The only light in the dark room comes from the fireplace. The corners of the room are lost in deep shadows, the flickering firelight casts dancing shadows on the high ceiling and walls, over portraits of stern men and women. They look down from their lofty position on a wall, with dark expressions of disapproval that their chamber has become a dormitory. Athos disapproves too, but none of them had any choice either.
It was Constance and Elodie who declared they would stay together and sleep in one room. He lays on the pallet and sniffs at the moldering scent of wet clothing laid out to dry. He listens to the steady breathings of sleeping children, the boys on pallets, the girls on settees and mattresses dragged from upstairs bedchambers. Aramis, Brother Ignazio and Father Massey snore softly.
Porthos, d’ Artagnan, and Olivain are on watch. Upon arrival, Radu disappeared. There was only silence and falling snow as they stared at the large two-story country house, a single lantern lit in a window on the first floor. The men exchanged glances, dismounted and helped the children and women from the wagon. The children held hands, and together they trooped up stone stairs to the front door. It was unlocked. Inside, they found a spacious salon, with a banked fire and plenty of wood stacked next to it.
They secured the house as best they could from the inside, bolting doors and latching windows. Father Massey and Brother Ignazio took the horses to a dry stable, where grain and oats were already in the bins, and fresh water in buckets. Trunks with dry clothes were brought in from the wagon. Aramis and Athos explored the house, finding rooms with beds, but no linens and wardrobes without any clothes. In the library was a carved desk, bookshelves lining the wall, empty of books. There was no evidence of occupants – until they went to the kitchen, where they found fresh bread, cheese and a stew simmering in a cauldron over the banked kitchen fire. There was another large cauldron filled with steaming water. Flasks of wine and brandy were set neatly on a table.
Constance tentatively tasted the stew. ‘I am not asking questions,’ Constance declared. Elodie agreed, ‘if we wake up tomorrow, we can ask then.’ She cut thick pieces of bread and cheese, while Constance ladled hot stew into bowls.
Tomorrow is here. Athos sits up and rakes a hand through his hair and looks at his daughter. He set his pallet next to the settee where Bianca sleeps. One small hand is tucked under her cheek, her long lashes cast a tiny shadow. He starts to kiss her cheek and then stops. He does not want to wake her. He watches her for a few moments and then reaches for his doublet.
The room is warm. He steps carefully over the three boys asleep on a mattress, arms thrown carelessly over each other. Rayya and Rosie are tucked in together on another settee, Renee and Charlotte share a mattress with their mother. Persephone, freed from her basket, is curled into Charlotte’s arm. Baby Juliette snuggles with Constance, who opens one eye to him and closes it. He quietly goes out of the room. He will wait to awaken Constance and Elodie, but soon they should get ready to get back on the road. He walks to the front door and opens it. Snow is falling heavily, the drifts are halfway up a tree, and the road is buried. They are not going anywhere.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
In Angers, Lucien walks a nervous Jaaden onto the deck of the ferry. ‘Would you prefer to swim?’ he asks his skittish stallion who bobs and shakes his head. Other travelers, men and women carrying bags or small crates, women with babies snugged to a bosom or holding the hands of small children move quickly past the restless horse and find places to stand or sit a safe distance from Jaaden’s hooves. They all ignore Lucien except for the children who peek curiously at him and his big horse from behind their mother’s skirts. He smiles and they duck back, only to peek again.
‘Quiet now, no scaring the young ones,’ Lucien murmurs in a soft voice, bracing his legs as the ferry leaves the dock. It dips and bobs as it is pulled and poled across the Sarthe River. The stallion moves restively, not liking the floor under his hooves rocking with the flow of the river. Reaching the opposite shore, the ferry bumps hard against the dock. Jaaden snorts but waits, his silky skin rippling with anxious impatience as the ferry empties and Lucien can lead him to the dock.
‘How bad was that?’ Lucien murmurs as he mounts and moves the stallion through the traffic. He has no wish to remain in Angers, and is soon out of the town, taking a broad path east and south that follows the course of the wide rushing Loire river. His destination is Samur, a river town on the Loire with ferries and bridges that cross the river. From there, it is not far to his destination, Fontevraud Abbey. He carries a letter of introduction from Marie who considers the Abbess, Jean Baptiste de Bourbon, a personal friend. The Abbess had promised Marie that they would be welcomed at Fontevraud Abbey, a large double monastery with both monks and nuns, all under the direction of the Abbess. She assured Marie that every possible comfort would be offered to Suzanne and the midwives. Suzanne would be safe and well cared for in the delivery of her child.
Of course, he does not know if the child has already arrived, and in less accommodating circumstances than Fontevraud Abbey. Marie had laid out a careful route in anticipation of an early delivery. He will start with Fontevraud, the last stop before Glenay.
The road is not the main road to Tours. He encounters carts and wagons of local farmers and villagers walking between small hamlets and holdings that pop up along major river thoroughfares. He rides at an easy canter, stopping to rest Jaaden and allow him to graze and drink from the river. The riverbank is a small rise and while he waits for Jaaden he munches on dried meat, bread and apples, working out where Athos and the wagon with the children might be. The weather is beginning to worsen, which will delay them, they will need to seek shelter until the storm has passed. Trinity Abbey is near Vendome or there is a country chateau where friends of Marie would gladly offer shelter. He estimates they are somewhere between Vendome and Tours – which is a lot of territory.
As for Sophia … he tosses the apple core away and gives Jaaden the last apple. She and Cousin Francois are on horseback, which means they can travel faster. She had entrusted the care of her children to Athos, Porthos and d’ Artagnan, kept her fears and worry to herself and turned to her duty. That must now be done. The wagon with the children is a day ahead and Sophia would be determined to catch up. Duval is likely to find her intractable nature irritating, but he would accede to her demand that they change horses and take little time for food or sleep. By now she has passed the abbeys at Pointoise and Chartres. In his mind, he can see her, riding astride as is her preference unless social circumstances dictate the sidesaddle. She is encased in her heaviest cloak, a wool scarf wrapped around her neck keeping the fur lined hood secure over her head. He recently had a new pair of fur lined leather gloves made for her. She has a cleverly designed divided wool riding skirt, and he remembers it was Alessandra who had the first one made for her years and years ago. Alessandra…
In all the frenzy of their departure, he had not spoken with Athos about Alessandra, the trail going cold, and what they should do. But she is ever in his thoughts, and he knows it is more painful for Athos. If not for Alessandra, he might never have wed Sophia.
He tightens Jaaden’s girth and adjusts his traveling bag. Sophia rides as well as he does and he knows well her capabilities as she has certainly told him on many occasions… do stop fussing Lucien, you need not instruct me! I am hardly a novice and perfectly capable … what he would give at this moment to hear that scold.
He swings up into the saddle turning in the direction of Samur. He intends to cross the river and from there, Fontevraud Abbey is a few hours away. He glances at the sky to the west where clouds continue to billow, piling up dark and swollen. They must be looking at the same sky. Duval will need to insist they take shelter, before the storm breaks.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Yusuf taps on the door and steps back. He carries a small tray with two covered small cups. It is the nurse Segi who answers the door, smiling and stepping back for him to enter. She takes the tray, sniffing the pungent scent and hums happily. Baby Nella waves her tiny hands excitedly, as Kayvahn puts his hands to the floor, first lifting his small bottom into the air and straightens, waddling to him, arms outspread for balance. Asim is laughing, waiting for Yusuf to come to him. ‘Prenslerim,’ he murmurs.
‘They are not princes,’ Segi admonishes him, but gently, ‘you will give them ideas.’ She uncovers one cup and hands it to him, taking the second for herself and settling her ample form on one of the two hard chairs ‘But you bey, are indeed a prince beyond measure for this.’ She lifts the cup of khave in salute, using the proper word in his language to address him.
‘Your Turkish gets better every day,’ Yusuf says wincing as Kayvahn is gripping his hair. ‘These boys will have their own ideas and those of their father.’
‘I understand more than I can say,’ Segi says as she dexterously unwinds his black curls from Kayvahn’s tenacious fingers. Yusuf makes a grateful sigh and rubs his head. Segi’s family is from Poland and Prussia and perhaps even farther east. She is a matronly woman, kind, patient and unflappable. Perfect for a nurse to twin boys whose father has a restless nature and an abundance of ideas.
‘How is Madame?’ Thea, the second nurse, is folding fresh couches. She wrinkles her nose at the strong smell of the khave but is uncomplaining. Like Segi, she has an accommodating nature that adjusts easily to circumstances around her. Yusuf thinks these two women are nothing short of a miracle.
‘We hope she is taking some nourishment,’ Thea adds, ‘often a mother forgets that.’
‘She is,’ Yusuf assures the nurses, ‘the midwives report Madame d’ Armas is progressing.’
‘What is all the hammering I hear?’ Segi asks, draining the cup and setting it back on the tray. ‘Are you now a carpenter?’
‘A carpenter, chimney sweep, and stonemason,’ Yusuf laughs, ‘the men are making a few repairs for the Sisters. Patching the roof, caulking the windows, and cleaning out a few centuries of debris from the chimneys.’
‘Good! Some of the windows leak so badly we might as well be outside!’ Thea has baby Nella on her lap and leans over to nuzzle Asim’s nose with hers. ‘There is a deep chill in the air.’ Segi nods, ‘a storm on the way.’
‘Is there anything you need?’ Yusuf is bent over walking. Kayvahn’s fingers are fisted around his forefinger as the child maneuvers the room. When Suzanne was this age, she did the same, already bearing the gentle smile that would forever be hers. He smiles at the memory.
‘We are alright,’ Segi is answering his question. ‘We can manage, Nella and the boys have what they need. They like it when you visit. Will Her Grace come to see them today?’
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
‘I am sorry Your Grace,’ Abbess Jean Baptiste de Bourbon frowned in distress, ‘I did expect the Duchess and your daughter by now. Perhaps events unfolded more quickly than anticipated.’
‘Perhaps,’ Lucien murmurs. ‘I will continue into Tours.’ He knew he might be disappointed, but the depth of his despair was not expected.
‘You are welcome to stay for the night. Come and dine with us,’ the Abbess urges him, ‘you must need the rest and a good meal. We have learned brothers here and you would find interesting conversation.’
Lucien inclines his head in a gracious gesture. The last thing he is interested in is interesting conversation. But he does not want to offend a friend of his mother, nor be disrespectful of the help she had extended to Suzanne who may yet have need of it.
‘Excellent,’ the Abbess rises from her chair, ‘I will have Brother Clement show you to a room.’ She pauses and says, ‘the Duchess also was friends with the Abbot at St Julien. You will find the Abbey close to the river, on this side. There is also Marmoutier Abbey. It is on the other side of the river from St Julien. Perhaps they stopped there?’
‘Thank you, Reverend Mother,’ Lucien says gratefully. He bows and walks to the door when the Abbess stops him.
‘There is one more you could try, unlikely as it is a very poor community, but Marie is a benefactor. One might as well be thorough.’ He waits expectantly.
‘It is a community of Poor Clares. They have a small priory, and the Sisters live in rather mean straits. I cannot think, given the better alternatives, that Her Grace would go there, but if you wish to check, they are almost directly across the river from St Julien.’
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Marie de Combalet strokes Suzanne’s hand gently, murmuring quietly to her granddaughter. She listens to the midwives encouraging Suzanne, talking to each other, answering Afonso’s questions. None of them question his place in the birthing room. Lucien had done the same for Sophia. He holds her hand, dabs at her brow with a cool linen.
Marie has lost track of time. Dim light shows through a small window at the top of the wall behind the bed. But it could be the pale light of the same cold winter day or dawn of a new day. She is quiet, which might be regarded as considerate. But in truth, Marie cannot summon words that speak to what is taking place in this narrow monk’s cell. Her memories mercilessly intrude into the present, she looks at Suzanne and sees her own face, beaded with sweat, yet shivering with cold, the bed unyielding to any comfort. She tastes the fear that infused her body. Madame Bourgeois reaches across the bed to tap her hand.
‘She is doing well,’ the midwife’s expression is kind and Marie understands her meaning … so did you…the midwife had been there in that cold, lifeless monk’s cell …she or her infant son might have died without her. After Lucien was born, Madame Bourgeois bundled her and her sons into the carriage Treville had sent and she escaped Glenay. Madame Bourgeois took a terrible risk to help her. Richelieu might have exiled the midwife or thrown her and her husband into prison. She might have died or her infant boys … without the midwife… stop this! Marie commands herself. Both Madame Bourgeois and Madame Vreni are calm and work steadily to bring Suzanne through it. Neither midwife shows any alarm or undue concern.
Madame Bourgeois holds a cup of warm broth. ‘Another sip Madame,’ she coaxes her laboring mother. Afonso helps his wife lift her head enough to drink, dabbing her lips tenderly with a linen cloth. ‘Good my love, very good,’ he encourages her.
‘I want to walk,’ Suzanne gasps a little. Afonso waits for the midwife to agree or disagree. Madame Bourgeois nods, ‘good idea. Your mother did the same as this stage.’ Afonso helps Suzanne stand, placing a blanket around her shoulders. He slips his arm around her waist, and they take slow measured steps back and forth the length of the room.
‘I wish Mother were here.’ Marie hears Suzanne’s reedy voice, hoarse from the past hours. Afonso answers her softly, ‘as do we all love. I know she is on her way, her only thought to be with you.’
Suzanne smiles vaguely, a single tear sliding down her pale cheek. ‘Such a long way to go,’ she murmurs. Marie does not know if she means for her mother … or herself.
‘Oh…’ Suzanne bends over, groaning with pain as her body tightens. “I think it is time,’ Madame Bourgeois feels her stomach. ‘Ready to push? Let’s get you back to the bed.’ Suzanne is not moving and shaking her head. Afonso looks helplessly at the midwife.
‘That’s alright,’ Madame Bourgeois seems to understand what Suzanne intends. ‘Get the chair,’ she says to Afonso, ‘quickly now!’ Madame Vreni lays a soft blanket on the floor and positions herself close. Madame Bourgeois orients the back of the chair to Suzanne, ‘let us try this. Ready?’ Suzanne grips the back of the chair leaning slightly forward, her long low wail echoes down the corridor…
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
He leaves before dawn, a light snow dusting his shoulders. He wants to get to Tours by midday, hoping to have enough light to visit all the monasteries and make inquiries. The Abbess is crossing the yard carrying a packet.
‘Our cook is very good with pastries,’ the Abbess says, ‘I thought you might like few.’
‘Thank you, Reverend Mother,’ he tucks the packet into his travel bag. ‘I am grateful for your hospitality.’
‘I do hope you find Her Grace and your daughter in Tours. If I can be of any assistance Your Grace, do not hesitate to send a messenger.’
Lucien swings up into the saddle, pulling up the hood of his cloak. Jaaden shakes his head, irritated by snowflakes landing on his long eyelashes. Lucien smiles, ‘time for us to go.’
The snow falls steadily and by the time he reaches the town of Tours, the road is becoming muddy, shrubs and the upper branches of trees turning white. Fortunately, there is little wind. He stops at a tavern to ask directions and soon he is riding down the street a few streets from the river. The Abbey of St Julien looms large in the neighborhood, austere in the exterior, more ornate in architecture and window design inside. He leaves Jaaden with a stable boy, crossing the yard to enter what seems like the refectory. A priest is sitting a long wooden table reading a book. He looks up and then rises to greet the well-dressed stranger. The priest is wearing the simple black tunic with a cowl and a cincture at his waist – the robe of the Benedictine order.
‘May I help you M?’ The priest listens intently, his eyes not leaving Lucien, his brow furrowing as Lucien explains his purpose. ‘Oh dear,’ the priest says, ‘no one, no carriages or even a cart has stopped here for that purpose.’ That purpose being to ask for safe haven to deliver a baby. Lucien’s mouth tightens slightly.
‘I do hope the lady found shelter. The weather has turned beastly,’ the priest says anxiously, ‘I regret M that I cannot be more help.’
Outside, Lucien mounts Jaaden and works his way back through the wet streets to the bridge and joins the traffic. People are hurrying in both directions to get out of the weather before it gets any worse. He turns onto a road paralleling the river and rides some distance before he finds the Abbey Marmoutier. It is an ancient church, with a long road leading to the front, the stone badly weathered. A priest wearing the same robe of the Benedictines listens to him, shaking his head apologetically. ‘We do not have accommodations to suit a woman as you describe M. I am sorry I cannot help you.’
Lucien starts to walk back to Jaaden and then he turns around, ‘Father,’ he addresses the priest, ‘if a woman as I described came to your door, where would you advise her to go?’
The priest is startled, ‘I…’ he frowns. ‘There is an order of Poor Clares back in the direction of town. You must have passed them on the way here. The Sisters there would be far more suitable.’
Poor Clares. He had not seen another monastery. It must be very poor indeed. He returns to the road and rides more slowly. Snow is still falling heavily, the light darkening as night approaches. He keeps going thinking he has missed it again, starts to turn back when he sees, through the snowfall, the ghostly shape of a church spire against the dark slate sky. He urges Jaaden forward, dismounts and finds the snow covered path to an ornate arch with a rusted broken gate. He leads Jaaden into the yard and looks around at the decrepit buildings. A strong plume of smoke rises from a fireplace inside, and a considerable stack of chopped wood is under the eaves. He dismounts and walks to the door, ducks under the eaves and bangs hard on the door.
As he waits, Lucien wonders if these Poor Clares will allow him shelter tonight, but it seems unlikely. They are an order of women and would be reluctant to let a man and a stranger stay inside where they sleep. Perhaps they will allow him in the stable. He braces his hands on either side of the door, shoving back his hood and shaking off the snow. He looks down at the broken stone under his feet and bangs again on the door.
‘Give a man a chance to …’ the door is yanked open, Lucien looks up into Martin’s startled face.
‘I’ll be damned, about time you miserable…’ Martin grabs him in a fierce embrace. ‘Where have you been? What are you doing here? You are a grandfather…again!’ Martin claps a congratulatory hand to Lucien’s back. ‘How about that?’
‘Where are they?’ Lucien manages to get a word in. ‘Follow me!’ Martin says.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Marie is dozing, but still registers the booted footfalls of two men coming down the corridor. Afonso is at Suzanne’s bedside watching her sleep. With some ancient instinct, he rocks gently side to side soothing the sleeping infant he holds in his arms. A cloaked man is kneeling in front of her…
‘Mother,’ her son says quietly. ‘Lucien,’ she gasps and reaches to hold onto his shoulders. ‘You found us.’
‘Yes,’ he smiles. Afonso stands up, ‘meet your new granddaughter,’ and places the infant in Lucien’s arms. He laughs softly. ‘She is beautiful,’ Lucien whispers. ‘What will you call her?’
‘We favor Marie Lucette,’ Afonso watches his sleeping daughter. Marie smiles, ‘Lucette – little Lucy – a bringer of light.’
‘Lucette,’ Lucien murmurs, kissing his granddaughter tenderly on her forehead, ‘welcome to the world.’ He hears Suzanne stirring and hands the infant back to her father. He slips into the chair next to his daughter. She opens her eyes sleepily, ‘Father, I am happy to see you.’ He leans over her to kiss her cheek, ‘you have the sweetest little daughter. Your mother will be overjoyed.’
‘Mother,’ Suzanne closes her eyes drifting into sleep again. ‘I wish Mother were here. Will you bring her Father?’
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
The Duchess de la Croix wakes slowly. She yawns, stretches, opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling. She lies on a pallet on the floor of a roadside inn close to Tours. Cousin Francois, injured from the beating he took from Marchal’s thug sleeps, at her insistence, on the bed. This is the third night she has slept on a pallet on the floor, along with Cook, Alban and Gilo. She knows they are lucky to have this room. The inn is packed with people who cannot travel due to the snowstorm that blanketed the roads, woods, and fields two days ago. There are too many men in the inn, bored and drinking too much, cheating at cards and getting into fights. Which is why Duval sleeps in the hallway, across the doorway. But yesterday the sun made a weak appearance through the gray ceiling and the thaw began. Today, she hopes she can drive the wagon into Tours.
Gilo is awake, nudging Alban. The two boys dress quickly and go out the door. They return carrying large jugs of hot water. Sophia steps behind the screen and washes quickly. She thinks longingly of her large tub at Royaumont, one Lucien had made for her. More likely for himself, as he can stretch out his long legs. She dresses and leaves the second jug for Cook.
Outside in the hallway, Duval sits on a stool munching on a thick slice of bread covered with butter. ‘How is the road?’ she asks. ‘Rutted and muddy,’ he replies. Her hopes dim. ‘But I think we can try. It is cold, that will keep the road firm, and the wagon is not heavily loaded.’
Ironic, she thinks. They left Royaumont so quickly after Marchal that they had no time to pack, just grabbed a few spare clothes in a bag. ‘There are quite a few folks in the yard trying to get out. I suggest we wait for the crowd to thin.’
Sophia blows out a breath, and nods. She is one of those people who wants to get out and get to Tours. The families may be there with her children. It had seemed unlikely that they had travelled that far so quickly, but where else could they be?
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Lucien ties his travel bag to the saddle and leads Jaaden out into the sunlight. Yusuf is waiting for him. ‘I have decided to come with you.’
‘You should stay with the carriages,’ Lucien counters, ‘it is a day’s ride to Glenay. The travel could be broken with a stay at Fontevraud. The Abbess would welcome that.’
‘There are plenty of men guarding the carriages. You said Gasparo is sending men to look for the carriages.’
‘That is true,’ Lucien acknowledges and add another inducement, ‘you could sleep in a good bed.’
‘I will sleep better kardes, after we have found the wagon, the others, and the children.’ Yusuf lays one hand over the other on the pommel, patiently waiting for Lucien to mount his horse. ‘How far behind can Sophia and Cousin Francois be?’
‘I have given up trying to reckon any of it,’ Lucien says, vaulting into the saddle. They ride from the yard, turning into the street, toward the road leading to Vendome.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
There is a fair amount of traffic on the road, going in both directions. It has stopped snowing, and the air is brittle with cold. Wagons and carriages jounce hard on rutted roads but at least the wheels are not sinking into thick mud. Lucien and Yusuf ride steadily, stopping at every roadside inn or tavern to ask about nuns and priests traveling with a wagon full of children. They also stop local farmers and pedestrians asking the same question, but no one has seen them. The sun is long past its zenith when they arrive at a larger travel inn with an attached tavern. A stable is in the rear, small carriages and a wagon left at the side of the yard. People are waiting for their horses to be harnessed for the carriages or tacked up for riding. They mill about rubbing their hands together complaining of the cold, the delay, the inconvenience of snow.
The rear door opens, a man in rumpled clothing and a creased apron comes out to toss away the dirty water in a bucket. He shivers in the cold, turns to go back inside when Lucien calls out, ‘M, a moment please. We are looking for a group of travelers that may have stopped here. Orphan children traveling with a priest, a brother and two nuns. They were traveling in a wagon, like that one.’ He points to the wagon at the side of the yard.
‘Not in that wagon. Plenty of folks here the last three days,’ the tired innkeeper says. ‘Sleeping everywhere, five to a room. But I would have remembered that combination. Sorry friend, no – they did not stop here.’
The door slams shut after him and Lucien gets back into the saddle. ‘ We move on toward Vendome,’ he says to Yusuf. ‘They must have taken shelter elsewhere.’ They will stop at every small village and hamlet from here to Vendome. Jaaden is looking at the stable, lifting his nose and sidestepping restively.
‘What is it?’ Lucien says, ‘a warm stable and thick straw seems a good idea? Not yet my friend.’ He turns the horse back to the short path leading to the road.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Upstairs in the room, Cousin Francois is testing his battered body. He walks carefully around the room, wincing from his cracked ribs. ‘I do feel better today. Tonight, I sleep on the floor.’
‘Tonight, we might all have our own bed,’ Sophia replies. ‘There are better accommodations for us in Tours.’ She shakes out clothes, preparing to repack her travel bag. She hears a commotion outside, the voices familiar. She goes to the window.
‘What is that racket?’ Cousin Francois looks over her head. ‘Why it’s Gilo and Alban. What are they screaming about?’ The boys are running from the stable waving their arms and yelling loudly. She cranes to look at what or who they are chasing.
‘Stay here,’ she grabs her cloak, leaves the room, and goes down the stairs. She is just through the door when they race past her into the road. She hurries after them.
‘Gilo! Alban! What are…’ the words die on her lips. She sees a black stallion moving away at a canter, a tall man with broad shoulders…the boys are hollering at the top of their lungs. The stallion is slowing, the rider turning the horse… she breaks into a run…
Jaaden skids to a stop, Lucien jumps from the saddle and catches her in his arms.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
‘Lucien, they must have gone off the road,’ Duval draws a finger over the hastily drawn map on the table. ‘We were at day behind the wagon, and we did not encounter them.’
Lucien rubs his forehead, glancing at Sophia who sits close to him. He holds her hand, feeling small tremors rippling through her. The last days have taken a toll, the responsibilities heavy on her narrow shoulders, lack of sleep and hard days driving a wagon across the country. Her bruised face is healing, still tinged dark and yellow, her cheek tender and her eyes bloodshot from the blow inflicted by Marchal. He is careful not to indulge his fury, as she would know it. She has already admonished him against his revenge against Marchal.
‘You would need to be across the sea when it happens and even then, you would be blamed for it. No Lucien, as long as he is the King’s man he cannot be touched. It will not last, Marchal is not the man he thinks himself to be. He will make a mistake that Louis will not forgive and be out of his favor. Then you can kill him as many times as you wish and feed his body to the Moor’s pigs.’
Marchal is a dead man. Yusuf had made that clear, it is now a blood feud. Marchal will die when certain conditions are met, if not by his hand, then by another. Marchal will die and know the reason for it.
He puts that thought aside, and turns to the immediate problem of the children, his brother and the families. Where are they?
Lucien beckons to the innkeeper, whose name he has learned is M Jules. He hurries to his most important guest. The Duc du Plessis tossed bags of coin at him to buy every room, paid extra for baths, blankets, food and care for horses. More astonishing, the Duc has found his wife, although M Jules asks no questions as to how she came to be in one his rooms with her cook, two stable boys and a priest.
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ M Jules beams at him.
‘Is there a house near the road that a wagon could get to?’ Lucien asks. ‘A house?’ the innkeeper frowns. ‘There is country house, Chateau Renault, not too far from here going toward Vendome. It is not close to the road as I understand. The property has changed owners several times in the recent past, there is little known about the current owner.’ He frowns, a finger to his chin, ‘I cannot recall anyone speaking of it, it is something of a local mystery.’
‘Is there a path?’ Duval points to his hastily drawn map. ‘Show us, we are here, where would it be?’ The innkeeper frowns, unused to maps, his finger hovering over the page. ‘Perhaps here,’ he says with little certainty. ‘Pardon Your Grace, I am not overly familiar with a map.’
‘Thank you,’ Lucien says, ‘how many small villages off the road from here to Vendome…’ Duval makes a list as M Jules tells them what he knows.
‘Let’s get started,’ Yusuf says, standing up. ‘I will see to the horses.’ Sophia stands up too, ‘saddle mine as well. I am coming with you,’ she replies firmly to Lucien’s frown of disapproval.
He starts to speak and then sees Yusuf make an imperceptible shake of his head. He sighs, ‘you try my patience.’ She glances at him with a sharp expression, ‘a condition I know well.’ He grunts, this is not the time for him to put down his foot of authority. His need to protect her should not come before what she wants – to find her children. He turns to the innkeeper.
‘We would appreciate taking a few provisions for the road M.’
They ride north stopping to speak to anyone walking, driving or riding on the road. Duval sends his men out to either side of the road to find small holdings, hamlets and villages where they can make inquiries. The pace is slow, but they intend to be thorough. Yusuf rides behind them, inspecting the brush carefully, looking for the path described by M Jules that could lead to the mysterious Chateau Renault. He does not know which side of the road is correct. He goes to one side and then the other, meticulous and patient. In the end, it is not the ground that gives him an answer. It is in the trees.
‘Lucien!’ Yusuf is dismounting, pushing his way through a thick brush. He examines a tree, his fingers carefully running over the surface of the bark. A breeze blows through, shifting the branches overhead, the tree’s surface winks at him in the light. Lucien appears behind him and Yusuf turns his head, his fingers resting on the tree’s fresh injuries.
‘Someone has been shooting at trees – recently.’
They do not talk but study the ground, the silence of the forest folds around them as they move deeper among the trees. They will not give voice to their fear at the presence of the shot embedded in the bark. They only know that guns were fired within the past few days. They walk their horses, and find trampled brush once hidden under snow, the ground churned from wagon wheels and horses. Duval’s men ranging farther from where they find evidence of a fight, hoping they do not find bodies.
The path is muddy, but firm. The light is beginning to fade and soon they will not be able to see anything. Sophia walks in front of Lucien studying the shrubs and wheel marks in the dirt. Her head comes up and she stops. ‘What is that?’
The men pause and listen to a few birds, chittering insects, a quiet wind rustling through trees…
Yusuf tilts his head as though to hear better. Lucien drops Jaaden’s reins and walks in front of Sophia. He stands rock still and then he slaps his leg, turning to her with a broad smile.
‘Listen!’ he whispers. The voices are faint…drifting on the breeze…
‘…O god of truth, O Lord of might, you order
Time and change of right
You send the early morning ray and
light the glow of a perfect day….’
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Athos and d ‘Artagnan ride in front of the wagon. The guard ranges alongside and Olivain, Porthos and Aramis stay close to the rear. They are finally on their way, the sun overhead, their clothes dry, the children singing with Father Massey and Brother Ignazio carrying Persephone in her basket. Athos hears horses moving through the brush. He holds up his arm to stop the convoy…are Rochefort’s men returning? Out of the gloom of a darkening forest, a deep voice booms …startling everyone. Elodie grips Constance’s hand who presses Juliette more firmly against her. The children, Brother Ignazio and Father Massey stop singing…and peer anxiously into the thick trees.
‘Quench now on earth the flames of strife
From passion’s heat preserve our life
And while you keep our body whole
Pour healing peace upon our soul…’
Abruptly, Samy stands up, staring … ‘Father!’ he shouts, leaping from the wagon and running in the direction of Lucien’s voice.
Twelve Years After 