Chapter Eighty-One, Lèon, by Mordaunt

In the heat of midday the stonewall feels pleasantly cool against Athos’ back. He exhales loudly as he sits at the bench, reaching for his flask of water.

“Was that too much for you, Old Man?” Seated next to Athos, Lucien sounds equally out of breath. Just like Athos, he is covered in mud and sweat from head to toe.

“I can never get enough satisfaction, wrestling my Little Brother to the ground,” Athos teases in a stern tone, handing Lucien the water flask. 

“In your dreams, Old Man!” Lucien raises the flask to his lips, drinking thirstily, keeping his eyes on the wrestling match between Samy and Olivier. “No! No! No!” He springs to his feet. “What manner of fighting is this? Reach for his left leg! His left leg! Left, I said!”  Lucien returns to the bench next to Athos disappointed. “Putain d’ enfer!”

“Language!” Athos admonishes in the same feigned stern tone as before, his eyes also fixed on the two fighting boys, whose wrestling technique, if there ever was one, seems to have devolved into any move that will get them covered in mud, including throwing fistfuls of it at each other.

“Seriously Old Man? Oh, let me guess? You recite poetry when you fight, putting even Yusuf to shame.”

“He swears under his breath nobly, but we forgive him this eccentricity,” Porthos interjects as he sits next to Lucien who passes him the flask of water. Porthos drinks thirstily too. He is as disheveled as the rest of them, only significantly less muddied. Wrestling matches against Porthos do not last long, and, so far, he has remained on his feet at every round, wrestling with Martin, who also has not budged. With his eyes Porthos points to his son and Lucien’s son fighting. “How is it going? From the other side of the ring, it does not look like a fight.”

Lucien clicks his tongue, disapprovingly. “Neither of them cares about wrestling.”

“Getting covered in mud. That is all they care about,” d’ Artagnan laments, sinking in the bench next to Athos. He is as disheveled and dirty as everyone else around the wrestling ring. With his eyes, d’ Artagnan signals to Lucien and Porthos, “I’d make sure their mothers do not see them in this state.”

“There is nothing wrong with teaching the young about good manners and fair game,” Athos declares imperiously. Three pairs of disbelieving eyes glare back at him. “Sportsmanship Messieurs, is the essence of nobility,” Athos pontificates, “and are we not, all four of us, the very picture of it at this moment?”

“The English have the best name for it, and most fitting for us: ‘council of the privy’,” Lucien remarks to roaring laughter.

“If only Lieutenant Marchal could see us now,” d’ Artagnan chimes in and the roaring laughter becomes louder, the unintentional effect of which is that the two boys stop hurling mud at each other and stand in the middle of the wrestling ring, exchanging perplexed looks and gawking at their fathers and uncles. 

Porthos suppresses a loud guffaw. “Well boys, this was a most spectacular stalemate if I ever saw one.” He stands up and carefully pinches the only edge of his son’s sleeve that is not covered in mud. “Let us spare your poor Mother this dismal sight, Monsieur, shall we?” He leads an overly excited, giggling Olivier toward the barracks where Gasparo’s and Martin’s men are stationed, and where there is hot water for the boy to wash.

“My Mother does not mind!” Samy declares with confidence, and answering to his father’s questioning glare, he insists: “She doesn’t!  It is worse when I go hunting for frogs.”

Lucien sighs. “Your Mother will be relieved to hear it.” He stands up too, ready to lead his son to the same direction as Porthos, but stops because d’ Artagnan exclaims:

“Where is Alexandre?”

“He was just over…” Samy mutters, pointing to the other side of the ring, where, however, the benches are empty. D’ Artagnan springs to his feet. Athos too.

“Would this be your son, Your Grace?”  Walking from the direction of the mud-pit, used for lining the wrestling ring, Alfonso is dragging along what appears to be a child, but so completely covered in mud that he is unrecognizable.

Alexandre flashes a gleaming grin, all teeth under the mud, except for his newly missed, front baby tooth. “I fell,” he giggles.

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“My goodness! That is a strong pair of lungs,” Madame d’ Aiguillon marvels. From the room adjacent to Alessandra’s, the wailing baby sounds frustrated. 

Alessandra smiles feebly. “Poor Bonne. She cannot be a minute late.” She draws in a deep breath and closes her eyes.

“A tenacious constitution, a demanding nature, and a healthy appetite is what we know so far about the little one,” Madame Bourgeois remarks. Gently, she pats Alessandra’s hand and stands from her bedside. “Now, my dear, you must rest.” She exchanges a worried look with the duchess.

There is much concern about Alessandra, even by Dr. Guenaud, who has been the optimist. Whereas the baby gets stronger every hour it seems, the mother has yet to cross the threshold to recovery.

“Make sure she sleeps,” Madame Bourgeois whispers to the duchess on her way to inspect poor Bonne, in the adjacent room, where the baby is no longer wailing, and the only sound is Bonne’s soft voice crooning a lullaby. 

Alessandra clicks her tongue irritated and opens her eyes. “I am tired of resting! I am tired of being kept…like this! No one tells me anything.”

The duchess, who until this moment was standing by the window, carefully sliding the closed curtain every now and then to observe some commotion in the courtyard below, moves to sit at Alessandra’s bedside. “We are told that you must get plenty of rest and not get upset. Then, of course, Athos and Lucien went ahead and said…”

“I am not at all upset about what they said,” Alessandra counters, peevishly.  

“Yes, my dear, but it made you very sick afterwards,” the duchess admonishes.

Alessandra sighs a deep frustrated sigh. “Is he now the duc de Richelieu?”

“As reluctantly as Lucien is the duc du Plessis. Perhaps a bit more. The name resonates differently after all. But where Lucien is straightforward and outspoken, Athos, as you know, keeps everything to himself.”

“Well, let me be straightforward and outspoken for him,” Alessandra pushes. “He should be allowed to refuse. He should be given a choice.”

The duchess smiles kindly. “Dearest, we may have this conversation, but not today.”

“I heard pistols and a cannon fire. What was all that for?”

The duchess admires her daughter-in-law’s persistence. She is reminded of the little girl she knew. She is reminded of her granddaughter, who is very much like her mother. “That was Lucien being himself.” She ignores her daughter-in-law’s frustration and motions to pick up the book of poetry from the bedside table. “What if I read to you from…”

“Did you know my mother? That drawing. The drawing Lucien has. My mother painted it.”

The question catches the duchess off-guard. She has no answers, only Athos’ firm warning to let the past remain in the past for Lucien and Alessandra. She sets the book back onto the table. “We became good friends.”

“And my father?”

“Your father too.” She hesitates. “He became Oliv…Athos’ tutor. My dear, I hesitate to speak about those days. I have been warned to refrain from speaking about the past.”

Alessandra frowns. “By Athos?”

“Both my sons insist,” she deflects.

Alessandra lets her head fall back in the pillows, exhaling impatiently. “I suppose. Still, it is difficult not to ask.”

“How about I tell you how I met Bianca. It is a story that I can tell simply.”

“But it wasn’t. It wasn’t a simple story, was it?”

Madame d’ Aiguillon smiles sorrowfully. “What story is? But I can say, simply, that we were happy. For a little while.” Alessandra nods encouragingly and the duchess pauses for a moment, weighing her words. “In those days, we stayed… Not here, not at Glénay. It was a small house, secluded, and safe. Sometimes, early in the morning, I would take long walks. It was quiet. And to see the sun rise over the sea was…miraculous… A rare gift from God. Bianca thought so too. I met her during one of my walks, one such miraculous dawn. She was sketching… seated on the sand…The house was close to the sea, and…” She notices a wince and a tightening of her daughter-in-law’s lips. “Oh, my dear, I have upset you.”

Alessandra sits up against the pillows. “No, please, tell the story!”

“I have said enough.”

“I am not upset. How can I possibly be upset?” Alessandra feigns a small dismissive chuckle. “Women like me are not easily affected, if they are affected at all. You know me, Your Grace. You have known me for many years in his service. Despised me too, no doubt, for what I was and what I did for him.”

Madame d’ Aiguillon reaches for Alessandra’s hands. “My dear, that would be simple indeed, and nothing is simple. You said it yourself. We were both in his service, even if, at the time, I had convinced myself it was not so. I have many regrets from those days, too many to count. But this is not a conversation to be had now. We must take this step by step. You and I together, and with the Grace of God.” She smiles affectionately. “Now I will read to you from your poetry book, and you will try to rest. Remember Madame Bourgeois, her daughter, and the physicians all have agreed that the closest family can finally meet the little one this afternoon. You should rest until then.”

“Poetry is either too mournful or too joyous, and neither will do,” Alessandra protests.

“I believe I have the remedy for that.” The duchess draws out a letter from her pocket. “Your aunt writes to me from Venice. I believe that her letter will raise your spirits.”

Alessandra narrows her eyes, puzzled. “How on earth did she find me here?”

“I believe that Athos wrote to her as soon as you were returned to Glénay safely. She wrote back to him, and” the duchess points to the letter in her hand, “there was a letter addressed to me in their correspondence.” 

“Oh, no!”

“Your aunt is a formidable woman and cares very much about you, my son, and your children,” the duchess says, amused by her daughter-in-law’s reaction, which mirrors Athos’ when he first saw the letter from Venice addressed to his mother. “I intend to continue our correspondence, perhaps even meet her.”

“Madame, I am not sure the world is ready for such an encounter,” Alessandra teases.

“That is exactly what my son said.”

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“Wait!”

Lucien hurries to catch up with Athos down the corridor toward the small salon close to Alessandra’s room. Both men are impeccably dressed, with no sign of their earlier competitive efforts. However, Lucien, much to his mother’s displeasure, insists on wearing his riding boots indoors.

“Does Alessandra know about Marchal? About the title?”

“Our mother was with her earlier,” Athos replies. “Alessandra surmised almost everything about the title, as you’d expect. We decided to say nothing about Marchal. It would raise too many questions. She is already frustrated that we keep almost everything from her.”

“She would be. How much does she remember?”

Athos shakes his head. “Few things, disconnected. The fever’s frequent recurrence isn’t helping, nor are the various infusions meant to aid her sleep. Considering how the news about us affected her, even Genaud has advised delaying any conversation about what she has endured. Yet she continues to ask, and it is becoming harder to evade.”

“It will be so. It was the same with Layla. It was the same with me. Sophia will tell you all about it.” 

“Lucien, this royal missive which Marchal brought. Louis’ invitation to the royal council.”

“Yes, quite the shift.”

“You have been in the royal council before,” Athos slants him an impish smile. “Louis likes you more than he and his mother ever liked me. I will always be a Frondeur in their eyes, and the man who changed his loyalties to serve Venice instead of France.”

Lucien chuckles. “Just my luck. To find myself with a brother who is a notorious Frondeur. As for your allegiance to Venice, they are still among my competitors, let me remind you. It’s your wife’s family of course, but why could you not just leave it at musketeering, eh?”

Athos returns a small shrug, “The truth is I detest politics.”

“The truth is you love politics,” Lucien counters. “No! Don’t deny it. You were born for it. I should know. I was there, on the other side of the negotiating table.”

“I am not particularly proud of that moment,” Athos admits, wistfully.

“Neither am I. And in the end, we were both played, by that Italian priest!”

“By Rochefort.”

“We were played, that is what really matters. I don’t intend to be played again. Now Louis genuinely likes my daughter and my son-in-law, of that I have no doubt. As for me, he claims we are family, but look at what happened to his cousin, the Grande Mademoiselle. So, I say that mostly what he likes about me is what I have to offer him. You are right, there is more to this shift in Louis. Not just our mother’s influence and who you and I have become, which Louis needs. There is more here than meets the eye. I do not like changes that I do not fully comprehend.”

“With Rochefort in the midst.”

“This disturbs me greatly. And Spain. Spain disturbs me at equal measure!”

“That monstrous ship?”

“That monstrous ship in French waters makes no sense. Athos, my daughter and my son-in-law are walking into that lion’s mouth! Dispatched to Spain by Louis.” He clicks his tongue with frustration. “I find it impossible not to see Rochefort’s hand. He tried to kill his son in Spain. Now he has returned—whatever this means—and both his son and my daughter find themselves enmeshed in this affair to bring Condé back to France from Spain. I do not believe in coincidences.”

Athos frowns. “Neither do I. We must return to Paris immediately. I can no longer dither.” 

“Athos,” Lucien says gently. “I know that you take our mother’s words about duty and family to heart, and so do I, even if I seem not to, but…”

“My first duty is to her, Lucien. My first duty is to Alessandra,” Athos says with much emotion.

Lucien places his hands on Athos’ shoulders, fixing a resolute gaze, full of encouragement. “That is why you have us, just as we have you. Or is this not what your cherished Musketeer oath is about? I detest oaths, but I believe that men of good sense can accomplish a great deal when they set their minds to a purpose. It is not perhaps your idea of loyalty, but it is loyalty nevertheless.”

“It is good enough for me,” Athos replies, seizing his brother in his arms.

“Take all the time you need. Take care of her,” Lucien whispers in his ear.

Athos pushes him back gently. “I have an idea about what to do,” he ventures.

“I endorse it wholeheartedly,” Lucien declares. “Now let us go and meet this nephew of mine, who has been keeping us all awake at night. We can hear him wailing when he is hungry all the way to the other side of the house.”

Athos smiles. “I have a feeling you will like him.” At the door of Alessandra’s room, Athos stops momentarily. “I have been thinking about what you said about that not so enviable moment between us—the one at the royal council and its even less enviable aftermath.”

“Strange,” Lucien says. “I was thinking about the same thing. “And that we have faced each other… in the mud, so to speak, before today.” He flashes a mischievous lopsided grin.  

Athos chuckles. “My thoughts exactly. No one in this room needs to know the grim details of those not so enviable encounters including the one this morning.”

“Or God help us,” Lucien teases, following Athos inside.

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“Look at that hair!”

The rosy cheeked infant sleeping serenely in Alessandra’s arms dons a head of unruly bright red hair. One could not call that curls, rather, an unexpectedly thick and feral mane with a mind of its own.

“Now that is real character!” Lucien marvels. He turns to Athos. “I like him already.”

“My grandfather, Andrea, had red hair,” Bianca announces knowingly. She is nested at her mother’s side, at the comfortable settee where Alessandra has been carried from her bedchamber, resting her little head on her mother’s shoulder, and very protective of her infant brother, whom she calls “mon biquet.”

“Ah,” her grandmother exclaims. “That may be true, but he is not the only redhead in the family. His likeness is not in the gallery, so you cannot have met him, but I knew there was a portrait of him somewhere. So, I asked M. Jozen to look for it.” The duchess sits in a chair next to Alessandra’s settee and opens the small gold locket in her hands.

“Good God!” Sophia and Alessandra gasp at the man’s image in the miniature portrait. Dressed as a knight, he boasts a striking wild mane of vivid red curls framing a handsome, but fierce looking face. 

Athos leans closer, blinking at the portrait in disbelief. “This is a relative!”

“More to the point,” Lucien chimes in, leaning closer also, “who is he?”

“He looks fierce enough to be one of your relations,” Sophia teases him.

“This is your uncle, several generations removed,” their mother explains. “Enguerrand Arnault de Barbazan from Bigorre, known as “the Knight without reproach,” who fought with Jeanne d’ Arc. He is buried at Saint Denis in the royal sepulcher.”

“Sang di…” Athos stops himself halfway through the profanity, but not before he sees Alessandra’s astounded expression.

“Jeanne d’ Arc! Imagine that Bia!” Alessandra interjects feigning excitement.  

“Bigorre! Imagine that!” Lucien hurries to add, flashing a mischievous grin and winking at his pretty little niece, who returns a wide, loving smile, entirely oblivious to the drama unfolding around her.

“Indeed! Imagine that!” Athos sounds relieved to have been rescued. He pauses momentarily, frowning in disbelief again. “What? We are Gascons now?”

“If I discover that I am also d’ Artagnan’s uncle, I will never recover,” Lucien mutters.

Their mother extends them both an exasperated look. “No, you are not Gascons,” she says sternly, “but many generations ago some of your distant relations came from Gascony.” 

Lucien lets out a sigh of relief and drops into a chair, crossing his legs with casual ease. “Uncle Enguerrand, who fought alongside Jeanne d’ Arc, and is buried in the royal sepulcher at Saint Denis! Who could have imagined?” He feigns amazement very convincingly, just as he shares a brief, subtle glance with Athos, who sits nearly opposite him, positioned closer to his wife and daughter.

“Enguerrand!” Athos marvels. “The name of a true warrior!”

Between Lucien and Athos, the three women exchange astounded looks.

“You are right, it has a certain…” Lucien waves his hand dreamily, ignoring Sophia’s glare, “magnificence!”

Alessandra pulls the baby closer to her chest. “I will not name my baby Enguerrand, I am sorry Madame,” she tells her mother-in-law, who, however, is no longer astounded. Neither is Sophia. They are both vexed.

“My dear, do not concern yourself,” Madame d’ Aiguillon reassures her, and turning to her sons, she shakes her head. “Enough!”

Sophia reaches for Alessandra’s hand. “It has been like this with the two of them for some time now.” She rolls her eyes. “And I don’t know which one is the worse.”

“We pretend not to notice the mischief,” Madame d’ Aiguillon adds.

Alessandra shakes her head, a soft chuckle escaping her lips.

Sophia smiles. “What name do you prefer for him, my love?”

“Lèon,” Alessandra says. “His name is Lèon.”