Sign of the Cross

By JeanTre16

Chapter 1

A D'Artagnan

Chapter Description: Being a d'Artagnan is Jacqueline's only surety when her cross raises questions of her past.

A d'Artagnan was the only thing Jacqueline knew for certain she was. The man she now called her husband had stood by her side unwavering almost from the moment she had met him. She had been reluctant to share her heart with him at the start. He had managed to annoy her beyond reason. But she had gradually grown to need him. There was no one else she would have preferred to share her most intimate thoughts with. God had been sovereign when he had brought them together that day she had entrusted this man with her secret—her first secret. There had been a list of other secrets since then, and he had stood by her in all of them. He had been her rock. Everything else but her present life as a d'Artagnan seemed to fade as an eluding dream. Her childhood, family and prior life on the farm had vanished with the stroke of a sword. The once farm girl looked in the full length mirror at her form. "Who am I?" she wondered aloud.

Jacqueline pondered over the questions in her head. Just how much did King Louis know about her? Did he know Jacques Leponte was the same as Jacqueline Roget d'Artagnan? He had referred to her as "d'Artagnan" in the throne room on the day of her acquittal. Louis knew she was the one the legend's son had married. Was that why he had given her such a strained look? Did the king detest that his most trusted Musketeer would willingly marry a murderess? The woman accused "as such" shuddered at the humiliating thought. She hoped her king would not think of her in such a despicable way. Would the consequences of her revengeful reaction to her father's murder ever leave her? Would she ever be rid of the stigma of murdering Cardinal Mazarin's guardsman? God had preserved her life for a reason by moving the newly crowned ruler to pardon her, but why did she still feel wanted? She sighed.

King Louis. Now there was yet another mystery to the meditating woman. He apparently knew something about her that she did not. She assumed his note alluded to the importance of the cross pendant she wore around her neck. Almost as an afterthought on the day of her acquittal, Louis had jotted down a few obscure words to hand to d'Artagnan for delivery to Jacques Leponte. The king had given her husband the letter, even though its destined recipient had been right there by his side. It was true that the pardon request had originated from the absent Musketeer, her alias, but it was Jacqueline the pardon was for. Why had her king not handed it directly to her? Why had he addressed the letter to Leponte? There were so many questions that lacked answers.

The puzzled woman took the scrolled up note from her dresser and stared at it. As if by looking hard enough at it, she thought it would somehow reveal a secret inscription holding all the answers to the riddle of her life. Shaking her head, she relinquished her gaze. "Another mystery." She mused. But this mystery seemed to alarm her the most. Until Louis's note, Jacqueline had known who she was.

Even when her brother had returned from America to bring her the disturbing words of a dying priest, she had not questioned who she was. Gerard had told her that a priest from Nova Scotia had recognized her cross that she had given him. Father Barsec had confessed on his death-bed that his guilt for what he had done caused him to flee France. Jacqueline winced at the painful memory of how her beloved brother's delivering that message to her had cost him his life.

What soul-wrenching crime this Father had committed against a mere baby remained a perplexing mystery. Jacqueline wondered what terrible thing he had done to require her forgiveness. She had no memory of anything disturbing in her past. Although Gerard's troubling revelation made no sense to her, it had not caused her to question her identity like the note the king had written. Louis' note and the dead priest's fragmented messages had only left open-ended threads leading nowhere in answering the unrequited woman's troubling questions.

Jacqueline unrolled Louis' note and read the words, "The sign of the cross warranted full pardon. Guard the secret at all cost." The king had left the note unsigned, which lent to its gravity all the more. Aside from them witnessing his writing of the words in person, the contents were not meant to be an official edict representing the throne. It was a personal note. But what did he mean by it? The priest's words had not implied she was anything but a deeply wronged infant; but King Louis' words suddenly raised the question to one of royal importance. What secret of a farm girl's past would warrant her immediate pardon of murder by the king? Once again Jacqueline wondered about her past. "Who am I?"

To her knowledge, she had grown up the daughter of Claude and Matilde Roget. Her brother had been Gerard Roget. She had been a simple farm girl with dreams of fighting a noble cause like the great d'Artagnan. For the first time that morning a memory brought a faint smile to her sullen face. She recalled Gerard and her midday duels in the barn where she would never accept anything less than winning the prized title of being the legendary Musketeer. From there she recalled a later conversation where she had told her brother she had wanted to be him, not marry him. How strangely different that youthful girl's ambitions had turned out. She was a d'Artagnan now. And she was learning that while most of her life had been apparently thrust upon her without choice, being a d'Artagnan was one thing that she had passionately and willingly chosen.

"Jacqueline?" d'Artagnan's voice made its way into her consciousness. The daydreaming woman startled to see her husband standing before her with a tray of food. She had not been aware of how detached her thoughts had made her. He placed the steaming meal on the small rustic table and sat beside her on the bed. Fondly, he brushed the hair aside from her face and gently clasped her cheek in his palm. "How are you feeling today?" he asked with concern.

Three weeks had passed since the night of her brutal abduction and the following day of her acquittal. Jacqueline's physical wounds were healing quickly, thanks to Siroc's meticulous care. The man that had become her private physician had traveled the distance from the garrison to the Roget farm nearly every day to oversee her recovery. Yet, it was Jacqueline's emotional wounds that troubled her husband the most. His wife seemed distant most of the time. Like today, he would often catch her thoughts far off. It troubled him to see the woman that he knew to be so full of life suddenly so withdrawn.

Realizing the silence between them and her husband's furrowed concern, Jacqueline attempted to improve the atmosphere. "I'm feeling much better today, thank you. You and Siroc have been spoiling me rotten." Trying to get his doting attention off herself, the reluctant patient looked at the tray and asked, "What's for breakfast?"

Jacqueline's effort succeeded. D'Artagnan jumped to his feet and flamboyantly presented the tray of food before her. "Eggs Roget, from the Roget hen-house, and warmed toast with wild honey, compliments of the Arnaud neighbors, Your Majesty."

Jacqueline was thankful for his undistracted devotion he displayed to her. She could only imagine where she would be without him. It had been him who had first discovered her secret identity being Jacqueline Roget—wanted for the murder of the Cardinal's guard. He had unhesitatingly believed her once she told him the truth. He had also vowed to keep her secret. Beyond that, he had time and time again shown her his noble heart by putting himself in harms way in her stead. His wife thought how blessed she was to have such a man for a husband.

"Do you think you may be up for a walk?" D'Artagnan once again broke into her wandering thoughts.

"A walk?" she responded. "Where are we going?"

"Actually, it wouldn't be with me." D'Artagnan again took a seat beside her. Placing a napkin in her lap, he expounded, "Queen Anne has requested a walk with you in her garden this afternoon."

"The queen?" Jacqueline's expression showed her surprise.

"Yes, well, don't let it go to your head. I'm sure she's only interested in meeting you because you're married to the beloved d'Artagnan," he teased, with a mock sense of arrogance.

Jacqueline responded by rolling her eyes and smacking him on the head with a pillow she grabbed from behind him on the bed. She used to take this kind of comment seriously before she saw through it to his pretense. He had a wry sense of humor and a wit that people other than those closest to him often misunderstood. As his best friend and partner in life, she had gotten to know it intimately. And while it was endearing to the man she loved, it also drove her crazy at times. Today it had the former effect. She turned to him and smiled. He did have a way to distract her from the seriousness of life. Siroc may have been instrumental in healing her physical wounds, but they both knew that d'Artagnan would be the one to aid in the healing of her emotional wounds.