‘Fils de pute!’ Lucien swears viciously, yanking his sword from the dead man’s body, pivots to drive his dagger into another belly, his sword slashing across another throat. He stumbles over the rocky terrain, cursing his attackers continuously dragging a man down with him grabbing for his face and banging his head repeatedly into the rock, blood flowing from the destroyed skull. The fight is racketing back and forth among the sparse bristly shrubbery, the wind is blowing hard from the west. His hands are freezing, his blood hot with the fight and his mind cold as he kills men one after another. He senses the sword coming down to pin him to the earth forever, he rolls and reaches his iron grip to the forearm of his attacker and yanks hard, one foot braced on the man’s chest and somersaults him over landing hard on the rocks, the man screaming as he breaks his back.
‘Allow me to put you out of your pain,’ Gasparo is there and swipes his sword across the screaming man’s neck. Blood spurts, he stops screaming. Lucien braces up on his elbows, watches his enemy’s life drain away, eyes become fixed and empty. Lucien falls back on the ground, rubs his eyes with the back of his hands. ‘Merde,’ he mumbles, ‘enculeur.‘
Gasparo holds out a hand to Lucien, ‘I do believe Your Grace, that you curse more than any Frenchman I have ever met.’ He hauls Lucien to his feet. Lucien frowns at the comment. Gasparo commands Athos’ mercenaries.
‘His Grace is blessed with better manners I assume,’ Lucien remarks in a good-natured tone.
‘No!’ Gasparo hastens to add, ‘I did mean to imply…’ Lucien chuckles and claps the mercenary commander’s shoulder, ‘I do not take it ill Gasparo. Putain ouais! I am just not in a very good mood right now.’
Gasparo makes a small smile. The Duc d’ Plessis has been in a foul mood since they left Royaumont. Mostly silent, withdrawn under the hood of his cloak with the barest glimpse of his stern sculpted features. He fought their attackers the same way, methodical and merciless.
The fight is dispersing, attackers losing heart as too many of their own are lying dead or trying to crawl away. They run to their horses, hoping to fade back into the forest. Gasparo’s mercenaries are not making it easy. They do not need orders to see how to spread their ranks to pinch off the escape. The killing is merciless as they overtake the fleeing men. Lucien and Gasparo watch, neither man reining in the slaughter. A few horses take off running at the clamor, riders clinging to saddles, feet bouncing before they can manage to drag themselves in the saddle, crouching low in the saddle.
‘Is it now enough for them to think before trying again?’ Gasparo wonders aloud. ‘That is the third time we have encountered them. Who are these men?’
‘My putain competitors from the Company of the Orient I assume,’ Lucien says wiping the blood from his sword. He picks up a flask from the ground and drinks deeply, still carrying his dagger in one hand. Finished, he drops the flask and scans the bodies littering the forest floor. Several are moving. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, stepping over a few dead men to the still living. He flips one man over with the toe of his boot and crouches down.
‘Who sent you?’ he asks as he takes in the pale skin, blonde hair, tall and muscular body. He looks up at Gasparo who is leaning over his shoulder. The injured man releases a stream of invective. ‘He curses more than you do,’ Gasparo remarks.
Lucien snorts, ‘but with much less eloquence.’ The effort is too much, and the man drops back breathless. They both look at the man who summons up enough life to spit at them, but without force and it dribbles down his chin. Lucien grimaces in disgust, ‘I got the meaning of that,’ He looks around, ‘is there another?’
Gasparo nods, ‘I see one there.’ Lucien looks back at the man and lifts his dagger, ‘see you in hell putain connard’ and drags his dagger across his neck.
‘Let’s try him,’ the two men walk to their second candidate who stares at them dully. Lucien tries again, ‘who sent you?’ The man sniffs, shrugs. Lucien looks at Gasparo, ‘wharf rats, not fit even to be in a ship’s crew.’ Lucien scans the other bodies. ‘Or at least not one of mine.’
‘Not a mercenary either, some poor riff raff recruited to a bad job, ’ Gasparo says hunkered down looking at the fallen man who stares back with a defeated expression. ‘I thought the Company wanted to kill you. These men put up a fight, but it is a poor showing against trained fighters. Too easily dispatched.’
‘So, their orders are to harass, not to kill. I think Rochefort likes to remind me he is never very far away. I must be of some use to him yet.’
‘A costly message for him to send,’ Gasparo notes. Lucien is picking up and shaking leather flasks and water bags, throwing away those that are empty.
‘Rochefort has plenty of those men to spend as he wishes,’ Lucien says bitterly, ‘he does not care the cost.’ He finds a discarded partially filled water bag.
‘What do we do with this one?’ Gasparo asks. Lucien drops the water bag near the man. ‘Leave him, he has a story to tell his captain.’ The light is beginning to fade from the day and in the depths of the forest Lucien hears the barking cry of wolves and feral dogs. He stares down at the man, seeing a spark of hope in his eyes. ‘Let heaven and nature decide.’
The two men retrieve their horses and wait for the pursuing mercenaries to return.
‘We are not far from Angers,’ Lucien eases the girth of the saddle, drags a rough cloth from his bag and rubs Jaaden’s neck, over his withers and back. He pours water in his palm repeatedly for the stallion to drink and adjusts the girth strap. ‘From there, it is a long day’s ride to Glenay. I will leave you here. Continue to Glenay, I have a letter for you to give to Francois de Vignerot. You speak with my authority. My mother, his sister, has already written to him. Secure the chateau and the battlements.’
‘Where are you going Your Grace?’ Gasparo is surprised. ‘You will take some of my men.’
‘No,’ Lucien says firmly, ‘I know this land well.’ He points southwest. ‘Plouarzel is 4-5 days from here. I will go to Tours and then north to backtrack the route we planned for the carriages and the wagons with the children. I hope to intercept them.’ He does not mention Sophia. He has no way of knowing if she is traveling or is still at Royaumont. That is, if she left at all, or if Marchal has forced her back to Paris. If she had left when expected, she would have been close to the children’s wagons. If she was on the same route. He makes a low disgruntled sound deep in his throat … if…if…if…
‘I understand,’ Gasparo says slowly, ‘but a few men…’
‘I would rather they were with you in case of trouble at Glenay. Assemble a cadre to ride out each day looking for the carriages. They should be coming from the direction of Tours. My mother planned to stay at Fontevraud Abbey.’
‘As you wish Your Grace,’ Gasparo replies, and tries one more time, ‘surely a few men…’
Lucien swings into his saddle. ‘I travel faster on my own.’ He smiles thinly at Gasparo.
‘I curse less.’
Lucien rides the back roads and forest trails to Angers. It is a relief to be alone. He feels the tension seep away as his awareness expands of the forests’ sounds and smells. Bird calls change as day shifts to evening. He can smell the change in the weather. A storm is coming.
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Yusuf watches as Martin and Afonso ride in pace with the first carriage. The window is partly down to converse with the Duchess d’ Aiguillon. Both men listen and then talk and gesture down the road.
‘What do you suppose that’s about?’ Christian asks, shifting the long gun to another position.
Yusuf does not answer, watching Martin nod and ride off down the road. Afonso reins in his horse to allow the second carriage to pass, waiting for Yusuf and the third carriage to come abreast of him. Afonso paces his horse alongside the moving carriage.
‘Her Grace wants to have the midwives to talk to my wife. She is increasingly … uncomfortable. Martin went to see if the road widens.’ Yusuf nods, an experienced father. He understands when a woman carrying a child becomes ‘uncomfortable.’
‘Whether the road widens or not, we will stop. We need to know if we can get across the river to the Abbey as we intended,’ Christian says. Fontevraud Abbey is their destination, across the river and a short distance from the center of Tours. It is a day’s travel from Fontevraud Abbey to Glenay.
Yusuf shrugs, ‘babies come when they do. Does Her Grace have an alternative.’
‘Yes,’ Afonso says with a grim expression. ‘But it will considerably less comfortable.’
Martin is riding back, ‘not far, we can stop easily. The inn is still there.’
The carriages turn off the road into the yard of an inn, two stories, a rectangular building serving as a tavern and dining room. Marie gets out of the carriage to make room for the midwives. She stretches her back and breathes in cold fresh air. She shivers under her heavy cloak and listens at the door to the carriage as the two midwives, Madame Bourgeois and Madame Vreni, talk to Suzanne. Yusuf gets down from the carriage box and taps on the door of the small carriage. Thea, one of the two nurses appears at the window, finger to her lips to shush him. Nella and the twin boys are sleeping. He nods and steps away.
He turns toward Marie. She is pale, the lines around her eyes deepened with the rigors of their journey and concern for her granddaughter. She bears a look of worried concentration as she listens to the murmur of voices inside the carriage. Yusuf reaches up to the box and grabs a blanket, carrying it to the elderly woman and settling it around her shoulders. She smiles at him gratefully.
‘How is Madame d’ Armas?’
Marie shakes her head, surveying the yard and inn with displeasure. ‘I had hoped we could get to Fontevraud, but it may be a distance too far. I fear we are running out of time.’ She seems to be considering something.
‘Yusuf, there is a very small priory of Poor Clares. It is not far, on this side of the river. Would you ride ahead and see if they can accommodate us?’
‘There is a monastery on this side of the river,’ Yusuf says, ‘would it have more amenities?’
‘It has monks,’ Marie replies, ‘if there were nuns too – but only Fontevraud is a double monastery. I had hoped we would reach it. It would be better with women present to assist us.’ She waves at Martin’s mercenaries congregating in the yard. ‘We are well supplied with men.’
Yusuf hesitates. The Poor Clares are an order of women. Women who take a pious vow of poverty and live entirely by alms. He is an Ottoman, easily recognized as a Muslim. He wonders how he will be received.
Marie reads his mind, ‘I am a benefactor for their tiny mission. Simply use my name. They will assume that you are from my house.’
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Marie’s sparse description of the Poor Clares priory was more glowing than the reality. The three carriages crowd together in the yard, surrounded by a scatter of small outbuildings in varied states of repair. The stable resembles a lean-to, the main building is a narrow church, with a tall spire and two-story building attached forming one side of the yard. All the stone walls are crumbling and stained. A large kitchen garden has been laid out in one corner of the yard, the neat bare rows crusted with snow. The roof looks in poor repair, caulking around the windows crumbling. There is a general sense of decrepitude.
A woman emerges. She wears a simple brown tunic, a cord knotted at the waist, a wimple, and a black veil. Marie is getting out of the first carriage.
‘Your Grace, your man is inside touring the rooms with Sister Cecily.’
‘Sister Collette,’ Marie takes the nun’s extended hands in her own, ‘you are good to help us in our time of need.’
‘Of course!’ the nun replies looking over Marie’s shoulder to the doorway where Yusuf has emerged. ‘I hope we will have what you require.’
A flurry of snow whips the women’s skirts around their legs. Afonso and Madame Bourgeois help Suzanne from the carriage, walking slowly, stopping when Suzanne pauses, her back aching, muscles tightening like fists, building in intensity and then the release. There is a bustle of activity to empty the carriages, find the right trunks that will be needed, secure the horses. Martin orders his men to investigate the outbuildings, they will need places to sleep as they rotate their guard. In the kitchen, Madame Vreni is asking other Sisters to boil water.
Yusuf accompanies Marie to the room for Suzanne. Marie stands in the doorway transfixed. ‘Rather spare,’ she murmurs taking small steps into the dimly lit room. running a finger over the few furnishings. It is a monk’s cell, narrow and bare except for the bed and a hard chair. But it is clean and there is a window high on the wall behind the bed. A plain wooden cross hangs below the window.
‘Sister Collette has two small tables we can move in,’ Yusuf explains Madame Bourgeois’ instructions. Martin comes in carrying a table on his shoulder, Christian behind with the second table. Yusuf pushes the narrow monk’s bed, more like cot, to the center so the midwives can attend to Suzanne from both sides. Madame Bourgeois opens her small boxes and bag, setting out vials and small pouches, mixing bowls, a mortar and pestle. This is where Madame Vreni will work on preparations to combat pain and fever. An uncomfortable looking heavy wooden chair stands in the corner. Suzanne is guided into the room by Afonso and perches on the edge of the bed. She looks around the room, but Yusuf can see that her gaze is turned inward to what is occurring within. He crouches down in front of her and covers her ice cold hands with his.
‘Your hands are warm,’ she smiles. ‘Cesaret küçük kız kardeş,’ he murmurs.
‘I do not feel very brave. Her voice is barely a whisper. ‘It is too soon.’
‘Not by much,’ he says comfortingly, ‘it is as God wills.’ He puts a hand on Afonso’s shoulder, ‘I will be close, should you need anything.’
‘It is cold in here,’ Afonso says. ‘I will talk to Martin,’ Yusuf replies.
He goes into the corridor where Martin waits. ‘That room is freezing and there is no fireplace. A brazier would help. See if there are any in the other rooms. I noticed a few inns not too far.’
Yusuf hands him a pouch clinking with coin. ‘If they do not lend, then buy. We need more wood too. Send someone to search for food. We cannot burden the sisters with trying to feed us.’
They draw buckets of water from the cistern, and chop wood to keep the fires going for hot water and cooking. Martin and Christian establish the perimeter and assign the men to their watches. They push the carriages around the back of the outbuildings. The others arrange pallets in the outbuildings to sleep. The horses are cared for and led inside the rickety stable for the night.
In the kitchen Martin and Yusuf eat bread, cheese and drink from bowls of hot broth. They review their preparations, probing what they may have overlooked. They are also listening to low moans drifting down empty corridors and through the floors. It has begun and as husbands and fathers, they know what is to come, the sounds that are expected and those that should be feared. All they can do now is keep the fires burning and wait. Yusuf looks around the room. The priory is spartan, stone floors grooved and worn smooth from centuries of inhabitants, the furnishings are minimal and utilitarian. But it is scrupulously clean, every shelf and table wiped, dishware and utensils neatly stacked, the floors scrubbed and windows sparkling. Yusuf goes to where Sister Collette is stirring a large cauldron of stew from provisions they were able to purchase.
‘Sister,’ Yusuf speaks hesitantly, ‘while we wait for the blessed event, might we return your generosity with work that is needed doing? Does the roof leak, or do fireplaces need cleaning? Or perhaps there is work to do in the stable.’
Sister Collette pauses her stirring and looks at him in amazement. ‘We have but one fireplace in our common room. We rarely use it as it smokes. The roof leaks in places and the stables…’ She shakes her head, ‘I am grateful for your offer, but we do not have materials to make repairs M.’
‘Consider the materials part of our effort,’ Yusuf replies. ‘Simply point us in the direction of need.’
He walks back to Martin and recounts the conversation. Let’s check the chimney and the roof,’ Martin suggests. ‘There is a storm coming. A dry room and a fire are good places to start.’
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Claude Duval paces his horse next to the wagon. He glances at the woman on the bench, her bruised face partially obscured by the hood of her heavy winter cloak. Behind her, under the canvas covering lies Cousin Francois who sleeps most of the time, which is a blessing. His injuries are more substantial than they first realized. The middle-aged woman attends to him. She is called Cook by the boys and introduced to him as Madame Briochet by her mistress, the woman driving the wagon – the Duchess de la Croix.
They did not stop as Duval expected at the Carmelite abbey near Pointoise. They could have spent a comfortable night in the abbey, but the Duchess argued that there were more daylight hours in which they could travel. Paris lies behind and to the east is Versailles. Duval considers the villages he knows that lie on this road.
‘M Duval, we will need accommodations in a traveling inn and to change the horses,’ the duchess seems to read his mind. ‘Will you kindly send one of your men to make arrangements.’
‘Change the horses Madame?’ he asks. ‘Do you not wish to rest for the night?’
He refrains from reminding her that she could drive into any one of the chateaux they are passing or even into Versailles and be accommodated, as befits her noble status, with great luxury. But Lucien Grimaud’s wife does not want luxury, she wants to put as much distance as possible between the wagon and the danger Marchal poses. She also wants to catch up to her children. He beckons to one of his men.
Sophia is calculating distances, thinking that if she can change the horses, by the end of tomorrow, if the weather lasts, she can be past Chartres and close to Vendome. But if the weather turns, there is an abbey near Chartres there that can shelter them, Marie had given her the name of the abbot, Abbé de la Rivière.
‘How is he?’ Sophia glances back into the wagon. Madame Briochet is tucking another blanket around Cousin Francois. Gilo and Alban keep watch at the rear of the wagon. They are chewing on the last of the bread.
‘He is sleeping Madame, ‘ her cook replies, ‘you must be tired Your Grace. Can not one of the men drive?’
‘I am fine,’ Sophia replies and turns back. She is glad for the work driving the team, if not for that she would have too much time to wonder and let her worry run wild. She can only pray for Suzanne and her twin boys. Where is Constance and Elodie now? Is Rosie warm enough? Marchal hunts for Suzanne, looking for some painting. Whose portrait had Suzanne painted?
And Lucien … he must be in Glenay. How she misses him, wishes for Jaaden to appear on the road before her, Lucien tall and broad in the saddle, his dark hair streaming in the wind. She can see the strong angular features of his face, feel the sculpted muscular planes of his body under her exploring fingers, the strength in his arms holding her, his voice deep and quiet, whispering to her. She is tired, her arm hurts from Marchal’s grip, her face throbbing from his fist…
…this is not the time to lose your courage love…
She gives her head a little shake to clear it, reaches for the flask of brandy she had taken from Lucien’s library. She takes a drink, the warmth spreading down her throat and through her limbs. She lifts the reins and drives on, keeping a wary eye on the slate gray sky, the darkening clouds in the west.
A storm is coming.
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“Sleepers awake! A voice astounds us
The shout of rampart guards surround us
Awake arise
Midnight’s peace their cry has broken
Their urgent summons clearly spoken…”
Lamb of God the heavens adore you
Let saints and angels sing before you
We follow all and heed your call
To come into the banquet hall…”
Father Massey’s deep basso voice reverberates in the deep quiet of the woods, some birds pausing their song to listen while others startle and take flight. Persephone, riding in a basket held on Brother Ignazio’s lap, mews loudly as she is jostled by the rutted road and rocked by Ignazio swaying to the rhythm as he adds his strong baritone voice to the chorus. Brother Ignazio turns frequently in his seat, encouraging the children behind him to sing. And, they do, Samy and Olivier singing with clear high voices, encouraging the younger children to join in. Aramis rides next to the wagon, singing more softly and among the men riding farther out from the wagon, a few of the mercenaries also know the tune and the words. Olivain rides near the rear where Rayya sits. They smile at each other and sing together.
‘Father Massey,’ Constance says quietly, leaning over the rear of the bench. ‘We are hardly unobtrusive as we travel through this forest. We are like a beacon in the sky, showing exactly our location. Is this wise?’
‘We are what we are Madame,’ Father Massey turns his head slightly to smile at her. ‘We are Jesuit and a Benedictine, nuns and ordinary men accompanying children to church. It also keeps the children from fretting.’
Father Massey is not wrong. In the days since they left Royaumont, the weather has worsened, making riding in the wagon or on horseback unpleasant. The children are tired of jouncing in the wagon on winter ravaged roads and trying to stay warm. They still have a long way to go.
Constance purses her lips but sits back and scans the deeps shadows within the thick trees surrounding them. She knows this part of the forest, it is almost due east from Plouarzel and the Wrecks, the hidden coves favored by Benito de Soto and Lucien Grimaud. There are few captains who will test themselves and their crew against the Wrecks, dangerous currents, submerged shoals and narrow winding channels. She remembers standing on the beach with her brothers watching as the lanterns marking the longboats came closer. They could hear the hoots and shouts of de Soto and Grimaud, their wild laughter as they scraped past dangerous submerged rocks and poled their heavily laden longboats away from the shoals. ‘Crazy bastards,’ her brother Benoit would mutter. After that, the wagons were loaded, and it was her task to lead the mule trains through the forests to the safe houses in Paris. She knew every possible route and the alternates, where the trees were thickest to allow them to hide from guards or their competitors. Sometimes Benito told Lucien to go with the wagons. Lucien would tell her, ‘wake me if I need to shoot someone,’ climb into the wagon bed under the tarp and sleep most of the way to Paris.
It is the fifth day since they left Royaumont. The weather has been poor, and it has taken two long days for them to travel from the Carmel St Joseph near Pointoise to the Abbey of Saint-Père-en-Vallée near Chartres and another two days to get past Vendome. Athos estimates they are more than halfway to Tours. Last night they stayed in a small inn just off the road. The innkeeper had apologized for the lack of available rooms, offering the stable. Athos had spoken to three men sharing a room and Porthos handed out coins. The men agree to sleep in the common room, on pallets in front of the fire to allow the women and children to stay in their room. Athos and d’ Artagnan brought basins of hot water from the kitchen for washing and Porthos carried up a heavy tray laden with hot broth, bread and cheese. They crowded together for warmth, ate hungrily and fell into a deep sleep on pallets. Elodie and Constance shared the bed, baby Juliette tucked into her mother’s warmth.
For days they have felt the presence of men following them, coming close, but when Olivain and Athos’ mercenaries to confront the intruders, they fade back into the forest.
‘You will not see them,’ Constance thinks the men are smugglers, ‘they will wait for us to pass and go behind us to see if we have something they want.’ She knows that because it was her strategy when traveling through these woods avoiding competitors or local guard regiments.
After that, Olivain and the mercenaries ranged farther and moved in a sweeping action to come up behind the wagon. It was in that way they flushed out, for the first time, the men who were following them. The mercenaries drew their weapons, but the strangers turned and quickly withdrew. They have not been sighted again, but Charles and the others suspect they are still there. They debate it at night.
‘Whether Rochefort or Marchal, why do they not attack?’ Porthos asks, ‘they do not look much like an organized force of men.’
‘Not Rochefort’s Slavs. Likely Marchal’s street thugs,’ d ‘Artagnan ponders. ‘Rochefort’s mercenaries would not scatter.’
Aramis suggests, ‘whoever it is may have orders about harm to the children. That makes it complicated for them.’
‘Neither Rochefort or Marchal would worry about roughing up the children,’ Athos says sourly, ‘they have no sentiments for the young ones.’
‘Handing out coins at inns could cause interest,’ Constance is more pragmatic. ‘They could just be thieves testing our resolve.’
‘Nothing wrong with our resolve,’ d’ Artagnan mutters.
They travel at a steady if slow pace. The persistent cold discourages high spirits and willingness to play the games devised by Rayya and Charlotte. Even Renee and Rosie have put away their book of cut-outs, their fingers tucked inside their jackets. Everyone huddles closer under the blankets. Athos has taken Bianca up to ride with him for short periods. D’ Artagnan has done the same for his son and Porthos for Renee. The older boys, Samy and Olivier have been allowed to ride the two horses tied to the rear of the wagon, both boys trading with Charlotte so she can ride too.
‘Where are we?’ Elodie asks. Father Massey holds up a finger of authority, ‘our destination is Trinity Abbey. It is not far away.’ In fact, we should be arriving very soon.’
A battered sign hung haphazardly on a tree announces the direction of the church. Father Massey turns the wagon, and they bounce their way down to an arched gateway, through which the path opens into a large yard, dominated by a large church.
‘Trinity Abbey,’ Father Massey announces as the wagon comes a stop. He fixes the reins and jumps down from the bench. A monk is striding toward them, two nuns hurrying in his wake. Small boys appear and go directly to the horses.
‘Welcome children,’ a young woman, her round pleasant face pinched by the whimple, beams as Samy, Alexandre and Olivier climb down from the wagon. Charlotte is helped by her older brother and Olivain extends a hand to Rayya. ‘We have been expecting you. I am Sister Mariam, and this,’ Sister Mariam indicates the second nun, ‘is Sister Therese.’ She extends her arm for them to follow Sister Therese.’
‘Come Petite.’ Athos sets Bianca on the ground and turns to help Renee and Rosie. Bianca looks around hesitantly. Rayya jumps down and takes Bianca’s hand. ‘Let’s go inside and find a lovely fire to get warm.’
‘Thanks to Her Grace, Duchess d’ Aiguillon,’ d’ Artagnan murmurs as he assists Constance and Elodie from the wagon. ‘Her patronage to these monasteries is a blessing to us. Allow me take her.’ Constance places Juliette in his arms, the baby smiling and reaching up a tiny hand to her father.
‘We will have a bed tonight,’ Constance agrees, rubbing her back. Just in time she thinks as she pauses to smell the change in the weather. She looks up at the iron gray sky. A storm is coming.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
…watch me … a tiny bird of a girl on a red saddle spreads her arms wide, dark hair streaming out behind her, short legs gripping the big horse gliding under her splashing through the waves breaking on a sparkling shoreline … hold on he shouts anxiously watching her fade into a tiny speck … come back he shouts … find me … she cries … it’s a game silly …
Athos comes awake. He lays very still, the dream is fading, he cannot fix the image of the girl in his mind. On the far side of the room Aramis snores gently. The room is dark, but dawn is not far away. He swings his feet to the floor and feels for his boots. He walks through the silent stone corridors. He hears low tones of men chanting as the monks assemble in a chapel for early morning prayers. He passes a nun who nods, speaks quickly and moves on.
Outside, he fills his lungs with crisp cold air. The dark sky is changing colors from black to a dull gray blotting out the few remaining stars. There is activity in the stable and he walks in that direction. Inside, Olivain and the mercenaries are feeding their horses, examining tack and checking weapons and their supplies of shot, powder and wadding. They talk in low tones to each other.
‘Messieurs,’ Athos greets the soldiers. ‘There will be food ready soon for you to break your fast. Ready the wagon. We will leave within the hour.’ He goes back to the house to wake the others.
They assemble in the yard, the children yawning and sleepy as they climb into the wagon. Elodie and Constance tuck blankets around them, placing heated bricks for warming. ‘With a little luck,’ Constance says brightly, ‘we will be in Tours at the end of this day.’ She exchanges a smiling look with her husband. Tours is very close to Glenay. She can feel the end of their journey is close.
It has started to snow. Big fluffy flakes drift down covering tree limbs and shrubs with white powder. The children laugh and hold out hands to catch the snow, some leaning outside the canvas cover to catch snowflakes on their tongues.
Athos and Porthos ride on one side of the wagon, d’ Artagnan and Aramis on the other. Gasparo’s men distribute themselves to the side of the road and into the trees. Bianca leans against Rayya’s shoulder rocking with the wagon. The children are quiet, the boys watching the snowy woods pass by. Samy frowns, squints and studies the forest. He elbows Olivier.
‘Did you see that?’ he says. Olivier follows his line of sight, ‘where?’ The light is dim, the snow fall is heavier, the wind increasing. He squints too.
‘There!’ Samy says. A flash of color, flitting within the dark forest. Olivier points, ‘there’s another.’ Alexandre crawls over the others, ‘there too,’ he says pointing.
‘Should you tell your father?’ Samy says keeping his eyes on the forest. Olivier waves to his father who rides closer. Porthos signals Athos, ‘we have company.’
‘If this goes as their other visitations, we chase, they run, they come back, we chase…’ d’Atagnan say sarcastically. ‘Perhaps should try ignoring them?’ He does not relish a chase through wet and darkening woods.
‘I think this is different,’ Aramis says frowning, standing up in the stirrups and turning in all directions. D’Artagnan has a skeptical look, ‘why…’
The forest erupts with men charging the wagon from all sides, brandishing pistols, swords, and other weapons. The horses are spooked, rearing and jerking in the traces trying to run. Father Massey can barely hold them. He jumps from the bench to the traces. ‘Keep them back Brother Ignazio!’ The trees are thick, the road narrow. ‘We cannot run!’ the priest cries. Brother Ignazio tucks Persephone’s basket under the bench and grabs a pistol in one hand, a stout walking stick in the other. He stays on the bench, firing into a man who steps on the wheel intending to take the bench and control of the wagon. He swings a stout cane at the head of another, battling to keep them off the bench and in control of the horses.
‘Constance!’ d’ Artagnan shouts, ‘get everyone under the wagon!’ Olivain has his pistol in one hand, sword in the other. ‘Rayya, now!’ he says urgently.
‘Hurry!’ Elodie urges the children to climb over the side of the wagon. Rayya and Charlotte jump to the ground helping the younger children to crawl under the wagon. ‘Oh!’ Renee gasps at the cold wet ground. Rosie grabs her hand, and they huddle together under Rayya and Charlotte’s protective arms. Constance crouches on her knees, hiding Juliette under her habit. A dagger falls to the ground, Elodie stretches out a hand to drag it back, gripping it hard.
Alexandre, Olivain and Samy sit up under the wagon. All they can see are legs. ‘We can reload,’ Samy calls up. Pistols drop along with bags of shot, powder and wadding. The boys go to work. ‘Here,’ Olivier gives Alexander the wadding. ‘Hand us pieces.’ The boys reload the pistols, holding them up to the men. Alexandre grabs the pistols that drop for reloading, gives it to Olivier or to Samy. Their fingers fly over the pistols.
‘Who is it who taught you so well?’ Athos calls out to the boys.
‘My father,’ Olivier cries.
‘My father too,’ Samy shouts, ‘but my sister made me practice on the back of a running horse.’
‘She would,’ d’ Artagnan mutters but cannot suppress his short chuckle.
Athos, d’ Artagnan, Portos and Aramis have drawn their swords, but do not step away from the wagon. Olivain stays to the rear. They can only fight defensively, reaching reloaded pistols as the boys hand them up. Gasparo’s mercenaries form a ragged second line around the wagon, breaking to chase and attack, the fighting rages through trees, thick shrubs and low light. The snow is falling heavier, the ground is wet and slippery. The enemy knows the terrain better, retreats, shifts position and attacks again. Bullets are smacking into the sides of the wagon. Father Massey struggles with the horses, ducking down as pistol shot flies around him.
Suddenly, from deeper in the forest comes a curdling cry of men under attack. Men on horses are riding into the fray, pistols firing, swinging swords. ‘Merde!’ d’ Artagnan cries, ‘they have reinforcements!’
‘No!’ Aramis shouts, ‘they are attacking them!’
Commands are shouted in a language none of them understand, but whoever their saviors are, their attackers are overwhelmed with skilled cavalry men. They try to flee, many are cut down as they try to dodge and weave through the trees. In minutes, it is over.
Porthos, Athos, d’ Artagnan and Aramis watch warily as the fight comes to an end. Olivain steps cautiously to stand with them. One man, clearly the commander walks his horse slowly, showing his hands, empty of weapons. He dismounts in front of them. Athos stiffens.
‘I know you,’ Athos says grimly, ‘you were at Bourron Marlotte. You are Rochefort’s man.’
The others grip their weapons, ready to engage. The man holds his hands up. ‘I am Radu. We are not here to harm you. We were sent to stop what happened here.’
Athos scoffs, ‘you make no sense.’
Radu ignores Athos’ comment, craning his head to look at the children still huddled under the wagon. ‘They are wet,’ he says. Still under the wagon, Elodie and Constance exchange a glance. They know the dangers of the wet and the cold.
‘I am to tell you there is a house not far from here, where you would find shelter.’
‘Would we also find Rochefort there?’ Porthos swaggers up closer, ‘we should walk into his arms so he can kill us all?’
Radu shakes his head, ‘no one is there. No one will harm you. I can lead you to it. My men will stay here.’
‘Why would you help us?’ Porthos demands. Radu shrugs, ‘I follow orders.’
Silence falls. Elodie and Constance crawl out from under the wagon. The children do the same. They stand together, shaking in wet clothes as snow covers their heads and shoulders. Constance clears her throat and d’Artagnan turns to his wife.
‘We need help,’ Constance whispers, ‘we risk their lives if we do not get them dry and warm and very soon. We must get out of this weather.’
D’ Artagnan looks at the others. Death lies in more than one direction. He sheathes his sword. ‘Show us the way.’
They lift the children back into the wagon, Father Massey and Brother Ignazio climb up onto the bench. Horses are mounted and they follow Radu, turning from the road onto a broad pathway that leads deeper into the forest. They disappear into the forest, hidden behind a white curtain of snow.
Twelve Years After 