Lucien opens the door quietly and pauses to let his eyes adjust to the dark. He carries boots in one hand, clothes under his arm. In the other hand he balances a basin of hot water. He crosses the room and sets the basin on a table, the boots and clothes near the wide settee. He steps to a window and draws the drapes back, allowing in the early gray dawn. On the sofa, the figure sleeping under his heavy winter cloak stirs slightly. He puts a hand on Layla’s shoulder.
‘Hot water on the table, your boots on the floor. I will saddle Yagiz and wait for you in the yard.’
He walks through the kitchen, nodding to Cook and her kitchen maids who are already preparing the first batches of bread and pastries for the oven. Cook grunts at his greeting and puts a packet in his hands. ‘Mlle Layla did not eat any dinner last night,’ is all she says as she turns back to kneading her dough. He nods and continues toward the rear door. He no longer bothers to remind the servants that the mademoiselles are in fact married women. It does not seem to stick. He goes out into the cold morning pausing to take a deep breath of cold morning air. It is a new day. He looks up at the house, wondering if Raoul sleeps inside or has gone to the dower house and if the events of last night had kept more than himself awake all night. There is much to do, but right now he will saddle horses, and wait for his eldest. They do not need to talk and for that he is grateful.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
The horses flatten their ears, lengthening their stride and surging forward. They are enjoying the race as much as their riders, lying low against their powerful necks. Jaaden growls deep in his throat as Yagiz draws closer. The young stallion shakes his head and refuses to back away, swerving abruptly as Jaaden shifts his weight slightly.
‘Ai!’ Layla exclaims gripping tight with her legs to avoid being unseated, ‘that was not fair Jaaden!’
Lucien turns his head, the wind whipping his long hair around his face as he sits upright to slow their pace. Behind them, d’Artagnan, Yusuf, Athos and Aramis are already trotting their horses.
‘He is a war horse mite. He uses his wits.’
Layla leans toward Jaaden to pat his sweating neck, ‘he will best you one of these days,’ she warns the horse. The big stallion nickers softly and rolls a wary eye at Yagiz. They follow the track through a copse of trees and emerge back into the early morning sunlight. The sky is bright blue, a few drifting clouds in the brisk morning. Lucien looks over his shoulder at the riders following them.
‘I did not expect more than you this morning mite,’ he grumbles.
‘I was surprised too,’ Layla says. Her father grunts, ‘diplomatic of you to say so.’ Layla glances at his scowling expression and knows the source of his displeasure. She rides closer, ‘I am glad you woke me to ride out with you.’
She looks tired to him, dark circles under her green gold eyes, pale even as the cold air reddens her cheeks. ‘Hmm,’ he murmurs, pulling another wrapped pastry from his pocket and handing it to her. ‘Eat something.’
‘I already have,’ she protests weakly and takes a bite. ‘Raspberry jam,’ she says. He smiles, ‘Cook makes extra when you are here so you and your mother will not fuss.’
‘Mother and I do not fuss,’ Layla replies flatly and finishes the pastry. They ride together in the chatter of morning birds and whistles from the sheep boys ordering the dogs to push their flocks higher up the hills into the sunlight, voices drifting on the breeze from the outbuildings, the sounds of the estate coming to life in the distance.
‘Father, what does it mean to you? Athos…Grandmother not telling either of you the truth for so many years.’
‘What does it mean? That of all men, Athos is my brother?’ Lucien repeats her question. He makes a short mirthless grunt, ‘I think someone in heaven is laughing at me.’ He glances at her unsmiling expression and sighs. ‘Athos and I seem to be, for lack of a better word, in a long pause.
‘What I am certain about is not judging your grandmother. It was not so long ago that she sought me out. It was at the wharf, during the uprising. I try to think back as to how she came to be an important part of our lives. When she did reveal the truth at the time of my trial, I was not surprised. It always seemed right for her to be with us – to be with me. This is different for Athos. He needs time.’ He glances at his daughter’s studied expression. ‘Like Raoul needs time.’
‘Mother says the same,’ Layla says glumly. Lucien feels a knot in his chest. It pains him to see her so sad over Raoul. Something is not right. Raoul is also distant from his father. Lucien knows he will not ask Athos.
‘Father, you and I were both lost, your mother found you and my father found me,’ Layla says slowly, ‘I have not thought of it that way before now. But it is true.‘ Her expression is somber, her brow furrowed.
‘I should be grateful it was not my father Richelieu who found me,’ Lucien says lightly and then in a serious tone, ‘who knows how fate and heaven conspire. I cannot speak for him, as there is another that he thought his brother, Thomas Renard. In our current circumstances, we hardly have time to indulge past grievances, which neither of us seems inclined to do anyway.’
‘Mite,’ he reaches across to cover her hands with his. Layla looks down at his large, gloved hand, feeling the warmth seeping through to her. ‘I do not understand it either Father. If not for Raoul’s reaction, I confess I would be akin to content.’
‘I would have welcomed Raoul to our race,’ Lucien says at last. Layla replies quietly. ‘I did not knock on his door.’
‘Hmm,’ Lucien murmurs and glances at Yusuf who has ridden up next to him. Understanding that Yusuf wishes to speak to her father, Layla reins in Yagiz and drops back to ride with the others.
‘You almost won,’ d’ Artagnan congratulates her.
‘Jaaden likes teaching Yagiz lessons on winning with wiles rather than brute strength.’
‘Not unlike his master,’ Athos comments quietly but Layla hears the note of approval in his voice.
‘We shall need all our wiles to decide our next course of action,’ Aramis observes, ‘and strength too.’ d’ Artagnan adds.
‘What did you make of Raoul’s disguise?’ Yusuf asks Lucien. Raoul and Layla had arrived dressed in costumes to deceive the guards at the city gates and allow them to leave Paris without arrest or delay. Layla’s attire as a servant was not surprising for the role she played. But Raoul had chosen differently. He was dressed in the style of an Ottoman envoy, but with a few details that only Yusuf might notice and attach significance.
‘What did you see?’ Lucien counters, knowing Yusuf would notice details he did not and had time to think about it.
‘He appeared as an Ottoman, yet wore a rose, which connects to Cesme, to my family and Roberval.’
‘Raoul escaped a sinking slave ship,’ Lucien points out, ‘it a remarkable coincidence that he ended up in Cesme and met Roberval. Perhaps Raoul only thought it a pretty adornment,’ Lucien suggests, ‘should we ask him?’
‘No,’ Yusuf is adamant. ‘A man who wears a costume does not want to be confronted with the truth behind his disguise. That is for us to discover kardes.’
The riders cross the pastures and enter the stable yard, dismounting and handing their reins to a swarm of stable boys. ‘Walk them out,’ M Eduin barks orders, ‘a good rub down and the stalls must be cleaned before you put them back in. Oats and little straw. Check those water buckets again.’ M Eduin takes Jaaden’s reins and looks questioning at Layla and Yagiz. He knows she prefers to care for Yagiz herself.
‘I will take in Yagiz,’ Layla confirms and the stablemaster nods and leads Jaaden away, the big stallion bumping his nose against M Eduin’s back.
‘It was a good ride this morning,’ Athos says to Lucien, ‘we needed to clear our heads for what we must do now. I regret Afonso was not with us.’
‘Afonso stayed behind to wait for the midwives,’ Lucien replies. Athos frowns concerned, ‘may I ask if the midwives have given any opinion yet?’ Suzanne’s condition worries him.
‘Not of which I am aware., but if I learn anything, I promise to send word to you,’ Lucien pauses. ‘Suzanne enjoys the warmth of the conservatory and may feel well enough too enjoy it. You would be welcome to visit her there if you wish it.’
‘I would,’ Athos promptly replies. ‘Good,’ Lucien murmurs, ‘will you watch Bianca ride Atlas this morning?’
‘Is there time?’
‘Of course, if that is what you wish. How much time do we need to come up with a plan to disguise and move twelve children, their parents, tutors, servants and more from here to somewhere else without getting noticed – or caught.’
Athos makes a brief smile, clapping Lucien on the shoulder. ‘I am glad you have our circumstances under control. I shall go and talk to M Eduin about getting Atlas prepared for Bianca.’ He strolls away toward the stable. Lucien watches him go thinking it is possible Athos has a sense of humor after all.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Rosie is still at the table, her head bent over pages in a small folio. She looks up smiling as Lucien drops into his chair at the head of the table. A footman places a steaming bowl or broth in front of him.
‘How was your ride, Papa?’
‘Cold!’ Lucien tears off a piece of fresh bread and dunks it into the broth. As he eats, he thinks about the meeting they are to have later and the complexities they must solve. He hears a small voice at a distance and sets down the bowl.
‘Were there any problems?’ Rosie is fiddling with a corner of the paper in front of her.
‘Problems?’ Lucien asks as he finishes the broth and leans back in his chair, ‘no problems Rosie.’ He studies his youngest daughter as she carefully keeps her gaze on the page.
‘‘What are examining so intently Rosie?’
‘My drawings for our cutouts,’ Rose answers, ‘they are not good enough. Renee and I have tried to do the decorating, but it is not as good as the ones in a book.’
‘Let me see,’ Lucien slips into a chair next to Rosie and studies the paper. He frowns, ‘what is wrong with the figures. They look quite good to me.’
‘They are too big,’ Rosie explains patiently, ‘we want them as small and detailed as possible. If we had the book, we might copy them better.’
‘I see,’ Lucien says, ‘where did you discover this art form?’
‘Grandmother was sent some examples of it by a friend who described a book. I have been trying to copy it.’
‘Where is this book?’
‘England,’ Rosie sighs, her small shoulders slumping in despair.
‘Oh,’ Lucien’s broad shoulders slump a little too as he considers the problem. He pats her hand. ‘Let us ask Grandmother if a friend might find this book from a Paris bookseller.’
Rosie brightens, ‘truly Papa? We could do that?’
‘We can ask,’ Lucien strokes his hand over Rosie’s blond curls. She furrows her brow, ‘the book might only be in London bookshops.’ Lucien taps her forehead as though she is forgetting something.
‘I have a ship! You and I will sail to London and stalk the streets until we find it! Should we ask Renee’s parents if she can come with us?’
Rosie laughs delighted to play this game with her father, ‘no Papa, just you and me! Samy too.’ Rosie adds, loyal to her twin brother.
He kisses her cheek, ‘Samyar is a valuable addition to our expedition. But,’ he holds up a cautionary finger, ‘let us first see if Father Massey in Grandmother’s house in Paris can find it for us. Although it will not come immediately. You must be patient. I advise you to continue your efforts here. It will only make you better at it should the book be found.’
‘I will Papa!’
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
‘Will Raoul speak with Madame Bernard?’ Sophia straightens her bodice, critically appraising her appearance. She is as plainly dressed as her wardrobe allows, but it is important when visiting the farms that she does not appear in silks and ornaments.
‘Why do you ask?’ Lucien inquires, leaning against the doorframe watching her. ‘I would like you to speak to Marie about a book,’ he adds.
‘Hmm,’ Sophia dismisses the significance of a book for her own immediate concern, ‘I believe it would benefit Madame Bernard if she were to have information about her son,’ Sophia finishes her inspection and turns to her husband. ‘She only knows that he is in prison, but nothing of how he fares there.’
‘You think knowing of his torture will help her?’ Lucien’s tone is skeptical, ‘did that help you in any way when I was in the Chatelet?’
Sophia blanches at the memory of him, imprisoned and under Comminges control. ‘Help is perhaps not the right word, and not the specific details, my imagination was enough. But I did want the truth. I had to know, and Madame Bernard impresses me as a woman who would want to know too. She is surrounded by people who will help her to bear the burden of it.’ Lucien still looks doubtful.
‘Lucien, unless her son is released Madame Bernard faces an uncertain future. As long as Henri lives, his mother will never leave France. She will be with us for some time. She will need friends who she must trust. How can she trust us if we withhold the truth from her?’
‘You speak of her as if she is already among my dependents,’ Lucien says slowly. ‘I had not considered this possibility.’
‘You have other concerns more immediate and more dire to our situation. I am not blaming you my love,’ Sophia replies, ‘I only ask that Raoul consider talking with Henri’s mother.’
‘I will ask,’ Lucien concedes. Sophia wraps her arms around his neck and leans up to kiss him. ‘Thank you. Now what is this book?’
‘One that Rosie needs. Marie will know what I refer to. My couriers are fully occupied at the moment, but Marie’s river house is packed with priests loitering about with not enough to do. She can send them out to the booksellers to find it.’
‘Among all the worries we have, you are fussing over a book on doll arts for girls?’ Sophia teases, ‘really Your Grace, is this on the list for discussion at your council of war?’
‘If it keeps the girls occupied and content, then it is worth my time. Rosie is worried enough,’ he kisses her quickly. ‘I will find you later.’
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Lucien stares moodily into the fire blazing in the fireplace. There are ten people in his library not counting him. At present, most are grouped around a large rectangular table studying several maps, talking in low tones to each other, fingers pointing to features of interest, their voices resonant with expertise and opinions. He sighs. Every man here has a stake in the outcome, people they love, wives and children who depend upon them and they will be heard. It is not for him to make decisions for them. For himself, he needs Yusuf, Martin and Afonso. Layla too as she has a discerning mind for intricacies. He turns around to the room and changes his mind. He wishes Rohan were here.
Arrayed in chairs or at the map table is d’Artagnan, Porthos, Athos and Gasparo, the officer who commands Athos’ mercenaries. Aramis is there, as is Martin his burly arms crossed over his massive chest listening to their remarks but making no comments. Yusuf is sitting behind Martin and next to him is Afonso, slightly pale from lack of sleep and worry over the health of his wife. Madame Bourgeois and her apprentice had arrived last night to attend on Suzanne. Afonso brought the news that the midwife advised against travel. The survival of both mother and baby depends on it.
Suzanne. His daughter’s pregnancy has not been easy. Sophia contains her worry, but he knows she watches Suzanne for signs of an early delivery. He does not like being forced to make Suzanne travel, but she and Afonso, through a friendship with Henri formed in Venice, have become targets of Marchal’s ruthless hunts and arrests. If Marchal came to Royaumont he would find all the others that he seeks as well. They must move, but at least the midwives will go with them. He glances at Athos. Suzanne is Athos’ family too and he worries about her. All their connections, long submerged along with the truth, are slowly emerging into the light of day and surprisingly with concerns and obligations already formed. Like him, Athos is tall and broad, a strong man but unlike him, Athos has a calm contemplative demeanor, and it startles Lucien to realize that his brother’s very presence is steadying.
He feels Layla’s eyes and makes a brief smile at her. Raoul is sitting next to Layla and across the room from Athos, about as far as Raoul can get from his father. There is something disquieting to Lucien about Raoul. An invisible veil has fallen over him that makes him almost impossible to read. It surprises Lucien. He had not thought Raoul capable of deception, but within his private cocoon, almost anything is possible. He can see Yusuf’s quiet observation of Raoul, still convinced there was a message in wearing the rose on his Ottoman attire. In a lesser man he might measure his disquiet against what he knew Raoul had suffered when kidnapped, but Raoul is not a lesser man, and Lucien’s instincts are that there is purpose to it – not to protect, but to hide.
Athos listens to the quiet talk between Aramis and d’Artagnan. He watches Lucien, who has turned from staring into the fireplace to the men in the room and indicates Raoul. ‘You and Layla brought the news that brings us all here. Will you remind us again of the situation before us.’ Raoul nods, stands and moves to the table with the maps.
‘Fabien Marchal has failed to carry out the King’s orders of arrest. His position with Louis is weakened and Fabien feels threatened. Desperation makes him a danger we had not anticipated. He is grasping and Henri Bernard is his last chance. He has not yet tortured Henri to, but this can happen at any moment. It is only a matter of time before Henri breaks.’ He looks at the somber expressions around the room. Everyone in the room knows it too.
‘Henri is connected to Suzanne and Alfonso, and through them to you Lucien. We know that Fabien tried to storm Bragelonne and he would not hesitate to storm Royaumont, even without orders from Louis. His only redemption is to make a show of devotion to Louis’ cause, and Louis’ cause is to find Rochefort. Fabien has nothing left to lose. His power wanes, but as long as he has power, Royaumont is not safe.’
In the silence that follows, there is a soft tap at the door. Martin opens it and accepts a tiny scroll of paper, taking it to Lucien. Athos watches Lucien read the message and hand it to Afonso first and then to Yusuf. There is no discernable change in Lucien’s expression, but Athos instinctively knows that whatever was in the message disturbs his brother deeply.
‘Marchal also knows that they are here at Royaumont,’ Raoul is saying, ‘he will come here to arrest them and will discover all those they seek. This could happen at any moment.’
Lucien steps forward. ‘Messieurs, we have no time to waste. It is dangerous if we stay and dangerous if we move. We must decide – do we leave or do we defend Royaumont?’
‘We cannot defend Royaumont,’ Martin says definitively. Gasparo, the commander of Athos’ mercenaries nods.
‘My men and I with M Martin have walked over every hectare of this estate, and I agree with his assessment, Gasparo says, ‘this tower is all that remains of the old battlements. Those in the dower house must be immediately removed to the main house. We can then set up defenses within the outbuildings and fight from there. But we cannot hold it for very long.’
‘We are in agreement then, we must leave Royaumont,’ Lucien states looking at each man. They nod in unison.
‘Where do we go?’ Lucien poses the next problem.
‘Perhaps we should separate,’ Porthos suggests, ‘it would force Marchal to divide up his men to chase after us.’
‘We would have to do the same with our men,’ d’Artagnan points out. ‘We are stronger if we stay together.’
‘I agree that we should stay together,’ Athos says, ‘so we should decide on a destination. Obviously we cannot caravan our way out of Royaumont. We must set a schedule of disguised departures and decoys in case Marchal has sent men to watch the estate.’
‘If he has not done that already,’ d’ Artagnan is adamant. ‘He will do it soon.’
‘Even with decoys and disguises,’ Layla adds, ‘we need a substantial force to ensure the safety of each group. The road and the forest can be dangerous. Outriders must be part of each assemblage traveling.’
‘There is a substantial force that can provide security in the forest,’ Lucien says without further elaboration. ‘Good,’ Gasparo says, ‘I would be obliged to meet their commander to coordinate our efforts.’ Layla exchanges a glance with her father who nods but says nothing. He has no intention of revealing the identities of his men the who guard his routes through the forest and work in the shadows of legality. But that problem is for later.
‘When we left Paris,’ d’ Artagnan is saying ‘our wives and children used disguises. We can do so again.’
‘Yes,’ Lucien is thinking that Constance knows several routes through the forests, and she knows Duval, who commands the force of men in the forest he refers to. That will be helpful.
‘But the question remains – where are we going? There is Moncel Abbey, where I have some influence. It has the space to accommodate all of us, but far less comfortable. It is not quite a day’s ride from Royaumont and as I have assumed responsibility for its garrison, I am quite sure it will not escape Marchal’s attention for long. It is closer to the border, if that is considered feasible. But it is a long journey to Amsterdam.’
‘If we went by ship, it would be shorter,’ Afonso ventures looking at Lucien. ‘Not the best time of year to go into the Channel, but the distance makes if feasible.’
‘Two ships? One as a decoy?’ Afonso suggests. ‘Two ships, two prizes,’ Lucien counters.
‘Even with the Aigle crew?’ Afonso asks. ‘They are a fighting crew,’ Lucien agrees, ‘but we cannot risk a boarding with a ship full of children.’
I can send a message by pigeon to Venice asking for a ship’s escort,’ Athos offers, ‘I also have an island in the Mediterranean that could be used.’
‘What island?’ Afonso looks hopeful. Athos shrugs, ‘it is called Stampalia. It has a harbor.’
‘The coastline?’ Lucien asks, ‘how accessible is it?’
‘I do not know,’ Athos admits, ‘it has the one harbor.’ Lucien raises a questioning brow at Afonso who shakes his head. He does not know it either.
‘Even if Venice had ships in Tetouan, they would be unable to get to us quickly enough,’ Lucien paces to the table and taps the ocean waters off the coast of Spain. ‘The Cantabrian in the winter is a dangerous sea, few risk it in these months. Venice may want to help us, but there is a substantial risk.’
‘We could do it Captain,’ Afonso automatically addresses his ship’s commander, ‘we could sail within a week. We have the crew and have mastered the Cantabrian on many occasions, and we can do it again, moving more westward. Once we are in the Mediterranean…’
‘We are likely to find ships belonging to the Company of the Orient,’ Lucien completes the sentence and slants a sympathetic glance at Afonso, a ship’s captain within the fleet owned by him and Roberval. A seasoned seaman who commands men fiercely loyal to him. Afonso knows the sea and believes his beloved wife’s best chance of escape and survival is within his capability. A long land route would surely tax her strength and jeopardize her more than the baby she carries. Marchal could anticipate their route, or at the least send the men he has at his disposal in multiple directions and catch them. On the sea, Marchal has no advantage. But a tempest over a heaving chaotic ocean is also no place for children and a woman in frail health carrying a baby.
‘We would have Jacky too,’ Afonso bolsters his argument, ‘and the gunship. What shipowner could Marchal induce to chase after you Lucien? No one would dare.’
‘Except for the Company of the Orient,’ Lucien moves away from the fireplace, slowly pacing around the room. A coiled tension emanates from him, his expression severe and eyes roving to take in reactions. Athos watches him, realizing that Lucien already knows what he wants to do. He must lead the room in the same direction. His orders will only go so far with this company. He wonders again what was in the message Lucien received.
‘The Cantabrian in winter….’ Lucien glances at Yusuf who nods imperceptibly in agreement, ‘we still end up with children on ships in Atlantic waters in winter. Only if there is no other alternative, so let us continue to look for another way.’
‘Douai is close,’ Aramis offers, ‘although it may not accommodate everyone as comfortably.’
‘Marchal will look for you at Douai,’ Athos counters, ‘he may already have it under surveillance.’
‘PierreFonds as well,’ Porthos adds. ‘Marchal will have men watching there too.’
‘Excellency,’ Gasparo addresses Athos, ‘are we prepared to cross the border into Flanders or Belgium?’
Silence falls. Lucien looks at the grave faces of the men in the room. What is their future with Louis? Will he put them all in prison and throw away the key? Or does he intend to execute the traitors as he sees them, strip their families of lands and wealth and exile their children? By leaving France, do they then relinquish all they have by default? Or is there another choice, to retreat to a place difficult to take them from, gain time to try and negotiate with Louis.
Lucien clears his throat. ‘I suggest we find accommodation near an accessible cove. I can keep a crew nearby, longboats beached, and a ship anchored. If we are truly pressed, we can be prepared to get to it.’
The silence is broken by a single knock at the door. Lucien frowns at the unexpected interruption. Martin is closest and opens the door. A murmur of voices as he talks to whoever is waiting, glances at Lucien and then steps back and opens the door wide. A rustle of heavy silks and the soft footfalls of a woman as she enters the room. Athos rises to his feet and Lucien turns to face her.
The Duchess d’ Aiguillon is a tall woman, her posture is regal, her hands clasped calmly at her waist. There is a majestic tilt to her head as she gazes around the room, her eyes lingering a fraction longer on her two sons. She is richly attired in an elegant silk dress, the fabric luxurious and adorned with narrow gold ribbon, a voluminous skirt, with deep folds in heavy satin. The bodice is fitted, the large capacious sleeves turned back to show the lining of white silk and touches of ermine. A narrow white silk collar borders the top of the bodice and nestled in a large bow in the center is a silver medallion embossed with the du Plessis crest. The dress is worthy of a queen, but it is the color that reminds the men, as they rise to their feet, hands to their hearts and bowing deeply, that Marie de Combalet, the Duchess d’ Aiguillon, was once at the very heart of political life, listened to by to kings, ministers and popes, her reach extending far and wide to the centers of power in countries across the Mediterranean and the Atlantic to the New World. Time has moved on, but the Duchesse d’ Aiguillon is still a formidable presence.
The dress is red.
‘Messieurs, I am here to propose a solution.’
Twelve Years After 