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“His Eminence does not accept visitors.“ A boy in a red cloak, hardly commissioned before this year‘s Easter, steps his way, voice slightly trembling. The second – larger one, with gray hair scattered amidst his hair and beard, – shadows him, yet silent, hand resting on a guard of a sword. – “You have to leave, Sir.”
Rochefort barely grants him a glance. The boy by no means remembers him being their Captain. His older counterpart however should have been in a regiment back then, unless Red Guards degraded to the degree when Cardinal’s safety is trusted to filthy yardbirds.
Rochefort raises a torch closer to his face, pulls the hood of his cloak back.
“Let His Eminence know that Comte de Rochefort asks for an audience.“ Aged Guard startles, straightening like on a parade. Rochefort grins darkly.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I could not see through your… disguise immediately.“ Cardinal has taught his men well. “Report on His Grace’s arrival”.
Boy struggles with a heavy lock for a good minute before letting Rochefort inside. The hall is pleasantly warm, soft smells of incense and candle wax They walk up the stairs, steps silenced with carpets, shadows weirdly dancing on the walls, turning pious faces on the portraits into grotesque masks.
Palace is too dark and so calm that it feels abandoned or haunted. Years before it never slept, even in the night it was full of barely visible servants or exhausted clerks, scribing, whispering, ordering messages to all corners of France and far beyond. Things have changed, changed a lot, and not for the best.
"His Eminence awaits Comte de Rochefort.“ He exhales deeply, winces from pain and steps into disturbingly familiar office. So many orders he got there. So many reports gave.
Cardinal has turned old. He looks worn and exhausted, skin pale, almost ashy, lines on his forehead deep and abundant. He lost a great deal of weight, and his cloak seems unfit, like he borrowed it from his Italian counterpart, Cardinal How-was-it, who could wolf down two pigeons before anyone at the table were able even to smell the food.
Not like he is in positions to judge, but his Cardinal looks more like a living corpse.
“What brings you there?“ There’s not much left from his elegant manners as well.
“I dare to ask Your Eminence if I could still seek a place among the Red Guards“. It hurts to bow, it hurts to straighten himself. His back just started to heal when he left the dungeon, but days in a saddle and fight with those goddamned peasants in that goddamned village worsened its state cruelly. His side still hurts
“You do not look like a man capable to raise a sword, Rochefort.“ He does not feel this way either, but he has recovered from much worse in the past, and the Cardinal must be aware of this better than anyone.
“Send the word to the musketeers. When there was a need to fight on a way back to Paris, I fought among them.“
“You must have left your mind in a Spanish dungeon if you think I would trust their judgements on anyone‘s capability,“ snaps Cardinal and clutches rosary in his hand.
“As Your Eminence says.” The visit seems to be over. Cardinal lowers his eyes to the documents, flips a page. Silence lingers. After all battles Rochefort lost in last five years, this defeat feels the most humiliating. Most hopeless. Most ultimate giving he is barely welcomed anywhere in Paris if he is banished from his… – Good Lord, he still thinks about Red Guards’ garrison as his. Rochefort bows once again, sharp pain piercing through his chest, and almost loses his balance from a sudden dizziness. He must have made some unpleasant noise because Cardinal looks at him again, irritated.
He gasps for air, trying to breathe out an apology, but his vision turns crimson, shadows close the circle around him, cold and suffocating.
One more unsteady step forward, and darkness embraces him.
—
Rochefort comes back to his senses in a darker room Body feels pleasantly clean, sheets silky and cold against feverish skin. His limbs are week and heavy, vision still blurred, and he sees only a dark silhouette at his bedside. Closes eyes again, cowardly hiding in silence disturbed only by fire cracking in a chimney and soft rattle of rosary beads.
Such an embarrassment.
Blanket, soft and warm, covers bandage tightening his chest, but his shoulders and arms are exposed, and he feels dark, tenacious look lingering on the scars, where fresh burns are crossing old white traces of whip.
“Unimaginable.“ Cardinal‘s voice is low and oddly trembling. Rochefort turns his head slightly and Cardinal startles as he was caught amidst some indecency.
“You must have stated the extent of your injuries more explicitly, Rochefort“, – the truth is that after years soaked in pain and fever he barely understands the demands of his body. This sort of detachment became the only way to keep the last grains of sanity, but he lacks the words to explain this feeling.
Seeing solemn Cardinal’s face framed with dark clothing and lit with brisk candlelight painstakingly resembles lying on a deathbed. Rochefort forces himself to sit upright, hissing from pain piercing his body in dozen placed. Cardinal moves to help him, but hesitates for a moment, and this hesitation can be nothing but disgust.
“You do not have to… “ he swallows “touch me“ to avoid intimate, obscene undertone. “Your Eminence.”
“You fool.” Cardinal supports him firmly between the shoulder blades where old scars have almost healed, undisturbed for a while. Some time ago Vargas got too bored with whipping, giving it brought him no satisfactory outcome during four previous years.
Cardinal takes a glass of wine from a bedside table and gives a second one to Rochefort. He hesitates for a moment remembering how many people ended as corpses after accepting a treat from these holy hands.
“If I wanted you dead, I would have simply thrown you out of my house and saved the resources. Drink.“ Wine is sweet and hot, with intense undertone of herbs and honey. So easy to cover a poison. Rochefort takes a large sip anyway and returns a glass with a grateful nod.
“You have better done it, your Eminence," he says conversationally.
“Why?” The question is sharp and immediate, but shadow in Cardinal‘s eyes reveals he has already deduced the answer.
“Because I agreed to work for Spain.” Rochefort exhales, feeling like he has made a leap from the cliff, embracing downfall.
“Explain yourself.” Cold fury rings in these two words, low and simple.
For a moment he feels the urge to lie. He is tempted to swear that he had invented the complicated scheme long before the first strike of whip broke his skin, but then he meets Cardinal icy gaze and realizes that insincerity would be his death sentence.
“I could not stand that pain anymore,“ he whispers and looks away, drowning in a suffocating hot flush of shame. Confession makes betrayal even uglier, humiliation deeper. He stares at crucifix on Cardinal‘s chest and sees nothing more than despise and disgust in the pained eyes of Their Saviour. Indeed, what could he, Rochefort, know about the suffering? About the pain? How dared he to commit a treason and then to seek for a pitiful excuses?
Cardinal‘s hand, cold and dry, lightly strikes his cheek, and Rochefort suddenly realizes his face being wet from tears. He shies away, still trying pointlessly and hopelessly to suppress chest– ripping sobs. But he fails, fails again as he failed back there, when he promised himself not to cry, not to beg for mercy, but he cried, and begged, and fainted just to be brought to his senses with a harsh slap in a face. He struggles for breath, like he struggled then, standing under the burning midday sun with a rope over his neck. His skin burns, as it was burning then, when hours lasted as eternity and heat became unbearable, and his knees were ready to give in, and he was ready to betray himself, his country, his Queen, his damned God just for a gulp of water. And he’s betrayed. Betrayed, when it was so easy to take a step forward and let the rope finish its work.
They broke him a good month ago but it is the first time when he truly feels broken.
Cardinal‘s hand rests on his shoulder, so delicately that it does not even hurt. He shruggs anyway and stiffens waiting for the graze of a poisonous ring or for a shot from a Guard summoned with barely visible signal. But room is still silent, and he is still alive, and streams of warmth float from the merciful touch all over his chest.
“Forgive me,” he whispers, hoping, but not truly believing, that either God or His Eminence would hear him.
“I see no point in you dying there, Lieutenant.” Cardinal covers crucifix with his hand, making Rochefort startle. The Spanish ripped his own – Anne’s – on a very first day of captivity, leaving an angry burning red stripe on his neck. Such pious Catholics they were.
“I am no…” No Lieutenant, no Red Guard and no man after all.
“I am to decide who you are,” says Cardinal abruptly, and Rochefort feels the faint tremble of what somewhen has been hope, undeserved and impossible. – I am terrified to learn about your sufferings, my friend, but I have to admit that my life here has also been full of hardships and torments. In these times, with so many amends to make, I could not dare to imagine having one of my best men so close to Spanish court. We can help each other. We definitely can”, – Cardinal‘s voice sounds anticipatory, almost cheerfully, and for a moment Rochefort questions his sanity.
“I am in no way one of your best men.” Emotions left him weak and lifeless, but he still feels the urge to warn Cardinal against betting on a finished creature like him.
Cardinal frowns, fingers go through the rosary impatiently. Beads clench with an angry, nervous sound.
"Do not make me repeat myself, Rochefort. We have no time for your despair. You might stay as my guest until recovery, but then I need you at Court.”
“I can not… can not find the words to express my appreciation, Your Eminence.” Everything that comes to his mind sounds too shallow, too blank to reveal immense gratitude and relief flooding his mind at once. He was too ready for a new spiral of pain and humiliation to realize, that here and now he is spared.
Cardinal waves his hand, shoving empty words away, and pours another glass of wine. Rochefort drinks, while cold fingers, heavy with priceless rings, support his wrist. Wine brings little calm to his shaking body and even less to his disturbed soul, but the touch, this unmerited favor, anchors him, granting fragile illusion of safety.
“Rest.” Definitely an order, but sounds oddly caressing. Rochefort leans on the pillows obediently, surrendering at last to overwhelming weakness, and still feels Cardinal‘s hand on his arm, just above the pulse wave beating erratically and unsteadily. It is so weird, to crave for this little tender gift after forgetting that tenderness even exists. Candlelight fades as his eyelids get heavier, smells of incense, wine and herbs embrace him, soothing and warming.
Drifting off, he feels gentle lips leaving mark, swift and soft, on his forehead.
But it is most likely just a trick of his tormented mind.