All for One (21 page)

“So what do I do?” Benoît asked.

Christian grinned as they arrived at the Cardinal’s palace. “Seduce him in earnest.”

“
S
O, WHERE
would your companion go if he were angry and frustrated?” Teodoro asked the two musketeers, settling his hat’s brim against the rising sun’s rays as they started down the street.

“We’d hoped he had come to talk with you,” Léandre admitted. “Though I’m sure Benoît knows more than he’s telling us about why Aristide left.”

“Your friend might be more successful with the blacksmith were he less honorable,” Teodoro observed drily. “That one has not admitted to himself yet what he really wants.” Remembering his early days and nights with Christian, when his own honor would not allow him to act on his desire, he could well understand the musketeer’s frustration. “Have you checked the taverns he might have gone to?”

Perrin snorted. “
That one
can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. I don’t know what he did, but he’s upset Aristide for the last time. If it happens again, I’ll run him through, no matter what Aristide says. As for the taverns, no. We came to you first in the hopes he’d come for counsel.”

“Let us begin there, then, though your friend does not seem to me the type to be lying drunk beneath a table.”

Teodoro’s suspicion proved true, or at least if Aristide had visited a tavern to drown his sorrows, it was none of those the musketeers typically frequented. Rubbing the end of his moustache between his thumb and forefinger, the Spaniard considered what else a man like Aristide might turn to for distraction. “Would he have visited a brothel?”

Léandre bit back a snort of laughter. “You insult the musketeers to imply that one would ever need to pay for congenial company! Not that Aristide would look for it in any case. He is never less than courtly and respectful to women, be they countess or chambermaid—but never any more, either.”

“And if he wanted congenial company of the masculine persuasion, he had only to wait for us to get home,” Perrin pointed out. “Even if he hasn’t been interested in sharing our bed the past week. Although how he can think sleeping with us is cheating on his blacksmith when the stupid man doesn’t even want him, I don’t know.” His scowl deepened as he continued to mutter about damn interfering country bumpkins.

Teodoro was beginning to get a bad feeling about Aristide’s disappearance, though he did not share his misgivings with the musketeers. “The hour is nearly gone. Let us hope Cristian met with better luck with the Cardinal.”

“We may as well report to headquarters,” Perrin agreed. “If they did find anything, they’ll meet us there, and if they didn’t, perhaps
M.
de Tréville has heard something that might give us an idea of where to search next.”

They found Christian and Benoît waiting for them outside the gates of
M.
de Tréville’s
hôtel
, Benoît too anxious about Aristide’s fate to enter without the others.

“Did the Cardinal know anything?” Léandre asked, as disappointed at not finding Aristide accompanying them as Benoît appeared at not seeing him with them.

“Nothing,” Benoît replied sadly, “though he promised to send word should he hear. He did seem most concerned, though, that the plotters, whoever they are, might have gotten word of our ruse. He suggested you not return to court either until Aristide is found.”

“We do not take our orders from Richelieu, even if we do wear his colors,” Léandre answered scornfully. “Let’s report to
M.
de Tréville. Perhaps Aristide has already returned while we were out searching for him.”

Together, they trouped inside and up the stairs to
M.
de Tréville’s antechamber, only to receive the troubling news that Aristide still had not reported for duty. “Where the devil could he have gone?” Perrin exclaimed.

“Unfortunately, the possible answers to that are as numerous as the stars,”
M.
de Tréville replied drolly. “Could his family have summoned him home? The last news I had, his father and brother were both ill.”

Léandre shook his head, knowing he shouldn’t be surprised that
M.
de Tréville knew all about the older man’s history. “They would never have sent for him, nor would Aristide have gone if they had. He rejected all contact with them along with his birthright.”

“Why would he do that?” Benoît asked before he could censor himself. Having lost his entire family to the plague, he could not imagine willingly severing those ties.

“Because his father cared more for his good name than he did his son’s honor,” Léandre spat, bitterness harshening his voice.

“Because Aristide chose to live his own life rather than marrying as his father dictated when his liaison with an older lord was revealed,”
M.
de Tréville clarified. “He chose to become Aristide rather than live a lie. It
was
his choice, however much he resented being forced to make it.”

“Emile had scarce reached his majority when he was seduced,” Léandre added. He would not have volunteered the information nor Aristide’s true name, feeling it not his story to tell, but he could not allow the others to think that Aristide had been at fault. “He was in love, and like many a young lover, his emotions led him to indiscretion. He and his lover were seen together. Country ways were not so accepting, especially then. Rather than admit the truth, the older man insisted that Aristide had importuned him, refusing to take no for an answer. As he was of higher rank than Aristide, his word was believed—even by Aristide’s father. He denounced his own son rather than risk his standing in society. Aristide was disgusted by their hypocrisy. He renounced his title and has never gone back.”

“’Tis an easy choice to make when you are eighteen. ’Tis not always so easy to stand by it when you are older,” Christian commented quietly, remembering his own disputes with his father. “Was there another brother besides the one who was ill or, denouncement or not, would the title come to Aristide if they indeed died?”

“He has a nephew who would inherit in that case.” Léandre shook his head. “He does not even claim the income due to him from a bequest his grandmother left him. He insists the
vicomte
de la Croix died that day.”

Benoît listened to the story in silence, his guilt over his accusations that Aristide didn’t understand him growing as he listened to the challenges the older man had faced. He owed the musketeer an apology on more than one count.

“And good riddance to the entire, sorry lot,” Perrin growled.

“But it leaves us no closer to knowing where Aristide went,” Teodoro observed.

“The Cardinal feared the plotters could have discovered the charade,” Christian said, “though that, too, helps us little in knowing where to search. I wonder if it would be worth riding out to some of the surrounding villages and asking if anyone has seen a musketeer. It’s a shot in the dark, but I have no better ideas at the moment.”

“Anything’s better than sitting here doing nothing,” Perrin replied, starting toward the door.

“With your permission,
mon capitaine?
” Léandre asked, grabbing Perrin’s arm to slow his departure.

“Permission granted,”
M.
de Tréville replied immediately. “You are relieved of all duties except finding Aristide and bringing him safely home.”

“
Merci
,” Léandre acknowledged, grateful for his superior’s approval though, truth be told, he and Perrin both would have searched with or without it. They were halfway to the stables when another thought occurred to him. “Do you keep saddle horses in town?” he asked Christian. “We generally use whatever horses are available, though perhaps one of you could ride Aristide’s Orphée.”

“It might be faster just to use the company’s horses,” Christian said, “though we do have horses at our residence if there are not enough available for us here.”

“There should be plenty,” Perrin assured them, not wanting to wait any longer before beginning the search. “As Léandre said, no one else rides Orphée, so that’s one horse. Benoît has his own, so it’s only one more horse than if Léandre and I rode out alone.”

“Bring us three company horses,” Léandre commanded the stable lads when they reached the yard. “I’d best fetch Orphée myself—he can be a handful for anyone but Aristide.”

“Cristian should ride him, then,” Teodoro suggested. “He’s by far the better horseman.”

Leaving the others to sort out the horses, Benoît fetched his tack and began saddling Sagace. He would be a sorry sight next to the fine company horses, but the blacksmith didn’t want to impose by asking for a different horse. He wasn’t sure he rode well enough for one anyway.

A shout from deeper in the stables brought his head up and the others running. “Perrin! Orphée is gone!”

Spinning on his heel, Perrin shouted for the stable boys. “When was the last time you saw Orphée? Did Aristide come get him during the night? Did he say where he was going?”

The boys all shook their heads under the rapid questions. “He was gone this morning when we woke up,” they replied. “We didn’t see him leave, but we assumed he was on musketeer business.”

“Saddle another horse for us, then,” Léandre instructed, the boys running off in relief that the blond’s anger wasn’t directed at them. “I don’t know whether to count this as good news or not,” he complained to Perrin. “At least we know he left on his own, but it makes the area we need to search even wider.”

A ruckus in the courtyard drew their attention. “What now?” Perrin demanded as they strode out to see what was going on.

A quartet of horses cantered into the yard, two riders leading a pair with empty saddles behind them. Not until they halted did Léandre recognize one of the riders as Esteban; the other, a slender, olive-skinned man with his hair hidden beneath a brightly colored scarf, was a stranger.

“Raúl!” Christian cried. “What are you doing here?”

“I was coming to pay you a visit as promised,” the gypsy replied, “but on my way into the city, I stumbled across a musketeer’s tunic. I thought to return it, and then Esteban told me you were searching for a missing musketeer. We’ve brought your horses.”

Chapter 19

S
LAMMING
open the door, Marie de Medici, Queen Mother of his Majesty Louis XIII, stormed into the bedchamber, glaring at the body of the man bleeding all over her guestroom bed. “Get up, clod,” she ordered. “You are in the presence of your Queen!”

His head reeling, Aristide blinked his eyes open, the words making little sense in his confused state. “My Queen is Anne,” he answered dully, as if he were a child reciting his lessons. The echo of his voice throbbed in his ears, making him wince. He tried to raise a hand to rub the haze from his eyes, but the movement sent a spike of pain lancing through him, so fierce it stole his breath. Eyes wide, he glanced about, but his surroundings were strange to him. He was flat on his back, and when he managed to lift his head, he realized his chest was bare. “I’m not dressed for visitors,” he mumbled, letting his head drop back down.

“Watch yourself, musketeer,” the older woman spat. “Your continued presence here is dependent on my good mood, and at the moment, there’s precious little of that left. Why have you and your friends been masquerading as guards of the Cardinal?”

The harsh words cleared some of the fog from Aristide’s memory, enough at least that he understood how he had gotten here, if not where he was or why. After leaving the English ambassador’s residence he’d returned to the musketeers’ stables, saddled Orphée, and galloped out of the city. Riding with no real direction in mind, the crisp wind blowing through his hair had helped cool the fire in his blood kindled by Benoît’s kiss—and the anger at his rejection of anything more.

He’d paid no attention to how far he’d ridden until Orphée’s heaving breaths recalled his attention to his mount. Reining the bay in, he stroked the stallion’s neck in apology. “I’m sorry, my friend. You should not have to suffer for my ill humor.”

Setting a more sedate pace, he turned back toward the city, unable to prevent his thoughts from reliving the moments when Benoît stood in his arms. The blacksmith had initiated the kiss; he hadn’t imagined that. Benoît had been as aroused by the kiss as Aristide was; he’d stake his honor on it. He’d begun to hope that Benoît had finally accepted the attraction growing between them, when his too-intimate touch drove the other man away. Aristide shook his head, wondering what might have happened if he’d been able to restrain his desire. Would Benoît have continued if Aristide had let him control the pace? Or would the smith never be able to move past the strictures he’d been raised to believe, that any love between them would be a sin?

A chorus of shouts snapped Aristide from his rumination. Just ahead, where the road narrowed over a small stream, a trio of riders erupted from the cover of the woods, swords in hand. Cursing himself for not remaining alert, he drew his rapier, pulling on Orphée’s reins to keep from being encircled by the band of cutthroats. “In the name of the King, let me pass,” he demanded.

“In the name of the Queen, surrender your sword or take your chances with ours,” the leader retorted.

The invocation of the Queen’s name startled Aristide, but the realization that these were more than common brigands made it all the more imperative to evade them. Not waiting for their attack, he spurred Orphée forward, his blade scoring a slashing hit on the rider closing on his right. Immediately, he tugged at the reins, the bay dancing in place as he leaned forward in the saddle to parry the leader’s thrust. Before he could press his attack, the third rider pulled out a pistol.

A searing bolt of pain tore through Aristide’s side, his sword dropping from a suddenly nerveless grasp. His other hand clutched at the reins, unable to stop Orphée from rearing at the loud noise at close quarters. His head spinning, he tried to catch at the bay’s mane but felt himself falling. He must have blacked out before he hit the ground.

Forcing himself up on his uninjured elbow, Aristide stared at the woman before him. Richly dressed, her dark hair shot through with strands of silver, jewels mounted in heavy gold circling her throat, wrists, and fingers—he recognized the distinctive, severe visage of the Queen Mother, Marie de Medici.

“Your Majesty must forgive me if I cannot rise,” he managed to rasp, the words feeling thick on his tongue, “as I suspect it is at your command I find myself in such a state.”

“Insolent cur,” Marie snarled. “Be glad I have left you alive. As it is, you have seriously discommoded me. If I did not need information you can provide, I’d have my men dump you back where they found you, with a ball through your chest rather than through your arm this time.”

“I cannot… imagine what information I might… be privy to… that Your Majesty is not.” Not having to feign the spasm of pain that crossed his face, Aristide eased himself back to the bedding, his expression set. Whatever Marie was plotting, whatever she threatened, he would never betray his King and Queen. Without doubt, his life would be forfeit. He would face death with honor, his only regret that he would not have the chance to mend things with Benoît before the end.

“You can begin by telling me why my lady-in-waiting saw you wearing the tunic of the Cardinal’s guards when you are a musketeer,” she commanded.

“You are mistaken,” Aristide answered, thanking the Holy Virgin that he had seized his musketeer tabard when he stormed out of his lodging. That reminder of the last time he would ever see Benoît was as strong an ache in his heart as his physical weakness. “As you can see, my tunic….” He trailed off as a dizzying glance around the room showed no sign of his garment.

“Your tunic is nowhere to be found, I’m afraid,” the Queen Mother spat. “My idiot henchmen left it on the road when they brought you, unfortunately. I’ll have to find another way to acquire one so I can make sure you and the musketeers are blamed for the King’s unfortunate demise.”

“You would murder your own son?” Aristide stared in shock at the callous admission. “What possible gain could be worth such a heinous act?”

“No,” Marie assured him, “as far as the court will know, you will murder my son and when you do, his brother Gaston,
duc
d’Orleans, will inherit, and France will finally have a worthy King—not Henri’s murderous man-loving get—and another de Medici Queen, rather than that mewling excuse for an Austrian we have now.”

“You’ll never succeed,” Aristide insisted, though privately he was not so sure. Who would dare suspect the King’s own mother of treason? If only he had some way of getting word back to Léandre and Perrin…. He tried to push himself up again, the effort leaving him panting and drenched in sweat. How could he warn the others when he could not even sit upright? “The musketeers will fight you to the last man.
Monsieur
will never sit on the throne.”

Marie just laughed, the hard edge of madness leeching the sound of any mirth. “Oh, I am quite sure they will,” she agreed, “and in doing so discredit the entire company when my true son takes the crown. Rest while you can, musketeer. Your hours are numbered.” Without giving him a chance to reply, she swanned out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her.

No longer required to maintain his mask of bravado, Aristide sagged back and closed his eyes, struggling to make sense of Marie’s threats. It was no secret there had been little love between the current King’s father, Henri, and Marie de Medici; the old King’s mistresses were an open secret at court. It was certainly possible Marie had taken a lover, or more than one, of her own as well. She had referred to Gaston as her “true son”; was it possible the
duc
known at court as
Monsieur
was not Henri’s child at all? It would account, perhaps, for her scorn toward Louis, or perhaps she simply thought Gaston would be more malleable to her will, wedding a bride of her choosing and allowing her more power behind the throne than Louis ever would.

His arm throbbing, Aristide probed at the blood-stained linen tied in a rough bandage around his shoulder. Marie had called Louis a man-loving murderer. That the King took male lovers was also no secret, but murderer? Biting his lip as he pulled the cloth away from the wound, he tried to remember any courtier who’d had Marie’s special favor. It would have been more than a score of years ago, close to the time he joined the musketeers. Thinking back to his days as a raw recruit, he remembered the death of the
Marechal
d’Ancre, Concino Concini. An Italian like Marie, he had come to court in her train, rising to a position of influence under her favor and that of Cardinal Richelieu. Concini’s greed had incited much of the nobility against him, to the point he antagonized Louis enough to order him imprisoned. He had been killed, reputedly while resisting his arrest, though it was whispered by some that the King had instructed his guard to use any excuse to eliminate the troublesome minister. Soon after his death, the King had sent Marie into retirement at Blois. Was it possible Concini had been Marie’s lover? Could she hope to avenge his death through elevating their son to the throne?

Perhaps when Marie returned, he could provoke her into revealing more information, but her motives were of less import than finding some way to stop her. Aristide tried again to push himself up, ignoring the stab of pain from his shoulder and the dizzying reel of his senses, until he managed to swing his legs off the side of the bed and sit upright. He swayed and nearly fell, gritting his teeth and clutching his knees until the room stopped spinning around him. A wave of nausea roiled his stomach, filling his throat with bile; swallowing it back before it choked him made black spots dance before his eyes. Even could he force himself to his feet, he would collapse before he could take two steps. With a curse, he slumped back to the bedding, landing on his wounded side, a fresh ooze of blood seeping through the ragged bandage. There was no way he could get word back to Paris in his current state. He would be missed when he failed to report for duty, but no one would know where to search for him. He could only hope to regain enough strength to attempt an escape before Marie realized she would not win any information from him.

It was a very feeble hope.

B
ENOÎT
clung to Sagace as the horse did its best to keep up with the pounding pace the musketeers set as they followed Raúl out of the city toward where he had found Aristide’s tunic. He did not know how long the poor animal would be able to maintain their current speed, but Benoît was determined to stay with them as long as possible. The sight of blood on the tunic had pushed everything out of his mind except seeing Aristide again. He had no idea what had happened last night, but he wouldn’t let the misunderstanding come between them. He refused to be separated from the other man again, no matter what. He suspected Perrin and Léandre would have a few things to say about that, but Benoît hoped Christian and Teodoro would take his side. He’d have no chance against the musketeers otherwise if they tried to remove him physically. Nothing else would get him to budge. They just had to find Aristide alive.

Léandre spurred his horse on, determined to keep abreast of the gypsy. The man could ride, he had to give him credit; nor were Christian or even Teodoro, despite his dismissal of his skills on horseback, any less able to match the demanding pace. Esteban had fallen slightly behind with Benoît, whose brute of a horse was growing winded at the lengthy gallop. He’d have been tempted to leave them behind, had not the blacksmith’s honest alarm at the sight of Aristide’s bloodstained tunic convinced him the man had some feelings after all. Well, they’d have to catch up if they couldn’t stand the pace. Aristide was wounded—Léandre would be damned if anyone or anything would stop them from coming to his aid.

Perrin kept the furious pace, two strides behind the gypsy and Léandre, his thoughts all aswirl. It had struck him as incredibly coincidental that the man would show up with Aristide’s tunic—not to mention Christian’s and Teodoro’s horses—just as they were about to ride in search of the missing musketeer. He’d asked Christian about it before they left, but the ambassador had simply shrugged, saying it was best not to question how Raúl knew what he knew, but that in all the time he’d known the gypsy, he’d never been wrong. It had been only marginally reassuring, but Teodoro had mounted his horse and followed the dark-haired man without question. Something in the expression on his face, a mixture of hope and determination, reassured Perrin in a way little, short of finding Aristide, could have done.

The ride back to where he’d found the bloody tunic seemed interminable to Raúl, the sight of the young man he’d helped heal in the inn a few weeks ago leading him to the realization that the tunic belonged to Aristide, the musketeer he’d befriended in Époisses. Finally, though, they reached the spot on the road. Drawing rein, he turned to the others. “This is where I found the tunic, but France is not home to me, so I have no idea where he might be now.”

“’Tis the middle of nowhere,” Léandre said, looking about him. “What could possibly have brought him out here?”

“And how would anyone have known to find him here?” Esteban added.