Sign of the Cross
By JeanTre16
Chapter 23
When Legends Die
What happened next can only be described as such: An all out war broke loose right under the unsuspecting noses of Paris' citizens. How ever it could be explained that they were unaware, the people could not be wholly blamed for their ignorance. And perhaps it was better they did not know what truly transpired about them. In retrospect, their obliviousness certainly worked in favor of the young king. It kept his kingdom at bliss, while the fight to reinitiate a right chain of command raged on.
How and when the commanding heights had fallen to corruption was not known, but they had. The very existence of the opposing powers gave testimony to that inward turmoil. Yet, had the Musketeers been birthed to assert King Louis XIII's masculinity over the Premier for sport? Or had they been put in place to resist a real threat that the Cardinal posed against him? The truth can only be speculated.
Whatever their purpose, the former king had surrounded himself with these celebrated swordsmen from all over France and even from foreign lands. And Cardinal Richelieu had answered that boast by installing his own guardsmen. Like two vying powers in secret battle, each used his toy soldiers to war the other—only their tin men were made of flesh and blood. Now, with his father's loyal soldiers to aid him, the heir vowed to put an end to this struggle, once and for all.
By the time Louis XIV had come into power, bouts between the King's Royal Musketeers and the Cardinal's Guards had taken on an expectant form of entertainment for the Parisians. It was nothing for the shops to close temporarily, as if on holiday, to watch a duel that had erupted between the two factions. People placed their bets and cheered on their favorites, which generally leaned toward the king's roguish men.
So it was understandable that when the red and gray coats clashed on that particular day, that no one thought the more of it than a mere quarrel over a woman's dignity or of a squatter's rights in the cafe. Certainly no one suspected that it was the final showdown for the sovereignty over their nation. But regardless of what the uninformed thought, those who knew better understood that establishing a right seat of power was of monumental importance that day, and that the effort would not come without its personal sacrifices and casualties.
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Mazarin's guardsmen would have been no match for Siroc's intuitiveness under normal circumstances, but today the inventor's reserves were low. Imprisoned for days in 'dungeon-like' conditions beneath the palace, what the blond-haired man needed was rest, not a swordfight. Slowly, his clashing blade found itself pressed back to the top of the staircase where the royal family had been just moments before.
Keeping the sound of the ongoing duel in earshot, the Cardinal retraced his way to see what was taking his guards so long to answer his summons. He needed more men and he needed them now. "Must I do everything myself?" he complained under his foul breath. Should his men fail him against this Musketeer, the Dark Order leader silently vowed he'd take up the fight for himself. Either way, he swore that the one responsible for the destruction of his sanctum would not survive the day—neither he nor that female he protected.
Meanwhile, his lone man had secured the upper advantage over the Musketeer—literally. Only one foot planted on the landing, the physically exerted genius had been forced to the lower position on the staircase. If he did not innovate something soon, he'd loose to gravity and take the hard way down.
Forced downward another level by the weight of the red uniformed guard, the defendant took a chance and dove for the legs of his opponent. Lifting the hobbling man up off his feet, Siroc hurled him over his head. The soldier in the chalky gray coat teetered to regain his footing, almost joining the descending blur of red. He grabbed the railing, righting himself just in time to hear the impact of body on marble below. "That will hurt for awhile," he panted, bent over and trying to catch his breath.
Mazarin heard the thud too. Within a flash, the capped devil reappeared with two more of his minions in tow. Seeing the man of his scorn staring back at him from the rail, the leader's face creased in anger. "Kill him," he hastened his order.
Siroc didn't wait. Besting one man in his disadvantaged state was one thing, but two? He had no desire to test the theory. Like a stag on a mountainside, he scaled down the steps and past the downed opponent in search of Jacqueline and the others.
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While Siroc made his way down one flight of stairs, the legendary d'Artagnan made his way up another. From the palace kitchen, he had stealthily followed a line of guardsmen, anticipating that they would lead him like a trail of ants directly to their leader. The legend's goal was solitary: Cut off the head man from feeding his workers their orders. His comrades would take care of the resulting cleanup. Shadowing undetected through the halls, he slid his rapier out and readied for battle.
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At the bottom of the other staircase, Siroc heard a voice he recognized to be that of Jacques Leponte—the alias of his friend, Jacqueline. Skidding to a halt, he changed direction and entered a room he'd never been in before. His reaction was immediate. "Oh, no," he moaned as he stopped in wide-eyed shock. "I don't think I like the looks of this." Mounted on every bit of wall space were blades and firearms of every imaginable size, shape and purpose. The room represented the history of France's finest arsenal, and he was leading Mazarin's men right to it.
As the inventor's eyes wandered around the armory, Jacqueline peeked out from an alcove toward the back. "Whew, it's you!" she exclaimed, relieved it wasn't a man in red.
"Not for long," he warned, remembering the approaching danger. "Get ready, we're about to have company."
"How many?" she asked, tightening her grip on her hilt.
"Oh, I don't know, two… maybe three," he guessed offhandedly as he faced the door to ready himself for their entry. When a wall of no less than five appeared, flanked by their evil leader, he flexed his tense shoulder muscles and added, "Maybe more." He met the first henchman's challenging steel with his rapier, and he was quickly joined by his friend who wielded her father's blade.
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What began as the inventor's brazen fear, quickly escalated into his worst nightmare. In the confines of the king's armory, Mazarin's men and the King's Musketeers converged in mortal combat. Weapons of choosing decorated the walls and became a free-for-all to any who dared to enter.
Daggers, spears, Chinese throwing stars, and Indian knuckle held punching swords drained from their mounts and wound up in places other than decorative. Siroc, being well-acquainted with the ingenuity of warfare still found much of the collection to confound him. But weapons were weapons and the skill in wielding them was all in outthinking the other man. He grinned at the thought that intelligence was something not generally attributed to the Cardinal's Guards.
In pursuit of Mazarin, Charles d'Artagnan soon joined the melee. Upon clearing the doorway, he ducked a rogue dagger tossed in his direction, only to discover its aim had been intended for a guard sneaking up behind him. The man fell to the floor while the un-phased soldier continued scanning the lay of the battlefield.
He could see the Premier, standing almost caged-like amid a row of spears in the lee of his bodyguards. Siroc and Jacqueline openly defended the royal family who remained tucked away in an aft compartment. Instantly, the seasoned warrior made his choice and began to maneuver toward Louis. Mazarin would have to wait. A soldier was sworn first to protect his king. The legend met his first resistance with a parry. 'Duty first,' the clash of his sword sang, followed by the slashing whisper, 'then the devil in red.'
The blond Musketeer worked to draw some heat away from the grouping by luring a guard over to a display of chain mail. Grabbing a mesh off a mount, he flailed it at his opponent's hilt, missing. Maintaining the momentum of the whizzing mesh, he lowered it and made another pass at the man's legs. The chain curled around the shin, allowing Siroc to yank his catch right to the floor. It was an unconventional use of the protective piece, but effective nonetheless. The victor smiled and held his sword to the man's throat. His outsmarted man lay there with hands up in surrender, gawking. With the linked metal still in his hand, the king's man balled it around his fist and delivered a debilitating blow to the captive's temple. "Sorry, don't have time to tie you," Siroc chided.
From his self-imposed cage, the Premier spectated. Like a man directing chess pieces, he prompted three more fresh arrivals to advance on Jacqueline. "She may wield that sword exceptionally, but she'll tire in this restricted space; meanwhile, I'll keep sending her more men," the despicable game-player smirked at her predicament.
Unaware that she had become an object of sport, she boldly encountered the advancing men that she believed to be after her king. Mazarin's wickedness beguiled even her at times.
But, her father-in-law had not missed the sublime move by the Cardinal. The Gascon knew that she would die in defense of Louis and he knew that her nemesis was counting on this as well. Believing he now saw through the villain's scheme, that he was after her soul and not the king's, he readjusted his aim.
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De la Cruz delivered the Dark Order's incriminating evidence to Musketeer Headquarters along with the king's plan and order of secrecy. Standing patiently in the captain's office, the Spaniard's dark brown eyes followed the pondering leader's contemplating movements. Tapping his cane against his open palm and pursing his lips outward, the silver-haired man walked in silence over to his window and peered out. Ramon watched and waited, feeling he could practically cut the tension in the air like a prime piece of Val de Blue cheese. The thought made him hungry and his stomach growled loudly.
"What did you say?" the captain turned from his solitude at window to ask.
"Nothing," Ramon grimaced embarrassingly, placing is hand on his mid-section. "I was just thinking about food, and…"
The captain shook his head with a look of disgust. "Eating, is that all you think about, Ramon?" Leaning on his cane to walk, he resumed his place behind the desk.
"No, Sir," the hungry man replied holding his head down.
"Letroyes," Duval erupted from their trivial conversation to beckon a soldier in from the common area. Looking past the food connoisseur to the doorway beyond, he gave the order, "Summon d'Artagnan from his quarters." When the soldier left, he growled under his breath, "What's taking that man? He could have been dressed and back in my office three times by now."
In his next breath, he called out to three others, "Claude, Simone and Dexter." When they filed into his office, he graveled, "I want you to mobilize your teams and cover the city's boundaries, being careful to squelch any disorderliness from the Cardinal's men." He emphasized his next point with a bobbing cane handle and a firm voice, "Make no arrests, but do not allow them to leave the confines of Paris. Am I clear?"
A stiff nod from each of the men's heads confirmed the clarity of his orders. All three disappeared to be replaced by the returning Letroyes. "Sorry, Captain, he's not in his quarters."
"Blast that d'Artagnan," Duval railed in his frustration, slamming his fist to the desk. Noticing a confounded Spaniard staring at him, he clarified, "Not 'the' d'Artagnan… his son." Not wanting more to be know among the ranks than necessary, the captain dismissed the second man, "That will be all, report to your commander for further orders."
The messenger left and Captain Duval again turned to the puzzled man standing on the other side of his desk. By the look on Ramon's face, he could tell he had not yet encountered his friend. "Your comrade returned earlier this morning from England. I was to accompany him to the palace to see Jacqueline." His sympathetic explanation turned sour as he paused to roughly pull his chair out to sit down. "The fool must have gone ahead without me. He's bound to get himself killed." Distressed over the developments, yet unable to leave his command, all he could do was vent himself verbally against the shiftless subordinate.
"Why am I always the last to know what's going on around here," Ramon grumbled to himself as his captain took his seat. Today had already seen the resuscitation of his missing amigo, Siroc, and now to learn that the fourth of his brothers-in-arms had made it back… Looking his superior solidly in the face he asked, "El Capitan, permission requested to return to the palace." All he knew was that if the others were there, he too needed to be at their side.
Duval noted the resolve on his soldier's face and yielded. The four unruly recruits that had somehow gelled into a team were not much unlike a certain four he knew before them. At this point, the loyal comrade's help would be all he could afford in his stead. He hoped it would be enough. "Granted," he graveled unhappily. "I'll be along as soon as I can," he added, trying to sound reassuring.
Ramon did not wait for further instructions. In a flurry, he was off to find his three compañeros.
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His horse had already been saddled so the ride proved short. He pulled up the reins at the main courtyard and with haste the Spanish Musketeer passed through the entrance of the grand residence. Seeing not a soul, he wondered where everyone was, when someone sprang on him from behind a doorframe. Before he had time to react, he found his arm twisted behind his back and a knife held at his throat. All the helpless soldier could manage was to blurt out un-poetic verbiage in his native tongue.
"Ramon! It's you," d'Artagnan's voice came from behind the captive. Immediately, he released him and slid his dagger back alongside his boot. "Sorry. I'm a little jumpy," he apologized, glad he had not done any damage to his friend.
The spooked man rubbed his neck where the blade had been. "Good to see you too, amigo." He was relieved to see his friend put the knife away. "Si, everyone's jumpy around here today," he added soberly.
"Psst," hissed a blond woman from the other side of the room, interrupting the two men. One of the queen's handmaids nervously checked down an adjoining hallway, obviously trying to keep anonymous. She waved them over to her.
Forgetting their prior encounter, the two Musketeers complied with her urging.
"Down there," she whispered and gestured with a sweeping roll of her wide eyes down the corridor. "Fighting," she lipped the word.
Indistinguishable noises of a fray could now be made out by all three. Ramon's thick brows furrowed and an equally grave looking d'Artagnan nodded to the girl their understanding of her message.
Fear gripped the husband as his eyes turned away from the maid and back down the hall. "Jacqueline," he whispered. Her name barely left his lips and forgetting all else he sped off toward the sounds of battle.
"Stay here, Señorita," the taller man instructed the servant. And as the fretting girl bit her lip and bobbed her head in agreement, he drew his sword and made his way after his comrade.
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D'Artagnan plowed to a stop before the open room and saw her. Captivated, like the first time he'd laid eyes on her, his mouth hung slightly ajar with his head tilted back in awe at the stunning sight. Holding a glistening silver sword against the backdrop of her deep blue velvety dress and delicately drawn up hair made her a dazzling display to behold. Yet, to him, the visual was only the outer framework for the beauty within the woman he knew. And she was alive and vibrant, not dead like he feared he'd find her.
His apprehension melted to pride. Even in the thicket of her foes, he couldn't help thinking that this was the image she deserved. Defending goodness and justice as herself, without hiding underneath the uniform of a man, it only made her beauty shine through more than ever. His heart swelled; how he wanted to be with her. Eager to do his part in making that a reality, he pocketed his admiration. As though a switch had been flipped, he raised his rapier and sallied into the armory, quickly putting his first adversary to their knees.
Poised and artful, she moved about her opponent, unaware of her husband's presence. With her thoughts preoccupied, the young woman pulled sharply backwards, avoiding her attacker's blade path. In doing so, she found herself slammed back-to-back with her legendary father-in-law.
"Hello, my dear," he casually offered his greeting while the song of his blade continued. "Need an aft guard?" he asked. As predetermined, he had gradually made his way around the room to her aid.
Understanding his motive to watch over her, just as his son had on many occasions, she accepted over her shoulder, "Gladly." Then, concentrating on her front and leaving the aft in his capable hands, she pushed forward again at Mazarin's henchman.
Unleashing a spin, her blue gown flowed behind her, swirling gracefully about her form. She leaned over on the returned downswing and extended her elegantly clad but sturdy arm. With acute accuracy, she delivered the sharp edge of her sword to the mid-section of the guard. Blue, silver and red clashed in a blur of color. Separating herself from the jumble, her chest filled with air. She held her breath and raised her fashionable boot to the cowering man's shoulder, forcing him down to the floor. Clearly finished with that challenger, Jacqueline looked about to take on another.
Her next subject would not prove so easy. Not in the least intimidated by his gutted fellow-henchman, Mazarin's pawn faced the tall and confident heiress. His eyes flitted over her soft brown wavy strands of hair trickling down her soft neckline. A wonton smirk covered his mouth. He had more than a good fight crossing his mind.
His looks roused Jacqueline's anger. "You despicable excuse for a man," she spat in disgust and raised her father's sword. It was this kind of male-boisterous scum that piqued her the most.
He toyed with her by clacking his blade to hers while boring into her with his hungry eyes. This man's sport was more than technical maneuvering; he played a vile and vicious mental game, much like his master. Bursting forward, he faked a weak jab to her left while moving in to her right. Her sword had already been deployed to protect her opposite side so it was too late for her to regroup. He took advantage of her open right to grab her sword wrist and twist it. She winced as he slithered his masculine grip around her waist and pulled himself against her back.
Her father-in-law was already holding off two men and could issue no help. Besides, his assistance was not what she had on her mind. The guardsman had only acted to infuriate her by his tactics. In doing so, he had seriously underestimated her strength. Confusing beauty for weakness, her cunning was made complete. Jacqueline let go of her rapier, allowing it to drop to the floor in mock submittal. She was about to bend over and fling him over her shoulder when suddenly the brute's body jerked and went stiff.
From across the room where the dagger originated, came the words of her savior, "Get your hands off my wife!"
Her heart stopped at the recognition of the voice. Smiling, she pushed the limp man off her back. After he collapsed to the floor with a loud thud, she turned to spot a familiar dagger protruding from his back. She looked up to find the face of the man who owned it, but only saw another of Mazarin's guards racing toward her. Her smile faded and she bent over to reclaim her father's sword. The man she loved was there somewhere beyond the sea of red, but she would have to push thoughts of him out of her mind for now and concentrate. Their enemies still fought to keep them apart.
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From the back of the room, Anne's maternal anger roused at witnessing her daughter manhandled before her eyes. Seeing an increasing number of the Cardinal's men surrounding her—men that had been sworn to protect sovereignty—she determined to do something about it. Her spine straightened and her shoulders flung back indignantly. Looking around, she pulled a hatchet from an ancient suit-of-armor arrangement. She held it up and stepped forward to the nearest guard. "Put your sword down," she demanded.
Truly astonished at the sight of the Queen-mother awkwardly bearing the weapon, the Cardinal's guard hesitated. He clearly wanted no trouble with Her Majesty.
His falter was enough to pique the royal woman. In a steady sweep, Anne brought the impeccably maintenanced blade down on the man's sword hand, placing a nasty gash across its back.
"Ow!" the guard yelped, dropping his sword and clutching his wound.
"Delayed obedience is disobedience," she reprimanded with an air of superiority. Seeing Louis look at her dumbfounded from the safety of the nook, she defended herself matter-of-factly, "He threatened my child."
Their tiff was interrupted by a loud infusion of troops entering the outer chamber—Musketeers. Realizing what she must look like, standing there brandishing an axe-like thing, the mother's boldness dissipated and she stepped back to hand the weapon to Louis. Brushing her hands off, she checked her dress. "Not a word of this," she instructed. "Let's keep this our little family secret?"
Striding forward to hold his mother's hatchet over the injured man, a contorted smile crossed his lips. "Yes, well, never mess with a mother hen's chick," he mused awkwardly.
"Me, wielding weapons, what would others think?" Anne added trivially as she glanced to check her reflection in a knight's chest plating.
"Only that you are a lady of remarkable talents," someone answered, taking her and Louis by surprise. Standing in the entry of the hideaway was Charles d'Artagnan, grinning widely, with Jacqueline by his side. Having subdued the red minions hemmed about them, the d'Artagnans had managed to see the Queen-mother's gutsy maneuver and had come to make sure she was all right.
Anne blushed and her children witnessed a rare exchange of admiration between her and the celebrated Musketeer.
In explanation as to why the two had retired from battling their adversaries, a familiar annoyed voice rang out from the entrance of the armory, "Cardinal Mazarin, call off your Guardsmen. Tell them to put their weapons down and stop this nonsense." Under his breath, he added in disgust, "Fighting among the King's Musketeers and the Cardinal's Guards at the palace… and with His Majesty present."
In the alcove, the legend smiled and tilted his head toward the larger room. "That's Duval, holding the peace," he informed the family. "Your Majesties, please stay here until we have this under control," he requested with a bow, and then his expression changed to one of duty as he withdrew from the nook.
Not considering herself among the royals and much too anxious to reunite with her husband, the Musketeeress fell in line after her commander. Emerging from the small chamber, she first noticed that the Cardinal had reluctantly recalled his men. In the assessment, all sense of soldiering was lost when she finally laid eyes on her husband standing at the captain's side. Ramon was there too, making the foursome complete, but her eyes were only for the handsome cad who made her complete. Her heart stopped and she froze as he too saw her and their gazes locked.
She could hear her father-in-law's command in the background, concerting the arrangements for Mazarin and his guards with her captain. A train of soldiers, both gray-and-blue and red coats emptied the armory. Next to her husband, she could see the nodding acknowledgement of Duval and his motioning for Siroc and Ramon to obey the orders. It all faintly commenced during the passing blur of time Jacqueline held her breath.
"No!" Mazarin's blare erupted into her dream, making her eyes quit her husband's and shift to the Cardinal. "You will not touch me," he fumed, counteracting the picture of rightness about her. Everyone in the armory seemed to spin in choreographed perfection toward the protesting eminent one.
With most of the soldiers taken from the room, her two comrades balked, looking unsure of how to remove the unwilling man of such rank, one who had not been officially defrocked. It was all like a bad dream for Jacqueline, one of confusion that she could only stand by and watch.
At the peak of tension, Louis stepped out from the alcove behind her to distill order to the situation. "L'etat, c'est moi," rang his sure voice, giving answer to the Premier's resistance. Again he repeated with clarification, "I am state, Mazarin. It was you who vied for me to wield that power at my coronation. I can see now that you did so thinking that it would fulfill your purposes. But I—" he paused to look compassionately at his sister and to take his father's sword from her hand and hold it for the Cardinal to see "—or anyone else, will no longer be your bulls-eye before the people, taking the blame for your tyranny. God is not mocked and neither is the crown who he ordains." The king moved to his Musketeer captain's side, holding his symbol of power.
Mazarin had taken note of the boy's compassionate eyes for the murderess and of the self-assured proclamation. For once, the Premier was left speechless. He had witnessed childish tantrums before, but nothing like this. It was obvious to him now that Morin's plan to manipulate the king's will through Marie had crumbled… and all because of this woman.
Foreboding failure closed in on the Dark Order leader. The sanctum, its icons, his men and now his power over the king were in complete disrepair, and all because of these hoodlum Musketeers. In particular, he placed the blame on 'the' Roget woman—the one who stood there gawking at his destruction. His downfall had begun from the moment he had first crossed paths with her on that puny farm. Forgetting everyone else in the room, his eyes beamed in her direction. "Who are you?" the vehement man croaked in his distress.
Jacqueline stared blankly at the reddened man, but before she could answer, His Eminence's bewilderment snapped into that of a caged animal's last defense. Un-expectantly, he pulled a jeweled dagger from the display next to him and unleashed his hatred at the woman who had birthed his demise.
Defenseless, the victim's eyes widened at the death-wish careening toward her. She could see its glimmering delivery against the backdrop of the Cardinal's vengeful face. Everything in the room iced in the heartbeat of the moment and she stood breathless again, awaiting her fate.
From across the room, the man who had sacrificed his life for her many times over saw it too, but he was too far to save her from it. There was nothing he could do but watch with horror etched in every feature of his face.
All present witnessed the bluish glow and sparkling handle travel its path toward Jacqueline's heart. Then, in a blur off to her side, they saw the legendary d'Artagnan step forward. Everyone watched and wondered if he intended to take the fall for her by placing himself in harms way. Would this be the end of this great man? Would he dare die for this woman?
In a time shorter than the mind could process, a flash appeared from the famed Musketeer's side. His sword arm extended, wielding an arc of silver rushing to meet the oncoming dagger mid-air. In an instant of light and sound, the room was filled with the clash of steel, followed by a chilling vibrating thud as the tip plunged downward, head first to embed into the wooden floorboard. The only remaining sound was the deep groaning from the pitiful attacker as his final attempt to exact his vengeance on her was lost as well.
Jacqueline exhaled, releasing the breath she had been holding since the weapon left the robed man's hand. She closed her eyes and released her tension as well. Unrestricted by fear, life-giving air rushed in to fill her lungs and all about her returned to normal.
"Mazarin, you and I will talk," Louis scolded the deflated-looking rebel. Then to Ramon and Siroc, he directed authoritatively, "Accompany the Cardinal to my… office."
His two soldiers found themselves hesitating this time only because they were not aware His Majesty even had an office, let alone knowing where to find it.
"I'll show you the way," the king chided, rolling his eyes and leading them out. He'd not wasted the entire time during the insurgence fretting; he'd mastermind the location of his new command central or at least a temporary one. "Duval, d'Artagnan, you're with me," he flanked his request. Seeing further confusion from the two men who shared the same name, he halted the younger of the pair and further clarified, "No, 'the' d'Artagnan." Walking off he could be heard humoring himself, "D'Artagnan, d'Artagnan, oh, how I love saying that." Being the leader had its awkward start, but he was determined to plow onward.
Starting with a meeting that had taken place in the palace kitchen that morning, the king's men had been sworn to follow in secrecy. Seated on his throne for less than a year, the brilliantly noble and compassionate young ruler had masterminded a plan that would take France into perhaps its brightest era. It would be that when his endeared legends died, the truth would go with them and another history would be written in its place—a more stable one for the sake of his people. And that history would begin now, in the confines of his new office—the former office of the Cardinal.
"I should like very much to see these secret tunnels you told me about, Siroc," he rambled excitedly, taking up stride by his Musketeer's side. He had selected the former Premier's office for his own for more than 'business' reasons. "Perhaps you and Ramon would like to accompany me in locating the maid's apartments, no?" he suggested enthusiastically and elbowed the inventor's side.
His two soldiers smiled, but said nothing. They would allow their king to glory at present, but they would not relax until their job was over. They still held a Cardinal between them that they had to make sure didn't fly off until Louis could properly cage him.
The man in red sniffed disdainfully at overhearing Louis' comment. His facial features crinkled as he walked in mock arrest. To think of the child using his important inter-network of secret passages for an adventure romp was almost… sacrilegious.
On their way out, Martin could be heard asking his old friend, "Amazing work there with that sword, Charles. Wherever did you learn a move like that?"
The legend looked back at his son, whose eyes beheld nothing but his cherished bride, and replied, "Oh, that little display of good sword arm extension? You'd be amazed at what you could learn from the younger generation of Musketeers." Thoughts of an earlier time overtook him and he looked from his son to Anne who was also vacating the room. A brief smile graced her lips, one of profound gratitude… and something else, perhaps, before she bashfully looked away from his gaze. 'Yes, it amazed him at what the next generation had taught him.'
With the room emptied, the son's eyes locked on his wife's beautiful form. The fear of her imminent danger passed. Slowly, he began to move, closing the oppressive distance between them on the hardwood floor. He wrestled with uncertainties of how she would receive him. So much had changed. Before, he had been the noble Viscompte, and her, the farm girl. He had been the Musketeer, son of the legend, and she had been wanted for murder. Now, she was a princess and he… what could he possibly have in his defense?
She saw that he sought answers. His face reflected the same hurt she had sensed on that night in the cabin. He felt he had lost her to the king of England, to something he could not compete with. Did he think he was losing her now? Or with the new knowledge of her heritage, would he nobly insist on bowing to the societal mores that dictated they did not belong together?
He approached and stood for a moment before speaking, "So, it's true. You're a princess… the daughter of Queen Anne and King Louis XIII." Hearing it come from his mouth made it more surreal. Fear gripped him; this time it was not the fear of her death, but of another kind of loss. He would never lose her love; he could read that truth in the softness of her eyes. What he dreaded was that the woman he loved would find some call on her life greater than the pull he knew was on her heart.
Jacqueline's eyes misted. Just seeing him and hearing his voice again infused life back into her soul that had vanished on the night they were separated. A moment of silence passed, and then, an unreadable change came over her. Sighing unemotionally, she casually drew nearer with a touch of arrogance. Preening her slightly jostled hair in the reflection of a mounted breastplate, much like she had seen her mother do so earlier, she stopped to gleam at him from the corner of her eyes. "Social climber," she accused in a flawless deadpan delivery.
D'Artagnan's mouth dropped open for a brief moment in disbelief. Then, seeing her widening grin, he realized that he had just been bested by her wit. Recovering smoothly, he characteristically lifted a playful brow. "And you thought I was just after your family's farm," he lilted his parry.
A relief of laughter broke out between them as they grabbed for one another in a desperate embrace. D'Artagnan swung Jacqueline around in his elation, never wanting to let her go. Hugging to the point of tears, they comforted one another. They were together, where they belonged, and they promised they'd remain that way no matter what their future held.