Thank you to all who continue to read and leave comments.
Sorry about the delay in uploading this chapter but I've been beavering away on the novel - the end of the first draft is in sight. So this is an extra-long chapter in an attempt to make amends. To be honest, there was no good or obvious breaking point.
Historical note: I confess to playing a little with the order of events in the 1620s to fit the timeline of my stories and the BBC canon. Before that, the events are as history recounts. This 'uprising', the third by Marie after her regency ended, is entirely of my creation and predates her appearance in the series. During that episode, Treville mentions that he had been her prisoner before, and that is what I allude to when he was Bircann's prisoner.
Here's where the dates vary, so please forgive me. The 'offer' made to her by the King as a solution did actually happen, although that was about 1622 and put her in a position to 'help' elevate Richelieu, who became First Minister in 1624, after which they never saw eye to eye! She moved her household to the Palais de Luxembourg in 1625. Needless to say, she continued to cause mischief thereafter!
18 DAYS EARLIER
TREVILLE
We have been riding due north of Paris for a couple of hours now and I do not think Porthos and Aramis have spoken one word to me since we mounted up in the garrison yard and left for the palace where we met Richelieu. He was safely ensconced in his carriage, ready and waiting and surrounded by a group of Red Guards so why he demanded a small contingent of Musketeers to accompany him defeats me.
Although perfectly able to ride, he has chosen not to. Personally, I would have taken a horse over the carriage, which is not the most comfortable of conveyances, but I presume he wishes to emphasise his status and authority when we arrive at wherever it is that Marie de Medici is being held. He has not even seen fit to share that piece of information with me, which does not bode well in the subject of trust. Nor has he advised me as to what he wishes me to do; why he has insisted that I also come along.
I already feel redundant, with him enclosed in his carriage and me on horseback. It is not exactly conducive to productive conversation and, suddenly, I wonder if that is what lies behind the arrangement. He does not desire to speak with me and that realisation, rightly or wrongly, only serves to fuel the anger I am feeling with my men.
Not that I can truly blame them, if truth be told. It is another four days since I met with the Cardinal and King. Four days during which the floods have receded in their entirety, the clean-up operation has continued and all the dead and injured seem to have been recovered. A short-term rationing plan has been initiated and those worst affected have access to clean water. Although it is early days and there have been isolated reports of sickness, it seems that we have effectively staved off a full out-break of disease. We can only hope and pray that this state of affairs continues.
But it means that it is another four days that Athos has been missing. A further four days during which his brothers' angst and resentment has festered and deepened.
Yesterday afternoon, it could be said that the weather had at last changed for the better. There were patches of weak blue sky amongst a cloud cover that was mostly white and a pale grey, nothing like the black, unbroken canopy that loomed above us for days and certainly had me lighting candles in my office by late morning. The sun attempted to shine and there were the first encouraging signs that the city was beginning to dry out, so Richelieu decided that the long-postponed visit to the Dowager Queen could finally take place.
And here we are, heading north in an uncomfortable silence, anger heavy in the air. My men are angry with me for delaying their search for their brother; I am angry with them for their fury directed at me, and then my anger extends to myself for not standing more firmly against Richelieu's demands so, naturally, I am angry with him. He, in turn, is angry with the King's mother and those who collaborate to threaten France, and we are all angry with Bircann for the trouble he has fomented. According to the Cardinal, the traitor is withstanding all efforts so far to get the information from him.
So much anger and Bircann, if he knew, would be rejoicing at the chaos and ill-feeling he has created! I do not want to think about what has been done to him so far and yet he still refuses to talk.
The road winds through a dark forest and I realise, with shame, that I am so distracted thinking about events that I am not doing my job properly; this would be a perfect place for an ambush. Alert now, I realise that there is no sound save for those that we are making: the rumble of the carriage's wheels over the ground – they have not had the amount of rain seen by Paris and what has fallen here has had the opportunity to dry out more quickly. There are the horses' hooves, the jingle of harness and the creak of leather. Otherwise, there is nothing. No muted voices in conversation, no birds and no wind through the leaves around us. Instead, there is a strange stillness and silence.
Suddenly, the four guards leading our little procession, riding two a-breast, turn off the main road to the right, and take us down a track that is surprisingly well-maintained. The carriage follows, then me, then Porthos and Aramis and, finally, six more of the Red Guard.
Another ten minutes pass before the trees peter out, the countryside opening up before us to reveal a turreted chateau, surrounded by a moat. Two Red Guard are stationed at the bridge over the moat and more stand at the entrance gate that leads to the courtyard at the front of the chateau. We pass unchallenged, those on the guard detail merely snapping to attention and dipping their heads at the sight of the familiar uniforms of their comrades and the Cardinal's coat of arms on the sides of his carriage.
Grooms emerge to take the horses from us, and I glance around me as I slowly dismount and take a moment to stretch stiff, aching limbs after so many hours in the saddle. More of the Cardinal's men are positioned at each door leading out into the courtyard.
Richelieu emerges from his carriage and, ignoring me, strides up the steps towards the main, double doors which open wide on his approach. Two servants bow respectfully as he marches past them, utterly oblivious to their presence. I glance round at Porthos and Aramis, the latter raising an eyebrow quizzically as they both fall into step a pace behind me and, together, we follow the Cardinal.
There is no time to look about us and appraise the furnishings and décor of the chateau; all I get is a vague impression of wealth, comfort and finery. At least it is not demeaning to the Dowager Queen.
A steward steps forward to greet the Cardinal and immediately is forced into trotting by his side as the First Minister shows no signs of slowing down.
"Where is she?" he demands, with a total disregard to the woman's titles or status, even though she deserve his disdain, having done much to jeopardise her social standing.
In that moment, I understand the depth of his hatred towards the woman who continues to plot against her son, our King, and seeks to destroy the Cardinal any way she can; such is the animosity between them. She may have helped his elevation towards his current position, but the original trusting relationship between them has deteriorated beyond recognition and stands no chance of being rekindled.
"In the main salon, Your Emminence. If you'd care to take a seat, I could -"
"No, I would not care," Richelieu interrupts and continues on without breaking his stride.
Marie de Medici may well be the former Queen of France, but she is Richelieu's prisoner and so he is resolved instead to come upon her unannounced to remind her of who it is that now exerts the authority.
Two more of his men stand either side of a door at the end of the corridor and, as he gesticulates towards them with a sweeping arm, they open the door without knocking and he passed through it.
Richelieu eventually stops in the middle of the room and barely condescends to dip his head at the woman sitting at her sewing directly in front of him by a window. In comparison, I offer more deference, although my bow is not as deep as the one given to our king and his queen. I am pleased to see that Porthos and Aramis take their lead from me.
"Cardinal Richelieu, how nice of you to visit me." The comment is laced with sarcasm, her French pronunciation heavily accented and betraying her Florentine birth. "I wonder, though, that you still seem unable to grasp the basic social niceties of knocking at a door and waiting to be invited to enter."
"Given the reasons for your sojourn here, Madam, I hardly think the social niceties are relevant."
They are already involved in a war of words, and I sigh heavily, exasperated by them both, but it draws her attention to me.
"And Captain Tréville. How thoughtful that you have deigned to honour me with your company." She looks past me at Porthos and Aramis. "And you have brought two of your men with you. Welcome, gentlemen. My goodness, it must be a prerequisite that all Musketeers must be handsome men. Such beauty in this dull place and so much more interesting than the Cardinal's boring guards."
I am not sure whether her confinement has encouraged her outrageous flirtation or if it is just her sarcasm that continues to seep from her like pus from a sore. Turning slightly so that I can see my men, I gauge their reaction, pleased to find that neither is impressed. They remain stony-faced, unmoved by her words; even Aramis, who is often swayed by such female attention. It is testament to their concern for their friend, but they dip their heads in acknowledgement of the supposed compliment directed their way.
I remind myself that, in her mid-fifties, she is twice their age and old enough to be their mothers and doubt that either of them, especially Aramis, would find her attractive. Time and more than one incarceration have not been kind, although she has never been detained in less than salubrious accommodation, such as now.
She has acquired a lot of weight, her figure transformed from the tall, slender woman who became the second wife of Henri IV, Louis' father. I try to be polite as, in my head, I describe her to myself as matronly, her face rounder and fuller than depicted in the portraits of her younger self. She retains some of the auburn glints in her hair, piled high on her head and adorned with jewels, as is the bodice on her elaborately embroidered gown. There is no way that she could have known of our impending visit so I deduce that she dresses like this every day, thus maintaining her standards and keeping up appearances, even though there is no-one to see and appreciate her efforts other than the guards, a handful of servants and the two stern-faced women sitting on a sofa near her. They were appointed by Richelieu following the Dowager Queen's arrest to replace her usual ladies-in-waiting. From the look of them, I doubt that they offer her much succour or companionship.
Marie de Medici smooths her skirts, her beringed fingers short and plump and lacking the elegance of the current Queen.
"So, Cardinal," she begins, "to what do I owe this pleasure?"
Richelieu looks at the two ladies-in-waiting and points to the door. Without a word, they rise, leave their needlework where they were sitting and silently depart. It is a stark reminder that they are there to do his bidding rather than that of the woman who was born into one of the most powerful Italian families in history and who came to France to be a queen, married to one king and mother of another.
Given her treacherous nature in the last eighteen years with regards to her son, I suspect that Henri himself had not trusted her. Theirs was not a happy marriage for various reasons, including his many infidelities. One such mistress, Catherine de Balzac d'Entragues, was paraded at court, and even today, I hear the older courtiers still whispering of the public arguments between said mistress and the Queen, with Marie de Medici unafraid to employ language so colourful, that it shocked those within earshot. I have never fully understood though why Henri left it ten years after their marriage and when she had given birth to six children before her coronation. There are plenty with suspicious minds though who question the fact that the day after Marie was officially crowned Queen of France in 1610, Henri was assassinated and she was appointed regent for Louis, then only eight years old.
That, as far as I am concerned, is when it all began.
Enjoying the power that the regency afforded her, she was loathe to rescind that authority, but Louis eventually wrested power from her in a coup d'état when he was 16, exiling her to the Chateau de Blois. Two years later, in 1619, she escaped, using a rope ladder and scaling a forty-metre wall! I have to hand it to her; she is formidable and refuses to give up.
Not long after her escape, she launched another uprising against Louis but, fortunately, this was quickly quelled, and all seemed to quieten down. However, she started yet another, and this was when I was first involved and when I fell victim to Bircann.
And here she is again, attempting to assert herself and seize power. Will she never give up?
"I have an offer for you from the King, your son," Richelieu says, getting down to business without further ado.
Try as I might, I cannot hide my surprise and I turn abruptly to glare at the Cardinal, but he is not looking at me and now I understand his reluctance to have anything to do with me on the journey. I thought that I had been privy to all the pertinent discussions appertaining to the Queen Mother, Bircann and the other conspirators but now, it seems, I have been misled! I am about to discover just what I have been excluded from knowing.
Marie de Medici momentarily looks pleased with herself and so she should. She has just realised that the King is sparing her, that she is not likely to be executed for her egregious behaviour. However, there is a lingering wariness as to what is expected from her in return.
"You have my undivided attention, Cardinal," she simpers.
"First, Madam, you will give me the names of all the nobles involved in this conspiracy against the King and any on the periphery who have dared to display an interest. We would wish to dissuade them from any such thoughts in the future."
She picked at a thread on her skirt as if contemplating his words. "And what do I get in return?"
There is a pause and Richelieu takes a deep breath, his back ramrod straight, eyes narrowing and a twitch in his cheek muscles. Instantly, I know that the compromise is not of his making, that the King has somehow coerced him into this arrangement.
His voice is gruff when he does eventually speak. "The King will grant you a full pardon. You will return to Paris and move your household from the Louvre to the Palais de Luxembourg, even though the renovation work is, as yet, incomplete." This is bad enough as it rewards her with a freedom that she does not deserve but when he hesitates, I suspect the worst is yet to come.
I am right.
"And the King gives you a seat on his Council."
Even Marie de Medici succeeds in looking surprised, the position an unexpected one that affords her some power and authority, although not to the extent that she was once used to and obviously desires to regain, but it is better than nothing. From the light in her eyes, I suspect that as the King's mother, she hopes to develop a greater influence over him. In turn, I hope that the Cardinal as First Minister, along with the rest of the Council members, will manage to keep her in check.
I wonder at the King's forgiveness after all that she has done to him, but then credit him with having faith. My church attendance is regulated by accompanying the royal couple to services at Notre Dame. However, there I am on duty, ever vigilant in keeping them safe so that thoughts of a spiritual nature are forcibly relegated to the back of the mind. Prayers are not regular either, but I do say them and I admit they have been far more frequent in the days since Athos disappeared. Probably ineffectual on their own, I can hope that perhaps they add a little boost to those uttered by Aramis; I have come across him more than once in recent weeks when he is in an unguarded moment, head bowed, eyes closed, lips moving in silent supplication as his fingers clasp the crucifix around his neck.
Now would be a very good time for the power of prayer to work and I selfishly want the outcome to be a positive response to the request.
As to the King and his forgiveness? Well, she is his mother and I have to admire his persistence in trying to win her approval and favour, for Marie de Medici has never hidden the fact that her favourite child is her third son, Gaston, Duc d'Orleans, himself a thorn in the King's side.
Marie de Medici and her offspring Gaston. Like mother, like son – so the old saying goes. I have a feeling that is a corruption of something in the Old Testament but I can't think what. Fitting somehow – a corrupt saying for a corrupt pair.
The Bible also exhorts us to 'love our enemies' and I see that that is what the King is attempting to put into practice. If I weren't so worried about the current resolution, I would laugh aloud at the irony of the Cardinal, a supposed man of God, finding it hard to follow that advice, but I am afraid that I agree with Richelieu wholeheartedly. Such a dismissal of the Queen Mother's misdemeanours only opens the way for herto try again in the future. I cannot see her being satisfied with the proposal once some time has elapsed. In all likelihood, the King is following the tenet of keeping his friends close and his enemies closer in the only way that he knows. Richelieu had used the same words when he' sought to justify his investigations into the Dowager Queen back when all this began.
The woman is certainly no friend to Louis or France, no matter what he wishes.
"The names, Madam," Richelieu prompts. "I have made clear the King's more than generous offer to you. There will be nothing more."
She sighs. "Bircann did all the arranging, the contacting of those nobles whom he knew were of a like mind. He did not share things with me apart from telling me that there was enough support for our intentions with sufficient men and financial promises. The only two he mentioned by name were the Comte d'Aubrey and Baron Deauville. Their significant support was bought by giving assurances of future advancement. I give you my word that I know nothing more. Does that help you, Cardinal?"
I make sure I remain expressionless as I exchange glances with Richelieu. She has not given us any new information at all, and she will be unaware of the taking of one of my men as she was already in custody hours before Athos went missing.
"I will inform His Majesty as to your co-operation," Richelieu says brusquely, not giving her a direct answer and his frustration ill-concealed.
"When will I leave here?" she presses.
"That is for His Majesty to decide, Madam." He bows curtly. "Good day."
With that, he is out the door leaving Porthos, Aramis and me to dip our heads briefly and hurry after him.
He is out the building and donning his gloves when I catch up with him.
"Is that it?" I demand, my anger on the point of exploding. "Is this what you dragged us out here for after a ride of two hours? To see the Dowager Queen for less than five minutes?" I know that I am pacing back and forth, slapping my hat against my thigh; anything so that I do not punch the Cardinal, which is what I would rather do right at this minute.
"We are no further on than we were when we left Paris," I spit out. "She knows nothing and claimed as such. You obviously believe what she had to say. This has been pointless!" And with that, my temper finally erupts.
"Why did you not tell me before we got here of the King's proposal? When did the two of you come up with that grand plan? And what's going to happen now that you have got nothing from the bargain struck? Why did you insist that you had Musketeers with you? For this waste of time!"
My voice is raised and, before I can move, Richelieu has also lost his temper and almost jumps in front of me, hands clenched into fists at his side and his face inches from mine as he talks through gritted teeth.
"I hoped that she was privy to more information, but she has merely proven what I suspected all along, that Bircann was using her as his puppet. He had quite a different agenda, but he is still not talking despite …" and he breaks off suddenly, not wanting to tell me anymore and I wonder what state Bircann is truly in by this time. "I will advise His Majesty that she has told us nothing new, but he will not want the arrangement to change. He is totally against anything happening to her by way of punishment and has been adamant for days that Bircann is the one who has falsely led her in this. He foolishly believes that he can control her by having her on his Council."
Richelieu is very angry as I note his indiscretion. It is not a good thing to describe your monarch as a fool, even if you think it!
"Perhaps he can," I defend Louis, "or at least she will be close enough for you to keep an eye on her."
And I know that Richelieu will be planning on doing just that. Marie de Medici won't be able to breathe in the wrong direction without it being reported to the Cardinal.
He is walking towards his coach where one of his Red Guard stands with the door open.
With one foot on the step and his hands on the frame in readiness for climbing up into the carriage interior, Richelieu pauses and looks at me, a strange triumph in his eyes.
"And as for particularly requesting that you and those two Musketeers accompany me, I am surprised at you, Tréville. Did you not look at a map before we left Paris?"
I glare at him, open-mouthed. "Just how do you propose that I could peruse a map when I had no idea where we were going because you would not inform me as to where the Dowager Queen was being kept. Anyway, what am I supposed to have looked at on that map?"
He climbs in, seats himself and carefully arranges his black cloak around him before he waves a hand airily. "No matter. I just thought that whilst you three were out this way, you would want to continue for about forty-five minutes in that direction," and he points to the west. "Bircann's estate is that way. You might want to see if you can find your missing Musketeer. Don't worry about me. I'm sure my guards and I can find our own way home."
With that, he slams the door shut, gives the order and the carriage rolls forward, the small column of guards moving out before and behind him.
I stare after him, my heartbeat thundering, and less than charitable thoughts filling my head as to what I would really like to say and do to that infuriating man!