Chapter Fifty-Six, The Brothers d’ Aiguillon, by Mordaunt

Swords drawn, they turn to face each other, surrounded by their hapless attackers now dead or wounded. Even in the darkness, Athos knows the man. He fought against him and almost killed him. He fought against him and was almost killed. He has fought beside him more times than he ever expected.  Athos lowers his sword, and the man does the same.

“Lucien!”

“Sang dieu! I thought it was you!” Lucien walks closer, narrowing his eyes as he tries to make sense of what he sees in the darkness, a loud cough muffling a chuckle. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“I am a Venetian wine merchant.” Another muffled chuckle. Athos finds his brother’s amusement annoying. “What?”

Lucien has wrapped his arm around Athos’ shoulders. “I will explain. First, let’s move from this hellhole or we may have to fight off another cadre of fools.”

“I expected to be ambushed,” Athos insists. He sounds apologetic and it vexes him.

Lucien is pushing him from the underpass into the street, hurrying him along. “Expected or invited?”

“Both.”

“Parbleu, Signor Wine-Merchant you have a lot of explaining to do.”

“What are you doing here?” Athos pushes back, resisting Lucien’s urgency.  “Where the hell are you taking me?”

“This is Saint Malo, and I am still a privateer despite my noble veneer, remember?” Lucien teases and Athos clicks his tongue impatiently. “I have a house nearby. Shut up and keep walking!”

“You have a house in Saint Malo?”

“I have many houses, in many places. Shut up and do as I ask for once. Please.” 

“I will pretend I didn’t hear this.”

“I asked politely.”

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Athos throws his hat on the table and sits. “Nice house.” It is a small but comfortable salon.

A mischievous smirk glimmers behind Lucien’s eyes. “Nice hat.” He fills two glasses with wine and sets them on the table between them as he sits across from Athos.

“It is what a wealthy Venetian merchant would wear.” It vexes Athos that he has fallen for Lucien’s tease.

Lucien draws in a deep impatient breath as he sits back. “Not in Saint Malo, unless he is stupid enough to want to provoke.”

“He is stupid enough and he wants to provoke.”

The smirk has disappeared from Lucien’s eyes. There is no tease in his voice. “How about you start from the beginning?” he suggests gravely.

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Lucien listens attentively as Athos begins his account, nodding at times, other times frowning.

“Before I left, I sent Petite, Giulia and Collette back to Glénay. Gasparo and Viatti came to fetch them,” Athos says. “Monsieur and Madame Charboneau, Guillaume and Marguerite, they are good and generous people—you must meet them, you will like them—and I will not place them in danger. In my absence, I prefer that Petite remains protected behind the walls of Glénay. Rochefort… He is too close for my taste.”

“Athos, you don’t know this.”

“I am certain, Lucien. I am certain that he keeps Alessandra in that house.”

“We had indisputable proof that she was at Saintonge,” Lucien cautions gently.

“She was at Saintonge!”

“I don’t refute that. But by the time we arrived, she had disappeared.”

“She was taken by that mercenary, what’s his name, Radu. That is Rochefort.” He feels he must insist on this most important point. “She is alive, Lucien. Don’t ask me to prove it. I know. Don’t ask me for indisputable proof because I have none. I only have pieces of the truth. Hell, I don’t even see how they connect but they do. What I know is that a Dutchman named Spranger is selling Rochefort’s estate piece by piece. I have met him–he is the one who sent me here. He passes as an agent for a lawyer who supposedly is working for Doujat in Paris”

“Putain d’ enfer!” Lucien chuckles angrily. “Walter Kyrle!”

“You know the man?”

“I knew his father. Don’t take it as a recommendation for the son.”

“I am supposed to meet him in an hour. I was on my way when…”

“Let him wait. Let him drink to your health thinking his thugs got you.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “What were you supposed to be buying? Let me guess, Rochefort, the château?”

“Excellent guess. It is a ruin. I pretend I don’t know that. I am not sure that Spranger knows. Few people have ventured inside for almost a decade now, I have discovered. I think this Spranger sells land using deeds that the lawyer, this Walter Kyrle, got his hands on. I don’t understand how…how someone as reputable as Doujat could be involved in this scheme. I suspect they are using the name.”

“The Doujat connection is real even though you are right, I cannot imagine that Doujat is aware that his name and his offices are being used in this manner. I will take you a little further back. When de Wardes was killed, and before Layla’s wedding to Rohan, she and I had to sort out the inheritance from her first husband, which she abhorred. De Wardes seemingly was a wealthy man, if you recall. I used M. Diotati, you know him,” Athos nods, “and he uncovered that de Wardes’ wealth was not real at all–not even the family estate belonged to him. Instead, it was all funneled through solicitors and agents…”

“Just as we see here!”

“Just as we see here. And the similarities do not end, for guess who de Wardes’ man of business was in Paris.”

“Doujat?”

“The very one.”

“Lucien, we know that Rochefort, or rather Carolus Cesare, was de Wardes’ banker.”

“I was about to say the same. This is how Rochefort works, and it is a brilliant method, for in fact, no one, not even you and I with all that we know, can find a shred of evidence that links Rochefort himself to any one of these ventures, not even to the bank in Florence or the Company of the Orient.”  Athos swears under his breath. “I feel the same way. I think he is doing the same thing now, with our mother’s estate.”

Athos narrows his eyes perplexed. “Our mother’s estate? To me it seems as if he is buying back his own land from the crown, piece by piece through intermediaries and aliases, with the crown being blissfully unaware that he has reinstated himself.”

“Hmmm… You may be right about that, and it is equally alarming. I received three different messages from three different people. I trust them all. One was Constance.”

“Constance!”

“Her brother…Her family…”

“Ah, I see. Three messages about what?”

“About Guerin Spranger, whom I know as an innocuous rogue with big dreams to begin a colony, selling land close to our mother’s estate. Too close. The proximity bothered me but, I admit, I came to Saint Malo for another reason only to discover it may very well be the same reason.”

“You’ve lost me.”

Lucien sighs. “Where to begin? It will sound strange.”

“I am well versed in strange.”

“Alright. I lost my sailing master. A Naxian. A Greek. Odysseus Kanaris. You’d like him, he is the sort of honest man you’d like, and the best sailing master I’ve had in years. The Belladonna– that infernal ship, well, it appears that her captain has my Greek.”

“You attacked the Belladonna then?”

“You could say that we were both attacked.” Athos narrows his eyes perplexed. “I told you it’s a strange story. Three old … acquaintances with a long list of grievances against me from the battle at the Bidasoa…”

“Spanish!”

“Spanish indeed. They were here, in port for the winter with empty purses and depleted stores, licking old wounds, and got word that the Aigle was trailing the Belladonna, both ships sailing out too early. To them it must have seemed like revenge and loot combined. The Belladonna circling the Wrecks and out of season could only mean valuable cargo.”

“Does she carry valuable cargo?”

Lucien shrugs. “No idea. That infernal ship maneuvered cleverly allowing the Aigle to fight off two of the three Spanish galleons. Then, the clever devil turned her around and they boarded the third ship, the Rosario, before they disappeared with my Greek. You can see why that’s a man I want to know more about. And I want my Greek back.”

“Then, you’ve never heard of this ship, the Belladonna before?”

“Oh, I have. Of her captain too, Wijard, a Frisian brute, mostly muscle and raw force. Not much of a seaman. He was really a sailmaker. He is known as ‘crazy Frizian’ and among my kind that’s a telling name. The crew of the Belladonna decided they had enough.”

“A mutiny?”

“Technically. Remember, she’s a privateer. Let’s call it a change in command by consensus.”

“This Frisian, this Wijard, the captain you knew, for whom did he work?”

“You hit the very mark. In my line of business there’s nothing better than to be your own man, but…it’s business after all and alliances are profitable. I have a feeling that you will appreciate Wijard’s most recent connections as much as I do: The Ogre.”

Athos gasps. “The Ogre…Of course, the Wrecks! Petite and Rayya! Was the Belladonna the ship they sent for our daughters?”

“No. But consider that these crews shift alliances all the time. I am saying this for a reason– perhaps to remind myself of the fact. But I am getting ahead of myself. Returning to my Greek.”

“Did you find him?”

“No. He should have been left at the Wrecks, but he wasn’t, which means that he is still on the Belladonna.”

“Could it be for ransom?”

Lucien sounds incredulous. “I expected you to ask if my man decided to join the crew of the Belladonna instead.”

“Not a man you trust, surely.” Athos grins impishly. “Not a man I’d like.”

“Touché!” Lucien chuckles. “Ransom crossed my mind. Ransom. The Ogre. Whatever the hell was happening at the Wrecks… These are too many changes and all at once… There is a whiff of something in the air—something not right. Like you, I cannot explain it, but I know. I thought I might start with that new captain. So here I am, in this fine city where everyone knows everything about everyone and will impart it given some inducement or another. And whom the tide brought in, but a certain Sr Giraldo de Ariasa, well-connected to the Ogre, whose conscience is heavily burdened by those events at the Wrecks that affected both of us.”

“I am surprised you have permitted him to live.”

“I am surprised too, but had I not, as was my inclination, we’d be nowhere as you will see. It was not really what he said, mind you. He gave me the tale of Wijard’s sordid fate, how the Belladonna crew found a better captain not in her quartermaster, but in her helmsman–admittedly an unexpected turn–somewhere along the African coast while sailing north to the Wrecks. It was what he did that caught my attention. As a sign of contrition, gratitude, and newfound loyalty, he offered to pay for our wine,” Lucien flashes a sneering grin, “with doubloons. Not just one or two either. He was eager to make himself appear useful to me, an asset, with good connections. He flaunted a large purse, heavy with…”

“Spanish gold.”

Lucien assumes a pensive tone. “Of course, one could argue that money has no name.”

“Some money does,” Athos observes. “Spanish gold kept appearing everywhere, as you recall. Rochefort used it to provoke us all–you as well. Porthos traced a whole lot of Spanish gold traveling north to Normandy carried by a certain Madam Zola–she is an old associate of Rochefort’s from the old days when he hired her and her lover, a certain Francesco, to assassinate the entire royal council so he could rise as Prime Minister. The Spanish gold Porthos traced paid for Longueville’s insurrection that almost cost d’ Artagnan his life. Rochefort’s mercenaries and Comminges’ men were part of that army and paid in Spanish gold.”

“Zola! You hit the mark again. Sr. de Ariasa was paid this lucrative amount for his services at a certain house of pleasure at Saint Germain-en-laye.”

Athos gasps. “It is the same cache of Spanish gold.”

 “I knew you’d understand, so I will call it by its real name: My Spanish gold.”

Athos slants him a mischievous look. “I thought it was the Queen Mother’s Spanish gold.”

Lucien rolls his eyes. “It was mine first.”

“Technically it was Spain’s but let’s not argue the semantics. What matters—and forgive me for bringing up such an unfortunate turn of events– is that ultimately it became Rochefort’s gold. Is this not the point?”

“And he still provokes us with it. Sr. Ariasa was here to buy land.” Athos swears under his breath. “Exactly. From Walter Kyrle.”

“Do we need more proof?”

“For you and me, no. But for Alessandra, yes. Rochefort has been provoking us with her too, mocking us, since he lured us to Bourron-Marlotte, and we have had no recourse but to play along, to play his games. But this time…this time we must be on the offensive.”

“I know she is in that house, Lucien. He keeps her in Richelieu’s house, and right before our eyes.”

“Let’s get our proof then,” Lucien downs the rest of his wine and stands. “Don’t forget your hat.”

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“I hope I did not keep you waiting,” Athos has abandoned his Venetian accent.

The lawyer, Walter Kyrle, a well-dressed young man, stout and too rosy-cheeked for a rogue, stands from behind a narrow table, furnished with nothing but an inkwell and a candle. There is a small pile of papers and documents on the table and an empty glass of wine. The rest of the room is equally sparse. There is not even a fireplace, only an old brazier. He extends his hand, feigning concern. “I was worried that something might have befallen you, Signor Conte. At night this city can be treacherous.”

Athos waves his hand nonchalantly. “Thieves laying ambushes in dark underpasses? That sort of thing? You have never been to Venice, I see.” 

“No, I…” the lawyer frowns, a shadow of suspicion crossing his pale blue eyes. “You don’t sound Venetian.”

“You don’t sound like a man who practices the law,” a second man intones.

“I…” the lawyer clears his throat, “I expected you’d be coming alone,” he ventures at the sight of the second man entering behind Athos. 

Athos mocks a resigned tone as he tilts his head back toward his silent, hooded companion, who closes the door as he steps inside. “He insisted and I can never say no to him.” He points to the lawyer: “This is the excellent M. Walter Kyrle who is selling the château at Rochefort, as I was telling you.” Lucien lowers his hood and the lawyer’s fake smile freezes. “Why, I think he knows you!” Athos sneers.

“Well…” the lawyer forces an embarrassed chuckle, “M. Grimaud! How fortunate to meet again and so soon. I barely recognized you under that hood.”

Lucien sighs ruefully. “I must keep myself from prying eyes. My countenance is unforgettable.” He turns to Athos. “It is a curse, I tell you.” Lucien points to the chair at the table where the lawyer was seated before. “Let us not waste any more time from our business.” He draws a chair for himself and sits, crossing his legs casually.

“Indeed,” Athos agrees. “Enough time has been wasted already in dark underpasses.” He walks closer to Walter Kyrle slapping a heavy hand on his shoulder forcing him to sit.

“My Venetian friend is of an impatient nature,” Lucien says in a confidential tone. “Doesn’t take it well when he’s ambushed by miserable fils de pute who cannot wield a blade to save their lives.”

“Good God, Signor Conte. You were attacked!” Walter Kyrle motions to stand again but Athos keeps his hand firmly on his shoulder pushing him down.

He leans closer to the man’s ear. “By your thugs,” Athos whispers.

“No, no, no!” Walter Kyrle turns a desperate look toward Lucien, his voice slightly trembling. “I had nothing to do with any ambush!” He feigns a chuckle. “What purpose would such a scheme serve? Signor Conte is here to purchase an estate from me. Why would I want one of my clients attacked?”

Lucien crosses his arms over his chest, replying with an amused grin and a shrug fixing his eyes on Athos, who seizes the man from the collar pinning him against the back of his chair. “Because, you miserable wretch, you use this supposed business of yours to lure wealthy victims for ransom.”

“Not true! Not true! M. Grimaud it is not true! Please tell him it is not true! I do legitimate business!” he begins to cough, choking.

“Don’t explain this to me, explain it to Signor Conte. I told you he is of an impatient nature.” Lucien clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Venetians. They are so melodramatic.”

“It is all legitimate, Your Grace. All of it,” the lawyer insists.

Athos eases his grip but leans closer to the man again and whispers threateningly. “You are legitimately selling off property that belongs to the crown? On whose authority?”

“Eerm…” the man draws in a deep breath to steady his quivering voice. “You are right. But… some of the land can be sold. It can, Your Grace.” He levels an apologetic gaze toward Lucien. “Not the château at Rochefort, it’s true… Not that, M. Grimaud…”

Lucien returns a wide grin. “See? That was not so difficult was it?”

Athos has moved to the side of the table where Lucien sits, drawing another chair. He sits next to Lucien crossing his legs casually too. He sighs. “Alas, I cannot buy the château it seems.”

“Alas no,” Lucien replies in a tone that is as quiet as it is ominous, “but it will benefit M. Kyrle greatly, in the short-term–for I do not see long-term possibilities for him once he leaves this room after his clever little scheme failed– to be forthcoming with answers about some of his legitimate land sales.” He leans closer. “We understand each other perfectly well, I presume.” The lawyer is nodding, swallowing hard. “Good. I appreciate a man who grasps his self-inflicted predicament. Don’t worry, M. Kyrle, it will not be too difficult either. All you have to do is give us a name. The land you sold which overlooks the cove of the d’ Aiguillon estate. The land with the house that our Great Cardinal built…you know which land I am talking about? Good. Who bought it?”

The lawyer narrows his eyes, baffled. “Is that it? I don’t understand. There is other land to be had… Do you plan to buy it from the new owner?”

“Don’t waste my time,” Lucien warns the man. “I am not as smooth as the Venetian. I will slit your throat where you sit. And then no one will ever purchase any land from you again.” He points to the pile of documents. “I bet I can find the answer I seek in there.”

“Errmm…M. Grimaud… I beg you, M. Grimaud. I am just a lawyer and I cannot reveal…”

Lucien motions to stand from his chair. “Wait! Wait! I beg you! It was a foreign name. A foreign name!” The man is desperately shuffling the documents before him. “I beg you M. Grimaud, wait, I will find it… Good God, it was a difficult name too…There! There!” He exhales loudly, relieved. “Thank God. I found it.” He picks a paper, and narrows his eyes as he reads the name with some difficulty. “Fedor Borodinich! Yes. That’s it. I remember the man too. Tall and pale with dark hair and… foreign looking. More like a soldier. I thought it was strange that a soldier could afford such a house. He paid a handsome sum, and in gold. Doubloons. Yes. That was his name. Fedor Borodinich.”