“What is that racket?” Lucien snaps open his spyglass and peers down the road. Yusuf looks through a more powerful telescope, mounted on a tripod and pointed in the same direction where a great cloud of dust is rising. “Kardes, I do believe our cannon is arriving,”
“Father, are they here?” Samy, Olivier and Alexandre are hurrying towards them. Lucien hands the spyglass to his son and stands behind him, hands on his shoulders. “Let the others see too.” Yusuf beckons to Alexandre and adjusts the telescope for him. The boy goes on his toes, “they are close, perhaps less than a league? I see M Afonso too!”
The caravan of wagons is barely close enough for them to hear the groaning wheels, creaking wagons, the grunts and bellows of the oxen and shouts and whistles from men exhorting and encouraging their steady stolid pace. Men are walking ahead to scout the road and smooth out the worst of the ruts and holes, turning to call out to the drivers to steer in one direction or another. Armed men on horseback patrol along the sides, vigilant to any trouble. And someone is playing a mouth harp, the incessant twang twang twang woven into the noisy procession.
“Alexander must have made less noise when he conquered Persia,” Yusuf mutters and looks down at Alexandre. “Have you read about the great general’s march from his home in Macedonia?”
“Yes,” Alexandre enthuses, “I asked my father for elephants.”
“A good choice,” Yusuf responds, “but if there are no elephants, an ox is a good alternative. I see Fou walking with the oxen.” Yusuf chuckles, “he is petting them.”
“The reason for the spring in their step,” Lucien sees the group too. “We do not need them to be stealthy. Better if it is known we prepare well for any danger to Glenay.”
The boys exchange excited looks at being up on the battlements and among the first to see the cannon wagons. Alexandre scans the distance again. “How much longer for them to be here?”
“Oxen can travel a half league in an hour, depending on the load, the land and the road,” Lucien says. “How far can you see Alexandre, on a day like today through the telescope?”
“Perhaps a little less than a full league M,” Alexandre answers. “Good,’ Lucien nods his encouragement, “you have estimated the distance and now tell me how long until the first wagon arrives.” He shakes his head at Olivier and Samy who already have the answer. Alexandre pipes up quickly, ““I reckon less than two hours.”
“So do I,” Lucien agrees with a smile. Alexandre beams and turns to look at the men working along the battlement and on the ground, “will they be ready?” he asks anxiously.
“Those men there, are from M Lucien’s ship, the Aigle,” Yusuf says leaning over the boy’s shoulder pointing out the men, strong and sure as they move around the structure being assembled. “There are none better than a seaman to rig block and tackle and know how to use it.”
Lucien watches his men work with practiced efficiency, talk in low tones to each other. Carpenters have finished the long sloping ramp on which the cannon will be rolled before the final vertical lift. Atop the battlement is a robust frame, using the iron rings set deep within the design of the battlements. Lucien sees the man from the forest among the carpenters, a workman’s belt holding several tools. He does not know his name, but Lucien makes a mental note to find out. The man clearly knows more than stonemasonry. A skilled worker is always useful.
“How will they get the cannon up?” Alexandre wonders aloud.
“The oxen will pull it up the ramp, and then the vertical lift to the battlement,” Lucien says and looks at Alexandre’s small, furrowed brow as the boy tries to figure out how it will all work to get the cannon into position. He waits patiently.
“They will use the tree stump,” Alexandre cries excitedly. He looks at Lucien for confirmation. He nods, pleased at the boy’s observations, “excellent Alexandre. This castle is very old, and the stump has been there for a long time, the roots reinforced with buried beams, most likely for the same purpose that we will use it. It will form the base of the winch, or on my ship it would be called a capstan.”
“Capstan,” Alexandre murmurs, turning the unfamiliar word over, his eyes moving over the entire system being constructed. “May we go below and watch?”
“No,” Lucien says decisively, sending a severe look at all three boys, “when the wagons arrive, you may not go down to the yard. When it is time for your sword practice, you may go directly to the paddock. Otherwise, all of you are to stay up here and watch, but under no circumstances are you to go below. Is that understood?”
“Yes M,” Olivier, Alexandre and Samy chorus obediently while Lucien sends a pointed look at the guards patrolling the battlements, “is that understood?” he repeats. The guards come to attention in affirmation, “Your Grace.”
“She’s no worse for her journey Cap’n.” Crotte finishes polishing the last of the dust from the cannon and steps back to admire the deadly weapon, pointing out the ropes, “train tackles, breeching ropes, are we sighting it now Cap’n?
“We should take a few shots to make sure the crows are set properly.” Ver agrees with Crotte.
Lucien glances at Afonso who has a secret smile, “we have another idea as to when to sight the cannon for distance. For now, we can wait.”
Lucien goes down to the yard where the workers have assembled. “You have all done an exemplary job. The kitchen has prepared a good meal and there is both wine and ale as you wish. Enjoy the evening.” The men move off murmuring their appreciation. Lucien turns to his men, Ver, Crotte, Poilu and Fou. “Return the oxen to the blacksmith. There is a good tavern in town,” he sees their smiles and eyes sliding to each other all except for Fou who smiles amiably and continues to stroke the necks of the two oxen.
“There are women there, probably some music, but I warn you – no devilry on your part,” Lucien admonishes severely, “do not break anything.” He jabs a finger in Ver’s direction, “you will obey mother.” Ver pokes Poilu hard in the chest, “got that picaroon? I am charge of your sorry arse.” He turns to Lucien, “not to worry Cap’n, we will be on our best behavior.”
“Hmm,” Lucien slides a glance to Afonso, “we may join you later.” They had agreed a precautionary visit to the village would help with piratical decorum.
The four men walk away, laughing, throwing playful punches and joking with each other, Fou leading the two oxen who bump with affection against him. Lucien exchanges a skeptical look with Afonso who wonders aloud, “what does best behavior mean to a pirate?”
Marie taps lightly on the door. The nurse opens it enough for Athos to see her. He nods and with the barest rustle of silk Marie crosses the room. She gazes at Alessandra’s still form with fond and worried eyes. Her fingers skim the bed cover, her other hand on her son’s arm. Athos looks down at his mother. She is silent because he does not know if Alessandra knows her voice and might react to a stranger. When she visits Alessandra inside the room, she is careful never to speak. She also spends many hours in the outside corridor where she prays or works on her most important correspondence brought to her by Father Massey.
Athos walks with her to the corridor and they both sit for a few moments. Athos looks at the chair she sits in, the table and candelabra. A soft blanket is folded over the back of the chair.
“Are you comfortable here?” he asks, frowning at the few pieces of furniture.
“Completely,” she replies, “and do not even think of telling me to go elsewhere. Anyway, I am not here all day. I attend to other matters.” She tries not to hover, carrying on with her daily work, circling back throughout the day to this corridor. When Athos joins her, she waits for him to tell her about Alessandra’s condition. She listens carefully. Sometimes he looks at her with expectation, and she knows she can ask or reply to him. Otherwise, she is a silent witness. She knows he faces a terrible decision. She wonders if Lucien had told him that he too had that same decision at the birth of the twins. If anyone knows Athos’ agony, it will be his brother.
“Tatie May and Guillaume have arrived,” Marie tells him. “As I expected, Marguerite has already found her way to the nursery.”
“Bianca will be very happy to see them. They were kind to her.”
Marie hesitates and then says, “Lucien has not told me anything about his visit to the cove.”
“He said nothing to me.”
She nods and looks down at her hands. She will not pursue it with him. She is surprised when he lays a hand over hers.
“I know what the two of you are doing.”
She looks up at him, wrinkling her brow puzzled. He tilts his chin down the hallway. “It is about the time when he appears with a tray he claims is for himself, but with enough food to feed both of us, should I decide to join him.”
‘Oh,” she looks sheepish, “I worried that you seemed to take little sustenance.”
“It must have taken some measure of collusion,” Athos slants a look at her. She sighs, “you are right, but do not scold them. I asked first and Sophia and Lucien were willing to try. Do you feel that we have conspired about you?”
He looks at their hands joined together and shakes his head. “No, I do not see it in the gray light of a conspiracy. I feel it as being cared for.” He kisses her cheek and returns to Alessandra’s bedside.
Marie ducks her head as tears form and she wipes her eyes quickly as she hears the pattern of a child’s footfalls coming down the corridor. Bianca is running towards her and for a moment she sees the same dark-haired child on a warm sandy beach, smiling at her and clutching a handful of forget me nots…
Sophia stirs the soup in the cauldron, sniffing the aroma for the right mixture of herbs, garlic and meat. “I think it is ready to sieve. Do it twice and mash the rest.” She looks for agreement from the two cooks, also hovering over the cauldron. They beckon for the kitchen maids and lift the heavy cauldron from the hook.
“Shall we send bread Madame?” Sophia nods, “the nurse said she took a tiny morsel soaked in the broth.” The cooks brighten, “that is a good sign Madame.”
“Be sure to remove all the crusts.”
Sophia hurries from the kitchen to the main staircase intending to go to the nursery for a few moments before she joins her daughters in the practice yard. Tatie May, as she insists on being called, is there allowing Rosie and all the girls to practice their archery and shooting. Rosie and Rayya have not done this since they left Royaumont where these activities were more a diversion, skills they enjoyed practicing, however, never thought to be used in actual fighting. She wants Yusuf to also teach her daughters to use a dagger. Marchal could be on his way with men to Glenay. They must learn how to protect themselves.
Sophia hears a familiar voice coming from the entryway. A flustered parlor maid rushes from the entryway, “pardon me Your Grace, there was the most insistent pounding on the door, and I must find M Jozan. There is a message for His Grace.” She hurries away in search of the house steward and Sophia ventures closer to the entry way to see the messenger. She gasps and steps forward.
“It is you!”
The messenger looks startled, then delighted and immediately pulls a letter from an inside pocket. “Madame, I pray you will deliver this for me.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
There is a buzz of discussion surrounding him. They have convened in the library to review their preparations to defend Glenay, should it be necessary. Lucien stands at the window watching the activity in the rear yard where he can see Ver and Poilu. Fou is likely at the dovecote and Crotte is occupied with the cannon, but with little to fill their time, Ver and Poilu have decided to look for work and are busy in the extensive kitchen gardens, resetting the stones that marks the boundaries, straightening the lines that mark the rows, and taking the aged gate apart for repair. The kitchen maids are a little flustered at the presence of these powerful men tiptoeing among their plantings, adorned with earrings, pigtails, their skin marked with tattoos signaling knowledge of a world well beyond their understanding, not to mention a general rascally air about them. He watches but his mind is not occupied with his men. Nor is he thinking about the looming danger that occupies the thoughts of all of them. He can only think about Athos, Alessandra and an unborn child.
D’ Artagnan comes to stand beside him to look at the activity below. “Your men caused quite a stir when the cannon caravan arrived.” Lucien makes a sly smile, “they usually do.” He slants a look at d’ Artagnan, “they are trained to one life but can be tractable.”
D’ Artagnan looks thoughtful and changes the topic. “Alexandre talks of nothing but winches, capstans and telescopes, explaining the mechanisms of block and tackle and winches.”
“His mind is active and nimble, eager to learn.” Lucien glances at d ‘Artagnan, “he is a credit to you and his mother.”
“When their wagons were attacked in the forest,” d’ Artagnan refers to the children’s journey to Glenay, “my son was with your son and Porthos son, under the wagon reloading pistols. I never thought of him, under attack, working with powder and shot.”
“Yet, as fathers, we have trained our sons to know their way around a pistol, for their own protection from misuse of it. We may need their help again.” Lucien does not say that there are boys Alexandre’s age who share the dangers of life at sea on the Aigle handling powder and shot during battle. It is not uncommon for poor families to seek employment for their boys on a ship. Crotte had been one of those boys.
“Let us hope otherwise,” d’ Artagnan replies quietly, “their mothers would certainly not be in favor.” Lucien makes a noncommittal murmur as he knows his wife’s attitude on the matter is exactly the opposite and she favors daggers.
“A messenger Your Grace, from Paris.” M Jozan presents the letter on a silver tray. Afonso is behind him, “Paris,” he groans, “can it possibly be good news?”
“The only good news that could come from Paris is that it is safe for us to return home,” d’ Artagnan murmurs knowing how Constance would love to be in her own house.
Lucien holds up the letter, “this is Aramis’ seal.” He breaks is, unfolds the heavy parchment and reads the brief message, “what the…” he stares and mutters a profane curse. He looks up, his face dark with fury and disbelief, tossing the letter on the table.
“Rochefort has been reinstated.” For a moment there is only stunned silence.
“What does that mean?” Porthos snatches up the letter, “unbelievable,” he shakes his head and hands it for the others to read. “Reinstated how?”
“The King? Who else?” D’ Artagnan’s tone is bitter. “Any thoughts on what this means for us?”
“It cannot be good,” Afonso looks at Lucien, “what do we do?”
“Keep our station,” Lucien replies tersely, “we need more information.” He looks at Raoul, “what do you make of this?”
Raoul shakes his head slowly, studying Aramis’ words as though seeking to divine more meaning. “Like you Lucien, I agree we stay here and wait for Aramis to tell us more.”
“Your Grace,” the house steward is still waiting, “the messenger waited to see if there would be a reply.”
“Who is the messenger?” d’ Artagan asks, suddenly curious as to whom Aramis would trust.
“He identified himself as Lieutenant Maillard.”
“At least a friendly face,” Lucien says grimly, “there may be a reply, M Jozan, but not now. In any event he cannot leave at this hour. Show him where he can stay for the night and then send him here. Advise Cook to send up more refreshments. There will be one more for dinner – a man with a very good appetite.” Lucien is thinking that Sophia must be told, so she can talk to Rayya. He realizes that M Jozan is still waiting for him. “Is there something else M Jozan?”
“A carriage arrived,” the house steward explains offering the tray again. Lucien had missed the card that was under the letter. He picks it up, and gasps softly at the name. “Where are they?”
“In the salon M, on the first floor. I took the liberty of sending refreshments.”
“Very good.” Lucien glances at d’ Artagnan, making a quick decision. Yusuf is watching him, puzzled. Lucien makes a subtle shake of his head, “I must attend to something, I will be back as soon as possible.”
He leaves with no further explanation, striding from the room and running down the broad staircase. He reaches the bottom and turns toward the public salon.
“Lucien.” He whirls to see Sophia, hands to her hips and a frown between her beautiful eyes.
‘Dearest,” he kisses her lightly, “I cannot tarry …” She is not listening to him, interrupting in a peremptory tone.
“Does Constance know her mother is here?”
Twelve Years After 