The Cardinal's Red Lily

VII - Enemy contact

Sorel hurried along the gallery in great haste and evaded a door at the last moment. ʹPardon me!ʹ he called over his shoulder while the curses of a valet pursued him. How bloody huge the cardinal's palace was if one was in a hurry!

ʹWatch out!ʹ The warning cry was meant for a comrade who was about to turn the very same corner, which Sorel sprinted around. ʹGonna be late!ʹ he shouted apologetically and ran on. His footsteps echoed loudly through the corridors; in the early morning he was one of the few people who were already on their feet. He started to sweat gradually and had yet to cross another gallery to the cardinal's study.

Sorel blamed himself silently as he took the next staircase with verve. He had let himself be distracted by private affairs. Very engaging, pretty private affairs, with a charming smile and full lips, from which he had found it difficult to break loose. He had almost forgotten Jussac's order to pick up a new comrade. Just in time for the morning roll call he had remembered and now he had to hurry up.

On the last distance Sorel fell first into a relaxed trot and then back into normal marching to calm his quick breath. The newcomer did not need to know that he had almost been forgotten. At the double door to the antechamber Sorel nodded at the two comrades on duty, Meunier and Forgeron, and entered. A quick glance through the room showed the usual scene; a valuable, polished wooden floor, an elaborate tapestry on the right, glazed windows on the left, upholstered chairs for waiting guests. No one else was there.

ʹHuh?ʹ Confused, Sorel let his eyes wander once more, but the antechamber remained abandoned. Should he dare to enter the study itself? The young man hesitated. It would have been highly unusual for a new recruit to appear before the cardinal on his first day of service.

ʹI'm not the only one late, am I,ʹ Sorel murmured, half amused and half annoyed. He turned on his heel and stepped outside the door again. ʹMeunier! Has there been anyone wandering around here in the last few minutes who would have looked conspicuously nervous, lost, but insanely proud of himself at the same time?ʹ

The mentioned guardsman smiled leniently. ʹSorel! You mean just the way you looked like at your first day?ʹ It had long been known that a new recruit was to join their ranks today. Sorel pulled himself up to his full height and was still half a head smaller than his comrades. ʹI am justly proud of myself!ʹ

ʹWell, of course.ʹ Meunier shrugged. ʹNo, there was no one around.ʹ

ʹJussac will be overjoyed...ʹ Sorel did not need much of an imagination to presage the lieutenant's scowl. Not a good way for the new recruit to start.

ʹOver there.ʹ

Sorel turned to look into the direction that Forgeron suddenly pointed towards. In fact, a man marched up with a resolute step, he had pulled his feathered hat low over his forehead and looked utterly grim underneath. It took Sorel a moment to recognise him. ʹMonsieur d'Artagnan again?ʹ

Meunier snorted contemptuously and Forgeron watched the appearance of the former musketeer attentively. D'Artagnan approached them and seemed to have understood clearly what the guards were exchanging among themselves, for he showed a combatively expression. Perhaps it would have been more impressive if he had not still been adorned by a gradually fading black eye. Unconsciously, Sorel put a hand on the hilt of his sword.

D'Artagnan noticed this gesture and got a hold of himself. At the entrance to the palace, Cahusac had detained him once more. Rochefort had apparently again failed to announce that he could be admitted. After a brief exchange of words, the guardsman let him pass, today without an escort. Small wonder, since his nanny was already waiting at the study's double doors and eyed him curiously. ʹSorel.ʹ D'Artagnan greeted him with a neutral face and glanced at the other two guardsmen. Complete distrust was evident from their attitude. Great, that was how he had imagined his future life at the red guard. The next weeks would be full of serenity and pure joy for sure!

ʹMonsieur le lieutenant,ʹ Sorel replied politely, and d'Artagnan was taken aback. Lieutenant? Did they not know that from now on he had to serve as the least of them? For the moment he left it at that and asked, ʹWhere is your superior officer to find?ʹ

Sorel continued to watch him carefully. He seemed to be more shrewd than his comrades, who were stubbornly silent. Sorel, on the other hand, was able to put two and two together. ʹUnless you mean Captain Luchaire, then Jussac is in the guardroom.ʹ

D'Artagnan nodded and returned a half-hearted ʹMy thanksʹ. Yes, he meant Jussac. The cardinal's guard numbered several hundred, almost a thousand men on horseback or on foot, plus ensigns and lieutenants. But the hand-picked palace troop of 60 guardsmen, who were always present, was primarily under Jussac's command. Right after the captain, of course. ...and where was this guardroom located?

ʹI will lead you.ʹ Sorel noticed the surprised looks by his comrades and smiled apologetically. ʹEn route I might meet someone who has lost his way.ʹ

Meunier frowned, but did not comment. Forgeron also seemed to agree with Sorel's assumption that the new recruit was wandering around somewhere in the palace and had not asked his way to the meeting place. D'Artagnan waited until Sorel had taken the lead and followed half a step behind him. The young man smiled amusedly, self-confident and proud. He seemed to be at peace with the world and himself. Unlike his companion, who did not want to be reminded of whom he had been himself many, many years ago and grumpy demanded, ʹJust tell me where I have to go. I will find the guardroom on my own.ʹ

ʹCertainly, monsieur le lieutenant, you would, but I am bound by Jussac's orders.ʹ

ʹWhat orders?ʹ

ʹTo take the new recruit to him.ʹ

D'Artagnan silently congratulated himself on his reckon up of Sorel's character. The lad was a real clever. When would his shrewdness become his downfall? ʹYou will keep your mouth shut until I have spoken to Jussac!ʹ

ʹUnderstood!ʹ Sorel replied blithely. He shot the supposed lieutenant a curious side glance. D'Artagnan looked back so grimly that the young guard quickly swallowed all questions and concentrated only on the way ahead.

The guardroom also seemed to be an arsenal. While the guards carried a pistol discreetly hidden under the tunic during duty, muskets were stored in the room in case of an attack. A tiled fireplace dominated the rear wall and provided warmth, in front of it were rows of wooden tables and benches. D'Artagnan noticed that on one of the tables there lay a deck of cards, on another one a game of dice. Meals seemed to be handed out here, as a few bowls and cups left behind showed.

At the moment there was nobody on call here. Maybe the change of guards just started or the guardsmen were assembling in the yard for morning roll call. The only person sitting at one of the rear tables, close to the fireplace, absorbed in a narrow book, was the lieutenant of the regiment. D'Artagnan mutely told Sorel that he could manage the last steps without his company. The young guardsman withdrew immediately and without contradiction, apparently he still believed in the higher rank of the other.

D'Artagnan waited until the door closed behind him before stepping deeper into the lion's den. Jussac did not make a move to indicate whether he had noticed the presence of the other man. He seemed completely absorbed in his reading and did not look up even when d'Artagnan remained standing only two steps away from him.

Moments passed when the former musketeer wondered whether he should either brazenly draw attention to himself or continue to disparage himself by waiting for a sign from the gracious lieutenant. Jussac, however, only turned the page. D'Artagnan could not read the title of the book, but now he spotted a page with the anatomical drawing of a dog and some explanations. The text seemed to have been written in Latin and immediately d'Artagnan's interest hit rock bottom. He cleared his throat.

ʹHeaven forbid, who-ʹ Jussac snorted over the book, but he finished the question in disbelief, ʹ-you?!ʹ when he recognised the disturber.

D'Artagnan could not blame him. Nor was he pleased to be here, standing at attention and getting it over and done with in one quick and painless sentence. ʹReportingforduty, sir.ʹ

Jussac's look on his face was almost worth it. Consternation was too mild an expression for what spoke from his gaze. The lieutenant blinked several times and seemed to find out whether he had just understood correctly. D'Artagnan remained silent and examined a point just past the left earlobe of his new superior. A tile by the fireplace had a crack. No one moved.

Finally, Jussac very slowly put the book on the table and said with severe self-control, ʹIf this is supposed to be a joke, you are showing a very bad sense of humour, and if it is not a joke, God hates me enough by now to send you to me as a permanent nuisance.ʹ When d'Artagnan did not reply, Jussac stood up and stepped close to the other officer. ʹTell me this is a joke!ʹ

It was not the threatening undertone that kept d'Artagnan silent. Rather, there was nothing to say, the forced eye contact was enough to make Jussac understand. ʹYou have been announced by Rochefort.ʹ Without waiting for confirmation, the lieutenant brusquely turned towards the fireplace, grabbed the poker and poked into the embers. For the sake of his own health, d'Artagnan did not comment on this either. It would have been an inglorious end to be killed with a poker on the very first day. Or, in self-defence, to run a sword through his superior who now asked with gritted teeth, ʹWhat rank?ʹ

ʹPardon?ʹ

ʹWhat rank do you hold?!ʹ Jussac shouted and it must have been heard all the way to the door. The lieutenant of the guardsmen did not care, he was too angry. Perhaps he was getting on the wrong side of his captain-to-be? Luchaire had talked often enough in the last months about taking his well-deserved retirement. Jussac should have succeeded him, but of course, that damn Gascon meddled in his affairs now and outranked him.

ʹ... common soldier,ʹ d'Artagnan replied hesitantly. He was not sure if Jussac had heard him, because the lieutenant was still standing very tense and was staring into the ember. D'Artagnan controlled himself not to have to endure Jussac's slow-working mind too impatiently. Now the lieutenant hung the poker back up, but did not turn around when he ordered, ʹReport to the armourer and then to the roll call in the courtyard.ʹ

ʹYes, s-!ʹ

ʹImmediately!ʹ

D'Artagnan closed his mouth again, his jaws grinding. That went well, Rochefort's plan was never, ever doomed to failure! Without further confirmation, without a salute, he marched out of the guardroom. He had hardly banged the door behind him when a loud rumbling could be heard from inside. Jussac must have been venting his anger. The noise did not escape the small group of guardsmen who had just arrived. D'Artagnan saw Sorel among them, who was looking back and forth between the door and him. Sooner or later he had to face his new comrades and put up with their ridicule and contempt.

D'Artagnan decided for 'sooner' and approached the guardsmen. But suddenly he was grabbed by the arm and barked at, ʹDon't you hurry!ʹ

D'Artagnan instinctively broke free and recognised Bernajoux, along with Biscarat. Both men looked at him hostilely. If it had not been for their friend Jussac, they would never have treated an officer, for whom they still had to mistook d'Artagnan, in such a way.

ʹWhat were you doing in there?ʹ Biscarat did all the talking while Bernajoux flexed his muscles. In an almost absurd way, d'Artagnan felt reminded of Aramis and Porthos. However, he had little desire to mess again with every man on his first day and to fight duels. They had already done that more than ten years ago. Besides, his knee was still bothering him after the fight at the Three Crowns.

ʹAsk Jussac!ʹ he replied enraged and passed the two guardsmen. They let him go unmolested, perhaps they were too surprised by his behaviour. Even Sorel seemed to be hurriedly looking for an escape route when he realised that d'Artagnan was heading right for him. The young guard, however, bravely stood his ground as he was barked at, ʹArmorer!ʹ

Sorel nodded and again led d'Artagnan to the requested destination. This time the lad remained resolutely silent, disillusioned, if not disappointed. Bernajoux, Biscarat and even the taciturn Cahusac had repeatedly raked over old war stories and told them to their younger comrades; and although or perhaps even because they were enemies, the lieutenant of the musketeers also appeared in these stories. The daring conquest of Saint-Germain, for example. How annoying it must have been for His Eminence that the king had snatched the promising young soldier from under his nose after this adventure and made him a musketeer. Perhaps d'Artagnan would otherwise have become a cardinal's guardsman instead of being stuck in his post as a lieutenant for years.

Of course, d'Artagnan had no idea of these considerations, otherwise he might have told Sorel a completely different story by a jar of good wine. One about his best friends, about the naive dream of a young country nobleman. About unexpected twists and turns.

But instead d'Artagnan railed against fate and welcomed the silence.

VIII - Taking up duty

Biscarat and Bernajoux initially watched the departure of the former lieutenant of the musketeers in confusion. When d'Artagnan barked ʹArmourer!ʹ the matter was obvious. Biscarat rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache and glanced at his friend with a meaningful look. Bernajoux, for his part, did not hesitate to step into the guardroom to support Jussac. He was able to imagine how his lieutenant had digested the news; it had been impossible not to hear his reaction.

In fact, he and Biscarat, who followed him immediately, found Jussac sitting apparently completely relaxed on a bench in front of the fireplace, his nose buried in his current favourite book, Exercitatio Anatomica de Motu Cordis et Sanguinis in Animalibus.

Bernajoux had no understanding of those kinds of things. Jussac's brother, a doctor, had sent the book to him. An Anatomical Exercise on the Motion of the Heart and Blood in Living Beings. Their lieutenant was interested in such things, blood circulation and skeletons, gruesome stuff in Bernajoux's eyes. It was enough for him to know where to strike with the sword to damage organs, not how they worked.

Biscarat discreetly closed the door before the other guardsmen curiously stormed the room as well. It was an old story; whenever Jussac was in the worst mood of all, his closest friends were sent ahead until the situation had calmed down. The situation now seemed so bad that Jussac ignored even Bernajoux, who wordlessly put back up the table, which their lieutenant had knocked over in anger.

While Bernajoux was still calmly collecting playing cards scattered on the floor, Biscarat was even brave enough to take a seat next to Jussac. The lieutenant stared stubbornly at his book without reading a single line. Biscarat patiently let a few moments pass, then moistened his little finger and put it in Jussac's ear.

ʹHeaven's sake!ʹ The lieutenant wiped Biscarat's arm fiercely to the side and stopped himself in time before he would instinctively thrust hist fist in his friend's face. Biscarat raised his hands in an appeasing manner and tried the disarming smile with which he had escaped from many delicate situations before. ʹWelcome back.ʹ

Jussac was not in a joking mood. ʹI swear, if it wasn't you…ʹ he growled and gave Bernajoux a warning look as well. He absolutely did not want to be cheered up. On the contrary, he had just made himself very comfortable in his rage against certain stable masters, musketeers and incomprehensible decisions.

Biscarat could see through his lieutenant effortlessly. ʹI can well imagine whom you'd break the nose instead of me.ʹ

ʹTalk to me about that matter again and I will break your nose!ʹ

ʹSo I can get a crooked face like our dear Bernajoux?ʹ Behind them, the mentioned Bernajoux threw the playing cards back on the table in a more untidy fashion than necessary, grunting something not understandable. Biscarat grinned. ʹI renounce.ʹ

ʹGood.ʹ Jussac still looked scowling, but when his friends made no move to leave him alone, he sighed and called himself to order. ʹYou two were listening?ʹ

ʹIs it him?ʹ Bernajoux, as always, was short on words, but still got to the point. Most of the time, Jussac was grateful to be able to answer just as concisely. They understood each other with few gestures, with half sentences. Now, however, he grimaced when the facts were once again thrown at him without any explanation and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. ʹYes. The bastard is now a guardsman.ʹ

ʹLieutenant?ʹ Bernajoux seemed to be as worried about d'Artagnan's position in their ranks as Jussac had been before. Fortunately enough in this respect, there was good news.

ʹCommon soldier.ʹ Jussac snorted disparagingly. ʹThe cardinal must have stripped him off his patent, there's no other explanation.ʹ

ʹIt suggests that d'Artagnan's transfer is his last chance.ʹ Biscarat speculated. ʹOtherwise he would at least have had to be offered the post of senior lieutenant in order to honour us.ʹ

Bernajoux's face was unexpectedly graced by a rare smile. Actually, only the corners of his mouth seemed to be more wry than usual. If one did not know him better, a smile from the combative guardsman appeared quite... disconcerting. ʹHe'll have to behave himself.ʹ

Jussac nodded thoughtfully. ʹIf it's his last chance and he doesn't want to lose it. Now I'm no longer surprised by Rochefort's request to keep an eye on the new recruit. He'll only provoke agitation in the corps.ʹ

ʹHe's not one of us and no one here will ever trust him. Our feud with the musketeers is not forgotten,ʹ Biscarat agreed. ʹThis will be fun!ʹ

ʹEnough of this.ʹ Jussac put his book down on the bench and stood up. The conversation with his friends had dampened his anger. ʹMorning roll call in half an hour, muster the men! We will adequately introduce our appreciated newcomer to duty.ʹ In the next half hour he had to think about what to do now. Captain Luchaire certainly did not want any trouble within the red guard during his last weeks of duty. The only question left was how his lieutenant could prevent this based on the latest developments. ʹDismissed!ʹ

Bernajoux and Biscarat confirmed and left the guardroom. Outside the door, they only had to exchange a quick glance to agree with each other. They would adequately introduce d'Artagnan to the guard, oh yes. So adequately that the former musketeer would soon come to terms with his new position and could be sure that he was always kept in sight watchfully. Both friends went off to call their comrades together as they had been ordered to do.

*~*~*~*~*

D'Artagnan tugged uncomfortably at his new uniform, the red tunic of His Eminence's guard. On his arrival, the armourer had only eyed him with a brief, appraising glance, while Sorel explained the matter, and then handed him his equipment; a musket and the cloak-like uniform with the characteristic, unadorned cross on the chest, back and sleeves. Reluctantly, d'Artagnan had put on the new colours, ignoring Sorel's encouraging nod.

Perhaps Sorel had then deliberately chosen the path through the gallery of mirrors down into the courtyard so that d'Artagnan could cast furtive side glances. In passing, the former musketeer had actually dared to examine his appearance. The tunic fitted him as if he had never worn another. Like tailor-made, fabric of the best quality. D'Artagnan forced himself to stop another tugging and accept that the cardinal equipped his guards better than the king had his musketeers.

A considerable number of guards had already gathered in the inner courtyard. The morning roll call seemed imminent and d'Artagnan felt visibly out of place. Everything appeared so disciplined and organised here as it had never been in the musketeers' headquarters. He had always appreciated the loud hustle and bustle there, the rough jokes, the mock battles on the stairs or the gambling in the entrance hall. The full life, seemingly unbridled and carefree. The guardsmen, on the other hand, had gathered here in loose groups, were talking to each other, but only quietly, and they always seemed to keep a watchful eye on the surroundings so that they could react immediately to the arrival of an officer.

From one of these groups Cahusac now waved in their direction. To be more precise, he waved to Sorel, who also briefly raised one arm and immediately joined the comrade. He did not seem to notice that d'Artagnan was not following him. Perhaps the young guard was also relieved to be able to leave with an excuse. The former lieutenant knew when he was welcome among the common soldiers and when not. In case he still did not understand, he caught another warning look from Cahusac and shrugged his shoulders.

Without really knowing what to do with himself, d'Artagnan remained below one of the windows, which were facing the court at regular intervals. It was only a small square in the entrance area of the town palace, almost directly facing the street. 'Small', of course, only compared to the impressive gardens and the vast Cour d'Honneur further inside. One could have built several houses here easily and even then there would have been room left for a modest forecourt with a statue and pigeon droppings.

The Palais Cardinal was a stone monument, three storeys high and topped with pointed roofs. The façade was straight, symmetrical on all sides, with only a few decorations on the windows. The gates were framed by double columns because it had been inspired by Italian architecture at that time. The Louvre was within a stone's throw, d'Artagnan saw it from an unusual perspective. Never before had he felt so much in the wrong place.

ʹYou look like one of us.ʹ

D'Artagnan was torn from his thoughts and he cursed for having been inattentive. Suddenly, he saw himself surrounded by a semicircle of guardsmen, Bernajoux and Biscarat ahead of them. The latter had dropped this unkind remark and, amidst the approving murmurs of his comrades, added now, ʹBut are you one of us?ʹ

Not particularly impressed by the superior forces and certainly not intimidated, d'Artagnan responded, ʹI shall be.ʹ He surprised himself by sounding not only determined but also sincere. Perhaps Rochefort had taken correctly measure of himself and this seemingly impossible task resuscitated his ambition.

The guardsmen seemed to be moving imperceptibly closer, but still remained behind the front, which Bernajoux, with his physique, could form all by himself. D'Artagnan remembered him as a formidable opponent, back ten years ago when Bernajoux challenged him to a duel after a tennis match to avenge the wounds of the carmelite monastery. Without doubt he was the best fencer of the guardsmen. D'Artagnan had only been able to triumph over him because Bernajoux had not taken him seriously as an opponent due to his youth. With their duel they had started a small war between musketeers, the cardinal's guard and even the king's guard in the town, in which a house had almost been burned down. Bernajoux still did not seem particularly well disposed towards him. With a sideways glance at Biscarat, he said, ʹIt is in his papers.ʹ

ʹPaper does not blush,ʹ said Biscarat, playing helplessly with the question of how to answer the attitude of their new member. D'Artagnan, for his part, tried to keep an eye on each man so he would been forearmed. Unconsciously, he took a firmer stand. Bernajoux made clear what this meeting would lead to. ʹA test of loyalty?ʹ

Biscarat seemed to think about it while the rest of the guardsmen was already smirking. D'Artagnan had a sense of foreboding when the other Gascon nodded with a much too friendly smile. ʹAn introduction.ʹ

Suddenly d'Artagnan found himself hooked under the arms and in the middle of his new comrades, who immediately marched off as a merry group, dragging him along with them. They knew by now that he had been demoted and that they were not attacking any superior officer. ʹWhat the hell are you doing?!ʹ he shouted against Bernajoux and Biscarat, who marched ahead and led the group down from the yard to the laughter of the remaining guardsmen. He received no reply and after a pointless attempt to break away, he surrendered.

D'Artagnan did not have to puzzle over their destination for long. It could be smelled before it was heard too; the stables of the Palais Cardinal. The smell of horse manure, straw and the animals themselves hung intensely in the air and the damp, misty weather intensified it even more. D'Artagnan only got a brief glimpse of the horses in their compartments, as he was led straight into the back of the stables. The hostlers were clever enough to make themselves invisible as the noisy and frighteningly cheerful group passed by with an unhappy recruit in their midst.

Soon they left the roofed part of the stables and d'Artagnan resisted only half-heartedly. He achieved nothing more than to be grabbed even tighter. The stench of filth and dung had become overwhelming here in the backyard. The procession took a halt and Biscarat turned to the former musketeer. ʹNow you have got an idea.ʹ

ʹIt is blatantly obvious,ʹ d'Artagnan growled back and understood perfectly what was meant. The guardsmen were superior against him in every way, and this whole 'introduction' served only to point him out to his low-ranked position. The warning had reached him.

Bernajoux put a hand on the shoulder of his friend when he seemed to hesitate. Biscarat might have ended the matter here and now, because the supposed enemy had been put in its place and he kept calm. But the comrades did not want to be here for nothing, so the half Spaniard stepped aside.

D'Artagnan's arms were suddenly released, but a fierce thrust in the back made him stagger and because he could just manage to steady himself, someone tripped him up. Face first, the former lieutenant's fall ended in horse dung. Instinctively, he tried to get back up on his knees and was shoved down again accompanied by the cheers and spitefulness of the other men. He spat out and tried to straighten himself up, only to be doused with a bucket of more dung.

The choreography of this baptism had been long rehearsed, often practised. A disgusting liquid dripped from the brim of his hat into d'Artagnan's neck. He did not try to get up again and grudgingly endured the laughter. Probably all newcomers had to endure this humiliation. D'Artagnan doubted that the guardsmen would always be throwing their own uniforms into the dirt. This was reserved solely for former musketeers, so that they too would make a certain introduction of themselves to the senior officers on their first day of service.

Another recruit would now have reached out a hand to help him out after the traditional bath in horse dung. He would have been pulled back up on his feet, patted on his shoulders and thus be officially accepted by the guards. In the evening, there would have been a mutual celebration in their favourite tavern. But now the guardsmen congratulated each other only among themselves on their successful prank. Bernajoux was the first to turn away abruptly and leave the court. Soon the other men followed him and did not hold back with ridicule. One even threw a clean handkerchief to d'Artagnan. When he raised his eyes, he looked into Biscarat's face. There was neither triumph nor compassion in it when he said, ʹIt is your choice now.ʹ

D'Artagnan nodded, spat again and laboriously got up on his feet, disgusted by the unspeakable globs and fluids sticking to and under his clothes. He waded out of the dung heap and was just about to say a word to Biscarat, when he decided to do the same as his comrades and therefore walked away without looking back.