Chapter One Hundred One, The Transcendent Soul, by Corso

“I love you neither with my heart nor with my mind.
My heart might stop, my mind can forget.
I love you with my soul,
because my soul never stops or forgets.

Lucien’s desk is covered with dark velvet lined trays.  A small round headed man touches the trays with nervous movements, making slight adjustments to display the gems to their best advantage.  He sucks in an anxious breath when Athos leans over the desk and picks up a large diamond, holding it to the light, admiring the clarity and sharp fiery sparkle.  “Beautiful.  Where does Roberval find these diamonds?

“India and Borneo primarily,” the man answers, “Your Grace did specify a white diamond, but M Roberval instructed me to bring a selection for Your Grace’s consideration.”  He points to another small tray, “this blue is very fine and the yellow is exceptional.”

“Thank you M Gosse,” Lucien addresses the anxious man, “there are refreshments in the salon.”  The small man bows and retreats from the room, one last loving look at his gems.

“Strange little man,” Lucien comments.  Athos chuckles, turning to the other trays, “he clearly loves his work. The rubies are dramatic.  They seem to glow with fire.”  

“The emeralds are particularly nice,” Lucien prods the stone with his fingers, “perhaps a set of earrings?” 

Athos murmurs, considering the emeralds.  “I know what I want for the ring.  The sapphires would make lovely earrings for Marie Cessette. What do you think Raoul?”

Raoul sits in a chair close to the table, fingers steepled under his chin, his eyes move over the gleaming gems.  He lifts his head and smiles at his father who holds out the stones to him. “There are enough to match for a necklace, should you wish.” 

“They are nice,” Raoul glances obediently at the tray.  Both his father and uncle note his dulled tone, look at him and then at each other.  “How is the plan for the schools progressing?” Lucien asks. 

“Slowly,” Raoul replies, “my wife has achieved some success, but the farming families must be persuaded to its value to them.  Time away from the farm for learning to read and write and sums is time away from the work.  Marie Cessette is well of the challenges.”  His eyes wander over the stones.   

“An ambitious endeavor,” Lucien declares, “but it will bring its value in time. Marie Cessette has the heart to see it through.” 

Raoul inclines his head, “I appreciate you see her efforts as an admirable undertaking.” 

Lucien spreads his hands wide, “I might remind you that she is part of a family of women who undertake difficult endeavors.  She can expect their support.”

“Well said,” Athos says briskly and changes the topic back to the gem stones.  ““Would you not consider the sapphires for a necklace for Sophia, although I confess that I have only seen her wear a particularly fine gold locket.”

“Treville gave her that locket, for her birthday,” Lucien sorts through the sapphires.

“Did he?” Athos is surprised, “I do not remember it.”   

Lucien examines the sapphires in detail.  “The shade of blue for her must be exact. See how the cornflower is too pale, the royal blue is too dark and dense.  It lacks the shimmer to see fine details that create a reflection and captures the shifts in color as the light changes, very much like the sea.”    

“A poetic description,” Athos smiles fondly at Lucien. There is a sweet contrast between his brother’s  fearful legend and the romantic soul of the man who is still in love with his wife.   Lucien notices the silence and is slightly abashed.  He nods at the tray.

“You did specify diamonds brother.  Is there one you favor?  The pearls are excellent.  I might have earrings made from these. Sophia favors pearls and the variations in turquoise found in the Mediterranean.”  He laughs, “of course she would.”

“Is that what you give her?” Raoul asks, ‘turquoise?”

Lucien slants an amused glance at him, “my most successful gifts have been Persian leeks, aubergines, and olive trees.  One year I brought Persian goats and another time I sent two merino sheep from Spain. They thrive at Royaumont.  There were birds one year, but the weather did not suit and they died. Of course, by then Samy had given them all names and cried for days.  A complete failure on my part.   My wife is not enraptured with gems.  She says she has enough with the de la Croix family jewels.”  He holds up the pearls again.  “But she is fond of pearls.”

“I think this one,” Athos declares holding up a large diamond.  Lucien murmurs appreciatively, “beautiful.  Will the cut suit her or shall we discuss it with M Gosse or do you prefer M Pittan?  It is a big stone for a delicate hand.  A different cut…”  Athos and Lucien continue to debate the details of cut and mounting.  Raoul stifles a yawn, gets up to add wood to a fire that does not need it. 

“Raoul, perhaps you would do me the favor of speaking with Samy. As you know, he is to return with Roberval to Constantinople and he is bereft at leaving his horse and Rascal, but more critically his frog.”  Lucien smiles at his nephew.

“His frog?” Raoul raises his brow and then frowns, “I hope we are not speaking of M Grenouille.”

“The very one,” Lucien replies.  “Unfortunately, it has become a disputation between Samy and his mother and even Yusuf thinks it ill-advised taking the beast to a different climate. You remember M Grenouille?”

“Indeed, I do!”  Raoul says somberly, “a brave frog, not a peep from Samy’s pocket when they escaped the house.” He is referring to the house fire at Royaumont, an act of revenge by Gabriel Martinez.  Layla and Raoul had helped the children climb from a window to escape the flames.

Lucien nods, “so you understand Samy’s sentiment.

“I do.  Where might I find my cousin?”

“Sophia told me M Grenouille is enjoying the fountain.”   

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Fra Clermont pulls his horse to side of the track and lifts his face to the sky.  Scudding clouds create uncertain moonlight, and a gentle rain softens the blood crusting on his face and hands. He rakes his fingers through his hair and wipes the wet from his face, watching reddened rainwater drip from his calloused palms.  His head is throbbing from the butt of the musket that hit him hard.  The men they fought tonight were not the same as the rabble who accosted them on the road from Paris.  These were professional fighting men, tough, well trained who went about their business with dispassionate efficiency, and without mercy.  He had fought such men before. They need no cause or faith to sharpen their blades and load their muskets, only a contract that promises payment for their services or to their widows.   Fra Clermont considers himself fortunate as he has both faith and a just cause in the service of the Marquise.  Yet he fears, in Normandy the pursuit of riches by the few who control the many, speaks more loudly.    

The carriage moves past him, a large swaying shadow, groaning, wheels creaking, harness chains rattling as it moves slowly, the driver navigating the narrow track on the floor of the valley.   Two armed men are on the roof of the carriage, and the lieutenant, Caradas is watching his men range up the slopes on either side probing for hidden attackers.  Caradas signals Fra Clermont to wait and soon reins in next to him.

“Do you know the man?” 

Fra Clermont shakes his head, knowing Caradas is asking him about the tall, scar faced young man traveling behind the carriage, his horse also carrying the Marquise.  Caradas is angry, “it was made clear to her that she was to stay with the carriage, so he must have forced her onto the beach to get close to the boat.”

Fra Clermont murmurs doubtfully.  He wonders if the lieutenant is concerned how he would explain the injuries sustained by the Marquise to his master and who would be blamed.  It was his fault too, but the force they faced on the beach was more than they expected.

“He fought well,” Fra Clermont offers, “as did his men. I recognized them from Maupertus. The man who fell from the cliff,” he pauses remembering his shock at the thud of the body hitting the sand close to him, “was there a fight on the headland?”

The lieutenant shrugs, “must have been.” He lifts the reins, “come with me.  The Marquise should be in the carriage with our regal guest, not with this stranger.”   They wait for the carriage to pass and then move into the track forcing the man to rein in his horse.  He glances at the cross on Fra Clermont’s pauldron and watches Caradas move his horse closer to look at the Marquise. She is still asleep.

“Is Her Grace injured?”

“She was attacked, but the blood is not hers.”  

“Her Grace will be more comfortable in the carriage.”

“Who are the men in the carriage?  Her husband?”

“No.”   

“Then she stays with me.”

“I do not know you,” Caradas charges in a hostile tone.

“As I do not know you,” the man snaps.  The lady in his arms stirs, her eyes fluttering open, “Amon,” she murmurs, “Amon?”  He tightens his arm around her murmuring, “I am here.”   Her eyes close.

Fra Clermont is as shocked as Caradas, who stares at the lady, momentarily without words.  “If there should be any change…” Caradas has a tight angry expression. 

“I will tell you. How far?”

“Three hours, four if it rains harder.”  Rain would muddy the roads and slow the carriage.”

Fra Clermont follows Caradas to catch up to the carriage.  How could the Marquise know this man?  She had given no indication of recognition in the tavern and there could only be one reason she would want her connection to a man kept secret from her husband’s lieutenant. He glances at Caradas whose expression has changed from suspicion to curiosity.     

“That was unexpected,” Fra Clermont says in a mild tone.

“He reminds me of someone,” Caradas murmurs staring at the man.  “Someone in your ranks perhaps?”  Fra Clermont suggests.

Caradas grunts, “keep an eye on him and we will take control of the situation when we get to the house.”

Amon Renacer watches the Marquise’s men trot away to rejoin the carriage.  “What did they want?” Jabari asks. 

“To put her in the carriage with men who are strangers to her,” Renacer says irritably.

“Instead, she is on the back of a horse with a man who is a stranger to her,” Ferreira snorts.

“You should consider that this woman sleeping before me is the only reason we are still alive.”

“They do not know us Captain,” Jabari warns.  Renacer scowls, “I understand the risk Jabari, but we have not been paid.” 

Anriquez nods, “so we are to see the lady home.”

Renacer grunts, “and her hired killers.   I intend for us to get paid.”   He makes the money his only interest – and that is not the whole truth, but he has no idea what that is.  He looks at the others.

“Gervais, do not offer advice on the roads they choose.  All of you remain alert, do not let anyone get too friendly.  They do not need to know our business.”

Carriage and riders leave the valley, crossing a wide meadow and plunge into a dark forest.  No moonlight penetrates the foliage. Renacer holds the reins loosely, allowing the horse to pick his way. He is glad for the darkness.  No one can see his face, which he knows would betray his frustration and shame.  He had been sure he had figured out Captain Corzo’s plan for the Santa Margarita and her gold cargo. It was within his grasp.  It turns out he was wrong and the failure burns deep.  Success seems distant now, he is riding away from the sea and his ship.  A banging noise startles him.  One of the carriage wheels has dropped into a deep rut.  The driver snaps the whip, and the horses pull the carriage free. 

Why did he kiss her?  Only to keep her with him as a shield?  It wasn’t much of a kiss…she is unlikely to remember it.  She is very pretty, even beautiful.  Perhaps it is the novelty of her nobility. Renacer looks down at Marie Cessette, long lashes against a pale cheek, golden hair escaping her hood.  Her small hand rests trustingly against his chest.  If he ever had the chance to kiss her again, he would make sure she would remember it.

 He has no recollection of seeing her before Maupertus, but in the tavern he knew immediately who she was and to whom she was married.  Damn his memory… a voice drifts … you have failed me…who had he failed and for what?  Odysseus told him to leave it alone, but he cannot and Odysseus refuses to tell him more.  “You must remember it yourself, or it will make no sense to you.”  

They emerge from the trees into a wet meadow glistening in the moonlight.  Towers and the shape of a large chateau appear in the distance, a wavering glow of dim yellow light in many windows.  The road leading to the chateau is wide and muddy from the rain and the driver carefully steers around the worst of the overflowing ruts and more dangerous sloughs.  Already the front door is opening, servants, maids and footmen, spilling from the house, crowding the stoop and down the short number of steps to the ground. Stable boys race from the rear of the chateau and excited voices carry far in the dark as the noise of many horses and a carriage grows louder.

They cross a stone bridge over a moat into an expansive forecourt where the carriage stops.  The lieutenant calls out his orders and mercenaries dismount to form two lines from the carriage to the house.  A priest steps out of the carriage and then the other men, dressed in workmen’s clothes.  They wait for the last man and when he is in the open doorway, they bow and speak in respectful tones. Renacer raises his brow at Ferreira, “Englishmen. Who do we think is in that carriage?” 

Ferreira shakes his head, “whoever he is, he is very tall.”

The man stepping nimbly from the carriage is exceptionally tall, looming over almost every man in the forecourt. He is also lean, well built and with a confident manner. He wears a hat, dark hair curling as it falls to his shoulders. 

“Do you know him?” Renacer looks at Ferreira, who only shrugs.  The lieutenant goes inside the house, while the mercenaries start to disperse toward the back of the chateau leading their horses.

The Marquise stirs, “where are we?” Her voice is hoarse, her eyes unfocused.

“We have arrived at your home,” Amon says dismounting and reaching up to guide her slide from the saddle.  Her legs buckle slightly, sagging against him.  He holds her to prevent her from falling, allowing her a moment to regain her balance if she can.  She sways and he swings her up into his arms, turning to his men who are watching the mercenaries depart.  He sees their uncertainty and gives his orders.

“Go with the others and take care of the horses.  We may need them soon.  I will collect our coin and find you.”  Anriquez steps to him holding a pistol, “take this Captain.”  He tucks the weapon into Renacer’s pocket.  “We do not know their purpose.”

Renacer scoffs, “they are hired killers and I doubt they know it any better.  But I will get what we are owed and then we leave.  The forecourt is emptying of mercenaries who ignore Renacer and his men.  They have not been told to pay attention to him and so they leave in pairs or small groups, leading their horses, long muskets balanced on their shoulders and talking amiably.  There is still a collection of servants in the doorway.

A well-dressed woman appears, clapping her hands as she takes charge of the confusion and delivers a sharp rebuke to the maids who hurry back into the house, except for one young woman who has already seen Renacer and is walking towards him. She is close to tears, but speaks calmly, “I am Her Grace’s maid.  What does my mistress require?” 

“A doctor,” Renacer snaps, “show me to her chamber.”   Another disheveled priest, his robe bloody and streaked with dirt jumps from his horse and runs toward Renacer, “what has happened?  She was to stay with the carriage.”  He glares suspiciously at Renacer, “how was she injured?”

“She got too close,” Renacer growls menacing, muttering to himself, “how many putain de prêtres are there…”.”   The priest looks annoyed at his blasphemy and tries to talk to her, “Madame…”  But Renacer shoulders the priest roughly aside and continues to the stairs.

“This way,” the maid leads him through the entry to a wide staircase.  He is aware of another man hurrying after him, talking breathlessly, “M, I am the house steward, Bonshoms is my name, how may I be of service?”

“Get a doctor.”

“I have sent a reliable man.  A footman is building up the fire in Madame’s chamber…”

“Brandy might be useful. There is no other healer on the estate?”

“My wife, Madame Bonshoms will be here soon, she has some experience.”

The maid is turning down a wide corridor, candles twinkling behind glass, silver sconces glittering.   Marie Cessette is trembling in his arms, turning her face into his chest as though trying to hide from the light or the commotion.  “You are safe,” he murmurs, “you are home and soon in your chamber. Your maid…”  

“Fleurie,” the young woman offers quietly over her shoulder.

“…Fleurie is here and Madame Bonshoms is on her way.  The steward has sent for a doctor,” he tries to sound reassuring. The house steward is close behind him.  Renacer starts to snap at the man and then stops.  These are her people, she is barely conscious, her clothing bloodied and being carried in the arms of a stranger.

Fleurie opens the door and stands back for him to carry her inside.  With quick efficient movements, the maid pulls down the counterpane and covers and nods at him.  Carefully, Renacer lowers her to the bed.  Fleurie gently tugs off her boots, while Renacer tosses the cloak aside, removing the bandolier and attached powder cases. He can see the blood stained shirt under the doublet.  He helps hold Marie Cessette up so Fleurie can unhook and remove the doublet.  He stares at the fresh blood leaking from an unseen wound.  “Putain…” he curses in a low voice.

“Monsieur,” an older woman hurries into the room. “Madame Bonshoms,” he assumes, “has the doctor arrived?” She shakes her head, “any moment.”  She gasps at the blood stained shirt and looks at him.

“M, would you please wait in the library down the hall.”   He understands the need for her privacy, but he cares nothing for modesty, only to know the degree in injury.  “Madame…”  He looks directly at Madame Bonshoms surprised to see sympathy in the older woman’s eyes.  “I will be with you directly Monsieur,” she promises. “Thank you,” he mumbles and asks, “a moment Madame?”  Madame Bonshoms discreetly moves away.

He leans over Marie Cessette, murmuring, “next time stay where I tell you.”  She opens her eyes, still bleary, ““M le duc, I did not expect you.”   Who does she think he is?

“Not a duc, just a sea captain.”

She blinks rapidly to bring him into focus, “You are still here – why?”

“Nowhere else to be I suppose.”  He makes a rakish smile, “besides, you forgot to pay me.”

“Under the circumstances I thought to renegotiate the price…” she is slightly breathless. 

He smiles, “I see you have your wits about you Madame, so I will withdraw.”

“You will not leave.”  She coughs, eyelids drooping.  He raises his brow, mocking surprise, “as your English friends might say – saucy.  However, your wish is my command.”   She smiles, eyes closing, Madame Bonshoms steps back for him to move away from the bed. 

In the corridor, he follows the directions to the room where he is to wait.  He pushes open the door.  There is no fire, the room is cold and only a few candles are lit. He has a sense of a spacious room, book shelves lining two walls, a large desk and a scatter of comfortable chairs, a long table with flasks and glassware and tall and wide table to accommodate maps, a map chest set under it.  The footman knocks and enters carrying an armful of wood, “I will get it going directly Monsieur.”   The fire flares, candles are lit and the room soon has a golden glow of light.

“Is there anything else M?”  Renacer shakes his head and then he is alone again.  He sniffs at the contents of the flasks and pours himself a generous quantity of brandy.  He prowls the room, pausing to listen for a sound from the corridor.  He looks at the array of books, sits at the desk, its surface bare except for an ornate quill and ink set on a carved wooden tray.  The room seems unused, and yet it must belong to her husband.  There is a large expensive globe, a long mounted telescope at a window. Otherwise, there are no objects that hint at the character of the man. He wonders how he recognized her in the tavern.   He wonders how he knows her husband is France’s spymaster.  He wonders why he cannot conjure up a face, and it frustrates him. He wonders…

…you have failed … He frowns at the wisp of memory and pours a second quantity of brandy and sits in a comfortable chair close to the fire.  He hears voices in the corridor, but no one comes to bother him. The rain has started again, pattering against the windows.   He stretches out his long legs, the warmth, brandy and solitude of the room combine to make him sleepy…

The flames are hot against his face … he pushes through the smoke and throws his weight against the door … she is waiting for him … …the blade slips from her fingers … her life is his now… I do not intend to fail… I have an open account to kill him… you will be a legend… someone new rises…he is drenched in sweat, breathless, drained of all strength, his arms trembling he whispers … I am here … stay with me … look at me son … only look at me…it was an act of love…

A sharp banging noise, Renacer is on his feet before he is fully awake, scenes from the nightmare hang in the air surrounding him.  He wipes the sweat from his face and gasps for breath.  His dagger is in his hand behind his back.

“I know who you are.”  The lieutenant stands in front of him, three armed men spread out near the door.  “You are coming with us,” the lieutenant steps back to usher Renacer out of the room.

Renacer stands completely still, heart racing and stares at the lieutenant.  Had the man ever told him his name?  He cannot remember.  There is too much he does not remember, his memory is like a rutted road, filled with empty black holes, hidden images piling up and over each other, haphazard, unreliable and impossible to decipher. He fights ferociously and without mercy, he has scars on his body testifying to a savage life.  Now, this lieutenant claims to know who he is and suddenly Renacer is afraid, invaded with a cold unnamed but familiar fear and dread, certain of what lies ahead … you had choices…I will not fail… it was an act of love …stay with me…   

“You are coming with us,” the lieutenant repeats angrily.   Renacer squeezes the hilt of the dagger he holds behind his back, feeling the weight of the pistol in his pocket.  He raises hard dead eyes to the lieutenant.

“I think not.”

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Raoul walks through a corridor leading to the rear of the house. He is not sure he is in the right place, but he has not passed a servant to ask.  It strikes him as odd that the servants are absent, almost as though the house has been emptied.  Perhaps they have day off work and Lucien had not mentioned it, although why would he?  There is always someone in the kitchen. But first he would have to find the kitchen.  The corridor ends at a servant’s staircase with an entryway to the side with scuffed benches and hooks on the wall.  He opens the door and steps outside.  He walks randomly through the kitchen garden that is not in the garden with a fountain where Samy and his frog play. He stops and draws in a breath knowing he is distracted and unsettled.  M Grenouille has reminded him of the fire, Layla coaxing her sisters and brother to make a dangerous descent from their burning house, then fighting in the kitchen to save her mother.  He remembers Samy whispering encouragement to his pet.  He is very fond of his cousins, and Lucien risked his life to try and save him in Morocco, which makes him think of escaping the slave ship, awakening on a distant shore…and then… He touches the rose brooch he wears on his doublet and dismisses his wandering thoughts.  Instead, he must think of encouraging words for Samy to leave his beloved M Grenouille behind.  Maybe he should offer to care for the frog.  Once he was the man who made time for he and Samy to explore the fields and forest together.  The same man Layla asked him to bring back for her that night by the lake, and that man would. But Raoul is no longer that man and everything around him reminds him of the fact. He just stood in Lucien’s study with his father… Lucien’s nephew and also his enemy. The man behind the Company of the Orient

He looks around for a gardener but aside from birds and insects, there is none of the usual murmur of gardeners and yard boys, or the voices of grooms, the clang of metal from a blacksmith in the stable yard. He notices the glass roof of the conservatory emerging from the foliage of the tall trees that surround it.  He takes a path that leads to a distant part of the garden and steps into a cool verdant world, colorful with many flowering shrubs, fragrant with the scents of flowering vines and blooming roses.  Butterflies flit among flowers and dragonflies hover over the small stream flowing toward a low waterfall and into a partially sunken pond with a small fountain.  The path is narrow and parallels the stream, the grass lined path silences his footfalls.  As he walks he listens to birds, chittering insects, and the soft gurgle of water over stones.  He ducks under large palms that cross the path from each side.  Light filters through the green canopy, shadows shift and move with a drifting fragrant breeze.  Through the screen of greenery, he sees the shape of a person sitting on a bench close to the artful assemblage of rocks that creates the waterfall.  It is not a boy. 

She sits with her back to him, but he glimpses narrow sloping shoulders and a delicate hand with long slender fingers that adjusts the silk scarf covering her hair.  He stands still, transfixed by the translucence of the light and the scent surrounding her.  He lowers his eyes, feeling an intruder and starts to leave to find Samy when high overhead, the thrush nightingale bursts into song. She turns on the bench, lifts her head to listen. He gasps softly, his mind spins and vision blurs at the edges.  He stares in disbelief, fumbles in his breast pocket to touch the scrap of paper he carries with him, the words written in his mind and on his heart …