‘Madame! Madame!
‘Gilo! You are not…’ Sophia de la Croix blinks as Gilo’s word register…
…Men! Men coming down the road…
Marchal.
Sophia grabs Gilo, glares at Alban. The boys are wide-eyed and still. ‘Both of you to the chapel- now! Cousin Francois is there. All of you stay there until I come for you.’ She leans down into Gilo’s shocked face, and shakes him, ‘do you understand! You stay until I come for you.’
‘Ye…ye..yes… Madame,’ Gilo stammers. She pushes both boys into the corridor, ‘take the servant’s stairs and go out the back. Do not let those men see you!’ She watches the boys run down the corridor and round the corner. She turns around, takes a deep breath and hurries from the room and down the staircase. Did Lucien’s man Claude Duval see Marchal’s arrival? He is somewhere in the woods, keeping watch on the estate. She can only pray Duval will remember her instructions and not charge in to defend her and the house. She can hear horses approaching and runs toward the front door. She stops in the entryway, taking deep breaths to steady the wild beating of her heart and tamp down her unexpected panic. How Lucien would laugh at her…’what happened to all those brave words…’
Yet here she is … the hammering of her heart so loud she is certain Marchal will hear it. What would Lucien say to her…and suddenly she knows exactly what he would say to her…
…this is no time to lose your courage love…
She smooths back her hair, straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin and folds her hands together at her waist … and waits…
Marchal swings his leg over the neck of his horse and dismounts, cavalry style, his back to the horse. He notes the admiring looks from the two young musketeers, Chenart and Bernoul and the other men who accompany him. Not every horse is trained to this maneuver, and it distinguishes him from the men he commands. He pulls off his gloves and looks around. No gardeners are at the front, nor do any boys run from the stables to take their horses. It is impossible that they were not heard, and he wonders at the stillness. He looks at the front of the house, the two double doors of solid oak with heavy iron latches. No house steward is opening the door inquiring as to the meaning of their arrival and who they wish to see. Marchal takes a moment to study the doors, slapping his gloves into his palm.
He takes the stairs two at a time, pausing on the landing to test the latches. The door is unlocked. He steps back and kicks at the junction between the double doors, the two sides open slightly. Marchal sets his hands on the doors and shoves hard to widen the opening.
In the center of the entryway stands the Duchess de la Croix. She regards him steadily, composed, hands folded together. In her gaze he sees a vague politeness. He is no one particular to her and therefore should not be welcomed as a visitor. He is an interruption to her day, no more than an annoyance. Marchal is a tall man, broad in the shoulder, his features rugged and hard. She would reach his shoulder, but he has the distinct impression that she is looking down at him with a mixture of disinterest, disdain, and a complete lack of fear. For a moment they regard each other across the chasm of the entryway and across another chasm of time and memory. It is impossible to know if they are both thinking of their last and final time alone, in a sweetly scented garden, late in the night when darkness hides what is forbidden, inviting intimacies … he is shocked as memories burst forward, unbidden and unwelcome … he feels himself holding her in his arms, his lips against hers, tasting her, his fingers spread through silky dark hair, lost in the beauty of blue iridescent eyes…
‘Where is it? Where is the painting?’ he says curtly, slapping his gloves against his leg. He looks idly around the entryway, the portraits on the wall, the wide staircase leading to the upper floors. She frowns, not answering him and he blows out a resigned sigh. He extends one arm, beckoning the men waiting behind him. Without shifting her gaze, Sophia registers the two musketeers striding into the entryway, one to each side of Marchal. More men fan out into the entry way, dressed in rough clothing, daggers of varying quality, axes and a few pistols stuffed into fraying belts. These are hard men, disheveled in appearance, unwashed, their greasy hair slicked back. She can smell them at a distance. They grin, baring yellowed and broken teeth, tongues flicking over their lips, their eyes glittering with interest at her. A trickle of sweat slips down her spine.
Not musketeers.
‘What is it you are looking for?’
‘Do not play games with me,’ Marchal looks bored. ‘Your daughter did a painting in Venice. Now tell me where it is. Get her and the rest of them here now or tell me where they are hiding and nothing more needs to happen.’
‘There is no painting and no one here except me,’ she says calmly. He deigns to raise a questioning brow.
‘My husband is sailing to Amsterdam,’ she answers his unspoken question, appearing to be cooperative. ‘His Grace and the Duchess d’ Aigullon went together to Le Havre.’
…His Grace… Marchal thins his lips, ‘‘I do not hear your children.’
‘The children went with the Duchess. Her Grace is charged to lead the local delegation to greet Queen Christina. Her Grace thought the children would enjoy the outing and to meet the Queen.’
Marchal shrugs diffidently.
‘Of Sweden,’ she adds helpfully.
He glares at her, furious at the trap she set for him. Sophia feigns a compliant expression, deliberately misunderstanding him and continues to explain what he does not know.
‘Her Majesty is traveling with the French ambassador to Sweden, M Pierre Chanut. The Duchess of Aiguillon, as the Royal Governor of Le Havre, is the closest senior court official and must welcome the Queen of Sweden to France. The Duchess and M Chanut will escort Queen Christina to Paris. Her Grace is a great friend to Father de Paul and a patron of M Corneille and has promised the Swedish Queen introductions. Her Majesty is a great admirer of M Descartes, but of course it is too late for him. Queen Christina has an audience with the King, but I am sure you know most of this already…’
In fact, Marchal knows none of it, because except for Marie being the Royal Governor of Le Havre, and Pierre Hector Chanut being the French ambassador to Sweden and that Descartes is dead – none of the rest is true. She has no idea where Queen Christina is at the moment. But Marchal clearly does not know that either.
She has always been a good liar, even as a child. She could tell tall stories and invent entire on-the-spot explanations and scenarios without pausing for breath. Lucien had marveled at her ability to dissimulate. In their early days of their romance, stealing time together in forbidden meetings in unlikely places, he had more than once secreted himself while Sophia spun a story to Treville or Athos, looking puzzled, innocent or hopelessly confused and sadly obedient when asked about his whereabouts.
She pauses, waiting to see what part of the lie he believes or disbelieves. He seems uncertain, there are too many elements of possible truth in what she has told him. He has some authority from the King – she could discern that by the way he strode in her house. But how much authority? Can he do as he pleases or are there limitations? Marchal has brought only two musketeers, very young men who would be awe of their captain. The rest are street thugs. So, whatever Marchal does here cannot be entirely sanctioned as an official visit. She thinks of Lucien’s partner, Claude Duval, who waits in the woods with his men. She had told Duval, if Marchal arrived, to not intervene… she feels a shiver that she suppresses…this is no time to lose your courage love…
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‘We should stay,’ Alban whispers to Gilo. They are crouched in the servant’s stairwell. ‘Madame may need us. ‘But she told us to go the chapel to Cousin Francois,’ Gilo argues. ‘Should we not tell Cousin Francois about these men?’ He chews on his lower lip worriedly. ‘What about the man in the woods? Perhaps we should tell him.’
‘First, let’s go back and listen for a few minutes,’ Alban says, standing up, ‘then we decide who to tell.’
The boys tiptoe down the corridor, dropping to hands and knees to crawl to the top of the stairs where they could hear the voices below. After a few minutes, they exchange a worried glance, crawl backwards and hurry to the servant’s staircase. Outside the house the boys race across the parterres toward the woods. They go a few steps within the trees when two men each grab one by the collar bringing the boys to an abrupt stop. They wriggle and squirm but to no avail, the men hold onto them easily.
‘Quiet!’ a man commands riding his horse closer. He leans down from the saddle, ‘you know who I am?’ The boys nod energetically in unison, ‘yes M Duval! We are looking for you,’ Albans says in an urgent tone.
‘What is going on in the house?’
‘They are talking. He asked her where everyone was.’
‘That is all?’ Duval asks.
‘No…’ the boys look dubious. ‘The man is very stern…’
‘No threats on Her Grace’s person?’
The boys shake their heads. ‘Hmm,’ Duval mutters to himself staring at the house. ‘Go back and keep watch, but do not get caught! Her Grace expected they would do some measure searching and breaking things. But if it goes further than that, you come immediately for me. Understand?’
Claude Duval watches the boys slip back toward the house. He signals one of his men, ‘get to the front of the house and see what manner of men Marchal has brought with him. I did not see more than two musketeers.’
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‘So, there is no one here but you?’ Marchal says in a quiet tone, looking past her. He makes a smile that does not reach his eyes. ‘Not even the servants.’ It is not a question.
‘They are at the Abbey. With the family away, I gave them leave for dinner and evensong.’
‘Without you?’
‘I think the servants deserve a little time without their mistress to spoil their party,’ she laughs lightly. ‘They will return soon enough.’
He searches her expression for anything that will tell him if she lies. He wants her to be afraid – he wants to see her be afraid. But her expression remains enigmatic, her eyes do not leave him nor does she even glance at the other men, oblivious or deliberately ignoring the danger they pose to her. Well, he can fix that.
His mouth twitches slightly, ‘you must feel the loneliness.’ His voice drops to a low purr, ‘you may wish you had gone with them Your Grace.’
With a flick of his fingers, the street thugs move out from behind him advancing toward her, their eyes glittering, yellow teeth bared in anticipation. Her eyes widen slightly. He smiles.
‘Not yet,’ Marchal orders coldly, ‘search the house.’
Muttering, the men slide past her, some coming very close, leaning in to sniff her, grinning, their foul breath blowing in her face, some whispering their sordid intentions for later. They go up the stairs and spread out among the chambers.
‘You allow your men to show disrespect to me and my home?’
‘My men?’ Marchal mocks an innocent expression and gestures to the two musketeers, ‘M Bernoul and Chenart are here to accompany me on my visit to your home Your Grace. They are musketeers, honorable men. We see no other men here.’
For the first time she glances at the two musketeers. They are very young and look back at her with blank faces. ‘How will you explain the destruction to my house and … abuses to my person!’ she says looking directly at the two young men.
‘We cannot know what brigands might descend on you after we leave to … plunder,’ Marchal does not allow them to answer. He purses his mouth in a show of apology for her plight. ‘As you say Your Grace, you are here alone.’ He chuckles and strides past her into the gallery leading to the public salon and Lucien’s library. He pauses at the door to the library and turns to her.
‘Now, care to tell me where the others are hiding?’
‘Others?’ Sophia defers trying to collect herself. She has her pistol in her pocket – but it is only one shot. Where could she run?
‘You test both my patience and my intelligence.’
‘I have not known you to have much … patience,’ she says pointedly, and he knows he has been insulted. He shoves open the door and strides into Lucien’s inner chamber. She follows him and the two musketeers follow her. A life at sea has made Lucien a remarkably tidy man. As is his habit, the desk is clear of stacks of folios or correspondence, books neatly put away, maps stowed in the drawers under the map table.
‘Where does Lucien keep his correspondence?’ Marchal asks idly as he sits in Lucien’s chair and spreads his arms across the surface of the desk.
‘With him,’ she answers, careful not to look toward the section of the bookshelf that swings open to a secret passage. Could she get to it and hide before they caught her?
‘Where is the safe?’
‘What safe?’ she replies with a tone of exasperation. ‘Do you imagine someone hiding in one?’
Marchal sighs again and gets up to examine the bookshelves. Books are put away on the shelves, tables with flasks of wine, brandy, and glasses are contained neatly on a silver tray and stowed on a table. He strolls around the room, taking a book and without glancing at it, dropping it to the floor. He pulls out a drawer of the map table and grabs fistfuls of vellum dragging and ripping the maps as he yanks them from the drawers.
‘You make no objection Madame,’ he says as he pours himself a generous quantity of Lucien’s brandy.
‘It would hardly make sense to object to what comes naturally,’ she replies. ‘None of us can help to what we are born.’
Marchal’s hand pauses halfway to his mouth. He tosses back the drink. Then he sees the replica of Royaumont. He walks slowly to it, bending to admire the intricacy of the work, tiny furnishings, tapestries, portraits, real glass windows with drapes, the front doors carved in oak and stones shaped for the fireplaces. The tiny house is an exact replica of Royaumont and it occupies pride of place on a marbled table.
‘Beautiful,’ he murmurs, glancing at her as he uses his arm to sweep the miniature house from its stand and crash to the floor. He looks down at the broken house and stomps on it, reducing it to shattered glass and bits of wood.
‘Tell me what I want to know, or I will reduce this house to the same rubble.’
She does not miss the worried look exchanged between the two musketeers. They are very young. Marchal brought them to give an appearance of being official, and chose inexperienced young men who would fear to oppose him. Hopefully they had higher hopes for joining the regiment than where they find themselves now. They are frowning at the shattered remains of the house and the sounds of furniture crashing overhead, drapes being ripped down, axes breaking into walls. They are uncertain … maybe she can use that……this is no time to lose your courage love…
Her eyes shift to the two musketeers, and she smiles. It has the desired effect. The two young men bow immediately. ‘Your Grace,’ one young man says, ‘I am M Chenart. Allow me to present my comrade M Bernoul.’
‘Messieurs,’ she says smoothly, ‘I once knew many of the young men Captain Treville recruited to form the musketeer regiment, so nobly commanded later by Captain d’ Artagnan.’ Chenart and Bernoul react to the names of the venerated Treville and the famous d’Artagnan – men who formed, trained and led the King’s regiment. Pride flickers in their eyes and hope sparks in her.
‘It is unfortunate you did not know the Messieurs. Our families were close, Captain Treville was my godfather,’ she talks rapidly as soon Marchal will intervene. ‘The regiment he formed was a most noble group of our countryman. From where does your family come? Captain d ‘Artagnan is from Picardy – are you perhaps from the same area?’
‘The former captain is a traitor!’ Marchal interjects angrily, ‘you will not speak his name again!’
‘He is surely not a traitor!’ she protests, beseeching the two musketeers. ‘Never in life could Captain d ‘Artagan be called traitor to his King.’
‘He was not fit to be the Captain!’ Marchal charges, furious at her. His scowl is terrifying .
… this is no time to lose your courage love… Sophia draws herself up, blue eyes flaring.
‘Captain d’ Artagnan not fit?’ She points an accusing finger at Marchal, ‘you are brazen M,’ her arms held wide to encompass the room and entire house being plundered. ‘I know Captain d ‘Artagnan, I am a friend to Captain d ‘Artagnan and you Fabien, are no captain to Treville’s musketeers – the regiment of our anointed King!’ Her voice rings with ennobled authority.
Marchal’s fury explodes, and he grabs her by the arm. ‘Come with me!’ He steers her out of the library to the public salon. He pushes her into a chair. ‘Do not move!’ He goes to the crystal flasks lined up on a table and pours a generous quantity of wine into a glass and then throws the flask into the fireplace smashing it into pieces of twinkling crystal shards. Men are in the salon pushing the furniture around, smashing chairs and tearing down the window drapes. A man drags a dagger through the back of a settee and cushions.
‘Do you think someone is hiding in the fabric of my settee?’ she snarls sarcastically. Marchal sneers at her and does not bother to answer.
They can hear the men upstairs, moving through the rooms, the crashing of wardrobes being thrown up and tipped over, trunks thrown, furniture smashed. Sophia jumps to her feet enraged.
‘Your friends are not searching, they are plundering. I wonder what the King will think of the difference.’
‘I have His Majesty’s full authority.’
‘You do not. The men you bring you confirm that as a fact.’
He turns to her, ‘do you think this a good time for you to threaten me?’ he asks softly and pushes her back into the chair.
‘It is the opportunity you have given me ‘ she snaps back. He braces his hands on the back of the chair and leans closer to her, breathing in the scents of her soaps – rose and honeysuckle, lavender and her special musk … his eyelids flutter.
‘Perhaps I shall go wait with my horse until the men are finished here.’
She does miss his meaning. She will be what they will finish with – all of them. She clamps down hard as her fear rises. But she cannot stop herself.
‘How predictable you are Fabien. I would expect there is nothing too crass that would not satisfy a man such as yourself.’ Her blue eyes are ablaze with fury… he is fascinated…you and I have been here before … he thinks to himself …
It is what he saw that day during the Paris uprising, when Comminges, attempting to draw out Grimaud, tried to humiliate his wife by dragging her from a carriage. But she could not be humiliated. She held her head high, staring down her aggressor as Marchal intervened to protect her. He could still feel the heat of her anger, mesmerized by twin icy pools of iridescent blue and fell hopelessly in love for the first time in his life. But that was a long time ago…he looks into those blue eyes and feels nothing.
‘Your Grace,’ the musketeer Chenart is offering Sophia a glass of water, ‘perhaps you will allow me …’
‘You brutes! A pack of venomous toads!’ A woman’s voice, yelling outside the salon. ‘Let go of me you worm riddled cowpie, foul lipped blockhead, rotten ratmeat not fit for dogs!’
A crashing sound, a man yelps and Cook appears in the doorway, an iron pan in one hand, a pot in the other. She advances into the room, swinging away with both pan and pot, ‘maggot meat! Take your worm ridden hands off my mistress! Or maybe you want a little sense knocked into your tiny brainless skull. No doubt your nether parts are shriveled walnuts you lobcock of a man.’
Marchal roars, reaching for his pistol. Sophia leaps up to throw herself in front of Cook, ‘no!’ she shouts. ‘No.’
‘What is the meaning of this!’ Cousin Francois charges into the salon black habit flying out behind him. ‘ Unhand Her Grace!’
Cousin Francois is a bear of a man. He slams his fist into the first thug to confront him and then the second. The men are coming at him from across the salon snarling and swinging their weapons. Gilo and Alban rush in, trying to help Cousin Francois by jumping on the backs of his attackers, clinging like monkeys, their legs wrapped around torsos, one arm around the neck as they beat around heads with metal tankards and plates shrieking and yelling at the top of their lungs. The screaming melee moves back and forth, but the numbers are overwhelming. The two musketeers jump in, trying not to fight the priest and the boys, but to separate them from the other men. Furious, Marchal points his gun toward the window and fires.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
‘What the hell…’ Duval jumps up and stares at the house. ‘Merde, merde,merde…’ He points to a man, ‘you and me, we go in the back. The rest of you wait for my signal!’
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
The blast stops everyone. Chenart and Bernoul push the priest and boys into a corner and stand in front of them. ‘Enough fighting,’ they admonish severely. Sophia backs up, keeping Cook behind her. ‘What are you doing Mailys?’ she hisses at her sputtering cook. ‘His Grace charged me to look after you!’ Cook mutters, ‘he knows I am the only one who can make you do anything.’
Sophia crouches down to Cousin Francois slumped in the corner, blood seeping down his face. He groans but there is still fire in his eyes. ‘Stay down,’ Sophia whispers to him. ‘Gilo,’ Sophia says holding out her handkerchief, ‘hold this to his wound.’ The boy takes it and gently pats the priest’s face. Alban stands over them, bruised and shaking, his hands clenched into fists. Men file into the salon from upstairs, some carrying objects bundled into dirty bags. Sophia stands up and delivers a piercing look at Marchal, ‘I was right about you.’
He cannot stop the twitch of his mouth at her self-righteous disgust, her condemnation that his men are common brutes, not here to serve justice, but to humiliate and steal. Those are the men he commands … damn her to hell… I will burn this house to the ground…
‘Captain,’ Bernoul is saying to him in a calm obedient tone. ‘The men have searched the house thoroughly. We still have time to make other inquiries.’
Marchal locks eyes with Sophia. The men shuffle their feet, muttering ominously while still looking at her. They want what they believed they were promised. Chenart steps forward, his voice firm with authority if not accuracy.
‘Captain Marchal has decided! To your horses.’ The men slowly obey, backward glances at her, but they leave the salon.
Marchal turns on his heel and stalks away. Sophia hurries afer him and for a moment they are alone in the entryway. Marchal stops at the door, hand on the latch, his broad back to her, his head down as though he is considering something. She waits, gripping her hands together to keep them from shaking … please… just go …
He whirls, arm fully extended and slaps her face – hard. She cries out as her head snaps back, her dress rips as she drops to the floor, her mind goes black…do not pass out … she is dazed, eyes tearing … do not pass out … Marchal is a blur as he leans down to her, his voice like gravel cutting into her skin….
‘You never want to see my face again Your Grace…it would not go so well for you.’
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Duval creeps quietly down the corridor, pistol in hand. He can hear voices but cannot make out the words. Suddenly he hears a woman cry out…he breaks into a run….
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
‘Madame!’ Cook is beside her, dabbing at the blood seeping from her nose. ‘The brute! Merdaillle!’
‘Your Grace,’ a blonde handsome man is kneeling beside her, ‘stay down for a moment, allow me to look at your injuries. ‘M Duval,’ she whispers, ‘I think I am very glad to see you.’
‘We waited too long,’ Duval dabs at the blood on her face with his handkerchief. ‘My men are checking the rest of the house. There is damage, but it could be worse.’ She isn’t sure he is talking about the house or her face. He probes her bruised face with gentle fingers. It is a miracle her jaw is not broken. He looks at her bruised face and torn dress.
‘Marchal is a dead man.’
‘No,’ she gasps, ‘Lucien must not know of … this. Not until I see him.’ Duval quirks a skeptical eyebrow but remains silent.
‘Help me stand.’ She sits up, holding onto Duval’s arm, fighting a wave of dizziness and nausea. ‘How is Cousin Francois?’
‘He might have a few cracked ribs,’ Duval replies. Sophia’s heart sinks. They cannot ride as planned, she will need a wagon with a bed for Cousin Francois…and Cook and the boys. Marchal may hesitate to arrest her, but he would send men to arrest everyone else for resisting him. He would do it to punish her. He would do it because he could.
She pushes herself to stand, swaying unsteadily. Duval holds her arm, and she limps into the salon. Cousin Francois has been moved to the ripped settee, Cook perches next to him, using a wet cloth to clean his bloodied face. The boys are on the floor at his feet.
‘You must lay down,’ Cousin Francois says in a pained voice. Sophia shakes her head, considering the problem she faces…a cook, a priest, two boys and a wife…
‘Madame!’ Duval tries again, ‘please, you must lay down.’ ‘No,’ Sophia says firmly. ‘We must leave. Now. All of us.’
Twelve Years After 