Sign of the Cross
By JeanTre16
Chapter 18
France Bound
Charles d'Artagnan rode hard alongside Ramon to the limits of the village of Versailles. Time was of essence for him to locate Louis and Marie, return them to the palace and then to press on to retrieve his own son and daughter-in-law. On the former, the Gascon's long-established connections among palace personnel had paid off. A favored baker informed him of an overheard conversation between the young lovebirds earlier that morning while they were claiming their beignets. The lead sent them in the direction of the king's densely wooded hunting grounds in Paris' neighboring countryside.
It did not take the riders long to locate the gallivanting couple. Just about every local the Musketeers stopped to question had heard the non-stop chattering of the duo happily making their way through the town's outskirts. Finally, a mercantilist with a loaded-down cart pointed the search team northward toward the red-brick structure on the king's property where the soldier's happened upon the pair.
Before Marie's arrival at the palace, Louis had progressively spent more and more of his time in Versailles for solace of mind and to escape the political bickering of Parisian aristocrats. The friendly setting made the young king feel at peace and in control of his destiny. It was the perfect backdrop for a joyous picnic and for posing the all-important question to his exciting, brown-eyed Italian beauty.
At present, Louis was mid-recital of Moliere's latest play that was performed at his coronation before an audience of one—Marie. The dark-curled youth sat on a picnic blanket absorbed in laughter at the performer's animated delivery. Due to the lack of available cast, the star had taken on multiple parts by merely changing his stance and voice. Currently, Louis' portrayal of d'Artagnan made the sight even more amusing to behold.
"Porthos! Then we shall take on the entire country of Spain!" Louis exclaimed boisterously, still in the pretense of the Musketeer and unaware of the newcomers. Momentarily dropping out of character to interject for Marie's enjoyment, he prattled on, "Oh, and I just love this part when the heroes raise their swords and hail—" and as the amateur actor energetically raised his imaginary sword, about to launch into his speech, a familiar voice piped up from behind.
"All for one and one for all," the authentic subject-at-hand dubbed his own line. Thrilled by His Majesty's compliment, yet pressed by fleeting time, he chanced the interruption.
The enactor abruptly spun about only to beam in delight at the smiling onlooker sitting in his saddle. Marie's laughter subsided and she turned her curious brown eyes toward her companion for explanation.
"Ah!" Louis became ecstatically giddy with the arrival of his distinguished guest. "The man himself! D'Artagnan!" He gestured an introduction of his prized friend to Marie, who had not had the privilege of his acquaintance until then. The overjoyed royal swelled in pride, reciprocating the introduction of his picnic companion to the Musketeer, "D'Artagnan, the Cardinal's niece, the charming Marie Mancini." Remembering his civility, Louis waved his hand trivially toward the second horseman and added, "And of course you know Ramon."
"Mademoiselle," both mounted men offered in unison. Ramon's greeting was accompanied with a slight frown at his downplayed importance, while d'Artagnan smiled graciously, yet without his usual pageantry of introduction. "If you'll pardon our intrusion, Milady, my comrade and I will not be staying," he yielded to Marie, before turning his attention to her escort.
The peculiarity of their happenstance meeting in the wilds of Versailles suddenly dawned on the young courtier. His countenance fell as he shot a worried look between his Musketeers and prodded, "What brings you here, d'Artagnan…Ramon? Has something gone wrong?"
"I believe your mother's worried sick about you," the distinguished man parentally relayed. His horse snickered as if adding his reproof.
"With due respect, Sire, this is no place for you to be, alone and unprotected." Ramon took the liberty of adding his concern to the horse's.
"Certainly my mother has more important things to do than worry about me," Louis' voice squeaked, unhappy about the summoning.
"Perhaps," d'Artagnan relayed, brow raised, "but it would be wise if you returned to the palace."
Annoyed and feeling much like a child being coddled into submission, the young king fidgeted with clenched fists. "No! I refuse! You can't make me go," he exclaimed stubbornly. After all, he was king and no one had the right to tell him what to do—not even his mother.
D'Artagnan's eyes danced briefly from the peeved royal, to an apprehensive Marie, and then off toward the furrow-faced rider at his side. Giving the situation a candid assessment, the seasoned arbitrator dismounted his horse to approach the irked youth. "Your Majesty, if I may have a word in private."
Maintaining his headstrong air toward the respected Musketeer, the young ruler consented uneasily with a nod of approval. "Walk with me," he said, gesturing a path along a thicket of wild barberries.
When they had treaded out of ear-shot, the mentor tactfully established a rapport with the nettled sovereign. "Word arrived at Musketeer Headquarters... Jacqueline and my son have been found." An observant glance showed the hoped for lowered front of the royal's countenance at the mention of names. The practiced tactician continued as though he had not noticed. "Ramon is here to escort you and Marie back to the palace while I attempt their recovery."
Louis frowned and continued to walk. The mention of Jacqueline immediately squelched his temper and resurfaced the hurt in its place. Accompanying his concern for her 'wanted' status was the reminder of his relations to her and what that made the man beside him. He had not seen the elder d'Artagnan since the acquittal. Anger and resentment suddenly filled his thoughts toward the tarnished hero for the part he had played in it. Initially, Louis had buried the truth, deceiving himself it would all go away if he ignored it. But with the mention of Jacqueline, it all came flooding back.
Stopping his gait, he turned and fumbled for words. "Why did she do it? My mother…I-I keep trying to picture it in my mind, but the images are too horrible. I can't imagine that my own flesh and blood would be capable of such atrocities…and against my own sister. How could she just send her away?" There, he had said it. The confession from his own mouth to another gave his ghosts substance.
"It's not my place to say," the Gascon gave a softened answer, feeling the youth's pain. "You'll have to ask your mother."
Louis let out a strained laugh at the gut-wrenching irony. "That's what I told Jacqueline when she asked me about the meaning behind her cross. I told her it wasn't my place to tell. Truthfully, I didn't know what to say. I don't even like thinking about it." He fidgeted in his agitation over the whole matter.
"She asked you?" d'Artagnan questioned, perplexed how she could have trailed her cross to the king.
"Yes," Louis answered, "I gave her a note after the acquittal warning her to guard the secret of her cross." He looked at the shocked soldier and hurled out his reasoning, "I was worried for her. I can't explain it. I mean, I didn't even know her…my own sister, and she was accused of murder." Louis frowned in disgust. "Ugh! I'm so confused. I know absolutely nothing about her, nor can I, because no one can ever know about her due to what my mother—"
"And if anyone did discover that truth," the loyal soldier infused heatedly, "they'd use it against you, knowing you'd care about what happened to her or at the very least be forced to cover for the throne of France." D'Artagnan had been standing right there after the acquittal and had seen Louis slip his son that note, but he had no idea of its contents. Knowing now gave him a new concern over the missing couple's safety.
Louis turned distastefully at d'Artagnan, still angered at his part in the whole matter and not quite seeing the connection the older man was currently making. He was too consumed with his own inner war. "And you were a part in it," he accused, sounding deeply wounded. Here he was, wanting to ask the famed warrior for help as he had been accustomed to. But how could he trust him now, knowing that he had aided in his sister's disappearance?
"Tell me, d'Artagnan," Louis' voice warbled and his forehead wrinkled, "a man like yourself, do you struggle with this?" In baffled self-reflection, he gestured his way through an onslaught of grievances. "I'm struggling with everything, lately: My mother, my mysterious sister, your part in that whole affair, politics, and my basic duty to right and wrong…it's like some power has robbed me of my ability to concentrate on anything but my out-of-control attraction to Marie." Louis shot an agitated glare at the astonished man and raised his finger pointedly before continuing his animated defense. "And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking it's 'young love,' but it feels like it's more than that and it's terrifying me." His impassioned eyes met his mentor's, pleading for even a shred of counsel.
The legend's chin rose, looking full on the battle-worn king. Placing a firm hand on the royal's shoulder, he opened his mouth to speak, choosing his words with care. "Sire, you come from a strong line. There is no doubt in my mind that you will do what is right. You are no longer a boy; you are the king of France. Lead her with the integrity that's in your heart, and she will follow." With his final words, he took his gloved hand from the sovereign's frame and clasped it to his chest and bowed.
His words were few but poignant and his gesture even more profound. Instead of hearing a hero's advice, King Louis XIV had received a commendation. He looked the soldier in the eye, perceiving something about his nature that had never occurred to him before. Unlike Cardinal Mazarin who continually tried to usurp control, this Musketeer stood in loyal service to the crown. If Louis still did not comprehend why his mother had sent his sibling away, at least he understood why the man before him had carried out her orders. And in knowing that, he knew he could trust this man as his mother had.
"If I may be on my way, Your Majesty," the Musketeer broke the silence, kindly reminding Louis of why he came. Not stopping shy of his promise to Anne, he gently instructed, "Meanwhile, it would be wise if you returned to the palace with Ramon."
D'Artagnan's prompt spurred the king into motion. "No-I mean, yes, I'll return to the palace," he corrected. "But please, take Ramon with you," he sanctioned. "I want you to have his help. Bring them back, d'Artagnan. I'd like to meet my sister, properly." His grateful eyes rested on the man he now was related to, relaying that another successful campaign had been won by the legend.
"Shall we?" d'Artagnan grinned, victory acknowledged, and gestured the way.
Louis resigned in a sigh and nodded. He would return to Paris and he would do so without asking Marie for her hand in marriage. D'Artagnan was right, duty came first, and then desire.
"Let's go, Ramon. We have a job to do," the senior Musketeer ordered on approach.
Ramon turned to the experienced soldier and questioned, "El Capitán, 'we?' We both go to Calais? Will not one of us escort His Majesty back to Paris?"
"His Majesty knows the way home," the elder man promptly corrected his comrade while giving Louis a twinkle of his eye. While he understood his task to return the sovereign home, he also understood the young sire's need to feel un-pampered and his need for room to grow. "The less fuss made over his return, the better." Reading the young soldier's mind, he expounded, "The commoners aren't the ones who concern me. It's the Cardinal's Guard I'm trying to keep in the dark. With the locals aware of his presence, the secret order would be foolish to try anything in broad daylight." He looked at his doubt-riddled assistant and smiled, "They'll be fine."
Handing his pistol to the sharply dressed sixteen-year-old, he instructed with a grin, "Use this if anyone gives you trouble. We'll ask him questions later."
Louis awkwardly received the flintlock as though he had never used one before. "You don't think I'll actually need this, do you?" he squeaked, curiously examining the handsome piece of hardware.
"You never know, Your Majesty. It's always best to be prepared," the elder man replied, respecting the young king's emerging manhood. Then seeing Louis' clumsy handling of the firearm, he frowned and added a word of caution, "Be careful with that; it hasn't missed for me yet."
As Louis took heed of the warning and placed the pistol safely in the picnic basket, d'Artagnan looked off toward the northwest with a hardened face. "It's my son and his wife's safety I have good reason to be concerned about at present," he spoke distantly. Bowing his head in a final civil acknowledgement to the picnickers, he then signaled to the Spaniard at his side while concurrently ordering his horse into motion. "Yah!" And off he bolted, leaving Ramon to catch up. With their detour through Versailles accomplished, the two Musketeers pressed on for the port of Calais.
ooooooo
Having eaten from his rations and drunk from his flask, Siroc returned the dwindling stash to his pouch. The surveyor had come prepared. But until this point, nothing of specific interest had proven itself in the upper passageways, so the determined sleuth progressed downward. He knew the longer he stayed below the palace, the higher the probability that he would never leave the place alive. On the onset of his search, he avoided the possibility that he would find what he sought for in the lower, rat-infested sewers. But, he had run out of options; downward was all that was left.
As swiftly as the choice was made, he turned the corner to come upon the faint glow of a lit torch ahead. Feeling the hair rise on his neck, he knew he was getting close. Someone had been here recently and possibly still was nearby. He would have to proceed with extreme caution. Raising his dark lantern, he opened the cover and puffed the flame out. After allowing his eyes a few moments to adjust to the new source of light, he cautiously descended the passageway toward the growing sound of running water.
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With hoards of people coagulating on London's streets, guards were more diverted with keeping unwanted refugees out of the king's residence than keeping anyone in. The escapists used d'Artagnan's make-shift rope to lower themselves to the terrace below. Drawing their cloaks over their heads to shield their identity, they held their breaths and dashed for the exit. In the confusion, Charles Stuart's coveted jewel and the man who had stolen her heart slipped past the sentries into the night.
Once past the guards, the relieved husband pulled his wife by the hand and made for the port. Linked together—more in an effort to keep them from separation than for his need to encourage her to move forward—they pressed a path through the directionless crowds. Several familiar faces busied about the Maiden Castle, making it necessary to skew their course. That was one ship they would not be sailing on again. The last thing they needed was to be recognized. Hand-in-hand they neared their destination. The sight that met them was shocking. Before them, the docks undulated with watercraft and the prices being haggled for passage were outright robbery.
"Wait here," d'Artagnan told Jacqueline, and he walked off to see what he could do about finding a ship bound for France.
While d'Artagnan pursued arrangements for their travel, Jacqueline took in the sight around her. The smell of smoke accompanied the voices of suffering. As rats, the impoverished and aristocratic alike swarmed out from the inner city. All attempted to reach safety at the water's edge of the Thames. London had borne its share in recent years—the violent overthrowing of her king and then her commonwealth, the black death of plague and now, the burning of her homes and places of business. Would God's never-ending judgment ever relent?
"It's the new king, I say," Jacqueline heard a large, round woman gossip to her equally plump husband. As the pair waddled by the lavishly dressed Frenchwoman, the pomegranate-cheeked commoner spit at her angrily. "It's because of your likes that the rest o' us hasta suffer."
"Bite yer tongue, old woman." Her husband grabbed her arm and led her away. "If we hain't got enough troubles without yer gettin' us arrested by the rich."
Shocked at their reaction to her, Jacqueline watched the angry woman and her husband walk by. Oddly, compassion rose up for their plight; in truth, she felt more like them than they could ever know. "Rich?" she echoed. The last thing she could identify with was being rich. King Charles story alleged that she was born a princess, but perhaps it was just a fairytale. She knew nothing of what it was to be one. Clutching her arms across her chest, she suddenly felt out of place in her lavish clothing.
ooooooo
On the long ride to Calais, the painful memories resurfaced to scourge Charles d'Artagnan's thoughts with every pounding hoof-beat. He had looked for her to no avail. He had become a mad man in his search for her. He thought he would loose his mind. And when he returned empty-handed, she made him swear never to mention it to another living soul as long as he should live. While the queen lived in denial, he lived in guilt.
It had begun during the king and queen's estrangement years. D'Artagnan found himself growing close to the royal woman. At first, he did so to support her and protect her from her spouse's unwarranted hostility. On one such occasion he had even gone to London to recover her diamond necklace from the Duke of Buckingham, sparing her life.
After the king's affair with the La Rue Mistress, Anne confided with the Gascon of her fears if she were to remain barren. How it anguished him to encourage the woman he had endeared to seek the affections of another. But even in this, he kept his promise to do what was best for her over his own desires. Not wanting to jeopardize the honor of his king, queen or the Musketeers, d'Artagnan made the difficult choice to leave Paris. Anne did not receive the news well; she felt he abandoned her.
In the next few years, d'Artagnan tried to forget and poured himself into his soldiering. Many of his famed exploits occurred during this time, as he vented his jilted emotions in fearless, reckless living.
What he did not expect was that he would meet and fall in love with the woman who would bear him his son. If the legend had not been as devoted a husband as his criticizing son had accused him of, perhaps he was right. But the father accredited it to the losses he had withstood—first his beloved Constance Bonacieux to the deceptively vicious Milady de Winter, and then his dead-end affections to the queen that he could never have. He had not lied to his son that he had loved his mother, but what he hoped his son would never have to understand was the price he paid of giving too much of his heart away before he met her.
That was his personal hell that he had to live with—bringing the baggage of his previous relationships in tow. The father wanted better for his son. And when he had found that their children were deeply in love, he vowed he would not let the truth of Jacqueline's identity rob them of happiness and years as it had him. He kept the secret, until the night of the abduction.
"Anne," he had confronted her with heaviness, "she is the one." A long silence followed, as the queen only stared at him in confusion. She had lived in denial for so long that it was difficult to hear the truth again.
"You were wondering all those years where she had gone." He sighed and looked out the window of her suite into the darkness of night. "All this time, God had cared for her and returned her right under our noses." Looking back at her intense gaze, he continued. "Isn't it fitting that the next generation found what we could not?" By this time, his face betrayed the agony of their bitter-sweet circumstances. They had been in love, once, a life-time ago. But neither would speak of it and betray their king or calling. Their only recourse had been to remain friends and for him to watch over her.
He had returned to Paris during the time of her delivery. She pleaded with him to be there, just as she called for him time and again to come when she was in trouble. Her most recent episode had been with the thieving Duke who had stolen invaluable palace documents. And he had agreed to uphold her summons. How could he deny his queen? He still loved her, even though their time had passed.
But on that night he had lost the child, something within him died as the baby's mother poured her tears out on his grief-ridden shoulders. In some strange way, he felt her loss as though the child had been his own. He had failed his queen; he had failed Anne. It was then that he swore he would never fail her again. He promised to keep the secret to his grave. He only broke his sworn silence to save her from Mazarin's grasp. Duty to the infant he had once lost had called d'Artagnan to take that risk in her favorAnd now, as the night closed in around him and his Spanish comrade, the life of his own son and his duty to not lose Jacqueline yet again drove him forward like a man with a tormented soul.
ooooooo
Mayhem was about to explode at the docks at any moment. Seeing this, the younger d'Artagnan was all the more determined to get his wife out of England with haste. There was only one question that troubled him: What did they have to barter with? All they had were the rich fabrics on their backs. They possessed nothing else of value. As he pushed his way through the volatile crowd something of interest caught his attention.
"Paper! Paper!" yelled a young lad above the hubbub. Raised high above his head, which happened to be at the Musketeer's eye-level, he waved a publication of some sort.
"What is this?" d'Artagnan questioned the boy and grabbed the printed sheet from his hand. What caught his eye was the picture on the front—it was him.
Being no more than eight and only employed to sell—not to read his product—the lad had not made the connection between the querying man and the picture on the front of his publication. In his best salesman's voice the child answered, "The London Gazette." When his customer gave him a blank, unimpressed look, he moved closer as though he possessed a secret and whispered, "It's a newspaper."
"A newspaper?" d'Artagnan questioned, curiously. He poured over it in an attempt to decipher the words. Under his illustrated likeness it roughly translated, 'King Charles II aids France. Detained famed d'Artagnan's son in England's tower. Large reward for assistance.' Not able to read every detail, he could make out the subject of this news…paper well enough to tell that it wasn't good.
His eyes darted inconspicuously about him. It also meant that people might recognize him and want to associate themselves with the reward and fame of turning him in. Sighing at the disturbing development, he pulled the hood of his cloak taut on his head, lowered the paper and began to leave. His presence was putting Jacqueline in danger.
The boy took hold of his sleeve before he could walk away. "That'll be a ha' penny, sir." And he held out his hand.
The foreigner returned the London Gazette, ruffled the lad's hair and left. He didn't have a half penny or any money at all. How was he going to pay for their passage?
Setting his constitution full to the task, he approached a gristly, but non-threatening looking porter. "Sir, I'm seeking passage for two to France." He pointed toward Jacqueline, who was leaning on the railing in the distance and looking the other direction at the bewildered homeless people.
"Sorry, sir, the cap'n says we're full. Cain't take no more passengers. Shame, it tis." The tired man waved off the inquirer without even a look. Exhausted, he looked as if he had done a week's worth of duty in the past several hours. Whisky hung heavy on his breath as a sign of his personal way of dealing with the tragedy.
Not ready to give in so easily, the cloaked noble grabbed the porter by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. "I'm sure you have room for just one more" d'Artagnan pleaded. "Please, take my companion." His grip on the stunned man relaxed as he realized the level of desperation he had reached. His approach softened and his voice cracked as he begged, "I promise, if you'll just take her..."
The porter suddenly lit up, interrupting the groveling. "Well ain't it my lucky day?" When d'Artagnan's brow furrowed at the sudden change, the Londoner grunted, "Argh, you cain't fool me. I noes who you are."
"Who am I?" he asked, his expression inviting the worker to explain.
Pointing a ragged gloved hand at the dark-haired man's chest, the porter replied in a grating whisper, "You're the one in that journalist writt'n, the Gazelle…or something or other," he mumbled his uncertainty and then moved on with the facts he did have straight. "The son of that famous Frenchman. I ain't refined, but I cain read," he defended.
"Ah," the 'famed man's' son exclaimed, incredulously, "does everyone in London read that thing?" Sensing there was more to the porter's suggestion, he asked, "And what's it mean to you?"
With paralleled astonishment, the whisky filled man laughed hoarsely, "What's it mean to me? What's it to me?" he repeated, subsiding from his humor. "I'll tell you what it means to me." Leaning in close enough for the Frenchman to smell his breath, he informed in a sing-song tone, "Passage for the dame in exchange for my fame." Roaring heartily at the cleverness of his ditty, he only stopped when forced to by a phlegm-filled cough. Quieting the grating in his lungs, he proceeded, "Tell you what—" his face took on seriousness "—I let her go if you come with me quietly."
"Or?" d'Artagnan studied the despicable man through the side of his eyes in question.
"Or, I make a ruckus and attract that guard's attention over there… You'd ne'r get outta here alive." The bargaining man lifted one eye wide, waiting for a response.
D'Artagnan turned to see that the hustler told the truth. Standing a short distance away was one of the king's guards, looking through the crowd. Turning his back to the guard, the soldier refocused his attention on the man before him.
Figuring he had allowed enough time for the foreigner to weigh his pros and cons, he closed his offer, "…Come with me quietly, and I'll get a hero's fanfare, while your little lady sets sail. Am I clear?"
Having assessed the situation, he saw that his 'name' was the only valuable possession he had that would get her on that France-bound vessel. "Clear," the blackmailed man confirmed. "A deal is a deal," he resigned before laying out some additional terms to the swindling opportunist.
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D'Artagnan quickly returned to Jacqueline's side before the porter could change his mind. The ship was due to leave at any moment, which suited the worried husband fine. The less time he had to act casual before his wife, the better. There was no good way of breaking the news to her; he decided not to tell her. She would know soon enough. Coming alongside the distant-eyed woman, his words invaded her pondering. "I made a deal with the porter," he broke his news and motioned her toward a ship berth.
Without questioning, she acknowledged him with a nod of her head and followed. Her mind was still on the old woman's words and how out of place she felt. The sooner she got out of England and got out of the lofty borrowed clothes, the better.
As the couple approached the grinning porter, he reminded d'Artagnan, "Now remember your words." Then the dock-worker walked off to push the crowds on the pier back. Raising his hands and voice, he announced, "No more room. The ship is full. Wait for the next of 'em to come t' port. Stand back."
"What was all that about?" Jacqueline asked.
"Never mind." d'Artagnan put on a weak smile. "Let's get you settled. I made a promise to the porter that I'd help him out." Finding a spot at the rear of the ship, he ushered her to sit down against the bulwark to keep out of the cold air. He kissed her warmly, and whispered, "You're beautiful. You know that?" He allowed his eyes to dance over her one last time in confirmation of his words. Then he stood up and put on his best front, before walking off.
Jacqueline had no thought that he did not intend to return. By the time she felt the ship move under her and stood to make her way past those hemmed into the aft section, it was too late. "D'Artagnan?" she called. Then again, more desperately, she yelled, "D'Artagnan!" Frantically, her eyes searched the deck, but he was nowhere to be found. Then, hearing a commotion arise at port, she saw the guards leading her husband away in cuffs.
"No!" she screamed, terrified. But the tired refugees about her only hushed her. They had their own troubles and didn't seem to care about hers. "No! D'Artagnan, no. Not this. Please, not this." Her plea fell on deaf ears; the ship continued to pull away from the dock.
Stunned, she couldn't breathe. Tears began to swell in her eyes as the vessel quickly made its way along the Thames. Straining to see through her moistened eyes, she caught her last glimpse of her husband disappear in the masses.
She felt ill. Recent events made her head swirl and her stomach tight. Chills ran untamed throughout her body. She fought in desperation for control. But her world was changing too fast, and d'Artagnan was not there—she was alone. He had sacrificed himself for her. She could see that had been his plan. Her eyes burned with tears. Sickness overwhelmed her. Clutching her stomach, she raced to the aft railing and relieved herself over the back of the ship.
Feeling the life ebb from her, she grabbed the rigging and lowered herself to her knees in misery. Tears freely streamed down her moistened face. Looking up to the now blackened sky, she pled, "Please, God—" her sobbing became uncontrollable and she sputtered convulsively "—let him be safe." Then, no longer having the will to fight the pain of her loss, she collapsed her head downward and continued her solitary whimpering, still clinging, white-knuckled to the rope as though she clung to her last hope.
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Charles II, king of England, Scotland and Wales entered the room where the French Royal Musketeer had been taken in shackles. The room was not a common dungeon, but instead, a well-kept apartment for the detaining of noble prisoners in the famed Bloody Tower. England bragged itself civilized, and prided itself in keeping well-born prisoners in luxury. And now it housed its most recent prize, or ransom, Monsieur d'Artagnan.
A beaten and bound, yet nonchalant prisoner rolled his eyes and briefly looked off to the side at the sight of the entering royal. Returning his gaze forthright to the man named Charles, he sarcastically jested, "Your Majesty, what a surprise." He raised his chained hands in gesture of his predicament. "By some ill-conceived coincidence I keep finding myself bound in your attempt to win the same woman."
The formerly exiled English monarch grimaced at the soldier's reference to their previous dungeon encounter. Charles had permitted himself to be bound for the purpose of freeing this Frenchman. He had only complied to win the favor of Jacqueline. This time, the king sniffed back the still smoke-laden air in fiery thought, d'Artagnan would be the one used to free the woman from her entanglements.
In the king's silence, d'Artagnan confidently pressed, "Although, you'd think a man would get the message after two failures." His bantering attitude turned to one of angered resolve toward the contemptible man before him. "This time I assure you, my wife is safely out of your reach."
His lunging emphasis on her being 'his wife' had its due effect. An annoyed King Charles skirted around the subject and dealt instead with his problem at hand. "I couldn't very well go down in the eyes of France, as the man who put to death the son of the legendary d'Artagnan, could I?" He paced, hands clasped behind his back, entertainingly around his shackled bait. He was fully aware of the news the London Gazette had been circulating. He was responsible for it. "At least not yet," he mused. Then the king's expression became like stone as he stopped before the bruised man and claimed, "Not when I'm trying to forge an alliance with the throne of France."
Making sure he held eye contact with this despised man, the capturer moved in allowing his prisoner to feel his breath on his face, and threatened, "Make no mistake, d'Artagnan. I will have your head, but not until I've had your wife. After that, there will be no need for you." Charles backed off to leave, and then flippantly tossed the key for the cuffs on the floor before d'Artagnan to allow him the trouble of freeing himself. "Until then—" the king gestured around the room with a soured grin on his face "—I hope you enjoy your stay in…my tower."
He turned to leave, but suddenly spun about as if he had forgotten to mention, "Oh, and the expense is on me, for now. Usually, we have our distinguished guests pay for their own luxurious accommodations until their execution. But I'll consider Jacqueline as part of my payment." With this King Charles II reclaimed his cold demeanor, turned on his heel and left the prisoner.