Sign of the Cross
By JeanTre16
Chapter 22
Epic Contentions
A meeting of legendary proportions was about to take place. In the palace kitchen—gathered around the chopping block piled high with meats, breads, cheeses, and wines—dined three famished Musketeers. Porthos, Athos and Aramis gorged themselves to contentment, leaving little room for conversation. None had reason to talk, that was, until Charles d'Artagnan happened upon them.
"I knew I'd find you here?" the intruder began, taking up a crusty loaf and biting into it.
"That would make you the genius of the lot," Aramis sounded abrasively, donning a look that could kill.
Porthos and Athos eyed them both, ready to break off a fight should one begin. They knew the enmity that existed between the two men. Neither had spoken to the other since that infamous night years ago; rather, the pair had conveniently avoided one another. Being that they never shared the same space at one time, their mutual comrades never found need to resurface the issue. Yet, here it was in their faces, just as fresh as yesterday, and just as explosive.
Tossing his leg of chicken back to the table, Aramis spurned, "I've lost my appetite." He gave each glaring friend one last glance, as if to say, 'What are you staring at?' and began to walk out.
"Wait," called a sober-faced d'Artagnan, wondering how much drink the 'priest' had consumed. He'd have to tread lightly with this man. Placing his bread down, he calmly petitioned, "Aramis, I'm not here to re-open old wounds. I'm here on matters of larger importance." He gulped, trying hard to swallow his pride. No matter how dire the present need was, the callousness of his old friend's accusations still rubbed him wrong.
The estranged comrade spun and shoved himself chest-to-chest with his object of scorn. "Old wounds? You have no right to stand there and proclaim larger matters to us," he railed, his breath striking the other's face. "You still defile us with your inability to keep 'larger matters' in mind," he snarled between gritted teeth.
Holding his temper lucidly captive, the accused was about to defend himself when a fifth voice intervened.
"Would Mazarin's demise mean anything to the both of you?" the interruption came from the doorway. All eyes shifted to see a disheveled Musketeer accompanying King Louis into the kitchen.
"Siroc!" Charles exclaimed, shifting his interest in the entrants' direction. "Your captain presumed you dead."
"Dead?! Don't be silly," Louis answered with liveliness for his ghostly looking companion. He acknowledged all four legends' bows of homage with his own slight one. Then to the chalky uniformed man at his side he gestured at the fare. "Please, help yourself."
Siroc stepped over to the delicacies, his mouth watering. Glancing up, he looked around at the quiet room of men. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?" he said, pretending not to have noticed the brawl about to break out. Diverting his attention back to the spread on the chopping block, he relieved the arrangement of a slice of meat and a bottle of wine. He stuffed his mouth and washed it down with a gulp. After a few more samples, he wiped his mouth in his sleeve. "Ah!" he relieved his satisfaction. "That's better. Now, about the Cardinal," he picked up his prior topic of interest as though it were of casual importance.
The two infuriated legends lost their appetite for a fight and leaned back on the table in unison. Side-by-side, they shared a cold-shouldered look and crossed their arms. Each was unwilling to yield to the other; yet, both were willing to put their epic contentions aside for the sake of hearing this resurrected man's exposition.
ooooooo
Anne of Austria's daughter slipped out into the palace hallway. Thoughts of finding her brother were on her mind. Louis had displayed such awkwardness while in the room, and then he'd left so suddenly. For some reason, she felt he had not wanted her to know that they shared the same parents. She wondered why and hoped that if she could talk to him alone, he would confide his feelings to her. Whether they were good or bad, she wanted his honesty. At present, the sibling made her way to his chambers where her mother had suggested he may be.
In the process of locating her brother, Jacqueline also wanted to avoid the Cardinal's guards. Her father-in-law assured her that they had been removed from within the royal residences for her sake that morning and that she wouldn't be seeing any red uniforms. That was why, as she walked casually slapping a handkerchief across her palm, deep in thought, she was startled so thoroughly when she looked up to find a red robe in her field of vision. Precisely what she had wanted to avert, in its worst form, approached from the opposite direction. It was the head devil—Cardinal Mazarin.
Obviously the Premier was experiencing the same shock that she was, for upon seeing her, his pause was just as pronounced. As quickly as Jacqueline's surprise gave way to thoughts of escape, Mazarin's gave way to vengeful hatred. "Guards!" he yelled, his face flaming to a brilliant crimson to match his garment. "Guards!" he bellowed again as though he could find no other words in his rage. A single henchman appeared, giving the Cardinal the catalyst to quit his trembling and advance forward.
Already as far as her legs could spirit her, the defenseless woman groaned, "Give me a rapier or flintlock." She was tired of all her running; more than anything, she wanted to face her foe and fight. But she couldn't do it here, not alone. She needed credible witnesses to vouch for her integrity. To her only favor, Mazarin's repeated screams for his guardsmen were beginning to draw the attention of other's ears.
ooooooo
They had thought him to be dead. And by his tale, he had all but been to the netherworld and returned. The ashen-faced Musketeer finished his exposition on the lair of the Order of the Knights of the Black Tabernacle by setting their book of occults on the chopping block as proof. Everyone's eyes gazed on it as he told how he had salvaged it from his bag moments before the obelisk fell to its doom, and of how, wanting to throw his pursuers off, he had intentionally planted his workbag at the altar's base to make it look as though he had ended up in their underwater graveyard.
It wasn't difficult for this group of battle-tried men to visualize his escape from hell as he described his flight up the stairs and back through the hidden door. They sensed his panic at reaching the unlit passageways, and at having lit his lensless lantern, how he frantically felt for an exit from his tomb before the darkness extinguished his last candle.
At that point, Louis completed his misadventure, animatingly describing how Siroc's ghost had materialized from the chapel wall and had scared him half to death.
"Mazarin has to be stopped," Siroc gravely announced after Louis was done talking. "There's no telling what he'll do now that he's lost his secret lair and prized possessions."
Louis perked and stepped forward. "Yes, he must be stopped. I will not permit him to continue," he confirmed, taking charge of the decision-making. A kingliness that had been growing on him of late graced his young features as he explained his position. "But in the process of caging our Cardinal, I can not allow France to bear the burden of his demise. She has suffered enough in recent years under her squabbling leadership. It must be him, and him alone, that bears the burden of his consequences."
Almost at his prompting, the spirit of nobility that hovered over the assembly was invaded by the sounds of an uprising drifting in from the courtyard.
"What could that be?" Athos voiced their curiosity. A deep frown creased his forehead as he tried to distinguish what he heard.
"It sounds like a call to arms," Porthos added, quitting his piece of braised chicken. "Could 'his Magnanimousy' really have gone that far?" he questioned, disrespect dressed in innocent rhetoric.
Ramon, who had been ordered to keep watch outside, came careening into the kitchen. "Dios Mio, Mazarin's henchmen are forming ranks," he expounded, out of breath. Seeing his lost brother, he added his delight at the miracle, "Dios misericordioso! You're alive!"
Siroc raised both brows in a pleased response at seeing his friend. More of a greeting would have been exchanged had the urgency of their situation not warranted otherwise.
D'Artagnan pointed out the Spaniard's rushed entry to Porthos and commented, "I think you've received your answer." Abandoning his reclined position against the chopping block, he assumed a stance of command. "It's begun, men. It's up to us to honor our sire's wishes. Mazarin's demise will be kept secret and the apprehending of his men will remain discreet. We will make our campaign appear like nothing more than… swordplay."
"Here, here!" returned the soldiers whole-heartedly. Ramon was a bit lost on the history of why, but the command was clear enough to understand and his 'here' was just as forthcoming.
Without prompting, the four legends overlapped their hands in a circle. Athos looked at Ramon and Siroc as if in expectancy. "Well?!" he blared, seeming to be a man of little patience.
The younger Musketeers complied with the invitation and placed their palms on the stack.
"Wait for me," Louis exclaimed and scrambled to be included.
"Of course, Sire," Aramis acknowledged, gladly making a space for his king to wiggle in between the Gascon and him.
All recited the legendary motto, and then Ramon and Siroc followed up with their own private exchange of brothers-in-arms. With the pact made, the team was ready for action.
Immediately, d'Artagnan dished out orders as he was accustomed, "Siroc, you take His Majesty and see to his mother and Jacqueline. Ramon, take this heretic book to Captain Duval for safekeeping. Tell him to prepare his men for a skirmish and inform him of our sworn promise of secrecy to the king." Shifting his baldric about his chest, he girded himself to announce his own assignment. "I'll personally see to the Cardinal's whereabouts." Having finished, he sighed deeply and looked at his three comrades. There was nothing that needed to be said.
It was Athos who voiced his thoughts. Uncrossing his arms, the tall stately man stood battle ready. "Porthos, Aramis and I will alert the retired band to prepare themselves for one last showdown with the Cardinal's Guards." With a slight grin he added, "I have a feeling they've been waiting for this."
ooooooo
Louis and Siroc, en route to the royal apartments, heard the cries of the Premier. "Come, follow me," the lanky youth rasped as he beckoned the tired Musketeer in an alternate direction. "We'll avoid Mazarin this way." With his soldier hard on his heels, he swept up the flight of stairs and turned into the maze of hallways. No sooner had the two men reached the landing than they ran headlong into Jacqueline.
"Louis!" she started, clasping her hand to her chest, feeling stunned and relieved at the same time that she had run into someone who wasn't wearing red. Seeing her disheveled friend step up behind her brother, she momentarily forgot her plight, "Siroc!" her one word sentiment sounded again. Hearing the echoing of footsteps, she shot a nervous look backwards. "There's no time to talk here. I've got the Cardinal and his guards after me." As if on cue, a blaze of red wafted around the corner toward them.
Siroc drew his sword and tossed them a glance. "I'll hold them off. Go and get help." His eyes then drew keenly toward the approaching men as he positioned himself for a confrontation.
Jacqueline physically urged Louis away. "We need to get you to safety," she said. "Back to your mother's room."
"No, we can't stay there; we can't be anywhere he'd expect us to be," Louis overruled her in flight. As they mazed their way along, he informed her of the base beneath the palace where Siroc testified of the Premier's occultist activities. "The madman's been trying to undermine my throne this whole time," he squealed in half disbelief. "He and his men can't be trusted, especially now that they know Siroc's been with us to leek his find."
Reaching their mother's suite, Jacqueline knocked anxiously on the door. "What's all this noise?" Anne stuck her head out and demanded with composure. "What are the two of you children doing, carrying on out here in the hallways?" She waved her kerchief at the two siblings, looking and sounding very much like a parent scolding her wayward children.
Louis' curled wig jostled as he pulled his head back, responding sharply to her reproof. Recovering his presence of mind, he shook off the deja vu effect from a childhood memory and reversed their roles. Grabbing his mother by the wrist, he ordered, "Come, Mother. This is no time for lessons. There's danger lurking and we must find a safe place to hide." Resuming their rush he dragged his mother along.
"Oh!" Anne scurried in tow, fanning herself. "Must we run? I don't see any threats. All this bobbing is spoiling my hair," she complained as she stole a primping glimpse in a mirror anchored to the wall.
Down the corridor, the royal family fled. Watching her 'mother,' Jacqueline couldn't help wonder if there was any resemblance of her in this pampered woman. Frowning in wonderment that they could even be related, she literally shook off the dizzying thought and grabbed her brother's arm to ask, "Where can I get a sword?"
"A sword?" he squawked disturbingly, frowning in disapproval. Learning to be a good king was overwhelming enough, but there had been entirely no preparation for how to be a good brother in his training. Lessons or not, he was pretty sure that sword fighting was an entirely inappropriate behavior for a king to permit a sister to engage in. "If you're intending to go back there and fight the Cardinal's guards… I won't permit it," he protested, waging his finger back and forth.
Despite his appalled look, Jacqueline could not help who she was. Deciding it was better for him to realize that now, rather than later, she breathed deeply and stood her ground. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm still under oath as a Musketeer, sworn to protect my king." Tilting her head and cocking a brow, a smile materialized from the corner of her mouth as she added, "Even if he is my brother."
Anne looked at her son and trilled in Jacqueline's defense, "Well, don't you think women can swordfight? You'd be surprised to know the things I did before you came along." Her superior eyes rested on her gawking son.
Louis' tense features relaxed some. "This is certainly a day for surprises," he submitted and studied Jacqueline. For the first time since his mother had broken the news to him of their related heritage, he had a glimpse into the heart of this noblewoman he would now have to call 'sister.' She was no different than the person he had come to know as his Royal Musketeer, Jacques Leponte. And in that person he knew there would be no threat to his throne or to the people of France. After his short reprieve, he lifted his chin and promised authoritatively, "You shall have your sword. Follow me." A kingly sense of purpose claimed his demeanor and he sprung into action to lead the way.
Down a flight of stairs and through closed double doors, they pilgrimaged to the king's private armory. Louis went straight to a tucked-away display mount in the back of the large room, leaving Jacqueline to scan the swords and firearms adorning the walls. "This is the storeroom of kings," Louis answered, reading the question on her mind. "There's a bit of history here," he reflected and removed his choice weapon from its case. Almost with a ceremonial air, he presented it to his sister.
Pulling it from its sheath, she gave it her look of approval. "This is beautiful and masterfully made," she gasped. "It has to be one of the finest blades in France." She gripped the hilt and admiringly ran her fingers along the length of its steel.
Their mother stood quietly and looked on. The wife of King Louis XIII knew which instrument her daughter had been handed. She had given it to her son as a memento of his father during the time of the Highwayman's gallivanting among Parisian noblewomen. Anne had been gratified to give him a bit of his father's history then, and she was equally affected to see him share it with his sister now. 'Perhaps,' she wondered, 'all would be well between them.'
"It was father's," he told her, "and it's a worthy weapon for Jacques Leponte," he chimed in with a prideful grin. "Take it and make your brother proud."
His words could not have surprised her and pleased her more. Standing tall, a glow graced her form. She would make him proud, like her alias had sought to do so before.
ooooooo
D'Artagnan arrived at the palace with his stomach in knots. Anxious to see Jacqueline again, he had not even diverted time to check on his friends. His only delay had been to wash and replace his shabby English-wear with his preferred gray and blue uniform. In fact, he had not even waited for his captain; he had sneaked out the garrison without him. Duval's briefing that they still had a price on their heads did nothing to relieve his apprehension. Now that they were both back in Paris and that her connections were confirmed, they'd have to devise a plan to assure their safety from the heartless Cardinal.
With as many vices as he had working against him, he at least had the privileged familiarity of the palace as an asset. On any given day, he knew the kitchen staff would gladly usher him in without drawing the attention of the Cardinal's Guard. It was a credit he'd have to attribute to his father and uncles. As a boy, he had spent hours there. Dangling his feet from the chopping block, he had listened to the famous four bragging their way through food and drink. The son of the legend normally avoided the place that wrought such memories, but today he would permit the chef's nostalgia to serve his purposes.
On this particular day, however, he entered a palace courtyard that was strangely bustling with Mazarin's guards. "Whoa," d'Artagnan called to his horse, noticing an assembly of henchmen taking orders from a lieutenant. Just outside the aroma-rich kitchens, he also spied a pair of horses without riders. One was unmistakably his father's, with the tell-tale decorative work on the saddle and halter. The other was no doubt Ramon's, as he'd know the Spaniard's light bay anywhere. Neither rider was in sight.
"Look!" a guard shouted, pointing out the Musketeer to his cohorts. "That's him, isn't it? The son of the legend." At that a dozen or more heals clicked on the cobbles, and heads turned in his direction. Clandestine orders were exchanged among the guardsmen and several broke off after him.
"Uh oh," he exclaimed, feeling a rush of adrenaline. "Maybe coming in through the back door wasn't such a good idea," he reproved himself for the poor choice. Jumping off his saddle, opposite of the men, he landed hard. Leaning heavily on his horse's shoulder, he maneuvered it into the guards' path. With a loud thwack, he swatted the animal on the rump, making it snort loudly and surge forward. Both guards veered to avoid the prancing beast, giving their quarry a head start in the chase.
Clearing a large distance in a brisk sprint, he took refuge behind the terrace pillars adjoining the gardens. With his back pressed to the column he saw one of the guards run past into the park, while the other he could hear searching the portico. From the side of his eyes, he watched around the post and waited, gripping his hilt and listening for nearing footsteps.
A boot and then a crimson coat made their appearance into d'Artagnan's line of vision. Tensing his muscles, he readied himself to slip his rapier from its sheath. As he waited the scout disappeared again, leaving the hunted man second-guessing where he'd gone. Sharpening his hearing for the minutest of clues, a scraping of metal on stone betrayed the man at his posterior. In an instant, the adept fighter spun and sprung himself on the unsuspecting guardsman.
Swinging his left fist around to the man's jaw, the impact pushed the henchman backward. Not allowing him to recover, the roguish fighter dealt another flay of punches to the guard's sides and face. Off-kilter, the man never had a chance. D'Artagnan grabbed him by the shoulders of his coat and ran him headfirst into the massive column.
"One down," he said as the guard collapsed to the ground. Anxiously, he looked around for others. Seeing none in the immediate vicinity, he kicked the body and rolled it over with his boot, making sure the unconscious heap was genuinely out cold.
Suddenly, he turned toward the palace doors, troubled. A flooding fear gripped his gut that something would happen to Jacqueline before he could get to her. "God, no," he whispered the only words of prayer he could form. They had contended through so much; he couldn't give in to defeat now. Physically shaking, he bolted through the entry, determined not to stop until he reached her.