Between Two Kings

by Lawrence Ellsworth

  Rochester hastened to repeat the princess’s command. A few moments later, the barge touched the canal’s bank. “Step ashore, Gentlemen,” said Lady Henrietta, reaching for the arm offered by Rochester, though Buckingham was nearer to her and had presented his first.

  Then Rochester, with an ill-concealed pride that smote the heart of the unhappy Buckingham, escorted the princess across the gangplank the crew had extended from the royal barge to the bank. “Where to, Your Highness?” asked Rochester.

  “As you see, Milord, toward that good Parry, who wanders, as Lord Buckingham put it, searching for me with eyes weakened by the tears he’s shed for our misfortunes.”

  “God’s wounds, but Your Highness is sad today,” said Rochester, “in light of which, our chattering must make us seem like ridiculous fools.”

  “Speak for yourself, Milord,” interrupted Buckingham bitterly. “As for me, I displease Her Highness so much I seem like nothing at all.”

  Neither Rochester nor the princess replied to this; Lady Henrietta only pressed her cavalier to walk faster. Buckingham was left behind and took advantage of his isolation to take his anger out on his handkerchief, tearing the batiste to pieces with his teeth.

  “Parry, good Parry,” called the princess in a gentle voice, “come this way. I see you’re looking for me, and I’m waiting.”

  “Indeed, Milady, let’s wait,” said Rochester, charitably coming to the aid of the duke, who was still behind them. “Even if Parry can’t see Your Highness, the man with him would be guide enough for a blind man, for he has sharp, even fiery eyes. His gaze glows like a lantern.”

  “Lighting a strong face and a martial figure,” said the princess, to sting the young nobles. Rochester bowed. “One of those vigorous and manly soldiers one sees only in France,” she added, with the persistence of a woman certain of her impunity.

  Rochester and Buckingham looked at each other as if to say, What makes her do that?

  “Milord Buckingham, go see what Parry wants,” said Lady Henrietta.

  The young man, who regarded this command as a sign of favor, was encouraged and hurried to meet Parry, who, accompanied by d’Artagnan, was slowly making his way toward the trio of nobles. Parry walked slowly due to his age; beside him, d’Artagnan marched slowly but with dignity, ennobled by the consciousness that he was now worth a third of a million.

  Eager to follow the desires of the princess, who had sat down upon a marble bench as if fatigued by her brief walk, Buckingham approached Parry, and when he was within a few paces the old man recognized him. “Ah, Milord!” he said, wheezing. “Would Your Grace kindly oblige the king?”

  “In what way, Mister Parry?” asked the young man, his usual hauteur tempered by his desire to please the princess.

  “Well! His Majesty would like Your Grace to present monsieur, here, to Her Highness Henrietta Stuart.”

  “And who is monsieur, here?” asked the duke coldly.

  D’Artagnan, as we know, was quick to take offense, and the Duke of Buckingham’s tone irritated him. He looked the courtier in the eye, and his own eyes flashed beneath a frowning brow—but he mastered himself and said calmly, “Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan, Milord.”

  “Pardon, Monsieur, but that tells me your name, nothing more.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I don’t know you.”

  “Then I have the advantage of you, Sir,” d’Artagnan replied, “for your family is known to me, particularly the first Duke of Buckingham, your illustrious father.”

  “My father?” said Buckingham. “Now that you mention it, Monsieur… the Chevalier d’Artagnan, you said?”

  D’Artagnan bowed. “In person,” he said.

  “Beg pardon, but aren’t you one of those Frenchmen who was involved in some secret intrigue with my father?”

  “Precisely, Your Grace—I’m one of those Frenchmen.”

  “Then, Monsieur, permit me to say that it’s strange that my father, during his lifetime, never mentioned your name.”

  “No, Your Grace, though he heard it at the moment of his death; it was I who sent to him, by way of Queen Anne’s valet the warning of the danger he was in. Unfortunately, the warning arrived too late.”

  “I see, Monsieur,” said Buckingham. “I understand now that having hoped to render a service to the father, you come to make a claim upon the son.”

  “No, Milord—I make no claims upon anyone,” d’Artagnan replied coolly. “His Majesty King Charles II, for whom I had the honor to perform some services—I’ve passed my life in such occupations, Your Grace—King Charles II, who wished to honor me with a favor, asked that I be introduced to Princess Henrietta, his sister, to whom I might have the privilege of being useful in the future. The king happened to know that you were at this moment with Her Highness and sent me with Parry to find you. No mystery and no intrigue. I have nothing else to ask of Your Grace, and if you don’t wish to introduce me to Her Highness, I will have to do without you and be so bold as to introduce myself.”

  “At least, Monsieur,” replied Buckingham, wanting to get the last word, “you won’t back down from answering some questions about yourself.”

  “I never back down, Your Grace,” said d’Artagnan.

  “If you were involved in my father’s private affairs, there must be some secret you can reveal that would prove it.”

  “Those affairs were long ago, well before your time, Your Grace, involving some diamond studs that I received from his hands and returned to France, a matter too private to bandy about now.”

  “Ah, Monsieur!” said Buckingham eagerly, approaching d’Artagnan and extending his hand. “It is you! You, whom my father sought everywhere, and who has the right to expect so much from us!”

  “Expect, Your Grace? In truth, expectations are my forte, and have been all my life.”

  Meanwhile, the princess, tired of waiting for the stranger to come to her, had risen and was approaching.

  “At least, Monsieur,” said Buckingham, “you can expect the introduction that you want from me.” Then, turning and bowing to Lady Henrietta, the young man said, “Milady, the king your brother desires me to have the honor of presenting to Your Highness Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan.”

  “So that Your Highness shall have at need a strong defender and a reliable friend,” added Parry. D’Artagnan bowed.

  “You have something else to add, don’t you, Parry?” replied Lady Henrietta, smiling at d’Artagnan while addressing her old servant.

  “Yes, Milady,” Parry said to her. “The king wishes Your Highness to inscribe that name in her memory so she will remember his worth, for it is to him, as much as to anyone, that His Majesty owes the recovery of his realm.”

  Buckingham, the princess, and Rochester looked at each other in astonishment.

  “That,” said d’Artagnan, “refers to another little secret, one that I probably won’t boast about to the son of His Majesty King Charles II as I just did to His Grace about his father’s diamond studs.”

  “Your Highness,” said Buckingham, “monsieur has just reminded me again of an episode that so excites my curiosity that I would dare to ask her permission to let me take him aside for a moment so I can ask him about it in private.”

  “Do so, Milord,” said the princess, “but do so quickly so that you can return to the sister this friend so devoted to her brother.” And she took Rochester’s arm while Buckingham took d’Artagnan’s.

  “Now, tell me, Chevalier,” said Buckingham, “all about that affair of the diamond studs, which no one in England knows about, not even the son of its hero.”

  “Milord, only one person in England had the right to recount that affair, and that was your father. Since he saw fit to keep quiet about it, I must ask you for permission to do the same.” And d’Artagnan bowed like a man who clearly intended not to say another word.

  “If that’s the case, Monsieur, then pardon me for my indiscretion,” said Buckingham, “and if, someda
y, I travel to France…” And he turned to glance at the princess, who was paying no attention to him, busy as she was, or seemed to be, in conversation with Rochester.

  Buckingham sighed.

  “Well?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “I was saying that if someday I, too, should travel to France…”

  “You will, Milord—I’ll answer for that,” said d’Artagnan, smiling.

  “Really? Why?”

  “Oh, I have strange powers of prediction… and when I predict something, I’m rarely wrong. So, if you come to France…?”

  “Well, Monsieur! To you, whom kings take in friendship because you restore them their crowns, I will dare to ask to know a bit more about this great intrigue you shared with my father.”

  “Milord,” replied d’Artagnan, “believe me that I will be honored to speak to you, if you’re still happy to remember that you saw me here. And now, if you’ll permit me…” He turned toward Lady Henrietta. “Milady,” he said, “Your Highness is a Daughter of France, and in that capacity I hope to meet her again in Paris. My happiest day will be when Your Highness gives me a command that shows she remembers the recommendations of her august brother.”

  And he bowed before the young princess, who gave him her hand to kiss with a becoming royal grace.

  “Ah, Milady,” said Buckingham quietly, “what could I possibly do to obtain from Your Highness the same favor?”

  “By Our Lady, Milord,” replied Princess Henrietta, “ask Monsieur d’Artagnan, he can tell you.”

  XXXVI How d’Artagnan Drew, as if by Fairy Magic, a Country Estate from a Wooden Box

  The king’s words on the subject of Monck’s wounded pride had inspired more than a little anxiety in d’Artagnan. All his life the lieutenant had shown a talent for choosing his enemies, and when he had taken on those who were implacable and invincible it was because he couldn’t, under any pretext, do otherwise. But one’s point of view can change greatly over the course of a life; it’s a magic lantern lensed by a human eye that changes from year to year. One year in which we see things as white and the next year in which we see them as black are separated, on the last day of the year, by a single night.

  D’Artagnan, as he was when he left Calais with his ten rogues, was as ready to contend with a Goliath, a Nebuchadnezzar, or Holofernes as he was to spar with a recruit or chat with a barmaid. Then he was like a hawk that, starving, will attack a ram out of blind hunger. But d’Artagnan sated, d’Artagnan rich, d’Artagnan a conqueror, d’Artagnan proud of a difficult triumph, this d’Artagnan had too much to lose not to reckon, tally by tally, the odds of probable disaster.

  He was thinking, then, while returning from his royal introduction, of only one thing: how to handle a man as powerful as Monck, a man whom even Charles handled with great care. For, newly restored, the protégé might still need the protector, and if asked would scarcely refuse Monck the small favor of deporting Monsieur d’Artagnan, or throwing him in some dungeon in Middlesex, or arranging a small maritime tragedy in the crossing from Dover to Boulogne. These are the kinds of favors kings do for viceroys without a second thought.

  It wasn’t even necessary for the king to take an active role in the scenario of Monck’s revenge; all he need do was to pardon the Viceroy of Ireland for whatever action he took against d’Artagnan. Nothing more was needed to settle the conscience of the Duke of Albemarle than a te absolvo said with a laugh, or the scribbled signature of King Charles at the bottom of a document, and with these two or three words spoken or scrawled, poor d’Artagnan might just as well have never existed.

  And as a further circumstance worrisome to one with as much foresight as our musketeer, he was essentially on his own, with only the friendship of Athos as a slight reassurance. Of course, if it was just a matter of sword thrusts, the musketeer could count on his comrade; but in crossing privileges with a king, where the benefit of the doubt might serve to support the position of Monck or of Charles II, d’Artagnan knew Athos well enough to be sure that he’d find his duty most due to the noble survivor and content himself with shedding tears on the tomb of the deceased, composing, if the deceased was his friend, a eulogy of pompous superlatives.

  Decidedly, thought the Gascon, reaching the conclusion of those inner reflections we just revealed aloud, decidedly I must be reconciled with Mister Monck, and with a proof that he holds no grudge. If, God forbid, he remains sullen and unforgiving, I’ll give my money to Athos to take to France while I stay in England just long enough to make Monck show his hand; then, at the first hostile sign, I’ll decamp, and as I have a keen eye and a light foot, I’ll go to ground with Milord de Buckingham, who seems a good devil at heart, and to whom, as recompense for his hospitality, I’ll recount the entire history of the diamond studs. At this point it can only compromise an aging queen who need not be ashamed, after being the secret wife of Monsieur de Mazarin,89 of having also been the mistress of a noble lord like the first Buckingham. “God’s death!” he said aloud, “this Monck won’t outplay me! And besides, I have an idea.”

  As we know, a shortage of ideas was never d’Artagnan’s problem. During this monologue d’Artagnan had buttoned up his jerkin to his chin, and nothing excited his imagination like this preparation for combat, which the Romans called accinction.90 He was quite wound up by the time he arrived at the house of the new Duke of Albemarle, where he was escorted to the viceroy’s presence with a speed that showed he was still regarded as a member of the household.

  Monck was in his study. “Milord,” said d’Artagnan, wearing a convincing expression of frankness upon his cunning features, “I come to ask Your Grace for advice.”

  Monck, as buttoned-up morally as his antagonist was physically, replied, “Ask, my friend.” And his face presented an expression no less frank than d’Artagnan’s.

  “Milord, first of all, please promise me secrecy and forbearance.”

  “I promise you whatever you ask. What is it? Speak!”

  “It’s just, Milord, that I’m not quite confident of the king.”

  “Oh, really? And in what way, if you please, my dear Lieutenant?”

  “In the way that His Majesty sometimes makes jokes at the expense of his servants—and mockery, Milord, is a weapon that wounds men of the sword like us.”

  Monck made every effort not to betray his thoughts, but d’Artagnan watched with such close attention that he couldn’t miss the almost imperceptible flush on his cheeks.

  “But I’m no enemy of such pleasantries, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Monck with the most natural air in the world. “My soldiers will even tell you that many times in camp I heard with indifference, and even appreciation, the satirical songs Lambert’s soldiers sang from their own camp, and which definitely would have scorched the ears of a general more susceptible to mockery than I am.”

  “Oh, Milord!” said d’Artagnan. “I know that you are completely self-possessed and far above the insecurities of humankind—but there are jokes, and there are jokes. And some of them, I confess, have the ability to irritate me above all expression.”

  “Of what kind are those, old boy?”

  “The kind that foster disrespect for my friends and allies, Milord.”

  Monck winced ever so slightly, but d’Artagnan noticed it.

  “And in what way can the pin that pricks another affect you?” asked Monck. “Tell me that!”

  “I’ll tell you, Milord: because the pin was intended to prick you.”

  Monck took a step toward d’Artagnan. “Me?” he said.

  “Yes, and that’s what I don’t understand; maybe it’s because I don’t know him well. How can the king have the heart to mock a man who’s served him so much and so well? Why would he amuse himself by setting a gnat like me at the ears of a lion like you?”

  “I don’t understand what you’re telling me,” said Monck.

  “Very well, consider this! Why didn’t the king, who owed me some recompense, reward me like a soldier instead of concoct
ing that ransom story that reflects upon you, Milord?”

  “But no,” said Monck, laughing, “that doesn’t reflect upon me at all, on my oath.”

  “I know it’s not my place to talk, and you know me, Milord, I’m as quiet as the grave, but—don’t you get it, Milord?”

  “No,” Monck said stubbornly.

  “If another knew the secret I know…”

  “Which secret?”

  “Why, Milord! The ugly secret of Newcastle.”

  “Ah! You mean the Comte de La Fère’s million?”

  “No, Milord—the exploit that involved Your Grace.”

  “It was a game well played, Chevalier, that’s all, and there’s nothing more to say about it. You are a man of war, brave and cunning, which shows you combine the qualities of Fabius and Hannibal.91 You used force, wits, and the resources at hand, and there’s nothing to say against that; I should have taken better care to guard myself.”

  “Thank you, Milord, I expected nothing less from your innate fairness, and if it was just a simple matter of your abduction, mordioux! I wouldn’t worry—and yet there’s the…”

  “What?”

  “The circumstances of that abduction.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “You’re well aware, Milord, of what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m damned if I do!”

  “It’s that… it’s hard to say this right out.”

  “To say what?”

  “Well! To speak of that cursed… box.”

  Monck visibly flushed.

  “The indignity of the box,” continued d’Artagnan, “the wooden coffin, you know?”

  “That? Forget about it.”

  “Made of wooden planks, with air holes and a speaking grate,” continued d’Artagnan. “In truth, Milord, the rest of the exploit is fine—but the box, the box! That was a bad joke.” Monck squirmed in his chair. “And yet, the fact that I did that,” said d’Artagnan, “I, a soldier of fortune, that’s understandable, because though it might have been somewhat unworthy, it could be excused by the gravity of the situation. But never mind, I’m circumspect and discreet.”