InSeparable E-Book

M. von Strom

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 499

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

France 1644 Cardinal Mazarin reigns as stadtholder of the young Louis XIV in Paris. The First Minister keeps things firmly under control, the people are suffering due to heavy taxes and inflation. But resistance is forming in the shadows; insurgent Frondeurs push France to the brink of civil war! In the imminent chaos, the three former Musketeers Athos, Porthos and Aramis are called to arms. The inseparable companions of old must reunite to save France and the crown from ruin. Little do they know that things have changed in the years they have been apart. They are fighting for the king; but, of all people, Lieutenant d'Artagnan of the Cardinal's Red Guard will defy them...

Leseprobe

In/Separable

The Legacy of the Musketeers

by Maren von Strom

Vol. 3 of the series ‘The Secret Lily’ 

Imprint

Text: © Copyright by Maren von Strom

 Cover: © Copyright by Maren von Strom

Using an image from Maurice Leloir

Publisher: Maren von Strom

Otto-Bock-Straße 2

42349 Wuppertal

 First Edition 2025

Prologue

Paris, 1643 - Pont Neuf

Henry IV sat proudly on horseback, in full armor. His head was garlanded with golden laurel, he held a sceptre firmly in his hand. The old king let his eye wander boldly and resolutely over the nocturnal town and Paris bowed to the magnificent figure, the bronze equestrian statue in honor of the deceased ruler.

His grandson, Louis XIV, would one day surpass Henry's fame. However, the boy king was only four years old in the late spring of 1643 and his reign was already overshadowed by the numerous intrigues of the powerful at royal court.

A victim of these dastardly schemes was leaning against the pedestal of the equestrian statue, panting. A man in dark clothes, suited to the deep night. He had run to escape Cardinal Mazarin's henchmen. He heard their shouts in the darkness, saw the twitching lights of their lanterns. They were approaching fast. They would find him, here on the Pont Neuf. His last hour had come.

Rochefort smirked distortedly. The master spy, the greatest schemer of them all, he had overestimated himself. He had taken himself too important, thought he was more than a simple pawn in this game of chess. But now, the queen and the bishop wished to sacrifice him.

He had no breath left for another escape. Rochefort exhaled between clenched teeth. A wound gaped in his side, a graze shot. He pressed a hand to the burning flesh and ordered his racing mind not to panic.

His gaze slid to the lazily flowing river. The moonlight glittered and danced on the deep black water like thousands and thousands of stars. The Seine seemed calm and peaceful, so unfathomable and mysterious. A seductive woman who cloaked her cruel shallows with a veil of mist. Her embrace was icy cold and deadly.

Rochefort pushed himself off the pedestal and climbed onto the parapet. If he had to die tonight, he wanted to choose his own death. He turned his head once more and saw the advancing shadows of his pursuers. They were running now, their boots echoing loudly on the cobbles, their uniforms looking blood-red in the pale light of the lanterns.

Mazarin had sent out his Red Guard to arrest Rochefort. They had almost reached him, almost managed to grab him.He let himself fall backwards and plunged into the merciless lap of the Seine.

She howled triumphantly and grabbed him, she tugged greedily at him, she tossed him around, she tore at his limbs; she raged, she roared, she screamed. She smashed him against stones, branches and garbage until his bones and his thoughts burst. She ripped every spark of life out of him and then...!

Silence.

1 - The Comte de la Fère

One year later, 1644

Since time immemorial, the magnificent castles and estates of the nobility have been strung along the Loire River like a shimmering string of pearls. Only a few miles from the town of Blois, on a hill shaded by sycamores, sits enthroned a large, white manor with a slate roof.

You can reach it via a winding path lined by majestic poplars and soon you are standing in front of an ornate gate. Behind it, an allée leads to the spacious courtyard of the Château Bragelonne. A kitchen garden is a little off to the side; you can hear hunting dogs barking and horses neighing in their stables.

The servants and peasants live in lodgings on the twenty acres of land belonging to the estate. The carefully cultivated park around the manor extends down to the river, and a grove of plentiful game therein marks the border with the neighbours at Château la Vallière.

On this spring morning, the sun was just creeping over the horizon and yet the shutters of the upstairs study were already wide open. Light fell in and angry snatches of words drifted out. An argument was going on between the master of the house and an early guest.

Monsieur de Payen wiped his sweaty, greasy forehead with a handkerchief. His face was distorted with ire, he squealed like a pig that had been short-changed at the feeding trough.

»You dare to disobey a royal decree, Comte?«

»The decree may bear His Majesty's seal,« replied the Comte de la Fère, whom we know as Athos, in a calm voice, »but the writing and the words are Mazarin's.«

»His Eminence acts at the wish and will of our King!«

»The will of a five-year-old who seeks to beat my peasants down to the dust by imposing new taxes and levies? Did this wish grow in him while he was scraping his knees in the gardens of the Palais Royal romping with the pages and maids?«

As composed as Athos' retort was, the glint in his eyes was dangerous. He had lost none of his superior charisma since his days as a musketeer were over. On the contrary, he seemed to have gained even more vitality! Although he was now 48 years old, his black, shoulder-length hair was not interspersed with any grey sheen, his formerly often melancholy countenance even looked rejuvenated, slimmer and not puffy from those nights spent drinking heavily in the past. The melancholy that had often weighed him down had fallen from him, he appeared slimmer than before and at the same time stronger, of a handsome and impressive figure.

Olivier Comte de la Fère was surpassing the cardinal's emissary in every way. Only the desk separated the two men and ensured a safe distance between them.

Payen gasped indignantly and stuffed his handkerchief back into his shirt sleeve of fine lace and silk brocade. »You speak like an insurgent, you even are one!«

Athos' face darkened. »You will find no one in this house who is not deeply devoted to the king and the crown. If you wish to accuse me of treason and tell that to the Cardinal, I shall have to restore my honour at once.«

As he said this, his gaze slid as if by chance to the mantelpiece, above which hung two crossed epees. They were not ornamental weapons; they had faced battles and struck down countless foes.

Payen's sweating increased. »You force me to report your refusal and disobedience when I return back to Paris! I am but His Excellency's messenger!«

»And one does not kill the messenger. But the messenger should report the truth, and that includes the fact that the Cardinal is not the King. Mazarin is bleeding my peasants and the land dry to feed past and future wars. I have fought in those wars, I have shed my blood for the King and for France. My toll and tribute are paid!«

»Is that your final word?«

»You may hope it is, and recommend me in Paris to His Eminence and the queen mother. Anne of Austria will remember my ever sincere fidelity in deed and word.«

Payen snorted and knew only an empty threat to reply. »A recommendation on your person I will give, Comte! With the greatest pleasure I will!«

»Good, then there is nothing to prevent your timely departure now, all has been discussed.« Athos smiled thinly and looked out of the window into the courtyard. »My major domo will escort you to your carriage, the grooms are already keeping it ready.«

»I depart, expect an answer and consequences soon!« Payen stared at his counterpart and found in the man's face not the reaction he had hoped for, no flinch, no remorse, no fear. Athos was a bastion of calm and nodded over Payen's head to his old servant Grimaud, his major domo, who had been standing and waiting at the door to the study.

Silent as ever, Grimaud bowed and, after a polite gesture, escorted Monsieur de Payen out. Athos watched from the window as moments later Mazarin's emissary boarded the carriage, the coachman clicked his tongue and whipped the horses. The vehicle drove down the allée, out through the gate and Athos did turn away.

He sat down at the desk where the decree still lay, sealed by the King, signed on his behalf by the Queen Mother, and whispered to him by Cardinal Mazarin. The state coffers had been plundered, Richelieu's wars had raised France's debts to unpayable heights. His successor as First Minister knew no other way out than to increase taxes and further curtail the rights of the nobility to their own land, their own people.

Mazarin ruled by necessity and against the will of the parliament. He shielded the Queen Mother and the young King from the outside world, from the true mood of the people and the nobility. Things were seething in Paris, resistance was forming in the shadows.

Athos sighed and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes for moments and listened to the familiar sounds in the house. For a long time, no one at royal court had been interested in the province; life here was wonderfully quiet and tranquil, far off all intrigues and wars.

But peace and bliss at Bragelonne Castle seemed to be coming to an end. Another letter on his desk was the first harbinger of dark times. Athos had received it a few days ago and read it first with joyful surprise, then with a harden expression.

The Abbé d'Herblay of Noisy had written it, but he had signed it »Aramis«, as if the abbot were a musketeer again, seeking the help of his former comrade. Athos now pulled this letter out of a pile of similar documents and read it again.

A request for a reunion it was, an invitation, and although Aramis had chosen completely innocuous words, Athos understood the message between the lines. It was urgent, the advice and protection of a brother in arms, an old friend, was needed. Athos' worries grew.

»What troubles you, darling?«

Athos looked up and his features, hard a moment ago, softened at the sight of his wife. »Pardon me, I did not notice you. What brings you to me?«

»Do I have to be reported to my husband from now on if I want to see him?« Catherine de la Fère put her hands on her hips and inclined her head so that some of her dark curls fell over her shoulder and rested pertly on her décolleté. »Ah, I wonder if Your Highness would have the kindness and grace to receive me. Curtsy.«

Athos smirked covertly. His wife had a loose mouth and did not mince words, that was one of the many things he loved about her. »You said 'curtsy' out loud.«

»I did, because you'll never see me actually bow down to anyone!«

»On the day when it does happen, the sky will fall on us. God save us from that, I want to spend many more years with you as your devoted husband.« So instead, Athos bowed to his fair maiden.

She took note with a laugh. »Twenty years ago I would never have dreamed that one day proud Athos would bow his head before his landlady and assure her of all his affection and love.«

»You did dream of it, in secret and furtively,« the Comte replied, kissing Catherine's fingertips and cheek tenderly. »It took me some years to become aware of it. Forgive me, please, for not having noticed this either before it was spelled out for me by a friend.«

Catherine blushed. »I will forever be grateful to d'Artagnan for that, she pushed you towards me and you finally saw me. Although I don't make a very fine comtesse, I can't even speak in such an elected manner.« She extricated herself from his embrace and tapped him on the chest with one finger. »As you do. You sound awfully stilted and serious this morning. Is it our esteemed guest's fault that I have to feel all petty and insignificant, like a simple commoner again?«

»You’re never petty and insignificant! Monsieur de Payen has the greatest respect for you. However, he’ll no longer be able to show it to you, he left us a few minutes ago.«

»Then I heard right; his carriage has left the courtyard, and you look as if you had chased him away yourself.«

»Perhaps I did.« Again, Athos sighed and listened as another noise came up to the window. A groom was leading one of the horses into the yard, and moments later a youth of fourteen swung into the saddle with a lithe movement. He had the same black hair as the comte and a determined mind like the comtesse. He spurred the horse and rode off without looking back to the house.

Catherine giggled as she watched this. »My little Raoul is chasing his own romantic dreams, I suppose. You won't forbid him, Olivier!«

»Why would I do that?« Athos raised his hands placatingly. »He has lost his heart to dear Mademoiselle la Vallière. It burns for her, it howls and hisses so loudly that he could hear neither advice nor admonition anyway.«

»You're a romantic, deep down, full of passion yourself.« Catherine smiled fondly and stood on tiptoe to give her husband a kiss. »Forget this Payen and what trouble he could be. Have breakfast with me instead, the light is falling in the parlour, I've set the table.«

Although she had been Madame de la Fère and a comtesse for fifteen years, Catherine took care of such little household chores herself, as if she still lived in her modest house in Paris, on the Rue Férou, and the musketeer Athos was her lodger.

He nodded. »I'll be right there, I just have to take care of one more matter beforehand.«

»That can't wait another hour?« Catherine eyed him inquiringly, understanding that this 'matter' was of great importance; and that Olivier would not tell her what it was about. A little miffed and with the words, »I'm expecting you!«, she left the study.

The hint of a delicate woman's perfume remained with him, a familiar, beloved scent. It faded towards the window and Athos saw a rider in the distance, who followed the Loire, his destination the Château la Vallière. Raoul, his son. Catherine, his wife. He would do anything to protect them!

They had spent such happy days here at Bragelonne, but dark clouds loomed on the horizon. They hung heavy over Paris, ready to burst into a storm over the capital. The discontent of the nobility, the anger of the burghers, the fear of the peasants. The tempest of hatred and violence would also engulf the provinces, they would not remain untouched here. A civil war threatened, as it was already raging bloody in England.

The Comte de la Fère made a decision. Cardinal Mazarin was the root of all evil and even though Athos had always remained neutral in this political conflict, Payen's appearance forced him to take sides. He wrote a reply to the Abbé d'Herblay, Aramis, signed Athos and sent Grimaud to the monastery of Noisy with the letter.

A storm was coming and the musketeers had to protect the crown again.

2 - A Conspiratorial Reunion

The monastery at Noisy was a place of peace and inner contemplation. It was located at the end of the village, just a handful of houses and the market square separated it from the château of the Archbishop of Paris. Malicious tongues claimed that the abbot of the monastery was a frequent guest at the château, mainly because of the beautiful and clever Duchess of Longueville, the archbishop's niece.

That was a lie, of course! The abbot was a devout Jesuit and the man who sometimes climbed out of a window of the monastery at night to sneak into the château had to be a scoundrel in a monk's habit.

We know that scoundrel very well, he calls himself René d'Herblay by day and Aramis by night. He is a musketeer when he is not an abbé and right now he is shimmying to the ground from a lime tree that happens to be growing under the window of Madame de Longueville.

Aramis let himself fall from the last branch and landed lightly on the cobbles. He listened into the darkness to see if he was alone and unobserved. Then he dusted his knees down, assured himself of the contents in his coat pocket and adjusted his lace collar.

Despite his 39 years, he could still be seen as the youthful gallant he had been twenty years ago. Time seemed to have passed him by without a trace, his face was smooth and unlined, his hands soft and delicate, his mind as sharp as his blade. As if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, he began the nightly walk back to the monastery.

No one followed him and so he did not bother to hide in the deep shadows of the monastery wall. He gave a short whistle below a window and a rope ladder was lowered. Aramis climbed it up nimbly and moments later stood in an elegant chamber.

»Have you received it?« A voice from the armchair by the fireplace greeted the abbot. It sounded rough, pressed as if under strain. The speaker held on to the armrests with gnarled hands, as if he had to stop himself from jumping up impatiently. His face lay in semi-darkness, but in the twitching firelight a gaunt, slumped figure could be glimpsed, its former strength appearing drained.

»Don't be in such a rush,« Aramis answered with a mild smile and poured himself some wine from a carafe. »You like to take things into your own hands too much. It must be terrible for you to rely on others and not be able to supervise their every move.«

A snide snort was the reply and Aramis turned to a third person in the room, who by now had caught up the rope ladder and was closing the window. Athos assured himself with a last glance into the night that really no one was observing their secret meeting, then he turned and eyed Aramis questioningly.

»Everything went as hoped,« the abbot confirmed. »I have the letter with me.«

»Good.« Athos remained standing at the window and folded his arms. »Perhaps now you will finally explain to me what it all means. Your invitation was quite mysterious, and he is the last person I would have expected to see in your company.«

With that he gestured to the armchair, from where came a mocking reply. »None of us would have until a year ago. But the Abbé has a soft heart and didn't let me drown in the river when I was washed up at his feet.«

»Don't flatter yourself too much, Rochefort.« Aramis placed his cup back on the table between them. »It was no more than coincidence that I was there to pull you out of the Seine.«

»We all know how coincidentally you prowl the road to the archbishop's estate at night.« Though the Comte de Rochefort looked aged years ahead of his time, his figure haggard and his hair greying, his mind was as clear as ever. The wound from the graze shot that night had left a scar that singed his heart more than his flesh. It had not healed to this day, was gnawing at him, devouring him piece by piece. He did not let on to the outside world and hid the burning in his soul behind a pinch of scorn.

Aramis ignored any suggestion that he enjoyed more than a friendly relationship with the archbishop's niece. Instead, he beckoned Athos to take a seat as well. »I thank you for accepting my invitation,« he said.

»It sounded urgent and I'm beginning to suspect what's going on.« Athos pulled up a chair and eyed Rochefort suspiciously. »You have turned renegade. You, of all people, a creature of the Cardinal!«

»Of another cardinal, not of that parson on the throne.«

»What happened?«

»I've fallen from favour. A year ago the Queen Mother called for me and wanted to send me to Cologne on a matter. I had to politely decline, for some... inconveniences would have awaited me there. Some old acquaintances who are not well disposed towards me.«

»I see. You have an unsavoury past in this town.«

Rochefort only half-answered this question. »The 1637 peace congress between Spain, France and the Empire did not go smoothly, ultimately it was a disaster. Regardless of how this complete failure came about, the Queen Mother took my refusal as an affront. It was a good opportunity for Mazarin, shortly after the arrest of the Duc de Beaufort, to make me disappear as well.«

»Beaufort, a grandson of Henry IV! Yes, the news of his arrest reached the furthest province.« Athos eyed Rochefort critically and refused to be fooled. »I assume that you not only know all about that Cabale des Importants, as the failed conspiracy against Mazarin is known, but that you were part of it.«

Rochefort's expression was inscrutable. »Believe what you like. However, a jump into the Seine saved me.«

»He was half dead when I found him,« Aramis interjected, confirming the story.

»I am alive.« A deep resentment flashed in Rochefort's eyes and immediately disappeared again behind an inscrutable mask. »But they think I'm dead. Perfect conditions.«

»For what?« Athos was already waving it off, though, answering his own question. »Revenge.«

»Far too mundane.« Rochefort looked amused. »You might think me, Richelieu's former master spy, capable of deeper motives and higher goals.«

»I trust you to be capable of anything.« Athos turned his gaze to Aramis and eyed him critically. »But you? Making common cause with Rochefort, and inviting me to join in as well? Tell me what this is really about!«

»It's about Mazarin's dismissal.« The abbé sounded very cheerful, bearing in mind that he had just openly announced treason. »He rules France as if he were the king himself. You feel the effects even in the provinces, don't you?«

The Comte de la Fère nodded reluctantly and then shook his head. »You dare too much.«

»Not at all, we're not alone.« Aramis now adopted a more serious tone. »Resistance has long been forming. In Paris they break the windows of Mazarin's supporters with slingshots and call themselves Frondeurs because of it. Resentment is growing, we have many allies to oppose the cardinal.«

»The rebels are not only revolting against Mazarin, they are fighting the Crown!« exclaimed Athos. »You shall never win me over to their cause!«

»Indeed.« Rochefort ran his hand over his stubbled chin as if he had been confirmed in a thought. To make the respectable Comte de la Fère a Frondeur was hopeless. But it was possible to persuade the musketeer Athos to save the kingdom and the people. »We want to prevent a civil war like the one raging in England. We will force Mazarin to abdicate by our superior forces, the sheer number of our allies, and install Louis XIV as the rightful sovereign.«

»The king is still a child, his mother rules for him.«

»And through her, Mazarin as her most trusted advisor. Anne of Austria will be in need of new advice once the cardinal is gone.«

Athos glanced sharply at Aramis. »Another churchman, an Abbé of Noisy perhaps, to advise her in the future?«

»Not unlikely.« Aramis looked back innocently. »You gain peace for your family and your peasants in this matter, I gain an office at royal court, and Rochefort...«

»...my life back and, admittedly, some satisfaction in having had the last laugh at the end.«

»Vanities.« Athos wrinkled his nose, but he had to admit he was already half convinced. Payen's visit still echoed in his mind; the thought of having to get rid of the evil at its root. »You want to lay siege to Paris, is that supposed to be your 'superior forces'?«

»I told you before, we want to prevent a civil war. To march up with troops merely to bolster the Parliament and let the Frondeurs dare bold dreams would be the opposite of that.«

»So what is the real plan?«

»We're gathering the most powerful and important people on our side, and with them their military strength and clout. This threat alone will make Mazarin flee Paris, for his defeat would be certain in a warlike confrontation. Then France will be rid of this scourge.«

Athos snorted. »By these 'important people' and their troops, you will hardly mean me, my twenty acres of land and the few farmsteads on it.«

»No, I'm talking about the dukes and marquises of France,« Rochefort replied. »Beaufort is unfortunately out of the game, but Madame de Longueville is already inclined towards us, similar to the Duchesse de Chevreuse.«

Aramis had the decency to clear his throat and look embarrassed at this remark. His amours of back then and today, were paying off. In a gentle voice he turned to Athos. »You have no troops, but something else of great value to our cause; an impeccable reputation, a significant title of aristocracy that gives you a hearing with other nobles - and you have contacts in England.«

Athos frowned. »Lord Winter, do you speak of him? That was nearly twenty years ago!«

»Certainly, but he and we are forever linked by a night on the river of Lys.«

Athos' lips formed a thin line. »We will be silent about that.«

Rochefort laughed hoarsely. »Don't be shy, Messieurs! Speak it openly, for I was there too and know your little secret. Milady's execution. Indeed, Lord Winter and you are united in crime forever!«

»You know nothing, Rochefort!« Athos waved aside the memory of that night with a curt gesture. »Explain your plan to me! What did Aramis bring back from his little excursion tonight, what does England have to do with all this, and what is to be my role?«

Rochefort leaned back contentedly in his armchair. As he had foreseen, the Comte de la Fère was so attached to an antiquated concept of honour, so rigid in his views, that it was easy to get the musketeer Athos on their side. His questions were already an unacknowledged promise of alliance, without him needing to know everything.

La Fère fought for his privileges, for honour and for his family. The Abbé d'Herblay followed his own desire for profit, the prospect of more power and authority for himself and his monastic order. Rochefort was satisfied with his new allies after the old ones had betrayed him or thought him drowned. They were easy to control, to supervise their every move, to push them in every direction he wanted to.

»In the past year, the situation for Charles I in England has deteriorated dramatically,« he now explained. »The renegade Cromwell and his men are moving on London. Mazarin is undecided which side France should take or stay out of the conflict altogether.«

Athos' countenance darkened a shade more. He kept his thoughts to himself, but they were obvious. The cardinal was a dishonourable, cowardly bastard, ready to betray a befriended kingdom. Richelieu would have sent troops immediately to save King Charles! When would Mazarin betray France and the Crown with equal cowardice?

Rochefort inclined his head. »We will send our own emissaries to London to make a proposal to King Charles; at the invitation of Anne of Austria, her sister-in-law, Queen Henrietta, is to travel to France and find refuge and protection here until the civil war is resolved.«

»You were going to forge this invitation, I suppose.«

»Not at all! It is genuine, written by the hand of the Queen Mother. Show it to him, Aramis!«

The abbot smirked and pulled out of the inside pocket of his coat the previously mentioned letter that he had secretly been handed. »The Duchesse de Longueville is against Mazarin, but for the Queen Mother. She is one of her court ladies and closest confidants. She has persuaded Anne not to ignore her sister-in-law's cry for help any longer.«

Athos recognised the seal and the signature on the letter. If it was a forgery after all, it was deceptively genuine. »Anne of Austria knows of our plans?«

»No, she has only been convinced not to abandon another queen to the horror and terror of a civil war. Even against the Cardinal's will.«

»Queen Henrietta will accept the invitation,« Rochefort added. »A good opportunity not to wait idly, but to plead for France to intervene in the conflict.«

»Fair enough. But what good is all this against Mazarin?«

»Nothing at all.« Rochefort's smile showed something very sinister. »It’s a diversion. Our real aim is to have both of you gentlemen return to France under pretext after the diplomatic trip as emissaries of Queen Henrietta. With a new-«

Rochefort suddenly coughed and grabbed his side. Aramis took over the talking and explained the further plan.

»With a new status that gives us access to the higher social circles. You, Athos, can get us an audience with Charles I through Lord Winter, where we can deliver the letter. But your title alone is not enough to get us heard by our own aristocrats.« Aramis sighed. »As always in such political conflicts, the nobility acts in a wait-and-see, neutral manner. We need this pretext, our status as Queen Henrietta's official emissaries, to appeal to the powerful in France.«

»I see.« Athos' mind was spinning, but he also saw the sense in the plan. »It's not a matter of days, more like months, until this all works out. If it works out.«

»It will.« Rochefort had fortified himself with wine and recovered his voice. »It's actually much easier than it sounds. I have not been idle this accursed year; I had and still have access to Richelieus' archives in Paris. There, friend and foe are chronicled, their names and whereabouts. There, I found the decisive tip of the scales to tilt the balance in our favour.«

Rochefort savoured the moment when Athos looked sceptical and Aramis curious to see who had been chosen. The master spy smiled thinly and no longer kept the gentlemen in suspense. »Our goal is an alliance with the Marquis of Levis.«

Athos nodded slowly. »The Marquis of Levis, indeed one of the most powerful and important men. It stands to reason. But if my memory does not deceive me, he has always been closer to Cardinal Richelieu than to the Crown.«

»You remember correctly, and Levis' loyalty is no different with Mazarin. A roundabout way awaits us. It leads us to his son, the Vicomte de Ventadour, and, more importantly, to Ventadour's wife.« A strange smile played on Rochefort's lips, but it immediately disappeared again. »Win the Vicomtesse, win Ventadour, win Levis, who loves his son deeply and will refuse him no request.«

»Why don't we drop the whole part about Queen Henrietta and go straight to the Vicomtesse?« asked Aramis. There was a twinkle in his eyes as if he was ready to accept any female challenge and be triumphant.

»Because also the Ventadours are closer by oath to the Cardinal than to the King. We shall only be able to overcome this fact by cunning. The Vicomtesse is in no way inferior in respectability to a Comte de la Fère. I should know, for before my 'death' we were...« He interrupted himself with an unheard sigh. »This is where the real diplomatic mission begins for you; reviving friendship with the Vicomtesse.«

Aramis thought this a peculiar phrase, but as Rochefort spoke very frequently of 'dying', 'death' and 'reviving' since nearly drowning, he dismissed it as an idiosyncrasy. Instead, the Abbé d'Herblay smiled modestly and the musketeer Aramis smugly. »That should not be difficult, just leave it to me. I'm well versed in such diplomacy, once I'm given a pretext to approach the Vicomtesse without immediately turning her husband against me.«

The corners of Rochefort's mouth twitched. »A cocky announcement, I look forward to seeing you fail! Heck, this is going to be fun!«

Aramis pouted and fell silent, offended. It did not seem to be the first time Rochefort had grabbed and mocked him by his honour as a diplomat in matters of love.

Athos could find nothing amusing about it. »Your fun is our failure. Be careful what you wish for.«

»You begrudge others the smallest pleasures,« sighed Rochefort exaggeratedly. »Be that as it may, you, Messieurs, will succeed by whatever method. Travel to England, deliver the letter. Return to Paris with the answer. I'll see to it that you meet the Vicomte de Ventadour. He himself is in the diplomatic service, formerly for Richelieu and now for Mazarin. You'll convince his wife to join us, she'll convince her husband, he his father. We gain an armed force and with it Levis' political influence. After that, we'll be very close to Mazarin's dismissal.«

»You call that much easier than it sounds,« murmured Aramis, turning to Athos. »I'm leaving for Calais tomorrow to sail from there. Will you join me, now that you know everything?«

The Comte de la Fère nodded without hesitation. »I think nothing of Rochefort's intrigues, but if we defend the English crown and have only to deliver a letter to do so, we'll save the French one too. That’s our common goal.«

»Thank you, my friend.« Aramis squeezed Athos' hand in relief. »I’ll show you to your room for the night and then make the final preparations for our departure.«

»So be it.« Athos let his friend go first and met Rochefort at the door, who had stood up with difficulty from his armchair. Quietly, but with a distinct warning in his voice, Athos stated, »You are hiding something from us, Monsieur Master Spy.«

»Indeed, I do. It’s in my nature.« Rochefort shrugged. »But it is not to your detriment if you don’t know everything. On the contrary, by doing so, I protect you.«

»From what?«

»Your conscience,« Rochefort answered deadpan, and Athos said nothing more in reply.

3 - Tossed by the Waves

An angry crowd besieged Monsieur de Payen's carriage, ever since it had entered Paris through the town's gate. The streets were hardly more than narrow alleys through which the carriage had to make its way. Even the wide avenues and bridges were clogged with carts, sedan chairs and all manner of passers-by, and the coachman had to lash out at the horses and the people to keep moving forward.

The citizens of Paris immediately noticed that the main tax collector of France was sitting in the carriage and their rage was directed at him like a thunderstorm. Whether journeymen, market women or respectable merchants, all folk rushed to the carriage to unleash their fury on Payen. The shouting and the noise were unbearable. They demanded the end of the levies and some foolhardy people even called for the death of Mazarin and his devotees.

Payen was sweating and grunting with fear like a swine on its way to the slaughterhouse. He clawed his fingers into the upholstery, his pale lips trembling. The curtains before the windows were drawn, but the surging of the crowd outside could not be barred out, only muffled a little.

Payen wiped his greasy forehead with a handkerchief. »Rabidly scum, how dare they?«

With him in the carriage sat an officer of the Red Guard, First Lieutenant d'Artagnan herself, who, despite the perilous fury on the roads, did not make a face. »Does an ordinary day in Paris trouble you?«

Payen's eyes widened at the bold question, but he choked on his own indignation and coughed suppressedly.

D'Artagnan sighed inaudibly. This man was thoroughly unpleasant to her, but she was too long a soldier by now as to have an opinion of her own. Her orders were to escort Payen unharmed to the Palais Royal and no revolt, no cowardly ambush, would keep her and her men on horseback outside from their duty.

Mazarin's emissary squeaked with a red face, »Keep the rabble away from the carriage, you useless-!«

»Finish that sentence and I'll remember that the Guard is needed at the other end of town.«

Payen fell silent under the steely gaze that accompanied these words. If d'Artagnan made a casual remark sound like a threat, even someone like Payen remained silent and hoped not to have made an enemy of Madame la lieutenante, as she was called on the quiet at royal court.

The line was drawn for Payen and d'Artagnan pushed the curtain a bit aside with two fingers to peek out. After almost twenty years in the service, her eyes were hard, her body marked by scars from countless battles, her dark hair had grown longer and showed the first signs of greying; her face was rarely adorned with a smile.

When she wore the uniform, she was indistinguishable from the men and yet Payen knew that his protection was in the hands of a woman. He was not happy about it. »The mob outside is slavering bloodthirstily, they want to lynch me! And Mazarin sent you! Only you! Woe is me, the cardinal has abandoned me!«

D'Artagnan ignored the moaning and lamenting she had to endure since she had boarded the carriage after it's arrival at Paris. She frowned and let the curtain fall back. »We're decelerating.«

»It's all over with me! I'm doomed!« Payen crouched deeper into the upholstery and winced as there was a thud against the carriage door. Someone had thrown the first stone.

A commotion arose outside in seconds. People shouted, horses neighed and the escort pushed the people back by kicks and blows. A jolt went through the carriage as it dashed forward. A second jolt as it came to an equally sudden halt. Payen fell against d'Artagnan, she pushed him roughly back onto his seat.

»Stay down, not a word!« she hissed and felt for her pistol. Her fingers touched the handle, she nudged the carriage door open and leapt out to join her men. Instinct guided her, pushing aside all other responsibilities in her life. Here and now she was Lieutenant d'Artagnan, not wife, not mother. She grasped the situation, immediately ready to attack or defend.

The carriage was in front of a wall of people, the horses reared in panic, the whirling hooves kept the angry mob at a distance. The coachman cursed and tried to keep the beasts under control. A mounted guardsman came to his aid, grabbed the horses by their headcollars while calming his own prancing steed with great difficulty. He was the only one left standing between the angry crowd and a catastrophe if the horses were to bolt.

»Biscarat!« shouted d'Artagnan to him over the turmoil and urged forward. The carriage was besieged on all sides, but the escort was still withstanding the onslaught without drawing their weapons. Any shot, any bare blade would cause a panic-stricken flight in which a terrified mob would trample down and crush everything in its path.

Biscarat did not respond to her call, he had not heard it or was too busy not having his arm broken by the frightened carriage horses. He was an excellent rider, but alone he could not tame them for much longer. The coachman was no help, he lashed out at the horses with his whip and shouted senseless orders.

More stones were hurled, each a dangerous, even deadly projectile. Frondeurs! They hit the carriage, the escort. The guardsmen ducked low over their horses' necks to avoid the hail of stones. The coachman let go of the reins and leapt down from his seat, looking for protection.

D'Artagnan moved forward, crouched, and yet a well-aimed shot almost wiped her hat from her head. It only ruffled it's feather and a second stone would have hit her on the temple, but a living cover suddenly stood in between and sheltered her.

A tough and brave warhorse took the hit in its flank with an angry snort. Its equally bold rider Bernajoux held position and returned d'Artagnan's grateful nod with a mute question regarding her orders.

»Defence, protect Payen and yourselves! Don’t shoot! They have children with them, those bastards!« D'Artagnan cursed the Frondeurs for inciting families to this storming of the carriage. If the women were harmed a single hair, if only one child cried in fear, the tale of a mercilessly charging Guard in Mazarin's name would be perfect.

D'Artagnan gestured to the abandoned coachman's seat. »I need to get up there!«

»So you think you're the better target?« A grin distorted Bernajoux' already scarred face.

D'Artagnan wasted no time in explaining. »Help Biscarat, he can't hold the horses any longer! We're surrounded, Meunier and Forgeron cover the flanks, Cahusac our back! We must negotiate!«

»You're mad,« grunted Bernajoux, but he obediently drove his steed to the front of the carriage.

Biscarat did not think otherwise. »She must have gone mad!«

The horses had been tamed with Bernajoux' help and no longer threatened to bolt, stomping everyone in their path to death. Ahead, the angry mob was still yelling imprecations against Mazarin, but the Frondeurs had run out of stones or courage now that the Red Guard could neither be dispersed nor be roused to a bloody slaughter of commoners.

They were in a stalemate; there was no going forward for the carriage, no going back for the people. They were trapped together in this seething cauldron and Biscarat had to almost shout so that Bernajoux could still hear him. »Sorel will kill us if anything happens to his dear wife!«

»We're as good as dead then.«

»What is she up to?!«

Bernajoux only pointed at the crowd. A murmur flitted there from ear to ear, like a low vibration, whispered words that were felt more than really heard. The angry shouts died down, they were muffled without falling completely silent. All eyes focussed on one point.

A guardsman had climbed onto the carriage, clearly visible to all. People recognised d'Artagnan, they remembered the lieutenant, the stories about her. She was one of them, had proved it time and again on the streets, on patrols, in arguments with the cardinal.

Now she made herself a willing target, it would have been easy to shoot the Lieutenant of the Red Guard off the carriage. The Frondeurs would have been able to boast that they had finished off one of Mazarin's highest-ranking officers.

But the slingshots remained in their pockets as the mood tilted, from blind rage to perplexed confusion and tense curiosity. D'Artagnan was popular with the people; killing her would have been suicide for the Fronde.

Biscarat sucked in a sharp breath as he grasped d'Artagnan's idea. »She turns herself in so that Payen and we can escape?«

Bernajoux nodded. »Sorel's going to kill us.«

»That won't matter if the captain rips our heads off first!« Biscarat clutched his forehead in disbelief. »Jussac will soon have no hair left to tear out.«

»A wig would look good on him.«

»Burghers of Paris!« exclaimed d'Artagnan, before Biscarat could cast a wry glance at his friend for his strange sense of humour. »Let that carriage pass!«

New clamour erupted, they poured out vials of wrath on d'Artagnan. A single voice resounded above the others, making itself the instigator of the riot. »Never! Down with Mazarin!«

D'Artagnan's gaze shot to the speaker. A red-haired lad, barely the first fuzz on his face, but all the more freckles. Feeling strong in the crowd, he demanded, »Surrender, turn in Payen!«

D'Artagnan smiled grimly; her determination was unshakable. Once, she had stood up to Cardinal Richelieu and defied him. Who was this Frondeur compared to His Eminence? A lad who wanted to start a revolution, bah! »I'll make you a different offer.«

D'Artagnan's gaze bored into the ringleader's eyes. He blinked uncertainly while she considered. Her offer could have been a threat of reinforcement, arrest for anyone who dared to revolt today. She could have played with the order to shoot and the bargaining chip would have been to let the people and their children leave peacefully.

But she was no ordinary officer; and she was married to Grégoire, who was always patient and calm where Charlotte acted rashly or in a hotheaded manner. He was her better half in many ways and she said what he would have said.

»I am staying, I'm listening! I'll personally speak to the King and the Queen Mother about your concerns! That's my offer!«

The ringleader crossed his arms defiantly, but he was on the defensive and lost support of the people. They wanted nothing more than this offer. They wanted to be heard, they wanted to be seen and understood in their needs. They were satisfied, but the Fronde, from which the citizens slowly slipped way, was not.

»Worthless! Your word means nothing, we want Payen, we want equity!«

»And I bid you hope.« D'Artagnan shamelessly stole from Grégoire's lips the words he had once said at the negotiating table in Cologne. They rang more honestly from his mouth because he really believed in them. D'Artagnan, on the other hand, literally put the gun to the Frondeur's head to decide the matter. »Accept it, or bear the consequences. This carriage will go on!«

It slowly dawn on the Frondeur that he was standing in the way of a very heavy coach and an escort armed to the teeth; and that the Lieutenant of the Red Guard had memorised his face well. If just one more stone were to hurl now, if the escort's response to it was retaliation, if women and children were to die in the stampede - the Frondeurs would be to blame. D'Artagnan had turned the tables.

Unrest spread, the mob began to unravel at its edges. But the agitators in the crowd fought their defeat and held the mass together by reigniting the anger. Savage abuse rained down on the Guards and Payen, threats flew and fists were shaken.

The whipped-up atmosphere reversed the mood. Suddenly there was movement in the mob, it pushed in all directions, uprising and simultaneous elusive. Unpredictable, uncontrollable like a hungry beast.

Biscarat and Bernajoux instinctively reached for their swords, for their pistols. The horses stamped their hooves, they pranced battle hardened, ready to crush chests and trample bodies.

But d'Artagnan did not shout an attack order at them and the men kept their nerve. Their confidence in their lieutenant was absolute, and so they stood together in a united line of defence.

An invisible wave seemed to be rolling through the mob. It would break over the guards, sweep them away and engulf them; and then, suddenly, a gap opened. It grew and became an alley. Hoof beat sounded above the din, a riding squad cut a swathe - reinforcements, rescue!

The Frondeurs, who had only just wanted to start a bloody revolt, suddenly changed their attitude and their tactics in face of the superior power. They now pushed people aside and ordered them to make way for the king's soldiers. There was no sign of the instigator any more; fled into hiding.

D'Artagnan frowned as the equestrians approached. They wore uniforms with silver embroidered fleur-de-lis on a blue background, tongues of flame in the crest. Musketeers.

She should have breathed a sigh of relief, but she hid her thoughts on this entrance behind a stony expression. Biscarat patted his horse while Bernajoux sat high in the saddle.

None of these gestures concealed what they were all aware of: the end of the revolt, the escape of the Frondeurs into a change of sides, was not due to the courage of the Red Guard and their lieutenant, but to the Musketeers. They had the respect of the citizens, they did not have to endure insults or stone-throwing. They were voluntarily evaded.

Lieutenant Jumonville led his men serenely, without haughtiness. He had earned his post with experience, not arrogance. Therefore, he spared any superfluous remark against d'Artagnan and only nodded a curt greeting to her. A long time ago, they had served together. He had obeyed her orders, before he had taken over this post from her; was forced to take it over because she had defected to the Red Guard.

There was no reason for resentment between them, but some things had not been forgotten even after almost eight years. When the musketeers now joined the guardsmen, the reinforcement was accepted only reluctantly on both sides.

Jumonville dismounted from his horse and d'Artagnan jumped down from the carriage. The two officers met on neutral ground while their men eyed each other suspiciously. The people scattered to the four winds to avoid getting caught between the fronts.

D'Artagnan could see neither mockery nor challenge in Jumonville's expression. Nevertheless, his appearance was an affront to her authority, and she demanded of him, »Report!«

»His Majesty was very concerned when he heard of the turmoil in the town.«

»Is that so?«

Jumonville was not stupid, on the contrary. He passed on d'Artagnan's righteous anger to the next person in charge. »Commandant de Tréville thought support was appropriate.«

»What is and is not appropriate, is something for him to negotiate with Captain de Jussac. Monsieur de Payen is unharmed, we will continue the escort to the Palais Royal. Any objections?«

»None.« Jumonville looked over d'Artagnan's shoulder at the carriage. A few nicks and scrapes had been left in the chassis by the encounter with the Frondeurs. He frowned. »I will get on. With your permission, Mad-- mon lieutenant.«

»Granted.« D'Artagnan should have been offended that Jumonville wanted to relieve her at her post, thinking himself the better bodyguard. He had no idea what whining and scolding he was going to keep company. She deigned him that punishment for the violation of her honour; and for almost calling her 'Madame'. Even if her secret was now an open and accepted one, while on duty she had an official rank and name!

Jumonville beckoned to one of the musketeers to lead his horse along on the reins. Old Cahusac, in turn, handed d'Artagnan her well-behaved Peur, who had followed the herd even when his reins got free in the commotion. Perhaps Peur was getting old and as stubborn as a mule, who was not impressed by anything.

D'Artagnan patted the grey gelding's neck, mounted and took the lead of the procession. Guardsmen and musketeers alike listened to her command as she ordered them to march off.

4 - Friendships Old and New

The riot was over, the carriage could continue on its way. There were still noisy troublemakers standing at the roadside who did not know when it was better to go home. But even they turned tail and ran as soon as the escort got closer.

D'Artagnan rode in front and she could almost feel the looks of the people to the musketeers in the entourage. As if the citizens were only making way because they respected the reinforcements in the blue uniforms; as if they believed that the musketeers were in fact not protecting the carriage but watching the Red Guard.

After Richelieu's death, his personal guard had been assigned to the king's regular troops. Overnight and unasked, Tréville had become the commandant of two rival forces in the same regiment. One adorned itself with the lily, the other with the cross; two corps, one for the king and one for the cardinal.

Fate had a strange sense of humour! Having merged the two garrisons, d'Artagnan was now both musketeer and guardsman. She was Captain de Jussac's second-in-command and Commandant de Tréville's first lieutenant; what had once been torn apart was reunited. But it would never really grow together again.

The carriage now crossed the Pont Neuf, under which the Seine flowed sluggishly and fetidly. The river seemed calm, harmless. But beneath its surface lurked a raging current, fatal to anything caught in its cold embrace.

An icy hand gripped d'Artagnan's heart as the equestrian statue of Henry IV came into view. The old king was guarding a wet grave. A wound as painful as freshly struck.

D'Artagnan forced herself not to look away cowardly, not to suppress the memory of that night a year ago. She owed Rochefort that much, to bear his loss and her guilt for it with her eyes open. If only she could have warned him, if he had not felt betrayed and abandoned by all his friends! Maybe he would still be alive.

Her stiff posture, her shuddering did not go unnoticed. Bernajoux and Biscarat caught up with her until they rode beside her. They passed the statue in silence and in the presence of her comrades, her friends, d'Artagnan relaxed. She did not need to openly express her gratitude for them. A sigh of relief was enough and they understood each other without words.

Biscarat eyed his lieutenant from the side out of wise, dark eyes. D'Artagnan sighed inaudibly. She was an open book to this connoisseur of human nature, not only because they had been best friends for years now and had no secrets from each other. Biscarat also had a keen mind and was not afraid to use it even against a superior. Like now, when he cloaked his criticism of her last orders in a bantering question. »Will you ever stop acting the heroine?«

»As soon as you men stop needing one.«

Biscarat smirked. »We'll be fine even without having to answer to Jussac about why you volunteered to be a target for an angry mob.«

Bernajoux on the other side grumbled in agreement. »That was suicidal.«

»Nonsense!« D'Artagnan waved it off, and at the same time she knew her friends were right. She had acted on impulse and she had been damned lucky that it had turned out peacefully. Still, she did not want to admit it. »Their target was Payen. Offering them another one confused them long enough until reinforcements arrived.«

»You couldn't have known that.« Biscarat looked back over his shoulder at the carriage and lowered his voice. »Payen is a coward, but he could have shouted out of the window at any time that we should strike down the Frondeurs.«

»You'd never have done that without my orders. You're the real heroes here, to have stood your ground.« D'Artagnan was serious, there was nothing to sugarcoat. »It could have been the start of a civil war. No one will remember that the men of the Red Guard averted it with prudence. Such is the heroic life.«

»That's our life. But you should lead a different one by now.« Biscarat was taking liberties with her, but d'Artagnan's frown did not stop him from being frank about his thoughts. »Did you think for at least one second of Sorel and the children, of your family? How they'd feel at the thought of the mortal danger you recklessly throw yourself into?«

»If you both don't tell Grégoire about this, I won't tell Madeleine and Josepha. How dangerous it got today, you were almost lynched by a mob! Maybe you should give up being soldiers out of consideration for your dear wives.«

D'Artagnan's voice held a dangerous undertone. The discussion of whether she should resign as lieutenant was nobody's business but hers and Grégoire's! As if Jussac would ever have to put up with those questions from his best friends! He was just as much a father, husband and soldier, but no one blamed him for that.

»Madeleine’s pregnant.«

D'Artagnan blinked and turned to Bernajoux. »Is she?«

He nodded and the scars on his face formed a happy smile. It faded abruptly and he shook his head. »Maybe I should give up the soldier's life. For her, for our child.«

»Is that what you want?«

»Have never known anything else. It'd be... hard.«

D'Artagnan chewed on her lower lip. Ashamed, because her first thought on this joyful announcement had not been a hearty congratulations, but the fear that Bernajoux might resign and leave Paris with Madeleine. She shook off her disconcerting selfishness and smiled confidently. »Whatever decision Madeleine and you come to together about this, it will be the right one. I'm so happy for both of you! So, when do you think the birth will be?«

»A couple of months yet.«

»What, so soon? How is Madeleine? Have you found a good midwife? Prepared a room? You didn't buy any layette yet, I can see it in your face, you haven't even given it a thought! It's all left to Madeleine, I should have known. Men! I've to meet her, yes, I'll visit her and lend her a hand. I've sorted out some things the children have outgrown. I'm sure she can still use a lot of it!«

D'Artagnan apparently did not notice that in her suddenly inflamed, anticipatory eagerness, she did not give poor Bernajoux a chance to answer. Nor did she notice Biscarat's broad grin. »You'd better keep those things.«

»Huh? Why?«

Biscarat pretended innocence. »Who knows, it's just a guess.« His gaze glanced fleetingly at d'Artagnan, but lingered a little too long on her womb to leave any doubt about his insinuations.

D'Artagnan wrinkled her nose and dismissed all friendly 'guessing'. »I am not pregnant.«

»Of course, of course.« Biscarat dropped the subject and nodded at Bernajoux. »Tonight, at the Fir Cone? Josepha will save us the best seats, we'll booze ourselves about your happiness until you no longer can run away from it!«

Bernajoux growled in agreement and endured Biscarat's friendly mockery all the way beyond the gates of the Palais Royal. There the escort was relieved of its duties and d'Artagnan sent guardsmen and musketeers back to their usual posts.

She herself, after a diversion to Magister Travert, the trustworthy physician of the Red Guard, made her way into the gardens of the palace.

*~*~*~*~*

The Palais Cardinal had been called Palais Royal for two years now. The enormous palace had become the property of the royal family after Richelieu's death. The Louvre was a never-finished building project, subject to constant expansion and change. It lacked luxury and the necessary tranquillity, and so the Queen Mother had unceremoniously moved with her sons to another domicile of even greater splendour and radiance.

Malicious tongues claimed that the decision was also taken at Cardinal Mazarin's instigation so that he was able to exercise the greatest control over the royal family. He was the godfather and educator of the child king, and was also alleged to be having a secret affair with Anne of Austria. She was said to have fallen for the seductive looks and engaging personality of Jules Mazarin, Giulio Mazzarino.

Little Louis XIV was not bothered by the rumours and intrigues at the royal court. He may have been the king, but he was also a boy of only five years old; he played and frolicked in the palace gardens as carefree as any other child, seeking his own adventures.

He had just escaped from his two governesses playing hide-and-seek by crouching in the tall reeds by an out-of-the-way pond. He pressed a hand over his mouth so as not to giggle loudly and thus give himself away. Madame de Lansac was already calling for him anxiously, but Louis made no noise and watched the adults running around nervously between the dense stalks. They would never find him, he was the greatest master of hide-and-seek!

The courtiers and ladies-in-waiting continued to run around looking for him while shouting. None of them had the idea of searching outside the alleyways of trees and porticoes. Perhaps because they could not imagine scratching their hands in the bushes or getting their clothes dirty in the flower beds. They just made no effort!