by Darcy Burke
Cold dread sliced through him. “You have Paul?” Simon had sent for most of his men, but Paul and some of the others had yet to arrive. “He’s young… What have you done to him?”
Fouquet shrugged. “He’s old enough to sign a confession. Apparently, he is slower than your other men at getting away. Capturing him wasn’t difficult, I’m told. And his threshold for pain is quite low…” He chuckled along with the other men.
“Dear God…” He heard Angelica’s horrified whisper.
“Where is he? Is he—” Simon stopped abruptly, unable to say “dead.” He pulled at his arms, sickened that Fouquet would prey upon innocent Paul.
“Easy.” Fouquet smiled. “You’ll see him soon enough. I am having a party in a few days, a celebration to end all celebrations at Château Vaux-le-Vicomte. The king will be there along with all the nobles. Everyone of significance. I plan to entertain them in a manner so lavish that they will rave about it for generations. At the end, I will present Louis with a prize. You.”
“Me?”
“Yes. We all know how sensitive Louis is about rebel uprisings, after the revolt eight years ago. He’s in need of a new diversion. You will be a great help in giving him something to focus his attention on—by being arrested and tried. Just think of the recognition you’ll finally receive after all these years. Albeit dubious.”
“You are truly mad.”
“No, just very clever. The king will be grateful that I was able to purge you from our midst, and he’ll rethink his decision of abolishing the position of First Minister. I am, after all, the only viable candidate. Even the nobles would agree.”
“You’ll not get away with this,” Angelica said. “You are not removing him from this house.”
“Daughter, he’s just a commoner with far too much impudence for his own good. It is time someone taught him some manners.” Fouquet snapped his fingers.
A large man walked up to Simon and slammed his meaty fist into his midsection. The air rushed out of his lungs. He collapsed forward, fighting to draw a breath.
“No!” From the corner of his eye, he saw Angelica take a step toward him. Fouquet caught her arm.
Simon’s head was pulled back by the hair. A fist slammed into his jaw, causing white sparks to flash in his eyes.
“Stop it!” Angelica cried.
“Daughter, I think you protest too much over this man.” Fouquet turned to Simon. “Why is that, peasant dog? Why is she so concerned for your welfare?”
Simon tasted blood in his mouth. “I know this is a novelty to you, Fouquet, but she just might possess human decency.”
“I don’t think that’s it. Look at her.”
Simon refused.
“Look at her!” Fouquet commanded him. Simon forced his gaze to meet hers. He saw love as well as pain in her eyes before she looked away.
“Have you touched my stepdaughter, beggar born?”
“No.” He hated to deny it, but there was no choice here.
“Has he touched you, daughter? Have you spread your legs for this worthless commoner?”
She looked straight into Fouquet’s eyes and said firmly, “No.”
Fouquet yanked her to him. “I don’t believe you. You are a liar and a whore.”
Simon kicked Fouquet’s legs out from under him and spit out the blood in his mouth, landing it precisely on Fouquet’s cheek. “Never. Touch. Her. Again.” Each word was growled in a low, venomous tone.
Fouquet wiped away the bloody spittle from his cheek with his lace handkerchief and rose. His nostrils flared. “Get him out of here!” he barked. They began to drag Simon out.
“No!” Angelica exclaimed. She turned to Fouquet. “You will pay for all you’ve done. I’ll see to it! I have the king’s ear.”
Fouquet laughed in her face. “Foolish daughter, your peasant lover will be tried and executed, and the king will thank me for it. The beggar born is correct on one score. The king is interested in you and will be even more so once he learns of your husband’s death. Go to him,” he said, unconcerned, “and he will most assuredly order you to lift your skirts for his royal pleasure.”
Angelica ran and stood in front of Simon as he and the two men escorting him reached the door of her chambers. “Where are you taking him?”
“He’s going to Vaux-le-Vicomte with his men, where he will be turned over to the king and his private guard. Now, stand aside.”
“Stand aside, please,” Simon implored her. “Everything will be fine.” He saw the reservation in her eyes. Silently, he willed her to listen. Reluctantly, she stepped away.
Fouquet walked around Angelica, keeping his gaze the entire time on Simon. The look in his eyes chilled Simon’s blood. His heart thudded. Unsure what he was about to do.
Stopping behind her, Fouquet leaned in. She stiffened.
“Indeed, Angelica. Everything will be just fine. For me,” he said in her ear, loud enough for Simon to hear. “If you’re willing to spread your legs for an old man and this peasant, then you will accommodate me as well. Your lover will be dead soon enough, and when he is, we shall become reacquainted once more.” He licked her earlobe with his wet tongue. Simon lunged at Fouquet, despite the men holding him. It took four men to wrestle him to the ground. He hit the floor with a hard, painful thud, Fouquet’s laughter burning in his ears.
“Bring him,” Fouquet ordered.
“What about the woman?” asked one of the men.
Fouquet stopped at the door. “Leave her. She’s harmless. Besides, she’ll be busy cleaning. It seems we spilled some blood on the stairs.”
The men laughed.
“Daughter, I’ll send a carriage for you to bring you to my party. I promise it will be most entertaining.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The door slammed shut.
It took a moment or two before Simon’s eyes adjusted to the darkened cellar at Vaux-le-Vicomte. It was cool, dank, and empty. The château was so massive Fouquet hadn’t filled all the cellar storage he had.
They’d kept him apart from his men the entire journey to Vaux and, upon arrival, had taken him directly to be imprisoned in the cellar. Alone.
The trip from Robert’s home had taken nearly twice as long as it should have. Fouquet wasn’t accustomed to hard travel. The frequent stops he demanded only lengthened the ordeal. But Simon was pleased. It would give his men longer to reach Beaulieu, retrieve the ledgers, and bring them to Louis. He could only pray that Angelica had found enough men to make the trip or that more of the men due to arrive from his ships had reached Névelon in time to aid her. Having to leave her with slain bodies gruesomely sprawled in the château’s foyer and courtyard tortured him. Each time he looked at Fouquet strutting about only enraged him more. How he ached to drive Fouquet through with any impaling object he could obtain.
A faint noise in a dark corner of the cellar drew Simon’s attention. It was then that he noticed him—a man lying on the stone floor. His breathing was fast. He shook violently.
Simon approached. The man’s face was turned away, facing the wall. His clothing was stained with blood. Bruises and cuts marred all of his visible skin, including his trembling hands on his chest. His right eye, the only one Simon could see, was swollen almost completely shut. Simon lowered himself onto one knee and leaned closer to him.
The man turned and met Simon’s gaze. Recognition slammed into Simon like a fist in the gut when he realized that this badly beaten soul was Paul.
Paul covered his barely recognizable face with his hand and turned away. “Dear God… No…” His voice was hoarse and no louder than a whisper.
“Paul.” Simon placed his hand gently on the younger man’s head. His hair was blood-encrusted.
“Ca-Captain…I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” He quaked harder, anguished.
“Easy.” Simon removed Paul’s hand from his face and gave it a gentle squeeze. “There’s nothing to apologize for. There is nothing to forgive.”
“I was weak,�
� he moaned, refusing to look at Simon. “You are here because I was weak. I wasn’t strong like Thomas.”
“Paul, look at me.” Simon waited for him to collect himself enough to return his gaze. It was bad enough that he’d been tortured, but now he was torturing himself. “You are strong. You’ve survived a horrible ordeal.”
“I tried to endure it… I really tried, Captain. B-but the pain…” Paul’s breathing became more labored. “It was…unbearable.”
“It’s all right, Paul.” Simon kept his tone calm, trying to soothe him even though his ire burned white-hot. This was yet another example of the inhumanity of Nicolas Fouquet. No doubt he derived twisted pleasure in confining Simon with Paul, wanting him to witness firsthand the brutality inflicted on the young man. “I don’t seek the death of any of my men. A dead man is of no use to anyone. You have endured and survived, and that’s what’s important.”
“I want to make you proud, Captain.”
“You do.” Simon’s words seemed to surprise Paul.
After a moment Paul asked, “Wh-what do we do now?”
“Make Fouquet finally pay for all his sins.” Simon could barely contain his wrath, his need for vengeance scorching his soul.
Paul fell silent once more, although his body still trembled. “My injuries, do you think…I may die?”
“No. I order you to banish that thought from your mind. Do you understand me?” Simon’s voice was sharp and commanding, determined to cut through the haze in Paul’s traumatized mind. Paul nodded, always eager to obey.
There wasn’t much he could do to help with Paul’s injuries at the moment. There was nothing in the cellar he could use to bathe his wounds.
“Why don’t you rest now. You’ll need your strength when we get out of here.” Simon returned Paul’s hand to his chest.
“I never kissed her, Captain.”
“Who?”
“Suzette.”
Simon smiled, glad to hear the young man speak of anything other than death and torture. “Oh? Why not?”
“Because she is too beautiful to touch.”
“Really?” Simon said, still smiling. “What a shame you would deny the lady and yourself the pleasurable experience.”
“Oh, I don’t intend to deny anything any longer. When we return to the island, I intend to kiss her the moment I see her on the beach. I won’t stop kissing her until she swears she’ll be mine.”
“Good. Hold on to that thought until we get out of this hell.”
***
Simon heard the keys in the door and jumped to his feet.
For nearly two days, he’d paced. He was ready to leap out of his skin. Thankfully, Paul had slept much of the time, except when their meager meals had arrived.
“Captain.” Vilain smiled as he entered with three of Simon’s men.
“Merde! Where the hell have you been? It’s been days!” Simon exclaimed to his spy.
“Have you any idea how many guards and guests there are?” Vilain replied genially. “You have me playing the part of a servant here. I have been serving.” Vilain’s smile grew into a wolfish grin as he added, “Today, I finally got the opportunity to serve the guards a special burgundy—in celebration of the king’s imminent arrival, of course. They’ll be asleep for hours. Raoul has released the others. I will show you to them. But first, these men have arrived with a message for you from the Marquise de Névelon.”
Angelica? It was then Simon noticed that the three men with Vilain weren’t among the men who had been captured.
“Captain.” Anton stepped forward. “Our group along with a number of others arrived at Névelon shortly after you departed. The marquise wishes you to know that she and thirty men ride to Beaulieu. The rest are here, nearly two hundred in addition to the fifty already present.”
“Angelica is going to Beaulieu?” Simon was stunned, knowing how she felt about her former home, the very place where such a horrific act had been done to her.
“Yes, Captain. She insisted. She rides with Commander Jules de Moutier and Commander Armand Rancourt. She said that with her in attendance, they will open the doors at Beaulieu without the need of physical force. The additional men have come here to aid you, Captain. Commander Moutier wants you to know that they are planning to take the ledgers from Beaulieu along with your ledgers straight to the king.”
For a moment, Simon was speechless. He was moved by her act of bravery once more. Yet, putting herself before Louis, with the king’s reputation and interest in her, gave Simon unease. Once again, she was aiding and protecting him. And overstepping him while he was trying to avenge her. He wanted to shake her. Could she not follow a single order he gave her? Yet, deep inside, he didn’t want her to be any different. He wouldn’t change a thing about her. “The king is not here yet, I take it?”
“No,” Vilain answered. “He is expected very soon.”
“And Fouquet?” Simon inquired.
“He struts about like a peacock. I believe he’s out in the gardens with his guests.”
Simon nodded. “Take Paul. Treat his wounds. I intend to pay a visit to Fouquet.” The roar of fury was deafening inside him.
“Captain, Commander Moutier asked me to give you this.” Anton held out Robert’s sword and sheath.
Simon took them, elated by the thought that he would seek justice with Robert’s sword after all. Fouquet was about to know some overdue agony firsthand.
***
“Pellisson! The king will be here soon, and the ice sculptures are horrible,” Fouquet barked in the Grand Salon. “Find someone to fix them.” The music and gaiety drifting in from the gardens was amplified by the domed ceiling.
“The ice sculptures are the least of your worries today,” Simon said, stepping into the room with Anton and two of his other men. At long last, he’d located the serpent that slithered out of the garden.
Fouquet turned around. His ire burned in his eyes. Simon knew that his guests were about. A scene was the last thing Fouquet wanted and the first thing on Simon’s list of intentions.
“So, beggar born, you are out of your cage. We will have to remedy that.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed. Unsheathing Robert’s sword, he squeezed the hilt. He was poised and ready, dying to unleash the hatred devouring him.
Fouquet gestured to Pellisson. Pellisson wasted no time summoning the guards. Fouquet looked smug, as though he refused to allow one so beneath him to intimidate him.
Within moments, men from the King’s Navy filed in. Thirty in total. Simon recognized the faces as some of the same men who had brought him to Vaux-le-Vicomte.
Simon nodded to Anton. The man let out a quick whistle. Fifty of Simon’s men entered from every entrance into the oval room.
The commotion drew some of the Aristos from the gardens into the great hall.
Clearly displeased by the scene before his prestigious guests, Fouquet forced a smile. “A small matter here, my lords and ladies…”
“On the contrary, it is no small matter to steal from your country and king.” Simon shouted in order to reach as many ears as he could. More of the French aristocracy entered the Grand Salon.
Outraged, Fouquet barked, “Arrest this criminal. This is the Black Demon!”
The men from the King’s Navy stepped forward and formed a circle around Fouquet, Simon, and his three men. The sound of his men’s swords being unsheathed mixed with the gasps from the spectators.
Simon braced for battle, his blood rushing through his veins.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Fouquet demanded.
“You didn’t tell us before that this man is the Black Demon,” one of them advised.
“What possible difference could that make?” Fouquet looked around, clearly made uneasy by the fact that the realm’s upper class was watching.
“It makes all the difference,” the man answered. “He has fought and won countless heroic battles for France. His valor is legend.” The naval man then finally drew his sword a
nd laid it against his own shoulder, bowing his head to Simon in respect.
Astonished, Simon watched as each man around the circle drew his sword and repeated the gesture to demonstrate esteem for an honored comrade, including the large, meaty man who had earlier delivered Simon blows to the stomach and jaw.
Simon’s attention returned to Fouquet, who was ashen.
“Your time for raping the good people of France is over.” Simon grabbed one of his men’s swords and tossed it at Fouquet’s feet. The clank the blade made as it hit the floor filled the silence in the Grand Salon with its ominous challenge. “If you are any kind of man, then show it. Pick up the sword, and show us what you’re made of,” Simon purposely goaded, knowing it would be difficult for Fouquet to resist, especially with his guests watching.
Fouquet looked around for an ally, but the men whom he’d hired had formed a circle around them, keeping everyone else at bay.
Fouquet’s eyes returned to Simon and darkened to black. “You are a worthless peasant dog.” He bent and picked up the sword. “And I’ll put you in your place.”
A smile curved Simon’s lips. “We shall see.”
Fouquet lunged with his sword.
Simon parried.
His men in the inner circle quickly moved back, allowing the two maximum room as they circled each other. Their blades clashed again. And then again.
Fouquet was on the offensive, while Simon blocked each thrust with little difficulty. It didn’t take long for Simon to assess that Fouquet’s skill was mediocre at best. Furthermore, Fouquet wasn’t built for strength.
Let him tire himself, weaken his arm…
Each lunge from Fouquet incited Simon’s ire more, making it almost impossible to fight Fouquet and his own violent urge to finish him here and now. His hunger for revenge was overwhelming. To hell with the king. Why should Louis get the pleasure of deciding Fouquet’s fate? Fouquet had to die. Today. Now!
Fouquet began to falter, his thrusts no longer as zealous as before.
Simon’s heart pumped wildly. His nostrils flared. He was mere moments away from terminating the man once and for all, freeing France from his clutches—avenging Angelica for all that Fouquet had stolen from her.
