Chapter Text
“Upon my honour, I have never heard a more outrageous story! ” Tony smashed a gloved hand on his thigh in a fit of hilarity. “Do they teach you nothing in the provinces, my naive young friend?”
“What good would a lesson of this nature have done him in the provinces?” intervened Bruce, also laughing without restraint, “These things could only ever happen in Paris!”
“I suppose there is no use bothering to check what’s under the skirt in your neck of the woods,” chuckled Tony. “You just go for it, and it’s the luck of the draw — girl, boy, goat, or even a ripe, juicy melon! Dear Bruce, remind me again why I don’t live in the provinces!”
“Are you comparing the girls of the provinces with a goat?” cut in Thor, who had just entered the room and had but heard the last of the conversation.
“God forbid!” exclaimed Tony, who knew well his friend’s shortness of temper and quickness in taking offence, and didn’t wish to start a squabble (Thor came from the golden and most assuredly provincial fields of Asgard, in the south).
“Then what is the joke?”
“Oh, please, friend Steve, will you allow me?”
“I will not!” protested Steve, two spots of pink blossoming in his usually pale semblance. “I don’t have any wish to see more game made at my expense. And for all your mockery, you, friend Tony, would have done exactly the same as I, were you in my boots at the time.”
“I have absolutely no doubt!” said Tony, in good humour. “And had I been the lucky fellow, I would not begrudge my friends a spot of frolic, especially Thor, our Saturnine comrade here, with his usually black-humoured disposition, who is always in much need of cheering up. Why must you?”
Steve showed his resignation with a sigh. It was hard to resist Tony’s thrust when he was in such a gleeful mood.
“Well, then. Do you remember, friend Thor, when some time ago our young Steve came to us flying on the wings of love? Remember the mysterious demoiselle he had met, none other than the one they call Milady? Remember how that fabled beauty for months made it her favourite sport to drive our poor friend out of his wits, by appearing in his life, letting him pay his court to her, and disappearing again without a trace, leaving our poor suitor here more enamoured and more desperate than ever?”
“Aye.”
“And do you recall how only two days ago, our young friend came to us with the news that Maître de la Furie had finally decided to trust him with an important mission, and he departed for the road to Bretagne like a bat out of hell, because the fates of the crown were in his poor, untried hands?”
“Aye. Get to the meat of it, friend Tony.”
“Indeed, indeed, I applaud your choice of words. Well, it seems that, soon after he left us, our dear friend received another spot of long-awaited news! To wit, that his lady had urgent need of him as well! Was our friend’s suit finally coming to fruition? And what is the fate of France, if Milady calls? Luck would have it that Milady had summoned our friend precisely to a hôtel by the road to Bretagne. And so, what irreparable harm could it do, if on his way to meet the Kingdom’s destiny, our friend stopped to find out what was this urgent business of his beloved that could not wait? So to Milady our good friend goes, with the parcel Maître de la Furie entrusted to his care in his satchel.”
Steve turned his face away, the fluster that heated up his cheeks anticipating the moment he feared the most in Tony’s narration.
“That night, Steve meets his beloved, and to his immense elation, and no small surprise, he discovers that she has finally managed to overcome her scruples, and is willing to give in to our friend’s advances. I hope he left the name of the king’s musketeers in a good place.” Tony ignored the way Steve turned his eyes to the heavens at those words. “But here comes the twist! Once the deed is done, presumably in the darkest of darknesses and without removing one single petticoat, because otherwise I cannot explain this prodigy, Milady has a confession to make that will drain the blood from your face: that she is not a Milady, but a milord!”
“But truly, Steve, you must have known…” said Bruce, who still could not fathom the mystery.
“I-I did not. The fiction was perfect.”
“By Saint-George, what do they teach you in the provinces, my clueless friend?”
Even if his companions’ high-spirited mockery mortified him, Steve still found it in his mood to laugh himself.
“So why didn’t you skewer him with your other sword, the very moment the little minx revealed the humiliating truth?” asked Tony.
“What savagery is that? Why would I do such a thing?”
“Why, he had made a fool out of you!”
“Most men in Paris keep making a fool out of me, am I to kill them all?” sighed Steve, with dejection; his self-regard had suffered from this affair, but had left his tender heart just as tender as always.
“So, dear Thor, Steve did not only neglect to teach that weasel a lesson, but do you want to hear what he did do? …By Jove, behold that blush! Yes, indeed, he spent the rest of the night in his arms!” Tony laughed full-heartedly again. “Don’t you know, dear boy, that there is a name in the city for those who knowingly bed young men?”
“I would not care to have you call our friend that name, not even in jest, and certainly not as an insult,” stepped in Thor, severely.
“Oh, do not trouble yourself so,” said Tony. “I have no quarrels with anyone over whom they bed, don’t you know? Live, laugh, and be merry, is what I say, for tomorrow we’ll all be food for vermin.”
“That’s not the end of the story,” said Bruce, “because when Steve at last rose from bed the next morning, from a most unnatural sleep that came after he drank from a cup Milady had given him, he found the chamber deserted, and the parcel entrusted to him by Maître de la Furie was gone too. All he found was a handkerchief embroidered with the fleur de lys, and the imprint of Milady's lips in crimson rouge.”
“Yes,” said Tony, presenting the delicate bundle of cloth, “and here it is, in case you doubted our friend’s fantastic story, as I did at first.”
Thor took the slight piece of fabric in his hand, and assessed the exquisite material with the tip of his fingers. He did not join in the laughter.
“Oh, come, come, my sour friend, even you must admit that this is funny!”
Thor fixed Tony with a piercing gaze, which was not amused in the least.
“It is not, not at all! This has all the markings of one of the jobs of the Trickster!”
That silenced the men. They exchanged a look of alarm.
“What was in that parcel, Steve?” interrogated Thor.
“I do not know. All I know is that I was to take it to an inn in Calais, and hand it to a Musketeer who would show me a signet ring that would match this seal,” Steve produced an unmarked, torn envelope which had contained a letter perhaps, its wax seal broken. “He in turn would hand to me another parcel which I was to return safely to de la Furie before the ball in the palace the Sunday after next.”
“Show me the seal again,” said Thor. He examined the envelope where a wax seal was still visible. His semblance became even more agitated. He showed it to Bruce and Tony, who shared in his distress.
“What is it? I beg you, messieurs…” pleaded Steve.
“This is Lord Buckingham’s seal,” said Bruce.
“Buckingham?!” gasped Steve.
“Not his public signet, of course. This is the one he uses for his private matters.”
“This is about the Queen,” said Tony.
“Indeed,” agreed Thor, his countenance most grave.
“Pray, tell me what you are talking about, dear friends. I’ve only been in Paris a short time - I’m still not up to date with all the intrigues of the city.”
“Buckingham claims to be in love with our sweet Queen Anne,“ explained Tony, “and has not-so-secretly, and oh-so-not-discretely been courting her with letters, gifts, and even, so say the rumours, secret meetings whenever the chance did arise. Buckingham is the favourite of King James, you see, and the wealthiest man in England, and he’s used to getting his way at all times. The Queen claims to be completely innocent in this matter, but whether out of kindness or foolishness, she keeps finding herself in terrible muddles. For the sake of the fragile peace between our two great nations, both our king and the king of England have been turning a blind eye to this whole affair, hoping Buckingham will see reason and abandon his suit. Not so our remarkable Cardinal. Richelieu has no interest in the continuation of our peace with England, since he stands to profit much more from a war that would drain the already depleted coffers of the crown, and tilt the balance of power in France further in his favour. Should this scandal come to light, with proof that King Louis was incapable of disavowing or denying...”
“Enters the Trickster, the Cardinal’s Spy of Spies,” continued Thor. “The man of the thousand faces, whom nobody seems able to catch; nobody describes him the same way; some even claim he doesn’t exist, but is an entire network of agents. He charms and beguiles those the Cardinal has need of in order to advance his cause, and thus obtains their trust, and frank access to their most private sanctums. What he learns in the intimate confidence of the highest in the land keeps the Cardinal’s formidable intelligence machine well oiled, and replenishes his stores of scandals and secrets he stocks to blackmail those he cannot win to his side with cleaner means. Richelieu already used to have eyes and ears in every house of France, those of pages, valets, carriage drivers, secretaries, stable hands, chambermaids. But with the Trickster’s snake charming, seducing, and skilled interrogating, now he knows what the nobility of France would only reveal between the sheets -- to their lovers, to their wives… and to the Trickster himself, because it seems there are very few, if any, whom the Trickster cannot seduce - and now we know how, if he can turn himself so convincingly into this infamous Milady. And there is nothing the King can do against him. Maître de la Furie is a capable Spy Master, and has excellent agents in his service, but none, not even the Russian widow dama Romanova, has found yet the way to outwit him.” Thor drained his goblet in one gulp, and poured himself another. “Whatever was in that parcel, you can bet your life it carries within the danger of severe humiliation for our queen, and it aids the Cardinal’s cause against the will of our good Louis to maintain the peace with England. Indeed, my friends, for those loyal to the crown, this is no laughing matter.”
The silence between the comrades was ominous.
“Well, my young friend,” said Tony, always ready to lift up the gloomiest spirits with his unsinkable humour, “commiserations and congratulations alike are in order, it seems. You have had the great honour of being entrapped by none other than the Cardinal’s Spy of Spies. You’re lucky that all he took was that parcel, de la Furie’s trust, your good name, and your innocence. At least he left you with your life.”
“Why would he have killed me? He had what he wanted,” said Steve with a dark countenance.
“Because he has revealed to you his true face, and who is hiding behind the mask of the notorious Milady,” said Bruce. “It boggles the mind. Why would he do that? The Trickster does nothing without an ulterior intention. What did he stand to gain?”
“One never knows what he will do next,” said Tony. “His unpredictability counts for a great deal of his success in that spying business of his. Perhaps it just amused him to do so. What is the fun of a trick so well executed that only the Trickster himself knows of it? We know from previous instances that, for all his discretion and stealth, the man likes an audience who can appreciate his skill. It’s about his only weakness.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” said Thor. “Our concern is that parcel, the ball at the palace on Sunday, and Buckingham’s man, still waiting for Steve in that inn. Last I heard, the Cardinal had not yet returned from his trip to Rheims. Whatever the Trickster took from you, perhaps it’s not yet in Richelieu’s power. We must find him and retrieve it.”
“But how? Nobody ever knows where the Trickster will surface next,” said Bruce.
“Perhaps not, but Steve knows his face.”
“That is, if he wasn’t in disguise again, or if he’s not in disguise now…”
“It’s all we have,” said Thor. “Describe him as best you can, Steve.”
Steve became absorbed in his own thoughts, as he summoned Milady's features in his mind, and tried to match them with words that did her justice.
“She had-… He had a creamy white complexion, of an ethereal transparency that was most becoming, and clearly that of a high-born lady. Or-or a lad, I suppose," he blushed. "His hair was long, black as night, and set out his startling green eyes most splendidly, like emeralds encrusted in a setting of onyx. He had an elegant mouth, some would say hard of gesture, but it was soft as rose petals. He was of haughty carriage, noble and proud, and there was a regal quality to his hands and his wrists, exquisite and unmarred. His neck was long as a deer’s, his shoulders and arms…”
“Peace! Peace, my love-struck friend! Enough!” laughed Tony, dealing his comrade's shoulder a sonorous slap. “It’s almost as if I’m seeing him before my very own eyes, and I must confess, I’m falling in love myself! And, pardieu, it seems to have affected too our dear friend Thor! Pray tell, is this the look of love in the golden south, my friend? Here in the north, we could have sworn you had just seen a ghost!”
Indeed, as Steve unwinded his description of Milady, colour had steadily abandoned Thor’s face. With the contents of Tony’s goblet, which he snatched away and downed in one gulp, he tried to summon it back.
“We separate and we make enquiries,” said Thor, standing on his feet, abrupt with determination. “Tony, Bruce, fetch Clint and report to dama Romanova. We must ensure we are informed of the Cardinal’s movements with as much detail and promptness as possible, and we must find out if the Trickster has returned to Paris. Enquire at the gates. Meanwhile, Steve and I shall ride north. We must assume that the Trickster summoned you where he did, and not in the city, because it suited him for his plan. If he was aware of Steve’s ultimate destination, that inn in Calais, perhaps that’s where he was going. We may still be able to find him on that road.”
“It might have been a whim, or a distraction…” argued Tony.
“For the queen’s and our friend’s sakes, let us hope it’s not. If you can’t find trace of him in the city, the road to Bretagne is where we’ll be. Gentlemen, to our mounts, there is no time to waste. We stop only when we can ride no more. Good luck!”
Bruce proffered his hand, palm downwards. The rest piled their hands on top.
"One for all," he said.
"And all for one!" cried the rest.