Marrying the Musketeer (17 page)

A fine Musketeer she would make, she thought to herself with a wry laugh, terrified of her mount and as slow as a nun on a mule.
 
She was determined that she would not let such a small matter stand in her way.
 
Her quest would not wait any longer.
 
She had a father to rescue – and to avenge.

She turned back to wave one last time at Suzanne and her young son.
 
Her eyes were watering when she turned to face the road ahead again.
 
She dashed away the tears that threatened to fall with an impatient hand.
 
Tears had no place in her life -–they were a weakness she could no longer afford.
 
For her son’s sake, she must go on.
 
She would rescue her boy’s grandfather from the living hell where he was imprisoned and kill the man who had betrayed them all.
 
Only when she had accomplished her goal would she be able to rest in peace in the country with her beloved son.

Her heart beat faster as she approached the outskirts of the city.
 
For a whole year she had been waiting and preparing for this moment.
 
The moment was nigh when all her preparations would come together to give her the justice she craved – justice for her father slowly going mad in the Bastille, justice for her broken love, and justice for her son who would never know his father.

As well as the cottage in the country where Suzanne and her son stayed, she had also furnished herself with a lodging in Paris, suitable for her new life as a Musketeer.
 
Compared with her old house in Lyons, it was small and humble indeed, but it was the best she could find close by to the barracks.
 
All other Musketeers, she was informed by the landlady in rather aggrieved tones when she hinted a complaint at the lack of light and air in the apartments, even the Captain of the Musketeers himself, could not boast of such spacious and elegant lodgings.
 
She doubted the claim somewhat, but they would do her reasonably well.
 
She hoped she would not need them for too long.

The barracks were fast approaching.
 
She checked her moustache one last time.
 
It was glued on tight and should last at least a week.
 
She had a supply of them in her bag, and Suzanne had showed her how to make new ones.
 
She was not quite as proficient as Suzanne yet, but she made a passable effort.

She threaded her way amongst the soldiers in the barracks, feeling highly conspicuous in her tan breeches and brown jacket amongst the blacks and reds of the uniforms of the King’s Guard.
 
She kept an eagle-eyed lookout for her enemy, but Pierre de Tournay was not among those she saw.
 
She was both glad and sorry: she could well do without his disturbing presence while she introduced herself to her Captain and her new comrades, but her soul was possessed with impatience to see justice done on him.
 
She had waited for justice for a whole year – she could not contain her desires for a single moment longer.

A young red-haired soldier who seemed barely old enough to wear breeches, let alone carry a sword, pointed out the Captain to her, D’Artagnan of the King’s Guard.
 
With a sickening feeling of apprehension in her heart but her face as calm and composed as if she had not a worry in the world, she approached him, papers in hand.

“Captain D’Artagnan,” she said, briefly doffing her hat.
 
“William Ruthgard at your service, Sir.
 
Please accept my letters of introduction.”
 

He gave her a shrewd look, took the papers she held out to him with a grunt, and scanned the pages with a quick eye.
 
He mumbled to himself as he did so.
 
“The Count of Languedoc?
 
Who the devil is he?
 
I don’t remember any such damned fool count, I’m sure of it.”

She said a silent prayer that the forgery would fool him into accepting her.
 
She had written them herself with a fine hand, purporting to be a Count, an old acquaintance of the Captain’s, recommending her for a soldier.

He finished reading and fixed her with a direct look.
 
“You want to be a Musketeer?”

She saluted him with a steady hand.
 
“With all my heart, Captain.”

He indicated one of the buildings with a wave of his hand.
 
“I like to see enthusiasm in a soldier.
 
You’ll do well enough.
 
Get your uniform from the quartermaster, set yourself up with lodgings in Paris, and be here at daybreak, soldier, to learn your duties.”

She did not bother to suppress her smile of exultation as she strode away.
 
She had passed the first hurdle as easily as supping a pint of ale.
 
She was in.
 
Justice would soon be hers.

The first week in the barracks was hard enough to take the smile off her face again.
 
She thought she’d become accustomed to a measure of hardship in the last twelve months, but life as a Musketeer took it to a whole new level.
 
She had to work harder than she had imagined possible, until she was dropping with weariness.

Never for a moment did she consider giving up, though.
 
Pierre had undergone the same training and the same hardships as she was undergoing now.
 
If she were ever to take her revenge on him, she would have to do as well as he had done, and better.
 

Through it all she kept a lookout for Pierre, but she did not see him.
 
Once she thought she glimpsed his friend, Charent, in the distance, but he was gone before she could tell for sure.
 
She hoped to the bottom of her heart that Pierre had not left the Musketeers or been sent far away on a mission - she could not bear for all her preparation to come to naught.
 
She kept her eyes and ears open to hear news of him, but she heard nothing.
 
It would not be wise for her to ask anyone directly about him – she did not want to draw attention to her interest in him.

The first week passed, and then another.
 
During the third week, she was returning to the barracks after a practice session with the rapier that had made her arms ache and her breath short when a hand on her shoulder made her whirl around.
 
She found herself staring straight into the face of the man she had dreamed of seeing for many long months.
 

He looked the same as ever, she thought at first glance.
 
Slightly older maybe, and thinner - gaunt even.
 
Despite his newfound leanness, his hair was still as black as the ace of spades, and his dark moustaches were as curled and oiled as ever.

She had been preparing herself for this moment for a whole year.
 
Schooling her face into immobility, she shook his hand off her shoulder and growled.
 
“What do you want?”

He looked as white and shocked as if he had just seen a ghost.
 
“Excuse me,” he said after a moment of silence.
 
“I thought you were…I thought…I hardly know what I thought, but you looked so familiar to me.
 
I suppose I thought I knew you, but it seems I was mistaken.”
 
He doffed his hat.
 
“Pierre de Tournay at your service, Sir.”

She had to swallow hard before she was able to speak.
 
“I do not believe I know you, but I am William Ruthgard at yours.”

His face paled even more.
 
“Ruthgard?”

She raised one eyebrow and let her hand rest gently on the pommel of her sword.
 
She would let him see at once that she was not to be trifled with.
 
“You mislike my name?”

He shook his head.
 
“I once knew someone of that name.
 
You look very alike.”

She shrugged as nonchalantly as she could manage.
 
“It is a common enough name amongst the Flemish, and we are many of us fair-skinned and blond.”

He would not let the matter rest.
 
“One jewel merchant, he was, in Lyons.”

With a quick prayer that he would swallow her tale, she trotted out the cover story she had invented if she were ever called upon to explain her uncanny likeness to herself.
 
“My uncle Tobias Ruthgard used to be a jewel merchant in Lyons until he was imprisoned last year – falsely accused by the enemies who envied his success, I heard tell.”

His face grew whiter than ever until she was sure he was about to faint.
 
“That is the man of whom I speak.
 
And his daughter?
 
What of her?”

She pasted a supercilious look on her face.
 
“You have any particular right to inquire about my cousin?”

He shook his head.
 
“No right at all.
 
She was simply the most beautiful woman I have ever known.
 
I hope her husband is good to her.
 
I would hate to think she had been made to suffer for her father’s fault.”

She suppressed the guilty pleasure she felt at hearing him call her beautiful.
 
She had fallen for his pretty words once – she would not do so again.
 
“I do not know what became of her,” she said in her most offhand manner.
 
“She did not ever wed that I know of – indeed, she disappeared from sight after my uncle was imprisoned.
 
Rumor was she had been a Frenchman’s whore.
 
Her reputation ruined and bankrupt as she was once my uncle’s wealth went to the King, who would want to wed her now?”

His face had gone gray with distress.
 
“You do not know where she is or what she is doing now?”

She wanted to make him feel some measure of guilt about the way he had treated her.
 
He deserved to feel guilt.
 
“The best thing she could hope for is a position as a chambermaid to a family who would not care about her loss of reputation,” she said as casually as she could.
 
“The worst – to make her living on the streets, I suppose.
 
Many a woman has faced such a fate and survived somehow.
 
My cousin is no different.”

His face was a mask of unbelieving horror.
 
“You never tried to find her?”

She chose her words to hurt him as much as she was able.
 
“She had disgraced the family by becoming a Frenchman’s whore.
 
Why should I bother to look for her?”

He shook his head in disagreement, not able to comprehend such a fate.
 
“When I knew her she was beautiful enough to attract a world of suitors - though she were penniless and living in the streets.”

She gave an ugly laugh.
 
Had he consoled himself for his treachery with the thought that she would have married well despite his betrayal of her?
 
She would not allow him to keep his illusions.
 
“My canny Flemish merchant brethren are not so foolishly romantic as you Frenchmen.
 
They think with their heads not with their hearts, and look for wealth, not for beauty, in a wife.
 
My cousin has no dowry and no reputation and her father is disgraced.
 
Even if a young man was foolish enough to want her for her looks alone, his father would not let him marry her without a dowry.
 
She will never wed a respectable merchant.”

He passed his hands over his eyes as if he could not bear the pain of thinking about it.
 
“I would have wed her once, but it is too late now.
 
She would not have me, even if I could find her out.”

He was right.
 
It was too late for him.
 
He would not wed her, and she would have her revenge.
 
She would make sure that he would rue the day that ever he met her.

He shook his head as if to shake off his black thoughts, but they would not leave him that easily.
 
She could still see them, lying like a dark shadow over his brow.
 
“You are to join the Musketeers?”

“Of course.
 
I am out of place amongst my own – I have no head for being a merchant and would rather fight a man than strike a bargain with him.
 
Who would not wish to become a Musketeer?
 
Are you not the flower of French manhood, the very fount of all that is honorable and pure?”

He bared his teeth in the parody of a grin.
 
“Hold on to your innocent illusions, Master William Ruthgard.
 
Hold on to your illusions for as long as you may.
 
You will find out the truth soon enough.”