan cleaned up and kept to himself in their suite. As promised, their accommodations were posh, decorated with the latest in furniture design and accessories. King Charles had provided for their stay in style. And all this made it even more uncomfortable for the young Viscompte, raising his guard toward their generous host. The fact that their room was not in the prison towers was a small consolation to the Frenchman; it still felt like an imprisonment. As he waited for his wife to return, he piddled about the room. All the while, his mind poured over possible escape scenarios, should it become necessary.

Nervously searching the contents of their room, he fidgeted with a strange box. Opening and closing it, he frowned and gave up his conjecture of its function. He was certain Siroc would have spent happy hours there in discovery of all the recent inventions and their uses. In truth, such luxuries bored d'Artagnan, and when he was bored, he looked for something to do.

Suddenly his thoughts were jolted by a soft knocking on the door. He jumped. His nerves were already frayed, and he needed little to set them off. Gathering himself, he neatened his coat, afforded to him by the illustrious king of England, and opened the door.

D'Artagnan froze like a startled deer at the sight that met him. A giftedly voluptuous woman stood outside the door wearing a smile and a very décolleté gown. The air about her permeated with a thick and sweet, tantalizing fragrance. Standing there in his doorway, his mouth hung agape and eyes opened wide. After his initial shock wore off, he apologized, "I'm sorry, Milady. You must have the wrong suite." And he moved to close the door.

But the woman's quick maneuver, placing one hand on the door and the other on his wrist, kept him from shutting her out. "You are the son of the infamous d'Artagnan, are you not?" she smoothly inquired as she pushed her way in.

"Yes, I am, but you apparently caught me at a disadvantage, since I do not know who you are." He smiled weakly and once again attempted to dismiss his caller with civility.

"But Monsieur, surely you have a reputation to uphold, like your father." She pressed up to him and placed her arms around his neck.

D'Artagnan, gently, but with great haste, pulled her arms down from his shoulders and backed her out into the hallway. Looking back and forth to see if there were any witnesses about, he offered one last word to his visitor. "Milady, you can tell whoever sent you that I am not for sale." With that he gave her one last look up and down, backed into his room and shut the door. On the inside of the room, he leaned heavily against the door with a deep sigh. "A few more minutes with her and Jacqueline would have slit my neck herself," he scolded himself as he shook off her intoxicating effect.

Once again, he heard a soft knock on the door. Standing upright in a start, he cleared his throat and pulled at his coat hem to gather himself to face the entry. Drawing in a breath, he contemplated yet another confrontation. Grabbing the handle, he opened the door and was about to launch into another refusal when he suddenly stopped. It was Jacqueline, not the strange woman, who pressed her way past him into their suite.

The Frenchwoman had undergone a complete transformation, clear from her hair down to her shoes and accessories. She rivaled Queen Anne in the wealth of what she wore. "What took you so long to come to the door?" she asked as she busily toyed with the gathering on her sleeves. Completely diverted by her stylish dress, she hadn't even given her husband as much as a glance. If she had, she would have seen the stunned look on his face.

All at once, she stopped and sniffed the air. "What's that smell?" she asked, scrunching her nose. Trailing it to her husband's person, she took a whiff of his coat and neck and finally looked up at his nervous face. "And why is it coming from you?" she inquired demandingly.

In his speechlessness over her appearance and question, d'Artagnan tried a few words of explanation unsuccessfully. "I…we…you…" He was flabbergasted by the events of the past few minutes. First, he was still shaking off the affect of the call girl who had left more than her scent all over him. Second, he was not only dazzled by his wife's beauty, he was shocked to see her behaving like a shop-girl of Paris—or in this case of London. Finally, he found his voice. "Let's just say I was sent a little gift from your old beau."

"My old beau? What's that supposed to mean?" She did not look happy at his inference. Besides being unhappy at him raising her past relationship with Charles, she looked confused. "He sent you perfume?"

"He sent me a lovely woman, wearing perfume," d'Artagnan explained, emphasizing a corrected visual of how the scent had been delivered.

"A lovely woman?" She tossed his sarcastic play on words back at him by emphasizing the type of woman he referred to. "And what do you mean by, 'He sent you one?'" She didn't look convinced at his explanation.

"King Charles II of England, Scotland and Wales, he just had a…" He began with confidence, but not finding the words, he gestured the outline of a curvy, womanly figure with his hands. "…woman…in a small, but cute—" he tilted his head as his brow went up with his added personal interjection "—dress on." Looking at his un-amused wife, he cringed with his last words, realizing his allowance for the description of his female visitor's small dress as being 'cute,' wasn't exactly chosen with the best care.

Jacqueline tapped her foot angrily and put an end to their emphasis game by stating, more than asking, "A cute…curvy…woman just left our suite?" Throwing her hands up in frustration she wailed, "D'Artagnan! How could you?" The fashionable woman's gown swirled as she turned to walk away from him, clearly upset now.

"Jacqueline, stop!" he pleaded. "I didn't let her in and nothing happened. Are you even listening to me? I said the king sent her to me to try to get me to stoop to his level. I'm a married man…a happily married man I might add." He followed her about the room trying to convince her of his sincerity. "Sweetheart, I would never compromise our relationship for a moment with a strange woman." He was silently thanking God that the woman hadn't spent a single minute longer in his presence. He had to admit, King Charles knew the game and he knew how to package the goods. But he had made one miscalculation in regard to d'Artagnan—he was a man in love with his wife.

The resolute husband walked over to his pouting wife and took her hands in his. "This is exactly what the king is trying to do. He's hoping we'll argue and be angry at one another. We can't let this happen. In fact, I say that from now on, as long as we're here in England, neither of us will go anywhere without the other. We stick together." He brushed her fashionably stray strand of hair aside and looked at how lovely she was. His hand ran down to her neck where he noticed she still wore her cross necklace. As stunning as she looked, he was thankful there were some things about her that would never change. Smiling, he cupped her soft face in his hands and said, "Did I tell you today how beautiful you are?" He was about to kiss her when yet another knock was heard at their door.

Sighing heavily, he surrendered their kiss. "I'll get that," he whispered, unhappy for yet another interruption. Seeing his wife equally disappointed, he begrudgingly let her delicate features go and went to see who had come this time. Swinging the door wide open, he was met by a stuffy mannered male servant in a pompous costume.

With a nod of his head, the white-gloved servant addressed them both. "Monsieur, Madame, dinner is to be served in the dining room. I've been sent to show you the way."

ooooooo

Following their guide, d'Artagnan pulled at the tightness of his royally-stiff-at-the-neck collar and swallowed hard. He still felt antsy over the king's attempt to put a wedge between Jacqueline and him. That, and his earlier thought of potentially being beheaded, gave him a lump in his throat that only amplified the discomfort of the borrowed finery he had on.

If the young husband had any previous doubt that the monarch wanted to get rid of him, it was gone by now. He definitely had tried to buy him off. No doubt the well-informed ruler had heard rumors of his womanizing father and perhaps of his own prior flirtatious reputation. But the bettor had played him wrongly. One thing the royal had not accounted for was that he was not his father. There was only one woman worthy enough to successfully make her way through his defenses. He smiled at the thought and relaxed. Surely by now the charlatan had received word of his failure.

D'Artagnan and Jacqueline joined Charles for their honorary dinner set for royalty. Both had witnessed such fare in Paris at the palace, but never had been a guest of honor at such an event. If not in the company they were in, the experience would have topped their culinary encounters.

As it were, they were Musketeers and well trained not to fall prey to a king's delicacies. A soldier knew that to be tempted by the lavish offerings of an adversary would be equated to putting a knife to their throat. As hungry as they were, d'Artagnan especially kept it to heart that 'food was food' and that he was not to be impressed with its presentation. He reminded himself to keep his eyes on what he felt was the real fare at the royal highness' table—Jacqueline.

However, since the couple had not eaten a proper meal in days, they permitted themselves to reduce the culinary artwork to its rudimentary components of sustenance—vegetable, meat, bread and drink—of which they were more than willing to digest, regardless of its design. With their focus being on the nourishment, the evening meal progressed uneventfully.

Observing his ravenous guests finishing their final course, the satisfied host tossed his napkin nimbly on his plate and signaled for the clearing of the table. His servant efficiently catered to his whim, and then dutifully made his way around to refill their wine goblets. Having replenished, first, the king and Jacqueline's crystals, the white-gloved man proceeded to d'Artagnan's glass. Extending the bottle over the Frenchman, as chance would have it, the bottle slipped from his hand and fell onto the startled man's lap. From the corner of his eyes, Charles coolly witnessed the blood-red drink slosh up and down the front of his guest's white shirt.

The wine-bathed man reflexively grabbed the bottle from his lap and stood up, pushing his heavy chair back with a loud screech. In his forward bent stance, he placed the bottle on the table with one hand and pulled his cold, clinging shirt away from his body with the other. Beside him, the servant fervently came to his aid, apologizing and offering his towel to sop up the drink.

Jacqueline's attention turned toward her husband's mishap, shocked.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," His Majesty appropriately exclaimed in astonishment. "Please accept my most sincere apologies for the awkwardness of the situation." Cuing another servant to come forth, he ordered in his native tongue, "Take a fresh shirt to the Viscount's room where he can change his clothes."

Understanding well enough what had been said, the inconvenienced noble suddenly looked up—mid-wiping his shirt with the first servant's towel—and froze. His eyes caught the calm, almost rehearsed expression on the orchestrator's face. The palatial servant's imposturous miscalculation had happened so fast that the Musketeer had no time to consider the implications until just then. He was being played. Lowering the towel firmly to the table, he suddenly lost his concern over his uncomfortable disposition, and to the surprise of the others, reclaimed his seat.

Amid the baffled onlookers, Charles voiced their thoughts, "Are you not going to change?"

Acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, the soiled man donned his cavalier front and answered lightly, "Thank you for your gracious concern, Your Majesty, but, no. I'm fine."

Frowning at the unexpected response, the king gestured to his servant and pressed, "My man here…"

"No. Really, it's just a spot. I hardly notice it." And d'Artagnan sat there with a smug smile on his face, quite planted in his chair.

Jacqueline quietly watched the peculiar exchange, considering that the best response from her was none at all.

Pausing slightly at the turn of events, the facilitator proceeded with the new set of variables. "Very well, suit yourself," he responded smoothly, yet with a little pique in his voice. Then dismissing the servants, who seemed reluctant to leave their guest unattended to, King Charles shifted the conversation away from the saturated noble. "Apparently, it's your turn in exile," he smirked, sportingly, "and my turn to rescue you."

Without saying it outright, the well-informed royal had relayed that he knew the reason behind their presence in his kingdom. Once again, the couple noted how acutely interested the crowned head was of their personal affairs. They had hardly arrived in London themselves, let alone the fact that he already acquired news of their wanted status, and it signaled grave reason for their concern.

The monarch's smiling gaze transfixed on the elegant female, and he allowed his eyes to take in her beauty. Her hair had been loosely gathered up to accentuate its natural waviness, exposing her rarely seen graceful neckline. Her gown brought out her feminine features and was made of the wealthiest fabrics: Cream based layers accented in gold cord with a plush purple bodice and matching purple accent delicately woven down the length of her gathered sleeves. Charles took pleasure in what he saw.

After an awkward pause of admiration, the corners of his mouth slowly dropped as he became acutely aware of the dark-haired man still in their presence. Dropping his head momentarily to collect his thoughts, his chin then raised to direct his next comment in the Frenchman's direction. "I was just going to relate a story, Viscompte. I assure you, you wouldn't have missed much." His cool stare ended with a locked glare at the male still seated at his table.

Clenching his teeth under his masked calm, d'Artagnan's heightened male perception burned with anger, and he fought to maintain his head. He sat forward, ignoring his saturated clothing, and put his furious energy into the façade of being extremely interested in the king's tale. "A story? Why there's nothing I'd like better than to hear a good story. I wouldn't think of missing it. What would it be about?"

"My story—" Charles informed, trying to regain control of the redirected situation "—begins with a mad woman."

Jacqueline frowned at the onset of His Majesty's strange choice of words and at the intensity of the masculine banter. It did not escape her notice that she was the one now being ignored. The verbal exchange had quickly become a boyish match of tug-o-war. At first, she inwardly rolled her eyes at the escalation of the male egos pulling on either side of her. But increasingly, she became concerned for her husband's safety at his growing insubordinate behavior toward the king. Frowning, she nervously picked up her drink. While swishing the wine in her crystal, she turned her back to the host and shot her spouse a visual jab in the ribs for him to back off.

Oblivious to his partner's appeal, d'Artagnan's fixed glare was on the man beyond her. He raised a brow in intrigue and smartly tugged back. "A mad woman?"

"Quite mad: As in dementia mad." The preeminent one's voice wrenched tautly, his face growing stern with his loss of patience.

The wine-soaked noble was certain his mishap had been intentional and that the deceptive man had wanted to be alone with his wife. Keeping his word previously agreed upon with Jacqueline—that they would not leave each other's company—he refused to abandon the woman he had vowed to protect.

At the provoking thought of the woman at his side, he finally noticed her begging expressions. His countenance relaxed as he took her advice to heart, released his tension and sat back in his chair. Looking at his beautiful wife sitting next to him, he reminded himself that before God, they were one flesh. And he knew her well enough to know that he had nothing to be jealous of with this man. His reassuring eyes relayed to his anxious partner that he would take heed to her plea. They would work through this together as a team, and at present, she was right. This powerful figurehead was calling the shots and he would get nowhere by challenging that authority single-handedly.

With the coyness practically patented as a d'Artagnan trait, he outwardly smiled while covertly giving the invisible rope one last verbal jerk before letting it go. "This should prove to be a most fitting cock-and-bull story," he quipped.

At his unexpected retort, his freshly calmed wife choked on her drink. Quickly placing her stemware down on the table, she gathered her napkin to mockingly daub her down-turned lips.

Charles laughed good-humoredly, much to Jacqueline's wide-eyed relief. Then, with the corners of his mouth dropping slightly, the king proceeded on in good sport. "Ah, d'Artagnan…As I was saying, this woman…" And over the course of the next half an hour, he wove his narrative of a Frenchwoman that came to be his assistant's wife some twenty years ago.

Being a mid-wife in France, this woman had been called upon one night by a priest and one of the King's Royal Musketeers to render her services. As the three neared their destination, the woman became alarmed of their intended boudoir. Her reason for concern rested in that she had not by general account served those of such high standing. She knew, as a rule, that there were privileged servants for such honors. Sensing her apprehension, the fearful woman was assured by the Musketeer that she would be duly compensated for her assistance, and was told not to worry herself.

But her caution was confirmed when after assisting in the delivery of the precious child, the mother became distraught at the revelation that she had given birth to a girl. Fearing her husband's adamant threat to terminate the life of any other than a male heir, she acted to preserve her daughter. The mid-wife, along with the two others, was sworn to secrecy by the frantic parent on the birth and concealment of her infant.

D'Artagnan was getting impatient. To this point, he believed king's story had been nothing more than an elaborate joke. He could just hear the tag-line in his head, 'Have you heard the one about the mad mid-wife, misguided Musketeer and the baby?' Looking very much like he had had enough of their host's senseless babbling, the sopped Frenchman interrupted, "Nice story, but is there a point to it? I mean, if it was kept such a secret, then how do you know about it?" Scoffing, he added, "Your story has more holes in it than my friend, Ramon's Swiss cheese." Standing up, the irritated critic prepared to dismiss their presence. "As for us, we've been graced with enough hospitality…"

"Wait, d'Artagnan—" reaching out her hand to quell her husband, she intervened "—I'd really like to hear the rest." Her eyes pleaded for him to be seated. Aside from noting his completely saturated discomfort, she knew he had no tolerance for people he considered to be fabricating stories and packaging them as true. She had been the brunt of that on the first day they had met when she patched together her alias. He had not believed her 'Jacques Leponte' story then, and he had been right. Now, she could see how her husband had arrived at that same conclusion with the king's tale.

Charles seemed to derive satisfaction from the presentation of his story as an elaborate fairy tale. But she knew the story-teller better than the man standing beside her did. She could sense the subtleties that he did not. Like when the exiled man had cloaked himself in an attempt to assassinate Cromwell outside the Musketeer garrison, it had been her keen awareness that had picked up on his intent. And this was one of those times her intuitiveness saw more to the telling than met the eye. Perceptively, it had been the bearer's mention of the priest that had raised Jacqueline's attention, and she was determined to see where he was going to take it.

Pleased that he had won the lady's audience, the king turned to address the subordinate with his cool, chiseled face. "Always playing the part of the valiant Musketeer, aren't you, d'Artagnan?" His flattering words were edged with ice.

The noble's patience had worn out; yet, Jacqueline's request was difficult to ignore. Once again putting his pride aside, he was about to reclaim his cushioned chair when a messenger concurrently appeared in the doorway. "Monsieur d'Artagnan," he pronounced, "an urgent message has just arrived for you from France."

The chivalrous man's eyes immediately came to rest on his wife. He knew she grasped what this letter could mean—word from Duval or his uncles, perhaps. "I'll be right out in the hall," he finally responded, both with reassurance to his spouse and warning to the king. In his current state of mind, staying in the room would only land him in serious trouble with the expedient man. He needed a few minutes to regroup his thoughts and the distraction of the pending letter would provide him with just that. With facial features taut, he confidently left the table to receive his correspondence.

Charles Stuart fixed his eyes on the doorway d'Artagnan exited through, and then he rose from his chair to make his way around the table to Jacqueline. Strolling with his hands clasped behind his back, he eagerly continued his story in quickened, hushed tones. "Coincidentally, the Musketeer in my story was also called away to duty at this point." The royal's facial features twitched at his stated parallel, but he kept on with his narrative. "And after his departure, panic gripped the priest and he altered their plans. Instead of caring for the child until the soldier returned—insisting they would be hung for their deed, should they be discovered—they left the infant with a family in the countryside. The priest then forced the mid-wife aboard a ship bound for England, and she assumed that her partner in crime had fled the country via another passage."

Caught up in his telling, the captivated female sat in her chair in suspense. With her head turned to the side, she listened to and looked up at the nearing story teller.

The relater stopped his stroll as he reached Jacqueline's side, but kept talking. "Arriving in England, she took to her profession and met a man your companion so dearly insists on calling, 'Clive', my assistant. They married, but that was not to be their happy end. Becoming wrought with guilt and remorse for her sin, her fits of dementia began. Speaking gibberish, her husband often listened to her ramble about that event that forever shadowed her life. Several years ago, she was put to rest as a result of her bouts. It's a sad story. But my story does not end with hers."

As he relayed his hasty telling, he glanced up toward the door to make sure they were alone, and then returned his eyes to his female guest. "My assistant buried the senseless rambles with his wife, and until in France, when I chanced upon you, her words resurfaced."

Charles' steadfast gaze met Jacqueline's before he continued with more feeling, "Wanting to know the identity of the woman that enchanted me, I asked my man to search for clues. When he came back with a poster, saying you were wanted for murder, it wasn't the crime that alarmed him the most, it was your name—Roget. For it had been the very name his poor deceased wife spoke of in her terrors."

Jacqueline's jaw dropped at hearing his emotionally debilitating words. She understood that she was the intended subject of his story—the baby. Stunned at the implications, she was unsure what to believe. Looking up at the monarch, towering above her, she voiced her questions, "Do you have proof of what you talk about, other than this woman's questionable words? And what are you exactly suggesting?" With furrowed brows, her heart quickened as she awaited his reply.

"Proof? Yes, proof," he smoothly spoke, stepping behind her where her eyes could not follow.

Unable to see where he was, she tensed. Facing the table, her anxious eyes flitted back and forth to her peripheral edges of vision to anticipate his next move. Her breathing deepened as she hung on every word of his luring voice.

"By word of the woman, proof of the child's lineage was left with her caretakers…" And as Charles quietly spoke, his hand reached over and skillfully unlatched the necklace around her neck.

Gasping at the suddenness of his maneuver, she grabbed for her slipping cross and gripped it to her chest. Her mouth hung open in shock at what he had just said and done, and at what it convincingly revealed about her past.

Noting her fear, he paused to display in his mannerism that his action was gentle and unthreatening, and instead, one of a more suggestive nature.

As the impact of his words wore off, the intent of his conduct sunk in. His softened touch on her neck shot alarm through her body. Barely breathing, she sat there immobilized.

Seeing her affectedness, he allowed his fingers to run their course down the side of her neckline.

Inhaling sharply at his persistence, she tensed and immediately hated him for making her feel so vulnerable.

He leaned over so she could feel the warmth of his breath. "Your cross, I believe it should have an engraving of a familiar crest on its back. Does it not?" he whispered in her ear. He smiled with the revelation of his secret and reveled at his second chance. "You were destined for more greatness than a Viscomptess. Stay here with me."

She could not believe what she was hearing; his words made chills run up and down her spine. She only half heard his final discourse. In the midst of his conflicting wanton overtures, what he had said was true. There was an etching on the back of her cross and it did match those she had seen before. But no one outside of her family had known that and the memory had been so long ago trivialized that even she had missed its message. Gripped in His Majesty's entrancing revelation, she felt paralyzed.

Then, as her brain thawed, the meaning of his last enticement took root. The familiarity of the only other man she had once allowed intimacy with screamed to be remembered. Without bidding, the memories came—the smoothness of his voice, the softness of his touch and the wine-filled kisses they shared. She felt sick. She wished she had never allowed herself to be so trusting of the man and permit herself to have crossed the line of intimacy with him. Suddenly, she was jolted from her caged nightmare by the sound of approaching footsteps that she recognized to be those of her husband.

Acutely aware of the Frenchman's return, the king released the gold chain to Jacqueline's trembling hand and slowly distanced himself from her.

Her husband! The thought rushed in like salvation. "I'm married!" she spoke vehemently under her breath to the serpent beside her. "And what God has joined together, no man shall separate." This man possessed nothing he could tempt her with. Pulling herself to her feet from the opposite side of her chair from the king, she stood to meet d'Artagnan.

The Frenchman returned to see the king relinquishing his stance over his quickly repelling wife. The look on Jacqueline's face while she stood holding her cross to her chest said it all. Her eyes frantically cried out for his rescue. He had never seen her look so in need for his help before. The zealous husband's face soured. Whatever had been said or done by the shameless ruler in his brief absence, he hated the man for it.

What could only have been later deemed as an intervention by God, another man in the company of a servant made hasty entry into the dining room and blurted with urgency, "Your Majesty, I regret the disruption, but there's a fire." The uninvited guest had a gauntly look on his face and his attire was soot covered. "It began on Pudding Lane in the house of your baker and rages untamed. It has engulfed a goodly portion of the town and continues to spread. Sire, it's as though the fires of hell have been unleashed on London."

Charles looked away from his guests, jostled to a reality more pressing than the one he recently tried to forge. His nostrils twitched at the faint smell of smoke wafting on the air, convincing him of the man's truth. His plans with his intended prize would have to wait. Perhaps she was married at the time, but that was only 'until death did them part,' he scoffed to himself. The king then addressed his guests and changed the course of the evening. "If you'll excuse me, I have a fire to quench."

D'Artagnan approached his wife from the opposite side where Charles had just been. He couldn't have been more thankful that God's timing had interrupted what surely would have turned ugly. Taking his visibly shaking wife lightly by her arm, he guided her departure from the room. "Jacqueline, let's go," he gently spoke, the firm love in his voice being like a beacon in her dimming world.

In complete numbness, the razed woman blindly let her husband lead her through the halls. Without him she would have wandered aimlessly. Her mind was lost in the mazes of King Charles' story.

When they had traveled a good portion of the distance to their room, d'Artagnan spoke lowly, jarring her from her trance. "What exactly happened back there?" he asked, deeply upset that he had left her even for a short time.

Her eyes betrayed something horrible, but she could barely speak. She could not find the words to tell him how the immoral pursuer had made her a defiling offer. Trying to begin with a more approachable subject, in disjointed sentences, she filled him in about the engraving on the backside of her cross. She told him that despite what it all seemed to speak of, she didn't know what to believe. With haunted eyes she stopped to face her husband. "What he suggests can't be true…but somehow I know that it is. What should I do?"

Listening to her, he made a decision. Sensing her loss of faculty, he would become her voice of reason.