Chapter Eleven: At Long Last
The situation in the capital was resolved far quicker than anyone imagined. The conspirators had not anticipated the speed at which the blade-bound could cover at a steady march. They were inside the walls of the capital before the rebel's men had begun reinforcing their position. Captain Duval had gotten word of the trouble brewing and suggested that the queen and her ladies sequester themselves in the palace for a few days. But nothing worse had come of it.
The troublemakers were rounded up in the dark of night and summarily carted off to the Bastille to await trial. The next morning the victorious young king was met by adoring crowds when he reentered his city in triumph. The reunion with his mother, later, was private.
Louis and Philippe ran for her…like the boys they were, burying themselves in her arms.
Between sniffles and tears they exchanged stories of all that had gone on while they were apart. When Philippe had nearly finished the end of their tale, Anne caught her breath, and with wide eyes she asked, "W-where is Charles?"
"He's gone after Condé, with Aramis," Louis told her quietly, unable to meet her gaze. "It was my decision. If something happens to him…I am the one that is to blame."
"My dear, sweet king." She kissed him lightly on the brow. "Over the years I have had to come to terms with the fact that my champion is first and foremost, a soldier. He can handle himself very well in most difficult of circumstances. It doesn't keep me from worrying for him, of course. But if the day comes when battle takes him from me I will know his spirit will live on in all who are noble and true. Remember, my dears," she looked into the boy's eyes and said, "Legends never die. Now, go get cleaned up and ready for dinner. I suspect you are famished…and your clothing is a dreadful mess." She smiled and waved the young royals off to their chambers.
When she was sure they had gone, she let herself collapse. Uncontrollable sobs wracked her body. She trembled and gasped for breath as she was completely undone by the wild emotions raging inside her. "My boys are fine. They are safe…the battle is over…the threat is gone for now…the Bourbon's power is broken." She repeated the words like a mantra clutching her arms to her chest. But with in her another voice cried out, a keening wail that focused the very core of her being into a single word: "Charles!"
She weakly groped her way toward the small writing desk in the corner of the parlor. With clumsy fingers and shaking hands she found a parchment and hastily began to write:
My Best Beloved, Captain.
I will not ask you to forgive your brother, for I know that is a decision you must come to on your own. But after all this time, I ask, I beg you to forgive yourself. If I were to lose you before you were to know the truth of how things stand between us, I would surely follow you into darkness. You have been my guide and my strength through so many of the storms of life.
Without you I would never have had the strength to do that for which destiny made my lot. Can't you understand that the very thing that fills you with such self-loathing is the very root of my joy? We were manipulated; it is true. It was the hand of another that thrust our hurting souls together, time and time again, until our resolve finally broke. But I have never come to resent the fact. Arthur did what he thought was best for Camelot. You remain a part of my heart and it is you I see every time I look into our sons' eyes. They are yours. I know it, and it is time you did as well. Come to me at your leisure and we will speak of these things in length.
Yours Alone, Guinevere
Her woman's heart resented the need for secrecy, but the spirit of the queen in her demanded caution. One did not write openly of such matters. She could only hope her Lancelot would understand. Anne carefully blotted the ink and folded the note, sealing it, not with her usual signet, but with the ring she wore on her smallest finger…a ring decorated only with the fleur-de-lie, as it was depicted on the musketeer's tunic. She tucked the note in the fold of her bodice and hoped she would at last have the opportunity to deliver it.
---------------
In the position as Duel second, it was Charles' duty to act as referee of the fight. Conde had named Francois de Vendome—his second otherwise known as 'le roi des Halles', a man with a formidable reputation as a duelist. In fact he killed his brother-in-law in a 'not so friendly' duel some time ago.
Even so, D'Artagnan was confident that he could best the man, if it came to that, but neither 'Second' was permitted to join the battle unless one of the declared combatants tried some underhanded trick, breaching the etiquette of the duel. And then, only the two who had been named could step in to assist. The other soldiers crowding around were bound by the convention of combat to be nothing more than spectators.
Charles stood with hands on his hips watching the epic battle that unfolded in the wooded clearing. Both combatants were panting heavily and bleeding from a dozen minor wounds by the time Condé's men, who had been sent looking for additional enemies lurking in the woods, returned.
D'Artagnan's heart went faint with fear that the guards had noticed that Etienne and the other children were missing…or worse, he worried that they had been recaptured as they attempted to slip away. But the burly men returned empty-handed. "Looks like it is just these two, Sir. If there were more, which I doubt, they have slipped away and left these two fools to us," one of the officers announced to his beleaguered commander.
"Idiot," the Great Condé snarled at the man. "If they got away it is because of your incompetence. I do not underestimate legends—" the general withdrew half a step, and with a fluid motion he drew the pistol from his belt "—I kill them." He aimed at d'Artagnan and fired.
"NO!" Emris charged forward into the line of the shot. Even after the ball sank deep into his flesh, his momentum carried him forward. As he felt himself falling to the ground he extended his blade and impaled— Condé's thigh.
The man pushed the ex-musketeer's body away as he stumbled back, cursing loudly. Francois was just about to draw his blade to finish the matter, but Condé stopped him. "I had not meant to kill him. He had nerve to challenge me…I respected that. Leave de Batz alone. This duel is over," Condé told his second. Vendome shrugged and helped the wounded man into his saddle. "Keep the cursed blade." the rebel Prince called back over his shoulder. "It means nothing to me anyway."
D'Artagnan was struck speechless; tears streaked his cheeks as he sat in the grass.
Condé scoffed at the so called 'ledged' cradling his fallen comrade; he was just an old man--no further threat. The general ordered his soldiers to remount and they fell into ranks. Then all hell broke loose.
At exactly the same moment, all six of the company's powder wagons ignited in a horrific blast. Shrapnel tore into Condé's ranks and at least a dozen men were felled instantly…with far more being trampled by maddened horses. The general's horse was among those that bolted, taking the injured man with it. The remaining men of Condé's forces hastily galloped away, whether to protect themselves from the unseen attackers or in attempt to retrieve their commander. It didn't matter. The enemy had vacated the field.
Only then did d'Artagnan have the presence of mind to see to his friend's wounds. There were terrible powder burns from the Bourbon Prince's near point-plank shot. D'Artagnan tore the fabric of his friends ruined doublet to staunch the flow of blood and assess the damage. Charles felt heart would burst with relief when he realized the ball lodged in Aramis's shoulder rather than his chest and the wound was not as serious as it had seemed.
When the ex-musketeer's eyes fluttered open, a grinning d'Artagnan was the first sight his pain-fogged mind registered. "You idiot…you hopeless…noble…idiot; that bullet was meant for me!"
"I owed you one," Emris said hoarsely. "Help me up…we need to get out of here before they decide to come back."
Charles hastily tore his cape into strips to bind Emris's shoulder, lashing his arm tight to his side to help keep it immobilized. The injured man swayed unsteadily on his feet as he surveyed the smoking remains of the carriages. His vision blurred as he tried to process what he was seeing. Then he said, "All right boys…time to go."
And from beneath each smoking hulk emerged a soot smudged urchin. "Etienne you know. You may recall Porthos's nephew, Anton. Andy here is Protector's gal. These two troublemakers are Spring and Colt; they belong to the Chancellor. And this fine lad must be Marco." Emris smiled at the wan youth. "Nicely done lads…very nicely done."
"Getting shot was not in the plan, Uncle." Etienne scolded gently as he led the way to the place they had secreted the horses. Despite his injury, Emris insisted he could ride…but Charles hovered about, his mount never more than a few lengths away, in case the ex-musketeer should slip into unconsciousness again. The little twins were still too young to ride by themselves so they doubled up with the older boys.
Marco tentatively regained position of his family heirloom. Wrapping it in what was left of d'Artagnan's cape, he clutched the blade to his chest. "Are you all right?" Protector's daughter, Andy, asked the young Spaniard. The ex-slave only shrugged, undeniable sadness in his brown eyes.
"You'll be with your brother soon." The blond girl gave him a small smile and squeezed his arm in encouragement. "I'm sure everything will seem better then."
"M-master said he didn't care…said he wouldn't come." The boy shivered hugging the sword to his chest.
"Condé was a liar," Anton announced quietly, straight and to the point. Charles could not help but notice how much the big boy resembled his uncle—strong, \sensitive and soft-spoken, except when he wasn't.
"Ramon is a close friend of my son. Believe me when I tell you it nearly killed him not to come after you. If there was any other way he would have been here himself, but the king commanded that Aramis and I come, and that meant your brother had no choice but to stay and protect the king."
"M-my B-brother knows the king?" Marko asked, wide eyed.
"Yes lad; your brother is one of the four most trusted members of the king's musketeers, just like Aramis and I used to be."
"You called me Aramis." Emris smiled past the pain.
"Emris…Aramis, what's the difference." Charles shrugged offhandedly. But both men knew that there was a difference…had been for years. In all the time they had been in contention with one another, Charles had never once used the precious nickname of his youth.
"Thank you, d'Artagnan," Emris whispered.
D'Artagnan was a young idiot." De Batz smiled recalling all the times he had gotten Aramis and the others into some tight spot, all the mistakes he had made while trying to make a name for himself. "That is my son's name now you know. You can still call me Charles."
"I'd rather call you friend." Emris dared hope.
Charles sighed. "I suppose I'd answer to that too."