by Leda Swann
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.”
She wanted to believe it. “You are sure you want to take the risk?”
The fire of excitement burning in Miriame’s face was all the answer she needed. If anything, Miriame was surer of this than she was herself.
The next time Courtney visited the Duc of Orleans in his royal apartments there was no need for a blindfold. He had taken her so far into his confidences that no amount of cloth on her eyes could save him if she chose to betray him.
She had already made up her mind that she would not betray him of her own volition. Whether or not his rebellion were to succeed, he was her best hope to save her father. She had made her decision to throw her lot in with the Duc – and hope against the odds that she had not made a foolish mistake.
Neither could Miriame betray him without getting herself hanged into the bargain. As an acknowledged thief, she was lower than low. The word of a far lesser man than the brother of the King would be sufficient to hang her. Her only choice was to do the job that was required of her and fade away into obscurity once more as soon as she was able.
She stopped in the antechamber while Miriame, disguised in the clothes of a street sweep, went in to see the Duc.
The Duc’s low-voiced servant stopped her when she would depart and leave the Duc and the thief together. “Monsieur has requested that you wait here until he has finished his business with your friend,” he said.
His words were polite enough, but she could see by the way that his hand hovered over the hilt of the dagger he wore at his side that he meant business. She sized him up with a careful eye. He was not all that large or strong and he moved his body more like a sneak thief than like a fighter. Expert with a dagger in the back, but not quite so efficient when it came to meeting his enemy head on in a fair fight, was her conclusion. She supposed she could fight her way out if she really needed to, but there was no need to pick a fight when she did not have to.
With a sigh of impatience, she flung herself down on an embroidered sofa to wait.
She was not kept waiting for long. Before she had time to buff her fingernails more than twice each on the soft linen of her shirt, the door opened and she was beckoned inside the Duc’s apartments.
Miriame stood to one side, looking as pleased with herself as if she were a cat gotten into the dairy.
The Duc looked no less satisfied. “You have found me a practiced thief.”
She bowed. “I am your servant, Monsieur.”
He looked at her, a calculating look in his eyes. “Are you, I wonder? How far would your loyalty to me stretch, I would like to know, were it to be tested?”
She met his gaze with her own. “You have the power to give me what I want – the life of my uncle,” she reminded him. “Until he is freed, you have my service.”
“And after then?”
She shrugged. “Who knows what man will command my loyalty then?”
“You are honest enough, at any rate.”
She did not want him to think she would cast him aside as soon as he gave her what she wanted, or he would use that as a lever against her, an excuse never to give her aught she asked for. “I have cast my lot in with you, Sire. I would not betray you unnecessarily.”
He gave a brief smile. “I am glad to hear it. But neither would you stay by my side without good cause, if it did not suit you?”
“I have sworn loyalty to the King, your brother. It does not suit me to be loyal to him any longer if my disloyalty can give me back my uncle. Why should I give to you more than I give to my King?”
“Because I will be a worthier King than ever my brother was?” he suggested with a gleam in his eyes. “For the good of France?”
Having less confidence in his ability to govern the country than he evidently did, she refused to be drawn into such a discussion. “You have my loyalty for now. More than that I cannot promise for fear I should prove forsworn.”
“Such a short measure will have to suffice me, it seems.” He gestured at Miriame, standing in the shadows. “What has happened to the world I used to know? I buy the thief’s loyalty with gold, and yours with your uncle’s life. Will no man give me his loyalty simply for the love of me?”
That was a question that she would not venture to answer. He would not like her reply.
He waited in silence, but no one spoke. “So be it, then. I will buy what I must have if it will not come to me else. Your thief has promised to steal some papers for me – as soon as he has worked out a way to take them – but it is too risky for him to return to me here. I cannot have it rumored abroad that I am consorting with unsavory men or my brother will have me watched.”
He was a fool to think that he was not already watched, Courtney thought to herself, but she did not say so.
“He will bring the papers to you. You will have them brought to me. I will take them at once to the King of England myself, and ride back into France at the head of ten thousand English troops.”
He made it all sound so easy. Ridiculously easy. She hoped he had not assumed it to be so. Fate had a way of upsetting carelessly laid plans.
He waved one languid hand at her. “Go, you are dismissed. Take your thief with you. Find a man or two that you can trust and be ready to ride with me to England when the time comes.”
She had been on the point of leaving him, but at those words she turned back to face him once more. “Ride to England with you?”
“Of course.” He looked surprised that she had questioned him. “You surely did not think I would give you your uncle’s life for so small a thing as procuring me a thief, did you?”
That had been the agreement, but it seemed he had forgotten it. “A thief is all you asked for in return for my uncle.”
“And now I am asking for more,” he said, his voice impatient. “A life for a life – that seems fair to me. You and your fellows shall be my guard as I ride to England and I shall free your uncle on my return.”
The Duc had been too clever for her, she thought with a frown as she lay in her bed that night, as alone as ever in the darkness. He knew how much she wanted her father’s freedom, and he would trade on that for ever more. Helping him to plot a theft was not sufficient to earn the reward she craved. He had drawn her against her will into agreeing to actively join his rebellion.
She was in so far now that she could not easily draw back. She may as well throw her lot in with him completely. Slight as the hope was, it was better than despair. She would protect Monsieur the Duc on his way to England and hope that the English King would send him back with an army big enough to subdue the troops of King Louis of France.
She grinned ruefully to herself in the dark. By her agreement with the Duc she had made herself into a traitor to her King and country. It was strange, but she did not feel different inside. She had given up her loyalty to the King when he imprisoned her father. The hardship she had endured since then had erased even the slightest lingering shreds of loyalty that had remained in her heart. The King of France was no longer her king.
The King had taken her father. She would betray the King without a second thought in the hopes of getting him back once more.
Pierre de Tournay had betrayed her father once, on the orders of the King. It would only be fitting that he, too, should betray his King to help get her father back. He would be the unknowing pawn in her game of life and death – helping to undo some of the wrong he had done to her. She would use him as coldly and with as much calculation as he had used her – but with far fewer regrets.
Pierre was filled with anger and hatred of the King. He had sworn he would lead a rebellion against his monarch. Now was the time to test the
sincerity of his words.
The two of them together would guard Monsieur as he fled to England. She would not draw Miriame into the affair any more than she had done already. Miriame had not harmed her. She did not deserve to be led into needless danger. Besides, what need did she have of more men? Pierre with a sword was worth three of his fellows. With him at her side, they could easily fight off any chance trouble they would meet on the way.
If the worst were to happen and the plot was discovered, no number of Miriames would save them then. The King could send a whole company of men after them, who would overwhelm them by the sheer weight of their numbers. In such a case, their whole party would be doomed, whether there were three of them or thirty and more. There was no sense in having Miriame run such a risk for so little reason.
Still, Pierre might also serve a useful purpose even in that case. His hatred of the King was no secret. She could always turn King’s Witness and hand him over to his enemies in exchange for a pardon. He would serve as a convenient scapegoat to lessen the guilt of the rest of them. If she were to trade his life for her own, it was only what he deserved.
She wondered how he would like being dragged off in chains to spend the rest of his miserable life in an airless dungeon, deep in the bowels of the earth. Not any more than her father liked it, to be sure.
Pierre de Tournay deserved more than a taste of his own bitter medicine. With careful planning and a little luck, the Duc’s rebellion would give her the opportunity to feed it to him with a generous hand.
The opportunity to sound Pierre out on joining her alliance with the Duc came sooner than she had looked for. She and Miriame were supping in her apartments talking over their plans for carrying out the robbery and guarding the Duc on his way to England. Courtney had confided in Miriame some of her reasons for wanting Pierre de Tournay to join in the rebellion and they were debating the best way of embroiling him when a heavy knock on the door roused them into hurried action. Miriame shoved her feet back into her boots, ready to face whoever was calling – whether fighting or running may be called for. Courtney, startled at being interrupted in the very act of talking treason, clapped her hat back on her head and scowled fiercely.
