Thief of Hearts Read online

  “Follow me,” she called, as she raced over a stone wall and disappeared down the other side. They followed her, more agilely than she would have guessed.

  Over walls, though alleys, even over a few rooftops she led them at a punishing pace, keeping close enough to the guard to make them think they were still in danger. Finally when she wearied of the game and felt she had punished them enough for their rudeness, she stopped. “We should be safe enough now if we get inside.”

  The other two were panting heavily, doubled over with their hands on their knees to catch their breath.

  The bugle sounded again, quite close, and the shorter Musketeer gave an anguished look at her feet, as if she couldn’t bear to ask them to run another step.

  “That’s only for show,” Miriame reassured her, feeling sorry for her. It was the other one, after all, who had called her the gutter rat. “They have no hope of catching us if we get off the street.”

  Her attic room was close by, but she didn’t feel like volunteering the information. All she owned was in that chamber. She would not let two strangers in to it so easily as that.

  A whispered conference between the two others ascertained that the blonde Musketeer’s apartments were the closest. Feeling slightly shamefaced at the shorter Musketeer’s exhaustion, she agreed to lead them there through the back routes so they would get there safely. She knew her way through the back alleys better than most.

  They made their way there through the shadows, hugging the walls with their bodies and stepping softly on the cobblestones in their heavy boots. Miriame thought nothing of moving in such a way so as not to attract any unwanted attention to herself, but the other two were obviously novices. They must, she thought with a glimmer of amusement, rely on their uniforms and fake moustache to disguise and protect them. She wondered they had lasted more than a day in the barracks. Was she the only Musketeer in the whole of Paris with a sound pair of eyes?

  The apartments when they finally reached them were grander than Miriame had ever seen. She acted as nonchalantly as she could, though her eyes were busy darting here and there, marveling at the woman who would spend her wealth on such useless fripperies as velvet cushions and finely-worked tapestries for the walls. She had not even imagined such luxury could exist outside the walls of a King’s palace. How pathetic her own hard-earned hoard seemed in the face of such riches as these.

  She thought of the onions in her boots, which were starting to irritate her feet. If she had such luxuries as these at her command, she would never bother to pilfer onions again.

  She wandered over to the cabinet and gazed in admiration at the delicate crystal glasses inside. She hardly liked to touch them, they looked so fragile in their beauty, but the bottle of pilfered wine in her shirt called out to her. She was as dry and dusty as a highway in midsummer after her dash through the streets of Paris.

  The bottle was soon uncorked. With careful hands she took a couple of glasses out of the cabinet, filled them, and passed them to her fellow Musketeers, who had both collapsed exhausted on the sofas.

  The shorter Musketeer was sitting stiffly, as if she had a poker down her shirt. She was evidently quite uncomfortable with her situation. “Gerard Delamanse at your service,” she said, accepting the glass of wine with an awkward nod.

  The tall, blonde Musketeer had kicked off her boots and was lying sprawled back on the sofa in comfort, though Miriame did not miss the watchful look in her eyes. “William Ruthgard at yours.”

  Lifting the bottle into the air, Miriame toasted them both and took a long drink. She couldn’t bring herself to use a glass. They were too beautiful. What would she do if she broke one? “Since we are in a formal mood,” she said, amused at their playacting, “Let me introduce myself as Jean-Paul Metin. At your service, gentlemen.” She wondered how long it would take either one of them to realize what to her seemed so blindingly obvious – that all three of them were playing the same part.

  Her comrades were no more used to drinking than they were at playing being men. After no more than a glass or two of the strong Rhenish wine, the shorter Musketeer became visibly giggly. Her eyes were clearly fixed on the blonde Musketeer as she nibbled absentmindedly on her bottom lip.

  The blond Musketeer twitched visibly under the attention. “What are you looking at?” she finally blurted out in a belligerent tone.

  “Your moustache is coming off,” the other replied with a shrug, not seeming to comprehend the implications of what she was saying. “You need to glue it back on again.”

  The blonde Musketeer jumped to her feet on the instant, wobbling a little from the effect of too much wine. “Just what are you implying?”

  Miriame drained the bottle in her hand dry. It was definitely time to rescue the conversation before blood, or worse, good wine, was spilt. “She’s right, you know. You need better glue that doesn’t lose its grip when you sweat. Personally I find that false moustaches are seldom worth the effort. They’re damnably itchy, and it’s so hard to get them looking natural. It’s easier to pretend that you shave religiously every night and morning.”

  Both of them swung their heads around to her to cope with this new threat. “What do you mean by that?” the shorter Musketeer growled, all trace of giggle gone from her voice. It was almost deep enough to pass for a boy’s again.

  Miriame grinned. “Your chest wrappings have come as loose as your comrade’s moustache, and I’ve never yet seen a man with a chest like yours. Though now you mention it,” and she stroked her chin with a thoughtful air, “there was a hugely fat innkeeper I knew once who could have come close. He had bigger breasts than most women I’ve ever seen. It made me quite jealous, I’m telling you.”

  The two of them looked at each other and then at Miriame, realization dawning slowly.

  The shorter Musketeer was the first to break the silence. “You’re a woman,” she said to the other Musketeer. She sounded as though she could not quite believe her own words. “And so,” she said to Miriame, “are you.”

  “Guilty as charged.” She looked ruefully down at the empty bottle of wine in her hand. She’d only been able to swipe a single bottle. She looked hopefully up at the tall blonde Musketeer. With as many fancy tapestries as she had, surely she could rustle up another bottle of wine from somewhere. “Do you have another bottle, or will have I to make do with ale?”

  She soon realized that there was no point in waiting for an answer. The other two were starting at each other, talking nineteen to the dozen. She turned away from them and started to search through the sideboard for another bottle. She’d saved their backsides tonight – a bottle of wine was the least they could give her in return.

  “Ah ha, success.” She turned back to face them again, a fresh bottle of wine in her hand. “Come gentleman, shall we make our introductions again?” she said, as she poured them all another generous measure. “Let me start. May I introduce myself not as JeanPaul Metin but as Miriame Dardagny, born and raised in the back alleys of Paris, lately a pickpocket, recently turned Musketeer in the hopes of making my fortune with rather less risk to my neck.”

  The blonde Musketeer stretched out her legs in front of her. “Courtney Ruthgard at your service. I have a cousin named William of around my age. I borrowed his name to become a Musketeer and avenge the wrong that one of them did to me and my family. God willing, he will sleep with the worms before too much longer and I shall sleep easy in my bed again.”

  Miriame could well understand the black hatred that was driving her. No wonder she looked as tense as a hired ruffian about to strike. She felt the same way herself whenever she thought about Rebecca, and the man who had murdered her so evilly...

  “Sophie Delamanse,” the shorter Musketeer chimed in. “My twin brother, Gerard, was a Musketeer before he died of the plague – the plague that I brought into the house. I loved him dearly and would have given my life for his, but I was the cause of his death. I decided to take his place, and win in his name the honor that should h
ave been his.”

  Honor? Miriame shook her head in puzzlement. Hatred and a desire for revenge she could understand. She felt them herself, deeply and bitterly, for the man who had taken Rebecca away from her. But to risk her life for the sake of some notion of honor? The idea was quite foreign to her.

  The wine was clearly going to Sophie’s head again. With another giggle, she reached under her shirt and pulled free the wrappings that bound her chest, sighing with pleasure as her breasts swung free. “Ah, that feels better. I never dreamed how uncomfortable men’s clothes could be until I had to wear them myself.”

  At her cue, Courtney pulled off the tattered remains of her moustache, tossed her hat aside and ran her hands through the strawberry blonde hair that fell straight to her shoulders. “I detest wearing hats, but I look impossibly feminine without mine.” Her usually somber face relaxed into a grin. “I’ll forgo the moustache in future though. I would hate to have it fall off in my dinner.”

  Miriame was perched comfortably on the arm of a chair. She was perfectly at home in her clothes. “Breeches are far more practical than dresses when you live on the street. I haven’t worn a dress for as long as I can remember – not since I first realized what can happen to young girls who find themselves on the streets.” She couldn’t imagine dolling herself up in cumbersome skirts – they would hamper her movements far too much. Her breeches were her protection not only against the rain and the wind, but also against the evil that was in the world. She needed them to hide in, to hide her sex from the world. They were her talisman against harm. Without her breeches she would feel as naked as a newborn babe.

  Sophie was staring drunkenly up at the ceiling. “So what now?”

  Miriame rested her boots on the low table in front of her. The wine was starting to make her feel a little sleepy herself. “We have a drink, we rest our feet and then you and I make our way home again once the guards have given up the chase.”

  “That is not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean then?”

  “Well, we can hardly go on pretending that we don’t know each other’s deep, dark secret, can we? So, what do we do about it?”

  Miriame raised her bottle. There wasn’t much that could be done about it, to her mind. “You keep my secret close and I’ll keep yours to my dying day. Either of you betray me by so much as an incautious word, and I throw the pair of you to the wolves. Deal?”

  “And that’s all?”

  “What more do you want?”

  “We could make each other’s lives far easier. Alone as we are now, we risk attracting unwanted attention from those who may want to befriend us. If we succeed in keeping our fellows at a safe distance, we may garner suspicion because of our solitary ways. Alone, we are vulnerable. Together, we can form a barrier against the rest of the world that our enemies will not be able to break.”

  Miriame raised her glass in a cynical salute. It was clear that this was the woman who joined the Musketeers for the sake of her honor. She was full of horse shit. “All for one and one for all and all that stuff? How quaint.”

  Sophie glared at her. “I’m serious.”

  Miriame looked suspiciously at the wine in the bottom of her glass. She had long ago learned that no one made you an unselfish offer. There had to be some personal advantage for Sophie that the three of them band together, though she wasn’t sure she knew yet exactly what it was. “Why? What do you get out of this?”

  “How long can you be a Musketeer and yet not be one?” she asked. A wistful look passed over her face, as if she wished only to belong. “How long can you survive surrounded by people you cannot afford to trust or confide in?”

  Miriame crossed her arms across her chest. Sophie had her head in the clouds. She was blind to how the people in the streets lived their lives. Each to his own and the devil take the hindmost was her way. If she had trusted in anyone else to save or protect her, she would be dead by now. “All my life so far.”

  “Are you not sick of it? Don’t you ever long to have a friend to talk to?”

  Loneliness - that was what was wrong with Sophie, Miriame suddenly realised. Sophie wanted a friend to confide in. Miriame wasn’t sure whether she wanted to be that friend or not. She was used to her solitude. It fitted her easily. She looked after herself and no one else. She worried about no one and no one worried about her. That way she didn’t risk opening herself up to being hurt again.

  “How long will it take before your fellows notice that you never go swimming with them?” Courtney chimed in. “Or that you never strip down to wash off after a hard day’s fighting? Won’t they start to think you strange?” She wrinkled her nose. “Of course, most men wash infrequently enough that they may not notice.”

  She’d managed perfectly well so far, particularly seeing as she wasn’t overfond of washing herself. “Each to his own. If I don’t bother them, they won’t bother me.”

  Sophie shook her head. “You may spit and curse along with the rest of them, but you’ll never be able to piss in the corner of the courtyard like they do. Sooner or later, one way or another, they’ll find you out.”

  Courtney screwed up her face in disgust. “Men are such pigs.”

  Miriame was silent for a moment, digesting their words. She’d managed fine in the barracks up until now, but there’d been a few times she’d been lucky, she had to admit. It was more difficult living in close quarters with a crowd of men and keeping to yourself, than living on the streets where nobody bothered anyone else anyway – not if they wanted to live long and die in their beds.

  She could see why Sophie and Courtney both thought it would be to their advantage to team up and band together. Now that she thought about it, it could well be to her advantage, too. It was worth considering more carefully. “So, what do you suggest we do about it?”

  “We band together. Not just for one night, but for all time.”

  “We eat and drink together.”

  “We keep each other’s secrets.”

  “We go on duty together.”

  “We look after each other’s interests.”

  “Brothers-in-arms.” They were getting increasingly excited, waving their glasses in the air and talking faster and faster, tripping over each other in their hurry to get their words out.

  Miriame lifted her nearly empty bottle. It was difficult not to be infected with their enthusiasm, but she needed to keep a cool head. She would associate with them for as long as it suited her, but no more than that. She would not rely on them in any way, and it would be well for them not to rely on her. Self-sufficiency was critical to her peace of mind. She would not risk having her heart broken again as it had been when Rebecca had died in her arms. That memory haunted her still. She had not been able to protect Rebecca. What was to say she would be able to protect Sophie and Courtney any better?

  She would associate with them for now - it suited her needs to do so - but she would guard herself against getting over fond of them. Friends were a weakness she couldn’t afford.

  She toasted them with her bottle. For now, they would be her companions. She could deal with that. “Fellow Musketeers, sisters in arms, we have a deal.”

  Chapter 3

  Jean-Paul Metin, new healed from his wound, rode along the streets of Paris towards the barracks of the King’s Musketeers, regretting with every step the glorious mare that had been stolen from him. His new bay gelding was decent enough in its own way, but it was nothing like the fine, high-mettled mare that Francine, his beautiful Francine, had given him. He would pay double its worth to have it back again, merely for the sake of the woman who had given it to him.

  Dear, precious Francine. He had promised to pay her a visit as soon as he arrived in town and was accepted into the King’s Guard under her recommendation. The Captain of the Musketeers would never be able to refuse him with such a woman as Francine to stand as his sponsor. Indeed, he imagined that there were few people in the whole of France would dare to refuse any boon that Franc
ine deigned to ask of them.

  Joining the King’s Guard had been a childhood dream of his, but one that he thought he would never be able to attain. He had put it aside at the same time as he had grown out of his childhood pony and entered a man’s estate. His father was only from the minor gentry in the south of France, far removed from the court and with no hope or expectation of royal favor. Their family was obscure enough, with no great wealth to make a splash, and no close family connections with any of the great nobles of the land. Had it not been for Francine, he would have been destined to remain a farmer, as was his father, and his father’s father, working the soil with his hands while his soul hungered for adventure and romance, gradually dying inside as his dreams withered in the baking sun of the stone-filled fields he had to tend.

  Thanks to Francine, his younger brother could now inherit the farm – and with his blessing. Augustin had a bone deep love for the land of his fathers that he himself had never felt. For Jean-Paul, the land had meant only countless hours of toil at the mercy of the elements, courting the favor of fickle Nature, for little reward. Augustin would love and nurture the family acres as he never could have.

  His sweet Francine had offered him the opportunity he had craved – the chance for excitement and adventure as a soldier. How galling it was to think how little he had justified her faith in him so far – robbed and wounded nearly unto death before he had so much as reached the barracks.

  How worried she would be about him. As soon as he had recovered from his wounds enough to write her a letter he had written her a brief note to tell her of his mischance, but he dared not add all the love and affection for her that he felt. His note was warm, but impersonal. It could have been from a mere acquaintance of hers. Nobody would ever guess from the contents that it was written by a man who was sick with love for her, a man that had spent the last few months in her arms, drowned in utter bliss, worshipping her body and sharing her bed.