by Leda Swann
“The crossing will be rough this time of the year.”
“I am not afeared of the water. God will keep me safe, if that is his will.”
“You have sworn your allegiance to the King of France. As have I. One cannot lightly toss such an oath aside.”
There was the rub. She had sworn her allegiance to the King. Should she serve him as she had sworn to, with due obedience, or should she break her troth to him for the sake of truth or pity? Which way lay her duty? Which way lay honor? “You would not come with me then, were I to go?”
“We are Musketeers in the service of the King, not in the service of his brother, the Duc of Orleans. Neither are we in the business of rescuing from prison those whom the King has deemed traitors to France. I would counsel you to remain in Paris.”
She did not altogether agree with his arguments. “If I ignored your counsel? What then?”
“You are my wife. I would chase after you and drag you back to Paris by your ears, if I must.”
“The King ordered the prisoner to be kept in darkness and isolation,” Miriame said idly, as she lounged on a pile of gold velvet cushions on the rich red Persian rug on the floor of Courtney’s chamber “No candles. No tapers. No lights of any kind. No letters. No parcels. No messages to be delivered. No visitors except for the King himself. Plain black bread and a small jar of water to be stuffed through the grating on her door only every second day. Even her guards are forbidden to speak to her on pain on suffering the same fate as her.”
Courtney lay back on the sofa and buffed her nails with a piece of soft cloth. “You’re making up stories. How would you know that?”
“I read the letter the King wrote to the Governor of the Bastille.”
Courtney was not impressed. “When did you do that?”
“In the coach. There was enough moon to make out the letters, though the King does write in a remarkably ill hand.”
Sophie, perched in the window seat with her knees drawn up to her chin, stared at her in amazement. “But it was sealed with the King’s seal. Don’t tell me you picked the seal as successfully as you picked my pocket.”
Miriame took a blade out of her pocket and threw it in the air. It somersaulted half a dozen times on its journey, light from the candles glinting off the highly-polished, wickedly sharp blade before the hilt dropped back into her hand as easily as if it belonged there. She tucked it back it into her pocket with a grin. “Nothing that a sharp knife could not slit through without leaving a mark.”
Sophie shook to think of the danger she had unwittingly been exposed to. Was there no end to Miriame’s foolish risk-taking? “What if the Governor had noticed.”
“He was roused from sleep in the middle of the night. The night was dark enough, despite the moon. I took a gamble that he would be too drunk from his carousing the previous night, or too confused from the orders he was being given, or simply too sleepy to notice.”
“What if he had noticed? Then what would you have done?”
“What’s to worry about? He didn’t see aught amiss.”
Courtney had finished her fingernails and had moved on to her toenails. “That is not the point. The point is, what shall we do about this request of Monsieur’s. Should we rush to the rescue of the fair Henrietta, or stay quietly at home by the fireside and let her rot?”
Miriame tossed her knife in the air again. “Will he pay us for our trouble?”
Sophie dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. The issue was one of honor and faith and obedience, not of gold livres. “Money is not important.”
Miriame threw a cushion at her. “Not to you, maybe. To me it is.”
Once a gutter rat, always a gutter rat, Sophie thought to herself as she caught the cushion in mid-air and hugged it to her knees. Miriame had the mind of a street-hawker, greedy for profit, and always would have. “Yes, he will. One thousand gold pistoles to pay for our journey, with as much again when we return.”
Miriame whistled between her teeth. “Then I say we go, and go in style.”
Sophie’s loyalties were torn. She wanted to do the honorable thing – but which way lay honor? Lamotte had counseled her to stay out of mistrust of the Duc and fear that she might come to harm on the way. Miriame counseled her to go and earn a few gold pieces.
Neither of them understood her confusion. She did not know what to do. “The King has accused her of treason. Surely he would not imprison her so without good reason?”
Miriame laughed. “Do not be so naïve. Not everyone who is accused is guilty. I know half a dozen people hanged for crimes they didn’t commit. Of course,” she added after a pause, “they were guilty of plenty of other things. Just not the things they were hanged for.”
Courtney finished her last toenail and tossed the cloth aside. “My faith is with Monsieur in this matter. I believe she is innocent of treason and that the King has jailed her for not succumbing to his advances. I can see nothing here but the maliciousness of men who prey on those weaker than themselves. I say we rescue her.”
Sophie still wavered. “And our vows of loyalty to the King? What of them?”
Miriame gave a great belly laugh. “I’d break a vow to God himself for a thousand gold pistoles. Breaking a vow to the King of France is no great matter.”
“Justice ranks higher with me than obedience,” Courtney said in a measured tone. “I will break a vow to any man, be him the King himself, a thousand times over before I will go against my conscience and do a woman an injustice when it is in my power to right her wrong.”
Sophie felt the sun on her back as she sat in the window. From that day forth, her conscience could not remain perfectly clear. She had to make a choice between doing her duty and obeying her conscience.
Courtney was right, though. She had no choice at all.
She jumped down from the window seat and stretched her legs. They would be stiff and sore from hard riding soon enough. “To England, then? Tonight?”
Miriame pumped one fist in the air with a shout of joy. “A thousand pistoles among us? I am in Heaven.”
Courtney looked sadly at her newly-buffed fingernails. Few things were harder on fingernails than riding in all weathers. Their new shine would be lost in the first day’s travel. “To England.”
Miriame looked at Sophie with a calculating air. “Your new husband will not mind your sudden yen for English air? Most wedded men would surely take it amiss were their wife to disappear on the sudden.”
Sophie sniffed. “The Count has threatened to drag me back to Paris if I should go. He is on guard duty tonight, so we shall have to leave before he returns home. I shall endeavor to put him off the scent, but if I am not successful, we shall have to fight our way through him.”
Courtney gave a delighted laugh. “I have been spoiling for a good fight for some days now. I will look forward to seeing him try.”
Lamotte paced up and down outside the King’s chambers. He had an uneasy feeling about him that he could not shake. Sophie had said nothing more about going to England since he had threatened to drag her home again by the ears did she leave without his permission, but he did not trust her silence.
He stumbled over an uneven patch of flooring and righted himself again with a curse. Damn the guard duty that kept him occupied that night. If Gerard saw a soul in need of help, he could not be prevented from going to their aid, whether they deserved to be rescued or no. Sophie was far too like her brother for comfort.
He propped his elbows up on the casement window in the corridor and looked up at the night sky. The moon was full and bright, and the stars made a tapestry of light against the dark wall of the sky. The only patch of cloud lay far off on the horizon. All in all, it was a perfect night for riding, and it made the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach grow.
He wished only for dawn to arrive so he could leave his post. His discomfort grew greater by the moment. Sophie needed him, he felt sure of it.
He had slipped into a restless doze, napp
ing on his feet as soldiers do, when a messenger arrived, panting and covered in sweat as if he had run fifty miles on foot.
Lamotte leaped to his feet, fully awake on the instant. Through the casement he could see the sky starting to lighten with the first rays of the sun peeping over the horizon. He heaved a sigh of relief. His duty was nigh done.
The runner put his hand on his heaving side. “An urgent message for the King,” he panted, between great gasps of breath.
Lamotte, spear in his right hand, knocked on the door of the chamber. The King’s boy stared wide-eyed at the messenger and gestured for him to enter at once. Lamotte made to come in with him as a guard should do, but the boy stood in his path to stop him from entering.
“The King is expecting him,” the boy stammered, as Lamotte fixed him with a steely glare. “He trusts him without a guard.”
Lamotte did not like to leave his King so exposed, but he had no choice. With a snap of his heels, he remained in the corridor while the door to the King’s chamber shut in his face.
It opened again a few moments later and the boy beckoned him inside.
Lamotte stood to attention by the side of his King. The messenger was nowhere to be seen.
The King motioned to his boy to pour him a glass of wine from the decanter on the table. He took the full glass and drank it down before speaking, his forehead creased with worry. “You know of one Gerard Delamanse? A Musketeer in your regiment?”
Lamotte felt his heart pound in his breast with fear for his wife. What had she done to come to the King’s attention in this way? Such a question from the King accompanied by such a frown, did not auger well for his wife’s continued well-being. “Yes, Sire.”
“It seems this Gerard has been prevailed upon by my brother, the Duc of Orleans, to undertake a mission for him. A mission that will take him all the way to England.”
He felt his blood run cold. How could the King’s spies have found out so quickly about Monsieur’s request? Had Monsiuer himself betrayed her? He caressed his dagger with itchy fingers. If Monsieur had betrayed Sophie, then King’s brother or no, he would have his revenge. “To England?”
The King glared at him with bloodshot eyes. “Do you doubt my word on the matter?”
He bowed his head in apology. He would not be able to help Sophie if he antagonized the King himself. “No, Sire.”
“It seems my brother, the royal Duc, has a mind to create mischief between the King of France and his brother, the King of England. He has suborned the loyalty of one of my own Musketeers to do it for him. I am mightily vexed with him.”
Lamotte shivered. He would not like to be in Monsieur’s place now, for all that he was the King’s own brother. “Yes, Sire.”
“I feared my foolish brother would make such a move as this. I am thankful that I have some faithful servants still, who will tell me when such treasons are being plotted against my majesty.”
Lamotte shifted from one foot to the other, an uncomfortable prickling in his spine. The King must have had Monsieur spied on. Poor, guileless Sophie did not stand a chance against the vast legion of royal spies and informers that the King could command.
The King threw his empty glass into the grate with a violent flick of his wrist. It shattered on the hearth with such force that slivers of glass went flying in all directions. “This Gerard Delamanse is either a traitor or a fool to be so taken in by my brother,” he said, with vicious urgency. “I want him found - and stopped -before he gets to England. You will leave instantly on this mission.”
Lamotte bowed his head. With all his heart, he would do his best to stop his wife from destroying herself on this foolish mission. “Yes, Sire. What shall I do with the lad when I find him?”
Placated by the eagerness of his agreement, the King waved him away. “Kill him if you will, I care not,” he said. “Just do not let him get to England to carry out my brother’s mischief, or you will both suffer the fate the King of France has reserved for traitors and fools.”
The King of France’s spies were highly efficient, Lamotte had to admit as he returned to his empty apartments just as the sun was rising. They had known he had been deserted by his new wife long before he had. Sophie was indeed gone.
A cryptic message lay on the bed she should be sleeping in. “My conscience would not let me stay.” She had signed it Gerard.
There was no doubt in his mind that she was off to England. Even had the King not informed him of it, he would have known by her note.
After waking all night on guard, he was dead on his feet with exhaustion. He pulled off his boots and lay down on the bed in his clothes to snatch a few hours sleep before he began the chase after his errant wife.
Miriame reined in her horse and looked longingly at the roadside tavern that sent out a welcoming glow and a promise of food and rest in front of them. “We have a thousand pistoles to spend on our journey. Let’s make a dent in them here, with a hot meal, a fine bottle of wine and a soft feather bed.”
Sophie was reluctant to stop, but their horses were flagging after a hard ride through the night and their riders weren’t much better. “Should we not go a few miles further before we rest?” she asked, her voice lacking all conviction.
Courtney slipped off her horse and rubbed her backside with a rueful look. “A few miles further on there will be no warm inn and we’ll be sleeping under a tree with empty stomach and sour tempers. Besides, my bones ache. I need a few hours sleep so I can look forward to that fight you’ve been promising me.”
Sophie did a few fast calculations in her head. They had made good time through the night – with a full moon and no cloud cover there was light enough to travel quickly. Three Musketeers traveling together had been more than enough to frighten off any brigands that might be lurking along the wayside. Roadside robbers would wait for easier game and richer pickings to pass them by.
She hoped the note she had left for Lamotte would throw him off the scent. With any luck he would think her conscience had smote her for living with him in such an irregular fashion, as his wife and yet not his wife. She hoped he would think she had departed to find lodgings elsewhere and would waste precious days looking for her in Paris. By the time he realized she had tricked him, she hoped to be halfways to England.
She had no fear of any other pursuit. None knew of their quest save for Philippe of Orleans, and he would keep his own counsel for fear of harming his wife. Her haste was for Henrietta, languishing in the Bastille, without thought or hope of rescue. The Princesse Henrietta was safe enough for the moment though, and she was as dog tired as her companions.
She vaulted off the back of her horse and threw the reins to a sleepy-looking postboy who was standing by the door rubbing his eyes. “Give him a good brushing and a generous measure of corn. Your best corn, too. None of last year’s moldy crop, or by God, I’ll have your guts for garters, see if I don’t.”
Never had it felt so good to Sophie before to be off the back of a horse. Saddles, she thought with a grimace, were not well designed for riding long distances without a break.
After swallowing a hasty meal and washing it down with a tankard of small beer apiece, the three of them flopped down on the huge bed in the only spare chamber the innkeeper could let them have.
“A short nap only,” Sophie cautioned the others, as they pulled off their boots, tossed them in the corner with their swords and hats, and closed their eyes with a look of relief. “We should be on our way again before noon.”
The two on either side of her were asleep in seconds, but Sophie could not rest. She could not shake off the sense that someone was following her. She tossed and turned uneasily for an hour or more, desperate for rest but scared to fall asleep with such a feeling of dread hanging over her.
Finally the comforting noises from the kitchen below and the stables outside, so different from the clatter and bang of Paris and so like the noises that reminded her of her home in the Camargue, lulled her off to sleep.
Lamotte turned his head at the sound of hoofbeats coming up behind him and dug his spurs into his horse’s side to urge him on a little faster. Two riders were closing in on him, one on either side of him by the sound of it. He shook the reins, and his weary mare tried gallantly to pick up her pace for a few moments before subsiding again into a slow canter. She had no extra speed left to give him.
He put his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready for trouble if it came looking for him. Damn the pair of them. He was not afraid of taking them on alone, both of them together, but they would slow him up. If he were to catch Sophie before she slipped away out of reach, speed was essential.
The first horseman drew alongside him on one side, closely followed by the second on the other. He surreptitiously spurred his horse on again, but she could not respond. He was trapped.
He turned his head from one side to the other to see who they were. Their appearance gave few clues as to their character or purpose. He saw only that they were dark figures on plain brown horses, wrapped in brown cloaks and with plain brown boots on their feet. Their cloaks looked rough and ready and their hats were without adornment. They looked as if they had made some effort to blend into their surroundings and not be noticed. Highwaymen, most likely, keeping watch by the side of the road, and seeing a lone rider as fair game for robbery.
Strangely enough, they made no move to stop him, but rode in silence by his side for some minutes. Finally his curiosity got the better of him. “What do you want from me, gentlemen?”
The rider on his left doffed his hat. “You are Count Lamotte?” His voice was thick and guttural, his accent proving him to come from one of the rougher quarters of Paris, where a loaf of coarse rye bread was worth more than a man’s life.
He misliked these strangers knowing his name, but he had nothing to hide. “I am.”
“You seek one Gerard Delamanse, a traitor on his way to England?”
He misliked even more that they knew his business. “What if I do?” His voice was more curt than politeness called for.