Rebellion cannot exist without the feeling that somewhere, in some way, you are justified. - Albert Cadmus
What is a rebel? A man who says no: but whose refusal does not imply a renunciation. – Albert Cadmus
The first duty to society is justice. – Alexander Hamilton
The night was cool and still, the only sounds disturbing the quiet were the occasional snorts and wuffles of their horses or the jangling of their tack as they made their way through town. It was well into the small hours of the night and not even whores or cutpurses seemed inclined to be in the street. Their mission was a clandestine one and they rode without pauldrons, dark coarse cloaks covering their unadorned leathers.
The report had been accurate. The skeletal walls of the unfinished church stood in stark contrast to the crowd of stone buildings lining the market square. The bell tower of the church was near completion though no glass was yet in the windows and most of the arched openings were boarded up. Portions of the sanctuary and some of the walls of the outer rooms were erect and would provide shelter at least for the remainder of the night.
They pulled up their horses and Porthos dismounted, handing his reins to Athos. He pulled his cloak more firmly around his head and drew his main gauche. The blade glinted momentarily in the moonlight and then he was out of sight, slipping silently into the half-finished building. Athos held the mounts still and gazed around the quiet market while Aramis kept his eyes trained on the street they had come up. It only took a few minutes and then a low whistle like the hoot of a barn owl sounded from the church. Athos and Aramis quickly dismounted, leading their horses through the wide opening of what would eventually be the entrance to the nave.
The earth was soft beneath the horses' hooves as the stones had not yet been laid. Moonlight through the half-finished rafters gave them enough light to navigate through the scaffolding and piles of building material. They quietly picked their way along the nave to the transept. Porthos emerged from the shadows and they followed him toward a more finished part of the building. Stairs to the central tower were to right, as well as a side chapel, antechamber and robing room. It was here that they lead the horses, deep enough into the structure that they would not be heard or seen come morning. Porthos took charge of their mounts, and Athos followed Aramis as he made his way up the steps of the tower.
They climbed to the second level, not needing to go any higher. Three windows were set in each wall and Aramis made his way to the ones overlooking the market square. Athos watched silently from the top of the stairs as Aramis peered out each one, shifting and leaning out, assessing the view. Finishing the row, he went back to the first window, checking again before turning to Athos.
"This will do," Aramis said voice taught and controlled, "We can move some of the crates in the morning." Athos nodded and looked around the room. It seemed they would have plenty to work with. With no further conversation, they made their way back down the stairs and to the side chapel where they had left Porthos.
The horses were hobbled and on their oats but still saddled and Porthos had laid their bedrolls out on the other side of the room with the pistols from their saddle holsters placed within easy reach. Porthos had used the unfinished altar to put out some provisions. They had ridden hard to arrive in Marennes on time and had not had a proper meal since breaking fast some 15 hours ago. Still, Porthos had to press a cup of wine and heel of bread into Aramis's hands.
"Eat all of that," the large man said without ceremony and Aramis nodded, obediently biting off a piece of the bread as he made his way to his bedroll. They watched him walk away and pause in front of his long musket laid carefully on the ground beside his saddle bags. Aramis downed the wine in one long swallow, then bent to put the cup and unfinished bread on his blankets before starting to strip off his pistols and sword belt.
Athos and Porthos watched him, the marksman's movements collected and precise. Athos finished off his own cup of wine before absently starting in on the bread while Porthos refilled his cup. Porthos's eyes remained on Aramis and it wasn't until he sat down on his bedroll and picked up the discarded bread again for another bite that Porthos started to eat his own. He exchanged a dark look with Athos as the Lieutenant poured himself a third cup of wine.
"He can't keep doing this," Porthos said, voice pitched low so Aramis would not hear him. Athos let his gaze drift back to Aramis who had taken up his musket and was carefully cleaning the barrel, chewing on the bread as he worked. Athos sighed, remembering it was a scant two weeks ago when a night like this would have been filled with Aramis's easy smile and cheerful conversation. Somehow those days seemed too far gone far too quickly and Athos worried about all of them.
"We have orders," Athos said instead, his voice clipped and devoid of emotion, "I'll take first watch. Make sure he gets some sleep." Athos pulled his pistol from his belt and took up the bottle of wine, walking back toward the chancel to find a good position for the watch. As he settled into the shadows he wondered how long any of them could continue on like this.
Aramis ignored the bustle of the market below him as he minutely adjusted the angle of his musket. He and Athos had stacked three crates across in front of the window, one slightly taller than the others in case the approach was from the east side of the market where the distance would be greatest. It was just on noon and the fuse of the musket was already smoldering. Aramis had changed it out for fresh match-cord last night and knew he had close to an hour of burn should there be a delay.
The marksman licked his lips again to let the chill of lingering dampness show him if the air currents had shifted. Angle of the shot and control of the elements were essential in the precision shooting. As was patience. Aramis had been in position for nearly an hour yet felt no fatigue. That would come later when it was done.
The Comte de Marennes should be arriving soon, the stock of new horses he was keen to inspect were already corralled in the market. The Comte though was not the target. Arriving with him should be Henri le Clerc, his advisor, and a known Huguenot sympathizer. While La Rochelle had fallen three months ago, the skirmishes and uprising had continued in the South of France and Aunis was still a breeding ground for insurrection. They had been chasing down the remaining rebel forces with the rest of the Musketeers until Cardinal Richelieu had requested their temporary reassignment to his command. Aramis's skill as a marksman had come to the attention of the Cardinal and le Clerc was their fourth target in two weeks – an attempt by the Cardinal to root out any foothold the Huguenots might gain amongst the nobility by simply eliminating anyone he thought might prove a threat to the crown. Le Clerc had not had a hand in the uprising, at least not to anyone's direct knowledge, but that had not been enough to spare him from the Cardinal's orders.
A group of nobles approached, notable for the fine brocades of their doublets and delicate silks of the women's veils. This would be the Comte's party and Aramis scanned their group for someone fitting the description of le Clerc. Aramis found him at the side of the Comte, his red hair easily distinguishing him. A young woman had her hand over his arm and was laughing as they leaned toward each other in conversation. A wife? A daughter?
Aramis took a deep breath, pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind and returning his focus to the essentials – the angle, the wind, the shot. His discipline was exquisite and he slipped into a state of calm focus as if in a trance. Distractions fell away, his vision narrowed and he found his target between one beat of his heart and the next. He waited, time slowing to match his breathing. His finger rested delicately on the lever of the musket as he made minute adjustments to his aim. He would have but one shot and he needed to choose his moment to be sure there was no risk of hitting the wrong person, not getting a kill shot or missing entirely. He breathed, he waited, he blew lightly across the match-cord. He fired.
The shot rang loud as it echoed around the courtyard. Le Clerc dropped like a stone, the ball having struck the center of his forehead. The woman on his arm screamed at the red blood spattering her pale dress, pigeons flapped up from the rooftops of the shop stalls, men drew weapons and started shouting. Time moved forward again in a flash.
Aramis pulled back quickly from the window and snuffed out the match-cord. He grabbed up a piece of burlap and began wrapping his musket even as he moved toward the stairs of the tower. He descended swiftly, Porthos already there waiting with horses saddled. He slung the musket through the straps along his saddle then flipped down his saddle bags over the long gun. Only a search would reveal its presence. He mounted up quickly and followed Porthos down the nave and onto the street they had arrived on. At the entrance to the square Athos was already mounted, waiting for them to emerge from the church. The exchanged a nod and then Athos rode into the courtyard, his commanding voice quickly cutting across the din.
"Here! They are here!" Athos cried spurring his horse into the crowd and charging toward the west entrance to the market. Porthos and Aramis didn't wait any longer but turned their horses to trot easily in the opposite direction.
They emerged onto a broad street and immediately slowed to a walk. Porthos shifted back in his saddle with a deceptive ease. Aramis tipped his hat back, smiling at a pretty fruit vendor as he paused to fish two sous from his pocket. He placed them in her palm in exchange for a small bag of apples, giving her a gentlemanly tip of his hat before tossing one to Porthos with a smile. As Porthos caught the fruit his answering smile died on his lips. Aramis's face might be jovial but his eyes held a blackness that Porthos hoped he would never see again. Porthos kicked up his horse to take the lead, moving them unerringly toward the gates as the commotion from the market began to spill into the streets.
Athos caught up with them on the road not half an hour into their ride and it was only then that they picked up their speed and put some distance between themselves and Marennes. They paused once along the side of the road, Aramis dismounting to stagger a few steps into the grass and retch up the remains of his meager breakfast. Athos and Porthos stayed mounted, knowing from past experience that any attention on their part would be met with a dark resentment. Athos merely offered a water skin to Aramis when he turned back around and the marksman took it graciously, swirling the water in his mouth and spitting out the bitter taste of bile before returning the water and mounting up again.
They traveled on about three more hours until Athos slowed their pace and eventually veered off down a deer track that lead into some dense forest. There was no sign of pursuit, but it was better to be off the road for now and Athos knew from the other times that Aramis would need a break even if he would not ask for it.
The soft carpet of leaves and damp earth muffled the sounds of their mounts as they picked their way over tree roots and ducked under branches. In less than a mile the track opened to a small clearing, the sound of water reaching them from somewhere nearby.
Athos and Porthos dismounted, Porthos immediately taking up the water skins and heading off for the source of water they could hear while Athos tied off the horses and loosened their girth straps. They would not take the risk of unsaddling them, but the horses would be as better for the respite as the men would.
Aramis had not moved since reining his horse to a stop in the clearing. He sat stiffly now in the saddle, back straight, eyes open but his gaze fixed on nothing. Athos moved to him, setting a hand to Aramis's leg and giving his calf a gentle squeeze. Aramis blinked and came back from wherever his thoughts had taken him. He gave Athos a thin smile as he dismounted and led his horse to tether over by the others. Athos exhaled, pulling his hat from his head and running a hand through his unruly hair. He was worried for his friend but uncertain what to do. This entire business was a sour thing to all of them, but Aramis was the one who had to pull the trigger each time.
Porthos retuned with the water skins, passing one to Athos and the other to Aramis. "There's a nice pool down there," he said with a nod toward the stream, "Good place to catch fish," Porthos directed his comment to Aramis, but flicked his eyes back to Athos to see if the suggestion met with the Lieutenant's approval. Athos nodded, getting Porthos's drift that perhaps they all needed a rest.
"Go ahead," Athos encouraged, "We may as well camp here tonight. We are not expected in Rochefort until tomorrow, we are not far and I am in no hurry to see the Comte again," Athos said wryly, "Let us rest. It's been a long two weeks." Porthos nodded approvingly but Aramis just stood beside his mount absently running a hand over her neck. "Aramis," Athos said, catching the marksman's attention, "Go. Find us some dinner. We'll see to camp." It was everything short of an order and Aramis responded as such, squaring back his shoulders and making his way down the path Porthos had come up from with just a small nod to his friends as he passed them.
Aramis had stripped down to his braes and stood almost knee deep in the shallows of the pool. Porthos had been right it was a good fishing spot and it took little time for half a dozen plump trout to lie gasping their last breaths in the soft grass on the river bank.
The water was cold but Aramis's feet and ankles had adjusted to it as he had stood catching fish. That task done he knew he should get out of the water and get the fish cleaned for dinner, but he found himself staring again at nothing as had become his habit in the last week. Aramis sighed and bent over to reach a hand into the clear water, splashing some across his chest and face to snap himself out of his reverie. He turned his back to the river bank and gazed at the dappled sunlight dancing across the surface of the pool. It was mesmerizing in its calmness. He slowly pressed forward, moving with as little ripple as possible in the still waters. The water slowly rose up his body, submerging his knees, then thighs, then waist. The icy fingers of the water jolted at first along his skin but then his flesh adjusted and the painful aspect dropped away to leave his sense dulled and limbs numb. He dipped himself fully into the water his breath coming in a gasp as the cold gripped his chest but he breathed through it until his entire body felt subdued by the depths of the pool. Aramis leaned back and let his feet drift up from the surface. He arched his back and he floated.
He started by praying for the first one. His name had been Daussi and he was known to be of high rank amongst the Huguenots. They had found him in Royan and Aramis had taken the shot from the roof of a warehouse that edged the harbor. Their spies had told them that he was sailing for England to bring back supplies and weapons in support of the waning rebellion. He had led troops against the crown on French soil and was known to have led attacks on the road to La Rochelle in an attempt to disrupt supply lines. There were dozens of reasons to take the life of this man but to do so on orders of a superior and not at least to attempt to hand him over to a court made the entire thing an ugly business. Aramis had made his peace with killing as a soldier but he was struggling to find it now as an assassin.
Athos and Porthos were waiting for him at the exit of the warehouse, horses saddled. He mounted quickly but not fast enough to avoid an angry crowd that had begun searching for the man who had just murdered their General. Luckily, they were on horseback and could flee quickly but after that, they learned that they would need a diversion to cover their escape.
They rode hard for as long as the horses could manage until Athos finally called a halt in the fields outside of Surgères. Aramis had all but flung himself from his horse and landed on his knees, retching up everything in his stomach and then continuing to heave long after it was empty. At some point Porthos had carded his fingers in his hair, trying to offer him some comfort but when his stomach finally stilled Aramis wanted no solace or sympathy from either of his friends. He pulled his cloak from his horse and wrapped himself up in it to fend off the chill that was growing inside him. He didn't speak to them that night, nor did he sleep, and by morning his fingers ached from the constant motion of his rosary.
Athos asked him that morning if he could continue. They had orders to meet a courier tomorrow in Surgères and they would be given another name. That snapped Aramis out of his black mood. No one had ever questioned his ability to carry out his orders before, to do his duty as a soldier or Musketeer. He was the best marksman in the regiment, perhaps in all of Paris, and it was his responsibility to see the will of his King done. He assured Athos he would be alright and did not sink again into the unreachable darkness of that night.
The second one was in Melle. A war criminal named Boucher who had escaped the Chatelet and rejoined with his men in the Aquitaine. He was aging and word came that he was looking to make his way to Spain to retire to a family estate and make cheese and tend goats. Aramis killed him in ambush on the road toward Saint-Martin-de-Ré as he made his way to a ship he would never board.
The third was Molin and he was suspected of collusion with the rebels and fostering insurgency in the farm communities surrounding Saintes. The Musketeers had not heard of this man, nor was there any direct evidence that he had been part of the insurrection at La Rochelle. They had discussed it, but in the end agreed that their duty was clear. Aramis shot him in the chest as he exited from a whorehouse, a young woman draped over each arm.
Daussi, Boucher, Molin, le Clerc. He didn't have to say the rosary anymore – he just rolled the words across his tongue again and again until the names themselves became the prayer.
Duassi, Boucher, Molin, le Clerc.
Duassai, Bocher, Molin, le Clerc.
He floated in the cold water his mind finally joining his body in an icy limbo.
An hour had passed and the sun was low to the horizon when Porthos went looking for Aramis. He came back a short time later, a half dozen fish strung on a line with Aramis following behind him wearing nothing but his damp shirt and soaking braes. He carried his breeches, boots, and leathers, teeth chattering and lips slightly blue as he approached the fire.
Aramis's pride aside, Athos rose fluidly to his feet to drape his own cloak over Aramis's shivering form. He took the bundle of clothes from his friend then pressed him to take a seat on one of the logs they had pulled in front of the fire. Aramis didn't resist, just huddled under the cloak, slender flingers eventually reaching through to warm themselves by the fire.
By the time Porthos had cleaned and cooked the fish, Aramis had put on the dry clothes that Athos had found in his saddle bags. He thanked them for the meal and the wine and ate an entire fish without having to be prompted.
Athos settled more wood on the fire and shared a glance with Porthos. His dark eyes were troubled and Porthos's raised brow questioned if they should ask Aramis again if he was alright. Athos gave a shake of his head. They already knew Aramis would say he was fine. Athos suspected the marksman might not even truly know how deeply these two weeks had affected him. The kindhearted spirit that his friends had come to cherish in him had retreated, replaced by a shrewd ruthlessness as they planned each kill. Aramis was cold and efficient, a soldier through and through. It turned Athos's stomach to think of it. Athos was surprised when it was Aramis who broke their silence.
"Do you think when this is done we will be sent back to Paris?" he asked, an unexpected wistfulness in his voice. Aramis's eyes were soft, seeking something from Athos that he was not sure he had the power to give.
"Eventually we will return to Paris," Athos said carefully, "But who is really to say when."
Aramis nodded, agreeing that Athos could know no more than any of the rest of them about when the regiment might be sent home. They had hardly expected to be gone this long when they had set out, and La Rochelle had fallen months ago. It did seem foolish that the King's own guard was not yet recalled to the garrison.
"Would you ask Treville?" Aramis sounded plaintive, his voice small. Athos furrowed his brow in concern and Porthos shifted slightly closer to the marksman after laying more wood on their fire. It was not like Aramis to ask for favor or special treatment. Nor had he showed this much sadness and vulnerability since the very first kill he had made two weeks ago. Athos was not one to question the orders of their Captain, having newly been made a Lieutenant himself, yet was it not his duty to speak on behalf of the welfare of his men? Athos sighed and ran a hand through unruly curls.
"When next I see him, yes," Athos conceded, "Our assignment to the Cardinal's detail should be complete once we report to Rochefort tomorrow. The teeth were taken out of this rebellion weeks ago. It isfar time we were home." Athos knew his words were mostly speculation, but a small yet genuine smile graced Aramis's lips for the first time in days. Athos knew Aramis would not keep him to his word, but the glimmer of hope and relief in his friend's eyes was worth the lie that they now shared between them. And eventually, one way or another, they would be going home.
For the first time in two weeks, they wore their pauldrons when they broke camp, making the short ride to Rochefort in just under 2 hours. The city guard let them pass without comment and there was something refreshing about riding openly into the bustling town after the rigors of their clandestine mission. None of them were looking forward to reporting to the Comte de Rochefort again, but distasteful as it was, orders were orders. Rochefort had been one of the Cardinal's most vigorous supporters during the campaign for La Rochelle and Richelieu had rewarded the Comte for his loyalty as much as his ruthlessness. Now he was taking an active role in stamping out the Huguenot insurrection and Athos would not have been surprised if the entire plan of assassination had not come from him. Unfortunately for all of them, Rochefort had held an unfounded and unsuccessful rivalry with Athos since the years when he had been the Comte de le Fere. Now Rochefort outranked him and he seemed determined to put Athos to heel at every opportunity.
They stood in the antechamber outside Rochefort' office for the better part of an hour waiting on the Comte's pleasure so they could give their mission report. If they had not been a grim group before, by the time they were ushered into his office, Athos knew the only one of them he trusted to speak at all was himself.
The three men ranged themselves before Rochefort's desk, standing casually enough to be an insult to his authority but not so casually to be considered insubordinate. Athos had to admit this gave him a small sense of delight. Porthos and Aramis had no need to know the cause of Athos's dislike of Rochefort, they simply shared it without question.
Rochefort raked disapproving eyes over them, the man's gaze lingering defiantly on Aramis. They had all registered their dismay when they received their orders, no one more vehemently than Aramis, and Athos knew it was giving Rochefort sick pleasure to see him seemingly subdued to his will now. Athos cleared his throat and shifted Rochefort's focus back to him. The marksman was not a prize pony to be gawked at.
"You encountered no difficulties with this last one," it might have been said as a statement, but Rochefort's tone sounded like he found that highly unlikely. Athos was not fool enough to rise to the bait.
"Everything went as planned," Athos replied calmly.
"I trust you had the good sense not to wear those," Rochefort said with a nod toward their pauldrons, "It might spark a resurgence in the rebellion if this was traced back to the crown."
Athos gave Rochefort a condescending smile, "I can't imagine why," the sarcasm dripped from his voice, "But no, we were not wearing Musketeer uniforms as we tracked down French citizens and executed them without the benefit of trial."
Rochefort gave a derisive grunt as if he might want to challenge the veracity of Athos's statement but instead turned his attention back to his desk to fish out a parchment from among the piles.
"The Cardinal is pleased with your work," Rochefort said with a smile that more resembled a sneer, "He has extended your assignment to his detail for an additional three months. Here are your next orders." He handed Athos the parchment.
Athos felt rather than saw the shift in Porthos and Aramis. Knew without looking that they were using every bit of self-control not to curse the man, shout down the order, or storm from the room. Rochefort licked his lips, a small victorious smile stretching across his features. Athos knew he was goading them toward an outburst of some kind. Any emotional response on their part could be perceived as insubordination and would be enough to get them thrown in the stocks, or worse, get them reassigned from his command. Athos hoped they had enough sense not to play into him. Athos turned his eyes to the paper and scanned the words inked across the surface.
"There are a dozen names on this list," Athos said flatly, his face inscrutable. Porthos shifted slightly to read the orders held openly in his Lieutenant's hand.
"France has many enemies," Rochefort's eyes narrowed, "Would you see them victorious?"
"There are women on this list," Porthos's comment was nearly a growl.
"Even women can commit treason," Rochefort's tone was cold, his face dropping any semblance of the feigned friendship he had offered before. "These are your orders. Are you going to have a problem with this, Musketeers?" Rochefort slurred over the word like he was spitting a piece of rotted meat from his mouth.
Porthos shook his head, a smile breaking across his features as he took the parchment from Athos, "No," he said grinning, "We have no problems," his voice low as he took a menacing step toward Rochefort. Athos put a hand to his arm, cautioning him about advancing further.
Rochefort's jaw worked as he looked at the three men, Athos taught and unreadable and Porthos barely restrained. It was the marksman though that seemed to take him up short. Aramis had not moved, not spoken, not even adjusted his stance since entering the room, but now, he had raised his head and set cold eyes upon the Comte, even as his hand rested delicately on the pearled handle of his pistol.
"You have four weeks," the challenge was clear in Rochefort's voice, "Report here when it is done." Athos's hand twitched at the hilt of his rapier despite knowing that the man would like nothing better than to have an excuse to bring them up for court martial. Still, it occurred to Athos that it might be worth it if it put an end to his miserable life.
Athos and Rochefort held each other's gaze and for a long moment, no one seemed to even breathe. Then Athos spun on his heel without so much as a nod to the nobleman and strode out of the room, Aramis and Porthos flanking him on either side. His eyes were a thunderstorm and men scurried out of their way as they marched through the hall. They reached their horses and readied to ride.
"Athos, you know this ain't right," Porthos muttered beside him.
"Not here, not now," Athos said through tight lips. Aramis was already up on his horse, his hat slung low over his eyes. The marksman had not said a word but Athos knew he was coiled as tight as a clock spring. The other two mounted and then Athos lead them through the city, out the gate, and into the open countryside. They would find a place to camp near the city but they would not spend a night between its walls.
"I did not become a Musketeer to slaughter innocent people!" Aramis's voice rang through the woods as he advanced on Athos, grabbing him by the collar, "Husbands. Mothers. Daughters. I will not do this." Athos stood rigid beneath the marksman's verbal assault, his face devoid of expression. They had already had this argument last night and Athos was getting tired of having it again. Porthos, who had been silently brooding all morning, finally stepped between them.
"Aramis, leave 'im be," the big man put his hands to Aramis's shoulders and pulled him backward, away from Athos, "You know as well as me he doesn't want to do this either."
"Doesn't want to do it," Aramis growled, "You and he are not the ones pulling the damned trigger!" Aramis was so angry he was nearly panting.
"Oi!" Porthos yelled, finally letting his own voice rise, and spinning Aramis to face him, "That's enough! I know we don't aim the musket but don't you dare think we don't feel the blood on our hands," Porthos adjusted his grip, taking hold of Aramis's leather coat and giving the smaller man a hard shake. "Now stop this. Athos is not the one who issued the orders. He's just the poor bastard who has to make sure we do it. He's the one who gets court martialed if we fail, not you."
Athos watched the two men facing off, Porthos not loosening his grip until finally, Aramis gave a small nod, acknowledging he wasn't about to fly into a rage again. Porthos gave a little tug to Aramis's coat and then released him, letting his own temper return to a simmer. They had been arguing since breakfast and it was getting them nowhere. Aramis sat down heavily on one of the logs near the fire, pulling off his hat and raking a hand through unruly curls. Porthos put more sticks on the fire before sitting quietly next to him, a hand to Aramis's knee saying he forgave the outburst, sympathized even.
"Aramis was right yesterday," Athos finally said, his voice low but calm, "I need to talk to Treville."
"We don't even know where he is," Aramis sounded tired.
"We have a good idea," Athos replied, "The regiment was pushing toward Chalais when we were reassigned. They were to meet General Baudet's infantry before traveling further south. We can catch them on the road."
"And what then?" Aramis was calm, resigned, "There is nothing Treville can do for us. The only way this stops is if I do," Aramis stood, putting his hat back on his head and straightening his coat, "It's my skill as a marksman that earned us these orders. If you have no marksman, there is no need to keep you assigned to the Cardinal." Aramis reached with his left hand and began to unbuckle his pauldron, "I'm no assassin and an order from the King himself will not make me pull that trigger again."
"Aramis," Porthos's voice held warning, "You can't do that."
"But I can, mon ami," Aramis said with a sad smile, slipping the leather sleeve from his shoulder, "It's all that is left for me to do."
"You cannot," Athos said, the note of command ringing in his voice. He stepped closer to Aramis, "You cannot resign during wartime. You will be branded a deserter, or worse, a traitor. Aramis, this is an act of rebellion against the King."
"Then perhaps you will have to add my name to that list," Aramis said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. He stepped closer to Athos, "I hate following orders," Aramis said as he pressed his pauldron into Athos's hands before turning his sorrowful brown eyes to meet his gaze, "But you, brother, you I would have followed anywhere," he said roughly, choking back his emotions. He left Athos and Porthos by the fire to lay down on his bedroll, wrapping himself in his musketeer cloak perhaps for the last time.
There had to be another answer, but for the life of him, Athos did not know what it was.
It took three days for Athos to catch up to the regiment. He made his way to Treville's tent knowing the news he bore would take a deep toll on the Captain. But Aramis had forced his hand and ultimately, Athos couldn't begrudge him the choice. It had been the right thing to do.
Treville's young aide-de-camp made a squeal of protest as Athos pushed him aside to enter the command tent. The sight was so familiar that in other circumstances it would have been a soothing reminder of home – Treville's desk littered with parchments and maps, a half finished bottle of wine precariously perched on the corner and the man himself, doublet undone and hair sticking out at all angles, leaning over the mess trying to find something. At his aide's squeaking, Treville had looked up so Athos watched his sharp gray eyes shift from anger to surprise to concern in the short time it took him to stop before the desk.
"Athos," Treville breathed, straightening up, his gray eyes scanning over his Lieutenant for signs of injury or abuse, "What's happened? Porthos, Aramis. . . ?" his voice trailed off but the question was obvious.
"Unharmed," Athos replied dryly. Treville let out an audible exhale, relief washing over him.
"Why are you here?" the Captain asked, a hint of annoyance coloring his words now that he knew Athos was not bearing bad news.
"Our assignment to the Cardinal has been extended," Athos reported.
"I am aware," Treville replied, leaning his hands on the desk, "The Cardinal expressed his pleasure with your team. Exceptional results I believe were his exact words. So why are you here?"
"You sanctioned this?" Athos was incredulous. He knew Treville was devoted to France, but he also knew him as an honorable man who believed in the rule of law.
"The Comte de Rochefort asked for my best marksman and a good support team," Treville's face was beginning to flush as his anger rose, "I provided them."
Athos cocked his head. He had not considered that Treville would have been complicit. Perhaps then this would be easier than he had first thought. He reached into the sack attached to his belt and pulled out Aramis's pauldron and placed it on the desk before Treville.
"What's this?" Treville nearly growled.
"Aramis is done," Athos replied, keeping his tone even and unemotional.
"Aramis is a Musketeer," Treville spat furiously, "He will do his duty and follow orders or I will see him court martialed. Now take that and get back to work."
"Aramis is a soldier," Athos responded coolly, "Perhaps the finest I've ever encountered. He will do his duty until it is the death of him and if all he has been through as a Musketeer already has not killed him then this mission surely will." Athos took a small bit of satisfaction seeing the Captain blanch at his words. No one had expected Aramis to survive the ordeal at Savoy and if any Musketeer had paid his dues twice over, it was Aramis. It was good to see the Captain remembered that.
"Deserting in the middle of a war will see him killed without doubt," Treville snapped back, "That is considered an act of rebellion and he will wind up at the end of a hangman's noose if he is not careful."
Athos shook his head in disbelief. The Captain's callousness was outrageous. He preached honor and duty at the front of the ranks but here in the command tent, good men could be sacrificed as a means to an unjust end? A mirthless smile curled over Athos's lips. He reached into the bag and pulled out a second pauldron, tossing it onto the desk next to the first. The Captain looked shocked, but Athos did not break eye contact as he reached up to pull his own pauldron from his arm.
"If choosing honor above injustice is treason, then Aramis, Porthos and I will all hang together," Athos declared as he dropped his own pauldron onto Treville's desk, his eyes daring the Captain to challenge him. Treville held Athos's gaze, not backing down from the threat but not escalating the aggression either. If anything, Athos thought he saw confusion register in the Captain's eyes.
Treville took a steadying breath and Athos knew by experience the man was trying to keep himself composed. "I understand that the Comte de Rochefort is a little more than a sewer rat in a brocade frock coat," Treville said evenly, "But are you three truly so prideful as you can't bend your necks for the sake of your duty, your country and your King?"
Treville's words stung. It was the same argument that had kept the three of them up all night debating in the woods. But ultimately, there was only one choice and they had made it together, "That is a soldier's argument, Captain. And you lost the right to make it as soon as you turned us into executioners."
"Executioners?" Treville's brow furrowed, "What are you talking about?"
Athos let out a gasp that might have been the beginning of a laugh. Could the Captain truly not know? "Our mission. What do you know of it?" he asked honestly.
"The Cardinal assembled three teams to infiltrate enemy strongholds in the region. The Huguenots are on the run and we will not allow them a chance to regroup. The situation is volatile and France is in graver danger than you know," Athos shook his head unable to fathom how Treville could continue to defend this course of action but the Captain pressed on earnestly, coming around from behind the desk to stand before Athos and place a conciliatory hand on his shoulder. "I know you are all tired and war weary. I know you long for Paris and an end to this campaign. I know you despise Rochefort and his abuses of authority. But this reconnaissance is essential if we are to root out the insurgents. It is essential if we are to remain a reunited France."
Athos realized his jaw was hanging open. He closed it and gave a slow shake of his head. "Reconnaissance. You think those are our orders." Treville looked completely bewildered.
"Yes, reconnaissance," Treville affirmed, "The Cardinal wanted a team of specialists to infiltrate key positions, spy on leaders and report back to command so that they could attack any remaining forces and capture key leaders. Athos, these men are nobles of France. They must be brought to justice."
"Here is your justice, Captain," Athos said, reaching into his doublet and pulling out a folded piece of parchment, "There are no reports, no skirmishes and no trials. Just Aramis serving the Cardinal's death warrants with the pull of a trigger." Athos shoved the parchment into Treville's chest.
Captain Treville took up the paper Athos had pressed on him and carefully unfolded it. He scanned the orders and Athos watched his eyes widen in shock first and then fury. Something loosened inside Athos's chest as he realized their Captain, a man of honor and duty, had in fact not betrayed their trust.
"This is outrageous," Treville's voice was low, his jaw tight, "How many men were you forced to kill?"
"Four," Athos answered.
"And Aramis?" Treville asked not even trying to hide his worry for the wellbeing of their marksman. Treville knew Aramis as well as any of them. Knew what these orders would have done to a man of his faith and conviction. Good soldiers respected a clean death. Assassination was the stuff of mercenaries and honorless thieves, not Musketeers.
"Not well, as you can imagine," Athos spared nothing with the venom in his replay.
Treville shifted back to the other side of the desk, running his hand through his already disheveled hair before scrubbing at his brow. It took another moment, and then Treville snapped into action.
"Gaspar!" he called out as he folded the parchment and stuffed it in his doublet. The squeaky aide-de-camp appeared beside Athos, "Saddle my horse and get me provisions for three days," the boy was off and running immediately. Treville began doing up the clasps on his doublet, "The Cardinal is encamped at the boundary of La Rochelle. Get the others and meet me in Royan in three days time. There is an inn at the wharf called the Captain's Rest. I will have this sorted or the four of us will be booking passage to Corsica, but one way or another, Aramis is not raising his musket against his countrymen unless it is as a soldier, not a murderer. I swear to you I will see to that or my pauldron will join the pile on Richelieu's desk," Captain Treville punctuated his last words by settling his hat on his head. Weapons belt fastened, pistols in place and his bag slung over his shoulder he looked every bit the noble warrior that Athos had put his faith in when he joined the musketeers two years ago. He offered his Captain one of his rare smiles and gave him a nod.
Treville acknowledged it with a nod of his own and stepped around the door to exit the tent. Athos stopped him with a hand to his arm.
"Thank you," Athos's voice was rough with emotion.
"Don't thank me until we are all back in Paris," Treville replied, but he gave a quick squeeze to Athos's hand before striding out the door and calling for his aide. Athos watched him go, hope filling his heart for the first time in weeks.
Richelieu did not look pleased to see Treville storm into the office he had commandeered from the local magistrate, but the Captain didn't slow his step until he stood before the Cardinal's desk and braced both hands on the edge. He leaned in menacingly and locked eyes with the startled priest.
"How dare you take my men and force them to be executioners in your bloody political games," Treville's voice trembled with the depth of his anger, "I'm recalling them, and you are putting an end to your death squads. There is no possible way the King sanctioned this and he will have your head on the block if word gets to him."
"My dear Captain," Richelieu said with weary exasperation, "The King is tired of rebellion and said he wanted it swiftly ended by any means necessary. Any means, Treville. This method seemed quite expeditious, don't you think?"
"My men are not your private assassins," Treville snarled, "And enough of them have been killed already by your expeditious plans. I will sacrifice no more Musketeers to your political maneuvering."
"Well then you will be pleased to know that you will not have to," Richelieu let a satisfied smile scrape across his face, "The King has given me permission to form my own elite guard. Like your Musketeers, my Red Guard will be culled from the finest soldier in France. The King has given me great latitude." Richelieu leaned back casually and steepled his fingers, "Your marksman, what's his name? Aramis? He was very efficient. He'd make a fine Lieutenant in my ranks."
"Form your guard but you will not touch my Musketeers," Treville threatened.
"My dear Captain, the King gave me no exclusions. Your Musketeers are mine for the taking. Although really I'm only interested in the marksman at the moment. But your obstinance in this could cause me to get greedy."
Treville bared his teeth in a feral smile, "Henri le Clerc was a favorite of Louis's. He will be incredibly sad to hear of his death but will feel ultimately betrayed when he finds it was at your orders. The King will be even more dismayed to find his cousin, Susette Marchand, listed on your current warrant. You will be lucky to escape with your own head in tact after that."
"What?" Richelieu asked, working hard to contain his surprise, "These fabrications are a sign of a feeble mind, Treville."
"Fabrications?" Treville laughed, "I take it you did not know of all of the names the Comte de Rochefort placed on his most recent order?" Richelieu gave little away but his eyes narrowed and Treville knew he had hit the mark. "It seems perhaps your man has gone rogue. A little insurrection in your own ranks? Hardly inspiring for the Captain of an elite guard."
Richelieu let out an exhale and pushed himself up from his chair. He turned his back to Treville and shifted to stand before the window looking out over the magistrate's garden. Treville straightened and folded his hands calmly before him, a relaxed stance that showed his resolve as much as his lack of fear. He had Richelieu and he knew it.
"Perhaps I don't need the marksman. There are other more talented men in Paris. I understand he's not even of noble birth," Richelieu gave a little laugh and turned to face Treville, "You keep your regiment of whoresons and gutter rats. I will look elsewhere. Does that satisfy you?"
"And your death squads?" Treville pressed.
"What I do I do for the good of France," Richelieu said in a low voice, meeting Treville's dangerous gaze. "I have no regrets. No remorse. No act is too foul if it protects our King and our nation," the Cardinal said and then let out a sigh, some of the tension dropping from his shoulders, "These deaths have served their purpose. I see no need for Rochefort to continue. I rescind the order. Take your soldiers, gather your men. It is high time you returned to Paris." Richelieu turned back to the window, his gesture an obvious dismissal that Treville was all too happy to accept.
He left Richelieu's office and called for his horse. He had a lot of work to do to get his regiment ready to march to Paris, but first, he had a date to keep in Royan. He paused before mounting to check his tack and rest a hand on the sack tied to his saddlebags. Those three men were as cheeky and insubordinate as schoolboys but Treville couldn't help but smile as he mounted up, looking forward to putting those pauldrons back where they belonged – on the arms of the rebellious gutter rats he called his Musketeers.