Chapter Twenty-Two

 

And so justice would be served.

Athos stepped forward, his eyes on Emmanuelle. Her expression revealed nothing. Not shock, nor understanding. Had Clément told her all?

How Athos had wanted just a moment to stand with her in his arms, to look into her eyes and confess everything. To tell of his regrets, his passions, and his mistakes. To allow her to judge him without hindrance of any other opinion.

Perhaps this act of justice was deserving. So he might cleanse his heart and learn to love again.

Too late. The love was already there, in that soiled chamber. But he had not earned that love—and so it would be tested.

A glance to John de Winter, seething as his body fought to remain calm, would not allow Athos to protest. The boy had every right to his venom.

Time to answer to justice.

“Arnaud de Sillègue?”

Athos nodded at Clément’s prompt. He would endure this.

“You are guilty of executing your wife, Milady de Winter. You, along with four others— Charles d’Artagnan, Henri de Aramitz, Isaac de Portau, and one Lord de Winter, her brother-in-law. Rest assured, the others in your compact of crime shall be taken and dealt with, as well.”

So, the villain had no idea who the other musketeer he had captured really was. Thank God.

Aramis, where are you? A little haste, if you please!

“How do you answer to this charge, my lord?”

The room fell very quiet. By the dais, Firmin stood, an arm around Jeanne, and Raoul clinging to her, the boy’s eyes droopy with exhaustion. Grimaud stood stiffly, fear paling his countenance. Ten paces from them, the young de Winter stewed, detained by both shoulders. He wanted blood. He deserved justice.

He would have both, it seemed.

Athos took a step forward and looked from Emmanuelle to Clément. “Guilty.”

He heard a gasp. He knew `twas Emmanuelle. But he daren’t look into her eyes. Before he had wanted her gaze, her regard; now, he feared it. He had granted her his trust. But when had he ever earned hers?

“Such are the corrupt morals of the aristocracy!” his captor announced grandly. “Not only do they reign and rule as if the king, but they serve as judge and jury as the whim strikes them.” Clément arrowed a look to Athos. “Have you anything to say in defense of your decision to take justice into your own hands? Anything at all that would absolve you in the eyes of the Brotherhood?”

Oh yes, he had much to say. That Milady de Winter had been a cruel, cunning bitch, deserving of her punishment. That was fact. That she had no care for human life was fact. That she thought only of herself, and all that could be gained with her alliances, was fact. That she had convinced an innocent to murder the Duke of Buckingham was fact.

But the fact that her son, John Francis de Winter, stood across the room awaiting Athos’s reply was the only one that really mattered.

“No,” Athos murmured. He cleared his throat, and said more firmly. “No.”

“You do not seek a trial on your behalf?”

“J’y suis, j’y reste.” Here I am, here I remain.

“Very well.” Michel Clément smirked. “A noble statement, but not unexpected. On behalf of le Pacte des Justice, I charge you, Arnaud de Sillègue d’Athos, Comte de la Fère, with the crime of murder. Your punishment shall be carried out immediately. Emmanuelle, this one is yours.”

Closing his eyes to take on the weight of that announcement, Athos felt his skin prickle with goose bumps. He should have known such a match would be cast.

And what a cruel irony that the accused woman he had initially pursued with such vengeance would become his own pursuer. She had been proven innocent of her crime. His own act of violence had condemned him as guilty.

And yet, he’d do it again. Milady de Winter no longer lived to harm others. That was justice enough for him.

Even as he struggled between right and wrong, he fell to his knees and looked up into the dark, unfeeling eyes of the woman he loved. She stepped forward. One stride. Another. Hands at her hips, clad in leather, she cut an imposing figure. A woman trained to mete out punishment. A renegade for justice.

A fallen angel who had touched his heart with a bold stroke of her wing. And yet, he had held back the very trust he’d promised her.

He held Emmanuelle’s gaze. If he was now to be served his sentence, he rejoiced that it was at the hand of the one person who knew exactly how to hurt him. For that was the only way to cleanse himself of his sin. If she would beat him before his own son, he could only be thankful Raoul did not yet know he was his father. And if she would beat him before John de Winter, he must be thankful the boy would be granted the recompense his shattered heart was owed.

“What, then,” Clément said, “is required of the count for absolution, mon tombé ange?”

She tilted her head, sending tendrils of luscious dark hair across her shoulders. Still Athos could not read her emotions.

But when she bowed her head, he saw. A single tear glistened beneath her raven-feather lashes. A blink released the liquid down her cheek. And in her eyes glittered his betrayal. Hesitancy blossomed on her face. She could not do this. And yet…she must.

Athos spread his arms wide, opening himself before his judge and jury. “I am guilty of transporting my wife, Milady de Winter, to Armentières on a misty July night six years ago.”

Armentières—the place of execution.

You are not a judge! You cannot condemn me!

Athos swallowed back the memory that screamed so vividly in his head.

“I am further guilty of paying the executioner to row her across the Lys to the opposite bank. I remained, waiting, listening as the blade connected with the wooden block.”

“No!”

At the wall, the brethren struggled to contain John de Winter. His cries softened into tears as he sank against the legs of the men who had become his family.

Athos paused to listen to the boy’s pain. Knowing he had punished more than one person that night. Young de Winter’s sobs segued into murmurs of, “Maman.”

Athos drew in a breath through his nose. “It is I who instigated the execution. My companions merely followed my orders. I, alone, bear the guilt.”

Behind Emmanuelle, Clément smirked. “Pity we’ve no corpse for you to kiss, my lord. We shall have to move directly to physical punishment. But you don’t mind. You want this, n’es-ce pas? Do you really think you can buy absolution with a few punches to the gut, a kick or two to the face?”

“No.” Athos shook his head. Physical pain would serve no punishment. “I will never be free from the guilt of my crime. Not even in my death.”

Emmanuelle opened her mouth to speak. Another tear slid down her cheek. Instead, she turned to her master. “I will not do this.”

A muscled hand seized her shoulder. Athos ground his jaw, fighting the need to help, to whisk her away from the painful touch. Away from this monster. But he could not flee the punishment due him.

“You will do as I command, mon tombé ange.” Clément looked over Emmanuelle’s shoulder at Athos. “Do you not believe the man deserving of the same justice he granted Milady de Winter?”

“Those are beliefs you forced on me,” she spat out.

“So, you would convince me this man, noble or not, should go free, despite his crime?”

She hesitated. Indecisive. “No. But surely this woman was wicked. Deserving—”

Clément grabbed Emmanuelle by the neck and jerked her around. “Look at that boy! See how he suffers because that self-important bastard murdered his mother. Should John Francis not have had the chance to grow up with a mother? Like you berate me you should have had?”

“Yes,” Emmanuelle said quietly.

Turning her by the shoulders, Clément compelled her to look upon Athos.

Athos, still on his knees, struggled with his own sense of right and wrong. He wanted her to be strong. But in being strong, by exacting his deserved punishment, she must surrender to that which she hated most—the Brotherhood.

How could he ask her to punish him for his sins when it would only bind her to the hell she had tried so desperately to escape?

“Look at him,” Clément rasped into her ear. He squeezed her chin between his fingers and forced her gaze down. “He is pitiful. A spoiled nobleman who believes the world is his to command.”

“Perhaps. But who said it was yours to command?” she whispered hotly. “Le Pacte des Justice is no better than those they’ve hunted for decades. You took my mother and father from me. Killed them before my eyes. I am that boy who stands weeping for vengeance. I am he! And I say this must end!”

“Very well!” Clément shoved her hard, landing her on her knees before Athos. She recoiled, quickly leaping to her feet.

The dark villain strode to the center of the keep and clapped once, drawing all attention to him. “Such luck, our wayward count has won the admiration of one of our own. He buys his freedom through false promises and lies that end in a stolen fuck.”

“What do you want?” Athos growled. He would not allow the man to demean Emmanuelle. She had suffered more than anyone. “To watch me die? I will do so willingly. If you promise freedom to my son and his caretakers. Freedom to Emmanuelle. And freedom to John Francis de Winter.”

“I don’t want your sympathy!” John shouted from the corner where two guardsmen held him. “I need your blood!”

“Actually,” Clément said to Athos with a malicious smile, “what I want is for you to make a choice. Choose!” Clément’s words clanged about inside his brain. “Save Emmanuelle Vazet, or save your son.”

* * *

Athos inhaled painful shallow breaths. Never could he have anticipated such an inhuman ultimatum. To choose between the son he had not yet embraced and the woman for whom his heart ached? Impossible! He loved them both.

The creak of Clément’s boots was the only sound in the high-ceilinged keep as he paced between Athos and Emmanuelle. Torch fire flickered on the wall where the Brotherhood waited in a dour line. Raoul started to sniffle.

Then Clément stepped behind Emmanuelle and, gripping a handful of her hair, jerked her head up. Her lips slanted to a sneer. She closed her eyes to avoid looking at Athos.

“If you choose the boy,” Clément said to Athos, “she is mine.” He slithered a hand up her stomach over the short stays until his fingers dug into her breasts. “Sooner or later she will die. She owes me blood, and she knows it.”

She flexed her hands near her thighs as Clément’s clutch yanked her head back at an awkward angle.

“If you chose Emmanuelle, I give your son to John. To honor the boy’s murdered mother.” He released Emmanuelle and crossed his arms over his chest. “You owe John de Winter that much.”

Athos’s heart grew colder than the stones he kneeled upon. “You would allow a child to harm another?”

“The boy wants blood, my lord. Who am I to deny him?”

From over Clément’s shoulder, Athos saw a broad grin twist John de Winter’s face into a macabre visage. He stood but ten paces from a shuddering Raoul.

His son! No one would harm that child. No one.

But what of Emmanuelle? She did not deserve to be abandoned to a fate she had never wanted, a life of abuse and betrayal.

He could not choose! He would rather step forward and plunge his heart onto the blade himself. And he would, if it came to that.

Aramis, where the hell are you?

Jeanne and Firmin—they were kind—they would care for Raoul. He had already taken measures, drawn up paperwork to ensure his son inherited his properties, as well as Bragelonne, a property purchased last year specifically for his son and the boy’s future family.

Oh, but he wanted to watch his child grow. To hold him in his arms. Not once had he nestled his face into that crown of sweet dark hair. Never had he held the boy’s hand in his, tracing their differences, memorizing their sameness.

“Do not consider offering yourself,” Clément said on a snarl. “That was not one of the choices. Now come, I’ve not all day.”

“You would rush me to such a decision?”

What was he doing? Playing for time when further delay could only wreak havoc upon all involved?

He could not bear to see the sweat dripping from Firmin’s brow. The poor old man. He was an innocent in all this. And he loved Emmanuelle. It would be like losing a daughter to him and, to Jeanne, a sister.

Athos swept his gaze over the players in this horrifying game. The Brotherhood stood, emotionless soldiers, ready to leap at Clément’s command.

But there, beyond the farthest pillar, Athos spied a glint of silver.

Aramis! Oh, thank God!

He flashed a surreptitious look at the waiting musketeer, giving a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. Aramis nodded, understanding. Now was not the time to charge. Not when the balance of events could shift with but a murmur.

Athos drilled Clément with a glare. “You must guarantee when I give you my choice that the others will be freed. Jeanne and Firmin and Grimaud.”

“Done.” Clément fisted a hand at his hip. There, a thin dagger waited in the steel-studded belt.

To dash forward and snatch a weapon might win Athos a victim, perhaps take down Clément himself. But there were a dozen hungry brethren waiting to jump into the fray.

“You walk away from Marle the moment you name your choice,” Clément said. “In hand you shall have either the bitch or the boy. Behind you walk the others.”

“They leave now,” Athos said firmly. “I must be guaranteed their freedom.”

Clément considered the demand, his wary gaze fixed to Athos. Within the blue depths of Clément’s eyes shimmered nothing. No glint or spark. Just empty, soul-raped eyes. He held the upper hand, yes. But he was a mere shell of a human. He would not win this day. Athos would see to it.

With a nod, Clément gestured to the guards forming a barricade around Grimaud and the others.

“Release them! Bring the boy to my side.”

Raoul shrieked as a one of the Brotherhood tore him from Jeanne’s tender embrace. The sound sliced through Athos’s soul like a machete. He held himself against leaping forward. Any sudden movement on his part would endanger his son and the others.

Emmanuelle rose to her feet as the boy was shuffled forward. A minute motion of her head alerted Athos. He took it to mean, “Do not choose me.”

Clément knelt before Raoul. The boy’s face was plump and pink from crying. He pressed his back into the guard’s legs and shrank from the man who studied him. Firmin, Jeanne, and Grimaud were hastened toward the door where Aramis had slipped out of view. Athos prayed the musketeer would follow the trio to ensure their safe exit, then return to lend a hand.

“I want confirmation they are safely away from the estate,” Athos said.

“Escort them out,” Clément directed a guard, his attention still on the boy. “Return when they crossed the drawbridge. There, child, I won’t hurt you. It’s de Winter you’ve to worry about. You see the boy standing over there?”

Athos went for his sword hilt, but it was not there. At his brisk movement, one of the guards pressed a rapier to his throat.

“No, Evon,” Clément directed, and the rapier left Athos’s throat. “Mustn’t frighten the boy. The count will behave. Here.” He tugged at the lace on his sleeve and offered it to Raoul. Gently he touched the cloth to the boy’s tears. “There, there. Isn’t that much better? You’ve been through so much, little one. What’s this?”

At the query, Raoul shyly held up his doll.

Clément touched it. “A musketeer?”

“P-papa,” Raoul said on a sniffle.

“Indeed?” Clément Michel turned to look at Athos. “Does he know?”

“No,” Athos said.

“Pity.” He returned his attention to the child. Pressing his palm to the crown of his head, he gave him a stiff pat. “Did your mother tell you your papa is a musketeer?”

Raoul shook his head. “Papa?”

The boy was frightened witless. If he had made out that he was, indeed, his father, Athos only wished that his fear was keeping him from true understanding—until he could be alone with him to explain. Athos bit back an oath as Clément’s fingers traced the soft tresses tousled upon the boy’s head.

“You miss your papa? I know a boy needs a papa to learn from. To be guided.” The bastard looked up and scanned the keep. “Where the hell is de Marle?”

One of the Brotherhood cleared his throat. “Upstairs, my lord. Soused.”

Clément rolled his eyes. “Figures.” His heavy sigh blew fine strands of Raoul’s hair across his forehead. “Don’t worry, child, it will soon be over. That man there on his knees, he holds your fate. Do you know what fate means, child?”

“Enough,” Athos hissed. “Raoul—” He hesitated. The boy did not need more confusion at the moment. There would be time, later, to explain all. “I am—I…will help you.”

“I want my” —sniff— “papa,” the boy pouted.

Clément stood. “What a sweet predicament. If you choose to abandon the boy, he will never know the truth of such a decision. That it was his own— Ah, but we must keep those secrets. Such mystery! Such betrayal! Mon ange!”

Athos fumed as six of the Brotherhood surrounded Emmanuelle. They steered her to the place where Firmin and Grimaud had once stood. There was no question they were not a challenge to her. And she did have the little crossbow. But was it loaded?

Keeping his peripheral vision on Raoul and the insipid actions of Michel Clément, Athos tried to recapture Emmanuelle’s gaze. She avoided connecting with him. But he willed it. He prayed it.

And at last she fixed those distant dark eyes to his.

Gone was the blank stare, the virtually unreadable depths. She felt. She ached. She pleaded for his forgiveness. Did she not know it was he who should beg her forgiveness?

Lifting a hand to his forehead, he solemnly genuflected. Pray God this sacrifice would not be required. But if it was, he was ready to face it.

With a glance to the simmering John de Winter, Athos then named his choice, “I choose my son.”

Raoul was roughly shoved into his arms. He was vaguely aware of the motion, of sweeping up the crying, trembling child into his embrace. Of standing and being shoved to a walk. He was directed away. Away from the danger. Away from John de Winter's murderous echoing screams.

Away from Emmanuelle.

Blindly, he moved down the hallway, following a pike-wielding guard, well aware of the two behind him. Torches had been extinguished, leaving a sulphurous odor in the air. Thoughts to retaliate would only endanger his son.

“Hush, Raoul,” Athos whispered into the boy’s head. “It is papa.”

“Papa?”

His heart trembled at the hopeful tone in that single word.

“Yes.” Such happiness. Surrounded by such dread. “It is true. Papa will protect you. Mustn’t fear.”

At the door exiting the castle, the guards hesitated. They looked one to the other. Rapiers were held at the ready. A bandolier cartridge popped open in preparation to prime the musket. Did they have treachery in mind?

“Open the door,” came a command from behind. Out of the shadows stepped Aramis, a rapier prepared to open a few guts if the doors did not swing wide. “Your master commanded freedom to the count and his son. Obey, or I kill you both.”

The doors swung wide, and with Aramis ensuring a safe passage, Athos walked out with his son.

The day was yet bright. The air brisk. Raoul wore but a thin doublet and breeches. Athos had not his cloak to cover him, so he banded his arms around the boy’s back and pressed him to his chest. Raoul clung, wrapping his thin arms over his shoulders and tucking his head beneath his chin.

Three horses waited across the defunct drawbridge. Athos strode quickly but carefully across the slushy ground. Grimaud, Firmin, and Jeanne waited. Aramis offered to take the child, but Athos shook his head.

No one greeted him with relieved congratulations. They all knew they were yet far from danger.

Athos stepped over to Jeanne, pressing Raoul into her arms. “I have to go back inside. Will you hold him?”

“You cannot return!” Grimaud had already mounted. “They’ll kill you for sure!”

Contemplating the possibilities of just such an outcome Athos focused on the plan he’d decided while still on his knees. There was no question as to his next move. But he would not further endanger these kind people.

“We ride to the abandoned stable just up the road.” Athos mounted, and gestured Jeanne hand Raoul up. “I’ll leave you all there and return on my own.”

“You’ll return with me at your side,” Aramis said as he swung onto his horse.

“Folly. Such folly,” Firmin muttered as he mounted and helped Jeanne up behind him.

“Forgive me,” Athos offered as they galloped down the road. “I would not have wished this upon any of you. If I could change the last few days, know that I would give anything to do that.”

Anything but his son.

Or the woman he loved.

Athos swallowed at his plea for forgiveness. He did not deserve forgiveness.

But he would grant it to Emmanuelle. And to John de Winter, the boy would know peace.

* * *

Standing inside the cold empty stables, Athos vacillated between prying Raoul from his chest or staying. Melting into the joy of knowing his son. A child who had been subjected to a horror he should never have known.

How many horrors had John de Winter faced since his mother’s death? As if his mother’s death was not enough of a travesty.

Athos buried his face in the strands of Raoul’s hair. Indeed, he did smell sweet. Innocence tainted with a trace of evil, for torch smoke lingered in his hair. As it had Emmanuelle’s hair.

Slowly he rocked from side to side. Close by, Jeanne stood watching, a worried smile making it difficult to determine if she was happy or ready to burst into tears. Firmin and Grimaud busied themselves with the horses. Aramis paced near the door, his rapier swinging upon one finger. He itched to ride, as did Athos.

But it felt good to abandon himself to the luxury of holding his son. Oh, that he had not resigned his commission two years earlier, when he’d first learned of Raoul’s existence, and taken the babe into his home then.

“How,” Athos asked Jeanne, “did you come to have my son? I don’t understand.”

She stroked Raoul’s fingers, which clung desperately to Athos’s arm. “Emmanuelle found him in the forest outside Ribécourt. The carriage was overturned, the driver dead, and a nun—the boy’s escort—died only hours after Emmanuelle brought them in.”

So the priest had sent Raoul to him with a nursemaid close by. All good and proper. Such an accident could not have been anticipated. What a strange blessing that Emmanuelle had found them.

He owed her so much.

“Monsieur Clément—” Jeanne shook her head as if to fight a teary breakdown.

Firmin looked up from the horse. “Jeanne, please.”

She shook away her father’s concern. “Monsieur Clément arrived at the chateau looking for Emmanuelle, a few hours after the two of you left for La Fère. He said he was a friend of hers. I didn’t know who he was, and father was in the barn. She has told me nothing of her past, so I could not judge. At the time, I held Raoul in my arms. I-I might have let it slip she sought the boy’s father. He insisted we be taken to Marle.”

“As his prisoners,” Firmin snapped. “We had no choice!”

“I should not have said anything,” she said, her eyes filling. “Forgive me. It is all my fault your son is here now.”

“Hush.” Athos shook his head against Raoul’s soft crown. “It is no one’s fault.”

He glanced at Aramis, who shrugged, and offered, “There were men waiting at the Vazet chateau when I arrived, just before Grimaud. I had not expected an ambush.”

“You could not have known,” Athos said. He rubbed Raoul’s back. “There, child, don’t shiver. Papa has you.”

He tried to express thanks towards Jeanne, but she had sunk to her knees and could not be consoled unless he set down Raoul. Which he could not bring himself to do.

Athos motioned to Aramis with a tilt of his head that he go to Jeanne’s side. A consoling embrace turned her head onto Aramis’ shoulder.

“Papa loves you,” Athos whispered into Raoul’s ear. He smoothed a hand up and down the boy’s back. “Soon we’ll go home, you and I. We’ll be safe and you will have warm, clean clothes. And a bed, Raoul. And hot food for your belly. Do you like to play?”

The boy nodded through his ever-present sniffles.

“I have many animals at La Fère. You can choose any horse you like. And at Blois—that’s to be our new home—there is an old mill and a shallow stream you and I can splash in. But Papa must go back and fetch something in the place we just came from.”

The other half of his heart.

“No.” The boy tightened his legs around Athos’s waist. “Stay, Papa.”

“I’ll be no more than an hour or two, Raoul. Do you know how long that is? It’s not so long. And you have Jeanne here. She’s going to tell you a story.” He received a reassuring nod from Jeanne. “And when Papa returns we’ll ride to the next town and eat until our bellies are full. Please, Raoul I must return to the castle. There’s a woman there. She needs me.”

“Raoul.” Jeanne smoothed a hand over the boy’s head.

He jerked at her touch and lifted his head. His fingers dug into Athos’s neck, clinging, becoming one. “Papa?” Deep blue eyes held him.

Athos had once thought his tattered heart incapable of ever feeling so strongly again. Incapable of bleeding. Of aching. But the look in Raoul’s pleading eyes punched through his chest and squeezed the remains of his heart.

“Just a short time, Raoul. Then Papa will never be away from your side. Let Jeanne hold you. Please?”

As the boy relented and transferred his needy pose to Jeanne, Athos found himself sniffing tears. He held out a trembling hand before him, not touching Raoul’s outstretched hand—but connecting in ways only the soul understood.

“There’s not much daylight,” Aramis said.

His warning spurred Athos back to the present.

Firmin handed him the reins to Chrysaur. “She is not a bad person, ma belle amie. None of this was her choice. She did not know any better when Clément found her in the forest. I know in my heart she is incapable of true evil.”

“I know.”

“Some would say la Belle Dame sans Merci is a hero.”

“Indeed, she needs to know the truth. But first, she must be free of the Brotherhood’s control.” Athos led the horse outside.

“I’m going with you.” Aramis followed with the other mount. “Maybe you’ll enlighten me as to your venture into fatherhood on the way?”

“It is not as you might suspect,” Athos offered, then at his friend’s skeptical mien said, “It’s a short story. You’ll hear it. Now, has anyone a weapon?”