another chance. If he’s a good soldier, and as a musketeer, he is, it won’t happen again. I would imagine I’m safer than I was an hour ago.”
Lieutenant Charles d’Artagnan of his majesty’s royal musketeers, over twenty years service of one kind or another, thank you very much, bowed stiffly and then watched the young king of France, all of twenty and two—D’Artagnan was twice the king’s age and what he’d seen in his time was a story in itself—take another deep inhale, then blow out its air. He watched his sovereign straighten shoulders and shake his head, as if clearing it. The king snapped his fingers and his dogs rose from their sitting position. He knelt among them, patting their heads, receiving kisses, pulling ears. He said their names and grabbed one or another by the scruff, as they milled around him.
“To me,” Louis ordered, and he walked away, dogs a circle around him.
The only creatures he truly trusts, the king’s valet had been known to say when too far gone in drink, those dogs. A king’s role was a lonely one; he might be betrayed by wife, by councilor, by child, and most certainly, by courtiers. This one’s father had been. What memories D’Artagnan had of those old days before his present majesty was born and another cardinal ruled the day and betrayal grew in the bones of everyone. He leaned out the window and called to musketeers that the king was exiting at the Tiber pavilion. Then he took a rare moment away from Louis and stepped into the chapel, where many a king before this one had prayed. For what? Strength? Deliverance? Loyalty? Some glimmer of true love? Bring those he can trust into his life, D’Artagnan prayed. There have to be more than myself.
And then the lieutenant of Louis’s musketeers began a methodical search of the chapel. The note might have already been here, just waiting, placed by someone who knew the king’s habits, where he liked to pray. There was a secret passage here down into the chamber below. D’Artagnan walked down secret stairs, opened a door set so skillfully into its surrounding wood that a maidservant dusting an armoire shrieked and would have fled if D’Artagnan hadn’t stopped her.
“How long have you been here? Was anyone in this chamber when you entered it?”
“Not long, sir. No one was here, sir.” She gulped her answers, her eyes big and blinking.
“You’re certain of that?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Tears were welling up.
“Be gone with you, now, and not a word of this, any of it, do you understand me, girl?” He was brusque, substantial in the authority he carried, the pride and history of the uniform he wore.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Now a maidservant knows there is a secret doorway, D’Artagnan thought as he marched into an adjoining chamber and glared at the walls, as if they might tell him something. Who left this poisonous little message? And why? To frighten? To annoy? To warn? Many a king had been killed by someone he trusted. There was recent blood on nearby floors of this very palace. A visiting queen had ordered a courtier stabbed to death in one of the galleries here. How would his majesty respond if the notes continued? Would he become like his father, secretive and suspicious, killing those around him indiscriminately? The beauty of this king was his young and handsome fearlessness, his walking among his people, or among his soldiers on a battlefield, as the incarnation of France, which he was. The queen mother had used it, displayed him like an icon to the people in those past, perilous days of treachery and war, hoping the sight of him, his innocence, his young, grave, dignified purity, would rally support. By God, it oughtn’t to be tampered with, that innocence, and yet it would be. Time would do that, if nothing else. By God, he, Charles d’Artagnan, part gentleman, part adventurer, all of him loyal soldier, would love to present the name of this latest troublemaker to his most Christian
Lieutenant Charles d’Artagnan of his majesty’s royal musketeers, over twenty years service of one kind or another, thank you very much, bowed stiffly and then watched the young king of France, all of twenty and two—D’Artagnan was twice the king’s age and what he’d seen in his time was a story in itself—take another deep inhale, then blow out its air. He watched his sovereign straighten shoulders and shake his head, as if clearing it. The king snapped his fingers and his dogs rose from their sitting position. He knelt among them, patting their heads, receiving kisses, pulling ears. He said their names and grabbed one or another by the scruff, as they milled around him.
“To me,” Louis ordered, and he walked away, dogs a circle around him.
The only creatures he truly trusts, the king’s valet had been known to say when too far gone in drink, those dogs. A king’s role was a lonely one; he might be betrayed by wife, by councilor, by child, and most certainly, by courtiers. This one’s father had been. What memories D’Artagnan had of those old days before his present majesty was born and another cardinal ruled the day and betrayal grew in the bones of everyone. He leaned out the window and called to musketeers that the king was exiting at the Tiber pavilion. Then he took a rare moment away from Louis and stepped into the chapel, where many a king before this one had prayed. For what? Strength? Deliverance? Loyalty? Some glimmer of true love? Bring those he can trust into his life, D’Artagnan prayed. There have to be more than myself.
And then the lieutenant of Louis’s musketeers began a methodical search of the chapel. The note might have already been here, just waiting, placed by someone who knew the king’s habits, where he liked to pray. There was a secret passage here down into the chamber below. D’Artagnan walked down secret stairs, opened a door set so skillfully into its surrounding wood that a maidservant dusting an armoire shrieked and would have fled if D’Artagnan hadn’t stopped her.
“How long have you been here? Was anyone in this chamber when you entered it?”
“Not long, sir. No one was here, sir.” She gulped her answers, her eyes big and blinking.
“You’re certain of that?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Tears were welling up.
“Be gone with you, now, and not a word of this, any of it, do you understand me, girl?” He was brusque, substantial in the authority he carried, the pride and history of the uniform he wore.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Now a maidservant knows there is a secret doorway, D’Artagnan thought as he marched into an adjoining chamber and glared at the walls, as if they might tell him something. Who left this poisonous little message? And why? To frighten? To annoy? To warn? Many a king had been killed by someone he trusted. There was recent blood on nearby floors of this very palace. A visiting queen had ordered a courtier stabbed to death in one of the galleries here. How would his majesty respond if the notes continued? Would he become like his father, secretive and suspicious, killing those around him indiscriminately? The beauty of this king was his young and handsome fearlessness, his walking among his people, or among his soldiers on a battlefield, as the incarnation of France, which he was. The queen mother had used it, displayed him like an icon to the people in those past, perilous days of treachery and war, hoping the sight of him, his innocence, his young, grave, dignified purity, would rally support. By God, it oughtn’t to be tampered with, that innocence, and yet it would be. Time would do that, if nothing else. By God, he, Charles d’Artagnan, part gentleman, part adventurer, all of him loyal soldier, would love to present the name of this latest troublemaker to his most Christian
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