M. de Rohan stops in the corridor outside his office at the Palais Royal, surprised to see the Conde de Fuensaldaña, Señor Alonso Perez de Vivero, and his secretary, Señor del Campo, waiting. The Conde de Fuensaldaña, a Grandee of Spain, in the retinue of King Philip and known for leading brilliant campaigns and fighting courageously for Spain, as Captain-General at Rocrois and Lens, arrived in France on the ship that carried the Queen’s dowry and is the Ambassador of Spain. M. de Rohan removes his hat and bows. “Excellencia!”
“Your Grace,” the Count of Fuensaldaña and his secretary both return the courteous greeting.
“I was not expecting Your Excellency or I should have been prompt…”
“I fear I am the one who has been remiss…,” Señor del Campo begins apologetically.
“The blame is entirely mine,” the Spanish Ambassador interrupts his secretary. “You see, Your Grace, this is an urgent matter and a confidential one, so I instructed Señor del Campo to sacrifice formality for the sake of discretion.”
“Please, Excellency, think no more about it,” M. de Rohan says affably. He opens the door of his office, letting the two Spaniards inside and offering them a seat. “How can I be of help?”
“I have received sorrowful news, Your Grace,” the Ambassador says.
“For His Majesty?”
“For yourself, Your Grace. I received a letter from Señor Matias Barroso, a lawyer in Madrid. Her Excellency, the Duquesa de Peñaranda de Duero, your aunt and godmother, who had retired at the Monasterio de San Blas has been relieved of her suffering in this world.”
The news is not unexpected, his aunt has been gravely ill, but M. de Rohan would rather not be reminded of his family. His mother’s sister, his last living relative on his mother’s side, is a stark reminder of his father’s cruelty. When he left her at San Blas, M. de Rohan hoped it was the last time he’d ever hear of the de Lermas again–he was wrong. The Spanish ambassador reaches into his doublet for a sealed letter.
“Señor Barroso sends this.”
M. de Rohan has no intention of opening the letter or reading it. He knows what the letter is about and has the absurd notion that if he never reads it, he can continue as if it never existed. But the Ambassador is a practical man, with a clear purpose, and no time to waste. “I suggest you do not delay reading it, Your Grace, rather, I should address you as…” He extends his hand to his secretary who gives him a large sealed envelope that looks more like a royal missive–indeed it bears the seal of the King of Spain– “…Excellencia.”
“You know what this is about?”
The Ambassador returns a gaze that is at the same time surprised and amused.
M. de Rohan knows that his anger is as absurd as his hope to ignore the entire matter. “I suppose I must…” he concedes reluctantly. He opens the lawyer’s letter first. It includes his aunt’s will and testament, a long list of estates, lands, and possessions, as well as a letter addressed to him and written almost two months earlier. It is in beautiful cursive, which means his aunt did not write it, as the letter also explains:
My dearest boy,
You will be reluctant to read this letter and with good reason. What could a sinful wreck such as I, dare write to an innocent who was so terribly wronged and injured? I stand before you, a sinner, with only the truth, with what is in my heart, and it is a poor offering, I know, but it is all I have.
My hands are useless and my eyes can no longer see, so I asked Sister Damiana to write down my words, while I still have a voice and my mind does not wander. You have nothing to fear from her, for she is bound to silence and, as you know, she was your sweet mother’s beloved friend and we were, both of us, there when you were born.
I was fortunate to see your blessed face, and meet your beautiful wife, who adores you as much as you adore her–an old woman like myself can tell such things. Later, I had a vision of you and her. You were here, at your grandfather’s old house, and it was a house full of joy and laughter, as I have never known it to be, and you were surrounded by many sons, all as tall, handsome, and noble as you, and with two precious little daughters, lovely like delicate flowers. It is but the vision of a sinner, cursed for her sins, but, my darling boy, you deserve all the happiness and joy and with my last breath I am determined to do what I, among many, failed to do when it mattered. To cherish and protect you from the evil which lurks around you, not just our family, but your father too. He was here, dearest boy. He was here, living, breathing, and threatening, not a figment of my wandering mind. He was here, and he wants what he cannot have, for it is rightfully yours.
I leave everything I have to you, my darling boy. Take it. Make something good and worthy out of so much suffering and misery. Live a joyful and happy life, and remember me sometimes in your prayers.
Francisca, a poor sinner.”
M. de Rohan manages to maintain his composure. He clears his throat and points to the document that is sealed with King Philip’s insignia which the Ambassador now hands him. “I suppose that this is…”
“Indeed it is.”
He stands from the chair and walks to his desk unsealing the document and laying it open. It is a royal decree signed by the King of Spain, Philip IV, and it bestows M. de Rohan his ancestral title of the Duque de Lerma, as well as several other titles which will be his to bequeath to his heirs and their heirs in perpetuity, alongside the lands and estates these titles represent.
“His Majesty was eager that you receive it. I quote His Majesty’s words in his missive to me: ‘A noble man of such great merit as is His Excellency the Duque de Lerma, el noble de gran valor, must receive all that is due to him immediately. The inequity must be finally restored.’”
It is an overpowering feeling that M. de Rohan does not welcome, standing before this royal decree that binds him to the family which rejected him and his mother, that speaks of lineage, heirs, children, and grandchildren. Sons. Daughters. Two precious little daughters, lovely like delicate flowers… He would love to have daughters, he thinks, and the absurdity of the thought at such a moment strikes him immediately, as do the implications of the Ambassador’s words. A Spanish courtier, a Spanish Ambassador, never says anything without purpose–often more than one purpose.
“You are pleased?” the Conde de Fuensaldaña pushes.
M. de Rohan mocks a smile. “Do I have a choice?”
“Ah, Excellencia! Modesty, reserve, and disinterest are the marks of true nobility. I quote His Majesty again, ‘make sure that you impress on the Duque the love and admiration We have for him…cerca de Nuestro corazón’ His Majesty writes. And of course, I was there, at the arena, after your magnificent empeño, when His Majesty embraced you like a son, and all of Madrid, chanted your name. Juan Felipe de Lerma! hijo de España! I can still hear it!”
M. de Rohan tries not to remember that day–not to remember what happened immediately after. He also sees where this conversation leads and it is nowhere he’d like to be, but can think of no alternative. “I am grateful for His Majesty’s generosity, and honored to be thus favored.”
“How brilliantly you put it, Excellencia. His Majesty was certain you’d see things His way. At a moment such as this, it is important that people of merit and discernment are at the right place. I speak of course, about the current impasse concerning M. le Prince, le Grand Condé, a sore point with France alongside some minor details concerning Her Majesty’s dowry.” From what M. de Rohan has heard, the latter are neither minor nor details, and when it comes to Condé, negotiations have fallen apart to such a degree that Spain is gathering troops near Valenciennes and Condé threatens to lead them against France.
“ I gather that His Majesty King Louis knows about…” he points to the decree still spread out on his desk that restores his Spanish title and estates.
“He would…” the Ambassador hesitates for a moment. “I requested an audience that was granted but when I arrived at the Louvre a few hours ago, I was told to return tomorrow. Thus, I came here. My orders were to speak to you immediately. His Majesty, King Louis will know tomorrow. He will also know that Spain, that His Majesty King Philip, launches a formal request that your Excellency joins the court of Madrid as the new French Ambassador.”
“Is it not rather premature?”
“Not at all! You are, of course, disinterested by nature, but, in truth, a man such as yourself, is valuable to France and Spain alike. What, pray, is the purpose of such God-given merit if not to serve one’s King? Is this not the perfect opportunity to use your remarkable qualities in the service of not one but two royal heads? For I assure you, both Spain and France are eager for peace and want the matter resolved.”
There is a threat, perfectly insinuated, in the Ambassador’s seemingly ardent praise. M. de Rohan is a subject of King Louis of France, lieutenant of his wife’s and his mother’s guard and now he is a Grandee of Spain whom King Philip calls “dear to his heart”. To choose a side is as impossible as to remain neutral. “If His Majesty, King Louis, orders me to serve France in any capacity at the court of Madrid, I will do my best to fulfill his expectations and serve France’s interests. I hope this is clear.”
“Of course. It is what Spain wants. A man of impeccable integrity with strong ties in Spain, who understands the intrigues of the Spanish court while speaking for France is the sign of respect that Spain appreciates.”
M. de Rohan smiles. “I am not sure I understand the intrigues of the Spanish court, Excellencia. To be honest, I am not sure I understand those of the French court.”
“Again you are too modest. Your conduct during your visit was scrutinized as you can imagine. We all marveled, myself included. The empeño, of course, sealed everything. As for what happened afterwards…” he pauses “it is unseemly to speak of such things, but what happened afterwards raised you in everyone’s eyes. Even those of your enemies.”
“My enemies?” M. de Rohan chuckles. “I have enemies in Madrid?”
“Ah!” the Spanish Ambassador waves his hand in a nonchalant manner. “Every man of quality has enemies in the court of Madrid. And you have the sort of enemies that deem a man important.” He shrugs. “It is to be expected. Some come with your titles. Others, you earned and despite your service to them. The latter count the most, and they mark you as a man of substance.”
M. de Rohan knows whom the Ambassador means: don Juan Jose de Austria, one of Spain’s most important generals and admirals, King Philip’s illegitimate son, whom M. de Rohan rescued from certain death at the empeño in Madrid. Until this moment, he had not thought about what took place in Madrid that day. “Your guidance on this matter is invaluable,” he says.
“Then, be warned that you will find opposition from that particular side. M. le Prince is a sore point for them also, albeit for different reasons. How many vaunted generals can Spain afford after all? And M. le Prince is not Spanish, he has a claim to the French throne, and his loyalties are… shall we say… changeable.”
“Would they negotiate separately?”
“You hit the very mark! Señor Vargas warns that they have already sent an envoy to France to seek a secret negotiation or simply to obstruct any attempts we… His Majesty… makes. The envoy is Beltran de Guevaro, Seigneur de Onate. He is a hidalgo de sangre–you may have heard the name of his brother, Capitan de Guevaro. His ship the San Pedro went down fighting near the mouth of the Bidasoa recently. Against the Aigle I believe, that would be your father-in-law’s ship, would it not?” He smiles. “So, you see, Excellencia, this is a treacherous undertaking, mired at every step, which is why the right man is necessary.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
He tries not to think about his encounter with the Spanish Ambassador and the royal decree that he carries inside his cloak while he inspects his men. He tries not to think about what happened while he gallops to the Louvre, where the Queen Mother has chosen to return after a promenade with her son at the Tuileries. But his cloak weighs heavily and his mind is burdened by his godmother’s words; not so much the joyous future she envisioned for him and Layla, but the haunting memories they raised of his dying mother and his father’s cruelty at the Tower of Mendoza. This is what his father wanted, all that he has been given now. How can he endanger Layla thus? Sons…Daughters…He’d like to be father to daughters and yet how can he keep any children safe from his father’s malice?
“M. de Rohan! M. de Rohan, wait!”
In his state of mind, M. de Rohan has failed to notice M. de Guiche who has been trying to attract his attention across the crowded hall outside the Queen Mother’s antechamber. He stops. “My apologies.”
“Where is Raoul?” M. de Guiche looks and sounds agitated. “Where is he, do you know?” M. de Rohan shakes his head and Guiche swears under his breath. “Let me guess, you wouldn’t tell me even if you knew!” M. de Rohan raises a half shrug.
“Sang Dieu!” Guiche leans closer and whispers. “This is not good. Not good at all. Something odd is happening and I cannot put my finger on it. No one can, not even Nicolas with all his money. Even that cold fish, Saint-Aignan, frets. No, I am not being dramatic!”
M. de Rohan frowns. “If the King is in danger you should speak to Captain Marchal.”
“It’s about Captain Marchal. He’s been summoned, did you know?”
“I am not privy to the orders he receives from the King. But there is nothing unusual in being summoned. The King summons his Captain of the Musketeers whenever he decides.”
“No, no. This is different, I tell you. This is what I know: the King returned from an early morning promenade with his mother, and by all accounts–Nicolas witnessed it with his very eyes, for he was with the King—he was agitated and angry. He has been peeved since the night at Zola’s and with good reason. Not so much because of Monsieur, his brother, but because of Captain Marchal’s intervention. Why Marchal chose to intervene, and on the side of Saint-Aignan perplexes us all. The King locked himself into his chamber. Bontemps almost suffered an apoplexy–you know how he is on matters of protocol, worse than his father. The King refused to see anyone, including the Ambassador of Spain. You’d think that under the circumstances Spain should not be treated thus, unless something is very wrong. Then, he opened the door himself and demanded to see Marchal and Mancini. Both. They remained with him for more than an hour. It does not bode well I tell you.”
It doesn’t bode well indeed, but not for the reasons M. de Guiche fears. Could this be about Henri? If so, they must act immediately. If so, this is the moment they were waiting for. He must send word to M. de Beaumont. He must hurry home to Layla and Marie Cessette.
“If Marchal is offered a new position,” M. de Guiche presses, “if he is promoted, then his reign begins and it will be brutal and vile, like the man himself. We have already seen what he is capable of. Raoul, you, me, everyone! And I will say nothing about Saint-Aignan’s triumph.” He frowns. “What? It does not bother you? How a brute like Marchal has risen to so much power so quickly and is even rewarded with a promotion after what happened at Zola’s?”
He has no time for this. He must return to Layla immediately. They must make a move now. “We don’t know if he was rewarded anything. And no one questions His Majesty’s decisions.”
“You can say that. You are untouchable these days. But the rest of us…”
M. de Rohan does not like the sound of it. “What do you mean untouchable?”
“You are perfect and perfectly flawed, my dear Baron, when it comes to your good taste, your marriage, your position, your lover–although personally I doubt that last thing is true. You draw the perfect gossip, perfectly timed. The pamphlets adore you. And not just here. They adore you in Spain, which, for a Frenchman, is a great accomplishment.”
“I don’t care about pamphlets or about gossip,” M. de Rohan can barely hold back his anger, but reminds himself that Guiche is a friend of Raoul and Marie Cessette.
“You should,” M. de Guiche admonishes. “In Madrid, at court, besides the mold, one can only breathe in gossip and rumors. If you are to be Ambassador to Spain…”
“What idle talk is this?”
Guiche raises a knowing brow. “My father has very good friends at the court of Madrid, as you well know, and Conde de Fuensaldaña is an old family friend. Why, he dined with us last night.”
M. de Rohan leans closer. “I will not have such idle talk.”
“Suit yourself. The truth comes out sooner or later. What concerns me is what happened with Captain Marchal. The man is capable of anything. He spies on us already. Imagine what will happen if he is given more power.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
M. de Rohan dashes down the stairs to the courtyard of the Louvre, where his horse and escort wait. He is surprised to see M. Rochois, the First Lieutenant of the Musketeers, alongside M. Bennart, and M. Falaize, seated with his own men playing dice. M. de Rohan is surprised and alarmed—these are the three men who, besides Fabien, are responsible for Henri. M. Bennart has already helped, passing Henri a message.
M. de Rohan’s instinct tells him that what transpired in the morning was about Henri: both the King’s refusal to see the Conde de Fuensaldaña and his urgent meeting with Fabien and M. Mancini. He assumes a most affable tone as he greets his old comrades. “Messieurs.”
“Lieutenant!” They stand up from their game, while his own men grab their hats and hurry to the stables, to bring their horses.
“I did not expect to see you. I understand Captain Marchal was summoned earlier this morning. Is he still here?”
M. Rochois smiles a knowing smile. “You mean, Commander Marchal?”
Guiche was right, M. de Rohan thinks, although he remains convinced that the King’s urgent meeting had to do with Henri Bernard. “Commander?”
“Of the King’s Guard,” M. Falaize chimes in. “To rival…” he points toward M. de Rohan. “The excellent and exclusive regiment of the Queen’s Guard.”
M. de Rohan frowns. “And the Musketeers?”
M. Rochois shakes his head. “They have become a much larger regiment than the one you left behind, Lieutenant. Larger and less…exclusive. They are now in the hands of a new captain. M. Mancini.”
Guiche was right, and he is right not to like what is happening. M. de Rohan abhors this news too, but for a different reason. He can also see it in the eyes of his old comrades. “The Musketeers are…”
M. Rochois nods. “No longer what they used to be. Any rich man’s son can buy a commission.”
“Mancini!” M. Falaize scoffs.
“And you?” Like M. de Rohan, like Raoul, and Layla, these men have devoted their lives to an elite regiment that has been the envy of Christendom. Now, to find themselves thus disillusioned…
“King’s Guard. All three,” M. Rochois sounds relieved.
“Captain Mancini did not look happy even though he seemed to like his new pauldron. We were there for the evening call at the Garrison–our very last. Our regiment will have new barracks at the old Hôtel de Treville, across the river.” M. Bennart says, and something in his tone signals to M. de Rohan that he means to say much more. His next sentence confirms M. de Rohan’s suspicion. “Captain Mancini was ordered to take over both at the Conciergerie and at Vincennes, neither of which was ever under the direct command of the Captain of the Musketeers. He looked as if he was about to faint when they were announced at the evening call.” He chuckles.”I can’t decide which one of the two prisons is worse but he deserves them both.”
This is the moment, M. de Rohan thinks, this is the moment they have been waiting for.
Twelve Years After 