ChapterTwenty Four-No Choice but the Path Before, by Corso

‘Open the gate!’  The guards look down from the ramparts at the horse and rider and call down the order.  The massive gate at Glenay groans under its weight and Lucien rides into the central courtyard.   Yawning stable boys quickly appear stuffing their arms into the sleeves of their jackets.  He slides from the saddle, ‘we have ridden hard.’   Jaaden’s head droops slightly, his big chest heaving and sweat flaked.  The two stable boys move one to each side and take his lead, clucking with sympathy and sending disapproving covert glances at Lucien. They walk the big horse slowly to the stable, murmuring kindly, the straw in his stall is thick and fresh, they promise Jaaden a good wash and rub down, his favorite blanket and an extra portion of oats.  They have apples too.

M Mael is waiting for him in the entryway.  He takes Lucien’s bag and dirty cloak.  ‘My mother?’ Lucien says as he pulls off his muddy boots. A footman whisks them away.

‘Still awake Your Grace, shall I send a tray?’

‘Yes. Bread and cheese will do.’  He takes the stairs two at a time and is soon outside her door.  One knock, then he opens the door.  The room is mostly in shadow, the fire not yet banked.  An ornate silver tree of candles is set on a table next to where Marie de Combalet is swaddled in blankets, seated in a comfortable chair before the fireplace, her worn prayer book in her lap.  She smiles at her son, leaning her head against the chair’s back.

‘Home at last.’

He pads across the room in stockinged feet and kisses her cheek, ‘are you well Madame?’

‘I am now,’ she answers fondly, and looks to the door at the footman’s quiet scratch. The tray he carries is set on a low table, he pours wine out for Lucien and then departs. ‘I am famished,’ Lucien tucks into the bread and thick chunk of cheese.

‘You should have asked for more,’ his mother chides him, ‘there must be stew.’

Lucien lifts a lid and steam rises, ‘broth,’ he says and drinks it down.  He sets the bowl back with a satisfied sigh, munching bread and watching the fire.  They sit together in comfortable silence.  Marie wonders at his studied expression, her eyes moving over his strong profile.  He has never resembled Richelieu who had not been considered handsome.   Neither of her sons bear the memory of their father for her.  For that she has always been grateful. 

‘How is it here?’  he asks her.

‘We have made progress.  The schoolroom is finally ready, and the children are settling into a routine.  M Mael and Madame Rollard have decided on the staffing for the house and the kitchens. The cooks are settled on their side of the worktable and have their maids sorted out. Martin and Yusuf report twice a day to me and there have not been any sightings of concern.  Only local people who are known and a few visitors who saw my banner.’

‘Hmm,’ Lucien murmurs his approval and pours more wine. He holds up the flask, ‘a little before bed?’  He pours a small amount, adds water and hands it to her.  She sips and waits for him.

‘Sophia?’ he asks.  Marie sets her glass down. ‘Still restless, perhaps because you were gone as well.  But her spirits are improving.  She came to chapel with me every morning as did the girls.  Athos too.’

Lucien looks up, ‘did he?’ 

Marie makes a gentle shrug, ‘not every morning.  He seemed curious about the chapel.  Perhaps a memory?’  It’s Lucien’s turn to shrug.  ‘I went to chapel with you…on occasion,’ he adds at his mother’s skeptical look.  ‘I have no memories of it.’

He is not sure why he says that, why does it matter what memories Athos has of the chapel at Glenay.  He glances at his mother who regards him with a patient expression and feels foolish.  ‘At least he has moved out of the portrait gallery,’ he is sarcastic and feels worse.  He does not look at his mother. ‘I may have information for him.’

‘Of Alessandra?’ his mother makes the leap to the right conclusion.  He nods, ‘I am unsure of its reliability, but he should know of it.’  He glances at her, ‘do you know of a Carmelite monastery near Bourbon-les-eaux.’

‘Yes,’ Marie replies thoughtfully, ‘the monastery had been abandoned for some time, when the Poor Sisters asked if they could occupy and restore it.  I recall it is not too far from La Roche-Posay.  It has thermal springs considered to be healing.  I believe the Queen went there on occasion. Her Majesty had a very hard time conceiving.’  She frowns, tapping her cheek thoughtfully, ‘I cannot recall the name of the Abbess.  She came to the Order late in her life, a soldier’s widow, practical and no nonsense about her.’  She makes a mischievous smile at Lucien, ‘you would like the Sisters.  Like your nuns who make ale, the nuns at Bourbon-les-eaux make apricot brandy from a recipe brought by one of the nuns when she joined the Order.’

‘An excellent reason to make the trip,’ Lucien declares standing up.

‘You are going there?  In this weather?  It must be days of travel!’

‘It will be Athos’ decision if he considers the information viable.’  He kisses her cheek, ‘But first, I am to see my wife.’

‘Your children know something happened to their mother. Rayya does not accept her story of an accident but obeys to leave well enough alone. I wrote to the Queen,’ Marie d’ Combalet says as he prepares to leave her. ‘I understand the limitations on retribution for Marchal’s abuse of Sophia, and the destruction he encouraged at Royaumont.  But frankly Lucien, it would have been strange if I had not made any protest about his actions toward my family. The Queen and I were once very close.  Striking Sophia was well beyond whatever authority was given to him by Louis.  The man is a trained soldier – what cause could he have had to assault her?  Losing his self-control might have killed her.  My letter will be considered an acceptable communication between me and Her Majesty.’

‘What do you think the Queen will do?’

‘I once would have expected her to speak to the King, but now …I am not so sure.  Louis had her confined at Val de Grace,’ Marie shakes her head, ‘he was a sweet boy, but the man …’ her voice trails off.  ‘However, I had to do it.  The King is also her son, and regardless of what her son did or did not do, what mother does not support her sons?’

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He stands in the doorway watching his wife seated at a low table.  Sophia wears a loose silk wrap, slipping down her arm to expose the delicate henna colored symbols of her name entwined with a fierce sparrowhawk in flight that is tattooed over one shoulder   She is examining her face in a mirror, turning her head side to side.  The swelling and discoloration are fading, but he wonders what she sees.  She rubs her neck, still sore from the impact of Marchal’s hand.  Had Marchal closed his fist when he struck her, he would have shattered her jaw or killed her outright.

Lucien closes the door quietly and crosses the room to sit behind her on the bench, his legs bracketing hers. She smiles at him in the mirror, ‘you are back.’

He presses his fingers to the sore spot on her neck massaging gently.  She closes her eyes tilting her head, humming, ‘that feels good.’  He replaces his fingers with his lips, and she makes a soft giggle, ‘is that part of your treatment?’  He chuckles low in his throat, ‘is it working?’ 

‘It always does.’  She lifts her face to him, and he kisses her deeply.  ‘I missed you,’ he whispers.   Blue iridescent eyes gleam from her hooded eyes, ‘I want to go to Paris.’

He pulls back slightly, ‘what?  Why?’

‘I want to see him.  I want to kill him.’  The alluring gleam in her eyes hardens into cold shards of blue ice. He strokes her cheek, ‘it was you who ordered me not to seek revenge against Marchal,’ he reminds wants her in a mild tone. ‘I do not care,’ she grits her teeth, ‘I want…’

She wants to kill the fear he instilled in her.  The bruises may fade but she does not see it.   She remembers Marchal, a man who had once treated her with kindness, even with love and who in cold fury, unleashed his strength against her.  Marchal left marks, but the one that refuses to heal is not visible.  If Treville were still alive … his image appears to Lucien with that unexpected thought … he and Treville, once enemies, would find themselves allies.  But Treville is dead … I will avenge her … he promises as Treville fades back into memory…

He kisses her bare shoulder, ‘this means wisdom,’ he says tracing the symbols that spell her name.  She makes a thin smile.  ‘The sparrowhawk is the spirit of a warrior. My teacher said that we can never know the true power that lives deep inside, to be called on when needed.’

 He places a finger over her lips. ‘I would never allow you to take that burden on yourself,’ he says gently.  ‘It is not for you to kill a man.’

‘I have done so,’ she retorts, her anger rising. He nods, ‘I know that, but circumstances are not the same. You are not a murderer Sophia.  Revenge for his action is mine.’

‘I want to be there,’ she insists, unwilling to concede. He expects nothing less from her, but he tries to lighten her mood, ‘we can negotiate when the time is right,’ and taps her nose. ‘That time will come and then I will go to Paris…’

‘We will go to Paris….’

He knows better than to even smile. He holds a serious expression and simply nods.  He wraps his arms around her gently pulling her back, feeling her tension fading, savoring the feel of him.  She closes her eyes.

‘I have a suggestion of another place we could go right now,’ he rubs his cheek gently against hers, sensual hooded eyes smiling at her in the mirror.

‘I think I know your destination,’ she quips, her eyes rolling in the direction of the bed.

‘My clever girl,’ he murmurs, sweeping her up into his arms. Her head rests against his shoulder, needing his love as a refuge now, when she knows herself to be weak and insufficient.   He carries her to the bed, setting her down gently.  Tiny tremors run up and down her spine as he opens her wrap letting it slide to the floor.  She shivers and he quickly sheds his clothes and draws her close to his warmth, but her trembling is less from cool air and more from anticipation. It has been many years since they were first together, young and caught up in stolen moments of fevered passion, secure in their destiny no matter what obstacles were placed before them.  Familiarity has not dimmed their ardor. Yet, she sees the question in his eyes and guilt.  He had not protected her …what does she need from him to feel safe … is it passion or something else …

She pushes him back and he reclines against the stack of pillows, lacing his fingers together behind his head, watching her from under hooded eyes.  Her hands stroke over his broad muscled chest and shoulders with the tattoo of raven symbols, wings spread, talons extended, a rite of passage from Benito de Soto after he took his first prize at sea.  She knows the terrain of his body, the crisscross patterns of fine line scars, others thick, pitted or sunken from deeper wounds – reminders of his life away from her.  Sun and wind weathered skin cover planes of hard muscle rippling under her touch, he moans softly and reaches for her, turning her under him, balancing his weight on his arms.   He is as he has always been – strong gentle hands, patient, controlling his own desire to please her … tell me he whispers … listening for her gasps and murmurings of pleasure, playful as he teases with his lips, tiny nips, and kisses, his bearded cheek tickles.  He draws her into his physicality, sensual, powerful, overwhelming, she is safe within that strength.  She closes her eyes, her fingers sliding down his flanks urging an ancient rhythm and he takes command …

She is drifting, lying with her back to him, within the circle of his arms, one is heavy over her, his fingers encircling her wrist. His sleepy breath tickles the back of her neck, his heartbeat strong and steady.  She rolls to face him, his arm lifting. She looks into his eyes, gold flecked swirls of brown and green, banded with blue.  Her world is in those eyes. Fingers stroke her cheek … be mine he whispers. It’s an old joke …she plays her part … only until forever … as she tucks in closer to him.

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Early dawn…

‘I heard you were back,’ Athos looks up from saddling his horse as Lucien appears in the stable. ‘I had not expected you to ride with us this morning.’  Aramis pokes his head over the top of the stall where he is saddling his horse. ‘You will need a different horse, I see Jaaden is still sleeping,’ he jokes.

‘We got in late,’ Lucien says, resting his arms over the top of the stall to watch. 

‘Was it successful?’ Aramis asks, as he smooths the blanket over his horse.  He lifts the saddle from the rack and settles it over the blanket. 

Lucien makes a wry expression, ‘it was interesting.’  He looks at Athos. ‘I received some information.’

Athos stops saddling his horse and turns to Lucien.  The two brothers regard each other silently for a moment.  Athos speaks first, ‘information you trust?’

‘Not yet,’ Lucien replies, ‘a messenger came to me.  I sent men to find the man who sent him.  I do not know if they will succeed.

‘Hmm,’ Athos frowns and strokes his horse.   He glances at Aramis who has paused saddling his horse.  He looks back and forth between Athos and Lucien.  ‘His name?’ Aramis asks.

‘His name does not matter anymore,’ Lucien says, ‘the name of the man who sent him is Ballesdens. He is known as someone who will work for pay without asking questions.  He was likely ordered to find someone expendable to give me the message.  Ballesdens is rumored to have found work with his wife in a local chateau.  That is who my men are looking for.’  

Lucien pauses and the resumes the story, ‘the messenger claimed he held a grudge because he and the others hired to transport a woman were not paid as promised.  When pressed for more, he described her with black hair, green eyes moved to a location … east.’  Lucien recounts the story told to him.  ‘He had a vague description, but he did not know enough to have done what he claimed.  Nevertheless, he said the woman was being moved east.  To a monastery – the Carmelites near Bourbon-les-eaux.’

Aramis gasps audibly.  Athos frowns, for a moment not recognizing the name and then his brow clears.  He slants his eyes to Aramis who is pale and asks, ‘could this be deliberate?’

Lucien waits, silent and impassive.  Athos glances back at him, studying Lucien’s expression, puzzled.

‘You know the place?’ Athos asks suspiciously.  He frowns.  ‘How do you…’ Lucien meets his eyes. After a moment Athos says, ‘you knew Gallagher.’

Lucien makes a subtle nod, remaining silent. He can see Athos’ mind working, reaching back through the years to the days when the Queen’s life was threatened by paid mercenaries. He and Aramis took refuge in a monastery high on a bluff with only Carmelite Sisters to help them with their defense.  Lucien knows every detail of how Gallagher came to be hired.  What Athos is thinking now is how his brother was involved with Athos’ wife in a plot to assassinate the Queen.  It is a glaring reminder of what divides them.  It was not as Athos’ believes, but Lucien is not sure his brother would believe the truth – either in him or his wife.

‘We should talk to Porthos and d’Artagnan,’ Aramis urges, heedless of the sudden tension between the two brothers.  Athos makes a curt nod, both he and Aramis drop their saddles onto the rack and stride purposefully toward the door, Lucien trailing behind them.  Inside the house, Athos gives a message to M Mael, requesting Porthos and d’ Artagnan to join them in the study.  As they wait, Lucien unrolls a map studying possible routes from Glenay to Bourbon-les-eaux.  Athos, arms folded over his chest, looks at the map while Aramis stands back, preoccupied with his own thoughts.   Soon, the door opens, Porthos and d’ Artagnan enter.

‘We heard you were back,’ Porthos says looking between Lucien, Athos and Aramis.  ‘What is it?’

Athos nods to Lucien. ‘It concerns a message I received in La Rochelle…’  Lucien tells the story again.  When he finishes, the four musketeers are silent.  Finally, d ‘Artagnan speaks to Athos, ‘do you believe it?’

‘It is the first piece of information since Bourron Marlotte,’ Athos replies.  ‘I must follow it, even if there are reasons to be suspicious of it.’

‘Bourbon-les-eaux,’ why would she be taken there?’  Porthos jabs a finger at the map, ‘is there more to this message?  Who else knew what happened? Is there another purpose to luring you there?’

‘Explain what you mean,’ Athos says sternly. ‘What purpose do you imagine?’

‘Retribution for a plot against the Queen?  I admit it seems farfetched after all these years, but we know Rochefort plays a very long game.’  Porthos looks back and forth between Aramis and Athos, ‘it could be aimed at either of you, or the Queen.’  He does not need to elaborate his meaning as the relationship between the Queen and Aramis began at Bourbon-les-eaux.

Interesting … Lucien thinks to himself.  No one mentions Alessandra’s role in the attack.  As for who knew at the time, it was more widely known than the four men may realize.  Benito had known, of course, and declined to get involved in any way, ordering him to stay well away from it.  ‘When the devil’s dung is unleashed, that is why they want us in place,’ Benito advised him grimly, ‘to take the execution for it.’ 

That was exactly why he had not stayed away.  He could not allow Alessandra to take the fall for Richelieu’s plotting.  Benito knew his loyalty to Alessandra and while not pleased, Benito always protected him.  ‘When it is done, you will go with the Burla Negra to Hispaniola. If she has any sense, she will go with you.’ 

Lucien frowns to himself, wondering if this is the time to tell the four musketeers what he knows, whom he knows and what he and Alessandra did to ensure the Queen did not die at Bourbon-les-eaux.  He listens to their discussion and decides to wait.  What he knows is for Athos first.  What the others learn is for Athos to decide.

Athos glances at Lucien, standing behind the table, his eyes fixed on the map.  His brother is silent, no doubt due to the role he played along with Alessandra in the entire sordid plot to kill the Queen.  It was bound to happen, in the years that were separated, they had opposing interests and deadly conflicts.  He had been naïve to think they could avoid all those conflicts.

‘Should we all go?’ d’ Artagnan asks.  ‘

No. If it is a lure to draw us out of Glenay, then we risk an attack here,’ Athos says, ‘you must stay.’ 

‘Are you sure this is the right choice?’  Porthos asks.  Athos stares at the map, tapping his fingers restively.  He looks at Porthos and shrugs in resignation.   

‘There are no other leads, I do not see a choice but to follow the path before me.’  He looks at Lucien, ‘how many days?’ Lucien puts a finger on the map, ‘three days travel for us,’ he says quietly, including himself in Athos’ plan. ‘If the weather worsens…’ he shrugs, ‘longer.’

He looks at his brother.  He needs more time and privacy to answer Athos’ unspoken questions. Athos’ attitude to Alessandra hardened irretrievably after that attack.  Lucien turns the problem over in his mind and what is needed to convince Athos of Alessandra’s true intentions.  She asked Lucien for his help with Gallagher. He was a fiery Irish revolutionary turned mercenary soldier in a plot to kill the Queen of France.  That plot had failed, but Athos does not know the whole story.  Lucien sighs to himself, he needs time.  A three day trip will allow him, if his brother will listen, to tell the full story of the attack on the Queen at the Carmelite monastery near Bourbon-les-eaux.