Chapter 14
At lunchtime, the guardroom was bustling with the usual commotion. The stew of bacon and grain was steaming by the fireplace and its soggy smell mixed with the haze of sweat and dust that clung to the guardsmen more and more as the day went on. Everyone helped themselves to their rations, plenty was dished up with a fair amount of fat and bread. Not so much as to make the men sluggish and idle. But enough to prevent a palace revolt and to finish the rest of the day fed and satisfied.
D'Artagnan pushed a half-full dish away from herself. Her appetite was limited, not only because Madeleine had been eager to fatten her up last evening and lift her morale and weight with good food. As usual, she sat alone at one of the tables at the back, in the corner between the wall and the weapon stands, in the semi-darkness. Laughter resounded from the other benches because of an amusing anecdote the comrades were telling each other or because of a triumph at cards. The men passed the time until their next shift, always keeping an ear and an eye on their surroundings in case Jussac abruptly ordered them to take up arms.
Basically, only the colour of the uniform distinguished them from the Musketeers. D'Artagnan had learned that over the past weeks and abandoned many a prejudice. However, she herself, her character, was not newly thought over by the guardsmen, especially not after yesterday, after the gruelling punishment work she had incurred because of her own stupidity. She was once and for all marginalised form the corps, excluded.
Actually, she should have welcomed that. The less attention paid to the unwelcome recruit, the less risk there was of her secret being discovered. And yet d'Artagnan found herself watching the others furtively as they talked and passed the time, wishing for company instead of disregard.
During the first days, she had sat here straining to overhear and overlook the taunts and meaningful glances in her direction. It had gotten better after Sorel had joined her daily at lunchtime. Now d'Artagnan also knew why he had chosen to be near her; to spy on her, to review her mind. She could not even blame him for wanting to find out why the lieutenant of the Musketeers was now serving Richelieu. But still it hit her that Sorel should have betrayed her trust on behalf of Jussac and the Red Guard, that he befriended her with only ill intent. Part of her stubbornly refused to see that truth, and that part missed his company without asking her head for permission to do so.
Her stew was cold by now and the silly report of her watch over a forgotten side entrance written. D'Artagnan turned her gaze to the window. A grey, unpleasant day. In a few minutes she had to go out again and spend her time alone and bored on guard duty. Hang in there, was the motto.
»Does the ration really taste that bad today?«
She looked up, and her eyes were fixed on Sorel, who sat down at the table opposite her as if it were a matter of course, putting down his own dish. There was no trace of abashment on his face, not even when d'Artagnan's melancholy mien darkened abruptly.
Sorel tasted the stew and answered his own question. »Well, seems edible to me.«
»What do you want here, at this table?«
»...eating?« Sorel said as innocently as he had answered the question about his intentions a few weeks ago. He pointed to d'Artagnan's plate and passed over any difference in rank or status; it had become too personal between them to still keep any distance with gestures or words. »You didn't wait for me.«
The stew almost landed in his face and it was only because d'Artagnan remembered in time that she was not an offended little girl but a proud and angry woman, that he was spared. »You dare to offer me your company again without invitation?«
»Yes, that's me, not very bright.«
»That has not escaped me.« D'Artagnan struggled hard not to return Sorel's disarming smile with the slightest, hidden smirk. By the Devil, what was he thinking, just overrunning her walls? She attacked to hold her defence line. »You're pathetic.«
»Up to the hilt. Villainous to boot!«
»Then we're agreed.« She eyed Sorel appraisingly and he looked back in innocence. He certainly had not been sent ahead by the other guardsmen to smooth things over with her. No, this was his own decision to try again in friendship, without ulterior motives this time - and, mordieux, she wanted to grant him this chance and no longer be abandoned and betrayed by everyone! She nodded curtly. »Apology accepted.«
»Wha-? But I-« Sorel closed his mouth very quickly when d'Artagnan's warning glare hit him. Then he accepted to have eaten humble pie and therefore been taken back into favour. He had become accustomed to d'Artagnan's idiosyncrasies by now, to this particular way of understanding things more sensitively, a bit womanish, with more room for interpretation.
Sorel resumed his meal and it seemed to taste fine, or else he was extraordinarily hungry. He bolted his stew as if he had not had anything for two days and d'Artagnan almost wanted to offer him her own leftovers. She did not get to ask a mocking question about it, because suddenly she found herself encircled.
Bernajoux and Biscarat sat down on the bench to her left and right, just as uninvited as Sorel before. She was startled and at first thought herself betrayed again; lured into a trap by Sorel to lull her into safety and distract her from an imminent attack. But he himself seemed surprised by the sudden company and d'Artagnan banished any unease behind a stoic lieutenant's mask.
Bernajoux and Biscarat nonchalantly made themselves at home next to d'Artagnan, inscrutable in their intentions. Was she in the offing for a thrashing? Or was she finally seen through after her unfortunate appearance in the washhouse and they were here to arrest her without a fuss?
Biscarat skimmed the watch report on the table, true to his way of not overlooking any detail. Bernajoux on the other side was a bulwark that would make any flight impossible. Nevertheless, d'Artagnan instinctively assessed her options. No, there was no escape, and even if she had freed herself from being encircled, there would still be a room full of guardsmen who have long since noticed the crowd at the back table and were watching more or less surreptitiously.
Biscarat finally looked up from the illegible handwriting to d'Artagnan. She persistently avoided his inquiring scrutiny, staring at some point behind Sorel's shoulder, hoping Biscarat would not recognise the features of Charlotte Batz in her face. If he noticed her combative restlessness, her tension, he did not elaborate. Instead, he said casually, as if resuming an interrupted conversation, »So we have questioned Rochefort.«
D'Artagnan was stubbornly silent, but her mind was racing. Damn it, she had suggested it herself in a moment of hot-headed rage. Had the stable master been able to keep his mouth shut, or had he put their friendship aside for other matters yet another time? It was wiser to let the guardsmen talk until their intentions were certain.
When no remark was made on her part, Bernajoux stated dryly, »You're a moron.«
This was not what she has expected. »Pardon?«
Bernajoux left the explanation to Biscarat, who was far better with words. »What our honourable friend is trying to say is that you seem to have stumbled into something completely naively and are now bearing the blame for the truly guilty men. That's how Jussac explained it to us.«
»Naively, bah! I have always been aware of the consequences.«
»Then you have willingly chosen to spend your days in the Red Guard? Just limited for, well, the rest of your life?«
»I know nothing of a time limit. Or did Rochefort have more to say about that too?«
The men exchanged glances over her head. It probably dawned on them that d'Artagnan was not privy to the reasons for this duel either and was simply hanging on until the king gave in to one of his whims again.
Biscarat noticed the combative attitude and at the same time alarmed readiness to flee of the former Musketeer. He was not surprised, there was not much trust between them, in constant expectation of a mutual attack. Reconciliation has already been celebrated with Sorel; it was time for a truce. Jussac had them ordered to it and they were here to let d'Artagnan know.
»Rochefort has confirmed to us that you have no ill intentions by this reassignment. That you aren't a spy.«
»Just a moron?«
»Just too faithful.«
Bernajoux rubbed his rough chin and grumbled, »You're one of us now.«
D'Artagnan stared dumbfounded because of this turn of events and Biscarat added seriously, »One day you shall be recalled to the Musketeers. Until then, no one here will accuse you of disloyalty or treason to the Red Guard.«
D'Artagnan's voice was no more than a groan under the weight of the realisation she was unexpectedly forced to confront. »In other words; I'm under your personal protection from this day onward.«
Bernajoux twisted the corners of his mouth into one of his smiles that would have chased away any wolf with its tail between legs. »Exactly.«
»By the Devil...« D'Artagnan raised a hand to her forehead and massaged her temple as if in a headache. Furtively, through her fingers, she watched the goings-on in the guardroom. The other men have not failed to notice the peace agreement, even if they had not been able to hear every word in the general din. The gesture, three comrades from the innermost circle peacefully united at a table with d'Artagnan, without any quarrel or threats, was significant enough.
What else has Rochefort told them that she could suddenly enjoy the intercession of former enemies?
Biscarat watched her and proved his knowledge of human nature on her as a casual agent. Was there something more than just the sudden appearance of the friends, one more secret that was causing d'Artagnan such unease? He tried a shot in the dark. »Only Jussac and we know of this duel, its consequences.«
D'Artagnan lowered her hand, composed and not been see through. Biscarat was poking around in the dark and she let him think that she only wanted the reason for her reassignment concealed. »Good.«
A moment passed in which she eyed each of the men as if in a conspiratorial fellowship. She believed them to be able to keep their mouths shut about a secret, a scandal that was not theirs but concerned royal court politics. It was better not to lose too many words about such things, if one did not want to become the next victim.
Only Sorel noticed the thin smile on her lips, half genuine and half ironic, with which she meant, »I thank you for the acceptance in your ranks. It was... unorthodox, but honest.«
With that, d'Artagnan stood up before Biscarat would have seen through her and spied things that had to remain unseen. She had received a precious promise, actually made by Jussac and delivered by his men, to blame her no more, to leave her henceforth untroubled by further punishments and humiliations. Perhaps she could indeed survive her time with the Red Guard unscathed until Tréville found a way - Or until she herself would find one.
She nodded to the men and retreated almost in flight back to her post to be spared further fraternisation, which threatened to become more dangerous to her than any other kind of attacks...
