Chapter Text
It is easy to convince the King to go on ahead back to Paris and leave the cleanup to Richelieu. Gasteau and his men are all dead, but the papers the would-be assassin had carried will not conveniently decompose along with his corpse. Richelieu must sort them, separating out the ones that he can put to other uses from the ones that must be burnt.
Richelieu is back in the study they used as their war-room, where the King had hidden during the fighting. He has the papers spread out over the desk; he’s bent over his task. The maps have already been rolled up and tucked back away in Treville’s map-case. Absently, he hears the stamp of the hooves and the jingle of tack as the King’s entourage sets out back to the capitol.
Some little time later – he’s not exactly sure how long – the door creaks open. Richelieu holds up a preemptive hand. He is nearly done. He must simply… no. There is really no possible use for this one. He sets it in the destroy pile reluctantly, then lets his hand fall and looks up, expecting to see one of his guards.
Instead, the Captain of the King’s Musketeers stands behind him. He’s wearing a fresh uniform, brought from Paris. His arm is neatly bandaged. He stands somewhat stiffly, but the doctor Aramis had had the foresight to bring had been positive in his assurances that Treville will lose none of his skill at sword-work once the wound is healed.
“The King has departed,” Treville says.
“And you’re not with him?” Richelieu raises an eyebrow. “I would have thought you’d lead him and his guard to back to Paris yourself, there to bask in the glory of his gratitude.”
“Will there be glory?”
“You held a rundown hunting lodge against a company of ruthless mercenaries for three days, with only a mixed dozen of Musketeers and Red Guards at your command,” Richelieu says. “You single-handedly fought their leader to a standstill, though you were gravely wounded. Yes, I imagine there will be glory, and rewards besides.”
“That is not what I mean and you know it.” Treville bangs the longsuffering door closed behind him. It’s rather irrelevant – there’s no one left inside the lodge but the two of them; Richelieu had instructed their remaining guards to wait outside – but he supposes he can understand why a man in Treville’s precarious position feels the need for extra security.
“I mean to ask,” Treville goes on, “in what way you plan to tell the King about my previous relationship with Gasteau, and whether it would be better for me to step into the woods now and take my musket with me.”
Richelieu looks up sharply, caught in the grip of a sudden anger. Treville’s words conjure up a series of vivid images. Treville pale and resigned, turning his musket barrel on himself. His blood seeping into the ground of the forest. Richelieu explaining to the king that one of Gasteau’s men must have escaped the melee, come upon the Captain unawares.
The idea is infuriating.
“You will do no such thing,” Richelieu says coldly before he can think. Then he catches himself. He can’t think where this loss of control has come from, but it ends now.
This conversation ends now.
“I have no intention of informing the king,” the Cardinal continues, striving for calm. “You may put your mind at ease.”
He expects Treville to look relieved. Instead Treville looks repulsed. “So it’s to be blackmail, is it?” the Captain says, disdain dripping from his every word. “Forget it. I won’t dance to your tune. I’d rather go out behind the lodge right now.”
“I had no such idea,” Richelieu says tightly. “As far as I am concerned the matter is closed.”
“No matter is ever closed with you,” Treville spits. “I tell you, I won’t be blackmailed.”
“And I tell you I have no intention of blackmailing you!”
Treville’s eyes narrow. Richelieu meets his gaze unflinchingly.
“Very well,” Treville says abruptly. “Then you won’t object to an exchange.”
“An exchange of what?”
“Secrets.”
Richelieu blinks. It’s a clever request – very clever. And very ruthless. Unexpected. His Captain is still full of surprises. What secret shall he offer, then?
Treville apparently takes his silence for confusion. “You have my secret,” he goes on. “Give me one of your own. Then we’re in balance. You can’t blackmail me.”
“I’m familiar with the principle,” Richelieu says dryly. “A moment to gather my thoughts, if you please.”
Treville nods.
Richelieu considers. He had, and has, no intention of blackmailing Treville. He is hardly above blackmail, but this – to use this against Treville would be repugnant.
But, of course, Treville has no reason to believe him.
In a way, this is a challenge. The secret Richelieu offers Treville will be used by the Captain to judge him. Offer too great a secret, and it will look like Richelieu really had intended blackmail. Offer too small a secret, and it looks like Richelieu is keeping his options open for blackmail later. An intriguing problem. The two must be exactly in balance. What balances the knowledge of the sexual preferences of the Captain of the King’s Musketeers?
Richelieu smiles.
“You’ve decided?” Treville asks.
“Let us imagine that one of your former lovers and one of my former lovers find themselves in a room together,” Richelieu says delicately. The guards are supposedly well outside, but it never pays to be risky. “The two of them would find that they have something significant in common.”
“And what is that?”
“Their gender.”
Silence. Treville appears to be absorbing this. Richelieu waits.
“You son of a bitch,” Treville says evenly. Richelieu starts. This is not the reaction he was expecting.
Treville’s countenance is suffused with rage. “You bastard – you’re going to just stand there and lie to my face? Over something like this?” The Captain’s hand is closing spasmodically on his sword-hilt. Worse, he doesn’t seem to be aware of it.
Richelieu begins to realize he has badly miscalculated.
Treville is going on. “After what we accomplished together – you still don’t even respect me enough to lie well. You were just – you want to expose me in front of the king that badly, is that it?”
“No – ”
“You weren’t even going to allow me the dignity of a moment alone. Well, you can go rot. I’ll see you in Hell, your Eminence.”
And then, incredibly, Treville turns on his heel, going for the door, his hand already moving from his sword-hilt to his musket.
Richelieu’s control snaps.
His legs are longer than the Captain’s; two quick strides and his palm slaps against the door, preventing Treville from opening it. At least, from opening it easily. Treville could overpower him. But Treville’s hand only spasms on the door-latch, and he turns a gaze on Richelieu that burns with a searing rage.
“Let me go,” he seethes.
“No,” Richelieu says, barely aware of what he is saying. His hand turns the door-lock without conscious intention.
“If you want to take me back to Paris,” Treville snarls, “you’ll have to do it in chains. And I don’t think you can put them on me by yourself.”
Richelieu stares at him. Flushed and furious, Treville is breathtaking. His carriage is erect. His eyes flash. The formal uniform becomes him admirably. And Richelieu knows now that underneath that uniform is a strong body, a clever mind, and a sharp wit.
“There are other kinds of chains,” Richelieu says hoarsely, and bends to capture Treville’s mouth with his own.
Treville’s eyes widen. Richelieu had no expectations of this moment – had never intended to take these actions at all – and so is, paradoxically, unsurprised when Treville seizes him by the shoulders and pulls him in closer. Sandwiched between Richelieu and the door, Treville opens beneath Richelieu’s questing lips, and his hands are hardly more circumspect.
Richelieu has spent his life learning to control himself. His every thought and emotion, measured. His reactions strictly circumscribed. He does nothing without planning. Nothing without intention.
He shoves Treville’s belt aside and sinks to his knees without the slightest pause.
One of Treville’s hands tangles in his hair; the other goes to his lips, where he bites down, muffling his cries. He is noisy. When Richelieu has got him back in Paris, he will take him to the Palais-Cardinal. His private chambers are carefully located in a remote wing. His servants are well-trained and well-paid. Richelieu will spread Treville out on his bed like a buffet, and wring those noises from him over and over again until they are both exhausted. And then he will do it again. And again –
Treville comes with a muffled cry. Richelieu, by contrast, is utterly silent. It is the habit of a lifetime. Clergy are supposed to at least pretend celibacy.
Richelieu rises, wiping his mouth without thinking. Treville stares up at him. Already shorter than the Cardinal, his knees are buckling, and he trembles faintly. He slumps against the door as if he would fall without it.
Richelieu draws Treville away from the door, letting his head fall against Richelieu’s breast. With steady hands the Cardinal straightens the Captain’s uniform so it is presentable again. His own robes, conveniently, conceal all.
Treville steadies himself, takes a step backwards. Richelieu lets him go.
“All right,” Treville says. He has to stop and clear his throat. “I’m – um. I believe you now.”
“I should think so,” Richelieu says. It’s an automatic response. He suspects it’s not quite right for this situation. He casts about for another, making a conscious effort to gentle his tone. “It’s quite all right. I suppose I can understand your suspicion.”
“Yes. Well.” Treville coughs. “I suppose that’s a fair exchange, then. I’ll stay out of your way and you’ll stay out of mine – ”
“Will I?” Richelieu asks sharply. “Is that what you want?” Richelieu’s gaze rakes Treville from head to toe. Had he been mistaken? But no, the signs are all there. The slightly lowered eyes, the way Treville leans slightly forward into Richelieu’s space, the hands slightly out, palms up, offering. Treville’s body isn’t saying they should stay out of each other’s way.
“I thought it’s what you would want,” Treville says after a moment.
“It is not.” Richelieu holds out his own hand, offering. “I find you fascinating,” he admits. “You are not at all what I expected. I find I wish to… continue our acquaintance.”
“I… I think I might like that,” Treville says. “Maybe.” His voice is tinged with disbelief. Richelieu can sympathize. Before riding out from Paris, he had been seriously planning to have the Captain killed for the good of France.
It has been an eventful three days.
“Then perhaps we should agree to meet again,” Richelieu suggests. “To discuss… oh, many things. Gasteau came far too close to killing his Majesty. We owe it to France to put our heads together and be sure this can never happen again.”
“Yes,” Treville says. “Yes, we do.” He takes a deep breath, tugging his cloak into place. “Well. I suppose we had better get back to Paris, then. And the King will be wanting to see us. You’re done here?” he adds, looking at the pile of papers left on the desk.
“Almost,” Richelieu assures him. “Why don’t you go wait outside? I’ll be along in a moment. I just have to light a small fire.”
“Right.” Treville nods, visibly grateful for the escape.
Richelieu waits until the door closes behind the Captain, then picks up the bundle he’s already marked for destruction and moves towards the grate.
It’s the work of the moment to start them burning. As the flames take them, Richelieu takes the opportunity to turn his mind elsewhere, to the new puzzle that awaits him outside.
It seems his earlier plans with regard to the Palais-Cardinal will have to be put on hold. Treville is skittish, wary. He will require careful handling. It’s obvious that, despite their recent shared travails, Treville doesn’t completely trust Richelieu. Richelieu will have to work to win him. It will take time.
That’s all right. He is a very patient man, when there’s something he wants.
It’s changes of fortune like this that keep Richelieu aware of the glory of God. Treville is, against all expectations, a prize worth having.
Richelieu has always enjoyed the process of winning.