Sign of the Cross
By JeanTre16
Chapter 21
Beacon of Light
Father and daughter-in-law walked arm-in-arm through the palace hallways. No one but the royal family knew they were coming, and that was the way they wanted to keep it. After their previous night's arrival in Paris, the man with "connections in high places" immediately set out to speak with the queen. His late-night visit paved the way for the reunion about to take place in the Queen-mother's private suite. It was to be an unannounced gathering for the estranged family only, uninhibited by outside influences.
Although he too had been invited to attend, d'Artagnan would not be staying. Jacqueline had wanted to do this alone. Reaching their destination, the legend gently looked at his very nervous charge. "Will you be all right?" he asked.
His voice jarred her from her preoccupied thoughts. Suddenly realizing how tightly she had been holding his arm, she loosened her grip. "Yes," she replied numbly, her heart pounding within her chest. An awkward moment passed as she stood there staring at the closed door. Part of her didn't want to let go of his reassuring presence, but her instincts told her that this was something he could not help with. He had done enough to help her already and she was thankful. Realizing that she was only putting off the inevitable, she released his arm and nodded hastily to confirm that she was ready.
His eyes studied her as he raised his hand to knock on Anne's door. He watched how she fidgeted with her dress. The deep blue gown had been bought by him in Marseilles when she was there to marry his son. Jacqueline had chosen with care today in wearing it—not overdone, but tasteful. She looked so much like her mother, he thought. "You're beautiful," he encouraged, unable to hide his affectionate smile.
Aware of his surveillance, she quit her nervous play and sighed deeply.
Having heard Anne's reply from within, permitting them entry, d'Artagnan took Jacqueline's hand and kissed it as he bowed. "Remember who you are, Milady, and be yourself," he offered before opening the door to usher her in.
ooooooo
Jacqueline took a few paces into the room and froze. Immediately locking gaze with the woman she was already so familiar with but had never seen in the light she now saw her—as a mother, her mother. The truth of that revelation was evident in the matriarch's eyes, which uncharacteristically begged for forgiveness.
For the first time since coming into the room, Jacqueline took a breath, filling her lungs full of air. As she did she noticed that off to the side of the room, Louis slipped a ribbon between the pages of a book and closed it. "Your Majesty," she addressed and curtsied with caution.
Laying the volume on the table, he stood to silently acknowledge her. He looked as though he'd rather be anywhere but there. He was tense, from his facial features clear down to his hands balled into fists.
Whatever book he had been reading, Jacqueline doubted the content was the source of his tenseness. The woman Musketeer who had spent the past year protecting him didn't know how to read his mannerism. Did he resent her? No. He had told her not so long ago that he did not. She judged that this assemblage must be as difficult for him as it was for her.
"Jacqueline, please—" implored the royal woman. She gestured sincerely for her guest to join her, but she was tearfully unable to finish her invitation. Dabbing her face with her tightly clasped handkerchief, she finally managed to get her words out, "We have much to talk about."
Like Louis, Jacqueline found herself mutely nodding. While her sibling reclaimed his distanced seat, she took a few steps forward to accompany Anne on the settee. She felt completely out of place. Was she to bow to this woman or hug her? She was torn, wanting to turn and bolt, and desired to ask her a million questions at the same time.
Seeing the young woman she'd known to be her daughter for several months now, finally know the truth—at least the partial truth—tears formed, unsolicited, in the mother's eyes. She could maintain her pretense no longer. On this rare occasion, Anne's emotions were transparent. It was her nature or perhaps her royal training to trivialize matters of the heart, to mask her feelings. But this was not one of those times. She had caged her emotions for too long, and the secret she had borne for so many years spilled over like the welling dam behind her facade. "I have so much to apologize for, so much to explain," she began with great effort. But with the words out, she opened the door to their past and spanned a bridge to their future.
For the next part of the morning, Anne recaptured the difficult memories of Jacqueline's beginnings, filling in the gaps of King Charles' story. Her two offspring listened, interjecting questions here and there. Louis hardly spoke at all, and then he only asked if anyone was hungry or wanted a short intermission. Both women got the distinct impression that he wrestled deeply with the sordid details of his mother's past, but neither knew how to draw it out of him. At a loss of how to bring him into their conversation, they left him quietly to his thoughts and to eventually return to his book. Meanwhile, the two of them struggled on to reestablish their bonds.
"All these years," Anne transitioned from the past to present, "I feared if you knew, you'd hate me." Gentle tears trickled from the source of her saddened eyes.
"No. I don't," Jacqueline responded, genuinely. "How could I hate you?" She reached for her mother's trembling wrist. "I have no regrets with the childhood I've had. It was wonderful." The warm smile that momentarily graced her face as she recollected her farm days turned to deepened sympathy for the remorseful woman. "You were young and frightened, and you acted to spare me from what you believed would be a living hell for me. I won't judge your intentions and I won't say that you made the right choice either, but I do understand something about making wrong choices." She confessed, "I took a man's life in anger when my father…" She paused when she realized that the man who had every bit been her father, was truly not.
"That's quite all right," Anne made concession, "the man who cared for you deserves the title of father." Still sobbing, the Queen-mother raised her kerchief to dab her moistened cheeks.
"My point is that God has shown me firsthand that forgiveness is much more freeing than harboring resentment and revenge." Looking for the right words, her brow creased and then relaxed again at discovering them. She looked into the monarch's eyes and said, "I know now that I could have never forgiven you if I hadn't needed forgiveness first for myself. The fact stands that neither of us can go back and relive those lost moments, but we can go ahead from where we are. Something I heard Brother Antoine say sounds appropriate for a moment like this: 'Love covers a multitude of sin.'" She paused to look into her mother's eyes. "I forgive you for what you've done," she whispered, choking up.
The pardon poured like salve over the grieved mother's heart. For so long she had penned up her secret, allowing the guilt to torment her. Jacqueline's words gave her renewed hope. Reaching out, she eagerly took Jacqueline into her arms and clung to the life-giving forgiveness her daughter extended.
When the tearful women released one another, Anne's eyes fell on the pendant around her daughter's neck. "Jacqueline," her tone suddenly changed, "there is something that you must know about your cross." The lavishly dressed woman drew an air of secrecy in regard of what she was about to say. "As you may have understood, there is much significance behind the crucifix you wear."
Jacqueline took the chain from about her neck and held the pendant in her palm. Looking at it she informed, "I know that there's something on the back of the cross," and filled in the bit of information she had gleaned from King Charles II during her unpleasant stay in England. Then, softness returned to her features as her memories took her to an earlier and more agreeable time in her childhood. "I've always known it was there, but I guess I took it for granted and never realized that it meant something." Coming full circle from past to present, she searched the eyes of the woman who held its secret.
"It means a great deal," Anne confirmed in her warbled voice. "Although it appears to be an ordinary crucifix, I assure you, this one is quite unique." She took the cross from Jacqueline and delicately fingered it. Hesitation crossed her face, as though she pondered a complicated issue.
"Maximilian II was an emperor of the Holy Roman Empire," she began. "The emblem you see on the back of your cross is the two-headed eagle from the Tyrol coat of arms belonging only to an emperor." They both stopped to look at the familiar symbol. "My—" Anne interrupted herself with a smile to her daughter and corrected her fact "—your great-great-great-grandfather, Maximilian II, gave it to his first-born daughter; thus, starting the tradition."
Jacqueline's jaw dropped. She was still trying to assimilate the fact that her paternal mother sat before her—the Queen-mother of France. Now she was being hurled into a reality that surpassed even her wildest girlhood dreams of being the 'Great d'Artagnan.' She was royalty, and of a lineage that even Charles Stuart would covet. Recovering what presence of mind she could, she breathed in sharply and closed her mouth to listen.
"His first-born was your great-great-grandmother, Anne of Austria. The crucifix you're wearing was a gift to her as his first-born."
"When Anne married, her first born was my father, King Philip III of Spain. And I, being his first-born, and named after my grandmother, was in line to receive the crucifix as the first-born daughter bearing her name."
The mother paused, still holding the cross in one hand, and she reached to touch her daughter's hand with her other. "There is more," she spoke softly and lifted her moistened eyes to meet her daughter's. "The Emperor passed along a message with his gift." Endearingly, she brought the piece up so both could see its face. "Do not mistake the simplicity of the design with its value. Your ancestor was quite capable of giving jeweled trinkets to his girls. And believe me, a good many came into my possession that I'd like for you to have."
Jacqueline gasped at this and her eyes jumped up to assess the matriarch's seriousness. She had certainly not expected anything material in the reestablishing of their bonds.
Anne continued, "But he wanted this particular gift to remain simple. He wanted us to remember that the message of the cross was as simple as its presentation." The woman of fashion and protocol relaxed to share a rare moment of inward transparency. "Oh, he knew that the peculiar problems of royalty could get… complicated. In the midst of all the wealth and pageantry, he wanted to remind his daughters, who he knew would face some of the most difficult challenges in being married off to foreign lands, that their source of strength was only a belief away."
Anne readjusted her gown in habitual fidgeting. "So, that day when you came to walk in the garden with me—" she started lightly, but soon faltered "—and you told me that the cross you wore reminded you of your parents, your brother and that God was with you in all things… I nearly came undone." Her voice proved difficult to find, and again, the mother lifted her kerchief to lightly pat her welling tears. "The words you spoke, without even being told its meaning, taught me that maybe I could still believe."
Awe was written in every feature of Jacqueline's face. She had never known the woman before her to possess such depth or so much heartache. Speechlessness was the only response she found for what she heard.
"Jacqueline, you were my first-born, and had I the courage—" her voice squeaked, emotionally wrought. But for the sake of finishing the words she had only dreamt of saying until now, she forced herself to continue. "—had I the courage, you would have borne the name Anne and carried on that legacy. The fault is mine for the breach, but I will not allow that to deprive you of your rightful heirloom and its message. So, passed down as a gift from your great-great-great-grandfather, the crucifix is yours, Jacqueline. It belongs to the first-born female in the line of the emperor's daughters." With these words, she returned the cross to her long-lost child. Pressing it into her palm, she embraced her and wept tears that lent to healing their years of separation.
At this point, Louis stirred, closing his book and setting it on the chair next to him. He had been eavesdropping in on the reconciliation from over the top of his book. Mesmerized by what took place before him, the young sovereign had sat unresponsive. Outwardly he was adorned like the ornate gilded book he had been hiding behind, but inwardly an epic war raged. Increasingly unable to reconcile the son and brother in him with the king that he knew he was obligated to be, Louis rose abruptly and excused himself lamely, "Uh, I have a... something to tend to." In his animated way, he bolted through the door before either stunned female could question him.
Outside in the hall, he leaned in deflated relief against the closed door. "Whew!" he sighed as though he had just been chased by a mob. He had escaped for now; meanwhile, what he needed were answers, not only for them, but for him. He nervously bit his lip and looked up and down the hallway, pining for a place to hide.
An idea struck him and he stopped his jittering. "I could ask my Premier what he thinks," he lilted with brightened eyes. As suddenly as he had given the thought substance, his brows shifted and he overreacted to its implications. "Oh, no, no, no!" he exclaimed, covering his 'O-shaped' mouth with his hand. Shaking his blond-wigged head and scrunching his nose, he concluded that would be a very bad idea. Marie's recent conversation with him had shed a very untrusting light on his political advisor.
He rolled his eyes ceiling-ward and began sifting through a list of names, the first being foremost on his mind, "Marie? D'Artagnan? Duval? Ramon?" But with each name, he tagged on a rejecting twitch of his head—utterly dismissing his final consideration as sheer desperation. "No, what I need is nothing short of divine wisdom—like the great King Solomon possessed." He tapped his chin with his slender finger and pondered over the concept briefly before pointing his index digit heavenward. "Aha! I shall ask 'the man' himself!" Enlightened with his logic, he tamed the nagging questions beneath his controlled mask, and strode to the palace chapel.
ooooooo
A gruesome looking lot of four Englishmen rode into Paris' interior. Slowing their horses down to a trot, they passed the shops and eateries opening for the day. Sounds of bartering between wholesalers and merchants along with the rich aromas of pastries and coffee filled the crisp morning air. Each rider's heart silently swelled at the familiarity of their surroundings. Eventually, the objectionable group halted before the royal palace.
Their repugnant noble attire spoke of abuse. Notable souvenirs of battle riddled the wealthy fabric up and down their length. Each man could tell their stories in explicit detail of how every hole, smudge and bloodstain had been acquired. Perhaps later they would recant their colorful tales, but for now, they were glad to be home. For indeed, under closer scrutiny, one could tell that shrouded in the English rags sat four proud Frenchmen.
All glared, sparkling eyes glued on the massive structure while their horses snickered and pawed underneath them, anxiously awaiting their well-deserved pampering in the stables. The youngest rogue of the bunch broke their silent revere. "You have to love that sight," he affectedly spoke what was on all their minds. The palace symbolized the heart of France they had each taken an oath to defend—their beloved home.
Athos nudged his horse on first, knowing that they still had to safely deliver young d'Artagnan to Musketeer Headquarters before lulling about. Their friend's son still had a price on his head and needed to avoid the Cardinal's guards.
As the rest followed, Porthos looked at their rescued charge and grinned. "All for one," he piped up with a swelled chest. As long as he lived, he would never cease to enjoy the adventures with his comrades.
"This is what it's all about," Aramis confirmed with a toothy smile, nodding his head in agreement. With a twinkle in his eye, he looked to the others and expectantly repeated the words, "All for one," and was joined in by the others, including d'Artagnan, for the remainder of the motto, "and one for all." Although the son of the legend had his own team of loyal friends, he found himself proud to be included among these famed men. With the bond that their recent experience forged, they drank in the camaraderie of the moment and traveled light-heartily the rest of the way to the garrison.
On approach of the familiar barracks, an odd silence came over the crew. When the three legendary men pulled up on their reins and did not progress to the stables, the foreboding of a good-bye was confirmed. Frowning, d'Artagnan pivoted his mount around to face his three uncles and asked, "Aren't you coming in?"
"No." Athos tapped the nape of his horse and rode up to d'Artagnan's side. "We have a standing arrangement to see to," he confided. For a brief moment, the distinguished Musketeer took a sentimental look around at the historic buildings of his glory days. Satisfied with his visual tour the soldier cocked a grin at his longtime friend's son and urged, "Go, your bride awaits." Having spoken his mind, he clicked his tongue and beckoned his mount on.
At the mention of Jacqueline, the young husband's heart skipped a beat—partially in excitement and partially in dreaded anticipation. He hoped she waited. After all that had transpired, he had his plaguing doubts. He knew how seriously she took her duty. And if King Charles' revelation was true, that she was the daughter of the queen, she would have a call on her even greater than that of a Musketeer.
"We'll be around when you need us," Aramis added to his counterpart's comment, jolting the young husband from his anxious thoughts. He intended for the son of his comrade to know that when it came to him, any private war being waged between the older men would fall to truce. It was no secret that he and the legendary d'Artagnan were not on the best of terms at present.
"Thanks," the younger Musketeer acknowledged gratefully.
Porthos had no words, for once, and merely nodded his affirmation of sentiment. The two dipped their brimmed hats and bid farewell to d'Artagnan before riding off to join Athos.
Affectedly, the young Musketeer took one last long look at the receding men who had been an integral part of his personal heritage. Clicking his tongue sharply, he gingerly tugged on the reins and set off with haste to see his captain.
ooooooo
An ominous gloom had been hanging over Musketeer Headquarters until d'Artagnan stuck his head into Captain Duval's office that morning. "Captain?" the returned English captive inquired, clad in his ragged noble attire. Before he had a chance to speak another word, he was met by the loud and boisterous greeting of his happy captain and his illustrious father. Their excitement at seeing the legend's son sparked an electric charge that could be felt throughout the garrison.
"Look at you. You're a wreck," Duval exclaimed, palms extended upward in presentation. He was thrilled to see him. "What did they do to you over there?" he asked.
"Oh, these," the son answered, ripping a dangling shred of fabric from his sleeve. "They're souvenirs from His Majesty of England. He sends his warmest regards," he smirked in his nonchalant manner.
His father's face soured good-humoredly. "I assure you, English etiquette has changed drastically. I brought home much more than a cavalier's hand-me-downs when I visited London." He smiled at the private memory of how he had brought home the queen's diamonds from Buckingham Palace.
The heir's reaction was the opposite, habitually cringing at his father's boast. He knew the story well; he had it memorized. In light of what he had just been through, he couldn't help feeling a bit slighted by the comparison. All his life, he had lived in the shadow of this great man. Each time he earned his own praise, his namesake was there to have one better than him and steal the glory.
Unaware of his son's trampled ego, the legend's busy mind roved on to another subject. "Where are the others?" he asked.
Coolness edged the son's voice as he answered, "They said something about a standing arrangement." As glad as he was to see his relation again, it was clouded by the fact that he would never understand him.
"Ah, I believe I know what that would be," his father answered and rose from his seat, still oblivious of his son's changed mood. "I'll have to hurry if I want to find them in any state of coherency." He stopped at the doorway and turned to smile and point a gloved finger at his son. "It's good to see you back, son."
After his father left, an emotionally worn younger d'Artagnan turned to his captain. "I'm sure we have a million things to chat about, but what I really want to know is if you've heard from Jacqueline."
Martin's happy attitude dissipated. "Yes, I have. She's at the palace," answered Duval with an expression the fugitive could not read. "I'll take you to her," he offered, but then his face soured at the visually distasteful state of his Musketeer. "But first see to your appearance," he qualified the promise.
ooooooo
Louis entered the vacant sanctuary and fell heavily on the kneeling bench at the foot of the crucifix. Raising his hands together in a prayerful position, he began formally, "Dear Heavenly Father—" Unsure of how to approach the Almighty and not hearing an audible reply, he dropped his prayerful position and proceeded more personably. "I presume that you and I can talk, king to king—" he tilted his head as though he awaited a response. Not getting one, he erased his statement with a quick wave of his hand, and made concession with a humbler approach. "Um, yes, well, my kingdom is only… a sizable European country, while your realm is much larger. But still, I imagine that you and I have some of the same issues." Once again, he teetered when met with silence. "Of course you've been around much longer, while I'm kind of new at this... which is why I was wondering if I might ask for a bit of advice."
With the preliminaries out of the way, Louis became all business as he looked at the larger-than-life Christ. "Good!" he exclaimed, assuming to have established a connection. Starting with his own troubled heart, he expounded, "To begin with, I am king, and I admit my shortcomings in understanding this-this…forgiveness that—" he frowned at hearing the words come from his own mouth "—my sister is so willing to offer mother for her crimes…" He paused. The blunt truth sounded so basic: She was his sibling, and he did want to know her.
Sure, he had known his sister under the guise of Jacques Leponte—the soldier had been one of his favorites. His mother had revealed his Musketeer's true identity to him to levy for his sister's acquittal. And although he complied, deep in his heart, it was hard to believe. He conveniently detached himself from dealing with it. It had happened long before his time. How could he forgive his own mother for what she had done and for the opportunity it gave his enemies to slander the throne's good name? He couldn't go back and rectify the wrong, as he felt a king should have the power to do. He didn't know where to begin.
Looking up at the man who hung before him, he asked, "If I can't grasp this truth for myself, how will I rule all of France?" There, he had voiced the heart of what was really bothering him. The fact that there were things still beyond his ability to discern frightened the fledgling king. He had much more on his mind than reuniting with his sister; he had a kingdom to run. If he was burdened by the recent revelation, how could he expect his subjects to react? Many had already risen up against the royal family in recent years, without the additional news of his mother and sister's scandals to add to their unrest. France's crown could not bear the defamation, not now.
Louis, coroneted king of France and Navarre, was desperate for answers. Knowing he had nowhere else to turn, he looked back to the Christ compassionately gazing down on him and pled, "You are my only hope. You, who are called the Heavenly Father, will you not be my Father, too, and show me the way?" Closing his eyes tightly in prayer, he waited in the presence of the Man on the cross for his answer.
An ever so small tapping sound gradually invaded the tranquility of the chapel, slowly creeping into the praying king's awareness. Annoyed at first, Louis sought to overcome the interruption by further concentration. Eventually, it proved too difficult to ignore as the tapping gave way to a curious scratching sound, and then to another series of louder knocks.
"Oh!" he startled, suddenly opening his eyes. 'Is this God giving me a sign?' he wondered. His expression grew in excitement as he witnessed the panel behind the altar vibrate and then burst outward. A layer of wood fell to the floor causing dust to billow high into the air. Emerging from the cloud was a coughing figure holding a book under one arm and a lantern extended in his other hand.
"Siroc?!" Louis queried in disbelief. The king's face took on almost the same shade of chalky white as the apparition hunched over in front of him.
The ghost-like Musketeer raised his head at hearing his name. "Your Majesty," the familiar voice wheezed, and then coughed a few more times in an attempt to clear his dry throat. "Water," the inventor's ghost gasped.
Louis' mouth dropped open wide as he stood from the kneeling bench and took a few steps backward in shock. "Wa-water?" he stuttered, echoing the apparition's request. He still wondered what sign it was that God may be trying to tell him.
Dusty-throated and unable to speak, Siroc placed the lantern down on the altar and pointed at his gagging mouth.
"Oh! Water!" Louis comprehended. Hastily he looked about the chapel. Much to his distress, the only water he found was the holy water at the back of the room. Grabbing the dish from the wall, he carried it forward. "If David ate the holy bread from the temple in his time of need, I suppose God could overlook you drinking the holy water from the chapel just this once," he explained. Amending his statement to cover himself, he requested, "Just don't tell Mazarin. He may not be as forgiving."
Louis' mention of the Cardinal nearly made the guzzling recipient choke on the fluid. Sputtering, he cleared his throat and rasped, "Don't worry. I won't!"
The young king's eyes widened as he assessed the gaping hole in the chapel wall again. With the shock of the moment worn off, Louis became curious. Hesitantly touching the dust-covered, breathless man to make one last check that he was absolutely real, he concluded, "It's really you. Siroc! What were you doing in there?"
"Your Majesty, we have a lot to talk about." Siroc's serious orbs met his wide-eyed king's.