Chapter Thirteen-In the Family, by Mordaunt

The warmth of Layla’s kiss lingers on Raoul’s lips. It was unexpected, as is everything else about Layla. This is why she is compelling. She reads him perfectly, whereas he always finds himself dumbfounded. Her unwavering faith in him echoes in his mind: I will wait…I will never give up…I will love you always… Raoul should spring to his feet, run after her, confide everything: the double game he plays with Rochefort; that he met a woman he can never have, who has touched his heart; that it pains him to know he cannot love Marie Cessette as she deserves; that he feels betrayed by his mother and his father and his father’s friends, and now, by the duchess d’ Aiguillon, their grandmother. That he loves her more than life itself. That he envies Jean for her love. But he doesn’t. Layla’s honesty cuts deep like sharp, cold steel because he has nothing in return except dissimulation. Her steadfastness, her pure love, Raoul finds daunting, impenetrable to the man he has become. The boy Layla seeks no longer exists. That boy would have dashed back to follow her home; he would have poured out his heart to her. Layla is right, Raoul realizes, they are not meant for each other.

Layla… his cousin, not by marriage but by blood. He has been blindsided again. He, the Spymaster of France, failed to discern the truth about those closest to him: Layla, his cousin; Lucien, his uncle. And then there was Gabriel Martinez, his nemesis, who died at that dark street in Genova by de Winter’s hand, the same hand that almost cost Raoul his life. Raoul lets go a frustrated chuckle that echoes strangely in the stillness. A different cousin…

On the other hand, he is satisfied that his suspicions were not wrong. The deeper game Rochefort plays is not about a Queen who scorned him, a Musketeer who defied him, and all those who protected their secret. Rochefort has been setting up his game with patience, artfully, since before Raoul was born, and it concerns Richelieu and his sons, of this Raoul is certain, as he is certain that he was chosen precisely because of his grandfather.

“You should live up to your heritage,” Rochefort has repeated often and only now Raoul understands Rochefort’s true meaning. Blindsided again. But that is why he is a novice and Rochefort a true master. Gabriel Martinez too, he too was chosen for the same reason, although something feels haphazard about Martinez’ role and it is uncharacteristic of a tactician as disciplined and meticulous as Rochefort. De Winter’s part in Martinez’ demise, a mutiny within the ranks, appears to confirm that Martinez was a Richelieu heir that Rochefort did not expect to discover, and discovered too late. Unlike Martinez, he was groomed from an early age; prepared…but for what? To turn against his own father and his own family? That is one possible explanation but everything Raoul knows, everything he understands about Rochefort, about Rochefort’s skewed sense of decency, tells him it is the wrong one.

Rochefort wanted to be discovered at Saint-Fargeau and contrived a scheme whereby Raoul could warn his father and Lucien without compromising himself. Why would Rochefort play along with Raoul’s double game, helping him to keep up the appearance of being an ally and heir? Why would he make the revelation about Richelieu’s two sons, thus showing Raoul his hand–telling Raoul that he was chosen because he is Richelieu’s grandson, that he was chosen as part of a deeper game? Raoul has no answers. Rochefort is too clever, too slippery an adversary, and the game he plays is deep and old. But it is without doubt a game of revenge–and it involves not just Raoul’s father but also his mother. This is after all what his father implied in his message.

Raoul leans back on the wooden pier, drawing in the crisp night air.

Father…

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By the time Raoul has returned, the servants have been already preparing for a busy day in a busy, crowded house. He should have been exhausted, but he feels alert, his heart numbed, and his mind less clouded. Perhaps it is the cold air of the night, he tells himself, as he crosses the large hall which leads to the main staircase. “M. Goux,” he stops the house steward who is silently directing a small army of maids and footmen emerging from the scullery and the kitchen and carrying clean towels and copper basins full of hot water and trays with early supper for the many guests. “Can you direct me to my room, perchance? I did not have the opportunity…”

“Of course, Your Grace!” M. Goux smiles a large welcoming smile abandoning his small army and hurrying at his side. “It is a pleasure and an honor to have you back, Your Grace,” he continues as he leads Raoul upstairs and down the corridor where Layla’s bedchamber used to be when Raoul was last here. “We–and I speak for Madame Perle and all the servants in this house– we will never forget what you did for us that terrible night…”

Raoul stops. “I was not alone that night, M. Goux. The Baroness fought too, and many good men- some were injured, others perished.”

“Still, Your Grace. We are happy that you have returned. To us you have always been family, and now, we are made to understand that the bond is closer still. A happy day for this household.” The steward points toward the end of the corridor. “The chamber to the right, Your Grace.”

Raoul pauses, perplexed. “That is Layla’s…the Baroness’ room.”

M. Goux smiles. “She prefers a different chamber, Your Grace. She and the Baron… they share a larger chamber in the south wing.”

Raoul nods. “No need to escort me further, M. Goux. Return to your duties, which I am sure are many this morning.”

The steward bows and turns back toward the stairs as Raoul continues down the corridor. He fought in this corridor. Against Gabriel Martinez’ men.

“Your Grace?” It is a woman’s voice, quiet and timid. Raoul stops and turns to find a lady standing at the half-opened door of a chamber a few feet behind him. 

“Madame?” He knows the woman, although he has never met her before: Agnes Bernard. Rochefort’s wife. Henri’s mother.

“I hope I do not disturb, Your Grace,” she ventures.

Raoul walks up to her. “No, not at all.”

She attempts a smile but she is pale, her face drawn, her eyes tired and sleepless, her voice agitated. “I…am… Agnes Bernard…I have known your father and your mo…. I wanted to… I wanted to ask…” tears flood her eyes. “About my son! Henri… he is…my boy”,  her voice breaks and she weeps, silently.

“I saw him only a day ago. He endures, Madame. He is courageous and strong. And you must be strong, for him.” She is shaking her head, tears streaming down her eyes.

“I betrayed him. I betrayed my son. I kept the truth from him. I thought I was protecting him. I thought I could keep him safe…Then I married that fiend…God forgive me, I thought it was for the best.”

Her despair strikes Raoul deeply. Her words too. He thinks about his father. About his mother. They thought they were protecting him. Covering a lie with more lies. Can dissimulation be justified by the virtue of one’s purpose? Is he not doing the same, for the same reasons now, and does he not know his error– just as his parents do?  Does he not think he has no choice–just as they did; as they still do? How can he be so blind to those closest to him?

“Madame,” he reaches for the lady’s hand. “You must have faith in your son. He is as resilient as he is resourceful. He lives up to his true heritage.” Henri’s heritage and mine Raoul thinks: the heir of Louis XIII and the heir of Richelieu, their fates intertwined.

As flies to wanton boys we are to the gods…

The lady raises a pair of distressed, frightened eyes. “You say this, Monsieur, and I would like to believe you…” she gasps, “but how can I, when I know where he is…when I know who you are…and she…what she is to him…”

He presses her hand, his tone gentle but resolute. “My wife and I have an understanding, Madame. We will not allow an innocent man to suffer. Henri is an innocent man, and you, an innocent woman. You both have suffered enough.” She is weeping again, only this time, there is a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Have faith in him,” Raoul insists. “He is not lost. We will never permit an innocent man to perish.”

When Raoul enters his chamber, it is very different from what he remembers. There’s nothing of Layla here- just a large comfortable room. He finds a copper tub with steaming water ready for him, by the blazing fire in the fireplace. M. Goux is a most perceptive servant, Raoul thinks as he removes his clothes, sinking in the calming, lavender-scented water. He lays his head back and closes his eyes. When he opens his eyes again, the water is no longer steaming hot, and the pale light of a winter morning slides through the curtains, the sounds of a busy, crowded house, filling the air. Raoul dries himself and dresses. M. Goux has left a clean shirt and a doublet which Raoul knows belong to Jean–they are cut for Jean, and, besides, both he and Jean share the same tailor so Raoul would know Jean’s clothes anywhere. He tucks the clean shirt inside his breaches, fastens the tie around his neck, and slips on the doublet, standing before the mirror. It is only as he faces his own reflection, that Raoul realizes he knows what he must do next.

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In the room they are poring over maps spread out on Lucien’s desk, planning the sortie from Royaumont. Raoul chooses to stand slightly apart–it feels more honest that way: he is family and the enemy at the same time. His grandmother is the only other woman in Lucien’s study, besides Layla. His grandmother, draped in red. In the Vatican they say that when the Duchess wears red, the world must pause and listen. The Duchess has few words, but invaluable. Glènay, of course, Raoul thinks. Glènay is the safest place in France for them: distant, defensible, and, most important, Louis will never attack the family home of a woman as revered in France and around the world and as powerful with the church as the Duchess d’ Aiguillon, whose connections and money run missions and embassies from New France to Madagascar and India. Louis will never attack the woman whose wealth and influence ensure that France’s power spreads beyond the borders of France, and that his name becomes synonymous with Christendom. Louis strives to establish himself as defender of the faith. This is why Salih Bey is here in France. This is the game Louis plays with Venice and the Ottomans. This is the game he plays against the Company too.

The message passes unnoticed to most of the people gathered in Lucien’s study, animated and focused as they are on refining the details of a cunning but complicated plan. But it does not escape Raoul how the door of the study barely opens and someone–perhaps M. Goux–hands a small, rolled parchment: pigeon post. Yusuf reads it first, his features impregnable and passes it to Afonso d’ Armas, Lucien’s other son-in-law, Layla’s childhood friend, who is now a captain for M. de Roberval’s ships. Alfonso simply raises a perplexed brow, before he passes the message to Lucien, whose only visible reaction is a tightening of the jaw and a momentary deep frown as he quickly shoves the small parchment in his pocket. Something is amiss, Raoul reckons, but they don’t talk about it. No one brings it up, which means they do not consider it relevant to the problem at hand. The message is not about Louis or Marchal, Raoul reasons so it must be about something else–and the something else which concerns Lucien is Rochefort. Or rather, his war with Rochefort. And since the message was passed to Afonso d’ Armas, this is about the war at sea. The war with the Company of the Orient. His Company.

Only this is the time of year when ships remain anchored, or pulled on shore to be careened, or wait at coves for the first signs of spring and for the war to begin again. Few ships sail the waters this time of the year, and none of them are Company ships. Except— there is one ship sailing to France, and it is the ship Raoul has commissioned for Henri Bernard to escape. It is not a Company ship, he would not risk company ships this time of the year and in those waters. It is one of Ogre’s ships with a willing captain and crew who were paid generously: the Belladonna. Before he left Paris with Layla the ship had not yet been sighted. Could this message be about a sighting of the Belladonna, Raoul wonders, fixing his eyes on Lucien? Such a sighting would raise serious concerns among Lucien and his allies.

If all this is true, and the Belladonna has been sighted, Raoul thinks, they have little time. Henri Bernard must escape from the Bastille and be taken to the Wrecks as soon as possible.

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“It is always good to see you, my boy,” Porthos slaps a friendly hand on Raoul’s shoulder. Raoul stands outside the door of Lucien’s study surrounded by his father’s three friends, just as the meeting has ended. “Quite the costume you used. Looking like one of those Ottoman delegates.”

Raoul shrugs. “It is a costume for court. Marie Cessette was not happy about it. She thinks it’s too fine to wear to an expedition.” Porthos chuckles, mirthlessly. “Marie Cessette sends her love. She worries about you, about her mother, her brother, and her sisters.”

“We will be just fine,” Porthos assures him.

“And you?” the duc d’ Herblay fixes a pair of probing eyes on Raoul.

“You mean, me finding out…”

“Your father has a hard time with that truth,” d’ Artagnan chimes in, and Raoul feels blindsided once more. He could not tell. Not last night, not today. He thinks his father is aloof and impregnable. How can he be so blind to those closest to him?

“I…Well… I never imagined…” Raoul stumbles.

“That you are Richelieu’s grandson?” The duc d’ Herblay smiles wryly. “It should have been as evident as day, but we were too…distracted to see it. If not you, who else?” He chuckles. “The Red Fox should be very proud of you taking over his old office at the Palais Royal. He would most certainly have detested me there.”

“I beg to differ,” Raoul counters. “Given what happened to my father and Lucien, Richelieu would have no love for me.”

“Damn priest. Thank God he is dead and buried,” Porthos swears. “Nothing about your mother, then?”

Raoul shakes his head, dejected. “No. And it concerns me because there should have been something, somewhere. There’s other news, however…”

“You mean that I disappeared in thin air from the Conciergerie? We read your message,” the duc says. “I have placed everyone in danger…”

“But you may be able to intervene for everyone’s safety, Your Grace, and sooner than you, or any of us, imagine,” Raoul says, and his father’s friends look confounded. “I visited Henri Bernard in the Bastille,” he begins. “He gave Fabien some information about Rochefort, which I suspect will turn up nothing of value. Henri has little time. Fabien is soon to be replaced by M. Mancini…”

“What does that fop have to do with the Musketeers?” d’ Artagnan growls.

“Better than Gitaut I suppose,” Raoul replies. “But Fabien will not let go without a fight, which is why Royaumont is no longer safe. But you, Your Grace” Raoul turns to Aramis, “ you may very well return to court and to favor…and if so… work for the benefit of all.”

“I don’t follow,” the duc says.

“I passed a secret message to Henri, you see. I advised him to reveal the truth about who he is.”

“He knows!” d’ Artagnan gasps.

Raoul nods. “And I believe he understood my message.”

“This is madness!” Porthos counters. “That poor boy will be on the scaffold the moment he speaks.”

Aramis has fixed his eyes on Raoul. He understands the plan perfectly. “On the contrary, Porthos. If he speaks the truth, he cannot be touched. Royal blood…”

“Yes but…” d’ Artagnan begins.

“I know my son!” the duc protests, his voice quivering with anger. “I know my son,” he repeats softly. “Louis will not commit such an abominable crime.”

“You know him better than any of us, Your Grace, just as you know Her Majesty the Queen Mother” Raoul interjects. “Correct me, therefore, if you find flaws in my calculation. Louis will not harm Henri and he will seek his mother’s counsel.”

“Anne…Her Majesty,” Aramis says peeved, “knows nothing about Agnes Bernard.” Raoul raises a disbelieving brow. “At the time she kept herself aloof…”

“She was Queen…The Queen Mother had defied her exile, returning to Paris…The King and Richelieu–my devious grandfather–were considering annulment…Do you seriously think Queen Anne knew nothing about a matter so crucial to her survival, as the existence of a legitimate heir?”

Aramis frowns but remains silent. D’ Artagnan and Porthos exchange meaningful looks. The reasoning is flawless, but the implications grave. It was Aramis who tried to save Henri and his mother at the time, and they assisted him–Constance too–defying the orders of the Cardinal and the King who wanted the child dead.

“In any case,” Raoul insists, pretending to have noticed nothing, “my reasoning is this: Louis will ask his mother’s advice, and she–if I understand Her Majesty at all—will offer it wholeheartedly, so much so, that Louis will be compelled to recall her to court. And that is when Her Majesty will be able to negotiate…”

“You are truly remarkable,” the duc d’ Herblay gasps.

“It is one outcome. I think it is a likely one, but we can never be certain. It is a negotiation after all. But if Her Majesty negotiates for your protection and if you return to court, then, Your Grace, you must intervene on behalf of all…”

“That goes without saying,” the duc says.

“On behalf of Henri Bernard,” Raoul insists.

“Against his own son?” Porthos interjects.

“Henri Bernard has no interest in the throne of France. He is an innocent man.”

A deep frown creases Aramis’ brow. “Are you sure? In the hands of a puppet-master like Rochefort…”

“He is no longer in Rochefort’s hands,” Raoul pushes.

“Henri Bernard is not an innocent man,” Aramis says sternly. “He was not innocent, since the day he was born. You are the Spymaster of France. You should understand why.” 

“I am also a Musketeer, Your Grace, and I see an innocent man who needs protection.” Raoul says gently–he expected opposition. The duc d’ Herblay is Louis’ father after all.

“Let us not get ahead of ourselves,” d’ Artagnan chimes in, his tone appeasing. “Raoul is making a reasonable calculation, but it is all inference. We must focus on the problem at hand rather than imagining grand returns to court.”

“D’ Artagnan is right,” Porthos says. “Although I do feel strongly about that poor boy in the Bastille.”

“What about your father?” d’ Artagnan sounds eager to change the conversation, but immediately realizes the error, his segue leading to a matter equally tense. Raoul frowns despite himself. “Your father, yes!” d’ Artagnan continues noticing the frown, his tone stern. “What about your father? Have you considered your father at all?”

“D’ Artagnan…” Porthos admonishes, gently.

“D’Artagnan…” Aramis cautions.

“He should speak to his father!” d’Artagnan turns to Raoul. “You must speak to your father. Mordieu! Your father loves you and he has been tormented enough!”

Raoul smiles a fleeting, obliging smile. “You are right, Captain. I must.”

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He hurries up the stairs to the school room where he knows he will find his sister. He has not seen her since he returned to France–she has not seen him either. He worries about his sister, even if in Royaumont she is surrounded by relatives and friendly faces. Bianca is very close to their mother, and she is still too little to understand.

“Marquis!” The man giving instructions to Madame Perle on the landing, turns with an affable smile. Afonso d’ Armas. His cousin. His adversary. So many new knots that cannot be untangled.

“Call me Raoul, please Captain.”

“Afonso is better. We are cousins after all.”

“More than cousins. To Layla you were always her brother…”

“Indeed. To Layla you are very precious,” Afonso’s words echo Layla’s perfectly. It bothers Raoul, Afonso’s intimacy with Layla which he cannot have. In this family–his family–he must stand apart, if he is to protect them: at once son, brother, nephew, cousin, and adversary.

“How is Suzanne? I hoped to see her before returning to Paris.”

“Better this morning. She is with Layla, Rayya, and Rosie.” Afonso chuckles with embarrassment. “I was told to return later. Sisters need time with each other, so I am on my way to see my daughter at the nursery. She can stand on her own now!” He says it with great pride. The pride of a loving father.

“I am on my way to find my sister,” Raoul says. “I have not seen her for a very long time.”

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“Raoul!”

In his little sister’s warm embrace, in her kisses, the heartache that Raoul thought was numbed returns, and it cuts deeply. He clenches his jaw against the stinging of tears, surprised that he has any. He thought that the boy who could weep is no longer, and it vexes him to discover him, barely under the surface. Layla is right, Raoul thinks and pushes the thought immediately, the boy too, but the stinging of tears remains, so he buries his head in his sister’s embrace that breathes of childhood and innocence and pure love.

“My sweetest, my dearest heart, my Bia!” he repeats as Bianca latches her little arms around his neck. He carries his sister around the room, which is empty except for Giulia, Bianca’s nurse, who silently withdraws, using a side door, almost embarrassed to be intruding at such a moment between brother and sister.

Bianca is weeping, big loud sobs, “you left your Bia…you went far away…”

In vain he tries to calm the unconsolable child. He sits at a settee with Bianca curled in his arms, her face buried in his chest. Gently he strokes the child’s back, that trembling little voice whispering, “you left.” Now he is worried. So much grief and anguish for a child so small and tender. In all of his many calculations Raoul never considered this. How can he be so blind to those closest to him? “I am here, my love. Raoul is here now,” he repeats.

She raises her little face, and her eyes are red and swollen from crying, her soft cheeks pale. “You promise?”

He smooths her silk black curls away from her beautiful face, and kisses her forehead. “Of course, I promise.”

Bianca smiles a wide, trusting smile, and he is shamed for he knows he cannot do as he promises. He is terrified too: all the calculations, the artful games, crumble before a child’s innocence. What does Rochefort know about a scared little girl, or Louis, or Marchal? Anger overwhelms him–his sister cannot be injured thus.

“Maman?” Bianca’s little voice whispers timidly, and her eyes flood with tears again. “She has left Bia… Bia was a good girl.”

“No, no, my love!” He kisses the little girl’s hands. “Bia has done nothing wrong. And Maman has not left Bia. Not at all! She is…” he hesitates.

“She went to see our aunt in Venice. Our old aunt, remember her?” His father has been standing at the half-open door, Raoul realizes. Athos levels a meaningful look as he closes the door and walks into the room.

Raoul feigns a cheerful tone. “Remember our old aunt? How she frowned every time cousin Francesco put his feet up on the table at dinner? Oh how she would frown!” He mocks a deep frown and Bianca giggles, her pale tear-stricken cheeks slowly blushing. She turns toward her father.

“Papa! Raoul is back! He will never go away again!”

Athos sits next to Raoul at the settee. He smiles a faint affectionate smile as he reaches for his daughter’s hands, but he looks tired and dejected. There was a time when Raoul was convinced that his father deserved all the self-inflicted pain, his mother too. Now he knows what that feels like and he cannot believe he could have been so selfish.

“When is she coming back? How long will she stay? How far is Venice? How far is here?” Bianca insists with a relentless line of unanswerable questions.

Raoul recognizes his own anguish reflected in his father’s eyes as he seeks for some reassuring and vague response. He will not allow such suffering to continue. He makes the faintest sign and his father narrows his eyes, puzzled, as Raoul declares most convincingly: “Maman is on her way back but it is winter and carriages are slow…”

“I don’t like carriages! I prefer ships!” Bianca interrupts him with a disapproving frown.

“Maman must travel in a carriage. It is winter and ships do not travel in the winter,” Raoul insists knowingly, as Bianca turns her eyes to her father seeking confirmation.

“It is just as your brother says. He knows very well.”

“Of course I know! I come from Paris don’t I?” Raoul says as if the statement makes sense. She bobs her head. He is relieved to see that it makes sense to Bianca. 

“Of course. Raoul comes from Paris and knows about these things better than all of us here. And think how astonished Maman will be to find how much Petite has grown.”

Excitement flashes in Bianca’s large eyes. “I can play her my song!” She jumps from Raoul’s lap and dashes to her harp just as father and son stand together, following the little girl to the other side of the room.

It is a simple melody, lovely and sad. “It is beautiful, sweetheart. Did you learn it by yourself?” Raoul marvels.

She shakes her little head with a bit of a frown: “It is mine!”

“Petite will be a great musician when she grows up,” Athos explains.

“Also I will ride horses, like Rayya and Charlotte, and have a sword like Layla, and know about colors and paintings like Suzanne, and about embroidery and beautiful things like Renee and Rosie, and read many books and write like Marie Cessette, and know about everything, like Maman!” Bianca corrects him, sternly. The roster is ambitious and impressive. Raoul suppresses a smile. His father seems to be doing the same. Bianca, who has noticed, remains undeterred. “Maman says I can be anything I like! Marie Cessette says the same!” she says peevishly.

“Maman and Marie Cessette are absolutely right!” Raoul agrees.  

“Will Marie Cessette come with us? When can I play my song for Maman? Will she be here soon?” Raoul notices his father lowering his eyes and feels his father’s despair deeply. Even if they can distract Bianca’s beautiful mind, they cannot trick her innocent heart. In all their scheming and cruel machinations, what do Rochefort or Louis or Marchal know about a little girl’s heart? What does he know? And his father’s distress, so easily mistaken for aloofness in the distance that anger and selfishness and court life impose, upsets Raoul deeply.  Captain d’ Artagnan was right. Raoul opens his mouth to say something–anything–just as the door flings open, rammed by a whirlwind of boisterous boys. He gasps at once annoyed and grateful.

The exuberant, rowdy group of boys freezes midway.

 “Oh!”

They stand absolutely still, looking like soldiers, lined in order of height: Samy, Olivier, and Alexandre.  Alexandre opens his mouth to speak, but changes his mind. 

“Uncle!” Olivier, being the oldest, hurries to assume leadership. He draws a formal bow. Too formal.

“Cousin Raoul!” Samy chimes in, encouraged. He bows too, in a manner equally deliberate.

“We come to ask…” Alexandre starts again, enthusiastically, but the other two slant such severe looks that he swallows hard and resorts to smiling. It is a mischievous little smile that makes Alexandre look exactly like his father.

“We were on our way to ride Atlas uncle,” Olivier announces solemnly.

Raoul remembers the horse, a gentle, monstrous beast. “Atlas?” At the corner of his eye, he catches a cautioning look from his father, so he corrects his tone immediately: “Ah…Atlas,” he says, as if it makes sense, turning a pair of questioning eyes back to his father.

“Yes, and we thought to ask our cousin…” Samy begins.

“Yes! We wanted to ask if Mademoiselle Bia wanted to join us!” Alexandre finally manages to get words in. The other two are bobbing their heads eagerly. “M. Eduin says it is the last time before Atlas goes, so we can get more than an hour today!” Alexandre adds, his tone a combination of regret and excitement.

Bianca sets the harp aside and jumps from her chair, clapping her hands excitedly. “Yes!”

Athos stops her. “Just a moment, Mademoiselle!” He turns to the three eager boys and his frowning eyes and stern tone make them cower. “I gather M. Eduin will be with you?” Three little heads nod in acquiescence. “Good. Who else?”

“Father Ignazio,” Olivier says.

“Father Ignazio knows nothing about horses,” Athos observes sternly. “Who else?”

“Gilo and Alban,” Samy announces.

“They are boys,” Athos objects, and three eager little faces darken with disappointment. 

Athos rubs his forehead for a moment. “Your fathers have agreed?” The three eager little faces shine again, all smiles and bobbing heads. “Well, if your fathers agree, then Mademoiselle can join you…” Bianca dashes ahead, but Athos seizes her arm. “Not so fast, Mademoiselle! She can join you if…” he turns, admonishing his daughter, “if Mademoiselle changes into warm and appropriate clothes first, and only if her nurse goes too.” Bianca nods several times and motions to move again but Athos holds her arm firmly. “And…” He addresses the boys next, “after Mademoiselle has changed, on your way to the stables with Giulia, I want you to find Agostino and have him come with you. My orders tell him. Is this clear?” All four children nod eagerly. “Good…Raoul and I will be coming to the stables by and by so it is best that you do as I ask,” he warns them, but Bianca has already seized Alexandre’s hand and they are dashing out of the room, followed by Samy and Olivier, the door slamming shut, rather indecorously, behind them.

Raoul chuckles. “Atlas?”

His father is shaking his head. “Very popular around these parts.” He sighs and sinks in a chair by the fireplace. Raoul sits across from him. “I should be stricter with her perhaps. She is too little to be riding horses, even if they are Atlas. But in her short life she has faced so much heartache. You saw her. She cries at night, Giulia tells me, she has bad dreams and wants her mother. It is all because…” he threads a hand through his hair, “because of me. Just like everything that befell you.”

“No,” Raoul leans closer. “Those things that befell me, Father… I was involved. I am neither a child nor a novice. I have chosen my path and my purpose.”

“I kept things from you. Vital, important secrets.”

“Yes, and I blamed you for it, but I was wrong. I would have done the same. I do the same, and, no, I will not explain what or how.”

There is alarm in his father’s voice, in his eyes too. “What have you done, Raoul?”

“I am the Spymaster of France, Father.”

An angry chuckle escapes Athos lips. He springs from his chair and paces the room for a few moments. “Your mother is right. She has been right all along. She never wanted you near Louis, Spymaster! In Richelieu’s office!”

“I am his grandson, as it turns out. Some might say this is my heritage,” Raoul says in a wry tone.

“There is nothing to joke about, Raoul,” his father says grimly. “That priest…I cannot make myself call him my father…He was never my father. My father was a kind and loving man… That priest.. his entire life was consumed by the power he craved.”

“I am well prepared, Father,” Raoul says quietly. “I was raised to become the man I am and not by my Mother. Mother bought me books and maps. You must trust that I know what I am doing.”

Athos narrows his eyes perplexed as he returns to his seat. “Raised by whom? Your aunt and uncle in Venice? Signor Stelluti and Signor Viaro? What you do is dangerous, Raoul. You are not Richelieu–I knew him well. Unlike you, he had no conscience. He was all ambition. What you do is dangerous because you are a different kind of man.”

“Coming from you, Father, I take it as a great compliment. The truth is that I am my mother’s son and yours–do you believe I’d shirk from danger with that heritage?” His father is shaking his head. “We would both have done the same in each other’s place, Father. It is clear to me now. And both of us have regrets because we are, neither of us, like Richelieu. But we would take on that danger without a second thought. Remember when we  met, the day we first crossed swords, I asked you…”

“You asked me whom I fight for.”

“And you said, those you love. I have not forgotten that. Those words mean more to me with every passing day.”

“Raoul, I have made terrible mistakes. With you, with your sisters, and with your mother.” He clicks his tongue vexedly. “I blamed your mother, and I was wrong.”

“I blamed her as much as I blamed you, and I was wrong.”

“I did this to her. She faces unspeakable danger because of me.”

“Recriminations help no one, certainly not my Mother. Let us focus on the matter at hand. Tell me everything that happened. Everything that you know. From the beginning.”

Raoul listens to the details of a harrowing tale, now infused with knowledge neither of them had before: about his mother’s plan to find Agnes Bernard at Saint-Fargeau to avenge him, about Esther’s horrible death and his mother’s dealings with Fabien, about his father’s anger when he discovered that his mother knew Rochefort was alive, about what must have happened in Bragelogne when she was taken, about the trail of her that his father and Lucien followed to a dead end, and finally about Rochefort’s ruse and his revelation. This last part Raoul knows well, just as he knows that Rochefort made sure to afford him a cover so that he would warn his father and Lucien about the safe-house at Bourron-Marlotte.

“You believe Rochefort has her?” Raoul pushes. 

“You don’t?”

Raoul shakes his head. “No, although he must know more about her disappearance.”

“How can you be so certain?” His father’s probing gaze forces Raoul to lower his eyes. He knows it is as revealing as if he had poured out the entire truth, but his father is discreet. “I see,” Athos says, and after a moment of silence adds, “Aramis said the same.”

“From one Spymaster to another,” Raoul evades with a mirthless chuckle. “And you also say that Rochefort knew my mother? From before she was in Richelieu’s pay?”

“He called her Sandretta. It was her childhood name. I have asked myself if it was only his way of provoking. Rochefort thrives on other people’s secrets. He could have unearthed your mother’s childhood name somehow and used it to unnerve me during the confrontation at Bourron-Marlotte which he so artfully designed. He did the same with Lucien; brought up his dead son. He brought up old resentments between Lucien and me which we had already resolved between us. When all that failed, he brought up our mother and our father.

It is Raoul’s turn to shake his head. “Father, I am convinced that Rochefort plays a game that is deeper than a King’s secret and taking revenge against a Queen who rejected him and chose another.”

“I agree. I told Aramis, d’ Artagnan, and Porthos. He plays a deeper game–somehow connected to me, to that devious priest who fathered me. All the suffering, the danger…it is all because of me.”

“It’s because of Rochefort,” Raoul corrects him gently. “There is truth, however, in what you say, Father. The game of vengeance he plays started very long ago.”

Athos smiles ruefully. “I first met Charles at court. He was vengeful even then, I assure you. I imagined he was done with me then.”

“Only you were Richelieu’s son,” Raoul says and his father gasps.

“I understand Charles’ resentment against Richelieu. Richelieu forced him to marry in Spain–although I can’t see how that alone would explain things. After all he was married into the wealthiest and most powerful family in Spain at the time, and he would not have been the first courtier with an unhappy marriage. But Charles had a hand in my father’s…my adopted father’s.. dérogeance, the loss of his lands and titles, as much as Richelieu. I found myself in exile too–in England. My adopted family was destroyed and humiliated. This, I do not understand. Many years later, and after serving Richelieu’s cause as a spy in Spain, Richelieu abandoned him to Vargas. That resentment I understand.” Raoul clicks his tongue, as if unsatisfied with the explanation. “You don’t agree?”

“No, I agree completely. It seems to me there is one explanation that links both stories and Rochefort’s resentment against Richelieu and his family only grew but it was deep-seated and old. As old as his vengeance. He has been planning this for a long time. He used my mother’s childhood name, you say, to provoke you. What if he actually knew her? Not when she was in Richelieu’s pay, but long before that. When they called her Sandretta.”

“I don’t see how…” Athos mutters, threading a hand through his hair, and then adds. “But I knew your mother…as a child. I knew her. I think…”

Raoul gasps. “Father, do you remember Rochefort before you met him at court? As a boy?”

Athos shakes his head. “No. But there is little that I remember and so much that I am still confused about. Thomas…” a bitter chuckle escapes his lips. “The child I remember was never Thomas. It was Lucien.”

“That is where we must look, Father, in that past which eludes you but which Rochefort remembers and knows well because he was older. If we find out what happened, then we will be closer to Mother, and Rochefort’s vengeful game will be over. He knows where Mother is, I am as certain as you are, but he does not have her. He will use her to hurt you, however, you…it is personal…hurt you where he knows he can hurt you. We must anticipate that move.” Raoul reaches for his father’s hand and feels the warmth of his father’s hands pressing his. After so much time wasted in anger and bitterness, Raoul realizes that he is finally home.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

He is dressed in his fine costume again, although he looks nothing like an Ottoman delegate, and Layla is dressed like Pinchar, although she looks nothing like that boy–only a beautiful woman dressed in boy’s clothes. Marie Cessette was right to worry. It is a miracle they got past Les Halles looking like this. Entering Paris will not be easy–he no longer knows the guard-roster for the gates and the countersign. Lucien has provided instructions for them to enter using the old gate near his wharf. They will leave their horses at the wharf–Yagiz is too visible– and ride to Raoul’s house from there in a carriage that Lucien has ordered, instead of going to Layla’s house at the Marais, which requires them to cross many streets where they can be recognized. There, they will change back to themselves and emerge with some story about Layla spending time with her friend Marie Cessette at Saint-Germain.

Their farewells take a long time. Too many warm embraces and kisses and promises and tears. When the time comes to say farewell to his father, he no longer hesitates. He embraces his father and kisses him. “Be careful,” he whispers. “You too,” his father whispers back. “Whatever I discover, I will let you know immediately,” his father adds and Raoul nods. “I will do the same.”

As Raoul and Layla ride off together, d’ Artagnan turns to Aramis and Porthos with a self-satisfied smile. “I was right. All he had to do was talk to his father. Mordieu, these two are too much alike, and equally vexing. Now, finally, we will get this mess with Rochefort sorted out.”

Lucien, who has been standing right behind d’ Artagnan at the gate of the house seeing his daughter and Raoul back to Paris, sets a friendly hand on d’ Artagnan’s shoulder and leans closer. “I agree with the former, Captain,” he whispers. “As for the latter… Nothing wrong with a good dose of unwarranted Gascon optimism.”