All for One (18 page)

His random path leading past a tavern, Aristide hesitated for a moment before walking on. It would be easy to lose himself in drink, but he knew it would only increase the temptation to return and prove to Benoît what there could be between them; and even if he drank enough to overcome that seduction, it would be a temporary relief at best. He would pay for the few hours of oblivion with an aching head on the morrow, and the temptation would still be there.

Kicking aside a clump of damp leaves, Aristide cursed. He could no longer even lose himself in the pleasures to be had with his lovers. He had too much respect for Léandre and Perrin to use them so—and it would be using them, when his mind and his heart would be yearning for another. He wondered idly what Teodoro Ciéza de Vivar was doing at this moment. It would help to unburden himself to another who would understand some of what he felt, even if the other man had no more answers than Aristide did; but at this late hour, the swordsman was likely finding his own pleasure with his Christian. Certainly it was what Aristide would be doing in his place. Smothering another curse, he glanced at the moon’s position in the sky, resigning himself to a night of restless wandering.

T
HE
next three days passed in much the same way as the previous one had, with sword practice for Benoît and much grumpiness for Perrin as he and the other musketeers resumed their duties. While Aristide returned to bed each night just before dawn and slept next to his other two lovers, he had not touched either of them in anything other than the most innocent of ways since the night after their first meeting with the Cardinal. Perrin and Léandre continued to take their ease with one another, but it frustrated Perrin to no end that the blacksmith had managed to drive this wedge between them. As a result, he was even surlier than usual with everyone but Aristide, leading to days of shortened tempers and constant spats.

“Enough,” he roared when Benoît once again failed to parry his feint. “Haven’t you learned anything from Emilien?”

“Leave off, Perrin,” Aristide interjected, stepping between the two men. He had consciously kept his distance from Benoît the past few days, focusing his attention on the recruits and leaving Benoît’s training to the musketeer’s sword master and his practice to Léandre and Perrin. Or to Esteban, the young Spaniard inviting Benoît to spend time with him far too often for Aristide’s liking. But then, Aristide had found very little to his liking the past few days, with no further information coming to light about the author of the slanderous letters. Not to mention the past few nights, which he suspected had much to do with Perrin’s frustration. “He’s already at least as skilled as the rest of the recruits, and he’s had far less time at it than they.”

Perrin bit back the sharp retort that rose to his lips, glaring at Aristide instead as he stalked away. He didn’t know why his fellow musketeer persisted in defending the man. It’s not as if Benoît noticed, or cared if he did. “You’re not going to get him in bed,” he muttered to himself, “so I don’t know why you keep mooning over him.”

“Hsst!” Léandre shot Perrin a hard glance, hoping no one else was near enough to hear the grumbled comment. He well understood the sentiment, though he’d done his best to make up the lack of Aristide’s attentions; in truth, he found himself rather wounded by the thought that he alone wasn’t enough to satisfy Perrin’s passion. “Don’t make things worse than they already are.”

“Worse?” Perrin hissed. “How can they get any worse? Aristide’s barely talking to us, isn’t talking to
him,
and we aren’t making any progress with the letters. Tell me what could be worse.”

Aristide could leave altogether.
Léandre couldn’t voice the words, the distance the older musketeer had put between them already hard enough to bear. “You aren’t the only one suffering,” he said instead. “You don’t need to twist the knife any deeper in Aristide’s chest.”

“Why do you think I didn’t say it to him?” Perrin demanded. “I hate seeing him hurting this way and not being able to help. I don’t care what he decides. I just want to see him smile again. Damn it, why didn’t the blacksmith die before we could save him?”

“The Lord alone knows why things happen as they do.” Léandre looked back at their companion, watching Benoît as he always did when the other man’s attention was elsewhere, his gaze quick to move away as soon as the smith glanced in his direction. “But that’s another sentiment I’d take care not to let Aristide overhear. I doubt he’d agree with you.”

Perrin had no doubt that was true—and that continuing the discussion would get them nowhere. “I’m hungry. Let’s find some lunch,” he said instead. “Aristide, shall we eat?” he called, trying to set aside his bad mood and restore some of the usual good humor between the three of them.

Dragging his eyes from Benoît, who had walked away without response to his intervention and was now watching the recruits drill with their muskets, Aristide was about to respond when a rider clattered into the practice yard. Every eye in the courtyard drawn to the distinctive red livery, he had turned to approach when the rider called out. “I am looking for a musketeer called Aristide.”

“I am Aristide.”

The winded guardsman drew a breath. “His Excellency, Cardinal Richelieu, bids you attend to him immediately.”

“What right has the Cardinal to make demands of the King’s Musketeers in
l’hôtel de M.
de Tréville himself?” one of the bolder recruits exclaimed.

Aristide raised his hand to quiet the babble of agreement that rose from the other recruits. “Go in to lunch now,” he instructed, knowing the lure of food would trump their curiosity over the unusual summons. Hopeful that the message meant the Cardinal had learned something about the plot, he nodded to the guardsman. “We will follow you back with all haste.”

Relieved at not being challenged by a courtyard full of musketeers, the messenger left, trusting the word of the serious lieutenant.

“News, do you think?” Perrin asked, coming to Aristide’s side.

“It had better be,” Léandre added, flanking him opposite Perrin.

“The sooner we see the Cardinal, the sooner we’ll know.” Aristide gestured to Benoît. “Come with us; this concerns you too.”

Benoît didn’t bother arguing the point. He hadn’t won yet. He wasn’t going to start now. He just sheathed his sword and fell in with the others, a few steps behind as had become his habit.

Knowing it would take longer to saddle their horses than to walk the short distance to the Cardinal’s palace, Aristide set a brisk pace, anxious for any news that might solve the mystery of the scurrilous accusations against their captain. Arriving at the luxurious residence, he took the marble stairs two at a time, brushing past guardsmen to find his way by memory to the drawing room where they had met the Cardinal at their first audience.

Perrin kept his mouth shut this time, waiting for the Cardinal to arrive or for an escort to take them to him. He wasn’t entirely sure he trusted the man, but he was willing to listen since Richelieu had proven willing to share information last time.

A few moments later, his patience was rewarded when a servant announced the Cardinal’s presence.

“Aristide, Perrin, Léandre,” he acknowledged, “and Benoît, was it?”

Benoît nodded.

“A messenger arrived at my doorstep this morning,” the Cardinal went on, “insisting on seeing me personally, saying he had information of great importance to France. When I agreed to meet with him, he gave me much the same information as was in the letter I showed you three days ago. Only this time, he gave it to me in person. Our messenger, though well-dressed, was no noble, and so surely only a messenger, but his visit has given us one new clue.”

“What clue?” Perrin asked avidly.

“He was Italian.”

“How does it help us to know that?” Léandre’s puzzlement was clear. “Why would the Italians want to discredit
M.
de Tréville, or harm the King? Why, the King’s own mother is Italian!”

“And a de Medici,” Aristide said slowly. “A family well tutored in plots and treachery.”

“It’s treason just to think that!” Benoît protested. “You’ll see us all killed!”

“Which is why we must move very, very carefully,” the Cardinal agreed. “Our King loves his mother, though I am not sure how mutual the sentiment is. She argued long and hard against his marriage to the Queen, suggesting more than one of her own extended family in Italy as alternatives. And, if rumor is to be believed, Louis’s current heir is indeed only his half-brother, not his full brother.”

Their devotion to the Queen fully as strong as their loyalty to the King, the musketeers bristled at the implied criticism of the royal marriage. “But even should the Queen-Mother have disliked Louis’s choice of bride, she cannot hope to undo the marriage now!” Léandre protested. “The Church would never condone a divorce.”

“Can the slurs on
M.
de Tréville be intended to remove his protection from the Queen?” Aristide found it hard to credit such treachery, but the alternative—a threat to the King himself—was even more terrible to consider.

“It’s certainly possible,” Richelieu agreed, “though this particular line of misinformation will not succeed. Our plotter, whoever he or she might be, chose a time when
M.
de Tréville was indeed absent from Paris under mysterious circumstances, but what that person does not realize is that he was with the King and myself at the time. My suggestion, however, would be to let it appear that they’ve succeeded and that
M.
de Tréville at the very least is in disgrace. Perhaps that will lead our plotter to show their hand.”

“I don’t like leaving the Queen unprotected,” Perrin protested.

“She won’t be,” the Cardinal assured them, “just not by men wearing musketeers’ uniforms.”

“
Non!
” Léandre protested. “Aristide, you cannot expect us to entrust Her Majesty’s safety to these… these….” He broke off under the Cardinal’s steady regard, his gaze snapping back to the musketeer who was their unacknowledged leader. “We cannot abjure our duty so!”

“I must agree,” Aristide responded quietly. “I have no doubt as to the loyalty of Your Excellency’s men, but responsibility for the Queen’s safety is ours, no less than for the King’s.”

The Cardinal shook his head, tutting softly. “Tréville really must teach you three some subtlety,” he scolded. “I said nothing about you abjuring your duty. Only your uniforms. I know the Queen-Mother, and I know she pays no attention to the faces of those on duty, only to their uniforms. If she sees men in my livery on guard, she will believe the musketeers in disgrace and trust to my men’s lesser devotion to Her Majesty to allow them to be distracted. Never mind that I would see them all in prison for such laxness. Anne d’Autriche may not be the Queen I would have chosen either, but unlike the way Marie sees her daughter-in-law, she is the Queen of France and therefore mine. So I ask you now: in the interest of protecting both monarchs, can you set aside your black tabards in favor of red?”

Chapter 16

“
N
O!”
Perrin shouted before he could even consider another response. “You can’t seriously ask that of us!”

“Do you have a better plan, Perrin?” the Cardinal challenged coolly. “A better way to throw off the wolves on your trail and still protect the monarchs you have sworn your swords and your lives to? Léandre? Aristide? Do you?”

“I like not even implying that
M.
de Tréville is under suspicion,” Léandre objected, looking toward Aristide for his decision.

“Nor do I, but I fear His Eminence is right. I can think of no other way to lull those behind the plot into believing their lies have borne fruit.” He turned back to the Cardinal, his expression solemn. “Of course,
M.
de Tréville must agree as well.”

“Tréville is many things,” the Cardinal replied, “including insufferably noble enough to sacrifice himself if he thought it would be good for the country, but he is not stupid. He will see the wisdom of this as long as he knows the King and Queen know the truth, because as much as I will deny having said this should you choose to repeat it, his death would not be good for the country.”

“No one would believe us even if we did repeat it,” Perrin muttered.

“As it should be,” the Cardinal agreed. “So what say you? Shall you speak with your captain or shall I?”

“We will advise him of what has occurred and of Your Eminence’s suggestion,” Aristide answered.

“How will this work?” Léandre asked, still bristling at the thought of even a temporary stain on
M.
de Tréville’s honor. “We simply masquerade as the Cardinal’s men and wait for someone to make an attempt on the Queen?”

“You protect the Queen as you always do,” Richelieu agreed, “but you also watch and listen. You may think what you like of me, but I cultivate my image and the image of my men for a very precise reason. Because the court thinks I disapprove of Her Majesty, they say things in the presence of my soldiers they would never say in the hearing of the musketeers. There is no war here to fight, gentlemen, no uniformed enemy to target with your swords and bayonets and muskets. This is a game of subterfuge, of subtlety. Information is your weapon in this, and you cannot gather it as yourselves.”

“Only let us discover who the enemy is, and we will be quick enough to show them the worth of our swords.” Léandre ran a hand over his tabard, as if reaffirming his commitment to all it represented. “Where and when are we to get these costumes?”

“That is up to you,” Richelieu replied, “and to your commander since it will require changing your schedules, but the sooner you start, the sooner we will catch our traitor and end the threat. As for where you get them, you may take them with you now if you choose. I have three extras set aside waiting for your reply.”

“We will take them with us,” Aristide agreed, “and send word once we have received
M.
de Tréville’s approval to proceed.” Bowing to the Cardinal, he nodded to his companions and turned to depart, hoping they would hold their protests at least until they had left the palace.

Perrin managed to restrain his distaste as he picked up the red tunic and marched back out to the street, but as soon as they were clear of the guards, he spat on the ground. “How will I ever be able to look our comrades in the eye, knowing I’ve donned this uniform?” he demanded.

“Is it really as serious as that?” Benoît asked, not understanding the rivalry. “I mean, you’re still doing your duty in protecting the Queen. What difference does it make what uniform you wear?”

“What difference?” Perrin roared.

“It is the highest honor any soldier can aspire to, being named one of the King’s Musketeers,” Léandre interjected. “Any buffoon who can hold a sword might be good enough for the Cardinal’s guard, but only the finest are worthy to wear the black tunic.”

“Our honor lies not in our garb, but in our actions.” Aristide rolled the red tabard into a tight bundle and concealed it under his uniform. “Though it might be wise not to flaunt our new colors to any we pass in the street. Once we report to
M.
de Tréville, we can decide together how best to set our trap.”

Perrin humphed, but hid the tunic quickly as well, his glare in Benoît’s direction as harsh as ever.

“It wasn’t intended as an insult,” Benoît muttered as he trailed along behind them. He had no illusions of ever aspiring to any rank in any group of soldiers, much less in the musketeers, so he let it go. He didn’t think he’d ever understand military men.

“We should send word to
vicomte
Aldwych as well,” Léandre suggested. “It would surely shock him to see us at court in the Cardinal’s livery.”

“
M.
de Tréville will be able to tell us where the ambassador is staying,” Aristide agreed.

“Or we can wait an hour or two. The young Spaniard shows up like clockwork every day around noon to visit Benoît,” Perrin sniped.

“We don’t have to wait for either,” Benoît offered quietly. “I know where they took lodgings. I’ve visited there with Esteban on a couple of occasions.”

Aristide gritted his teeth to hold back the jealous retort that sprang to his mind. Reminding himself he had no right to care who Benoît associated with, he drew a breath before responding. “Then after we meet with the Captain, perhaps you can escort us there.”

Benoît shrugged. “As you wish.”

“
H
ELLO
, Benoît,” Christian said when he answered the knock at the door, his eyebrows rising as he saw who else was with him. “What brings you here with your entourage in tow today?”

“They wanted to talk to you,” Benoît replied with a shrug, “and I knew where you live, so I brought them. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Christian assured him, opening the door wider. “Come in, all of you.”

Aristide found it curious that the ambassador opened his own doors—he was surely the only noble in Paris to do so—but said nothing, waiting until the others were inside and the door closed behind them before speaking. “His Eminence the Cardinal summoned us this morning. He has received another message—this one delivered in person.”

Christian’s surprise showed on his face. “Have a seat,” he suggested, gesturing toward the small parlor off the main foyer. “Let me get Teodoro. He will want to hear this too.”

“Does he keep no servants?” Léandre asked, looking around the elegantly appointed drawing room as if he expected a footman to pop up from behind one of the settees. “Certainly he can afford them.”

“Unlike us,” Perrin muttered.

“Only Esteban and Javier,” Benoît replied, ignoring Perrin’s comment. “He has maids in to clean once a week, Esteban told me, but other than that, he prefers to have just his loyal companions with him.”

Given the composition of their own household, Aristide did not consider any of them in a position to question
vicomte
Aldwych’s preferences. He crossed the room, to a corner opposite the one where Benoît stood, silent until the Englishman reentered the room, Ciéza de Vivar at his side. The younger Spaniard followed behind them, a smile lighting his face when he spotted Benoît and quickly moved to clasp his shoulder in greeting.

“How are you?” Benoît asked his friend quietly, not wanting to disturb the more important conversation. He tipped his head toward Esteban’s to more easily hear the equally soft response.

Forcing his attention from the two dark heads bent together, Aristide nodded a greeting to the swordsman. “Cardinal Richelieu received a visitor this morning, making much the same accusations against
M.
de Tréville as the earlier letters,” he disclosed. “His Eminence made assurances he would take action.”

“And did this visitor divulge any information about those who sent him?” Teodoro asked.

“Not intentionally, but the Cardinal found it significant that the messenger was Italian.”

“The de Medicis?” Christian asked, immediately making the connection. “They are plotters of the highest caliber. If they are indeed out to discredit your captain, you’re facing quite an uphill battle to defend him.”

“The good news is that the Cardinal doesn’t believe it at all,” Perrin told him. “He was with
M.
de Tréville at the time of the alleged treasonous activities.”

“Richelieu suspects the effort to discredit
M.
de Tréville and weaken the royal protection may be aimed at the Queen rather than the King.” Aristide’s blue eyes darkened with scorn for an enemy who would plot harm for any woman, far less the Queen of France.

“With the idea of replacing her?” Christian mused aloud. “A dangerous gambit, I would think. So what do you plan now?”

Near-identical scowls marred the expressions of all three musketeers, none of them eager to disclose the masquerade that felt too much like a betrayal. Breaking the uncomfortable silence, Aristide drew out the Cardinal’s tunic. “If
M.
de Tréville agrees, he will let it appear that he is indeed under suspicion by the King. Until such time as his loyalty can be confirmed, the duty of protecting the royal persons will devolve to the Cardinal’s guard.”

“And the three of you will be wearing false colors?” Teodoro stroked the end of his moustache in consideration. “The plan would fail should anyone recognize you in your borrowed plumage.”

“We will keep to the background as much as we can, but guards are like servants—to most of the visitors at court, we are all but invisible. Or such is our hope.”

“A bit of lampblack will darken your very recognizable blond locks,” Christian suggested to Léandre. “You’re by far the most identifiable of the three of you. And removing your goatee, Perrin, would change your look as well, without doing anything too drastic.”

Noting that the senior musketeer was paying scant attention to the ambassador’s comments and recognizing well the expression in his eyes as he watched Esteban converse with the blacksmith, Teodoro crossed the room to Aristide’s side. “Christian once viewed Esteban with the same suspicion, but he was quickly disabused of his notion,” the Spaniard murmured softly enough for none but the musketeer to hear. “You need not glare at him as if you were contemplating asking him outside to measure your steel. Esteban fancies himself too much a ladies’ man to even consider what you suspect.”

Was he truly that transparent, Aristide wondered, or was Teodoro’s perception enhanced by his own experience with the ambassador? He hoped it was the latter; he did not care to display his emotions for all to see. “’Tis not suspicion,” he replied just as softly. “Benoît has shown often enough he has no interest in that regard.”

“One need not be a lover of men to enjoy comradely fellowship.”

“I know that well enough, but—”

“But the heart is not answerable to logic,” Teodoro finished with a wry quirk of his lip. “It is a distraction I know too well.”

Realizing Teodoro and Aristide were not participating in the conversation, Christian stepped to his lover’s side. “So what do you two think? Would Léandre make a handsome brunet for a few weeks until the plotter is caught?”

Nothing in Teodoro’s expression changed, but his steely eyes warmed as they only did when speaking to his ambassador. “Doubtless he will be as comely with dark hair as with light. I fear their friend here will be harder to disguise.” Aristide’s distinctive tawny hair might be hidden, but his instinctive air of command would mark him no matter what color tunic he wore.

“Oh, I am sure we can come up with something,” Christian teased, knowing just how far he could prod Teodoro’s jealousy. “A trim, a bit of lampblack to darken his hair as well, perhaps a bit of a slouch.” He circled the oldest of the three musketeers. “A trim of his moustache. He would still clearly be an officer, but it would change his appearance enough that he wouldn’t be immediately recognizable.”

Despite knowing the musketeer had eyes for no one but his smith, Teodoro could prefer his own lover did not take quite so much pleasure in considering other men’s attractions. The irony of his advice to Aristide not lost on him, he smiled tightly at his lover and took his arm, reminding him of his presence. “However they disguise themselves, we will give no indication of recognition or surprise upon seeing them in the Cardinal’s livery.”

“Of course we won’t,” Christian agreed, leaning ever so subtly into Teodoro’s touch. “But where is your sense of adventure, Teodoro? Surely we can help them prepare for their charade.”

The Spaniard’s eyes glittered with a light that might well be described as dangerous, if not predatory. “I leave such preparations to you and Esteban. Perhaps you will describe them to me—later.” He swept a polite bow to their guests. “
Señor
Aristide, at your convenience I would enjoy exercising our swords again. Seldom since leaving Spain have I faced so worthy an opponent.”

“When my duties permit,” Aristide agreed. “I would enjoy the challenge as well.”

Inclining his head, Teodoro left the parlor, a temporary silence falling at his departure.

“Excuse me,” Christian said to the room in general, hurrying after the departing Spaniard. He caught Teodoro just as he went down the hall into their bedroom. “You know I was just teasing you,” he whispered, nuzzling his lover’s neck. “I have eyes only for you.”