Marrying the Musketeer (27 page)

The Duc sat back in his chair again looking slightly disappointed.
 
Family feeling was of no interest to him.
 
There was no delicious scandal in wishing to save the life of a mere uncle.
 
“Where is he now that he needs saving from?”

“Imprisoned in the Bastille.”

That caught his interest again.
 
He whistled through his teeth.
 
“Your uncle is not a popular fellow with my dear brother, I take it.
 
Under sentence of death?”

She did not want to think about the possibility.
 
“I know not.
 
I know not even whether he yet lives, but if he does, I want his freedom.”

He looked troubled at her request, his black painted, arched brows almost meeting in the middle of his white painted brow.
 
“I cannot give you his freedom now.
 
The King will not open his prisons on the mere whim of his younger brother.”

She had expected no more than a promise and would be satisfied with that much.
 
“I will be content with your word and a note in your handwriting that frees him from prison and acquits him of any crime of which he stands accused.
 
I will not attempt to use it until it is safe to do so.”

He picked up a quill from the writing table at his side and sucked thoughtfully on the end of it for a moment.
 
“You will keep the note safe and well-hidden?
 
If my brother should come to hear of it, he would be greatly displeased.”

“I will keep it safe.
 
It will be of no use to me, either, if it is confiscated by the King.”

He took up a piece of paper and scribbled a note on it.
 
“I will not ask the name of your uncle,” he said as he wrote.
 
“Sometimes it is better to know less rather than more.
 
Here is your note, promising free passage from the Bastille to whomever you so choose.
 
Once the English army is on our shores and my signature is worth more than the paper it is written upon, you need only write in the name of your uncle and he will be freed.”

Courtney took the paper with a bow and tucked it away safely inside her tunic.
 
She would guard it with her life.
 
“Your thief will be with you shortly.”

He waved her out of his presence with a heavily bejeweled hand.
 
“Take care that he does not dally over long.
 
I will be waiting anxiously, and it would not be wise for him to make me more anxious than he must.”

There was more ways than one to skin a cat, Courtney thought to herself as she strode home along the dark streets to her apartments that night.
 
Putting one’s trust in a rebellion was a chancy matter at best, but it was the clearest hope she had right now.

All she needed was for the English army and the Duc’s troops to have a few minor victories and her father would be free.
 
What did she care if they eventually met the fate of most rebellions and were crushed into the dust?
 
She did not care two sous for either the King or the Duc.
 
They were both acorns fallen from the same oak tree.
 
The younger would be as bad as the elder, she had no doubt.
 
All she needed was just the one battle victory large enough for the Governor of the Bastille to think it were wiser not to offend the Duc of Orleans, and her father would be safe again.

At the soft scratch on his door, the King looked up from his letter, annoyance showing all over his face at being disturbed in his writing.
 
All his servants knew how he disliked being disturbed at such a late hour.
 
“Come in,” he said grudgingly.

A figure dressed in black with a mask over his face scuttled in, shut the door quietly behind him, and gave a low bow.

“Well,” the King demanded, laying down his quill pen with a sigh when he saw who his visitor was.
 
“What news have you for me?
 
I gather by your temerity in coming to see me at this hour that my rapscallion brother is planning something I ought to know about it.”

“Indeed he is, Sire,” the black figure said in a low voice.

“Take your mask off in my presence,” the King said, his voice showing his irritation.
 
“There is no need to go around looking like a death’s head.
 
You put me in mind of coffins and other nasty things.”

The black figure took off his mask, revealing the fair, even features of Georges Charent.
 
“Yes, your Highness.”

“Well, get on with it then.”

Charent bowed again.
 
“Your noble brother is plotting a rebellion, Sire.
 
I thought you were best to know of it immediately.”

The king brushed his words aside with a dismissive gesture.
 
“My brother is always plotting a rebellion.
 
He never does anything about them, though, and they all come to naught.
 
Why should I worry any more about this one?”

“Your brother, grieving overmuch for his wife no doubt, persists in thinking you are responsible for her death.
 
He is planning to ask for the aid of his wife’s brother, the King of England.
 
Together they will raise an army of Englishmen and disaffected Frenchmen and try to overthrow you.”

The King snorted with derision.
 
“Pah.
 
My English cousin is too indolent to be part of my brother’s plot.
 
Philippe is more foolish than I thought to count on Charles Stuart for help.”

“Begging your pardon, Sire, but the Duc would steal papers that prove, so he says, that you murdered the English King’s sister.
 
He is counting on inflaming the English King’s anger against you and goad him into raising an army that way.
 
I suspect this time he is more serious than usual.”

The King stroked his beard thoughtfully.
 
“That is another matter, indeed.
 
Were Charles to become very angry, he might well cause trouble for me, though I doubt he would go so far as to invade France for it.
 
What has the Duc done to carry forward his malicious little plot so far?”

“He has recruited a thief to steal the papers, and a couple of your own Musketeers to guard him on his flight to England.
 
He claims, too, that he is raising a French army, but I have seen no signs of it so far.
 
I doubt he would find many to serve under him.
 
His proclivities are too well known for him to be popular with the troops.”

The King stretched his lips over his teeth in a mirthless grin.
 
“He is probably leaving the recruiting of his army to you, my sneaky friend.
 
The thief is of no account – I shall hang him at my leisure - but what of the Musketeers?
 
Who has betrayed me and joined with my brother?
 
I will have them flayed alive in the marketplace for their treachery to their lord and master.”

“William Ruthgard is one of them.
 
A Flemish merchant turned soldier.
 
I have made some inquiries about him.
 
It seems the old Ruthgard merchant we made an example of in Lyons some time ago is related to him – uncle or cousin or suchlike.”
 
He pulled his face into a sneer.
 
“I have come across this William Ruthgard fellow before.
 
No brains to speak of, but a nasty, vicious temper when he is roused.”

The King spat at the ground by his feet.
 
“Damned Flambard.
 
I am right to never trust that race.
 
They betray me time and time again.
 
It is time I hanged a few more of them just to keep the rest honest.
 
And the other traitors?
 
Who are they?”

Charent shook his head.
 
“I do not know, Sire.
 
No names were mentioned.”

“Find out who they are.
 
We must discover the vipers that have wormed their way into my very own guard before they strike out at us with their venom.”

Charent bowed low again.
 
“If I may make a suggestion, Sire?”

“Go ahead.
 
Go ahead.”

“The surest way of unmasking them all would be to let the Duc continue his plotting for now.
 
If we move too early, we run the risk of missing some of them.”

“Hmmm.
 
Very true.”

“If we do not catch them all, those that remain will continue insidiously to poison the others in the company, as one bad apple in a barrel soon infects the others with its rottenness.
 
We cannot allow a single tainted Musketeer to remain in your Guard.”

The King stroked his chin in thought.
 
“You are right enough.
 
What do you suggest we do?”

“The thief has been instructed to steal some papers from you.
 
I would suggest that you make it easy for him – but not so easy that he is suspicious.
 
Once your brother the Duc has the papers in his possession, he is to ride for England with his guard of Musketeers.
 
Let us watch your brother with all care, and arrest him on his flight.
 
That way we will catch him red-handed with all his accomplices.”

“Not bad,” the King admitted.

“Moreover,” Charent added craftily, “If the Duc is caught with treasonous papers on his person, not a person in France would whisper against his punishment, even were it the most severe of all.”

“The most severe of all...”
 
The King nodded, satisfied with the idea.
 
“I like it.
 
Keep a watch on my slippery little brother and bring me word when the plot is about to hatch.
 
Above all, make sure that the poor fool never reaches England.”
 
He waved his hand in dismissal at Charent, and continued speaking to the air.
 
“I do not think I shall behead him though, much as he may deserve it.
 
I shall think about clapping him up in the Bastille for a few years though, until he has grown out of his love of plotting.”

Miriame was as delighted with the bag of gold as Courtney had expected she would be.
 
She took it up, tossed it in the air and caught it again with a whoop of glee.
 
“What does Monsieur le Duc want stolen,” she asked, “that he will pay me a King’s ransom for the theft?”

Courtney shrugged.
 
“He did not tell me exactly what he is looking for, but it has something to do with the death of the English princess.
 
He wants to find proof that his brother was responsible.”

Miriame looked sober for just a moment.
 
“To steal from the King of France?
 
That will test my skill indeed.
 
I have always been more wary in my dealings than to try for such a target.
 
If I were to be caught...”
 
She broke off without finishing her sentence.

“You can always refuse the commission and return the money,” Courtney suggested slyly, knowing that Miriame would hate to part with it.

“Return the money?”
 
Miriame slipped the bag of gold into her jacket looking horrified at the thought.
 
“Never.
 
I am too canny to let go a bag of gold when it has once strayed into my hands.
 
I lead a charmed life.
 
I have never been caught yet.
 
I can rob a thousand Kings if I so choose without a hair of my head coming to the slightest harm.
 
Lead on to the Duc, and I shall follow.”

Courtney felt a sudden pang of remorse that she had led her comrade Miriame into such danger for selfish reasons of her own.
 
“You do not need to steal for the Duc if you had rather not.
 
It would never do for him to discover that one of his brother’s prized Musketeers was a nimble-fingered cutpurse.
 
I would not have you hanged as a common thief were you to be caught in the act.
 
Your death would lie heavy on my conscience.”

Miriame slapped her on the back.
 
“You need not be so afeared for your tender conscience.
 
Many’s the time on the street when I risked my neck for a morsel of bread to eat.
 
I am happy to risk it again for the sake of a larger prize and I thank you for giving me the opportunity to do so.”