by Kevin Berry
As she puts away the remainder of the bandage, you notice that stitched upon the side of her bag are the words “Madame Bennard, Surgeon. Available for any personal disagreement.”
One of the Guards gathers the swords discarded by you and Tempeste.
“Let’s go,” Bourdin says.
The surgeon leaves, and you, Tempeste and the Cardinal’s Guards make your way slowly through the city to the bridge. The lieutenant hobbles along and grips your arm tightly, not, you suppose, to prevent you from attempting an escape but to prevent herself from falling over.
The mist clears rapidly, apart from random curls swirling above La Seine. The denizens of the night give way to the daytime population of Paris. Tradespeople, shopkeepers, soldiers, monks, dandies and all manner of others bustle through the streets. They pay your group little attention, apart from keeping out of your way.
In an hour, you enter Le Louvre palace. It is about eight in the morning. Dozens of servants scurry about their duties, giving you the briefest of glances.
It’s your first time in the palace, and you’re overawed by its splendor. So is Tempeste. The Guards lose patience and periodically shove you to keep you moving because you frequently slow to a shuffle as you look around at the palace treasures. Gold leaf glitters on the ceiling, on furniture and on picture frames. Haughty kings and queens stare out from the canvases, not a blemish in sight on their oiled countenances.
The Guards escort you up a wide staircase. A servant carrying a pitcher of water steps to the side, head averted, waiting for the six of you to pass by. Away from the windows as you move further into the palace, there’s no natural light. Candles burn in holders on the wall, throwing flickering shadows everywhere.
After a few minutes, you come to a waiting room of some kind. The furniture is not as elaborate as in some of the rooms through which you’ve passed. The chairs are hard, but you’re glad to sit down after a stressful early morning. Some flowers, a day or two old, stand in a vase on a sideboard table.
There’s an unpleasant smell that the fragrance of the flowers cannot mask.
Tempeste leans over and whispers in your ear. “What do you think is going to happen now?”
You decide to ask. “Why are we here, Lieutenant?”
Bourdin says, “We’ll wait here until we get an audience with His Majesty.” She sits, grimacing.
Her leg wound is obviously bothering her. Some blood has soaked through the bandage. You point to it. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s nothing. Barely a flesh wound. It’s nothing to trouble a Cardinal’s Guard.”
You know that’s not true. “Or a Musketeer,” you say defiantly.
Herbert and one of the Guards go, leaving the lieutenant and her male companion, who has your swords, waiting with you. No one talks.
You wait. And wait.
And wait some more.
You cross your legs, and cross them back again. You tap your fingers on the edge of the chair. Tempeste hums softly. The lieutenant stares at you both.
What’s going to happen? Will the king be angry? Will you be punished? Expelled from the Musketeers on only your second day? Locked up in the Bastille?
The male Guard stands. “Gotta pee,” he says, and he walks to the doorway, but instead of going through it, he stands between the open door and the wall, and begins whistling. After a few moments, you hear the sound of streaming liquid.
You wrinkle your nose. It smells.
“Pooh!” Tempeste says. Thankfully, it isn’t that.
The Guard finishes, adjusts his cloak and turns to see you watching him. “What are you looking at? There’s nowhere else to do it. I’m not walking back to the river to pee in it. People drink out of there.” He sits in a huff.
You cross your legs again. The Guard relieving himself in the corner reminds you of your own need, but you’re not sure if you want to follow his brazen example. Where else could you go, though? You don’t know how long you’ll have to wait to see the king.
Reluctantly, you follow the Guard’s example and pee in the corner behind the door, hoping that no one comes in, or, if they do, that they don’t push the door onto you. It looks like it’s solid oak. Only Tempeste pays you any attention. She frowns at you when you sheepishly return to your seat, but she goes and relieves herself too. Lieutenant Bourdin stays seated. Perhaps she has a cast-iron bladder.
A few more minutes pass before a servant appears at the door and wrinkles his nose. “His Majesty will see you now.”
You take a deep breath and follow him, Tempeste at your side, with the two Guards trailing. The servant leads you into the king’s bedchamber. King Louis XIII is propped up with several pillows in an imposing four-poster canopied bed. He looks pale, sickly, and watches you approach, his eyes drooping. The servant steps aside.
On one side of the bed is Monsieur de Tréville. He sighs heavily as he paces up and down in a small space, not moving far from the king. He glowers at you and Tempeste. On the other side of the bed is a wiry, thin man with a narrow chin, a pointed mustache and a rouge complexion, whom you recognize as Cardinal Richelieu. The white ruff on his collar looks too big for his small shoulder span. On it sits a raven, its beady eyes peering all around.
There’s tension in the room suggesting the three men have disagreed. That would, of course, be about you.
The Cardinal’s Guards step back against the wall, leaving you and Tempeste standing in the center of the room directly in front of the king’s bed. The skin on your neck crawls when you see how ill King Louis XIII appears to be. He’s as pale as a ghost, as thin as a rope, and looks as weary as it is humanly possible to be. He’s only twenty-five but appears decades older.
Cardinal Richelieu points at you both. “There are the miscreants! A disgrace to the uniform, these inexperienced recruits! Why, only their second day as Musketeers, and they set upon my noble officers going about their duty.” The cardinal swivels his arm to point accusingly at Monsieur de Tréville, and his raven caws as if encouraging him. “What have you to say about this matter, Captain?”
The Musketeers’ captain twirls his moustache thoughtfully. “Your Eminence, as I have been trying to tell you, my fine new recruits are of impeccable character. I’m sure you are gravely mistaken as to the circumstances of the matter.”
“So you say. Well, now that they are here, we can question them, though I doubt that is necessary. Look there! Lieutenant Bourdin bears the marks of their assault, bloodied and bandaged. Can you deny it?”
De Tréville looks with disinterest. “I see a wound, but no evidence of wrongdoing on the part of my recruits. Respectfully, Your Eminence, I suggest we put the matter forward to be judged by a higher, and impartial, person.”
The raven caws. Richelieu scowls. “You mean His Majesty? Must we trouble him further to make a judgement on this issue? Is it not enough that he sees his Musketeers in disgrace?”
“It was Your Eminence who brought this matter to the attention of His Majesty in his bedchamber. Is that not so, Your Majesty?”
This is the first time you’ve seen either of them address the king directly since you entered the room.
The king raises a hand weakly. “We will hear them impartially. But we must have our hot chocolate. Ah, we see it coming.” He struggles to sit up a little more.
A Guard takes a cup of steaming hot chocolate to the king before withdrawing. The king sips a little and puts it on a tall mahogany stand next to the bed. The drink smells heavenly. You wonder what it tastes like, but it’s a beverage rarely seen outside of the palace. Spanish explorers found it in some exotic land, and the queen introduced it to the king when she came from Spain.
King Louis XIII points at you with a wavering hand. “You, young Musketeer cadet. Tell us what happened.”
You take a deep breath. Should you tell him about the duel? Probably. That’s what got you into this awkward position.
Tempeste elbows you in the side. “Tell His Majesty about the duel, and how
the Cardinal’s Guards ambushed us afterwards,” she hissed, not quietly enough.
“What is that you say?” the king says. You’re sure he heard.
“It started with a disagreement about a table in a cabaret, Your Majesty,” you say, “that led to a duel the following morning.”
“A duel? Against our edict? But carry on, cadet. We would hear more.”
Tempeste can’t restrain herself. She elbows you again. “Tell His Majesty how you shot d’Espesse.”
“You shot a lieutenant of the Cardinal’s Guard?”
You sigh. If only Tempeste would keep silent. “Yes, Your Majesty, during the duel. She was not badly hurt.” You’re not going to say if you meant to shoot her or not.
Cardinal Richelieu speaks up. “I wasn’t informed about a duel. Only that you two attacked my Guards.” The raven nods.
“Your Eminence,” de Tréville says, “for what purpose did four of your Guards venture behind the Luxembourg in the hour before dawn?”
“They were going about their duty,” the cardinal says cagily.
“We are interrupting the young Musketeer cadet,” the king says before drinking some more of his hot chocolate. “Please continue, Cadet.”
“Very well, Your Majesty. These Cardinal’s Guards approached us and declared they would arrest us for dueling.”
“And then you attacked them,” the cardinal interrupts.
“No,” protests Tempeste. “There were four of them, and they attacked us.”
“Four, you say,” the king says, drinking his hot chocolate. He seems a little less fatigued and appears to be enjoying himself.
“Your Eminence, what you appear to be saying,” de Tréville points out, “is that my two inexperienced recruits—as you so eloquently described them—deliberately attacked four of your Guards, three of whom have served for years.”
“It does seem unlikely to us,” the king agrees.
Cardinal Richelieu’s cheeks redden. The raven on his shoulder caws submissively. “Perhaps I did not have the full facts of the matter.”
You glance behind you. Lieutenant Bourdin is sagging against the wall, clutching her leg, looking pale. Her companion stands with his head down as if he doesn’t want to be noticed.
“The surgeon can confirm the facts,” you say. “Madame Bennard. She who is available for any personal disagreement.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the cardinal snaps. “I’ll question my Guards once again on my own.” He bows to the king, nods briskly to de Tréville, and strides from the room, glaring at you as he goes past. His two Guards leave your rapiers leaning against the wall and follow the cardinal. The door slams behind them.
A shiver of doubt runs up your spine. Beside you, Tempeste shuffles her feet. What is going to happen to you now?
King Louis XIII regards you both impassively as he drinks the remainder of his hot chocolate.
“So, my understanding is,” he addresses you, “that you shot Lieutenant d’Espesse in a duel, and then injured Lieutenant Bourdin in a swordfight, outnumbered four to two, without you or your companion being injured.”
Monsieur de Tréville looks on impassively.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” A knot clenches in your stomach. What punishment will the king have in store for you?
“Why, it’s almost a complete victory,” the king says, smiling.
“Apart from being captured, yes,” de Tréville agrees.
“True … but did you see Richelieu’s face? He went red as a beet when you suggested four of his officers were no match for two of your cadets.”
The Musketeers’ captain laughs. “He did, didn’t he?”
“Wait,” Tempeste says. “So we’re not in trouble?”
“No,” King Louis XIII says. “The odd skirmish with the Cardinal’s Guards does not concern us. Any time any of our Musketeers can get the better of the Cardinal’s Guards is a time for celebration—out of the cardinal’s presence, of course.”
“They are but ‘parade ground’ soldiers,” de Tréville said, “never leaving the palace. The King’s Musketeers are far superior.”
“You would say that, de Tréville,” the king chuckled.
De Tréville nodded. “True.”
“Say, do you know who else fought this morning?”
“Not yet, Your Majesty, but I am sure the news will arrive in due course.”
Tempeste turns and gives you a hug. “What adventures we’re going to have!” she says.
Congratulations, this part of your story is over. You’ve joined the King’s Musketeers with your friend Tempeste, and went out to celebrate at the best cabaret in Paris. There you had a disagreement with some Cardinal’s Guards about the table you occupied (clearly a reservation system would be useful there). You took up the challenge of a duel, but Tempeste, as your Second, messed up by arranging for pistols instead of rapiers. Nevertheless, you injured your opponent, only to find yourself ambushed by her friends afterwards. You were taken to the palace expecting punishment, but your quick-wittedness at spotting the name of the surgeon present at the duel, who could corroborate your story, helped you to convince the king of the real facts. You’ve earned his respect too.
It’s time to make a decision. Would you like to:
Go to the list of choices and start reading from another part of the story?
Or
Go back to the beginning of the story and try another path?
Go to the Courtyard of Miracles
The young cutpurse has probably disappeared like a … like a thief in the night. Even though it’s only late afternoon.
Nevertheless, Tempeste wants to recover her purse and its contents if she can. You decided it’s a mission worth undertaking. Not for the money, of course—Tempeste receives a good allowance from her wealthy parents. It’s a matter of honor. No one should be able to rob a Musketeer cadet and get away with it. You’ll see to that. If you can find the thief, that is.
You’ve already walked across Paris today, and your feet ache. The streets are muddy and filthy with animal droppings and garbage. Fortunately, near the palace on rue Saint Honoré you see a fiacre, a public coach drawn by a single horse. You hail the driver.
He brings the coach to a stop and smiles broadly at you both. “Musketeers! My favorite customers. It will be my absolute pleasure to take you anywhere in this beautiful city.”
“We need to go to the Courtyard of Miracles,” you say. Tempeste nods.
The driver’s smile vanishes and the color drains from his face. “Anywhere except there, friends. Heed my advice: keep away from that area. People simply disappear there.” He snaps the reins at his horse and drives the coach onwards with a splatter of mud.
Tempeste sighs. “I guess we’re walking, then.”
“Indeed. Let’s hurry. We’ll want to be in and out of there before nightfall.”
“Whatever happened to ‘Musketeers aren’t afraid of anything’, then?” She grins and elbows you in the side, an annoying habit of hers. You’re sure you have a permanent bruise there.
“It’s not that I’m afraid,” you say, making sure Tempeste doesn’t see your face, “just that I want to be back at the barracks in time for dinner.”
“Whatever.”
The Courtyard of Miracles is home to an uncountable number of thieves and beggars, and so named because the beggars emerge from there with eye patches or bandages or missing limbs, blind, mad with rabies or inflicted with leprosy or some other horrible disease or ghastly wound, yet they return there miraculously completely whole and in perfect health at the end of a day of begging.
Rue Montorgueil leads you near the convent of the Sisters of God, which is close to the entrance to the Courtyard of Miracles. You navigate a series of short, twisting alleys and come across a long, twisted and uneven slope that leads down into the courtyard. Ramshackle multi-story houses with missing roof tiles, peeling paint and broken windows and frames stand on either side, some with disturbing leans, creating shadows ove
r the sloping path. Dirty faces peer out of windows and doors at you.
You’re about to head down the slope when you notice Tempeste hanging back.
“Having second thoughts?” you ask.
“A little. I only lost a few livres, and we’ll probably never find the thief anyway. And it looks … bleak in there.”
“You mean dangerous. Remember, Tempeste—”
“I know, I know. Musketeers don’t shy away from danger. But what are we going to achieve by going in there?”
“Adventure,” you say. “And we might recover your money. I’m here for you. All for one and one for all, as they say.”
“There’s only the two of us.”
“Nevertheless, what do you want to do?”
Tempeste sighs and scratches under her wide-brimmed hat. She’s never been good at making decisions. “You decide.”
You take another look down the slope leading into the Courtyard of Miracles. What might you find down there? Adventure? Danger? The cutpurse? Dozens of the cutpurse’s friends?
It’s time to make a decision. Do you:
Have a quiet walk along the river instead?
Or
Enter the courtyard?
Enter the courtyard
You venture down the sloping path into the Courtyard of Miracles to search for the cutpurse who stole Tempeste’s money. The path is treacherous with mud and stones, and you advance cautiously past the dilapidated buildings and their curious, grubby, degenerate denizens.
The dwellings are worse as you near the bottom of the slope and enter the courtyard itself. Old, rotting five-story houses lean precariously, some nearly touching at the top level, some almost crumbling before you. It’s dark and cold down there, the dwellings must be dripping with damp, and it absolutely reeks with the stench of human waste.
“Do you think we’re safe?” Tempeste whispers.
“Surely, no one here will dare to harm officers of His Majesty’s Musketeers.” Your hand moves to the hilt of your sword anyway.
“Some of them are following us.”