Chapter Fifty, The Price of Clarity, by Mordaunt

Faites votre devoir, et laissez faire aux dieux.
(Do your duty and leave the rest to Heaven)  
Pierre Corneille, Horace, Act II, Scene III (1639

Aramis does not stay at Noisy-le-rois as he planned. He rides back to Paris with Louis. “Not to Versailles, no I will not make it easy for you,” Louis pushed, “I will not let you see him.” It is for the best, Aramis thinks. He does not want to know Henri Bernard, the man. To see him will give him no clarity. In Paris he can see Anne, touch her, speak to her.  ‘As for me, even though I will endure any distance between us to keep you safe, the mere glimpse of your beloved face will be all the happiness I could hope for’, Anne wrote, and signed ‘your loving wife’.  To see her again will give him the clarity he lacks. Aramis is certain. 

His plans have changed in a heartbeat, and Aramis’ heart is heavy, burdened with sorrow, Louis’ darting words sinking deeper as the hours pass. He saved a child whose very existence now imperils his own son. He loved where he shouldn’t and pursued that love, fathering sons he could never raise except from a distance, sons whose life will always be at the mercy of ruthless conspirators like Rochefort. Aramis should have regrets but he finds none. It has always been his weakness, the gravest of his sins, and he has known it, since he joined the seminary–nay even earlier. Pride is his weakness. He will never regret his actions. How can he regret following his conscience and his heart? Louis, forcefully–Aramis refuses to see the bitterness–demands that he makes a choice. Is Henri Bernard worth the safety of his two sons? Henri Bernard is not an innocent Aramis argued to Athos, but Athos was right. Henri Bernard is as innocent as the rest: Louis, Philippe, Raoul, Marie Cessette, Rohan, and Layla. 

Whom will Aramis sacrifice? 

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“Layla, we must…”

M. de Rohan stops mid-sentence the moment he enters. There is another man with Layla and Marie Cessette in the salon and it is not M. de Beaumont because the chevalier stands by the fireplace leaning against the mantle, reading a letter and looking perplexed. The women spring to their feet, the man too, and M. de Rohan gasps at the sight of him. “M. Morant!”

“Lieutenant,” the young officer makes a formal salute. 

“He made it to Glénay and back to Paris in less than three days,” Layla marvels. 

“At ease, M. Morant. Were you followed?” 

“Yes, as you anticipated, Lieutenant. But His Grace, the duc d’ Herblay knows how to evade the smartest of them. It had not occurred to me that he is one of the celebrated Four. Once in Paris, I was followed again, but…the duc d’ Herblay suggested a way to get here that has confounded the men keeping vigil outside. No one saw me coming in, I am certain.”

“M. Morant came inside through the stables and then the cellar,” Layla explains with an impish smile. 

“His Grace, the duc d’ Herblay, is an invaluable and generous teacher, M. Morant. We have much to learn from him. Is he in Paris?”

“He chose to remain at Noisy-le-roi, Lieutenant.” 

“A wise decision,” M. de Rohan says gravely. 

“There is more,” Layla interjects. 

“Is it the family?” M. de Rohan frets. 

“They are well but they worry about my aunt and Bianca, who is too upset about her Maman. M.Morant brings letters from my mother, from Rayya and Rosie, one from Samy who is anxious that I tell you about the King of Stags living in the forests around Glénay, and from Suzanne who says that Marie Lucette has a pretty smile and Nella is the most attentive older sister. My grandmother writes too. She is worried about my aunt and Bianca. I think she is worried about my father and my uncle but she does not write it.” Layla smiles but M. de Rohan hears a hint of disappointment in his wife’s voice–her father has not written, he surmises, and, of course, Lucien would not have written and Layla knows that he would not, but M. de Rohan knows she is disappointed nevertheless.  

“Raoul sends us a letter,” Marie Cessette interjects. 

“I’d call it a riddle in a puzzle,” M. de Beaumont chuckles. “Perhaps you can make sense of it?” He hands M. de Rohan the letter. “Stranger still, there is a second page that is completely blank.” He hands that to M. de Rohan also, who raises an intrigued brow, and begins to read. 

“Now that the poor wretch has lost his mind from despair and grief and can no longer recall his real name,” Raoul writes, “we must acknowledge that all is as it should be. A man’s grave sins eventually catch up with him. As for ourselves, we must catch up with each other and make an exchange that is fair and just.  

These past few days I have been reminiscing about a back alley where I met our old comrade once. Remember him? He thought himself unbeatable at Find the Lady. A bit of a rogue when it came to cards, but we loved him just the same. Well, that old comrade once challenged me to a duel at a back alley and I have been thinking about that place. We returned to it later, when its defenses finally yielded–remember that too? It is as good a place as any for the fair and just exchange I propose. For the wretch to pay his steep due. Just as the currents of the river flow, so do the currents of fate, they say.  Speaking of fate reminds me of the ancient myth about the three sisters, three fates, Clotho, the younger, the spinner of the thread of life–and is not spinning most appropriate for our purposeful exchange? Then, there is the middle sister, Lachesis, who measures the span–the time left– in threes always, for as fate should have it the numbers fit: three for the messenger and three for the fair exchange, and three more for the third sister’s due, for the Atropos, the Inflexible One to show herself. She is the one who cannot wait. 

Can one trick fate? It’s worth the attempt, if fate affords an opportunity, such as it now does. Atropos arrives, hounded by those of the Further Beyond and it affords us all–you and me– the perfect opportunity. 

Until we meet.” 

There is much that Raoul is telling them, even more than M. de Rohan can comprehend with his first reading. He is giving them a complete plan–of this M. de Rohan has no doubt– so he begins to read again. “Did he say anything else, M. Morant?”

“Yes, Your Grace. He insisted, even if this letter never reached your hands. ‘Spain’ His Grace said. ‘Tell M. de Rohan: Spain.’”

“Yes, Chevalier,” M. de Rohan replies now to M. de Beaumont. “I can make sense of Raoul’s letter.” 

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He does not expect to see her at such late hour, yet he finds her pacing in her son’s antechamber at the Louvre with no other escort but her confessor and Bontemps’ son, Alexandre, who, Aramis realizes, must have recently taken over the post of Louis’ valet. 

“I brought the duc along. I knew it would please you,” Louis announces as he gently releases himself from his mother’s embrace. They exchange a look, mother and son. Perhaps it is the kind of look that makes Philippe feel excluded. It denotes an understanding, and perhaps Philippe is right again, Aramis thinks, returning to court means nothing, it was all Anne’s careful negotiation. 

When they finally find themselves alone, not in her chamber, but in her private boudoir, she runs gentle fingers along the contours of his face. “You look exhausted. Thin. Have you been injured? Sick? That prison…” 

Smiling, Aramis intercepts her hand and kisses the tips of her gentle affectionate fingers. “I am fine and no longer exhausted, for at the end of a long journey I find myself with you. It is more than I could ever hope for.”  

Her eyes flood with tears. In her delicate features, the beautiful pouting lips, and the small dimpled chin, Aramis sees the face of the woman he has loved more than any other woman, and in her fervent kisses he is stirred once more by the hidden pulse that is his desire for her. Nothing else matters, he realizes, there is no journey he would not undertake, no exile he would not defy to be with her. Her love is worth every sacrifice. 

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M. de Rohan ensures that M. Morant does not go back to their regiment before he is served a hot meal. “Now let us read Raoul’s letter carefully,” he says and the four of them, he and Layla, Marie Cessete, and M. de Beaumont return to sit in the salon.

“You arrived prepared to tell me something,” Layla reminds him. 

“I came to say that we must move immediately, but I am certain that this most timely and fortuitous arrival of Raoul’s letter affords us the clear path we lacked.”

“Something has happened then?” Marie Cessette insists.  

“I will tell you, as soon as we have deciphered Raoul’s letter,” M. de Rohan promises. 

“Then who is the sinner he alludes to?” M. de Beaumont begins. 

“Thomas de Renard,” Marie Cessette replies with confidence. “Raoul has asked that Henri call himself ‘Thomas’ and we have wondered why he’d ask for that particular name; we suspected Thomas de Renard was the reason.”

“Thomas de Renard and his mother are behind my aunt’s abduction. We know from Raoul’s messages,” Layla reasons. “The man is a despicable blackmailer and I will not be surprised to find out that he is implicated in much more–and that Raoul has discovered it all.” 

“Thomas de Renard was de Wardes’ lover and Chevreuse’s too. I am sure he is implicated in much more,” Marie Cessette says. 

“In other words, Raoul’s plan is to replace Henri with Thomas de Renard,” M. de Rohan surmises.

M. de Beaumont appears doubtful. “They are the same age and built, although I think M. Benart taller but besides that, there is little resemblance.” 

“You are right,” M. de Rohan agrees. “M. Benart is striking in some ways. But he is masked, remember, and always concealed under a hood in the presence of others. These are the explicit conditions of his imprisonment. Fabien has seen him, but none of Fabien’s men has ever seen the man’s features. I daresay that Raoul’s idea is that by the time anyone sees the actual face of their prisoner, it will be too late and Henri Bernard will be sailing away from France.” 

Layla smiles. “I can tell you exactly where the exchange Raoul proposes will take place. At Rouen. And, yes, I did challenge Raoul to a duel that night. He was being an arse.” 

“You were cheating,” M. de Rohan whispers in her ear and she rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue peevishly. 

“Still Rouen is a large city,” M. de Beaumont objects. 

“It seems to me Raoul is precise in this too,” M. de Rohan says. He reads from the letter: “ ‘We returned to it later, when its defenses finally yielded’. We  did return to Rouen, and to the old fortress,which, at the time, belonged to the duc d’ Herblay and was used as a prison. As it is at the edge of the city and on the river, it serves us well if we are taking Henri from Vincennes.” He reads again: “‘Just as the currents of the river flow, so do the currents of fate.’ Raoul is telling us to use the river to get to the edge of the city, where the fortress is.” He rubs his chin, mulling over the idea. “We need someone we can trust with a barge that can get past the customs posts.” 

“My father could.” Layla sighs. “I can talk to M. de Vry…”

“No, we can’t,” M. de Rohan interrupts her. “We can’t talk to anyone about this Layla. We cannot endanger your father’s liaisons–not in this…”

“But…” Layla begins to object. 

“There is someone we already use. He ferries some of my men to and from Vincennes,” M. de Beaumont interjects carefully. “Well, Raoul has his men as you know. I am one of them, but I am not the only one. This…friend…” he clears his throat, “Raoul inherited him so to speak. He came highly recommended from the service of the duc d’ Herblay when the duc was Prime Minister. An old comrade of his and your father’s from the regiment,” M de Beaumont says, turning to Marie Cessette. “Not sure what his real name was but everyone calls him Mousqueton. He is retired and lives off his barge ferrying people and cargo up and down the river.” M. de Beaumont smiles a meaningful smile. “He is very loyal. He fought at the Conciergerie for the duc’s release along with the rest of us–in fact he was ready with his barge in case we might need an alternative out of there for the duc.” 

“So Raoul has recruited some of the duc’s men?” M. de Rohan inquires with great interest. 

M. de Beaumont shrugs. “All I know is that the duc d’ Herblay had men in his service who were loyal to him and that Raoul handpicked every single man working for him now.” He winks impishly. “Except me. I volunteered!”  

“Alright, then if you vow for M. Mousqueton, then we have a means of going up river to Rouen exactly as Raoul suggests. But Raoul cannot mean that we arrive in Rouen with Henri Bernard at the old fortress. The fortress belongs to the King now. The duc d’ Herblay made a gift of it.” 

“I don’t think he means the fortress” Marie Cessette says. “There is more in Raoul’s description.” She reads: “‘Speaking of fate reminds me of that ancient myth of the three sisters, three fates, Clotho, the younger, the spinner of the thread of life–and is not spinning most appropriate for our purposeful exchange?’ He means textiles, and of course he does, that is mostly what one finds in Rouen. So, textiles… workshops perchance?”

“Warehouses!” M. de Beaumont exclaims. “There are warehouses across the old fortress on the river, outside the city walls, not far from the Hopitaux Saint-Louis et Saint Roches.” 

“Raoul gives us the timing also,” M. de Rohan returns to the letter. “ ‘In threes always’ Raoul writes. Three for the messenger’…”

“That would be M. Morant,” Layla says. “He returned to Paris in less than three days. ‘Three for the exchange’. In other words, we must be at Rouen with Henri Bernard in three days. He does not leave us much time, does he?”

“We don’t have time anyway,” M. de Rohan says. “This is what I came to say. As of this morning the King has elevated Fabien to the position of Commander of the King’s Guard, a new regiment that will be manned by selected men just as the Musketeers once were.” Layla gasps and M. de Rohan shakes his head. “It is disgraceful, I know. Our regiment, once the envy of all armies, is reduced to an opportunity for rich courtiers to buy commissions for their second and third sons.” 

“I gather M. Mancini is the new Captain of the Musketeers then,” M. de Beaumont remarks and there is dismissiveness in his tone. “He has no skill or talent for fighting. I doubt he can parry or shoot with a steady hand. But he is good at garnering favors and making money, and even better at spending it, especially when the money is not his own.” 

“He is more than Captain,” M. de Rohan replies. “He and his new Musketeers have been assigned to Vincennes and the Conciergerie.” There are gasps all around the room. “Exactly. This is why we must move immediately, and Raoul’s plan anticipates that. We must get Henri Bernard out of Vincennes before Captain Mancini has time to… acclimate himself.”

“Mancini is no fool and knows where his interests lie but he is also indolent so it may take him sometime. But you are right, the faster we move the better,” M. de Beaumont agrees. “And as I read Raoul’s letter with you, his plan becomes clear to me too. We must be at the Wrecks from Rouen no longer than three days later, which hardly gives us time. Atropos– that is the name of the ship, Belladonna of course, Atropos means the plant and the poison— ‘Atropos cannot wait’ to quote Raoul’s letter. But from Rouen to the Wrecks is four days!”

“We can make it in three, if we do not use a carriage,” Layla says with confidence. “Only horses.” She turns to Marie Cessette. “Darling…” she begins, her tone apologetic.

“I can ride as well as anyone here, Layla. And no, I do not need a lady’s saddle,” Marie Cessette interjects tersely. Layla smiles awkwardly and M. de Beaumont lowers his eyes. “I am not staying behind!” Marie Cessette declares. 

“Let us consider how we can break M. Benart out of Vincennes first, shall we?” M. de Rohan interjects, eager to appease. 

“Indeed,” Layla hurries to appease her friend also, returning to Raoul’s letter. “‘Can one trick fate? It’s worth the attempt, if fate affords an opportunity, such as it now does. Atropos arrives, hounded by those of the Further Beyond and it gives us all–you, me– the perfect opportunity.’ What does Raoul mean? I understand that the ship, the Belladonna is followed… What is the Further Beyond?” She gasps as if realizing something. “Good God. It couldn’t be one of my father’s ships, could it?” 

“No, not the Duc’s ships. Raoul means the ships of ‘Plus Ultra’–Further Beyond”, M. de Beaumont points out the royal motto of Spain, and Layla is surprised to see a shadow crossing her husband’s eyes. “Of course!” M. de Beaumont springs to his feet laughing. “Oh, he is brilliant, our boy!” He opens his hands as if it is the most obvious thing in the word. “Spain.”

“Spain!” Marie Cessette exclaims. “It’s what M. Morant also said! Spain is after that ship. Good God what happens now?”

M. de Beaumont leans over the back of his chair with a mischievous smile. “Yes, that is one thing Raoul says in the letter. But he tells us another thing with M. Morant. He tells us that Spain’s involvement is our ruse. Is this not so, M. de Rohan?” 

Layla begins to see Raoul’s clever scheme too and it should have been appeasing, but it is not, and not just because of Marie Cessette’s persistence to join them. It is the dark shadow lingering in JeanPhilippe’s eyes that concerns Layla. The fact that he replies to M. de Beaumont’s question with a mere nod. 

“In other words,” Marie Cessette pushes. “Raoul proposes that we make it appear as if Spain is behind Henri’s disappearance, which inevitably will be revealed, since Thomas de Renard looks nothing like Henri.”   

“That’s what Raoul is telling us, yes,” M. de Beaumont reasons. “It is why he asked that fine officer, M. Morant, to deliver the message the way it was delivered. And it makes absolute sense. If Spanish ships are following the Belladonna, for whatever reason, then Spain shows herself involved! We may as well use that. Raoul does not tell us how so that is what we must decide here and now. Spain is our ruse.”

“Perhaps we could start where anyone would start. With Spain’s Spymaster. Señor Vargas,” Marie Cessette suggests. 

“That’s a slippery one,” M. de Beaumont sounds dubious. “Perhaps someone we know. A friend of Spain in France… There are several at court. M. de Guiche’s father…”

“Maréchal de Gramont? But he is a good man… We cannot endanger him!” Marie Cessette counters. 

As the two argue about planning a ruse without using people they like, Layla follows her husband’s darkening demeanor with concern. He stands and paces the room. “There is someone we can use,” M. de Rohan says after a while, and M. de Beaumont and Marie Cessette stop arguing. “Spain has sent an envoy to France to negotiate about M. le Prince.”

“What, not the Spanish Ambassador, the Conde de Fuensaldaña?” Marie Cessette’s valid and honest observation seems to annoy JeanPhilippe, which is not like him, and now Layla is alarmed.   

“Beltran de Guevaro, Seigneur de Onate,” M. de Rohan says, his demeanor unchanged. 

Whether M. de Beaumont and Marie Cessette intuit that something is amiss, Layla cannot tell, but M. de Beaumont sounds subdued when he speaks again. “Alright. So this Spanish envoy, a secret envoy we must all assume, shows up at Vincennes and…what?”

M. de Rohan shrugs. “Demands that Captain Mancini release his prisoner to Spain. When we last met him, Marie Cessette and I, M. Mancini was under the false impression that the apartments at Vincennes were being prepared for M. le Prince.” 

“He was very reluctant too, and eager to absolve himself of the entire murky affair at Vincennes,” Marie Cessette adds. 

“If we act quickly,” M. de Rohan says, “then we may hope that Captain Mancini, as is his general inclination, is not fully briefed about his new duties, remains confused about his prisoner’s identity, and is as reluctant and negligent as he has always been.” 

“We need something,” Layla insists, “we must show some document to make removing M. Benart on behalf of Spain appear legitimate. M. Mancini is perhaps remiss in his duties, but he is no fool.” 

“We can forge something…” M. de Beaumont swears under his breath. “If we had time… I know an excellent forger… But we must act quickly and we must leave as few traces as possible.”

“Where is that second page of Raoul’s letter? The one that looked blank?” Marie Cessette sounds as if a new idea has occurred to her. She reaches for the page and turns it in her hand. 

“Why would he send a blank page?” Layla muses. 

“Because it is not blank,” Marie Cessette draws closer to her one of the candles, set on a small table between her chair and Layla’s. “I have read many a story about such devices, and heard Raoul speak of them too.” She holds the page carefully over the candle and slowly, letters emerge on the blank page, that fine cursive that is the official writing, seemingly in the hand of M. de Refflers, chef de bureau under M. Le Tellier the Marquis de Barbezieux, Secretary of State for War. It is a carte blanche, an order to remove a prisoner to new custody, already signed by Louis as sometimes happens with this kind of correspondence, the particulars to be filled in later by M. Le Tellier himself. 

“Sang dieu!” M. de Beaumont gasps. “Our boy is brilliant!”

“It is not an official order unless it is sealed with the King’s seal,” Layla cautions. 

M. de Rohan draws in a deep breath. “We may hope that Captain Mancini is not yet aware of that fine bureaucratic detail.” He picks a quill from the writing desk and extends his hand to Marie Cessette as if to take the order and complete it but Marie Cessette shakes her head. 

She stands too and takes the quill from M. de Rohan’s hands instead. “If something goes wrong, as it might, it is most likely that your handwriting will be easily recognized. You write hundreds of orders and reports daily. It will take them longer to recognize mine, especially if I alter it.” M. de Rohan is about to object but she shakes her head again. “I must take some responsibility for Henri’s plight. For all the risks you have taken and are about to take.” She smiles sorrowfully, “I am not entirely useless. Besides, in their eyes I am a commoner and they don’t like me at all.” She sits at the writing desk and carefully fills in the missing lines, a fake order to release the prisoner named Eustace Dauger to Señor Beltran de Guevaro, Seigneur de Onate on behalf of Spain. “All that is left is to decide who will play which part in our little charade,” she adds, handing the order to M. de Rohan. 

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The break of dawn finds them in each others’ arms. There is no such thing as perfect happiness they say, for perfect happiness comes only to the fair and the righteous that God will choose, but to Aramis perfect happiness is feeling her steady breath as she sleeps in his arms, his thoughts filled with the colors of the rising dawn that he follows with his eyes through the window. Unwittingly, he marks the moment as a glimpse of that perfect happiness promised to those God chooses although he has never counted himself among them. Later, they share an early supper and speak of mundane things, as if he has not returned from being almost executed and being a fugitive and she has not been exiled. 

“We will be grandparents soon. Could you ever have imagined such a thing?” There is a glimmer in her eyes, playful and inviting, and he knows its meaning, so he leans closer and whispers in her ear.  “You are very young to be anyone’s grandmother.” She giggles and kisses his lips. “Naughty man.”

“It is very true,” he objects knowingly. 

“Ah,” she feigns false humility, “many of my ladies are grandmothers already. Even Marie would be one, if her two eldest daughters had not chosen the veil.” She narrows her eyes as if an idea has occurred to her. “Speaking of my ladies, what happened to Sourface? I understand you found her at Saintonge, trespassing in royal lands.”

Aramis shakes his head. “She was never worth your confidence, Anne. Let us leave it at that. I will not allow that woman to spoil a perfect morning.”

“I am content with that. I will not miss her. Neither her nor her son.” He hears regret in her voice–she invited Catherine de Renard and her son to court, an attempt, at the time, to counter Athos’ influence with the Fronde and Raoul’s influence with Louis. They had fought over that decision–bitterly at times–he thought that she was driven by fear toward undeserving allies and she had accused him of setting his friends and his oath above his family and his King. “You are right, let us not dwell on such people and that bitter past,” she adds, and he realizes she is thinking about the same thing. “Louis is beyond himself with happiness. A happy royal marriage is a rare thing. But he is also deeply troubled…” She fixes worried eyes. “His stakes are higher now that he is a father; our stakes are higher. And Condé still defies us from Spain.”

“Who advises Louis, Anne?” 

She looks perplexed. “His council?” He shakes his head. “Giulio.”

“No. There’s another.” 

She clicks her tongue dismissively. “You can’t seriously believe court gossip.” Her tone becomes stern. “I am not sure who started this idle rumor but it is nonsense. I fear Philippe is caught in it and he should stop. Such idle rumors do no one any good. He is of such a jealous nature, that boy.” She smiles an apologetic smile. “Now that you have returned, our Louis will have the best advisor at his side. His own father.” 

“I will serve him, whenever he asks, as he asks.” 

 She kisses his hand. “Still, there is much to worry about besides Condé’s defiance. Other threats. I am sure you know about… the other.” He understands what she means, but pretends he does not. She leans closer and whispers. “Rochefort. And that son of his…that man…Rochefort’s impostor!”

“He is not an impostor, Anne.” She gasps. “No, it is important that we face the truth as it is. Rochefort is still free out there and his adopted son is no impostor.” 

“He is no better than Beaufort!” she scoffs.

“He has nothing to do with Beaufort.” He reaches for her hand. “Anne, my love, we must face the truth. Beaufort is the son of King Henry’s illegitimate son–a son that was given titles but was never legitimized. Henri Bernard, that is the man’s name, is the son of King Louis’ twin brother, the eldest twin, the legitimate heir, who was silently removed from the line of succession without an act of Parlement–not in any official manner. Thus, still legitimate. He was not expected to survive, but he did, and had a son. A legitimate son.”

“He married a commoner,” she counters.

“He would not be the first royal son to marry a commoner. His children would still be legitimate.” 

She narrows her eyes, as if measuring him, full of doubt, and Aramis realizes that perhaps he has said too much. “How do you know all this?”

“I was Prime Minister, Anne,” he evades. 

“And you never thought to tell me?”

“I never expected this faded, forgotten tale to resurface. I thought the child was dead,” he evades again. He does not like that he feels compelled to evade. She draws in a vexed breath and stands from where she was sitting next to him. The air between them has changed. Aramis doesn’t like that either.

“I suppose I knew also.” Her tone tells him that this will not be a confession, not even an admission. “The Queen Mother had arrived, defying the exile where Louis had condemned her, begging for protection, remember? I was nothing then, only the childless bride they wanted to get rid of. I played the part I was supposed to play. Demure and conciliatory. But I knew. Marie… she always had sources even when she was banned from court…”

He gasps. “Chevreuse knows?”

She shrugs. “I suppose. Some of it. She believed the entire thing to have been fabricated however. I didn’t. I knew better. Richelieu ordered the child killed, I know that.” An angry chuckle escapes her lips. “I never thought I’d agree with that demon of a priest, but I did then and still do!”

“Kill an innocent child, Anne?”

She flashes an angry look. “Innocent? I cannot believe you say that! You…say that to me! That child…That child was my death sentence! If Marie de Medici had her way, with Louis replaced, what do you think would have been the fate of his childless Spanish bride?”

“Spain would not…” he mutters.

“Spain would have done what was best for Spain!” she interjects, her tone sneering. “Negotiate that I’d be removed to some… quiet convent. I was an embarrassment to Spain–my marriage cost my father dearly. Do you think I’d have lasted long cloistered in some nunnery?”

She wouldn’t. They’d dispatch her. In fact, Richelieu tried to have her killed, not long after the plot with Agnes Bernard failed, and to broker a marriage for Louis with the daughter of Count Mellendorf, the Catholic banker from Hamburg. A German match, profitable and not entirely without merit. The family still retains its significant wealth and power, although the old count passed away and his daughter, Charlotte–youngest of three– married beneath her station after the scandal. Twelve children was the tally for Charlotte, the last that Aramis received word about that family. Her eldest brother who inherited the title, at the time was funneling money into the coffers of the Emperor, against France. 

“This is one time when I prayed that Richelieu’s butchers,his Red Guards, would not fail.” He cannot read the gaze she keeps fixed on him. Does she know all, he wonders? Does she expect him to confess? “Since this nightmare returned, I have been telling myself they did not fail, and this man, this Henri Bernard, is a devious impostor and not that child. Just another way that Rochefort  has devised to torment us!” 

“It is possible,” he tries to show some conviction. 

“We will never be rid of him!” she frets, pacing the room, wringing her hands. “Never! Like a hydra, one head slain, two new serpent heads grow! Our sons burdened for life, our grandchildren threatened. This Henri Bernard…Oh my poor Louis. You should have seen him, Aramis. Our son, I have never seen our son so affected.” 

“I understand the man is merely a physician.” Aramis regrets his words immediately. 

“Merely?” she seethes. “You have been away for too long perhaps. Do you know where Rochefort placed him? He was with my niece at Saint Fargeau. I would not be surprised if the plan included having her marry him. Why, that would have been a brilliant plan, would it not? I am told that the night of the massacre at Saint Antoine, the mob was calling her Queen of France! That has always been her ambition and the ambition of her Frondeur friends–why even of her father who now pretends he has nothing to do with his defiant daughter. Can you imagine her marrying that impostor, with such a claim?” 

“Anne, this is all speculation,” he tries to appease her, not because he does not agree with the reasoning but because he does not want to hear it. “She is still exiled at Saint Fargeau. He is–I understand from Louis–he is imprisoned.”  

“He will always be a threat. For as long as he lives. Even after Rochefort dies–he must die some time. Henri Bernard will be a threat to our sons and our grandsons. And Louis will not touch him–he cannot. Whether the man’s claim is true or fabricated, I will not allow my son to imperil his soul thus. Louis understands that very well.” She turns with that same gaze that Aramis thought he could not decipher before and now he can see her meaning. 

“Anne…” he ventures. 

“Why not?” she pushes. “You are his father! You are their father! You took a Musketeer oath to protect your King. He is your son, and he is also your King. We made sure of that!”

He tries not to gasp. “What do you expect me to do, sneak into his prison cell and slit his throat?”

“Why not! Only you and I will know. It is a grave sin, but for our sons…” 

It is a pernicious numbness, slithering into his mind, into his heart. This is not the clarity Aramis hoped for, but it is clarity nevertheless.

 ⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Standing in front of the mirror, Layla tries on her old Musketeer leather doublet over a pair of black breaches. “Still looks French,” she frets. “But covered with a dark cloak and with a black hat…”  Griet is not helping her for the same reason that Ciaran has not been summoned this morning. Their plan is dangerous–some might call it treasonous–and they will not endanger their servants, especially those closest to them. Besides, it is important to keep the household running as it should, no disruptions or changes that Fabien’s men, standing on the street outside can see. 

Many things trouble her, more than her disguise. That their plan depends on Captain Mancini’s incompetence and inexperience. Layla finds such an uneven calculation unsettling. An incompetent and inexperienced foe is dangerous precisely because they are unpredictable. Marie Cessette joining them is another concern. How can she not, of course,  but this makes their three-day ride between Rouen and the Wrecks not only arduous but also perilous. They cannot risk stopping at inns or at posts to change horses in case they are recognized or ambushed, thus they must continue without stopping but for the time it takes to water, feed, and cool down their horses which they must do off the main roads. They are riding with not one but two people not used to this kind of adversity, and Henri Bernard could be incapacitated after being imprisoned. Layla has no doubt they will be pursued, and whether it is by Captain Mancini’s Musketeers or by Fabien’s men makes little difference in their current predicament, for only three of them can fight. Somehow, Layla would rather face Fabien’s men than any inexperienced cadet Mancini sends. She is peeved too, and knows that the reason is ridiculous and that JeanPhilippe would admonish her that it is none of her business. But in all the letters that M. Morant smuggled from Glénay, there was no letter from Raoul to Marie Cessette. 

And then, there is JeanPhilippe. 

In the mirror Layla observes him lacing his shirt–he will start the day just like any other day, they have agreed, with his regiment and then at the Palais Royal, and return as he always does, nothing out of the ordinary, until night falls and they can leave the house the same way M. Morant entered. M. de Beaumont will visit for dinner as he does almost every evening since Marie Cessette became a houseguest. Nothing out of the ordinary, except that both of them will also leave the house with Layla and M. de Rohan and also in disguise. JeanPhilippe slides on his doublet, silent and frowning, and Layla wonders if behind her husband’s changed demeanor is the mere mention of Spain, let alone that they all must be disguised as Spaniards. Her heart sinks to think how the mere memory of the torture he endured in Spain could be affecting him. She knows too that it is best not to push, but she cannot help herself seeing him so dejected. “What is it, my love?” 

He is jolted, as if from a trance and Layla is alarmed. This is not like him. She turns and walks closer. “My love, what troubles you so?”

“The undertaking is not well planned, no matter what M. de Beaumont says, too many risks, too many unknowns…” 

Layla reaches for his hand and brings it to her lips. “No, that is not it.” 

He clicks his tongue, frustrated. “Layla!” 

“This is a risky undertaking, you are right, and not well planned, you are right again, but we have faced worse, you and I. So what is it?” 

“It’s not the right time…”

“Yes it is! This is no time for secrets JeanPhilippe. Not between us!” 

He runs his hands through his hair and sinks at the side of the bed. “Where to begin…” She sits next to him pressing his hand. 

“Whatever it is, we are together…”

“My aunt has died.” 

“At San Blas?”

He nods. “The Spanish Ambassador, Conde de Fuensaldaña, came to see me yesterday. There was a…her will… it was sent from the lawyer in Madrid…” He struggles to find the words and Layla’s heart aches to see him suffer. It was difficult for him to meet his aunt–she forced him to do it– difficult because of the terrible memories the meeting raised of his mother, of his childhood, and of the cruelty they endured. And, of course, of his father…

JeanPhilippe draws in a deep breath to compose himself, and when he speaks his voice is steady. She marvels at his willpower. “She sent a letter…A sad letter. But she was very sick, her mind wandering.”

“Do you want me to read it?” Layla asks softly. 

He shakes his head. 

“We do not have to accept anything she offers. We agreed, remember? I will not have you tormented thus. I will not allow anyone and anything to hurt you! We can give it all away, JeanPhilippe. The orphans and young mothers from Bicetre who are now at the house Father de Paul found for them at Saint-Denis–they could use a second house. Pére Boisseau and his widows and orphans at Saint Severin, they too need all the help they can get. He writes that there is pox among the poorest families, and with the summer months upon us, it threatens to become an epidemic. Many are leaving the neighborhood–I have written to Madame Bricet. She has sent her nephew to her sister in law in the country but she refuses to leave.” 

He brings her hand to his lips and kisses it, “always the practical one,” he chuckles but immediately sobers. “There is more Layla, and in that we have no choice. None that I see.” He stands up and walks to a chair by the bed where he threw his cloak the night before. He pulls a large parchment from it and hands it to Layla. “The Ambassador also gave me this.”

Layla gasps at the mere sight of it–she has an idea of what it is–but to read it, read the titles and estates listed, read the wording about heirs and legacy, and everything sealed with the mark of the Spanish King. She feels the seal with her fingers. “Plus Ultra”, she whispers, as he returns to sit next to her at the side of the bed. 

“Plus Ultra indeed. By marrying me you have become a part of Spain too, Layla.”

She shrugs. “So be it. I can never be a Spanish lady–that much we have both discovered–but I can learn if I must.”

“Layla, I will be summoned as French Ambassador to Madrid–not today or tomorrow but very soon.”

She shrugs again. “Then I will make a French ambassador’s wife that Madrid will never forget.” He attempts a sorrowful smile.  “What more is there, JeanPhilippe? There is more isn’t there? Something about this plan of ours?”

“Why do you have to be so perceptive?” He sighs. “The Spanish envoy… our ruse…He has been sent to France by Don Juan José, to negotiate in secret for the return of Prince Condé. This is not a negotiation condoned by King Philip. This is court intrigue, Layla. This is the court of Madrid playing its own games.”

“Don Juan José was never our friend. He was not our friend from the moment we stepped foot in Madrid. I recall that my father and I fought quite a few of his allies at the Tower of Mendoza and then more of them when we tried to leave Spain with the Infanta.” 

“Beltran de Guevaro, the Spanish envoy, is a brother of the captain of San Pedro, which your father sank at the Cantabrian.”

“Well, there you have it. We have an enemy in Spain–and he is not a new enemy, he is an enemy we always had,” she reasons. 

“That enemy is connected to my father. At least he was, when we last encountered him.” 

“And so he is. To be forewarned is to be forearmed, as they say.” 

“It is not so simple, Layla.” He sighs, exasperated and she knows he is right but she will not concede. “In a few months we will be walking into a foreign court mired with intrigue that we know little about and understand even less, during a time of great uncertainty. The task is to prevent another war. Not just to stop a French general, a prince of royal blood from taking arms against France, but to make sure that he returns to prostrate himself before a king that we both know is illegitimate. I am sure Spain knows. Raoul’s ordeal is proof enough. Perhaps Condé also knows. We have few allies at the court of Madrid and one powerful enemy whose envoy we are about to intercept and whose plan we are about to wreck if we are successful in our undertaking.” An angry chuckle escapes his lips. “I am endangering you. And… I had this other foolish notion you see…” He pauses, shaking his head. 

She understands his meaning perfectly. With gentle fingers she turns his face toward her but when she speaks to him her tone is stern. “You are not endangering me, JeanPhilippe. Neither me nor anyone else in our family. You mean children… our children…” She softens her tone. “It is not a foolish notion, my love. You said it to me once, remember? Our children will have you and me and my father’s family and our friends to protect them. But most of all, they will have you and me, and we can stand our ground. Between us we have faced enough adversity. We have lost a child. I don’t fear about any children, JeanPhilippe, in France, in Spain, or wherever it is we must go, as long as we are together. She fixes her eyes on his. “You don’t suggest that we withdraw?”

“No! Never! Not just because I will never let down our friends or because of our oath, but because to help an innocent against a terrible injustice is the duty of any honorable man. It is the right thing to do. That innocent man is also my father’s victim and I will not allow my father’s cruelty to prevail.” He eases his tone. “But the risks we face–-you and me—they have changed.” 

She cups his face in her hands, and kisses his lips. “They have changed indeed but no one needs to know. Tonight, my love, we fight for our friends and for the life of an innocent man.” 

He smiles and kisses her back. A hurried shuffling against the door prompts them to spring to their feet. “Madame! Monsieur!” Ciaran’s voice outside the door is hushed and urgent. 

JeanPhilippe opens the door, and the boy slides inside. “I apologize…” he sounds breathless. “There’s a man…”

With his eyes JeanPhilippe measures his distance from the chair where his belt with his sword and his pistols are hanging Layla notices, just as she instinctively thrusts her hand into the pocket of her breaches where she has already tucked Bernard’s dagger, the one with the pommel shaped like a serpent. 

“I was … I went to make sure Yagiz is ready for your morning ride with him, Madame. And there he was. Not Yagiz. The man… He says it is urgent. Life and death. He says he must speak to you immediately. All for One and One for All he said to tell you.I took him to the salon…”  

M. de Rohan smiles. “You did very well.” He pats the boy’s cheek approvingly. “This never happened, do you understand?” Ciaran nods, gravely. “Good. Why don’t you go get some supper in the kitchen? Your mistress can saddle her own horse this morning.” 

Ciaran bows and as soon as he leaves, both of them seize their weapons and dash into the salon. The man standing by the fireplace, impatiently kicking his boots against the floor, is the last man either of them expected to see. 

“Your Grace!” 

“Thank God. I see that I come just in time. You must listen to what I have to say or we are all lost,” Aramis says.