Chapter Eighty, Poetic Justice, by Corso

Lucien takes the steps up to the ramparts two at a time, Benoit close behind him.  He stops abruptly, surprised that the three boys, Olivier, Samy and Alexandre are there, huddling around Crotte listening intently as he holds forth on the merits of his cannon.

 “Now if M Fleury were here, he could tell ya’ the full tally regarding our lass.” Crotte pats the cannon affectionately.  “M Fleury…he knows his guns better than his own …” Ver make a warning grunt and Crotte hurries on, “…his own sisters, if ya’ can imagine it.”  He grins, showing the last three yellow brown teeth in the front of his mouth and continues his lesson.

“Now this here water bucket and ram is for clearing her throat,” Crotte holds up the long handled rammer, shaking a warning finger accompanied by a deep scowl, “just damp mind ya’ no bilge-soaked sponge ‘cuz it only gets ya’ a wet gun and groggy powder and a drowned shot.  Sloppy work that would be and the scurvy dog ya’ shooting’ at laughing his head off at ya’ … watching it fizzle like a wang without…”  Crotte holds up a finger, letting it droop down to illustrate the failed trajectory of the shot.  Ver is frowning.  “If she ain’t clean, the shot then just goes off like a man …” Ver clears his throat forcefully, glaring at Crotte who stops talking and frowns uncertainly at Ver. The boys are wide-eyed, nodding vigorously at the mysterious functions and admonitions for bilge-soaked rammers, groggy powder and faulty trajectories.  Lucien exchanges a glance with Benoit.  Crotte’s mastery of his subject holds the rapt attention of the three boys, rivaling the scholars found in the sacred halls of the Sorbonne.   At least about cannons.

“Cap’n!” Crotte beams at Lucien, “got me some new mateys for ya’ Cap’n.”  He winks at the three boys, who have straightened with hands clasped behind their backs. 

“As I see,” Lucien sends a pointed look at Ver who looks down mumbling to himself, “no harm in being curious.”  

“Hmm,” Lucien walks up and down the line of three boys, stern faced, eyes narrowed and assessing.  “Do your fathers know you are up here?”  Lucien demands.  The boys look at each other and then Samy pipes up, “mine does!” He makes a droll smile tinged with hope that fades under his father’s withering look.  Crotte speaks up for the chastened boys. 

“They catchin’ it quick Cap’n,” Crotte beams at his pupils and makes a shooing motion with his hands, “now Cap’n needs a little room to sight his target so stand there with M Fou,” he winks at Fou looking blank at being addressed with an honorific.  “Now you boys stay back when we touch the match. She’s a leaping back like a … “ Crotte veers off not needing another throat clearing check from Ver… “like a rat from a snake… why I had me a mate once who had a pet rat that could leap straight up over a man’s head…”

“Crotte!”  Ver interrupts and Crotte swings back to his purpose without pausing for breath …”and can take your foot clean off if you be scurvy enough to be in her way.”  The boys drop their jaws and check their feet, nervous about a rat able to leap over their heads, although Samy would be thrilled if one appeared.

Lucien glances at Benoit who anticipates what he is about to say and shakes his head. “I am not missing this,” and walks closer to the cannon.  Lucien beckons to Poilu, “find a footman.  M Jozen must send for their fathers.”  Poilu takes off in search of a man who will not slam the door in his face.

Lucien looks at the boys, more amused than he appears, agreeing with Ver.  What boy would not be curious about a big gun?  He beckons to them, “you may come a little closer, and see how it is done.” 

Ver and Crotte heave the cannon into the embrasure, Crotte grins happily as his young recruits gather again around him.  He goes through the firing sequence in slow exaggerated movements, “swab, powder, wadding, ram, shot, ram.”  He sprinkles a little powder in the touch hole.  “M Ver there holdin’ the handspike to pull her ‘round where the Cap’n wants her.”  Ver waggles the handspike and glares at Crotte who is enjoying himself too much. 

Alexandre raises his hand, looking worried, “M Crotte, you forgot the ball.”

“There’s no fooling you,” Crotte rubs Alexandre’s head, “a right mate here Cap’n.  Knows when there’s no shot in the barrel. M Fleury would have you in his crew laddie, snap-snap.”  Samy and Olivier are curious too, ‘but why would you not…” 

“Capn’s orders,“ Crotte intones and lays his hand against his heart.  “mates obey, says so in scriptures.”   The boys peek at Lucien, now enshrined with heaven’s authority.  They exchange glances silently pledging to pay better attention to their tutors and in chapel.

In truth, neither Crotte or any of the others understand their captain’s use of good powder without shot. A great stir for nothing.  Easy enough to sight a target in clear daylight without a heaving deck underfoot and all Crotte needs is to wait for the enemy to appear on the road and drop the shot dead to right. 

Lucien looks at Fou, “keep these boys back, however you do it.  Am I clear?” Fou nods, “aye Cap’n,”  Fou glances down at the boys, Samy on one side, Olivier and Alexandre on the other as they look up at him, Alexandre craning his neck so far back to see the full extent of the massive man that he loses his balance only stopped by Fou’s thick fingers at his back. “Thank you M Fou,” Alexandre’s voice squeaks slightly with excitement and awe at the giant man.  M Fou looks down at him and grunts.

“All right Crotte,” Lucien slants a look at Crotte and rubs his hands together.  “Lay your gun. Let us find our target.”  Crotte crouches down to sight the target along the length of the barrel. 

“See the tree line?”

“Aye Cap’n.”

“Traverse left to the river…steady now.”  Ver uses the handspike to pull the barrel into the right orientation.   “See the road, three trees together at the bend in the river.”

“Aye Cap’n. Ready, powder loaded and matched.”

“Fire!”

The match flame reaches the powder and explodes in a deafening blast, flames shoot out, thick smoke billowing up and out, metal shrieking as the cannon leaps back.  Frightened birds fly up from trees, mules set up a constant braying, horses kick the walls of their stalls, rearing and neighing loudly.  Chickens squawk and the rooster stalks the yard for the enemy.  Alexandre claps his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut at thick gritty smoke as it hangs in the air, impossible to see more than a hand’s width. But it is not over. 

“Ready guns!”

They fire several more rounds of powder, the men flying through the firing sequence with astonishing speed, no wasted movement, a smooth coordinated rhythm, not a breath between the finish of one and the start of next.

“Gun ready!”

“Fire!”

 The smoke is now thick.  With every firing, the boys are excitedly jumping up and down shouting and cheering, edging closer to the action to watch the flames, the men, to touch the cannon’s hot metal and then there is a strangled yelp.  Lucien peers through the dispersing tendrils of smoke in the direction of Fou and the boys. Fou comes into focus, standing perfectly still and looking at him.  Samy and Olivier’s arms are pinned, each boy snug in the crook of a powerful arm that covers most of their faces except for round astonished eyes darting in all directions, not daring to squirm or protest.  Strong fingers grip Alexandre’s collar and hold him dangling a few feet from the ground, where he twists slightly in the breeze.  “M Fou?’  Alexandre asks in a timid voice, “may I get down please?”    Fou maintains a steady look at Lucien, waiting for permission to let them go.

 ‘Well done Fou.  We did not lose a foot or a hand.”  Fou opens his hand and Alexandre drops to his feet, Samy and Olivier stumble from their cocoon.  Porthos and d’ Artagnan who watched from the yard, walk up the stairs.  “You seem to have our miscreant lot in hand…quite literally.” Porthos is amused and good-naturedly cuffs the back of his son’s head.  “That was fun, yes?” and Olivier nods vigorously along with the Samy and Alexandre, looking up at Fou with amazement.   

Crotte is cleaning the barrel, pouring in powder, ramming the wadding tight.  He picks up a ball and waits for Lucien. 

“Load the shot.”

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The noise of exploding cannon has the expected consequence of shattering the quiet peace of the Thouaret river valley. The people who live in the area wait patiently for the noise to abate, as they had been told it would.  But for the four horsemen traveling through the valley, using the road parallel to the river, the sound of cannon fire is unnerving.  They do not see the cannonball but assume the destruction has occurred farther away.  So, when screaming cannonballs sail over their heads and explode in or near the river, it shocks both men and horses. Fabien Marchal is furious.  His horse is rearing and bucking, he must throw himself forward in the saddle, grab for the pommel, awkwardly half in, half out of the saddle, cursing his horse whose eyes roll in terror, threatening to bolt.  It was all he could do to keep the beast under control.  Around him, Rochois, Falaize and Bennart were having the same difficulty, their horses snorting and cavorting all over the road.  Mercifully, the bombardment had stopped, but was it over?  He glimpses the very top of the chateau’s roofline, the battlements appearing through the wavy branches of the trees. Did Grimaud really mean to kill him with a cannon?  He decides Grimaud must be a lousy shot for missing him at this distance.  It is not far now and once he gets there he will deal with Grimaud and his cannon.

“Get your horses until control!,” he shouts angrily to his men, yanking the reins and forcefully pulling the horse around, “let’s go.” 

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A yard bell is ringing.  A smile twitches on Marchal’s grim face as he considers the alarm being raised by his appearance, even accompanied by only three men. It is better he came with only token force. It testifies to his power. They fear him and he does not need an army to remind Grimaud and the traitors that he carries the King’s authority. The horses clatter onto a stone road, leading to the closed barbican gate and gatehouse. A small door in the massive gate opens on their approach, a smiling man in simple peasant dress steps out, bowing and speaking in the dreadful guttural language of the local Breton people. Marchal deliberately reins in his horse sharply, causing the animal to cavort and rear, knowing he makes an impressive performance as a cavalier.  He calls out with brusque authority, “in the name of the King, open the gate!” 

The man nods, scurries back through the small door. Within minutes the gate is swinging open.  They ride the short road to the second gate. It is set within a stone arch and overhead, armed men look down at the riders from crenellated battlements. The gate opens, and Marchal slows to a walk so that he and his men make a dignified appearance in the open yard.  There are few people there, but Marchal looks quickly in the direction where he expects to see the cannon.  On the ramparts, watching him with keen interest, are four burly men, dressed in seaman’s rough clothes, arms crossed over muscular chests crisscrossed with leather straps holding daggers and pistols. Their brawny arms are tattooed and ringed with metal or leather.  Grimaud’s pirate scum Marchal grimaces and as he looks at them with unmasked scorn, he realizes with a shock that one of the creatures is smiling at him, brazenly lifting a finger to knuckle his forehead in a mock salute.  Marchal’s hand moves toward his gun, but the sound of a door opening at the chateau distracts his attention.

In the open yard men are assembling, albeit slowly in groups of two and three.  Not a rush of defenders to take up positions, but men called for another reason.  He must be the reason, it is a courtesy for him, a Captain of the King’s guard and bearing the King’s letter.  At the front he recognizes Grimaud’s man Martin and Athos’ commander Gasparo.  It is eerily quiet, and then Lucien Grimaud and the traitors Porthos, d’ Artagnan and Athos stroll out together. Only Grimaud continues down the stairs and walks towards him. In the yard, no one moves and voices fall silent.  Even the birds are quiet.

 Marchal dismounts, signaling for his men to do the same and two stableboys appear to take the horses.  He waits for Grimaud to come to him. The man is grim faced, hard eyes stare with malevolence at Marchal who suppresses a laugh.  He knows when a man wants to kill him, most likely with good reason, but alas for other reasons, cannot touch hm.  Grimaud is armed with only one pistol, but Marchal knows Lucien also carries a dagger in his boot.  He also knows that Lucien would throw all weapons aside to kill him with his bare hands. It amuses Marchal that Lucien Grimaud is powerless and cannot satisfy his need for vengeance for his assault on his wife. Marchal makes a smug smile at Grimaud and is about to forcefully condemn Grimaud’s intentions in the use of a cannon when the chateau’s heavy oak doors open again.  He glances up and stiffens with surprise.

From the gallery on the second floor, Marie clutches her rosary.  The priest beside her murmurs softly, “… heavenly Father, you have brought us to this day…thy will be done…”

The Duchess de la Croix appears, pausing to exchange a few words with Athos.  Sophia walks down the stairs and across the yard, her stride sure and stately.  Marchal had always liked the way she walked, it had attracted his attention from the very beginning.  Not the mincing prance of courtier women, balancing flirtatiously on ridiculous heels, but a stride of purpose and confidence, her hips swinging with natural grace.  She is a rare woman, disinterested in the forces underlying court life or being yet another court coquette.  She wears a blue dress, her favorite color, fitted perfectly to her slender form.  She can appear fragile, but he knows better.  Her features are sculpted, her eyes a rare iridescent blue whose commanding gaze mesmerizes and stir a man’s mind. He almost touches his lips remembering the dizzying feel of her lips under his, a brief mad moment when he declared his love. But that is long ago … the image dissolves into the crack of his hand against her face, her crumbling to the floor, blood spurting …abruptly he snaps back to the present, Grimaud is talking to him, in a quiet voice.

“I advise you not to move.”

Marchal frowns, Grimaud is holding out a pistol, his hand wrapped around the barrel, keeping his eyes on Marchal.  As Sophia passes him, she takes the pistol, cocking it with her other hand. She has no expression, save the hard glint in her blue eyes.  She barely stops in front of him before raising the pistol … squeezing the trigger…

…his mind reacts thoughts colliding in the same frenzied instant … this is wrong, she cannot shoot him …she is less than thirty paces away unlikely to miss…. the King …his hands are raised, a mock surrender at this absurd bit of theater … she is mad… he opens his mouth to shout his command to his men … to her…

The pistol blast is deafening, he feels a puff of wind as the shot skims past his cheek, he cries out, instinctively clutching his face and stomach, dropping down … a bell starts ringing.  For a moment the only sound is the ringing bell and then a titter of laughter ripples through the men in the yard and overhead on the ramparts. Marchal straightens, stares blindly and glances back at Rochois, Falaize, and Bennart.  They are unsmiling, silent, standing apart from him. He looks back at Grimaud, stern faced and still watching him.  Sophia is already walking back toward the house, handing the pistol to her husband as she passes him. She goes up the stairs, the door closing quietly after her.  At the window In the upstairs gallery, Marie breathes out slowly. She grips Père Massey’s arm.  “It is over.  You had better go.”

Grimaud and the others are gone. On the ramparts, the guards resume their patrol.  The men in the yard are dispersing, walking slowly in groups and disappearing into the dormitories or settling in chairs around fire pits, passing flasks.  They glance occasionally at the men left standing in the yard, shaking their heads and chuckling.  A priest is walking toward Marchal.

“I am Père Enemmond Massey, secretary to Her Grace, the Duchess d’ Aiguillon.  The gatehouse has been prepared for you.  Food and drink will be sent. The gatekeeper will take care of any needs you may have.”  The priest pauses for Marchal to respond.

“Thank you Père Massey.” Rochois steps forward.  “Our horses have traveled far, do we stable them here?”

“The stable boys will see to your horses. You have my assurances that they will be well cared for.”  The priest turns again to Marchal.  “Do you bring a message for Her Grace?”

“I am obliged to deliver the King’s letter to Her Grace myself,” Marchal recovers his voice speaking firmly and with a note of malice. Rochois’ mouth twitches, but he steps back for Marchal to deal with the priest.

The priest shakes his head with a sad expression, “Captain, you have my apologies, but Her Grace is not receiving visitors.  You may give your message to her sons, the Duc d ‘Plessis or the Duc d’ Richelieu or…” the priest smiles, “you may give it to me.”  Père Massey inclines his head, “I bid you a good evening.”

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Sophia waits with Marie in her private salon.  She turns as the door opens, expecting Lucien.  It is Athos.  He closes the door and leans against it looking at her, crossing the room taking her hands in his.  “I was wrong,” and pulls her gently into his embrace. 

“I did not discount your advice,” she says, relieved as she worried he would be cross with her.   “I would not want you to think I would do so lightly.”

“No, but I see now your reasons.”  He steps back from her.  “Is it over?”

“Yes…for me.” 

Athos makes a wry expression.  “I forgot you could shoot.  Layla…”  Sophia interrupts him. “Layla would have rung that bell from twice the distance,” she says lightly as Lucien comes into the salon and slips his arm around his wife, kissing her cheek. “All right?’  he murmurs.  She nods and he kisses her cheek again.

“Come and sit down,” Marie gestures to the settee and chairs.  “This has been a trying day.”

“Do you truly intend to not meet with Marchal?”  Athos sits in a chair and accepts a glass of wine from Lucien. He is not sure he cares, but in their preset circumstances it is unwise to ignore formalities.

“Father Massey delivered my indisposition, directing him to you,” she looks at both her sons.  “Nevertheless, he carries a message from the King,” Marie says as if explaining the obvious.  “I must meet with him.”  She sips sweet wine from the glass Lucien hands to her.  “But he may need to wait a little for me.”