Marrying the Musketeer (43 page)

The softness of his touch on her body melted the last shreds of ice in her heart.
 
How could he forgive her even now, when he was destined so soon to die for her?
 
“I brought you to this.
 
My desire for revenge for the pain and suffering you put me through.”
 
She looked up into his eyes, still the same eyes.
 
“I was in love with you.
 
Desperately in love with you, as only a young girl can be.
 
I trusted you utterly, with every piece of me.
 
When you disappeared, I did not want to believe that you had been untrue to me.
 
I waited for you, but you did not come to me.
 
Justin told me the truth at last, that you had betrayed me, but even then I could not accept it.
 
Not until I sent a messenger to you and you refused to send me even a line of comfort back again, did I understand the truth – that I had given my heart to a scoundrel, who had used me for his own purposes and abandoned me to my fate.”

“I could not reply to your message.
 
I had no words to write to you that would express my horror and regret at what I had done.
 
I could not come to see you – I had not the courage to face you again.
 
I thought you would forget about me, that you would marry Justin and be happy with him.”

She took his hand in hers and clasped it tightly.
 
“I loved you too well to wed another.
 
You broke my heart when you left.
 
Besides, I was carrying your child.”

“My son.”
 
His face took on a softness she had never seen before.
 
“He is well?”

“He was well when I left him, and growing strong.”

His face was wistful.
 
“I wish I could have seen him, just once.
 
Tell me about our son, that I may get to know a little of him before I die.”

Hand in hand they sat together on the floor of the cell, her knife lying forgotten by her side, as she told him about their son.
 
She did not stop until her eyes were wet and her throat too choked with tears to continue.

He wiped away the tears that were streaming down his cheeks.
 
“What have you told him about his father?”

“He is too young as yet to know aught about fathers.
 
He does not know yet what he is missing.”

“If I could get out of this place for long enough to see my son, to plant a kiss on his forehead and give him my blessing, I would die a happy man.”

They sat in silence for a while, both knowing how hopeless such a wish was.

Courtney broke the silence at last.
 
“I came here to make my peace with you.
 
If I have done that, I have not died in vain.”

Pierre took hold of both her hands in his.
 
“Will you forgive me at last?”

“If you will forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive – you did nothing to me that I did not deserve.”

“I thought I wanted justice – I wanted only revenge.”
 
She gave a bitter smile.
 
“Little did I know that true justice is more akin to mercy than to vengeance.
 
God has punished for my lack of forgiveness.
 
I would not dare not to forgive you now.”

“No more enmity between us then?
 
Friends, now, at last?”

“Friends to the death.”

Courtney did not know how long the two of them sat there, holding hands and talking with each other, sharing the thoughts and feelings that they had kept hidden from each other and from the rest of the world for so long.
 
Though she was under sentence of death, she felt more at peace than she had for a long time.
 
For the very first time in her heart of hearts she had truly forgiven Pierre for his betrayal of her.
 
She knew that he had forgiven her as well for her betrayal of him that had led them both to his place.

The guards pushed a loaf of black bread and a jug of stale water in through a slot in the door of their cell.
 
They shared the bread and took turns drinking out of the jug until their meager rations were gone.
 
She could not have been happier if they had been dining on nectar and ambrosia instead of the moldy leavings of the guards’ own food.

How many weeks and months of loving Pierre she had missed out on.
 
Now that she had so little time left, days at the most, maybe only hours, she would make the most of every second.

She did not even want to close her eyes, but eventually weariness overcame them both.
 
They stretched out together side by side on the cold, hard, stone floor.
 
His hand clasped firmly in hers, their bodies pressed up against each other for warmth and the love of companionship, they drifted off to sleep.

They awoke some time later to sounds of muffled chaos outside the door of their cell.
 
She sat up and rubbed her eyes, still heavy with sleep.
 
She hoped that the noises did not presage ill tidings for them both.
 
She could bear her imprisonment well enough in Pierre’s company, but if he was taken away from her, or taken off to be tortured again...She wasn’t sure she could live with that.

At least she still had her knife.
 
She would do her best to hide it from the guards for as long as she could.
 
While she kept it in her possession, they both still had a choice whether to live or die.

Beside her, Pierre clambered to his feet with a groan and stretched out his stiff limbs one by one.
 
“Sleeping on the stone floor after a session on the rack,” he said with a rueful smile, “and I feel like an old man of three score and more.
 
I can barely move.”

The noise outside the cell door was growing louder.
 
She could hear much shouting and yelling, and sounds of furiously running feet.
 
It sounded as though a full scale riot had broken out.

They sat and listened for some moments, but the riot did not quiet.
 
If anything, it became louder and more demanding.
 
“No breakfast for us this morning,” Pierre said with a casual shrug.
 
“Whatever is happening out there sounds like it will take all the guards attention for some time.”

Courtney groaned.
 
Her mouth was as dry as all the sands of Araby.
 
She would give a lot for another jug of water – even the stale, brackish water they had drunk so reluctantly the day before.
 
She hoped that the guards were simply too busy to think of their prisoners needs, and that depriving them of food and water was not a new form of torture that they would have to endure.
 
Food she could do without, but not water...

Her mouth was too dry to talk.
 
She sat in silence with Pierre, enduring.

A noise right outside the door of their cell made her jump.
 
With a feeling of dread about her heart, she heard the ominous sound of a key turning in the lock.

Pierre’s face grew gray with alarm and he clasped her hands tighter than ever in his own.
 
“I love you, Courtney,” he said, desperation in his voice.
 
“Do not forget that.
 
Whatever they do to you, whatever they do to me, they cannot take that away from us.”

Courtney squeezed his hands back again as she looked deeply into his eyes.
 
For all she knew, this would be the last time she ever saw him.
 
She wanted to remember the love in his face until the moment of her death.
 
“I love you, too, Pierre.”

“Cut out the mushy stuff,” broke in an amused voice.
 
“There’ll be time enough for that later on.”

Courtney dragged her eyes away from Pierre’s face to where a booted figure with a fistful of keys stood at the door.
 
“Miriame?”

“In the flesh.”

Courtney clambered to her feet, with Pierre only a second behind her.

“Great, you’re not shackled.
 
That’ll save us a bit of time.”
 
Miriame waved them out the door.
 
“Things are a little crazy around here.
 
Find your way to the front gate.
 
I’ll just round up the others and be right behind you.”

Surely she could not just wander out the front gate of France’s most secure prison.
 
“What about the guards?”

Miriame laughed uproariously.
 
“They’ll be in no state to give you any trouble.
 
But just in case,” she drew a dagger out of each boot and tossed one at each of them.
 
“This should be all you’ll need.”

They were in the corridor by now.
 
Miriame pushed them in one direction, “The gate’s that way,” and took off running in the other.

Around the first corner was a guard.
 
“Stop right there,” he said, holding up his sword.

They drew their daggers, determined to fight their way out now that they had a chance to escape.
 

They didn’t even need to strike a single blow.
 
All of a sudden a queer look came over the guard’s face.
 
He dropped his sword, his face turned green, he started to gasp, and he dashed off with his hands clutching wildly at his stomach.

She looked at the departing guard with delight.
 
Just what
had
Miriame done to disable a whole garrison?

Pierre picked up the sword that lay forgotten on the ground and tested the edge.
 
“Crude workmanship, but the edge is sharp enough.
 
I feel better armed now.”

They soon realized they weren’t alone in the corridors.
 
Most of the doors to the cells were swinging open, and the chambers were empty.
 
Miriame had evidently decided to give the guards a few diversions in addition to their stomach cramps.

A few prisoners were milling around aimlessly not knowing what to do with their unexpected freedom.
 
“Follow me,” Courtney cried.
 
“To freedom.”

They followed: walking, running, hobbling and limping along, a sad and sorry bunch of half-humans in filthy rags who had never thought such good luck would be upon them.

From the hubbub in the prison came another, different noise – the harsh cry of a man barking orders in a sharp voice.
 
Evidently not all of the guards had been disabled.
 
Some lucky souls must have escaped the effects of Miriame’s poisonous brew.

They rounded another corner and at the juncture of a couple of corridors, they came face to face with D’Artagnan, the Captain of the Musketeers, under whom they both had served.
 
He was standing alone, barking orders still at a group of soldiers who were fast disappearing down the other corridor.

His eyes grew wide when he turned and saw them both in rags with a following of prisoners behind them.
 
“What’s going on here?” he demanded in his most imperious voice.

Courtney stopped and saluted him smartly.
 
She had no wish to fight him if she did not have to.
 
“Prison break, Captain.”

He gave a harrumph.
 
“Who do you think you breaking out of prison?”

She pointed to Pierre, who was leaning against the wall catching his breath.
 
She respected her former Captain.
 
She had no choice but to trust D’Artagnan’s sense of justice and his unwillingness to shed unnecessary blood.
 
“Each other.”

“I could kill you all, you know,” D’Artagnan said, conversationally, “and the King would thank me for it.”

If he had wanted to kill them, he would have started on it already, Courtney knew.
 
“Do we deserve death for rescuing a comrade in arms?”

He looked at Pierre’s tattered clothes and limp.
 
“Seems to me you had a spell in prison coming to you for your foolishness, my lad,” he said slowly, “but you were a brave soldier and I hate to see you fall victim to the vengeance of a King.
 
Go on, be off with the pair of you before I change my mind and take you both up again.”