The Secret Lily E-Book

M. von Strom

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

Seitenzahl: 835

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Paris - 1635 For almost ten years now, Mademoiselle Charlotte de Batz-Castelmore lives in Paris and for seven of those years she serves as the valiant Charles Chevalier d'Artagnan in His Majesty's Musketeers. Disguised as a man, she leads a life that would otherwise never be possible for her; free from the constraints of social conventions, self-determined and truly adventurous! No one suspects the disaster that is already looming over Charlotte d'Artagnan and which originates from the very people she trusts the most...

Leseprobe

M. von Strom

The Secret Lily

Inprint

Texte: © Copyright by Maren von Strom

Umschlag: © Copyright by Maren von Strom, Peter Gärtner

Illustration; Plan de Paris de Mérian, Opensource

Verlag: Maren von Strom

Blumenstraße 20

42119 Wuppertal

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Druck: epubli - ein Service der neopubli GmbH, Berlin

1. Auflage 2022

The Secret Lily Part I - Fighting a lost cause

Chapter 1

When d’Artagnan walked through the main gate on this monday in the year of 1635 into the Musketeers’ headquarters that morning, she had no idea that it would be her last time as the regiment’s lieutenant.

For almost ten years now, Mademoiselle Charlotte de Batz-Castelmore was living in Paris and for seven of those years she served as the valiant Charles Chevalier d’Artagnan in the ranks of the musketeers. Hardly anyone knew the secret of her gender, although various friends and enemies had revealed it over time.

Of her friends, only the Comte de Rochefort remained; Porthos had been the first to leave to marry a rich lawyer’s widow. Aramis disappeared one day and was not heard from again until he joined a monastery and became an abbé. Athos was at the lieutenant’s side for five more years, always an honourable and reliable friend. Then he inherited and resumed his good name as Comte de la Fère.

Since then, d’Artagnan has made some superficial acquaintances, but no new friends. The risk was too high - although she could not only be sure of the intercession of Captain de Tréville, but also knew that Rochefort, a creature of the Cardinal, was on her side - of coming into contact with people who would have betrayed her secret.

In the regiment she was respected and esteemed a lieutenant by everyone. Charlotte did not aspire to a higher rank, she could already lead a life that would otherwise never have been possible for her as a woman; free from the constraints of social conventions, self-determined and often enough adventurous.

The permanent masquerade could be tiresome; sometimes she felt lonely. Perhaps, at some point, she would follow the example of Athos, Porthos and Aramis and choose a new path. But not yet. Now she was content with her life as an officer in the Royal Musketeers and there was nothing she would rather have exchanged it for.

No one suspected the disaster that was already looming over d’Artagnan, and which had its origins in the very people she trusted the most…

As on any other day, she climbed the stairway to the captain’s study to hang out the sentry schedule and receive the orders for the day. The headquarters was as busy as ever. One had to be a pretty woman or an officer to make a way past the soldiers, supplicants, guests and servants. D’Artagnan would never have had to use a dress; everyone got out of the lieutenant’s way willingly. She loved this hustle and bustle. Between card games and weapons practice, crude jokes and camaraderie, she has found her place, a family.

As she passed, the musketeers greeted her politely and respectfully. Over the years, d’Artagnan has made a reputation for herself among the men as being no less a good superior than Tréville. She knew how to give reasonable orders, which she would not have shied away from carrying out herself, stood up for the musketeers when there was a duel to answer for, had a sympathetic ear when there was trouble and could assert herself with word and deed if it became necessary.

She was still hotheaded, just as she was loyal. You would never have heard anyone whispering about ‘feminine weaknesses’ behind closed doors, because d’Artagnan covered up every treacherous temper with gasconian impudence, almost rudeness; besides, she was quite good with the sword, it was better not to challenge her.

When she now entered the study, she was surprised to find Monsieur de Tréville’s adjutant Duprés sitting at the desk instead of the captain. He looked up worriedly from a letter in his hands and d’Artagnan instinctively closed the door behind her before anyone in the anteroom could have taken a curious look into the room. She stepped closer and asked, barely louder than the ticking of the grandfather clock, »What happened?«

Duprés pretended to be composed, but there was still dismay in his expression. »Monsieur de Tréville is under arrest.«

»…pardon?«

»Read for yourself.« He passed the letter to a completely perplexed lieutenant. D’Artagnan almost ripped it out of his hand and hastily skimmed the lines. The message was sent directly from the Bastille and contained no more than the terse information that Arnaud Comte du Peyrer, called de Tréville, had been arrested that morning and transferred to prison. He was accused of a forbidden duel.

»What the devil-?! Duprés?«

»I know no more than that, monsieur le lieutenant.«

The adjutant shrugged helplessly. He already served the captain of the musketeers for many years and yes, there had been duels before. Cardinal Richelieu had them banned on pain of death, which did not change much among true men of honour. But imprisonment has never occurred; the town guard discreetly overlooked which disputes were settled and in what manner.

D’Artagnan read the message once more, thoroughly now, looking for an explanation. Why did the guard interfere this time after all? Had Tréville messed with the wrong person? »Is there no hint at all of his adversary? Mordieux, has the captain been wounded? We must see him at once!«

D’Artagnan was about to storm out of the room in dire apprehension, but Duprés held her back. He had expected a heated attitude from the lieutenant, rash reaction. That was how he knew the other officer and today he had to call for reason instead of Tréville.

»You must go to the Louvre, to see His Majesty. I will hold the line here and reassure the Musketeers until this matter is resolved.«

»…yes.« D’Artagnan regained her composure and pushed aside the concern for her captain in favour of a wiser course of action. Tréville himself would also have left immediately for the Louvre to get his musketeers out of custody - and he would have given them a proper telling off later. Or praised them, if the Cardinal’s guardsmen had been taught a lesson and the King was secretly proud of them.

»The news will also have reached the palace by now. I shall be on my way without delay.«

»Understood.«

Duprés has hardly finished speaking when d’Artagnan rushed out of the study. The adjutant shook his head and had his own thoughts one the matter before turning his attention to the orders and tasks of the day.

Only once did he hesitate. As he worked through the pile of watch reports from yesterday, he found a note in barely legible handwriting, as if it had been hastily written. Duprés first deciphered the recipient as Chevalier A., then the sender as the Comte de R. and in between the invitation to a rendezvous at the usual time and place.

Duprés raised a brow. Apparently, a personal message to d’Artagnan has got caught between the reports. Perhaps the lieutenant lost it in a hurry or had even used the note as a bookmark and then forgotten about it.

One could have interpreted the request for a meeting as an appointment for a duel - and presumably Tréville had also read the message when he had leafed through the pile of papers…

~~~~*

While d’Artagnan hurried to the Louvre in great worry, the captain of the musketeers stared sullenly down at Paris out of a barred window.

It was a gloomy day, the clouds were grey and heavy in the sky, the night refused to give way. It was not raining, but an unpleasant drizzle lingered in the air, making clothes clammy, creeping into people’ bones and making the ramparts of the Bastille shine damply.

Outside the cell door, the guards’ footsteps could occasionally be heard. A water jug stood by the cot, a hole on the outside wall was supposed to serve as a privy. A disgusting smell emanated from there.

However, the Bastille was not a dark hellhole; on the contrary, it was considered more of a luxury prison for high-ranking people. And yet it was anything but cosy here and Tréville was far from proud to boast of being important enough to have ended up here.

He had not been handcuffed and was treated reasonably respectfully, commensurate with his rank and status. Almost politely, he had been led to this cell after the formalities in the guardroom were done.

The arrest itself had been less friendly. One moment he was facing his opponent, already slightly out of breath after a fierce exchange of blows, the next they were allies in resisting the town guard.

They had no chance against the superior force and after a humiliating march through the town, the duellists finally found themselves here. Together in this cell. Maybe someone out there was hoping that they would kill each other after all, if they were locked up together.

Of course, the two men did no one that favour! Instead, they had come to terms by choosing their places in the cell separated from each other as much as possible.

His cellmate sat on the wooden cot and watched the captain intently as he now turned away from the window and began a restless walk back and forth with a scowl on his face.

Patience was not a strength of a Gascon temperament, especially as so many things hung in the balance. Was the King already informed of this incident? Could they expect mercy or to be used as a warning example? When would they get out of here and what would happen then?

And yet it was ire more than worry that Tréville felt. Anger at his own stupidity more than at the Comte de Rochefort, who was still watching him from the cot and knew much better how to hide his own thoughts.

It was impossible to tell whether the cardinal’s stable master was also angry, or at least annoyed of the situation. He leaned against the wall, not caring that his good clothes got dirty in the process. He acted almost as if it was not the first time he was locked up here and seemed to face the future with some serenity. Rather, he seemed amused to see the captain of the musketeers wandering restlessly through the cell.

When Tréville realised this, he stopped abruptly and stared challengingly at the other. Rochefort seemed to have been waiting to no longer be ignored and asked, »Well?«

»What?!« the captain snapped at him, annoyed at the same moment at not having a better control of himself.

Rochefort remained calm and offered no surface for Tréville to attack. »Since you are responsible for forcing me to spend my precious time with you, I suppose I have a right to know why.«

»Bah!«

Rochefort did not get any more of an answer, instead Tréville turned demonstratively towards the window again and appeared to feel sorry for himself. At least that was how Rochefort interpreted his expression, which alternated between anger and melancholy. The master spy almost wanted to shake his head and to fall back in silence at so much stubbornness but, the heck with it! It was not only Tréville’s head that was at stake and Rochefort finally wanted to know what he was supposed to be responsible for!

Yesterday he had received a message by Tréville to meet him the next morning behind the old Carmelite monastery. It was clearly not a friendly invitation to a conversation among old acquaintances, but a demand for a duel. Rochefort had complied, if only to ask what might have gotten into the captain. An answer was yet to be given, for the town guards had arrested them soon enough. For himself, Rochefort summarised the events once more.

»We are accused of a forbidden duel, a fact that can hardly be denied, even if we agree on a different story. Your invitation was unmistakable, but I can think of no reason for it. You will not have been seeking a mere diversion from the humdrum of daily life. Or did you miss sorely the cardinal’s attention and wanted to provoke a quarrel?«

Tréville snorted snidely, but his jaws were grinding. Rochefort knew he was not on the right scent. Sheer boredom would hardly have led the captain to such foolishness. What slight had he unknowingly inflicted on Tréville that he was to be beaten up for it? What knowledge did he seem to hold that he was wanted dead for it? He kept poking around, hoping for a lucky hit.

»I was told you have already been in a dreadful mood yesterday.«

Tréville wheeled around angrily. »So, that is what you heard? Did d’Artagnan tell you that, eh?«

»D’Artagnan?«

Slowly, a suspicion began to creep into Rochefort’s mind. Indeed, she had been with him in the evening. A friendly visit, as it happened once in almost every week. The cardinal’s command to make peace had turned into real trust over time. At one point trust could have turned into something more, but they both found that they were better off as friends and that’s about it.

But d’Artagnan spoke to Rochefort more frankly than she would have dared to anyone else, especially after Anne-Louise de Tréville’s passing three years ago. He almost asked her yesterday if she knew about Tréville’s demand. He had decided against it and, for the sake of their friendship, kept private and official matters separate. Perhaps a mistake.

»What makes you first think that d’Artagnan would tell me that, when there are enough agents around who could share such an open secret with me?«

»I was told that Charl-« Tréville mimicked sarcastically and then hesitated. He glanced at the door, and just in time it occurred to him that they were possibly being overheard, and that some secrets needed to remain a secret. »-d’Artagnan was with you last evening.«

»It seems we are both well informed about each other. Wait! You suspect your brave, faithful lieutenant of gossiping with me about you?«

»Is it like that?«

»Do you think it could be like that?«

Tréville did not respond and that was answer enough. Could Rochefort really have stumbled on the reason for the duel? Poor Charlotte! Apparently she was forbidden to have at least one friend outside the regiment, especially if he was a creature of the cardinal.

»Interesting. What might d’Artagnan have told me of such importance that you would kill me for it? Have you been mentioned at all in my parlour yesterday? Hmm…«

Rochefort tapped his chin and acted as if he were thinking hard. But there was nothing worth remembering. Yesterday they had emptied a bottle of good Malaga, talked about this and that and finished a game of chess from their last meeting. Then they had said goodbye until next week - and yet now a steep wrinkle of anger appeared on Tréville’s forehead.

»It would be highly improper if I was the subject of conversation at your private rendezvous.«

»Jealousy?« Rochefort finally understood what had got into the captain and laughed. »How delightful! I should have known sooner, all the signs were there!«

»Don’t talk nonsense!« Tréville paled in a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

Watching him writhed like a worm because he was seen through was almost worth be imprisoned. Rochefort waved it off in amusement. »I can be as silent as the dead, even should we escape unscathed after all. Solely to spare a friend the scandal.«

He asked no price for his silence. This knowledge brought neither him nor the cardinal any advantage, and these feelings had never been entirely unsuspected; especially since Anne-Louise de Tréville had left behind a grieving widower as a result of a brief, serious illness.

So Rochefort could have told d’Artagnan a nice story at their next meeting, about being mistaken for a rival; she probably suspected nothing of all this, she had never mentioned anything in this respect, when otherwise she had no secrets from him and would have told such a truth sooner or later, whether completely confused or perhaps even happy.

That she would hear about her captain’s jealousy, Tréville seemed to be more afraid of than of the King’s verdict and he snapped at the stable master, »Just keep your mouth shut!«

»Of course. But you ensure that we get out of here unharmed.« Whether the captain would take all the blame with an excuse and fall out of favour with His Majesty and his lieutenant was of no interest to Rochefort. He looked towards the cell door. »We’ve been here too long for my taste.«

»Do you not like this rat hole?«

»Maybe if I were a rat. But even then, there are definitely too many dogs here.«

»Some dogs are not confined to growling when a rat upsets them.«

»Which inevitably leads us to a kennel for the biting mutt. But perhaps his master will get us out soon?«

»He’s more likely to come to the unseemly beasts with a club.«

»Then we must hope for the intercession of a heroine.«

»But we must not tell her why we are here.«

»Not a word. We would not want to risk all the men turning out to be frogs right in front of her.«

»Let’s stop this.« Tréville turned back to the window and stared out into the unsettled weather.

After a while a absent smile appeared on his lips and Rochefort suspected he had spotted a ray of hope in the dark clouds. A very special one…

~~~~*

In the Louvre, people were already whispering, more or less behind closed doors, about the rumour of a forbidden duel and the resulting arrest. But they fell conspicuously silent when the musketeer lieutenant approached, only to spread the story all the more eagerly as soon as the officer was past the gossipers.

D’Artagnan’s jaws were grinding, her expression darkened with every whispered word, every furtive gesture, every chuckle behind her back. When she had left headquarters, she was still half hoping that the matter could be handled discreetly and that the King had not yet heard about it, but now, at the latest, she had been taught otherwise.

While the servants made an effort to see and hear everything, but to keep quiet about it, many aristocrats smiled smugly as soon as they saw the lieutenant. Tréville had no friends here as long as his reputation seemed to be on the wane. Favour and repugnance at royal court changed so quickly, depending on rumour and whim. It was a game no one could escape if they were part of this society.

The looks on the faces of the musketeers on guard at the double doors and staircases, on the other hand, showed no less unease and concern than d’Artagnan’s as she hurried to the audience chamber. Her arrival had already been reported to His Majesty and she needed not to ask for an audience; Louis XIII was eager to learn more about the matter - and to express his displeasure that one of the most honourable men of his retinue - the captain of his personal guard at that! - had been arrested.

The double doors to the hall had hardly opened for her when d’Artagnan heard the King’s angry voice.

»There you are at last! Come closer!«

Louis was dressed in hunting clothes. He had obviously wanted to pass time and boredom on an excursion before the news had reached him. The fact that he had not dressed appropriately before granting an audience, showed his displeasure all the more. Nor did he sit enthroned on the exalted chair, but stood by in sincere anger, impatiently whipping a riding crop against his boots.

If Louis had just imperiously beckoned to the officer, he now turned his head in another direction. D’Artagnan followed his gaze out of the corner of her eye as she stepped forward, and she was not surprised to see His Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu.

Apparently, the Prime Minister had been summoned from his Palais, straight up from the desk, for his fingertips were still black with ink. He held his hands folded, giving a scene of humility for God and the king; but he stood upright and anything but submissive near the throne.

D’Artagnan hid her thoughts behind a stony countenance. Of course Richelieu was present if the accusation against one of his arrant enemies was being heard.

She was half mistaken, as she learned as soon as she bowed deeply before king and cardinal to satisfy protocol. Louis XIII ignored the gesture and snapped at d’Artagnan and Richelieu alike.

»Messieurs Rochefort and Tréville! In a duel! Those two! It is those two!« he repeated as if in a loss of words, upset and stunned at the same time.

D’Artagnan was utterly perplexed to hear who the opponent of her captain had been - and that Richelieu was by no means celebrating triumph, but instead had to justify himself too.

The king raged on, »Is it not law? Was it not Our Word that forbade duels?«

D’Artagnan wisely kept quiet, lest she should end up saying the wrong thing and make matters much worse. Louis was still too furious to argue against this now, and to declare it all a misunderstanding, as Richelieu had certainly already tried to do in order to protect Rochefort.

Apparently unsuccessfully, for the king now ungraciously judged, »They must be punished!«

So things were even worse than d’Artagnan has expected up to now. She was preparing to object, whether it was wise or not. But Richelieu beat her to it by making a barely perceptible gesture in her direction that she was to remain silent before he himself spoke up to His Majesty with angelic tongues.

»Your word is both law and judgment, Sire. Is it not of interest to know why two otherwise always blameless men of honour should have fought each other?«

The king hesitated, Richelieu seemed to have got through to him and had averted a hasty judgement. Louis wheeled around and pointed an imperious forefinger at d’Artagnan.

»You will go and question these men of honour! You will be liable with your head for a truthful answer by them!«

D’Artagnan froze as if thunderstruck. Precisely because they were men of honour, Rochefort and Tréville would never give the reason for their private quarrel!

By the Devil, Rochefort must have already kept quiet about it yesterday and her captain had seen no reason to made her privy to it either! So the gentlemen would have told an excuse now as well. Only that Louis demanded the lieutenant’s head would have forced them to tell the truth, if they cared anything for d’Artagnan.

She clenched her fist behind her back at the inappropriate blackmail that had been spoken in anger. Instead, she bowed her head, to have it have cut off immediately. »Yessire.«

His Majesty still seemed incensed and at the same time pleased to have regained the upper hand. Richelieu knew better. He saw it in d’Artagnan’s expression and he heard it from her answer pressed out between her teeth; she would never bow to blackmail, would rather have her head cut off than betray her captain or threaten a friend like Rochefort.

That was why he said, »Liable with the head, Sire? What a waste on a good officer!«

Louis was taken aback by the objections. But since they were made by Richelieu, he listened to them and frowned. He looked at d’Artagnan and only now did it seem to dawn on him whose life he was putting at risk for no reason.

He chewed on his beard as he realised the consequences and resented having made a mistake and not being able to take it back because of royal infallibility. The lieutenant of the musketeers, although he did not know of her real gender, had become dear to him over the years, no less than Tréville himself, whom he wanted to punish but not condemn to death, as the law provided. All the more gratefully he grasped the saving hand that his Prime Minister, his supreme advisor, now offered him.

Richelieu smiled narrowly and this sent a cold shiver down d’Artagnan’s spine even before the cardinal had voiced his suggestion aloud. »You are figuratively demanding the lieutenant’s head. I understand, Sire. What a brilliant idea!«

The king blinked. »Certainly?«

»If you wish to shorten the musketeers by a head as punishment, I will take it. Allow me to have d’Artagnan serve in my red guard should the lieutenant fail to learn the true circumstances.«

»Monseigneur!« d’Artagnan exclaimed, turning pale at the half bet between king and cardinal.

But Louis XIII was quite taken with this turn of events, with his ostensibly own idea. He smiled broadly and mischievously like a child, a rascal who had nothing but nonsense in his head.

»Granted!«

D’Artagnan had no doubt that Richelieu gratefully seized this opportunity to deal Tréville a much heavier blow than a few days’ imprisonment and the king’s displeasure could ever have done.

Whatever the outcome, this time the cardinal would win…

Chapter 2

Rochefort opened one eye when, for the first time in hours, he heard a sound other than the occasional melancholy sigh of his cellmate. Something was happening in front of the door to their prison, he heard the rattle of keys and he sat up on the hard cot.

‘At last!’, was also to be read from Tréville’s expression. ‘At last’ something was happening in this matter, whether it be good or bad; at least they had not been forgotten here.

There was a loud click in the lock, then the door swung open, revealing at first a guard, fully equipped with helmet, breastplate and pike. In the Bastille, the guards wore colourful plumes, polished and shining armour, as if they were an honour guard to the prisoners rather than a strict watch.

Rochefort got stiff-legged to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tréville’s scowl against the guard, who, unimpressed, stepped aside and allowed another person to enter.

Something stirred in the captain’s face. Tréville’s expression showed not only surprise, but also relief, which seemed to alternate with embarrassment. His bad mood of the last few hours brightened, so imperceptibly that only the people most familiar to him would have noticed it.

Like his lieutenant, for instance, who now entered the cell.

D’Artagnan did not seem particularly taken with having to be here. She appeared to feel rather foolish to find her captain and the stable master in the Bastille. Her gaze only fleetingly skimmed the two men to reassure herself of their well-being. Then she turned to the guard and took note of his full armament and suspicious attitude, ready at any moment to stand up to the prisoners with a bare weapon. She frowned.

»That will hardly be necessary.«

»Strictly to rule, Sir!«

»Violate the rule! Or I have to remind myself that your dear cousin has neglected his guard duty for a more amusing occasion.«

The guard angrily swallowed a reply and, for the sake of his dear cousin, backed down. In times like these, when patronage and nepotism flourished, someone was always known to or related to someone and stood up for them, for better or for worse.

The door closed behind the guard moments later and Rochefort shared an amused smirk with d’Artagnan as she turned back. It faded from her lips as her gaze went to Tréville.

The captain was in a grim mood, and covered over any glad relief. »Report!«

D’Artagnan assumed a obedient posture, as if they were not standing in a cell and thus at the end of all hierarchies. »I have been sent from the Louvre. His Majesty wishes to know the reason for this duel.«

She eyed the gentlemen less curiously than with concern. The news she brought was not particularly surprising. Unpleasant, certainly. But it seemed to worry d’Artagnan more than the accused themselves. She looked troubled, not just uncomfortable. »I have been unable to obtain an order for your release.«

»Nor was that to be expected of you,« Tréville replied with a strange emphasis that made d’Artagnan blink.

Rochefort guessed correctly that she was not used to such sharp words, such a gratuitous rebuke from her captain’s mouth. He interfered, shrugging, »We will exercise patience«, …and match our stories to each other.

D’Artagnan could easily guess his thoughts. »King Louis wants to know the true reason.« She hesitated and seemed to struggle with herself before adding, »You will be summoned to the Louvre. His Majesty is very displeased about this incident.«

Tréville seemed to have a sneaking suspicion that she was hiding something and he snarled at her, »Shall our heads roll? Go on, out with it, Lieutenant!«

D’Artagnan flinched almost unnoticeable. »No, certainly not that.«

»But?«

»Nothing more I have to report,« she assured them a little too hastily and let her eyes wander through the cell. »I will instruct the guard to accommodate you properly.«

Rochefort laughed out. »Ah, you will blackmail him!«

»No,« d’Artagnan said between gritted teeth, and added sarcastically, a replica to her captain’s harsh words, »I suppose that is to be expected of a lieutenant, to stand up authoritatively to a common guard.«

Tréville remained guiltily silent without letting on and Rochefort felt like laughing at him. But to spare d’Artagnan embarrassment, he refrained from interfering more than he should have in the affairs between a captain and his highly esteemed lieutenant.

Where they would otherwise have said goodbye to each other with a friendly handshake, a brief hug, Rochefort now only nodded to her before d’Artagnan pounded on the door with one fist, more insistently and loudly than necessary. The guard opened and let her out.

Even as the prisoners were locked up again, Rochefort heard, muffled from the corridor, the lieutenant’s authority being used.

~~~~*

The king left them to stew for a few more hours before Tréville and Rochefort were taken out of their cell, given the opportunity to make themselves somewhat presentable and then taken straight to the Louvre. They boarded a carriage and thus escaped all too curious glances and the greatest ridicule during the short ride through Paris.

They were united in their story; they would deny any duel and assure Louis only of the greatest friendship between them. It would not be the first political and dishonest brotherly kiss, but who would prove them wrong? Their word and honour against the town guard, who had completely misinterpreted a friendly skirmish at the Carmelite monastery, a private fencing lesson. In the end, it depended solely on His Majesty’s whim whether the matter was settled or whether they would have to earn his favour anew.

They had no idea that it had long since ceased to be about them alone, although they both became suspicious when they were brought before the king in the audience hall and found d’Artagnan near to Cardinal Richelieu.

The lieutenant stood a little apart and looked past everyone present with a stiff stare. Neither Rochefort nor Tréville succeeded in making at least brief eye contact with her and thus in finding out in advance whether matters stood reasonably well for the gentlemen; perhaps it was all the worse a sign if even d’Artagnan avoided them.

She probably already saw herself in the position of being the new captain of the musketeers and secretly rejoiced!

Tréville angrily pushed the thought aside. More in a rage at himself that it had even crossed his mind and what insinuations lay in it. The time in prison had given him too much opportunity to brood. About his own stupid mistakes in more ways than one. How disgustingly obvious and affectionate the friendship between Rochefort and d’Artagnan had been made to him in the cell during her short visit, how familiar they were with each other, and how wrong he had been about his own wishes and hopes!

He pushed it far away from him, buried these feelings deeper within by each step to the throne and had completely forgotten about them the moment he bowed to the king.

Rochefort did the same and caught a barely perceptible gesture from the cardinal out of the corner of his eye. It was a placating sign that everything was for the best for the stable master and at the same time an indication that this audience was also a turning point.

Richelieu expected a victory; Rochefort, after all these years in his service, was well able to interpret his master. D’Artagnan was not here as the king’s musketeer, not as an intercessor for her superior; she had to be a witness at this trial, and she visibly wished herself to be elsewhere. She stared at the tips of her boots with closed ears, rather than listen now to the explanation of the captain and the stable master.

Both propounded it as agreed and the king listened to them with a o’erclouded brow, without interrogation or reproach. His righteous ire wrapped him in silence, the calm before the storm.

His Majesty was displeased, the lie was too obvious. Any man of honour would have told a story like this. For example, to keep the good name of a woman clean, because of whom a quarrel had been fought. It was a well-known and permitted game, but, unknowingly to Rochefort and Tréville, the rules had changed. They realised it with every word they uttered and still stuck to their excuses.

»So that is how it was, Messieurs?« Louis XIII leaned back on the throne, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly that his knuckles stood out white. »A harmless meeting between friends?«

»Yes, Sire.«

A nearly endless moment passed. Then the king made his judgment. »Well, then. The word of two men of honour We shall not doubt. The incident may be forgotten.«

Ludwig imperiously beckoned the men to leave, and the gesture clearly spoke of a warning not to come under his eyes again soon. Their punishment; the disfavour of the royal court for a few days or weeks.

Rochefort accepted it, it could also have ended with further imprisonment or straight at the executioner. The punishment hit Tréville, who was far more dependent on the goodwill and opinion of society, harder and yet was no more than a small pinprick that would soon be cured.

Seconds later, the prick turned out to be a stab in the back. Just as the captain of the musketeers was about to bow rudely, blatantly in his foul mood - which of all the courtiers only Tréville dared to do in front of the king - Richelieu interfered and spoke in a silken voice, »Sire, may I remind…«

»We have not forgotten, Eminence!« Louis interrupted him gruffly, displeased at having lost a bet, and he barked at d’Artagnan, »Step forward!«

D’Artagnan abruptly detached herself from her place in the background. With long strides she passed the men who were watching suspiciously. She bent one knee before the king, her head bowed, her hair a dark curtain so that no one could see her face.

Ungraciously, His Majesty laid all the blame on her. »The truth should have been told today. You were hold liable for that with your head!«

»Yes, Sire,« replied d’Artagnan tonelessly, while at her back Tréville froze and Rochefort understood.

»So I shall cut off one head of the Musketeers!«, Louis continued, feeling pleased with himself in the metaphor. He symbolically waved a hand through the air and in the same movement handed the trophy to Richelieu. »A new guardsman for His Eminence.«

»Sire-!« started Tréville in loud protest, and was promptly silenced.

»Our word is law!«, the king thundered against any objection, beckoning d’Artagnan to rise. She did so obediently like a loyal soldier, but with a pale countenance and lowered eyes.

Rochefort was with her at once. He wanted to stand by a friend in a dark hour, but d’Artagnan seemed to misinterpret his gesture completely. She took a step backwards as if to resist being arrested.

Tréville almost intervened, but then remained in place, fists clenched and expression petrified. So that was what d’Artagnan had not told them in the cell. She had known how this audience would end. She had decided, quite deliberately, not to tell them anything and had accepted the punitive reassignment. As if she had wanted it that way, even wished for it!

D’Artagnan obeyed without protest, without a silent plea for help to Tréville, when Richelieu ordered her, »Go, and be present tomorrow morning in my study, punctually, at the start of duty!«

She nodded curtly, turned on her heel and strode out of the hall with her head held high. She marched more stiffly than necessary, hoping that she would be followed, that she would be held back and not be abandoned.

But this fairy tale knew nothing but frogs and no heroes.

Chapter 3

When the double doors to the audience hall were closed by the sentinels, when the former lieutenant of the Musketeers was vanished by this from any view and angry confusion, Rochefort looked at his master. He struggled to keep a neutral mien, far from any criticism.

Richelieu must nevertheless have recognised his displeasure at the questionable fate of a friend. He asked to be allowed to withdraw and signalled to Rochefort to accompany him.

The stable master gave Tréville, who continued to stand as if petrified, a meaningful look as he passed. It was not too late to tell the truth. To let the king win a lost bet after all. Or at least to find a better excuse, which Rochefort would have joined immediately, without revealing d’Artagnan’s true identity to Louis XIII and thus depriving her likewise of her rank - and her freedom.

What the captain decided in the end, whether he took the blame and a punishment upon himself or kept silent in grim anger and instead schemed to murder the cardinal, Rochefort did not find out. He was already following Richelieu out of the Louvre, giving him escort along the Rue St. Honoré to the his palace and accompanying him to his study, over which the intimidatingly large desk of dark palisander stood guard in the absence of its owner.

Richelieu took a seat and picked up a quill as if barely more time had passed between the audience and now than for a brief pause for reflection. A document lay ready on the table, only lacking a seal and signature, which the cardinal now added.

Rochefort watched this waitingly and guessed that the paper was a conscription order. So the whole affair had been planned, the documents were already prepared and he was displeased not to have been in the know.

Richelieu let the ink and wax dry, folded the letter and handed it to Rochefort. »See to it that our newest guardsman does not leave the town head over heels, but appears here tomorrow morning.«

Obedient as usual, Rochefort acknowledged the order, stashed the papers in the inside pocket of his coat - and hesitated to dispose of the command immediately.

In all his years of service to the cardinal, he had experienced many a dubious political manoeuvre, survived some unpleasant intrigues or even carried them out himself. There had always been a higher purpose behind it, some seemingly arbitrary attacks had in the end made sense in a larger context.

But now he failed to see the reason for d’Artagnan’s reassignment. There had to be a better one than that of having dealt a heavy blow to an adversary without getting any real gain out of it. D’Artagnan might have been forced into the cardinal’s service, but her loyalty was to Tréville and His Majesty still.

His hesitation, his doubts did not escape Richelieu, neither made Rochefort a secret of it. In the audience hall, before friend and foe, he had remained silent. But now, when they were in private in the study, he asked frankly, without begging for permission in advance, »Why?«

»You question my instructions?«

»Never, Monseigneur. I am trying to understand recent events.« Even to his own ears, too much impuissance sounded in the words, too much dissatisfaction. »It is not my place, this curiosity, and yet it is in the nature of my profession and my character.«

A faint smile played on the cardinal’s lips, who valued Rochefort enough to pardon him such talk. »It is in your character and your profession to already know the answers and yet to continue to investigate.«

»So as not to draw the wrong conclusions.«

Richelieu allowed Rochefort to continue, he wanted to hear these conclusions. »Go ahead.«

»The most obvious explanation would be that a bitter adversary has been severely weakened today. But bearing in mind that you could have withdrawn the lieutenant of the musketeers by other means at any time, the question occurs to me; why now?«

»You know that answer too, Comte.«

Rochefort nodded. »Because now was the occasion on which His Majesty had to agree to this step, where otherwise he would have vehemently refused.«

»Base motives, a good opportunity.« The cardinal sighed. »Indeed, there is no great idea behind it. True, the matter might come in handy for us in the future. Perhaps a second Milady in our service, a female agent. But that is a long way to go, likely never to happen.«

Rochefort listened to this confession in wonder, almost stunned. He had hoped to be wrong, to find a meaning behind supposed malice, behind vain power games. Something that would have better suited as an explanation, something that he could tell d’Artagnan to save their friendship.

But there was nothing.

»Just to harm Tréville, to weaken the Musketeers, and by extension the King.«

A fine smile adorned Richelieu’s countenance. It was not directed at his own triumph, but at the revealed thoughts of his stable master. Rochefort was an ever-loyal reflection in comparison to Tréville. What he thought and understood, so did the captain of the musketeers - and obviously it was not to Rochefort’s taste to see d’Artagnan coming under fire. Indeed, he did not like it at all so that he dared to openly contradict, that he, regardless of the risk, rebelled against the cardinal and put everything on the line.

»This duel had a cause, which need not be fathomed further.« Richelieu leaned back in his chair, the equivalent of a shrug. »You must give the matter time, Comte.«

Rochefort blinked as he understood the message between the lines. Tréville’s actual reaction was still pending. What would the captain be willing to do to get his lieutenant back?

The whole affair was not just due to a perfidious whim, there was in fact a bigger idea behind it. The stable master might not yet fully understand it, perhaps it presupposed another good opportunity, but all this was not done solely to cause the greatest possible harm.

The thought halfway reconciled Rochefort to the matter for the time being and he remembered his orders; to ensure that d’Artagnan did not commit desertion. The cardinal had given away a trump card, his knowledge of d’Artagnan’s identity, which could no longer be used against the Musketeers without harming the Red Guard in the same breath. In exchange, he had taken two new cards into his hand; An outstanding trade with Tréville for his lieutenant, who by then would be a capable soldier in Richelieu’s own ranks. Possibly even an agent if things went that way.

»I will do what is necessary, Monseigneur.«

»You have full rein.«

With this permission, Rochefort was dismissed and he used it to act not only as the cardinal’s creature but also as a friend. D’Artagnan was about to face rough days as an enemy among enemies, despised by new and old comrades alike for the change of regiment, the alleged betrayal. He could not intervene, but he could mitigate it, and so he went to find the lieutenant of the red guard, Jussac.

It was not far to the guardroom. Rochefort had barely turned a few corners when he met Messieurs Bernajoux, Biscarat and Jussac on a gallery. The three men were standing by one of the pillars and seemed to be having a friendly conversation before going on duty.

Rochefort watched the trio. Bernajoux was the most taciturn of them, who only interspersed single words to the conversation. He outdid his friends by almost a head and enjoyed the reputation of being a true wrangler. Whenever one had heard of a duel against musketeers, Bernajoux had certainly been there. The scuffles had left visible marks, which told more than any words. Biscarat often made fun of him, saying that if he was only half as dexterous in speech as he was with his blade, no dame could resist him. But with that scarred face, alas!, he would only be half a Lancelot, not yet disfigured enough to be fascinating to women.

Speaking of Biscarat! Like d’Artagnan, he, too, originated from Gascony. His Spanish mother had inherited not only particularly dark and beautiful eyes to him, but also a strict Catholicism in the land of the Cathars and fin’amor. His knowledge of the Spanish language and customs often earned him important missions when Rochefort was absent. However, Biscarat was fully satisfied to be a guardsmen and only occasionally a spy, diplomat or simply an interpreter.

Jussac was very pleased with this attitude, as it meant that he did not lose one of his best men to Rochefort. The lieutenant proudly wore the uniform of the guards. It had become a second skin for him over the years, which he could not remove. He would not have wanted it either, the cardinal’s guard was always on duty and vigilant.

The commanders of other regiments often tried to poach Jussac, luring him with promotions and numerous privileges. He always refused, his loyalty was to Richelieu, and the cardinal rewarded him with respect for his merits and an increase in pay.

Jussac bore a lot of responsibility and frequently had a scowl on his face, especially when he saw His Eminence’s stable master approaching. Like at that very moment.

»Jussac!« Rochefort ignored the barely restrained sighing of the lieutenant. It meant no disrespect to him, but was due to the experience that the stable master’s appearance usually meant trouble for the guard.

»Rochefort!« Jussac called back in an enthusiastic tone, as if he had stood at attention at every »Jump to it!« This could have been interpreted as pomposity, but Jussac was purely and simply not under Rochefort’s command; every now and then he had to remind the stable master of this.

Rochefort passed the group and briefly waved at Jussac to accompany him. Questioning looks were exchanged behind his back. Bernajoux and Biscarat seemed to suspect that Rochefort seriously meant business if he did not respond to the usual teasing between Jussac and himself.

The lieutenant told the two friends to wait for him and then followed the master spy to a servants’ entrance. There he asked, »What is so urgent? The changing of the guard is waiting.«

Rochefort beat vaguely around the bush. »I have an important request for you.«

»A… request?« That sounded personal. Jussac looked at his vis-à-vis with new attention. Rochefort seemed calm, but the lieutenant knew him for too many years not to be sceptical. »Not an order? Really?«

»Yes. I have a favour to ask you.«

»What, me?« Jussac made no secret of his astonishment and improved himself; it had to be very important to Rochefort when he asked him a favour. »For you?«

»For me.«

Silence fell after this. For long moments, the men stared at each other observantly. When Jussac finally realised that no further explanation would follow, he threw his hands up and exclaimed, »Yes, heavens! So if it lies within my powers, I will do you a favour! Without knowing beforehand what it is about. Now tell me!«

»Starting from tomorrow, the guard will have a new man in its ranks.«

Such announcements were usually not delivered by Rochefort. There had to be more to it than that. »Someone you know?«

»It is… a friend.« Rochefort outweighed the clear hesitation in his words by quickly adding, »I ask you to keep an eye on him.«

Jussac nodded slowly. »As a commanding officer? I can do that.«

He had a watchful eye on each of his men anyway, like the mother hen on her chicks. In these matters, he was in no way inferior to a Captain de Tréville, and one more guardsman would be of no consequence. But Jussac suspected that he would soon be in trouble because Rochefort suddenly turned an otherwise self-evident task in a personal favour.

»Thank you. I am in your debt.«

»Yes, damn it! You are in my debt and not for the first time! But far too often I forgot to make you pay. One of these days, Rochefort!«

»I will keep that in mind. Maybe.«

Before Jussac could react, Rochefort turned and walked away. He left behind a lieutenant who was equally baffled as he was annoyed. Jussac was too slow to think of a suitable response to this insolence, the stable master was already long out of reach and so Bernajoux and Biscarat got the whole whim of their superior when he rejoined them, muttering curses and imprecations.

»Rochefort?« asked Bernajoux in his usual short manner and Jussac growled between his teeth, »Certainly, Rochefort.«

»What did he want this time?« Biscarat found more words, even if that made him the target of Jussac’s wrath.

»You’ve to ask that?!«

»Trouble?« Bernajoux stood by his friend immediately to share Jussac’s anger fairly among them. His crooked nose twitched in amusement.

»Making trouble!« Jussac paused and took a deep breath. Although Rochefort had called him away from the others, he had not confided a secret to him in the end. He was allowed to tell them.

»Rochefort wishes me to keep a watchful eye on a new recruit in our ranks.«

»Whom?«

»He didn’t say.«

Bernajoux snorted. »Helpful.«

»Extraordinary! We’ll find out tomorrow who is foisted on us.« Jussac caught himself clenching one hand in a fist. He eased his fingers without feeling much better.

Meanwhile, Biscarat rubbed his chin thoughtfully. »That doesn’t sound good. Nepotism? Someone who isn’t cut out to be a guardsman and should learn under your wing? Someone who doesn’t belong here?« The spy in Biscarat suddenly seemed to continue this thought with a little too much enthusiasm. »Or he has a skeleton in his closet, he is someone under surveillance. Whose loyalty is not guaranteed. Possibly Rochefort is preparing a trap for him and-«

Jussac had to put a stop at this point before the Gascon got bogged down in heated speculation. »Heavens, I don’t know! As always, we’re only vicarious agents, with no right to get any explanations!«

Biscarat cleared his throat. »Did Rochefort mention nothing else?«

»He called him reservedly ‘a friend’.«

»Then he’s definitely not one!« said Biscarat gleefully and with his own logic.

Bernajoux, on the other hand, took a more pragmatic approach and said, »We’ll help you.«

Jussac achieved half a smile. Talking to his friends had dampened his anger. He could rely on their support. There has never been any talk of this task really was falling to the lieutenant alone.

»Rochefort will have six eyes at his service. He should be satisfied with that. Let’s leave it by that for now. To duty, shirkers!«

Bernajoux and Biscarat knew when the friend became the superior. They saluted obediently and then parted ways for today’s guard duty and patrols or, in Jussac’s case, for a consultation with the captain.

The lieutenant doubted that Luchaire had learned more from Rochefort and indeed, an hour later, Jussac could be quite sure of it; The captain, too, had been given this new addition without prior discussion, and he was not exactly happy about it.

Still no name, no background. Either Luchaire did not know or forgot to share his knowledge. Instead, he immediately passed the responsibility on to Jussac.

The lieutenant concealed the fact that Rochefort had already given him this honourable task…

Chapter 4

It was a sad entrance into the Musketeers’ headquarters that d’Artagnan made. A grave, final walk that had to be done.

She had made the way from the Louvre to here as if in reeling, as if paralysed and stunned, and it was only at the archway to the Hôtel de Tréville that she realised where her feet had carried her in old habit.

The coat of arms shone above the entrance, a golden lion on a red background. Around it was a bond with the motto fidelis et fortis. Faithful and brave. None of this seemed true any more.

D’Artagnan pulled herself together and went through the gate. From the courtyard, she was immediately greeted by a commotion that was usually only heard in the busy streets and squares. The place could have been mistaken for a tavern, so boisterous were the musketeers at their headquarters, undisciplined and disorderly, but in fact confident and proud.

They vociferously demonstrated that the rumours of their captain’s arrest could only be a misunderstanding, if not a bold-faced lie. They were waiting for news to confirm it or, if necessary, to indignantly set out and besiege the Bastille until Tréville returned to them!

D’Artagnan pulled her hat down low on her forehead, but her arrival did not go unnoticed for long. The musketeers besieged her with questions; they were reassured by her. The captain was well and presently still in audience with His Majesty. Soon he would be back and this whole affair just a fading absurdity, a misunderstanding.

The men shouted in triumph and laughed, not noticing that their former lieutenant sneaked off their midst quietly. She went up the stairs to the study one last time to also tell Duprés about the turn of events.

The adjutant heard it with relief and yet he noticed a strange undertone, d’Artagnan’s burdened mood, her melancholy glances towards the desk and the window.

She pushed aside any concerned question even before it could be asked. The men better not find out about her change of regiment early on. That would have led to an uproar, to imprecating Richelieu, in the worst case to a street battle between friend and foe in which good soldiers on both sides would be killed.

Moreover, d’Artagnan would have had to confess that she had laid her head on the block for Tréville and Rochefort. It would have been a shifting of all blame, a belated yielding to the blackmail by king and cardinal.

On her honour, never!

D’Artagnan half hoped, as she stiff-leggedly strode out of the study and followed the stairs down back into the inner courtyard, that now at this moment the captain would return. With good news that His Majesty had withdrawn his sentence, that she would be allowed to remain the lieutenant at Tréville’s side.

It was a foolish hope. Keeping quiet about the real reason for the duel must have been more important than her own fate. Otherwise a turning point could have been made right there in the audience hall. Tréville would have held her back and ordered her to go home and, ventredieu!, not to set foot in the Palais Cardinal until he had spoken and consulted with her in private.

There would have been a way if there had been a will.

Her own will now demanded her to remain silent and to be responsible for the reputation of the captain and the master spy. It could be called a mission. Yes, d’Artagnan told herself, it was a mission to be carried out with courage.

She had her horse saddled, a grey gelding whose name, Peur, deceived about his gentle and serene nature. She led him by the reins out of the courtyard, for he was no longer allowed to stay here.

The musketeers watched d’Artagnan leave in wonder, but it was not their place to ask why. Perhaps there had been orders given in the Louvre, there would be nothing unusual about that. So they let their lieutenant go.

Out on the street, d’Artagnan did not mount, but once again let her feet and Peur take the lead, while her thoughts went completely their own way. With each step, the realisation dawned on her; starting tomorrow, she would have to face old adversaries and declared enemies, endure ridicule, if not outright hatred, from the guardsmen and the musketeers. At the same time, she had to guard her secret better than ever, without any support from superiors or friends.

She was doomed.

It was only when Peur nudged her in the back with his nose that she realised she had been standing there for quite a while, staring absently. She blinked herself back into the here and now and looked around. She had come out in the Marais district, the market was nearby. The colourful smells, the countless voices of customers and traders were already wafting over to her from there.

She stroked Peur’s forehead, his dead straight pallor, soothing more herself than the loyal gelding. Her hand trembled treacherously and she tightened her grip on the reins.

The street was alive with passers-by, nobles as well as craftsmen, peons and lackeys. They strolled serenely or jostled recklessly past. D’Artagnan and her horse had become a swath and she caught many a scowl for it. But to a fully equipped musketeer in a distinctive uniform coat, no one dared say harsh words openly.

»On the run?«

Only one passer-by had stopped, immediately in front of her and Peur, and d’Artagnan hunched her shoulders before turning to him.

»Is that what you think of me?« Her face was blank, but her voice cutting. »Then I must disappoint you, Rochefort. I remain as I was ordered.«

The stable master nodded and for a moment an expression of secret relief could be read on his face, before he acted inscrutable as usual again. If he felt for his friend, if he wanted to help her and not just keep an eye on her, he did not let on. He was unable to change his ways as a master spy and cast a meaningful glance at the gelding, at the bulging saddlebags. »Is that so?«

»Yes, by the Devil!« In a sudden, very angry impulse, d’Artagnan passed the reins of her Peur to a surprised Rochefort. »Do your duty as equerry and get my horse to the stables of the cardinal’s palace, where he belongs from now on. If you wish to rummage through my bags, go ahead. You will find only what every soldier has with him.«

»Travel clothes, field gear, a letter from a beloved?«

D’Artagnan’s jaws were grinding where otherwise a similar joke would have made her laugh and mockingly retort. Rochefort could have trusted her and left Peur to her again. Instead, he said, »It’s the least favour I can do you, to give the proud little horse new shelter. I’m sure you won’t want to leave him alone.«

»Are you trying to take Peur hostage?«

»I try to keep both in town; the horse and its owner.« Rochefort patted the gelding, who was enjoying such attention. Peur seemed to know that the stable master meant no harm, d’Artagnan, however, felt only suspicion.

»So am I the hostage instead, that you’re so worried that I might leave Paris? Bah, as if anyone could ever run far away enough from the cardinal’s and your agents’ sphere of influence!«

»That’s all that keeps you from changing your clothes and escaping unrecognised?«