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A Prisoner Of Versailles

By Golden Keyes Parsons

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CHAPTER ONE
“Go after her. Spare no expense. Do whatever you must, but bring Madeleine Clavell back to Versailles.”
Captain Nicolas Maisson bowed to King Louis XIV. The musketeer’s blue tunic brushed the floor as he swept his hat around in a flourish. “Oui, Your Majesty.”
“I want her oldest son as well.” The king rested against the front edge of his desk, his head lowered. The voluminous wig hid his eyes. He raised his head and stared past the soldier. He began to pace, then stopped to peer out a window. “Is Versailles not the most beautiful palace on earth?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. None more enchanting in all the world.”
Visions of Madeleine strolling with him through the gardens when they and Versailles were all adolescents teased his mind. She had grown up with him here. He would get her back. “Why would one not yearn to be here?”
The soldier did not answer. The king turned and with a wave of his hand dismissed the musketeer. “Be on your way. Take whomever you choose and whatever forces you need. I would begin in Geneva, John Calvin’s bastion of Protestantism. That’s where most of the Huguenots flee.” The king’s lips tightened, and he clipped his words. “If she is not there, find someone who knows where she is.”
Captain Maisson bowed and prepared to take leave of the king.
“One more thing, Captain.”
“Your Majesty?”
“You are not to use unnecessary force. Do not harm one hair of Madame Clavell’s head, nor that of her son’s.”
[ds]
Jacob Veron tied his horse to the hitching rail in front of the pub on the outskirts of Geneva and glanced around. The assistant to the pastor at the Cathedrale de St. Pierre pulled the brim of his soft hat down around his face and entered the noisy scene. A few men looked in his direction, but didn’t appear to pay him special attention. Thick, heavy smoke hung in the air, together with the odor of unwashed men, sweaty from work or travel. Jacob found a secluded table in the back and sat down.
A young barmaid approached. “What’ll you have?”
“Just some ale.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
The barmaid chatted as she wiped down the table. “Don’t believe I’ve seen you here before. New in town?”
He wished she would take her leave. “No . . . uh . . . well, actually, yes. That is, I haven’t been here long.”
She went to the bar and returned with a stein of ale. She bent over to place it in front of him, displaying a great deal of ample bosom over the top of her wide-cut bodice. “You wouldn’t be in the market for some company tonight, now, would you?”
“Oh . . . uh, no,” Jacob stammered. “I mean, you’re very attractive, but I, uh, I’m here on business, or, uh, rather to meet a friend about a business, I mean . . .” He hit the stein, splattering drops of glistening liquor on the table before he caught it.
The barmaid swept the spill away with her towel and laughed. “Didn’t mean to fluster you. If you change your mind, I’ll be around, chéri.” She smiled at him again and left.
Jacob mopped his brow with his handkerchief and gulped down the ale.
Presently two musketeers entered, paused, and looked around the room. Jacob stood so they could see him in the crowd, and they shouldered their way toward him.
“Greetings, Monsieur Veron.” The taller man with the bulbous nose and squinty eyes spoke first and sat on the opposite side of the table.
Jacob remembered his name to be Nicolas Maisson. The shorter man with the pockmarked face remained standing.
“Did you bring the money?” Jacob asked.
“No offer of drinks for your new . . . colleagues?”
“Of course. How rude of me.” Jacob motioned to the barmaid as the shorter man pulled up a chair.
“Not nervous, are you, my friend?” Nicolas leaned across the table. “You are providing information valuable to the king of France. Surely you are not having second thoughts.”
“Not at all. I just need to get back to the Cathedrale.”
“Back to your pastoral duties?” The tense atmosphere at the table exploded in coarse laughter. “Tell me, monsieur. Do all Huguenots exhibit such great loyalty as you?”
Jacob shifted in his chair. “My loyalty to King Louis, France’s God-ordained sovereign, surpasses my loyalty to any other.”
“That’s what we like to hear. Give us the information we need, and then you get the money.” Captain Maisson pulled a leather pouch from his tunic and threw it on the table.
Jacob reached for the bag, but Nicolas’s huge paw clenched the pastor’s skinny arm. “Not until you give us the information.”
“How do I know the full amount is in the purse?”
“How do we know the information you have for us is accurate?”
“It is. I guarantee it is.”
“Bon! I guarantee the money is all there.” Nicolas leaned across the table again, his eyes boring into Jacob’s and his hand still gripping Jacob’s forearm. “I guess we are simply going to have to trust each other, oui?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Nicolas released the pastor. Jacob kept his eye on the money bag as he talked.
“The king’s hunch is correct. Madame Clavell and her children did come to Geneva from their estate in Grenoble to seek refuge at the Cathedrale de St. Pierre. They found a more permanent place to stay in a small village about an hour north of here with a Pastor Gerard Du Puy and his family.”
“And her husband labors in the galleys.”
“Non. The owner of the fleet to which François Clavell was sentenced, also a Huguenot, released him, and the Clavell family is now reunited. However, you are in luck. Monsieur Clavell is ill, and from what I hear has only a few months left to live.”
“Ah-h-h-h. This will be easier than we thought. And her son is with her?”
“She has two sons, and a daughter.”
“The older son.”
“Yes, he is with her. Appears to be around fifteen years old.”
“Hmmm. That would be about right.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Nicolas shoved the money bag toward Jacob. “I remember Madame Clavell from the early days at Versailles, when she and King Louis were inseparable. It’s no surprise he can’t get her out of his head.” He paused. “Well, Pastor . . . enjoy your thirty pieces of silver.”
Jacob cleared his throat and stuck the bag of coins in his belt. “Ah, there is one other thing that the king might like to know.”
“What might that be?”
“One of King Louis’ most trusted courtiers lent his able assistance to the reuniting of the Clavells. In fact, he escorted Monsieur Clavell from France to Geneva.” Jacob’s mouth settled in a grim slit. “The man has even embraced the Huguenot faith.”
Nicholas pulled his gloves from his belt. “This information would certainly be of interest to the king. Who is it?”
Jacob Veron looked behind him and scanned the noisy barroom scene. “His name is Pierre Boveé.”
Captain Maisson’s eyebrows arched in surprise.
The smaller man spoke. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t like drinking with weasels.”
But once Jacob started regurgitating information, he was like a gossipy old woman. “I have reliable information that the Clavell family is planning to leave Switzerland in a few days and make their way to Amsterdam to book passage for the New World. If you plan to, uh, rescue her, that would be the time.”
“Who will be with her? How many?”
“Well, her husband, her three children. Her brother-in-law. A couple of servants, probably.”
“What about Boveé?”
“Maybe.” Jacob jabbed the air with his bony finger. “But they won’t be able to withstand your attack. They’re not expecting trouble. I would stage it as a robbery. How many men do you have?”
The musketeer captain narrowed his already squinty eyes. “We don’t need your advice on how to complete our mission. We will pick a time and place and use as little force as possible. The king does not want them harmed. He simply wants them back.”
The two men pulled on their gloves.
“And he will get them back,” Captain Maisson concluded. “King Louis always gets what he desires, and he desires Madeleine Clavell. As for Monsieur Boveé, I predict his days are numbered.”

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