Richelieu sat across from King Louis and Queen Anne, and though he tried to hide his discomfort, he simply could not hide his grimaces. The carriage rocked from side to side with every bump, dip, and jolt. Floorboards creaked, the wheels squeaked, and the tongue rattled with every tug and shift of the horses. The carriage driver, an older man with wild gray hair and a black heavy beard and mustache, whistled and called to the animals. The driver had draped the sides of his heavy cloak over his arms and they waved like the wings of a bird as he flipped the reins and snapped the carriage whip. The heavy curtains that hung over the carriage doors and windows were closed and kept some of the cold weather from entering.
Queen Anne tightened her gloved hand around the collar of the fur cloak that wrapped around her neck. Her hair was pinned back, purposely covering her ears, and was bound with a gem collared net. She winced when the carriage jolted, and then quickly adjusted her hold on the cloak. Her cheeks were red and the tip of her button nose was cold, but she bravely kept quiet.
Richelieu pursed his lips, flared his nostrils, and shifted his position across from the royal couple. He, too, wore a heavy fur cloak that kept him warm. He curled his toes, feeling the wool socks and — despite them — the chill of his toes. Annoyed that King Louis refused to stay in Paris, Richelieu kept quiet, but snarled and vocalized his dissatisfaction with every uncomfortable bump. He thought about pouring himself a glass of wine when he arrived at the chateau, the warmth of standing before a blazing fire, and the scent of slow roasting meat wafting throughout the room and the halls of the building. He knew Louis would hunt, and no matter the trophy, the beast would be cooked and served with roasted vegetables, gravy, and hard bread slathered in butter and then savored. Richelieu paused, peered out the window by pulling the heavy curtain back with two fingers, and watched Treville riding his horse alongside the carriage. Beyond Treville rode several musketeers, while red guards rode along the outskirts and within the confines of trees, bushes, and along the fence lines. He thought about those that had lost their lives in Paris and the others that were still fighting. Richelieu shifted uncomfortably when his stomach growled.
Louis chuckled. "You'll appreciate the menu I've sent the cook," he said with a broad smile. He grabbed the edge of his seat when the carriage tilted to the right and then suddenly to the left. "Veal, duck, quail, wild boar, and venison. All served with gravy, cooked cabbage, and vegetables from the conservatory, fruits shipped from southern France, sugar plums and nougat and a vast supply of wine from the region."
Richelieu's stomach growled again. "As appetizing as that sounds, Your Majesty. Perhaps we will not be eating it all at once?"
Louis laughed, exposing his large teeth, and he looked at Richelieu and then Anne. "Of course not, but it tantalizes the appetite, does it not?"
"There was an attack on your guards, Sire," Richelieu said. "The weather is turning, your men are few in number, and we're traveling on untamed roads." He cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head. "Perhaps now is not the time to be thinking about food, but rather arriving safely at the Chateau de Fontainebleau."
"I'm sure he is, Cardinal," Anne said as she looked at Richelieu. "Food is just a distraction."
"Paris is in shambles —"
"You're being overly dramatic," Louis said. "Impressively so. This is not, nor will it be, the last time Paris is attacked, particularly as the common people grow frustrated with your taxes, Cardinal." He looked sideways at his queen and then smiled when he returned his gaze to Richelieu. "I told you they would."
Richelieu huffed and adjusted the cloak over his shoulders. "We are but a few years — if not months — away from war. Building an army is more essential than the disgruntled antics of peasants over a few sous or livres —"
"A few sous or livres, Cardinal," Anne said, "might be the difference between a meal and someone starving."
"I'm sure Spain will note the lack of fat on those they trample as they breech our borders and claim France as their own should we not prepare ourselves in advance, Your Majesty. Taxes are a means to an end."
"Obviously," Anne said with a roll of her eyes. She took a deep breath, and then gently pulled back the curtain and peeked out the window and watched Athos ride alongside the carriage. She silently wished it was Aramis, and as she listened to the cardinal and Louis speak about the days ahead and their plans, she closed her eyes and tried to picture him looking at her astride his mount. His expressive brown eyes, finely trimmed mustache and beard that he teased when facing moments of humor or distraction. They were all good-looking men, each handsome in his own right, but the way Aramis looked at her, the way he made her feel — not a queen but a woman — a woman whose knees would go weak when he casually brushed against her, or a whiff of his scent of leather, horses, and musk reached her. She felt the heat of embarrasment redden her cheeks and she looked away.
"Your Majesty?" Richelieu asked again. He frowned as he looked at her when she slowly released the curtain and looked at him. "Are you all right?"
Louis grasped her hand. "You're flushed," he said.
Anne cast her eyes downward and wiped her gloved hand along her cheek. "It's been a long journey," she said and looked back at Louis.
Richelieu turned, pulled open the curtain and shouted toward Treville, "How much longer until we arrive at the inn?"
Treville nudged his horse's right side and the big black stepped diagonally along the side of the carriage. Treville leaned to his left and said, "Not far. Is everything all right?"
Louis cocked an eyebrow as he watched Richelieu's expressions change from indifferent to concerned.
"Yes, everything is fine, but we're growing weary. Send one of your men ahead to notify the proprietor that we'll need warm broth when we arrive." He closed the curtain and then quickly opened it again. "And wine — we will need plenty of wine."
Treville nodded once and then motioned toward one of his men, who nudged his mount's side and galloped toward him. Their exchange was brief, but the musketeer tipped his hat and galloped ahead to notify the innkeeper. Treville turned, looked toward Porthos, who kept at attention. He turned occasionally to look at the men behind him, and the red guards riding a short distance away.
Despite their early departure, the rough, narrow roads hindered their travels. Unlike the main roads that were maintained and well used, those less traveled were rough and slightly overgrown. The advanced detachment had done a fine job of clearing downed trees and heavy branches, but they did not have the resources or the time needed to fill holes where weather had eroded the dirt and grounds. To complicate and cause more concern was the disappearing daylight. It wouldn't be long before the blue sky filled with puffed clouds turned to night. The air would grow increasingly colder, and as the branches of the trees shifted, the promise of a cold winter drew near.
Treville couldn't see Athos, who rode on the other side of the carriage, but he could see d'Artagnan and Aramis, who rode ahead. Both men remained at attention, ever so cautious and watchful. The devastation from the explosions weighed heavily on the shoulders of all the men: musketeers and red guards alike. Brothers, friends, acquaintances and children had suffered at the hands of those who were fighting for their very lives. Taxes were a burden for all, but for those who had nothing left to give, they were as deadly as a sword. Husbands, brothers, and fathers would not stand idly by and watch their families starve. And men who had nothing left to fight for were more deadly than anyone… even soldiers.
A sudden gust of wind blew leaves across the path, forced branches to sway and bend beneath the force. A few leaves finally surrendered to autumn's demands and released their hold, and then danced through the air. The area they rode was prime ground for an ambush. Treville realized it as they entered the gully. The long mounded hills on either side of the road would provide cover for attackers who could easily charge from vantage points that were difficult to advance upon.
Treville turned toward Porthos, who looked at him with a subtle shake of his head, a stern jaw, and pursed lips. He, too, recognized the potential threat. It was too late to turn back. The carriage would not withstand a tight turn, nor would the wagon following at a distance.
Treville pulled his horse to a stop and looked suddenly to his left. The sound of a distant whistle had him turning in his saddle, shouting orders to protect the carriage, and pointing toward Porthos, who dismounted and reached for his pistol.
Several shouts echoed from all around them and were quickly followed by musket fire.