Chapter 1 – And So It Begins
The rider sat astride his horse, weariness emanating from his very being. The early winter chill had seeped into his bones; his limbs felt heavy and his head hung on his chest, as if it were too difficult for him to look upward. How long had he been riding? He no longer remembered, and he no longer cared. He had left, that was all that mattered.
The black stallion tossed his head and snorted, alerting his master who, for all intents and purposes, appeared to have fallen sleep. The man sat up straighter and glanced around, as though surprised to find himself riding his horse through frigid woodland; in his mind, he was somewhere else. He was somewhere warm, full of light and love, laughter and joy. Then the darkness crowded in. Blood and tears – so much blood and, oh, so many tears.
The breath from both horse and rider billowed in the crisp air, a stillness surrounding them both. There was not a sound from the forest, other than a steady drip, drip, drip from the damp canopy above – rotting leaves, the remains of a damp and grey autumn. It seemed that everything around him had turned grey, and he hadn't even noticed. Once again, the horse stamped his foot and snorted. The man leaned forward and stroked the stallion's mane as he spoke quietly in his ear.
'I know, it's time you had some food and warmth. I have been remiss in my care.' With that, he spurred his horse onward and cantered further into the gloom, toward the grey light ahead filtering through the black trees. Not exactly welcoming, but at least it was lighter.
As horse and rider broke through the tree line, they pulled up, the view in the distance revealing their destination – Paris. However, destination implied intent, and the rider had no particular intent at all; perhaps it had been his fine horse that had made the decision for his master. Perhaps the animal was tired of meandering from tavern to tavern, from one ramshackle village to another, just so his master could vent his frustration through drink and violence. Not that violence had ever been the man's goal, he had simply sought anonymity and isolation.
It appeared, though, that violence managed to find him, or perhaps it was the type of establishment he patronised. There his upbringing and his self-loathing parted company. He was more than happy to drink himself insensible, but apparently, he could not sit by and watch others reap a reward they had not deserved. He had not even tried to keep count of the number of unfortunate travellers or serving wenches whose lives or honour he had conserved. He hadn't really cared. The blood was simply wiped from his sword, coin left to pay for his fare, and then he would leave to find the next bleak village. As long as nobody knew him, as long as nobody tried to converse with him, he was fine…
Horse and rider headed toward the city. Urged to a gallop, the stallion lifted his head. As the mass of humanity loomed toward them, the sound of hooves upon the frozen ground was the only noise to be heard, other than the thumping of a rising heartbeat which emanated from the man. Surely it would be easier to be lost in a crowd, at least here his horse could be comfortable; he could manage that at least.
The big man yawned and sat heavily upon the bench in the garrison courtyard. Legs astride the bench, the jollity on his face seemed at odds with the pounding he had been handing out to his comrades. He had spent the last hour throwing raw recruits from hay bale to stony floor, only to pull them to their feet, dust them down and, with an apologetic smile, begin all over again. It was only a shout from the smiling man, amused by the spectacle, that pulled him up short, just long enough for his victims to scurry away in seek of sustenance or bandages, whichever was needed most.
'Were you really enjoying that?' queried the spectator, as he lovingly cleaned his pistol.
'Nah, not really,' replied the smiling giant. 'To be honest, the novelty wore off afta the first one.'
'Perhaps you should be less… forceful, give them a chance to fight back, mon amie. You might enjoy the novelty!' The man looked at the fighter and smiled, his eyebrows raised, awaiting his friend's response. For a moment, it looked as though the man was thinking about it, but then he caught his friend's expression and his face broke into a wide grin.
'Nah, definitely no fun in that.' He poured himself a cup of wine and knocked it back in one gulp. Wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, he then placed the palm of his other hand on his stomach. 'Must be dinner time, my friend. What say you we visit Serge and see what delicacies he has for us today? Before the other could reply, the big man had got up from the bench and was striding toward a nearby doorway.
'Aramis, Porthos, my office now!' The authoritative voice bellowed from the balcony above, and the two men swiftly turned toward the staircase and mounted the steps to the Captain's office, taking them two at a time. The men stood to attention in front of their Captain, not sure if this was a mission or a dressing down. They hadn't fought any illegal duels in the last couple of days, and neither had Porthos cheated at cards – or at least he hadn't been caught. No, they could think of no reason for their Captain to be displeased with them.
The older man turned from his desk and held out a pouch; it had the royal seal and so most likely held important diplomatic papers.
'These must reach the King at once. Don't stop, don't drink, don't fight. Don't do anything until these have been handed to the King himself. Do I make myself clear?'
'Yes, Captain,' answered the two men simultaneously, though they both looked a little startled at the Captain's insinuation that they would have done otherwise.
'We'd never do that, Captain,' answered the giant, as though he felt he had to defend himself and his friend. Looking somewhat contrite, the Captain ran his hands through his hair, looking more tired than usual.
'I'm sorry Porthos, I know that. The King has decided to throw a party for the Queen's birthday. As usual he has not allowed any time for planning but expects all visitors and guests to be comfortable and well-protected, both in Paris and on their arrival in the city. Still, that is my problem.' He gestured toward his desk, which was littered with papers and maps indicating the planning needed for such an event.
'Won't the Red Guards take on some of that responsibility?' asked the slim soldier.
'Of course, but you know the King, Aramis. He wishes to show off his Musketeers, and he thinks we will add a little extra pomp and ceremony to the event. He wants us to meet the various entourages as they get close to Paris and provide safe passage into the city and to the palace.'
'Well, we are more capable than them,' stated Porthos.
'And much more attractive,' grinned Aramis. This last remark drew a small smile from their Captain.
'Then what could possibly go wrong?' the older man said, and with that he gestured to the door and the two men smiled, nodded, then left.
The lone rider had now entered the city, and trotted his horse through the buyers and sellers, the merchants and beggars. The smell was not as bad as he expected. The last time he had been in Paris it had been summer, and the heat had not improved the environment – and it certainly hadn't improved the smell. Now the aroma of damp horses and rotting vegetables seemed to permeate his senses, making him wrinkle his nose, until eventually he no longer noticed it. All the while, he was taking in the various buildings and hostelries as he passed. His hat was pulled well down over his eyes as, even in this pale winter sunshine, the light seemed to hurt his bloodshot eyes.
Eventually he spied a farrier. The man stood in front of his forge, lifting his heavy hammer before it bounced off the glowing metal, sparks flying out like fire flies. No danger of fire, everything was far too damp. He dismounted and led the horse into the shadows, where he leant against a wooden post and watched the man go about his business. Horses came and went, he shod and pulled stones out of hooves, always with a gentle hand and a quiet word. The man watched as the farrier stroked and soothed the agitated animals, and he saw the way they quietened beneath his large calloused hands.
As the afternoon wore on, he began to feel the chill seeping under his leather doublet. He pulled the black woollen cloak more closely around his narrow shoulders and came to a decision. Taking in the name above the doorway, he moved his cold, stiff limbs. Leading his horse, he approached the farrier, who had paused to take a long swig of ale out of a wooden tankard.
'Thirsty work, Monsieur René.' The man stated, as the older man looked up.
The farrier smiled. 'That it is, Monsieur. That it is.' He gave the man only a cursory glance before looking up at the black stallion. 'My, you are a splendid fellow,' he said, as he lovingly stroked the horse's nose. In return the animal snorted softly and leant into the man's touch.
'You enjoy your work, Monsieur?' the man asked as he watched him scratching the horse's ears.
'I like horses,' the man replied with a smile. 'Not always so much their owners.' He tilted his head, and for the first time appraised the owner of this fine horse. At first glance, the figure that stood in front of him did not seem to be particularly noteworthy but, on closer inspection, he decided he had been in error.
Tall, he stood several inches above the smithy. His hair was dark, thick and wavy, and it did not take close examination to see it had not received any attention for quite some time, while the same could be said for his beard. The farrier would have called him dishevelled, though that might be rather too polite a term. However, something about his clothing spoke of quality. His apparel was well worn and certainly hadn't seen clean water for an age, but then neither had their owner.
If anything at all arrested the man's attention it was the stranger's voice and his eyes. He spoke carefully, with a clipped quality that spoke of breeding, maybe even nobility. His speech was succinct and indicated a dislike for chit chat. It was deep, rich, soothing, yet suggested an underlying steel, perhaps even ruthlessness, should it ever be needed. However, behind all that there was a hint of tiredness, a melancholy. His eyes echoed the sentiment, green and heavily-fringed, they seemed to peer into the farrier's soul, as if searching for an answer to an unasked question.
Feeling the need to fill the silence, the farrier spoke. 'What can I do for you Monsieur , is your horse in need of a shoe?'
The man hesitated for a second before replying. 'On the contrary, his shoes are fine – he is in need of good stabling. We have travelled for some time and I require somewhere warm and dry for him.'
'In that case, I can recommend several stables, Paris has many such establishments. Do you have any particular preference for location? The man quirked a brow, and then said:
'My only desire is for him to still be there when I return.' Though his voice was quiet and smooth, the meaning was quite clear. The farrier nodded his head sadly in confirmation. It was not unknown for horses to disappear after being left in the care of stables, both stable lad and horse never to be seen again; a horse like this would fetch a tidy sum and so the risk was indeed great.
'I'm sorry, Monsieur, I understand your concern. It seems nobody is what they seem to be these days.' For some reason this seemed to amuse the man, and suddenly he smiled. It was as if the sun had shone and, for a brief moment, those green eyes glinted with mischief. Then it was gone, just as the clouds brought gloom to a summer's day.
'I notice you have stables,' the man said, indicating the stalls at the rear of the smithy. The man shook his head slowly.
'I'm afraid I don't stable Monsieur , they are for horses whom I care for after I have worked for their owners.'
The man looked at him steadily. 'I have watched you this past two hours. You care for the animals you tend, and they are happy with you. I will pay you well to look after my horse.' The farrier was at a loss to know what to say but, before he knew what he was doing, they were sealing the bargain with a handshake, and he was taking a well-stocked purse of coins from the stranger.
'I am most grateful,' said the stranger solemnly, his hand resting upon his horse's back.
'What is his name?' the farrier asked, smiling.
The man hesitated. 'Roger,' he replied, with a look that anticipated an amused response.
'Roger it is then. Monsieur…?'
Again, the man hesitated. 'Athos,' he replied.
'Right, Monsieur Athos, Roger will be fine with me, won't you boy?' As if in reply, Roger snorted and pawed at the ground.
'Oh, one more thing Monsieur René. If I should not return in two weeks…' He left the sentence hanging in the air for a moment, 'the horse is yours.' The shocked farrier gazed at Athos, then gently shook his head before replying.
'When you are ready to collect him, he will be here waiting for you, son.' The two men locked eyes for a moment, then Athos turned to his horse. In a manner that seemed out of character, he buried his face in his horse's mane, and the two seemed to communicate in silence, the large horse nuzzling his owner in return. Then, without another word, Athos turned on his heel and strode away into the crowd.
The farrier watched the young man until he was lost from sight. Just then, his daughter appeared with another mug of ale.
'Ooh, who was that handsome gentleman?' she asked. And though Athos was long gone, the farrier continued to stare into the crowd.
'A lost soul my love, but one who cares far more for his horse than he does for himself.' The man shook his head as he led Roger away to a warm stall and a much-needed meal. He suspected that was far more than his owner would seek.
Athos felt more alone now than ever. He was alone, he deserved to be alone. Even Roger would be better off in the care of a lowly farrier. The realisation made him angry. Could he keep nothing? Could he care for no one? He curled his fists at his sides and waited for the weight in his chest to subside, and for his breathing to steady. Without even realising, his feet had steered him toward the nearest tavern; dingy and insalubrious – perfect.
He ducked his head and stepped into the foul-smelling interior – too many unwashed bodies in too small a space. At least as he headed further inside, he could feel the warmth on his frozen face. He made eye contact with no one. With his hat pulled down he headed for the dark recesses at the back of the room. He indicated to the serving wench to bring a bottle of wine – it would be the first of many. The voices around him seemed to dim and fade. As he lifted the cup to his lips, he closed his eyes and made a silent toast – to despair and oblivion.