“This is a good list Paul,” Lucien studies the paper carefully. “We choose one or two from each of the Baltic ports, Ireland and ….” He runs his finger down the page, considering each ship, seeking the right combination of distant ports, cargo and captains. “Susa and Algiers,” he looks over the page at Paul de Vry. “Let us start with these.”
“Susa I understand, but Algiers?” Paul questions. Lucien grunts. “We are not really going there, but a ship with that registry could be useful. It is unlikely that Rochefort has reliable contacts there, no one does. Too many putain corsairs, damn their lying souls,” he laughs at his own joke.
“Najih says he has many informants,” Paul says. Lucien nods, “yes he does. But it is as dangerous to overestimate his reach as it is to underestimate it. No man is omnipotent but can be very good at creating the illusion with results being as true as if he were.”
“So, we probe,” Paul concludes.
“Yes, we probe and see what occurs. It may not seem significant, but taken together with other information, it may become, at least, interesting. No merchant captain in their right mind would try a cargo ship near Algiers without serious connections with Kemal Reis. But using it as a registry could have an effect.”
“Like confusion?” Paul is doubtful but trusts Lucien’s thinking so writes the name on his list. “That is the idea,” Lucien mutters, “Rochefort will be in a difficult position. He has promised a navy to a King who could use one in an alliance with the Ottomans in the Mediterranean. I can think of several confrontations that would have a different outcome if French warships had been in the mix.”
“Rochefort will reach for our ships and grasp only air.”
“That is our move,” Lucien has a grim expression. “The structure of our business is not that unusual, in fact, the VOC has made a fortune in this sort of enterprise. Rochefort failed to know what he should have before making promises to the King.”
“Who do we send to go to Algiers?”
Lucien shrugs, “I need to think on it. Jacky may wish to visit old friends.”
“By the way, this letter arrived a few days ago.” Paul hands Lucien a crumpled and stained parchment, the text marked with droplets of ink as if the sender had dirty hands and poor ink with which to write a letter.
Lucien takes the letter gingerly in Paul’s fingers, turning it over carefully, either disdaining the dirty parchment or the seal of the sender, or both. He breaks the seal and glances at the signature as he straightens the parchment. “From Jehan le Chabot.”
“Benito’s associate,” Paul says.
“Not exactly,” Lucien replies, “le Chabot wanted what everyone wanted from Benito. He sent information on Étretat and who was using it, the cargo and the routes inland. Benito already was established at the Wrecks and had little interest in more rivalries. We were there on occasion, even the Sparrow was at Étretat.” He smiles at his memory, “Benito liked to play choule on the beach. It is a beautiful cove.”
Paul laughs, “the Wrecks suited Benito – wild, dangerous and unpredictable. So why do we work with this Jehan?”
“I would not say we work with him. It is Jehan’s son Gervais who sends these letters. There is usually some item of interest, even if it does not apply directly to our business.”
“Do you send money to Gervais?” Paul asks and Lucien shrugs, “a few coins on occasion, mainly to keep him thinking that he is someone I would pay for the right information.”
“He likely sells it to others,” Paul grumbles, Lucien grunts, “I would hardly expect otherwise. The Le Maupertus family is a collection of people with ambitions, and I never fault a man for reaching beyond his grasp. They are a family of thugs wishing to appear refined. Gervais is the clever one.”
“Does Gervais also send reports to the marquis or does the marquis know he writes to you?” Paul wonders and looks for Lucien’s reaction.
Lucien shrugs, “the spymaster of France would use all manner of informants in addition to his corps of professional spies. He hardly needs me to tell him what he already knows and it’s not my business to monitor his land. Besides, Flea writes that there is trouble in the court and that is my business. I go there first before anywhere else.”
He reads the letter frowning, “he writes on the Inquisition ship, assemblies being held on the beaches, the reaction of the locals and…something about a roving gang of violent men…” He stops abruptly, eyes flashing with fury. He flings the letter to the table, swearing volubly.
“Putain de merde!’ Lucien fumes, infuriated, “the Belladona is off the coast, grapple hooked to that maudit Inquisition ship.” He jumps to his feet and strides to the window, the unresolved matter of Odysseus still an irritant. Why did the captain of the Belladona not send the sailing master back to the Aigle? For the first time, Lucien wonders if Odysseus does not want to return, or perhaps he was injured or possibly even dead. He looks at Paul, “I should go and see this Inquisition ship for myself and find my sailing master, or at least what has become of him. His father…” he trails off. He has an obligation to Odysseus’ family to inform them about their son.
Paul raises his brow, “you have obligations here,” he reminds Lucien. “You are just back and the King could call you into council. Yusuf will soon arrive your family…” Lucien waves an impatient hand, “yes, yes…I know well my obligations.” His emphasis indicates annoyance, not obedience. He would not mind an excuse to leave Paris for a few days. He considers the idea – he could take Sophia to Royaumont. She is anxious to go there. He would continue north into Normandy with the intention of reaching the village and the inn Gervais refers to – Le Maupertus near Saint-Leonard.
“Take Martin with you if you do.” Paul as he reads the letter. “Better to take more than Martin. What about these marauders? The word on the street is that the marquis sent his wife there there for a period of time.”
“I do not intend to bother the lady. She is undoubtedly well served by an army of priests in addition to Normanville’s men. I am not certain that I would see her.” He frowns wondering if he is supposed to visit her. After all, Raoul is his nephew and Marie Cessette is his wife and there are likely family conventions he should consider. He mutters irritably at what he should or must consider, family conventions of which he was once happily ignorant…except he would not want to offend Athos by ignoring his son’s wife. He sighs as church bells begin to ring the noon hour.
Lucien turns from the window, “I must go. I am to meet Mlle Molland at the Mme L’Angelier’s shop. She will be able to do what we need.” He swings his cloak around his shoulders, places a thick folio under his arm.
“Give the ladies my best,” Paul calls as Lucien runs down the stairs to the street. Outside the tavern, a group of men are talking quietly among themselves as they eat their midday dinner. One tall man stands up, “am I going with you?” he asks.
“No Etienne,” Lucien greets the others, clapping his hand on shoulders as he asks after wives and children. “I’m only to the printing shop. It’s a beautiful day for a walk.” Etienne looks unconvinced, “you think our enemies and drunken thieves take a day off for the weather?”
“No, but you should,” Lucien waves as he strides down the street and then the path to his wharf where a boy is watching the men unloading a barge.
“Finn, to the oars,” Lucien calls to the boy was grins, nodding eagerly, “yes M Lucien.” On the other side of the river, Lucien deposits a small pile of coins into his small palm. “Give most of this to your mother,” he admonishes. “Do not wait for me Finn. I will walk back.” He steps onto the small dock and then walks up the Rue de Petit mar and into the printer shop. A burly pressman glances up from the Dutch press that dominates the room. He wipes his hands on a cloth and advances toward Lucien.
“Captain.” Edgar Ricwin had once been an experienced foretop man on the Burla Negra. He was badly injured, his face and body scared when a fire broke out during a boarding on a merchant ship in the Mediterranean and was of little use to Benito de Soto. But Lucien had recently stolen a ship, and he offered Ricwin a place in his crew on the newly renamed Aigle. Years later, as age and infirmity made ship’s work increasingly difficult, Lucien gave Ricwin a different opportunity in a print shop in Paris. Now Edgar Ricwin is well into his middle years, a graying beard, his dark hair streaked liberally, a few of his facial scars obscured by a thick beard. The rest make him look to be a fearsome man.
“Edwin,” Lucien embraces the older man, holding a hand to his cheek to look with affection into Edwin’s eyes. “You are looking well my friend.” He pats Ricwin’s still firm torso, joking, “I see Mme L’Angelier is feeding you enough.”
“She does Captain, she has a right cook.” Ricwin returns the affection for the man who had looked past his injuries and still saw a seaman. “What brings you our way?” At that moment the door opens again and a woman enters, carrying a small artist’s box and a wrapped small rectangular package under her arm. Lucien looks back at Ricwin. “This lady.”
Mme Mollard smiles at Lucien, “I got your message M. How can I be of service?”
Lucien opens the folio he carries and spreads out the documents. “These are port records, bills of sale, and custom house declarations, most of the records city notaries would keep for the transfer of ownership of a vessel.” He pulls out a second sheet, “this has the names of the ships, their details of home port, the master, tonnage, cargoes and owners.”
He lines the papers together and takes out a third sheet, “these ships need their documentation…” he pauses searching for the correct term, “made current with events.” He finishes with a wry smile.
“Oh dear,” Edwin Ricwin mocks a shocked sorrowful tone, his finger tracing down the list of ships, “was there a hurricane in the Atlantic recently? Two of your ships lost at sea M.” His mouth makes a sad downturn. “All hands lost?”
“Mercifully no,” Lucien chuckles as he joins in the theatrics, “a miracle of sorts that allowed the men to survive in the longboats and be rescued.” He turns to Mme Mollard, “do you understand what I need Madame.”
“Indeed, I do,” the lady replies. She tapsthe wrapped package. “Can you help with this?”
Lucien unwraps the small parcel and holds up an unframed painting. It is a still life of a plate of fruit in various stages of ripeness and decay, commonly used as symbols of youth, vitality and the inevitability of aging. Among the fruit are apples and a few grapes to signify the artist’s understanding of religious symbolism. Light plays on the surfaces of the fruit creating texture and tactile sensations, the table and small branches of grape draping over the fruit are pleasingly familiar. As usual, there is no signature on the painting.
“Beautiful, your ability is remarkable,” Lucien comments. “Does Mme Garzoni know you can reproduce her talent?” Mme Mollard makes a small smile, “if I could sell with my own name I would gladly sign the work. But as I cannot, I rely on the collector to assume it.” What she does not say is that she needs the money to support her elderly mother and two children whose father abandoned them years ago.
“We can sell it here,” Mme L’Angelier chimes in. “As we have the others. I am often asked when there will be more paintings. There are buyers even when unsigned. They wink and nod and pull out their bags of coin.”
“The usual fee?” Lucien asks the artist who is looking closely at the handwritten documents. She nods and turns her head to him, “and the introduction to your acquaintance at Montpellier? You said he might be interested in a series on botanicals.”
“Yes,” Lucien agrees, “I will arrange for that.” Mme Mollard small hand disappears into Lucien’s large one. “Then we have an agreement M.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
“Mère.” Layla steps into the entryway in the home of the Duchess d’ Aiguillon. Sophia fervently embraces her daughter, kissing her cheek. “I have missed you dear girl,” Sophia steps back, still holding Layla’s hands and looks fully at her. “Father should be here soon. Grandmother is waiting for us.”
“I stopped to see Suzanne briefly,” Layla says as the two women link arms and go up the stairs to the family salon. “She looks well but has her hands full with a young child and a baby.”
“They will all come with me when I return to Royaumont,” Sophia says as the footman opens the door into the family salon. Marie is ensconced in a comfortable chair, Father Massey beside her. He rises bowing to Layla and pluck a folio, stuffed with documents from Marie’s lap, “I shall take these with me Your Grace, and mark what is most urgent in New France.” He closes the door quietly behind him.
“Grand-mère,” Layla leans over to kiss Marie’s cheek, “surely you could not have rested sufficiently after a long journey from Glenay. Cannot Father Massey take these burdens from you?”
“I think he just did,” Marie quips and holds Layla’s hands in hers. “I am pleased to see you my dear, and your mother scolds me enough on matters of rest and work.”
“As she should, as we all should.” Layla straightens and turns to her father who is striding into the room, his voice and presence filling every corner of the large salon. He is energetic, tall and broad, radiating confidence and purpose. He is formidable, keen eyes see everything even though they rest solely on her and she feels the familiar pull of his charism. She smiles with a secret joy at his stern expression and moves easily into his embrace.
“Father.”
“Let me look at you mite.” He sets her back to survey her – head to toe. “Hmm,” he makes a noncommittal grunt and then pulls her back into his strong arms, murmuring, “I am pleased to see you.”
He goes to Marie straightens the blanket over her lap, and glances at the low fire. “Why is this fire so poor Madame? Where is the footman? I am famished, ring for cook to send a tray.” Before a bell can be pulled and as if summoned by his words, there is a soft knock, and the door opens. A boy enters carrying a box of cut wood, followed by a maid and a footman with a heavy tray. Lucien sniffs the air suspiciously. “Who the devil is making khave in the kitchen?” he demands. Marie levels a look at her son, but she has long ago given up on correcting his language.
“Cook M,” pipes up the maid, “M Yusuf was teaching her.” Lucien scowls and tips a small amount from the brass pot into a small porcelain cup. “Huh,” he grunts, “as though just anyone…” He sips the hot brew and raises one brow. “Well, it is not as though it is terribly difficult to get it right,” and tosses back the rest, refilling the cup and settling on the settee to examine the contents of the tray, popping a pastry into his mouth and picking up another. He does not see the maid and footman exchange a discreet glance before they leave the room.
“What did I interrupt?” Lucien asks looking from his wife to his daughter and levels a stern look at his mother. “You have been home barely two days and already the correspondence piles up, and line of petitioners is two ranks deep.”
“I am fine,” Marie responds with a stern look of her own, “no scolds from my son are needed.”
“When do you expect Yusuf and M Roberval?” Layla asks, changing the topic of conversation and looks at her mother. She decides not to ask about Samy’s departure to Constantinople. She will wait for a more private moment with her mother. Her father answers.
“His eldest son Kuvvat is already here. He had messages for the Ottoman envoy. Yusuf and Roberval are traveling with the carriage for his sister and daughter. They should be here within the week. The house is ready.”
“I did not know the women were coming too,” Layla exclaims. “Will they be allowed to visit in the city?”
Lucien shrugs, “French women often wear veils when traveling outside their homes, so they would not appear as unusual. Of course, they would always be accompanied by a man in their family.”
Marie interrupts their conversation, “I want to hear of the plans for Spain.”
“Ah, yes. So do I,” Lucien says ominously. Sophia sits next to him and sets a restraining hand on his arm. “Do tell us, dearest of your plans. You can understand, that despite JeanPhillippe’s status and connections there, we are puzzled and concerned after all that occurred, that the King sends you back to Spain.”
“Is this Rochefort’s doing?” Lucien is sarcastic, “does he want another opportunity to make a grab at Rohan’s fortune? His life?”
“Lucien!” Marie sharply rebukes him. “There is no need for you to impress the danger upon Layla. She knows it well enough.” Marie turns to Layla, “when do you go dear? Do you know the accommodations and who else is in your delegation?”
Layla lifts her shoulders in a gentle shrug, “we have not been told.” She looks at her father, “JeanPhillippe is recognized by the Spanish court as the Duque de Lerma and Louis is sending him as ambassador and on the most sore political matter of Conde. There is not much more to say about it, the details do not make a difference in whether we go or not.”
“And Rohan is the only man at court with Spanish connections,” Lucien’s tone is sour with scorn. He looks at Marie. “Would it make any difference if Athos and I spoke with the King? His Majesty must remember the days in the Bidasoa.”
“No Father,” Layla speaks firmly, “that would not be advisable, and I do not believe my husband would welcome the intervention. Besides, the duc d’ Herblay is coming with us.”
“Aramis…hmm,” her father grumbles. Layla’s smile is filled with exasperation at her father’s glowering expression and with her love for him. She gently diverts his attention, “tell me about Marchal and Mother ringing the yard bell at Glenay.”
The tension breaks, and they laugh together as Lucien recounts the story, embellishing her mother’s marksmanship. They move on to other memories from Glenay: Rayya’s betrothal, Alessandra’s rescue and recovery, baby Leon’s birth, the arrival of the cannon, and the boys’ fascination with firing it. As they talk, the fire burns low and the hours slip by.
“I would like to visit there someday. But now, I must go,” Layla stands up kissing her grandmother’s cheek and embracing her mother. “JeanPhillippe and I will join with all of you this evening for dinner.”
Lucien walks with her down the stairs. In the entry way he turns to her, “mite, we need to talk…”
She presses his hands, “I know Father. We will talk further, I promise. Can we ride out together?” He smiles at her, his stern face softening. “There is nothing I would like more.”
Twelve Years After 