"These legal proceedings, concerning the Comte de Rochefort, who stands charged with high treason, will now resume forthwith."
Durante's painfully flawless accent caused the accused's hands to curl into repulsed fists.
How ignorant were they all to believe him French?
"And let us be more civilised about it this time." Louis sighed, rubbing his brow. Rochefort had heard rumour from his few remaining loyal guards that the King had not wanted to hold court at all today. He had apparently sulked in bed, claiming he was weary from yesterday, only rising and dressing after his ministers had persuaded him that the trial could not possibly continue without him. He's a spoilt child, the Comte grumbled, not wanting to admit to himself that he was more than a little irritated that he wasn't worth the King's time.
This must be how Treville feels.
Anne was still sat at the jury's table beside the King, despite the new allegations. Today, Rochefort thought she appeared as Queen Boudicca would have appeared before the Romans; a vengeful wrath set in her eyes but a gracious smile set upon her lips. It was a look that assured those who crossed her that she was the most powerful woman in France and she would not be afraid to exercise that power in order to see justice done.
It made him desire her all the more.
"Without question, your Majesty," Durante remarked dutifully, "I am sure that everyone present will prove themselves efficient… in every sense of the word."
He bowed slightly, ensuring that he caught Rochefort's eye as he did so, and then referred to his papers.
"During yesterday's hearing, his Majesty collected the opening statements from both parties. As his defence, the accused brought to light some new accusations against the plaintiff, to accompany his sustained claims of her Majesty's infidelity and the dauphin's illegitimacy. Despite these allegations, in the eyes of this court, being far from coherent and certain affirmation of his treason…"
Rochefort watched Anne hold her breath.
"…the King has decided to hear Rochefort's defence and any proof that he may be able to provide to substantiate it."
Though she didn't visibly react, the Queen's spirit clearly diminished a little.
It was the same hidden sadness he had seen in Spain.
Oh Anne…
Mi pequeña reina…
I could take you home.
#
SPAIN- NOVEMBER 1614
"Insister, instruire, interdire… in… inte…" The young princess exhaled tiredly and turned her head to look out of the window. She felt as though her tongue was tied in knots from reciting an endless list of verbs, most of which she imagined she would never use. No doubt I will be under strict instructions to be silent by my prospective husband, she thought resignedly… or his mother, the Queen Regent.
And perhaps even this new tutor…?
Her father had not told her anything about him, simply that he was coming to teach her court etiquette, any foreign customs she should be aware of and, of course, to ensure that she was fluent in the French language.
She couldn't help but feel nervous.
She wished her mother had not died three years earlier. She would have had this stranger investigated thoroughly before he could spend a single moment alone with her daughter; her father, however, suffered both from lack of interest and lack of forethought. He chose to spend his time with his son and heir, sometimes barely acknowledging his eldest child.
A knock on the door.
She stood, smoothed down her skirts and set her shoulders back.
She tried to forget that she was still a child.
"Enter."
The panelled door swung open and the menacing figure of a man emerged. The young princess took in a sharp breath as he entered, giving a small bow.
He was probably in his late twenties, fair hair cut short and slicked back, with cold eyes that she felt she could see right through. He was dressed like a Frenchman, she thought, observing him suspiciously, as he though he were from another world entirely. Handsome, certainly, but French.
Perhaps he is a spy?
Frenchmen in the Royal Court were always spies, she decided, the thought not truly her own, but something her brother had said once.
He stood waiting for her to speak first.
"Who are you, señor?"
"I am the Comte de Rochefort, Your Highness." He replied in Spanish.
"A Comte?
"Indeed, your Highness. But just 'Rochefort' will suffice."
He took a step further into the room and she resisted the temptation to back away.
"I have been employed by His Majesty to instruct you, over this next year, in what you need to know before leaving for Paris." He drawled in his clipped voice, "A queen has a great deal of responsibility and duty to uphold. I hope that I can make your transition into the French court a little… easier."
A spy, she thought. Definitely a spy.
His gaze settled upon her face, but strangely, she did not feel uncomfortable.
"I also hope that you should consider me an ally. A companion. Someone to trust and to confide in. I am a foreigner in your land, just as you will be in mine. So, you see, we already have something in common."
He seemed to barely blink.
"A young princess can, I imagine, become so unbearably lonely?"
She smiled tentatively. Most people were on edge around her, desperate not to offend, or frighten, or somehow be accused of treason. But he almost seemed comfortable, relaxed, as though he addressed princesses in such an intimate matter on a daily basis.
"Sometimes." She admitted.
She couldn't remember ever having someone who she could call a true friend. There were the other girls at court, daughters of lords and nobleman, but all treated her with a reverence that she imagined wasn't present in conventional friendships. They allowed her to choose the games. They let her walk at the front of the group. They would exchange nervous glances if she appeared to have a change of mood. Some only spoke to her when she addressed them.
It was as though she were friends with dolls.
But this gentleman seemed unthreatened and as though he would not bow easily to her demands. She wondered what had happened to make him that way.
"Are you…" She ventured, wondering what extraordinary answer this mysterious man could create, "Are you to be my friend, señor?"
The words sounded sad on her tongue.
The Comte de Rochefort raised his eyebrows and smiled enigmatically.
"I can be whatever you wish me to be, your Highness."
She couldn't help but feel disappointed.
#
"In light of the King's decision," Durante continued unenthusiastically, "and in a highly unorthodox manner, the court wishes to bring the accused to the stand first, so that he may explain his defence in more explicit detail. Therefore, Rochefort… please face this council."
Rochefort, who, despite his ordeals, held the same air of confidence as he had done all those years ago, had one brief satisfying moment of triumph.
Enough time to realise that he still had a grip on Louis' feeble mind.
That his detailed plan could be set in motion.
That he could yet still make it out of this alive.
However, before being able to fully savour this first victory, Rochefort felt the guard to his left push his shoulder roughly. Stumbling forward from the strength of it, he nearly fell flat on his face. The proud Comte felt humiliation flush in his cheeks. It was a pitiful beginning to his exquisitely crafted deception. He ignored d'Artagnan and Porthos's muffled snorts of laughter.
Instead, he turned his head to shoot the flat-nosed man a venomous glare.
"Being chained at the wrist does not impede my ability to walk at the sound of my own name," he hissed before obliging the anticipating council, advancing to the centre of the room. Predatory, like a hawk hunting sparrows. Incensed, like a dancing bear who longs to swipe its paws at those who mock it. He stood like a soldier on the battlefield.
Now is the time to end this.
The elderly Archbishop stood momentarily to repeat yesterday's inconsequential warning.
"Please remember that you are under sacred oath, Monsieur."
Rochefort gave a small nod. He neglected to respond that he now cared so little for God, who had sent the blue-eyed demon back into his accursed life, that the previous night, he had ripped his crucifix from around his neck and tossed it against his cell wall. It now lay in the dirt, begging for a match to set it aflame. He made a note to himself to acquire one. If God is leaving me to my funeral pyre, the Comte thought bitterly, as the aforementioned demon idly wandered out from behind the table, whether the fire is lit by French or Spanish hands, then he can be the first thing to burn.
Durante came to a stop before him, although was careful not to block the King's view.
"Repeat what you told the court yesterday."
Rochefort forced himself to look him in the eye.
"I believe that I informed the court that the Queen is a Spanish agent."
The council members appeared as though they were going to begin gossiping again, but Durante held up a firm hand to silence them.
"And…?"
"And… that these… witnesses… who have come forward to testify against me are simply her pawns. Strategically placed within the royal court to protect and serve her interests, and, therefore, Spain's."
Louis yawned and sat forward.
"And you said that you have evidence of this?" The foolish King inquired, casting an obligatory suspicious glance at the collection of witnesses, most of whom were looking furious that this charade was being allowed to continue.
"Indeed, your Majesty."
He lifted his chin confidently.
"My lords, all witnesses and documents pertaining to my claim have been painstakingly gathered by myself over these past few months. Of course, my allegations are not merely suggesting that treason is a recent phenomenon in your court, your Majesty. Therefore much of what I will present has been collected with some additional assistance… from the late Cardinal Richelieu."
The King froze at the sound of the Cardinal's name.
There was no one who he had trusted more than his Eminence, Rochefort knew, and there was no one else whose name would add the same amount of credibility to his argument.
In actuality, Richelieu's personal effects, still in the process of being catalogued and auctioned by the church, had been less than useless. For a man whose entire existence had been fraught with intrigue, espionage and corruption, his bureau full of letters had proved dull and formal to Rochefort's prowling eyes, filled with repetitive complaints about the Musketeers' rowdy behaviour and stuffy church business.
With the exception of one.
But the time had not yet come to reveal it.
Something vital had to be discussed first.
"The Cardinal…?" Louis breathed.
"I am the most important man in France." Richelieu had once said to Rochefort, on one of the many occasions where he had asserted his dominance using his talent for threat, "My name is power. To be Richelieu's enemy, is to sign one's own death warrant. To be Richelieu's friend… is a very great advantage indeed."
"Precisely, your Majesty. A good friend of yours, and of mine, no less."
Rochefort knew that he had only had one true friend in his entire life.
It had certainly not been the Cardinal.
#
JANUARY 1615
Angry footsteps thudded toward the library, where Anne was quietly sketching diagrams of how she imagined France to look. Much the same as Spain, she had decided, but with apples instead of oranges on the trees and everything painted with gold fleur-de-lis, to match the gaudy Bourbon flag. The nook in which she hid was full of drawing of this fantasy Paris.
And she intended to take each and every one of them with her.
I hope it is not Señora Varela looking for me, she sighed, thinking of her strict chaperone, as the footsteps grew closer.
She jumped as the library door burst open and Rochefort stormed in.
He was apparently unaware that she was watching him. For a moment, he frightened her. He had always seemed so controlled, restrained in his manner and void of any strong emotion. She curled up even tighter into the nook, determined that she would not be spotted, eager for this rare chance to observe this enigma. Whilst they met and spoke every day, she still did not really know anything about him.
She could not help but gasp as he punched a wall repeatedly, spitting curses in French.
Once his initial rage had pacified, he stood leaning against the panelling for a few moments, breathing heavily, before pulling a small piece of parchment from his coat. The seal had already been broken. Even from a distance, Anne could see that the red wax bore a crucifix and she wondered what man of the church, who often were so humble and poor, would be so important as to have his own seal.
She watched him read it, over and over again.
She watched a dark shadow pass over his face.
Feeling as though she was intruding, she turned to gather her pencils and paper, ready to make a swift escape after he had left.
"I know you are there."
She stopped breathing.
"You don't have to hide."
Slowly, she emerged from where she lurked and stood facing Rochefort. He made no attempt to stash the letter. He did not smile, as he usually did when in her presence, but he still stood at attention. She could see him shaking with emotion.
"You are upset, señor…" she began.
"I sincerely apologise for my disgraceful conduct, your Highness," he interrupted, in a low tone, "You have my word that this will not happen again."
She approached him and met his gaze. He looked confused but did not move away from her. He did not even tense as she wrapped her arms around him, in comforting embrace. She felt his hands rest tenderly on her back and his head lean on hers. He smelt of gunpowder, as so many of the guards in the court did, from the endless target practice they seemed to entertain themselves with.
She wondered what he had been shooting at.
"You are the one who need not hide, Rochefort. There is no shame in showing how you feel."
Anne decided not to ask what news the letter had contained.
That was a question for a later time.
"You must not be afraid to be open. You showed me moments ago that there is a man behind that mask you wear. And though I have only seen him angry," she whispered into his shoulder, assuring him as though he were one of her brothers, "I am certain that there is a great deal of compassion and love that I will see."
"Love…?" The Comte murmured.
His grip on her grew ever so slightly stronger.
"I… I do not know what that feels like."
Anne pulled away and beamed at him. She could not bear the thought of someone who had never known affection. But suddenly, his character had seemed to fall into place; the simple trope of a lonely nobleman who distanced himself from others because he did not know how to love. He was the tragic, isolated hero from so many stories she had read and imagined. And with this knowledge, the young princess was certain that if she could learn to love her siblings, who often plagued her with irritation, then she could most definitely adopt this gentleman as a brother, and teach him the most valuable of lessons.
"I can show you, monsieur." She assured him, "You can teach me French and I will teach you love."
#
"But perhaps…" Rochefort continued, now that Richelieu was the patron of his argument, and with the imprint of Anne's arms around him still on his skin, "you wish me to present my findings in a chronological fashion? His Eminence's latest letters date from January 1638… well, from 9 months before the Dauphin's birth. I have information that far predates that."
Louis frowned.
"Well, how far back are we talking, Rochefort?" He enquired irritably, clearly not wanting to be subjected to a lengthy history lesson. The Lords around him looked unsurprised at their king's apathy, knowing that he would much prefer to be in the company of the bishops and knights in his chess set, and leave this business for another day.
The Comte raised a suggestive eyebrow.
"As early as 1614, Sire."
"1614?"
"Yes, Sire."
Louis's face went blank.
"But… but the Queen and I were wed in 1615…?"
"I think what the accused is trying to imply," Anne interrupted quietly, placing her hand on Louis', the very sight of it sending pangs of jealousy down Rochefort's spine, "is that he not only believes I have given you an illegitimate heir and masterminded an underground ring of spies, but I was plotting these treasons against you when I was 13 years old."
The smile still had not left her face.
"Have I interpreted your theory correctly, Rochefort?"
The Comte's fingers twitched with the longing to touch her.
He could not decide whether it was to caress her pale bosom or to wring her slender neck.
Or both.
"Far from it, your Majesty." He acknowledged Anne directly for the first time that day, "I merely meant to suggest that an impressionable child, still devoted to Spain, unmarried and barely bled, would be easily seduced by the notion of remaining loyal to her father and brother, even after her virginity had been claimed by…"
The corners of his lips turned up a little at the memory.
"You were always so poetic. A little songbird, in your gilded cage. 'Endogámicas bastardo' I believe was the phrase you were so fond of…"
Aramis jolted in his seat, shocked at the foul language so casually spoken about the King, in the King's presence.
"WHAT DID HE SAY?" Louis bellowed, having not understood a word of the terrible insult paid to him.
"He can speak Spanish!" a brash juryman cried.
"What sort Frenchman speaks Spanish?" exclaimed another.
"Pragmatic ones, my lord…" Rochefort drawled at them, exasperated at their stupidity.
"WHAT DID HE…" Louis tried again, but was cut off.
Anne had barely flinched at this reminder that she was still considered a foreigner in her own kingdom.
"You use a child's words against me, monsieur. My brother's words, no less, which I mimicked, as children do. I am a child no longer. And, as such, have learned to speak for myself. And that is no longer my opinion."
#
MARCH 1615
"But why can a Queen not assist the King in making important political decisions? If she is to give him an heir, then surely she is allowed to ask for something in return?"
Anne was engaged in one of her many heated debates with her tutor, with whom she had grown so familiar with over just a few months, that she was not afraid to voice even her most radical and controversial opinions. Since their tender meeting in the library, both had seemed to open up to each other far more, (although he still would not tell her the contents of the mysterious letter). Rochefort, it had turned out, was a marvellous listener, as well as speaker, and seemed to genuinely absorb every word she said.
How she had craved for such an ear for so long!
They were strolling through the gardens, despite the fact it was chillier than a usual spring day. They followed the same route each time, with her chaperone and attendants trailing behind to ensure nothing untoward went on. Anne had insisted to them that Rochefort was to be trusted, that he would never cause her harm, but they paid her pleas no attention.
Her arm rested on his.
"A queen may have anything she wishes, your Highness."
"But why not a voice?"
Rochefort did not look at her as he replied, instead focusing on the path ahead. Perhaps he cannot bear to see the disappointment in my face, Anne thought, knowing precisely what his answer was going to be.
"A queen never speaks for herself. Her words should either belong to her husband or her people."
She felt her emotion swell within her.
"So I am doomed to forever echo the words of a… a…" She sighed heavily, "My brother says all Frenchmen, especially the King, are inbred bastards…"
Rochefort flinched at the insult.
She realised what she had said and felt horror that she had ever uttered such foul words.
She had also completely forgotten whose company she kept.
"Oh monsieur, I apologise, I meant no offence…my brother…!" she garbled, flustered.
The Frenchman shook his head.
"No offence taken, your Highness… perhaps it is best, though, if His Highness' opinions remain out of your mind and mouth? I do not think His Majesty, and certainly not the Queen Regent, would take kindly to such colourful language."
He looked at her, with a look so grave that it would stay with her for many years after, fading back into the forefront of her mind whenever a pompous French noble spoke painfully slowly to her, as if she were deranged, or a spectator on the street heckled with calls of "Spanish whore" or "inbred witch!" It was a look that beautifully expressed the initial hostility she would later have forged into armour; a helmet to spare her mind from such hatred and a breastplate to protect her heart.
"You see now, Rochefort, what the words of men are in the mouth of a princess?"
Anne stared up at the cloudless sky.
"Imagine what they become in a Queen's."
#
"Your opinion may have changed," Rochefort declared, the image of naïve Princess Anne still lingering over him, "It cannot be denied that a student often carries the influence of their tutor into maturity. Especially one who often reiterates lessons they learnt from their father."
"My father did not care to oversee my education and, if I recall correctly, he certainly did not care for you. What part does he play in this?"
Anne still had not lost her temper.
But the jurymen were each exchanging glances, noting how aggressive she sounded. While Rochefort had seen this streak of her personality on several occasions, and bore a violet scar from the bite of her hairpin, most were unaccustomed to witnessing her as anything other than poised and composed.
Louis seemed frustrated that he was confused.
"Will someone please care to explain what this is all about? What relevance does the Queen's father have?"
He turned to look at his wife.
"I confess… I do not fully understand the accused's point myself." She murmured, clearly rifling through her memories to work out what Rochefort was alluding to. Aramis had a grim look on his face as he watched her think.
"My first piece of evidence, your Majesty, is a letter I received when tutoring her Majesty in Spain. I am sure you remember my receiving it?"
Anne nodded.
"It was from his Eminence, ordering me to obey any, and all, instructions from the King regarding the Queen's education. No matter how useless they seemed…"
He paused.
"Or no matter how detrimental to France they would prove."
Rochefort took a deep breath, as though he were about to dive into deep water.
"What I am trying to express to your Majesty, is that I know the Queen is a Spanish agent…"
The words were delicious on his tongue.
"Because I trained her to become one."