…on the Santissima San Pedro de Arbues…
A well-dressed man stands on the deck watching the Belladonna lower her sails and speaks to the man standing next to him. “You have your orders Tenientet. Keep your men armed. These,” he curls his lip at the Belldonna, “are Piratas astutos.”
He walks to the cabin, knocks once and enters. The cabin is well lit with large windows in three panes, the width of the stern. It is beautifully designed and appointed with fine inlaid wood details and decorative scrolls. It serves as private quarters for the captain or another person of great importance to Spain. It is, for a ship’s cabin, sumptuously furnished with a bed and seating area, comfortable padded chairs and benches covered with silk. There is a good sized desk in addition to the large rectangular table for entertaining officers and other guests, as well as workspace for navigation and planning operations. Paintings of the His Majesty King Philip IV, Spanish galleons at sea and a devotional image on the meditation of St Francis by Francisco De Zurbaran hang on the walls. A man sits at the desk writing, dressed informally in dark breeches and a silk shirt. A white cassock and sash are thrown over a chair, a short black cape lined in white silk hangs from a peg, the habit of a senior cleric. On the desk is a white rosary and cross.
“Excelencia,” he bows before the seated figure at the captain’s desk. “The Belladonna has raised a white flag and lowered her sails. Our marines have her under their weapons.”
“Good. I congratulate you Señor Garcia,” the man caps the ink and sets down the quill. He sits back with a pleased expression, steepling and tapping his fingers thoughtfully. “Secure the ship next to us.”
“Is that all Senor Vargas?” Angel Garcia asks as he steps to a cabinet storing glasses and flasks of wine. He fills two glasses and hands one to Vargas.
“For now. You and I will leave soon for Maclou. I expect my man in Paris to meet me there.”
“I hope he brings the information you need,” Angel Garcia says diplomatically, curious about this information but does not dare to ask. Patience, he tells himself. Vargas had come to him for this job. He sips wine and waits.
“He has gone to the prison to find the documents that were signed to release the prisoner. “Invented is more accurate,” he says with a burst of fury, and stands as though the chair confines his anger. He paces the stern width, a shadow on the windows.
“Those Malditos cabrones! Bold, I give them that. I want to know what Spainard those Cerdos franceses claim signed a release for a prisoner. I am certain these will be forgeries. No doubt the names will be fake as well. The enemies of King Philip have a devious plot underway.”
“You are certain the Belladonna and the Rosario is part of this plot?” Angel Garcia asks. He has doubts about this part of Vargas’ conspiracy theory against the Spanish king.
Vargas whirls on him, “do you forget what happened in the Cantabrian? Do you forget what happened in the Bidasoa? Do you forget Angel?” His dark eyes snap with fury. “Have you forgotten what Lucien Grimaud did in those waters?” Garcia detects a note of admiration creeping into Vargas’ diatribe. The spymaster of Spain braces his hands on the desk and looms over Garcia, accusatory, “have you forgotten your king?”
“No Excelencia,” Angel Garcia quickly bows his head, seeking to appease Vagas’ burst of emotion, but very annoyed. Vargas is an unpleasant man to work for these days. He does not have the control to which he is accustomed and is quick to anger and blame. He cannot decide if he hates Lucien Grimaud or admires him. Not an uncommon problem with Grimaud. Angel smirks to himself.
“I am ignorant of many details, as I should be,” he placates an angry Vargas with a tone carefully measured between subservience and reason. Vargas drops back into his chair, rubbing his forehead muttering, “I cannot see the entirety of it, how the pieces connect.” He drops his hand and makes an evil smile, “but we have the tools here to put them together.”
“The three captains…” Garcia ventures cautiously.
“Damn fools. Slinking away to St Malo to lick their wounds from the Cantabrian and plot revenge on Grimaud for sinking the Donacella, the San Pedro and the San Carlos, killing Captains Padilla and Guevaro. Velasco crying to me about his wife losing her father on the San Antonio. Pathetic. Well now they have lost again against Lucien Grimaud. The San Isidro sunk and Velasco dead. Fools! I might have been able to sway them…”
“The Belladonna…” Garcia asks carefully as Vargas is stalking the cabin and venting his anger. This may be his opportunity to learn more about that ship than Vargas would intend. It is his reason for cooperating with Vargas.
“The maldito Belladonna…from Hispaniola and the maldito Ogre,” Vargas slams a fist on the desk. “I will find out,” he mutters ominously. He turns a snarling expression to Garcia.
“But for now, let them wait and get nervous with their own speculations. Then we send Padre de la Rocha and his banners.”
“As you wish Excelencia.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
…Marchal, leading men, on the road to Glenay. Sighted near Le Mans… two days…
It rings in his mind…Marchal is very close to Glenay…
Lucien paces and looks again at the sails. Loup is with the helmsman, also watching the sails. There are men aloft and others at the running rigging ready for an order to adjust the sails, to bring Aigle closer to the wind and increase her speed by the barest fraction. Benoit returns from below deck.
“Fou is preparing messages. The horses will be at the cove.” Benoit takes in Lucien’s somber expression. Lucien has been on the deck since they weighed anchor, has barely slept or eaten. Benoit first tried reason, “there is a fight ahead Lucien, you will need your strength.” But to no avail. Now he tries to reassure Lucien. “You prepared well. Martin and your men know what to do. Porthos and d’ Artagnan, Gasparo have already taken measures by now.” He pauses because he knows what truly troubles Lucien.
“Your brother will not let any harm come to Sophia.”
But I am not there…Lucien’s mind is dark with foreboding, anticipating Sophia’s reaction. She is not alone and Benoit is right. Athos would never allow Marchal anywhere near her. Porthos and d’ Artagnan will keep their wives and children out of sight. As for his mother… he doubts Marchal will be invited into the chateau but ordered to state his purpose in the yard. But still … he should be there. He makes a scoffing sound.
“Sophia may well shoot him from the battlements.”
“She would be entirely within her right to do so,” Benoit declares. Lucien nods with a bare smile, grateful for Benoit’s sturdy presence. The Breton is an ox of a man in stature and determination, staunch in his defense of those he loves.
“Is there a message away to Crotte and Poilu?”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
…at Glenay…
“Crotte! Crotte!” Poilu is barreling through the narrow side gate waving a slip. “Fou sends a message – from Lucien.” Poilu runs up the wooden stairs to the ramparts of Glenay.
“Who else in putain d’enfer would it be from you imbécile.”
Poilu ignores Crotte thrusting the message into his hands. Crotte shoves it into his pocket without reading. “You think I need the Cap’n to tell us what to do?” He bangs a fist against his chest, “he expects us to know what to do picaroon.”
“He expects us to get the cannon ready to fire.” Poilu grins happily, nodding vigorously. From below comes a shout. “What are you doing up there?” Ver shouts.
“Poilu is getting the powder, I am sighting the barrel,” Crotte answers and stares pointedly at Poilu who immediately turns and runs back down the stairs, across the yard to the stone building where powder is stored. Men are coming out of the dormitories, climbing stairs to the ramparts, up to the watchtowers to replace the night’s watch. Crotte sees Martin and his brothers emerging from the dormitory with Gasparo. They are deep in conversation. Saddled horses are led out by stable boys who hold their bridles and wait for their riders.
“Fou sent another message. The Aigle has dropped anchor. Lucien and Benoit are on their way,” Ver calls up to Crotte, who nods and says pointedly to Ver, “you know your station.” It is not a question. The men of the Aigle understand there is something about the man coming that is of bitter personal interest to their captain. In Lucien’s absence, Ver decides to keep an eye out for any intentions towards Lucien’s family, should their defenses be breached.
Crotte watches as more men assemble in the yard. Messieurs Athos, Porthos and d’ Artagnan come out of the chateau. The Missus, Lucien’s wife and M Afonso are with the musketeers and listen to the discussion with Martin and Gasparo. The Missus pulls M Athos aside as Martin walks away from the group signaling to his men to follow him to the stable. They mount quickly and ride toward the gate to patrol the countryside. Gasparo leads a second group of men who take another direction for the same purpose.
Crotte calls out, “tell anyone you find in that forest to do their poaching elsewhere for the next few days. I would not want to ruin a good man’s dinner.” He pats the cannon, “we shall give those picaroons a hot time my lass.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Marie walks slowly among the groups of children in the large public salon. Her steward and butler walk with her as she tries to decide if there is enough room for eight children. Especially if the nursery is moved here with five more children, their nurses and maids. The men have decided that keeping the children collected in one large area can be defended better than if the families are scattered throughout the chateau. Athos decided it was better for Alessandra and their infant son to stay in their apartment, guarded by men selected by Gasparo.
Constance is in the kitchen conferring with the cooks and the housekeeper and Elodie is collecting a few clothes, directing the footman to bring extra blankets and pallets. Marie glances at the men on her heels, both bearing slight frowns. The boys are grouped together around a card game that seems to involve vigorously slapping down cards and claiming a match. They have already been discouraged from a game of hide and seek using the entire chateau, games and races in the galleries. Keeping boys cooped up even in a room as large as the public salon will not work for very long.
“I suppose we could try the ballroom.” Marie watches the M Mael and M Jozen exchange a glance. “Should we cover the mirrors Madame?”
She had forgotten the wall of mirrors that lined the ballroom. “I am interested in your thoughts on how to do that,” she answers to delay a decision. She stops where Rayya and Charlotte are reading aloud, taking turns to use their voices and gestures to enact the story. Rosie and Renee are spellbound with their theatrics while Bianca is lying on her stomach, hands propping up her chin, knees bent, restlessly waving her legs back and forth.
“Bianca,” Marie crouches down close to the child whispering, “is the book not interesting to you dear? Bianca turns her brilliant green eyes to her, forming a pout and shakes her head. “I would rather ride my pony, but Rayya says we must stay here for a while.”
“Yes, I am sorry that is necessary. We will all go out as soon as we can.”
“Papa says I must stay as he will be with my uncles and Maman gets tired.”
Marie notices Rayya watching Bianca. Rayya hands the book to Renee and Rosie, “take turns at reading.” Renee reaches for the book, face alight with the chance to act out the parts, while Rosie is cautious. “Come on Rosie, it will be fun,” Renee enthuses. Rayya moves next to Bianca, who leans against her, Rayya’s arm encircling her and saying quietly, “we will visit the stables as soon as we can.” Bianca only nods, her serious expression unchanging.
All the children can feel it, Marie thinks as she moves away. Their fathers and mothers are tense and nervous. An uncertain future approaches in the person of Fabien Marchal. Her sons and the others have prepared for the worst, but if it is the worst, will it be enough? She has no return letter from the Queen, although she did not really expect one. She turns to her servants.
“Prepare the two west galleries. They can have their races and games there.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
“You are being unreasonable!” Sophia charges Athos, who stands resolutely in front of her, arms folded over his chest. “I will not cower from him and that is what he will think.”
Athos places his hands on her shoulders, “I do not care what Fabien Marchal thinks. You must see it clearly. If you stand at the gate, it is a challenge that every man here must be ready to act upon. If that forces us to engage with him, it may not be to our advantage.”
Sophia presses her lips together, a show of stubbornness. Athos softens his tone, “you are asking me, but would you ask Lucien? Would you expect him to do what you wish?” She has the grace to lower her eyes. “He can be overprotective,” she mumbles.
“He also knows how to play a game like this to his own advantage. Putting you in front of it would not be his gamble.” He steps closer to her, “you have nothing to prove Sophia. You stood up to Marchal’s brazen attack as best anyone could. Your people are safe here, at Glenay. Do not become a figure of concern for us.”
Sophia gasps, “I am being selfish?” He smiles gently and does not answer her question, saying instead, “you are needed, you have an important place in our plan. But that place is not confronting Marchal.”
Sophia nods slowly, knowing Athos is right. She sighs heavily, a final pat on his folded arms and she turns away, then stops. “I hate that I cannot forget it,” she says in a low voice. Athos does not reply, only lays a hand on her shoulder. She touches it and then walks away toward the door leading into the kitchens. Before she gets there, a great commotion goes up from the ramparts over the tall fortified gate.
“Riders approaching,” the guards are shouting. Sophia pauses as the gate is slowly swinging open and Martin’s patrol rides fast inside. Athos and d’ Artagnan walk quickly toward the men dismounting.
“We saw them, at the bridge at Langeais.” Martin announces. Sophia gasps, “but that is barely hours from here. Are you sure it was Marchal?”
“Yes, it was him and he is traveling with only three men.”
Athos and d’Artagnan exchange a startled look, with the same thought. Raoul. He has intervened or managed something … but what?
“There must be others,” d’ Artagnan insists, “Marchal has split his force, anticipating our patrol.”
“Unless there are no arrests. Marchal is bringing messages to us,” Athos says slowly, “from the King.”
More horses are coming through the gate. Porthos, Afonso and Gasparo are returning, leaping from their saddles. “We did not see Marchal.”
Martin summarizes his report again. Porthos looks amazed and disbelieving. “If there was a greater number somewhere, we did not see them. Nor had anyone seen them in the villages. Only three men to accompany Marchal,’ Porthos muses to himself, probing for Marchal’s strategy. “We need to think on this more carefully.”
Before they can start to walk toward the house, when another shout, “Riders!” Crotte is waving wildly to the men approaching the gate and then grinning at Ver and Poilu.
“Cap’n is back.”
Twelve Years After 