Chapter TwentyTwo-The Red Herring and the Eel, by Corso

Lucien opens his eyes to darkness, sluggish with heavy sleep, the bed beside him empty. He shoves the drape aside and reaches for his cloak and the night candle.  Cold air wakes him as he strides to the door and down the dim corridor where a light beckons from a slightly opened door.

Sophia is cradling Asim in her arms humming quietly.  In the shadow of lighted candles, a rocking chair creaks rhythmically with the click of knitting needles in the of the hands of the night nurse.  She looks up and smiles at Lucien, unperturbed by the presence of the mother or father of her young charge.  Lucien stands behind Sophia, reaching around her to stroke the cheek of the sleeping child. 

‘I did not hear his cry,’ he whispers bending to rub his cheek against her silky hair.   She shakes her head, ‘he did not.’  Her sleep is fitful, she wakes up restless and driven to check on the children.  No matter the number of mercenaries that patrol the galleries, ramparts and grounds, fully armed and with vigilant dogs, she does not feel safe.  In daylight hours, she prowls through the house, testing doors and windows, searching for where a determined person could enter the house unseen.  He knows she carries a dagger in one pocket of her skirts, a small pistol in the other.  Lucien stays near, just enough that if she looks for him, he is within sight and call. 

‘Hmm,’ he murmurs and after a few minutes, Sophia places Asim carefully back in his bed and adjusts the covers on Asim’s twin brother, Kayvahn, who sleeps peacefully through all his mother’s nighttime visits.  Lucien takes her hand, and they walk back to their bedchamber and lie down to sleep, Sophia tucked against him. 

But now it is his turn to lie awake.  Their first days at Glenay were as fitful as his wife’s sleep.  Cousin Francois, Father Massey and Brother Ignazio and Brother Aloysius quickly set up a school room, intending to occupy the children with resuming lessons, but the children were also affected with the same restlessness of an indeterminate state and lessons stalled. Instead, they took the children outside for long walks and exploration. They would return cold, muddy and in a peculiar state of exhaustion with little actual relief. The staircases and corridors are crowded as the house steward and housekeeper bring in additional servants and the house echoes from their work and children more inclined to run than walk. 

Lucien pulls back the bed drapes to a gray light and decides to abandon sleep. He carefully withdraws his arm from under his sleeping wife, tucking the covers around her.  Outside the draped bed, he quickly pulls on his clothes, grabs his heavy winter cape and carries his boots. The door clicks shut behind him.

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‘Messengers Your Grace,’ announces the house steward, M Mael, as he carries a stack of letters on a silver tray.  He presents the tray to the Duchess d ‘Aiguillon.

‘Is the messenger from Paris?’ Father Massey asks from behind the desk he occupies sorting through the previous day’s stack.

‘At this hour?’ Marie looks up, ‘the man must have ridden all night.’  She exchanges a glance with Father Massey at the possible meaning of a courier riding in such haste from Paris.

‘More local,’ M Mael replies. Marie’s family banner flies from the watchtower announcing her presence.  She is well liked in the village and surrounding area. News of her arrival at Glenay traveled quickly. 

Marie visibly relaxes, ‘you will see to his comforts M Mael,’ as she sifts through the letters on the tray. 

‘He is already warming in Cook’s kitchen, with a full bowl of hot broth and bread Madame.’

‘Good, I may have a reply.’  She lifts one letter, ‘this is from Chateau Vermette.  I have not seen the family in some time.  I must respond to them with an invitation.’

‘This is for His Grace,’ M Mael holds up a separate folded and sealed parchment.  ‘He is still out riding with the others and M Yusuf.’  The ‘others’ is M Mael’s collective term for Athos, Porthos, d’ Artagnan, and Aramis.  ‘Shall I leave it with you Madame?’

‘Yes,’ Marie says, ‘and send up a refreshed tray.’  It is Lucien’s habit, upon returning from early morning rides, to visit her.  She hoped that Athos might accompany Lucien, but he had not yet done so.  She knows her eldest son walks through the grounds and the buildings, including the ancestral hall where portraits of Vignerot and a few du Plessis ancestors are displayed, including a painting of Susanne de la Porte, Richelieu’s mother.  After the death of Marie’s mother, their father had sent Marie and her brother to live with their maternal grandmother in the du Plessis family home. It is not far from Glenay.  Lucien was interested in Susanne de la Porte and Marie’s young life and asked many questions.  He did not show the same interest in his father or his father’s forebears as though the only role of significance for him was in his maternal line.  She wonders if Athos will have the same curiosity, but she did not hold much hope for it.  Athos had been raised in another family that he considered his own. 

A brisk knock at the door and it opens without waiting for a reply.  Lucien strides into the room, removing his hat, cloak and gloves, tossing everything into a nearby chair and going first to kiss his mother’s cheek and then to stand at the fireplace, rubbing his hands relishing the heat.

‘How are you this morning Mother?’ he inquires looking over his shoulder, ‘Father Massey?’

Marie smiles at her younger son and pats the seat next to her.  ‘M Mael is bringing a fresh tray.’

‘Good!’ he exclaims, sitting next to her and examining the remnants on her tray, ‘not much left for me.  I am pleased at your appetite Madame.’  He slants a look at the priest, ‘or is it your appetite Father?’

‘I do encourage him,’ Marie comes to the priest’s defense.  ‘I make him start so early in the morning.’  She changes the topic, ‘how was your ride? Was Sophia asleep when you left?’

‘An excellent morning, if brisk,’ Lucien replies, ‘she was asleep, but she had awakened and went to the boys’ chamber.  Neither child cried out.’  He answers her unspoken question.  Sophia’s insomnia concerns Marie. A footman enters carrying a heavy tray of bread, pastries and a small pot with a pungent brew.  ‘I see Yusuf is in the kitchen,’ Lucien says pouring the khave into a small porcelain cup and takes a thick slice of fresh bread spread with butter.

‘I do hope she will settle soon,’ Marie murmurs.  She remembers the letter for him and holds it out. ‘This arrived for you.’  Lucien breaks the seal and reads quickly, refolds the letter and stuffs it into a pocket.

‘I must go to La Rochelle on business,’ he announces, ‘a short trip while we are still getting sorted out here.’

‘What do you consider a short trip?’ his mother asks in an arched tone. Lucien shrugs, ‘five or six days only.’  He kisses his mother’s cheek, ‘I will leave early.’  He gathers up his belongings from the chair, ‘I must speak to Sophia.’

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‘Where do you stay in La Rochelle?’  Athos’ quiet voice comes from the far end of the stable. He looms out of the darkness into the yellow circle of light from the lantern.  ‘I keep rooms,’ Lucien says, evading details. He glances at Athos, ‘you are up early.’  Lucien tightens the strap around Jaaden’s substantial girth.  He lowers the stirrup, moving to tie his pack to the rear of the saddle.

Athos lays his hand on the gun in a saddle holster and taps one of the two pistols in Lucien’s cross belt.  ‘You are well armed. Expecting trouble?’

‘I am not going to look for it,’ Lucien replies mildly. ‘Just a business trip to settle a few affairs. I will be back before anyone notices I am gone.’

‘We are not yet settled into a routine, but your presence is always noted as will be your absence,’ Athos counters, adding, ‘Martin is outside scowling.  You do not take Yusuf either.’

‘Protecting us here is the first priority.’

‘More likely your first priority is to slip in and out of La Rochelle unseen and unnoticed,’ Athos strokes Jaaden’s heavy neck, the stallion turns his head to rub his nose against Athos’ chest seeming to agree with his assessment.

‘Traitor,’ Lucien murmurs to the horse.

‘So, what is your purpose there?’  Athos smiles with deceptive tenacity. Lucien purses his lips considering.  ‘My quartermaster of the Aigle sent a message about a ship in the vicinity of the Wrecks.  It is a ship I know, and it should not be there.’

‘Is it from the Company of the Orient?  Why would that be unusual?  You are still at war with the Company.’

‘Even the Company and I suspend our disagreements in the winter months.  But this ship has come all the way from the other side of the Atlantic to cruise near the Wrecks.’

 Athos visibly stiffens, ‘from Hispaniola…there was contract from there to take Rayya and Bianca from the Wrecks. Is that man from Hispaniola in La Rochelle?’  Lucien shrugs, ‘I do not know.’

‘Then I should go with you,’ Athos says in a hard voice. ‘They want your attention Lucien, why else would their ship be near the Wrecks?  I must go with you.’

‘No,’ Lucien lays a hand on Athos’ shoulder.  ‘There are places I can go where I attract no attention.  I belong to such places.  But you,’ he pats Athos’ shoulder, ‘I could roll you in the muck of the foulest street and you will still look like you do not belong.’  Athos starts to object but Lucien shakes his head firmly.

‘I go alone brother.’

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As he rides through the gate, Lucien turns in the saddle.  Athos stands in the center watching him leave and Lucien lifts his hand in parting.  Athos does the same and then Lucien puts his heels to Jaaden, and they are soon out of sight.

He rides south and west. His destination is Niort, a village built on the slopes of two hills facing each other along an estuary of the Sèvre River. The small town is sheltered by two square towers that were built centuries ago by an English king, a testimony to its history as a center for Huguenots. The town also marks the eastern boundary of the largely inhospitable lands surrounding La Rochelle, divided between cultivated fields, and grassy islands within extensive salt marshes.

He turns over a word in his mind, a word he just used to address Athos…brother… The only man he ever called brother was Yusuf.  He used the Turkish word for brother, its meaning proper for an Ottoman.  He had addressed Athos in their native language – as also is proper, the meaning different.  He shares the same blood with Athos. He says the word to himself, silently, testing the feel of it.  

His thoughts turn to the first time he rode to La Rochelle, or more specifically, the small island north of the town, Ille de Rè.  It was many years ago that Benito had sent him to find a man known as the Huguenot, a man with a certain reputation among smugglers and pirates who used the hazardous coves along the western coast, the most dangerous of which are the coves known as the Wrecks.  Benito de Soto wanted the Huguenot for a scheme he tasked to Lucien. He had been very young when he took that ride to La Rochelle, eager to meet his future and full of anticipation of what he could make of himself.   He had left Royaumont and Paris and all those whose expectations he had not met.  He wonders if Athos thinks of him the same as his musketeer brothers. Perhaps not as close.   

He reaches Échiré, a small medieval town on the southern bank of the Sèvre river.  He stops to rest Jaaden at a small inn buying oats and fresh water.  He sits at a table under a tree drinking a local ale and eating bread and cheese, talking of politics and local matters with another traveler, going north to Tours.  Soon, he tightens Jaaden’s girth strap and is swinging into the saddle. 

He rides into Noirot, through narrow cobbled streets to a comfortable inn set back from the road.  He leaves Jaaden in a large stall with fresh straw and water, watching as the stable boy removes the saddle and bridle and picks up a rough cloth to rub down the stallion. Jaaden nickers softly, extending his neck toward the oats Lucien dumps into the bin.  ‘You sound like a contented sultan,’ he murmurs as he strokes the stallion’s neck.   He leaves the stable, crossing the yard to the two story building.  The rear door opens, and a woman of middle years waits for him.  ‘God’s teeth,’ she places her hands on ample hips, ‘I saw you ride in and could hardly believe my own eyes.  How long has it been since you were last here?’

‘Madame Nolan, you never change,’ Lucien takes her hands in his and kisses both her cheeks. ‘You are too gracious for the likes of me.’  She makes a short scoffing laugh.

‘I imagine you using that charm of yours on all the ladies of my vintage scattered along your travel routes. Do they know your habits as well as I do?’ Madame Nolan has a curious lilt in her voice, as is common to the Irish language.  Despite her years, her raven hair is still lustrous, with few silver threads, her cheeks dimple charmingly with her smile and dark blue eyes dance with warmth and good humor.

‘Your vintage is rare and precious,’ Lucien replies, ‘as is the wine you serve,’ he lowers his eyes. ‘Is that fresh bread I smell?’

‘Aye, and stew and I might remind you that the wine is yours,’ she chuckles, standing aside and ushering him into the kitchen.  ‘Go on through. I’ll bring wine and dinner. Your rooms are ready.’

When she arrives with the tray, he pulls out another chair for her to sit.  He tucks into the food and drinks thirstily.  ‘Your man was here,’ she says.  Lucien nods, ‘which one?’

‘The one who looks like a wolf.’

‘Loup.  Did he leave a message?’

‘Not in writing.  He was suspicious of everyone.  He said he will wait in the tavern near Marsilly.  He brought a good horse, one that will not draw attention.’

‘Good,’ Lucien finishes his meal and leans back in the chair. ‘Jaaden will enjoy being pampered for a few days.’  He eyes her speculatively, ‘what news from your family?’  She shrugs, ‘the troubles continue. How is my cousin’s son?’

 ‘Ciaran is valet to my daughter Layla.  I promised Niall I would see to Ciaran’s education.  He is doing well in his studies.’   

‘Good,’ she replies, ‘and how is our Huguenot?’

‘Phillip is in Paris, still with me. She nods approvingly, ‘I am glad to hear it.  Phillip needs looking after.’

Lucien laughs, ‘you know that is what he would say of me.’  Her smile is affectionate, ‘he is not wrong.’

He looks around the room, the brisk fire burning in the fireplace, sparkling clean windows, the floors swept.  Travelers and men of prosperous professions sit around the tables, playing cards or engaged in conversation. ‘You are doing well here,’ he comments.  She nods, ‘I was able to finish the improvements before the winter set in. You have been generous, Your Grace.’  She has a mischievous gleam in her eye.  He smiles thinking that Madame Nolan is entitled to address him as she wishes.  ‘I know a good investment when I see it.’  He takes her hand, ‘I am the same man.’   

‘We will see about that,’ she says sliding her hand from under his. ‘I will see to your hot water.’  He sits back, drinking wine and watching her swaying hips through the kitchen door.  He was a brash young man when he met her, full of himself at being on a commission for Captain Benito de Soto. He had been lucky beyond measure she did not kick his roguish arse out her door but agreed to help him.  Or rather, to do as Benito ordered.

Lucien drains the cup, aware of the curious glances he attracts. He goes up to the second floor, walks down the wide corridor to the last room.  A staircase is tucked into the corner leading to the rear of the building. He opens the door to a pleasant room, his travel bag set on a table and steam rising from the half tub in front of the fireplace. He sighs with pleasure and closes the door.

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He is awake when he hears the soft click of the closing door.  He rises and reaches for his travel bag, and dresses in a rough stained linen shirt, worn leather breeches, a battered pair of boots and patched and scarred leather doublet.  He takes out an old heavy hooded cape.  He goes down the rear staircase pulling on thick frayed gloves as he walks.  The horse Loup brought is in the yard, saddled and ready, Madame Nolan is there too. She glances at him as she tucks a packet of food into his travel bag, surveying him critically.

‘Now you look like you, so keep your wits about you.’

He kisses her cheek, mounts and within minutes he is on the road.  As he rides, he knows her comment is true.  He is on two roads, only one leads to a place, the other leads him from the Duc du Plessis to the man he knows as Lucien Grimaud.

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The sun is setting, its last burning rays barely filter through the iron gray sky hovering over the muddy track.  It serves as a road for those unfortunates who live in the tawdry neighborhoods on the outskirts of La Rochelle.  Low slung buildings patched with wood and canvas lean against each other to stay upright.  On one, hangs a battered sign with a faded image of a herring fish caught in the mouth of a huge black eel, swinging lazily over a low weather beaten door, wedged against the rough floor. The man shoves it hard, scrapping and grinding as it swings open, his expression curling into disgust.   Sullen eyes turn to the newcomer, and then look away, knowing better that to show too much interest.  A man lifts a hand from the rear of the room.

‘Ballesdens, you could not sit closer to the door?  The smell in here is atrocious.’

The man called Ballesdens looks up into a face he rarely sees and wishes to see even less.  The orders that will come will be well paid for, but dangerous.  He shoves a tankard of wine across the table and mutters, ‘you said to be discreet.’

Godier swipes at the chair with his gloves before sitting down and sniffs at the tankard.  He grunts and takes a drink, wrinkling his nose, ‘you drink this swill.’ 

‘So did you,’ Ballesdens retorts. In his opinion, Godier is no different from him, although he likes to preen as a lieutenant for Comminges.  Another wharf rat is Ballesdens. ‘What do you want?’

‘I want you to get a message to Lucien Grimaud.’

‘Grimaud?’ Ballesdens gapes in astonishment.  ‘He is here, in La Rochelle?  I want nothing to do with Grimaud.  No one who values their life would want to treat with Grimaud.’

‘We have information he will come to La Rochelle to meet the Aigle crew.’

‘Those are de Soto’s men.  I want nothing to do with them either.  I do not want them to even know my name.’

 ‘You are right to be cautious, it is likely the informant will receive Grimaud’s particular form of courtesy,’ Godier says with a grim smile, ‘so send another, one you will not miss.’  He leans forward reaching into a pocket and pushing a heavy bag of coin across the table. 

‘Listen carefully.  This is the message he is to give to Lucien Grimaud.’

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The smell greets him first, the distinct sulfurous smell of decaying plant matter. Lucien rides toward the sun, taking the paths on the high berms that weave through the salt marsh. The gray sky hangs close, bird song has a muffled quality.  Clapper rails and black ducks float together, an egret raises a slender leg, pausing attentively as he rides by.  He passes grassy islands, thick with shrubby trees where sheep and goats graze, the small huts used by salt farmers in the summer months now empty and silent in the winter. 

In the back street of the tavern, Lucien leaves his horse, giving instructions to the thin child serving as a stable boy.  Inside, he pauses to let his eyes adjust to the gloom and his gut to combined rank smell of rancid cooking grease, sour wine and unwashed men. Odysseus stands up from a back table near the door leading into kitchen, and the rear of the building.  Loup is there as is another man that Lucien does not recognize, but his hands are carefully placed on the table showing he has no weapons.  Lucien walks through the room, his boots crunching on the gritty floor. Men’s eyes shift to the hooded man as he passes, recognition flickers and they look away quickly.

‘Captain,’ Odysseus beams at him, drawing out a chair and pushing a tankard toward him. Lucien nods at Loup and at Ver and Fou sitting at the next table.  Fou has his eyes fixed on the second man with Loup. That man is shifting nervously in the chair.  He has been slapped around, one eye closed from a swollen cheek, blood dribbled on his dirty shirt.  Lucien raises one questioning brow at Loup. 

‘We had a few questions for him,’ Loup says as explanation. ‘This miserable bastard says he has information for you.’  Loup elbows the man sharply, brandishing his fist in his face, ’he is likely a putain liar who only wants money.’

‘No M!’ the man’s face twists with fear as he shrinks back from Loup’s fist and Fou’s glare, ‘I swear I do not lie.’

 ‘You have the look of a putain liar,’ Lucien remarks in a mild tone as he sits down. ‘What is this lie you want me to believe?  Tell me quickly as I have other business here.’ 

The man looks furtively at Fou, ‘I…I…’

‘Speak up!’ Loup snarls and the man shivers involuntarily.  ‘It’s about a woman … we were not paid as we were told.  They were the liars!’  He appeals to an impassive Grimaud.

‘What woman?’

‘I do not know her name M … from Blois and she was in a bad way …’ he stumbles over his words. Fou makes his fear real, but what of his words?  Lucien has no expression, drumming his finger idly on the table, ‘that is all?’  He looks at Loup who grabs the man by the collar to drag him to his feet. Fou stands up too.

‘Black hair, green eyes…’ the man blurts out, ‘we started on the road east…they did not pay!’

‘East?  Who are they?’

‘No one said…I only heard a name … Comminges … I swear it!’

Lucien is silent staring at the man.  Could it be the truth? Does the man know he lies?  Or is the message a deliberate deception?  He studies the face, encrusted with old dirt, hair greasy and slicked back, eyes darting furtively.  If he was selected, his master does not care if he survives this encounter.  Who is the master?  East to where?

Lucien raises his eyes to Fou and Ver.  Fou smiles, grabs the man by the collar to drag him through the tavern, Ver following, whistling as they go through the door.  No one intervenes, no one even looks in their direction.

Lucien sits back, he will soon have the answers he needs.  He pushes the empty tankard at Odysseus.

‘You better have brought something to drink,’ he says sourly. Odysseus chuckles and pulls a leather flask from his bag.  He pours a generous quantity into the tankard.

Lucien takes a long drink and sighs with approval.  ‘Now, both of you – tell me about the Belladona and what the hell she is doing here.’

Odysseus refills the tankard as Loup explains, ‘she does not want to engage.  We get close and she slips away, going into rough seas to avoid us.’  He shakes his head, ‘all I can tell you is that she stays within the vicinity of the Wrecks.’

‘Other ships?’

‘No Captain, not in this weather.  We are the only ones crazy enough to be out there with her.  I put men on the beach and the headlands to watch in case she slipped us and tried to land a longboat.  But nothing.’

‘They are waiting for something,’ Lucien mused to himself.  Odysseus nods, but defers to Loup to explain, ‘yes, that was our thought as well.  But whatever message they wait for is not coming by sea.’

So, the message will come by land or by pigeon.  The Belladona is a ship owned by the Ogre in Hispaniola who is aligned with the Company of the Orient.  The captain of the Belladona waits for a message from Rochefort.  What message is so important to risk Atlantic waters in winter?

‘Who does the captain of the Belladona wait for?’ Lucien muses to himself.  Odysseus glances at Loup and is given a subtle nod.

‘You remember her captain?’ Odysseus leans forward, eager to make a point. 

‘How could I forget?  Her captain is the eldest son of the sister of Cabeza de Perro.  Amaro captained his uncle’s ship El Audaz until the Ogre lured him away.  I do not recall Angel being particularly pleased with that defection.’  Lucien levels a look at Odysseus, ‘you see a connection with the Dog’s Head?’  Odysseus shrugs, ‘the Dog’s Head has claimed he is no longer active, but through his family, he could still be working for Spain or Sale.’

‘Corsairs?’  Lucien is puzzled but does not discount Odysseus’ suggestion of other players probing for weaknesses in his organization.

Lucien tilts his chin to Loup, ‘you know the quartermaster on the Belladona.’  Loups shakes his head, ‘Cruz was killed in a tavern fight. The Belladona has a new quartermaster, a man I have not met.  No one seems to know much about him, except that he recently joined the Ogre’s crew.’

‘From where?’ Lucien asks suspiciously.  ‘No pirate crew would accept an unknown quartermaster, nor would the captain. Someone must know the man.’

‘I agree Captain,’ Loup says, ‘I did not want to tell tales before knowing their veracity.’

‘What tales?’ Lucien now demands answers.

‘That this quartermaster came from the Sa Revache.’

‘Elizabeth’s ship – but you are not sure,’ Lucien turns this information over in his mind. Elizabeth Clisson, captain of the Sa Revache was his partner in the battles against the Company of the Orient, for which she wanted a seat in his syndicate.  The other captains had been less enthusiastic but at Lucien’s request, had postponed a vote until he could make her case.   Ambitious and angry at the delay, Elizabeth had dangled her interest in approaching the Ogre in Hispaniola.  Was this mysterious quartermaster proof of it?

‘Any sighting of the Ogre’s representative, M Ariasa?’  Loup shakes his head. ‘Not yet, but we are looking.’

‘When you find him, we can ask him about their new quartermaster on the Belladona.  In the meantime, find the Sa Revache and get a message to Elizabeth that I want to see her.’

Loup nods, ‘I will put more men onshore as well.’ 

‘Good.  I will send messages to Obi and Madame Demare,’ Lucien says.  ‘Her sons can be useful in this effort and Obi can get out the word to his people.  A well dressed and educated mulatto man spreading the kind of money he must have to buy men, or information is sure to have attracted someone’s attention.’

Fou is coming back towards them, alone.  He waits for Loup to draw out a chair inviting him to sit.

‘That did not take long,’ Lucien comments.  Fou shrugs, ‘he should not have bothered to last at all.’  They understand his meaning – the man could have given up what he eventually did and not die. 

‘He said the man who paid him is called Ballesdens.’ 

Loup frowns, ‘I know that name.’ 

‘Yes, you do.  He did a run with us to Vigo,’ Odysseus says. Loup blinked, ‘he is not part of the crew.’  

‘No,’ Odysseus agrees, ‘we let him go in Gijon.  A poor sailor, not much use to us.’

‘How did he get back here?’  Loup wonders.  Odysseus shrugs, ‘another ship, stole a horse, or maybe Comminges found him and put him to work.’

‘Ver has gone to find this Ballesdens,’ Fou says, ‘then we can ask him directly,’ he smiles thinly.

‘If we can find him,’ Lucien murmurs to himself. ‘What did he say about where in the east they were going?’

‘To the Carmelites near Bourbon-les-eaux,’ Fou says and when Lucien is silent, he adds, ‘it is near a town with thermal waters…’

‘I know where it is,’ Lucien interrupts, ‘I was there once.’ 

In fact, he had gone there with Alessandra, in the early days when she worked for Richelieu, many years before he would know his true parentage.  Alessandra had told him about Richelieu’s scheme to kill the Queen and replace her with another, a Queen who might bear an heir.  Madness.

Ver is returning, walking quickly.  ‘I found a couple men who know Ballesdens but say he has not been around recently.  They think he and his wife have found some work in a local chateau.’

Lucien stands up. ‘Loup, send out men to the estates in the area and check if he is there. I prefer our men but hire if needs be. Look for Ariasa and keep watch on the Belladona. I return immediately to Glenay.’  He looks at Fou, ‘have you birds that fly to Glenay?’

Fou nods, ‘yes, I did as you ordered Captain.’

‘Good man,’ Lucien says clapping the big man on the shoulder adding, ‘be attentive to the weather Fou, we want no harm to your birds.’  The big man ducks his head, grateful that his captain considers his birds, allowing for his protection of them.  He mutters with emotion, ‘they know their duty, Captain.’

 ‘Loup, send a message as to your progress.’  Loup bows, ‘aye Captain.’

Lucien claps Odysseus on the shoulder and strides from the room, retrieves his horse and turns to retrace his route to Noirot. He must relay this information, however unreliable, to Athos.  It is Athos who must decide if they pursue it or if there is reason to believe it is a lie designed to deceive and distract them. He can only hope that Loup and the others can find this Ballesdens before he reaches Glenay.   If not… Putain enfer!  The Carmelites near Bourbon-les-eaux …  Athos could hardly be expected not to remember what happened at that monastery.

He puts his heels to his horse and rides away fast.