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Vargas struggles, but the appearance of four other Musketeers are too much for him to overcome alone. It’s the work of a moment for Porthos to get Vargas on his knees. He looms over Vargas like the sword of Damocles. Athos, Aramis, d’Artagnan and Treville range before Vargas, all equally ominous.
“Give evidence against Rochefort and you save the Queen,” Athos says, cutting directly to the heart of the matter.
“Impossible,” Vargas says flatly. “Even if I were willing to turn on my country, the moment word got back to Spain my life would be forfeit.”
Treville nods to Aramis. Aramis draws his musket and levels it at Vargas’ breast.
“You may die now,” Treville says coolly, “or you may come with us to Paris and take your chances with Spain.”
“Fool,” Vargas hisses. “I would rather die cleanly now from a musket ball than face all the poisons of Spain!”
“We do have other methods,” Athos says delicately.
Porthos cracks his knuckles.
D’Artagnan winces.
Athos thinks, briefly, that it’s as well Constance had yielded to Anne’s pleas to remain behind with the Queen in Paris. She shouldn’t have to see this.
“Wait,” Vargas says.
Aramis smiles. “Thought so.”
“You’ll testify before the King?” Athos asks.
Vargas hesitates. “What if I were to tell you that there is a third option?”
Athos and Treville exchange glances. “We’re listening,” Treville says.
“There is a man,” Vargas says. “A prisoner of Spain. This man knows everything I do about Rochefort.”
“If he’s a prisoner, how’d he get so knowledgeable?” Porthos demands.
“He came into Spain’s hands only recently. Before that let us say he was in the business of knowing things.”
“A spymaster,” d’Artagnan guesses.
“This man is kept in a prison not far from here. Only barely over the border. A few hours’ ride.”
“Such a prisoner as you describe would be very valuable to Spain,” Athos says. “Why keep him in such an exposed location?”
“In case we ever needed to release him and deny we’d ever held him,” Vargas says impatiently. “Captain, do you not explain such things to your men?”
Treville raises his eyebrows. “I’m still waiting to hear what this man has to do with your life.”
“This man knows everything I know. He can testify before your King Louis as well as I can. Better. I will take you to him, and you will take him and set me free.”
Treville frowns, doubt openly written across his face.
“Why should we let go of a bird in the hand on the promise of one in the bush?” Aramis asks rhetorically.
“Especially since it will waste time we may not have,” d’Artagnan observes.
“Besides, what guarantee have we that Louis will believe this prisoner of yours?” Athos asks.
“It’s already a gamble that he’ll trust you,” Porthos says.
“Exactly!” Vargas says. “Your King may not believe me – why should he? I am Spanish and a spy. Ahh, but the man of whom I speak – the man I have in prison – he your King will believe, immediately and without question.”
The doubt begins to fade from Treville’s face. It’s replaced by a dawning realization. Rapidly behind it follows hope and horror in equal measure.
“Yes,” Vargas says to Treville. “You know of whom I speak.”
The other Musketeers exchange baffled looks.
“Prove it,” Treville says hoarsely.
“Recently I took from this prisoner a… personal item,” Vargas says. “One of some significance, I think. It is still in my pocket.”
Porthos reaches forward towards Vargas.
“No,” Treville says. “Wait.”
Porthos stops.
“Keep your musket on him,” Treville orders Aramis. Then he reaches forward himself, towards the pocket Vargas had indicated. After some fumbling he extracts something. He cups both hands around it, keeping it mostly hidden, but a gold chain slips through his fingers.
Treville looks at it in silence for a long moment. When he raises his head, it is to say, “I am going with this man.”
The other four Musketeers break into cries of astonishment. Treville holds up a hand. “I am going with this man,” he repeats, more firmly. “The four of you are under no further obligation to me. Return to Paris. Do what you can for the Queen.”
“Without Vargas there is no hope for the Queen!” Aramis cries.
“Vargas is right. The King will not believe him over Rochefort. If he speaks the truth, I am going to find the one man whom the King will believe. If he is lying, I will be killed, and you must act as you think best.”
“Captain, it may be a trap,” Athos protests.
“It’s almost certainly a trap,” Treville agrees. “Nevertheless I am going.”
“But why?”
D’Artagnan is looking at Treville’s closed palm. The object must not be so well concealed as Treville believes, or else d’Artagnan’s eyes are incredible, for he says, “Is that a crucifix?”
Treville tucks the object away carefully. “There is a chance, however slim, that Vargas is telling the truth,” he says wearily. “As long as there is such a chance, I can’t walk away from it.”
“Of course not,” Porthos says.
Treville looks surprised. “A moment ago you were telling me this was a fools’ errand and a trap.”
“A moment ago we did not know whom you were going to rescue,” Athos says.
“And now you do?”
Rapid glances are exchanged among the four Musketeers. Athos returns his to the Captain, but doesn’t appear to know how to proceed.
“Speak,” Treville orders, tense.
Athos clears his throat a time or two, then finally says, “Your… relationship… with the Cardinal was not the secret among my squad that you supposed it to be.”
Treville pales. “How?” he demands, voice barely above a whisper.
Athos glances to his companion.
Aramis steps forward. “Adele,” he says simply. “She bled the first time we were together. Not much, but enough that I thought I’d hurt her. I wouldn’t leave it alone until she finally told me the truth.”
Treville closes his eyes. “She was a virgin?”
“After being the Cardinal’s mistress for six months,” Aramis nods. “I did not spread your secret wide, but I could not bear it alone. My closest friends have helped me.”
“Only you four?”
“Only we four,” Porthos confirms.
“It matters nothing to us, we swear it, Captain,” d’Artagnan adds.
Aramis looks mulish.
“Say your piece, Aramis,” the Captain directs.
“The Cardinal had Adele killed,” Aramis says angrily. “I think it must be because her relationship with me endangered his secret.”
Treville laughs.
Aramis flushes an ugly red. “What’s funny?”
“Adele was a Spanish spy,” Treville says. He returns his attention to Vargas. “She worked for this man.”
Vargas bows, mockingly.
“Richelieu had her killed because she was funneling information to the court of King Phillip. He very nearly had you killed as well.”
“Me?” Now Aramis looks pale. “Why?”
“He thought you might be her contact with Spain.”
“I wasn’t!” Aramis cries. “I swear it – ”
“Peace, Aramis. Richelieu learned better. You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“We are coming with you,” Athos says, reverting to the point.
“We must not leave the Queen unguarded,” Treville says.
“Four Musketeers won’t make a difference against the Red Guards and the King’s regiment together,” Porthos says.
“Force won’t win this battle,” d’Artagnan agrees. “We need to defeat Rochefort, not France.”
“We’re coming with you,” Athos repeats.
Treville looks at the fourth member of the squad. “Aramis? What have you to say?”
Aramis shakes his head. “Adele was a spy,” he murmurs. “Yes. I can see it now. All her questions… but at the time, I thought I was in love.”
“You’ve thought that a few times since,” Treville says.
“Now is not the time,” Athos says when Aramis opens his mouth. “If we are going with Vargas, then let’s go.”
“Take us to this prisoner,” Treville orders.
“I thought you’d never ask,” the spymaster says in relief.
The trip passes largely in silence. Vargas rides double with Athos, where he cannot attempt to take his horse and flee. The other Musketeers stay close. Before they leave, Aramis pointedly demonstrates his ability to hit a moving target with his rifle at four hundred paces. Vargas gets the message.
They cross the border to Spain in the same place they’d used on their mission to rescue de Foix. Athos can’t help hoping that this journey will have a better outcome. When Vargas directs them to leave the rolling plains behind and plunge into a dense forest, Athos draws his belt-knife and lays it against Vargas’ left kidney, controlling his horse one-handed.
“You must know that a prison such as this is not kept where it may be stumbled upon accidentally,” Vargas says at the first touch of steel.
“And you must know that I do not take chances,” Athos replies.
The prison itself is little more than a farmhouse. From a distance it would pass as a peasant’s dwelling. Only when the Musketeers ride closer do the differences begin to become apparent. The wooden exterior is a façade that conceals stone and mortar. The windows are not merely shuttered, but barred. The small woodshed is actually a guard shack. One of the two wells is a dummy that conceals a sharpshooter. And there are far too many men wearing swords for a peasant homestead.
Treville draws rein out of musket-range – and away from a clear shot, in the case of the sharpshooter – and gestures to Vargas. “Whatever passwords you exchange, give it to them,” he says.
Vargas gives him a look of disgust. “Passwords may be stolen.” He leans around Athos and calls, “It is Vargas! Stand down!”
“That’s one way of doing it,” Porthos mutters.
The woodshed opens and a guard emerges. He calls a question to Vargas in Spanish, which Vargas answers, sounding both bored and impatient.
Athos flicks a glance at Aramis. He nods once: everything seems normal so far.
“Ride in,” Vargas says.
“Not until they lay down their weapons,” Treville says.
“They won’t. Would your men, if they were on guard duty?”
Treville frowns in thought. “Are there other prisoners here?”
“No.”
“Then this place is useless to you anyway. We know where it is; you can’t use it again. Tell your men to leave. All of them. They may take their weapons, but they must leave now.”
“What about me?” Vargas demands.
“They’ll leave you a horse and supplies. You can make Zaragoza from here without any danger.”
Vargas looks like he wants to protest, but Treville stares him down. There’s something dangerous and wild about the Captain’s gaze. Athos wouldn’t want to try him; evidently Vargas feels the same, because he shouts to the guard waiting outside the prison-house.
Now there’s more resistance; Vargas and the guard argue back and forth for several minutes, and Aramis joins the conversation, too, unholstering his musket and making what are very obviously threats.
It takes another twenty minutes for enough men to leave the prison to satisfy both Treville and Athos. Vargas maintains a stubborn silence. Athos suspects that Vargas actually has no interest in double-crossing them. He has the air of a man who wants to get an unpleasant business over with as quickly as possible, not one who intends to cause trouble. None of which means that Athos lowers his guard.
Once Treville deems the prison safe, they dismount – Athos maintaining his grip on Vargas – and enter. The last guard to leave had been the commander of the small detachment. He’d left his keys visibly hanging from the door-latch. D’Artagnan picks them up and takes point, Porthos looming behind him. Athos brings Vargas along behind them. Treville and Aramis hold the rear.
Vargas rolls his eyes in visible disgust at all of this precaution. “Straight through to the center of the house,” he directs. “The kitchen – yes. Now upstairs. The end of the hall.”
“Knock first,” Porthos suggests. “So he knows it’s us.”
“You’re assuming he’ll be glad to see us,” Aramis murmurs.
D’Artagnan takes Porthos’ advice, rapping briskly. Then he unlocks the catch – fumbling with the superior lock and straining everyone’s nerves – before pushing the door open wide.
The room is small but not badly fitted out. A small window set high up on the wall fills it with late afternoon sunlight. Sitting in the room’s single chair, Cardinal Richelieu looks up from a book and promptly drops it to the ground.
“Your Eminence,” Porthos says with his usual unflappability.
D’Artagnan shakes his head in amazement. “It’s really you.”
“My compliments,” Athos says laconically to Vargas. “The death was very well staged.”
“Thank you,” Vargas says.
“All right, get Vargas out of here,” Treville orders from the rear. “Athos, d’Artagnan, take him downstairs and make sure he’s got enough to get him to Zaragoza. Don’t let him leave until we’re ready to go too. Aramis, make sure the Cardinal is all right.”
D’Artagnan backs out of the room; he and Athos hustle Vargas down the stairs.
With them gone there’s space in the door again. Treville steps into the room. The moment he sees Richelieu again, he has to close his eyes briefly. The grief Treville had almost, finally, learned to live with vanishes like mist at dawn. And a tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying goes with it.
“Jean,” Richelieu breathes, the first thing he’s said.
“Armand,” Treville whispers in reply. Aramis, halfway to following Treville’s order, catches the mood in the room and pointedly turns aside to speak to Porthos.
It’s a transparent courtesy. Treville doesn’t care.
He doesn’t touch. Can’t let himself touch. Richelieu’s eyes are as bright as ever and his smile as sharp. But he’s far too thin. He hasn’t gotten to his feet. The hands that had held and dropped the book seem more twisted than they had used to be, and not all of it can be explained by age. As for the rest, the Cardinal is fully dressed, but Treville makes no doubt that there’s more.
But Richelieu’s here. He’s alive. Vargas hadn’t lied.
Treville has spent the last few hours divided between two emotions. Fear is one. Fear that it would be a trap, that he’d have spent his life and the lives of his men needlessly, that their deaths would also mean the deaths of the Queen and the Dauphin. And then hope. That Vargas had been telling the truth. That de Foix hadn’t been the only Frenchman whose death had been staged by Spain as a cover for abduction. That Cluzet hadn’t been the only influential minister to be spirited away from their ruler’s side and held in captivity by their enemies.
That France’s need and Treville’s heart may once again point in the same direction. That Richelieu lives, ready to return to his rightful place and mend what had been broken. That there may be a light shining at the end of this long dark road they have all been stumbling down.
Treville strides over and leans in. He intends only to kiss Richelieu’s forehead, in deference to the Musketeers who are still standing in the corner. Richelieu tips his head back at the last moment and catches Treville’s lips instead.
The kiss is terrible. The angle’s awkward, Treville’s afraid of hurting Richelieu, and Richelieu seems to lack the strength to deepen it. It’s still the best kiss Treville’s had in nearly a year. There will be time to do better now. There will be time again for many things. Hope catches in his throat, transmuting rapidly into belief.
“What about those two?” Richelieu asks when they separate. His eyes flick to Aramis and Porthos.
“They’re fine,” Treville says impatiently. He goes back for a second kiss.
“Captain,” Aramis says, sounding strained. “The Queen…”
“Yes.” Treville pulls back, oddly out of breath.
“What’s happening?” Richelieu demands. A familiar, determined look comes over his face. It means his attention is fully back on politics and power. But he catches one of Treville’s hands, though he can’t seem to quite close his around it, as Treville goes to pull back.
Treville has to close his eyes for a moment. In the privacy of his own mind, he swears, rural curses in the dialect of his youth. He can feel the fine tremors running through Richelieu’s body now. The weakness in his grip. Like de Foix – for that matter, like Rochefort. The Spanish are masters of torture.
“Aramis, get over here,” Treville growls. This time Aramis obeys, and starts running his hands down Richelieu’s body. Treville would be jealous if not for the circumstances. The circumstances, and the way Aramis is tense himself, obviously recalling how close he’d come to death over the matter of the Cardinal’s mistress.
“I can listen and be examined at the same time,” Richelieu says pointedly.
In spite of himself Treville smiles. That had had some of Richelieu’s usual tone to it.
Rapidly Treville summarizes the major events of the last several months. Richelieu doesn’t seem as surprised by some things as he does by others. The Spanish have obviously not been keeping the world’s goings-on a complete secret. And Richelieu is able to fill in several details from the Spanish side of things that explain some of the murkier happenings. Vargas had not been lying when he’d said that Richelieu could testify to Rochefort’s perfidy.
But Rochefort’s madness and subsequent actions are obviously news. Unwelcome news at that. Richelieu grimaces.
“We must get back to Paris at once,” Richelieu summarizes. “I’m shocked that Louis won’t believe you, but he’ll believe me.”
“Rochefort did a very good job of discrediting me,” Treville admits.
“And I’ll bet you never saw it coming,” Richelieu says with a flash of his old humor. “Too used to having me clean up your messes.”
“Can he ride?” Treville asks, directing this question to Aramis in lieu of actually answering Richelieu.
Aramis hesitates, frowning.
“What must be done can be done,” Richelieu answers for himself. “But I’ll need help getting to the horse.”
“You’ll ride with me,” Treville decrees. “Porthos, help me get him down the stairs.”
Porthos glances at Aramis, then comes over to hoist Richelieu to his feet. The Cardinal sways between them, hissing. His breath comes shorter.
“Ribs,” Aramis says with a grimace. “I could bind them.”
“Yes, do,” Treville orders.
Richelieu glares. “Every minute may be of the essence – ”
“If we have to stop to rest you we’ll surely be too late,” Treville interrupts. “Avoiding that is a prudent use of our time.”
“The Captain’s right,” Porthos says when Richelieu looks ready to argue. Confronted with independent agreement, Richelieu subsides.
Aramis spends about twenty minutes binding Richelieu’s ribs and performing other basic first aid. Treville’s no stranger to the battlefield, but he has to look away after the first few minutes. There are scourge marks on Richelieu’s back and scars that can only be from burns, and if those are the worst of it Treville will be grateful. He’ll learn about all of it later. He’ll have to. He can’t live with not knowing, and Richelieu will need help that Treville will insist on providing. But right now Treville can’t afford to get lost in his emotions. He has a duty to his King and his Country that must be fulfilled first. Richelieu will understand.
At last Aramis pronounces Richelieu “as ready as is practical.” It’s not the most ringing endorsement Treville’s ever heard. But, as it’s probably the best he’ll get, he accepts it. They move out.
Getting Richelieu down the stairs, they soon discover, involves less of helping the Cardinal walk himself and more of Porthos half-carrying him.
“My captors didn’t value exercise,” Richelieu says, half-breathless, half-sardonic. “I’m afraid I’m quite out of condition.”
“Soon all you’ll have to do is lean back and let the Captain do all the work,” Porthos encourages.
Richelieu’s eyes flick over to meet Treville’s expressively. From where he’s bringing up the rear, Aramis nearly chokes. Even in spite of the situation Treville feels his own lips twitching.
They reach the front at last and emerge into the open air. Athos and d’Artagnan are waiting outside with Vargas. Vargas’ horse is tethered off to one side, full saddlebags tied to its back. The Musketeers’ horses appear to have been rubbed down and fed in the interim as well. Treville nods approvingly.
“All right, Vargas, you’ve done your part. You can go.”
Vargas straightens his robes. “I hope we never meet again,” he says flatly.
“One more meeting I can almost promise,” Richelieu says softly.
Vargas swings around. He and Richelieu lock eyes. After a moment Vargas says, “If not for me you would have rotted here.”
“Do you think so?”
No matter how many times Treville’s seen this happen, it always inspires the same amazement in Treville. Richelieu straightens. Suddenly it doesn’t seem as if he’s wholly dependent on Porthos’ arm to keep upright; it seems as if Porthos is merely an honor guard. The general weakness disappears from Richelieu’s bearing. Even the nondescript prisoners’ garb takes on a new crispness.
Treville wishes, futilely, that he had half that air. It would make persuading the King so much easier. And on the battlefield…
Well, it doesn’t bear thinking of. It’s not Treville’s gift. It’s Richelieu’s, and Treville had better spend his time being grateful that Richelieu mainly reserves it for the good of France. Mainly.
“Leave me alone,” Vargas says to Richelieu. “We need never cross paths again.”
“And why should I be satisfied with that?” Richelieu demands.
“We don’t have time for this,” d’Artagnan says impatiently. He shoves at Vargas. “Just go!”
D’Artagnan’s youth and frankness has caused headaches for the Musketeers and France a few times, but in this case, he breaks the stalemate very effectively. Vargas mounts and takes the reins, pulling his horse around.
“Think on what I’ve said,” the Spaniard spits at Richelieu, a final warning. Then he pulls in his knees and his horse shoots off in the direction of Madrid.
“Come on,” Porthos says. With Vargas’ departure, Richelieu has sagged back again. It takes both he and Athos to get Richelieu mounted up in front of Treville.
“Paris,” Treville says.
“Paris,” Athos agrees.
“God send we’re in time,” Aramis says, kissing his crucifix.
“God has sent me,” Richelieu replies. “Surely He is with us.”
D’Artagnan and Porthos exchange speaking looks, and Aramis grumbles at this lack of humility. To himself, where no one else will see, Treville smiles. He’s missed Richelieu’s arrogance for too long – thought it gone forever – to be upset by it now.
“Let’s go,” Treville orders, turning his horse’s head to the north and giving it rein.
The ride back to Paris is one best unremembered, though it will probably reappear in Treville’s nightmares. Richelieu’s strength soon deserts him. Treville steers his horse with his knees and one hand on the reins, doing his best to keep Richelieu upright. It’s exhausting, backbreaking work to support them both. The sad rasp of Richelieu’s breath does nothing to soothe Treville’s tightly wound nerves. Nor does the certain knowledge that delay of any kind could easily prove fatal to the Queen.
Treville orders Aramis and Athos on ahead as soon as they reach the Louvre – Aramis to Anne’s side and Athos to Louis’. Richelieu is swaying in the saddle even with Treville’s support and will need assistance reaching Louis. Athos and Aramis are charged to protect their respective monarchs until Richelieu can be brought to Louis and the truth made plain.
D’Artagnan is dispatched to a little-used wing of the palace where, Richelieu says, he had used to keep extra clothing against needs such as this. The storeroom he’d commandeered had never been officially assigned to him or any of his people, and there is hope that Rochefort has not discovered it. Richelieu in the pink of health is more than capable of swaying Louis, even disheveled, travel-stained and dressed in little better than rags. Richelieu injured and weak from imprisonment and torture will benefit from formal robes, if getting them doesn’t cause any more delay than merely getting the Cardinal up the palace steps will.
Porthos stays. His help is needed to get Richelieu off Treville’s horse. Then Porthos takes Richelieu’s left arm, Treville Richelieu’s right, and the three of them begin slowly towards the King’s chamber.
Athos has already run on ahead. The Red Guards posted outside Louis’ room go for their weapons at the first sight of him. But their leader stops them with a raised hand as soon as he recognizes Athos as Treville’s second-in-command.
“Tell me you’ve brought good news,” the man says urgently.
Athos stares at the man in surprise. He’d expected resistance, especially from the Captain of the Red Guards, but this man is looking at Athos as if Athos is his hope of salvation and rebirth.
“I am here to stop Rochefort,” Athos says nevertheless. He calculates rapidly. Speaking wastes time. But so does fighting. If the Guardsman is inclined to give way –
“Rochefort is our leader,” the Guardsman says carefully. “He has ordered us to hold this door and admit no one.”
“You have another leader and a better one,” Athos says, gambling on the man’s hopeful look and eager tone. “He comes behind me now. Let me pass.”
The Guardsman stares in his turn. Then he turns to his men. “I’ve just remembered,” he says. “Rochefort also ordered us to go check on the Queen.”
“But Jussac – ” one of the other Guardsmen starts.
“This is a direct order,” Jussac says. He puts his hand on his sword-hilt. Two other men, each wearing lieutenant’s stripes, do likewise.
One of the other Guardsman shifts his weight. In a moment, one of Jussac’s lieutenants has his pistol on the other man’s face.
“Go in,” Jussac says to Athos, not taking his eyes off his squad. “And God go with you.”
“Or come behind you, as the case may be,” one of Jussac’s lieutenants adds.
“Both,” Athos replies. He pushes through the crowd and lays his hand on the door-handle. Certain of the Guardsmen stir, but under the watchful gaze of Jussac and his lieutenants, no one stops Athos from turning the latch and entering the King’s chambers.
Louis is sitting at his writing-desk, holding a pen in one hand, trembling. He’s pale, obviously sick, dressed in nothing more than his night-gown. Over him Rochefort looms menacingly. The Comte spins angrily at the sound of Athos pushing the door closed behind him.
“You!” Rochefort shouts. “What are you doing here?”
“How did you get in?” Louis asks, seeming baffled. “Rochefort said – ”
“I will have him removed immediately,” Rochefort says. He picks up the piece of paper Louis had just signed and tucks it in his pocket, carefully, then strides over to Athos and the door. “Guards!”
Nothing happens. Rochefort boggles. “Guards!” he shouts again, and goes to reach past Athos to open the door.
Athos steps into his path, keeping the door-handle at his back where Rochefort cannot reach it.
“What were you writing, your Majesty?” Athos inquires. He keeps his voice mild.
“An order,” Louis falters.
“You don’t need to answer his questions,” Rochefort says. “Move aside, Musketeer, or I’ll have you arrested.”
“An order for what?” Athos presses, ignoring Rochefort.
“The Queen – ” Louis breaks off, shaking his head. “The most terrible thing. The Queen – my Queen – my Anne, my wife – has been poisoning me!”
“Impossible,” Athos says.
“Rochefort says he has proof!”
“Have you seen this proof, your Majesty?”
“He – he has confessions – ”
“Have you heard these confessions?”
“All of the evidence is in order,” Rochefort says. His lips twist in a frightening sneer. “His Majesty was just signing your precious Queen’s execution warrant – and that of your Musketeer brother, her adulterous lover.”
“Your Majesty, you have been lied to,” Athos says plainly. “By this man.”
“The same old tune again and again,” Rochefort scoffs. He turns the full force of his personality on Louis. “Your Majesty, I am the only one who has never lied to you.”
“I will hear no more,” Louis declares weakly. “You Musketeers have done nothing but lead me astray. Since Richelieu died Rochefort is the only one I can trust!”
“Is that what Rochefort told you?” Athos asks.
“I suppose you’ll say that’s another lie,” Rochefort says scathingly.
“I do say it.”
“I will decide whom I trust!” Louis screeches. “How dare you call my trust a lie!”
“Your Majesty has misunderstood me. That is not the part of your statement of which I spoke.”
Rochefort goes tense so subtly that Athos would have missed it if he hadn’t been specifically on the lookout for Rochefort’s reaction. “The King has no patience for your word games,” he says, playing with the hilt of his sword apparently idly. “He is weary. He will retire – ”
“No, Rochefort, I will not,” Louis contradicts. “I demand to know the meaning of Athos’ statement. What lie does he mean?”
Athos bows. “The lie of Richelieu’s death, your Majesty.”
Rochefort’s knuckles go white. “Your Majesty – ”
“You’re mad,” Louis interrupts. He stares at Athos. “How dare you come in here and say – ”
“Forgive my lateness, your Majesty,” the well-known voice interrupts in its turn. “I was somewhat delayed in my escape from the Spanish prison in which Rochefort had placed me. I beg your pardon.”
Louis turns so fast he half-trips over his dressing-gown and has to catch the side of a chair to steady himself.
Porthos and d’Artagnan have opened the main doors, on the far side of the King’s chamber, showing a fine sense of parade. They stand at attention, joined by three of the Red Guards who had previously stood on the other side of the door Athos is guarding – their Captain, Jussac, and his two lieutenants. The other Red Guards aren’t present. Porthos, however, looks very pleased with himself, and d’Artagnan is still sheathing his sword.
Richelieu enters the King’s chambers. He’s dressed once again in full robes. They make him seem even paler and more cadaverous than he had been on horseback. Nor does Richelieu attempt to conceal that he depends on Captain Treville’s arm to remain upright. But his entrance sweeps before him, changing the atmosphere of the room in an instant. The oppressive sense of illness and weakness that Rochefort had tried to enforce vanishes. Louis straightens almost instinctively, responding to the energy and presence Richelieu manages to infuse him with, even when weak from months of imprisonment.
“Cardinal,” Louis whispers.
Richelieu attempts to bow. “Your Majesty, I heard that you needed me, and I so I have come.”
A sudden movement draws all of their attentions. Rochefort has drawn his sword and lunged. Athos has the Comte disarmed and against a wall with a blade to his throat before Rochefort has gotten three steps.
“Unless, that is, your Majesty has replaced me in my absence?” Richelieu asks silkily.
“Whatever he tells you is a lie,” Rochefort cries.
“Now there’s a comprehensive indictment,” Treville murmurs.
“How odd, Rochefort, since those are the same things the Musketeers have been saying about you for the last few months,” Louis says. “At the time, I believe, you told me that any accusation so broad could not possibly be rooted in fact. That anyone who would make such an accusation was themselves the deceiver.”
“Your Majesty is gravely ill,” Rochefort tries, sweating. “You have been being poisoned by those you hold dear.”
“You know, Rochefort, I begin to think you are telling me the truth,” Louis says.
“Your Majesty!” Treville cries.
“I believe I am being poisoned by those I hold dear.”
“Whatever your eyes are telling you, it is an illusion!” Rochefort says. “A fever-dream brought on by the poison! Do not believe its tempting sway!”
“Does a fever-dream appear weak?” Richelieu asks persuasively. “Does an illusion go pale, and need a strong arm to hold it upright? Does it appear changed from its ordeal?”
“An illusion would appear the same as the dreamer’s memory,” Louis says thoughtfully. “If I were to hallucinate you, Richelieu, you would appear to me as strong and hale as you did before your death.”
“Apparent death,” Porthos murmurs.
“And so it seems to me that, despite all the people I have lately accused of betrayal, the true serpent was beside me the entire time,” Louis muses.
“Your Majesty, I beg you listen,” Rochefort says desperately.
“What is that in your pocket, Rochefort?” Richelieu asks. “What is that paper which bears the King’s seal?”
D’Artagnan goes over to Athos’ side and plucks it from Rochefort’s pocket. Rochefort struggles, but Athos’ grip is firm. The Comte earns himself no more than a nick from Athos’ blade.
“It’s a warrant,” d’Artagnan says in horror, unfolding it and handing it to Richelieu.
“A warrant for the Queen’s execution,” Richelieu says, shaking his head in sadness. “Oh, Sire.”
“I thought – Rochefort said – she poisoned me,” Louis whispers.
“Your Queen loves you dearly, your Majesty. She would never harm you. Did she not give you a son?”
“A son fathered by the Musketeer Aramis!” Rochefort cries.
Richelieu laughs outright.
Louis, who has been looking back and forth between his advisors as a man at a tennis match follows the ball, fastens to Richelieu’s laughter immediately.
“You do not believe him, Cardinal?”
“A more ludicrous thing I have never heard,” Richelieu says promptly. “Why, your Majesty, how could you even think such a thing? You need only look upon the Dauphin to realize how ludicrous the accusation is. You would need a mirror to find a better likeness than that painted on your son’s face.”
“Hasn’t the Cardinal never actually seen the Dauphin?” d’Artagnan mutters to Athos.
“Hush,” Athos hisses.
Louis blinks in astonishment. “Why – why, you’re right, Cardinal! I can’t think how I forgot – but everyone says it – everyone has always said it, how alike me he looks, and how handsome, too.”
“Your Majesty’s features are so distinctive, so elegant and well-bred, that there cannot be the smallest chance of confusing them with anyone else’s,” Richelieu says. “The Dauphin bears them all to the smallest detail.”
“He has your Majesty’s strong jaw,” Treville says. “And noble brow.”
“Your Majesty’s regal chin,” Athos suggests.
“Your eyes,” Porthos adds.
D’Artagnan intercepts Athos’ look and scrambles to find something else to praise. “And, and your pointed nose!”
“The Bourbon nose,” Treville corrects hastily.
Louis strokes his nose contemplatively. “I don’t know how I ever doubted it,” he says in wonder. “It’s – it’s as if the whole thing was a fever-dream.”
“Your Majesty was being poisoned,” Richelieu observes. “Some confusion is only natural.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose – but thank God, Richelieu, you got here in time.”
“Your Majesty must listen!” Rochefort bursts out. “Your Majesty – ”
“I will not listen to any more of this!” Louis cries. “You are a liar and a fraud, Rochefort. And you will pay for your crimes.”
“No!” Rochefort twists unnaturally, shoving Athos off-balance and lunging across the room.
D’Artagnan and Porthos dive for the King. They have Louis under guard in an instant. But Rochefort’s target isn’t Louis. The mad Comte rushes straight past the King and closes with the Cardinal.
Richelieu falls. So does Rochefort.
“Cardinal!” Louis cries.
Richelieu coughs weakly. “I am all right, your Majesty,” he says. “I am merely having difficulty standing without assistance, which Captain Treville was temporarily unable to render me.”
Treville pulls his sword from Rochefort’s body and wipes it clean before re-sheathing it. With Porthos’ help, he gets Richelieu up off the floor and into a nearby chair. Screened by Porthos, the King doesn’t see the gentle way Treville settles Richelieu, or the tender way Richelieu presses Treville’s hand before they separate.
Louis stumbles over to Richelieu and falls to his knees at the Cardinal’s feet, still weak himself. “You must forgive me,” Louis begs. “I thought you were dead, and I had no idea what to do.”
Weakly the Cardinal makes the sign of the cross over Louis. “Of course I forgive you, my child,” he says wearily. “The minions of Satan may tempt us, and even a good man may be given pause, but the warriors of the Lord come through in the end.”
A gesture here makes it clear that Richelieu is including the Musketeers in the phrase warriors of God. Louis nods, fervently.
“Your Majesty,” Richelieu says after a moment. “Where is that faithful Christian woman, your Queen?”
“Oh my God,” Louis says, horrified, all but leaping to his feet. “She is still in her quarters under arrest! I must go to her!”
“Take these good Musketeers with you as your guard, your Majesty, at least until we have rooted out the remains of Rochefort’s organization.”
“I will not leave you without protection either, Cardinal.”
“Athos and his squad will escort your Majesty,” Treville speaks up. “These Red Guards and I will remain with his Eminence.”
“Thank you, Treville.” Louis gets back to his feet, but hesitates. “I owe you an apology too. I believed you had – for Rochefort said such terrible things – I can hardly bear to think of them! Say you will forgive me, and return to my side.”
Treville bows. “I am your Majesty’s humble servant.”
“I hope you will be more than that.” Louis straightens his spine and throws his shoulders back. “This latest offense has been too much. Depriving me of my First Minister – sending Rochefort to torment me – very nearly costing the Queen her life! It shall not be borne. Spain must pay for its interference in France’s affairs.”
“Your Majesty is most wise,” Richelieu interjects.
“You refused a seat on my council for political matters, Treville. Surely you will not do so for military ones. Serve as my Minister of War. I will make any man you choose Captain under you. Only say you will stand by me?” Louis’ look and voice are eloquent of hope.
Treville lets out a long sigh. He nods, and suddenly smiles. It makes him look ten years younger.
“I am your Majesty’s humble servant,” he says. “As long as Richelieu is here to take up his rightful place opposite me, I can wish for no higher honor.”
“There’s no question of that at all,” Louis says. He bends down again and tugs the signet ring off Rochefort’s dead finger, and offers it straight to Richelieu. “France doesn’t get along very well without you, Cardinal, as we’ve just proved. Help me lead France to its destiny. And for Heaven’s sake, consult me before you even think of dying again!”
Richelieu accepts the ring and slides it directly onto his finger, not batting an eye at the warm blood still staining it. “I am, as ever, at your Majesty’s command,” he says.
“Good.” Louis smiles. “Good!”
“Let us go find your wife, your Majesty,” Athos interjects. He, Porthos and d’Artagnan steer Louis out of the room. D’Artagnan makes sure to close the doors tightly behind them.
Richelieu’s two lieutenants turn to him eagerly as soon as the King is gone.
“I’m so glad to see you – ”
“I can’t believe it’s you – ”
“You’re alive!”
“How was it done?”
“The Spanish?”
“We let you down.”
“Please forgive us – ”
“We had no idea – ”
“It will never happen again.”
Richelieu manages to raise an exhausted hand. The two of them trip to a verbal halt.
“Jussac, do you have anything to add?” he asks.
The Captain of the Red Guards shakes his head. “What they said,” he says, lips twitching.
“Then if you wouldn’t mind, take those two idiots and guard me from the hallway?” The fondness of Richelieu’s voice belies the word idiots, and the two lieutenants smile, obviously not fooled.
“Of course, your Eminence.” Jussac bows and shoos the other two out. They ostentatiously close the doors behind them, winking so suggestively that it’s a wonder they don’t sprain their eyes.
Private again, Treville lets himself relax. “They’re glad to see you.”
“They will have a dozen questions, and they will not let me sleep for the next week for trying to bring me things they think they need.” Richelieu lets out a martyred sigh. “Thus I am punished for doing my duty.”
“You love it,” Treville accuses.
Richelieu shrugs. “It’s nice to have people who aren’t concerned about my position or influence,” he replies. “Surely you feel the same way about your four troublemakers.”
“I do,” Treville has to admit. Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan have been a great comfort in the last few months. Even more so after Louis had withdrawn Treville’s commission. Their stubborn refusal to call him anything but Captain had been balm for the wound, even though he’d pretended to be annoyed.
But that’s beside matters. Treville hasn’t remained here to talk or think about other men.
They kiss with more care, this time, but with better results. Treville has to remind himself not to press too hard or too far. Richelieu will be frail for some weeks as he recovers.
Treville doesn’t care. He cares only that Richelieu will recover. The second ghost to return to him will not disappear as the first had.
“You’ll have to be patient with me for a while,” Richelieu says between kisses. “I won’t be my usual self for weeks.”
“I don’t care,” Treville repeats aloud. “And I won’t let you push yourself, either.”
Treville goes in to kiss him again. Richelieu stops him with a finger to his lips.
“The King will be back soon,” Richelieu says.
“Jussac will warn us,” Treville says.
“Louis will want to talk about war. And Spain. Jean, tell me quickly if there is anything you don’t want me to do.”
Treville rocks back, stunned. “You’ve never listened to my scruples before.”
Richelieu looks away. “Prison changes people, I hear.”
“I don’t want it to change you,” Treville says, surprising himself with how vehement he sounds.
“Some change can be for the better. Please.” Richelieu tugs Treville closer and kisses him again. “It wasn’t the thought of France I clung to these last months,” he admits. “Jean, I don’t want there to be any more times when I drive you away because I do something you can’t bear.”
“Sometimes you have to,” Treville says, throat dry. “Sometimes France needs you to.”
“For every Savoy there is a Ninon de Larroque,” Richelieu says. “You must tell me which is which.”
“I will tell you,” Treville says.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“All right.” Richelieu relaxes somewhat.
Treville kisses him again. He can’t help it. It’s as if they’re young again, though this time they’re not fuelled by the curious mixture of anger, revulsion and lust that had first characterized their liaison. They’ve never really stopped arguing, even after they’d stopped hating. But in the wake of Richelieu’s death and resurrection, Treville is loathe to think of returning to their old ways.
There’s a banging on the door, as of someone clumsily knocking their sword-hilt against it as they bow. Richelieu and Treville part reluctantly. They’ve both been doing this long enough to know that it’s no accident at all.
“I’ll do better this time,” Richelieu murmurs as Treville runs a hand over his beard to straighten it and stands a proper distance apart. “You’ll see.”
“Be yourself,” Treville just has time to reply. “That’s all I want.”
Then the doors open again.
The King returns.
And the Kingdom – and its loyal servants – moves on.