Nothing Breaks… Chapter 1

Christmas had come and gone, New Year too. Life at the garrison went on as normal, only now normal didn't seem quite enough, not for Aramis. He and Porthos still drank, laughed, did all the things they had done before, but in the quiet of his own room, at night, the Musketeer would often shed a tear for their missing friend. Porthos said little; Aramis could sense the big man was as desolate as he, but he hid it behind his anger. Once they realised Athos was not returning, Porthos had forbidden Aramis from mentioning his name. Still, every time a horse galloped through the arch Aramis looked, and his heart broke a little more each time he realised it was not him. Treville, too, often looked toward the garrison entrance, though under the pretence of watching the men spar.

Morning tasks had been distributed, and Aramis and Porthos had pulled armoury duty. They cleaned and checked pistols whilst Aramis hummed to himself, enjoying the mundane activity – unlike Porthos, who hated such prolonged periods of inactivity. It was warm in the dim room and the gun oil made for a heady atmosphere.

'Porthos! Aramis!' The shout cut across the open courtyard space and reached into the quiet armoury – no need to question who the authoritative voice belonged to.

'Treville,' the two men replied in unison. They replaced the weapons and stepped out into the bright light of the winter morning. There had been little snow since Christmas, but the temperature had never quite risen high enough to prevent ice from forming on the water trough each morning during the weeks that followed. Now February was almost over, the weather had grown warmer, the weak sun promising to revisit the memory of warm spring days, but today was not one of them.

They looked toward the balcony, to see the scowling figure of Treville, his eyes searching the garrison. He was about to yell again, when he saw the two Musketeers heading his way.

'My office,' was all he said, before disappearing inside. The two men looked at each other.

'Do you think he knows about the other night?' Aramis asked the big man.

'Nah, it was nothin'. No one was hurt, just a little excitement at the end of a long day.' The two men considered the fight two days ago in The Wren. Aramis nodded.

'You are right, there was not much blood, and we paid for the broken table.' Porthos nodded, smiling in agreement. Still, the two men thought it best to begin piecing together a story as they headed up the steps, just in case.

They knocked upon the door and waited for the usual command. 'Come.' Smiling at each other, the two men entered.

Treville stood behind his desk, looking as fraught as usual. It had been relatively quiet over the festive period – Richelieu had kept his head down following the Captain's parting shot during their last encounter. However, he could not be sure just how much the Musketeer Captain knew concerning his infantile plot to secure Rochefort in the good graces of the Spanish party. But the identification of Edward Boudain, now that had shaken him, and so, for now, he was behaving himself, or at least plotting quietly.

'Gentlemen, the King wishes to see me. Somehow I get the feeling he has a new scheme in mind, and after the last one, I cannot say I am too thrilled at the idea. I want you two with me. Someone else can take over whatever it was you were doing. We leave at once.' Dismissed, the two men hurried from the room and collected their cloaks. The King liked to see his Musketeers in full dress, as he liked to think they looked far better than the Cardinal's guards. Which of course they did.

It was not as if the three of them ever spent much time together socialising, but when Treville and the two men did find themselves riding through Paris, Athos was the subject that hung in the air between them. This morning, Porthos rode behind, and Aramis decided he could risk a question without his friend hearing.

'Have you heard anything?' He did not add to what he was referring, he knew Treville would know. The Captain sighed and looked into the hopeful face of the Musketeer.

'No, nothing. But then I do not expect to. If Athos wishes to return, he knows where to find us. It must be his choice, Aramis.' He noted the crestfallen expression on the young man's face. 'Give him time. It has not been long, he may have other matters he needed to attend to. He may still be back.' He smiled at the soldier, but Aramis did not hear the ring of sincerity he was looking for in the Captain's words.

oOo

Athos had not taken the direct route through the village, as he hoped to complete his task without anyone ever knowing he had been there. The sun was slanting through the tall trees, as he slid from his horse, causing small lights to dance over the grass as it played through the early, spring leaves. The spot was on a small hill, far from the village. It was ironic that from here he could clearly see the bare branches of the tree from which she had hung. If he closed his eyes, it was an image he could recall only too clearly, seared into his memory for all time. Shaking off the sudden chill that came over him, he tried to ignore the sensation that he was being watched.

Athos tethered Roger to a bench – a small token he had provided for the elderly who found the hill taxing on a Sunday, when attending church. Apart from the horse champing at the grass, and the whistling birds in the trees, it was silent, and even the breeze had ceased to blow. For a moment, he took in the peace and solitude of the spot. There was a lot to be said for a churchyard, it was always quiet and peaceful. He had often sneaked into the lych-gate as a child, and sat upon the bench with a book. The old priest would bring him out a cool glass of something to drink and his plump wife would make him biscuits. That was until his father had discovered his hiding place… the rest was history. No more biscuits in the silence of the churchyard, and what ever happened to the priest and his wife he never found out. Another parish he supposed, his father would have seen to that.

The resting place of the dead was the one spot, even in the heart of Paris, where one could be alone, if ever one were ever truly alone with the dead. But at least they were silent. Only at night, in his dreams, did they scream and cry his name, demanding he give them a voice.

He wound his way through the small stones, until he found the family plot. The large mausoleum stood on the De la Fère estate. There his ancestors lay on their cold, stone shelves taking their eternal rest. Only those lucky enough to be deemed less important spent eternity beneath the green grass, warmed by the soft sunlight, unaware of their fortune, compared to the cold, dark tomb that tortured the remains of their betters.

Here, favourite family retainers were laid to rest, cousins, those whose names no one remembered. He traced the name of one such stone. Phillipe Geroux. His first sword master. He remembered the man well. He smiled to himself, he reminded him a little of Aramis – always well-groomed, a ready smile and an eye for the ladies of the household. He had been a good swordsman, and he had taught the young boy well. A winter cold had taken the man far too young, and the young vicomte had wept until his father had forbidden it. Weeping was for women, he had said and, even then, not for the likes of Geroux. Still, the man had been granted a place in the churchyard, which was no mean achievement. From then on, no sword master ever lasted long enough to die in service. His father saw to that.

Athos moved from one stone to the other, not sure what he expected to find. As his wife, she should have had a place in that cold, dark place with the rest of the family, but he could not let that happen. How could his brother's body lie next to the woman who had taken his life?

Neither should she have been buried in hallowed ground, but he had not had the strength left to deny her this. He could not have her buried by a roadside, for ever to wander between this world and the next. Though he had no belief anymore, neither was he superstitious. Still, recent events had dictated he finally visit this spot. He needed to see it for himself.

He had paid René to have her buried quietly in the family corner. He had the man left money and instructions, for he did not wish any part of the ritual. He was not proud of his decision – one more failure, leaving someone else to deal with her remains. He had wandered between the stones for some time, and the sun was slanting long shadows across the soft grass, the light more golden now than when he had arrived. He leant against a tall cross and sighed deeply. Perhaps there had never been a stone. Perhaps to be inside the walls of the cemetery had been enough. He could have found René and asked, but he could not bring himself to do that, not after all this time.

He was about to turn away, leaving the inhabitants to their quiet slumber, when something caught his eye. Off to one side, there was a small mound, a simple cross marked the spot; no fancy stone, or guardian angel, just a simple white wooden cross, but the earth was covered in small leaves, soft green leaves, with the finest traces of hair on their small fronds. His heart beat more rapidly, and he found himself walking closer. He knew the plant well, it was small now, but in a few weeks the grave would be covered in the tiniest blue flowers. This had to be it. He knelt on the soft grass, the earth beneath submitting to his weight. Brushing the vines and dirt away from the small marker, beneath his fingers he felt the crude letters, carved into the wood. AF – 1625 RIP.

His heart hitched. So, it had been done. He had begun to wonder. Had begun to consider somehow, if she had survived. The jasmine, the touch. Now he had found her resting place, and he didn't know whether he was relieved, or destroyed all over again. Repose en Paix. Did she? He had evidence to prove she did not, but then why would she?

He made his way back to his horse, laying his head against the reassuring warmth of the animal's neck. He mounted up and rode away. As he rode past, Athos tried hard not to look at the bear bare branches, swaying gently in the breeze. But the tree called out to him and he halted the horse. There it stood, just as it had almost a year ago today. He could see it so clearly – would that image never fade? The faces of his father and his mother seemed so dim and vague now, and even Thomas' gentle smile had to be wrenched from his memory, lest he forget. But this – her smile, her touch, her body hanging motionless from the branch of a tree. They were as vivid and as colourful as if it were yesterday; how he wished they would fade, as everything else had faded. Or was it his punishment to see it all so clearly, so raw, for the rest of his days? He ran his hands over his eyes, hoping that when he looked again it would all be gone.

Holding tight to the reins, he spurred Roger forward, giving the horse his head, riding over his land as if the entirety of hell were riding behind him. He rode hard, until Roger wheezed for breath, sweat and flecks of foam flanking the horse's mouth; so hard that the tears were blown from his eyes before they had chance to fall. When horse and rider could go no further, he sank against the coarse mane and gasped for breath. As man and beast were calmed, he slid from the animal's back, leading him over to a small stream to drink.

He had not thought beyond this moment. Since he had left Paris, he had been driven, first by the visit to the Duchess, and then to return home, to find her. Now they were done. What was he to do now?

oOo

Treville and the two Musketeers reached the throne room and walked toward the King. He was consulting some papers with the Cardinal, but smiled brightly when he saw Treville – always a good sign.

'Treville, here you are, excellent. The Cardinal and I were just discussing you, were we not Cardinal?'

'Indeed, we were Sire,' the Cardinal simpered. 'And here you are Captain, most fortuitous.' The grin he gave Treville put paid to any confidence the King's welcome may have inspired. He knew something, and he also knew Treville was not going to be happy about it.

'You sent for me Your Majesty,' Treville acknowledged. For a second the King's smile faltered. Aramis felt for his superior. All the years he had attended his monarch, day in day out, he had still never managed to adopt that ingratiating air needed by any successful diplomat when dealing with the King. Treville still held onto that no-nonsense approach which made him an excellent soldier but a terrible politician.

'Now, Treville, I will not have you spoiling my idea. I have made up my mind and I simply need you to make it happen.' He smiled broadly once more and Treville's heart sank. Please, God, let it not be another party.

'I will do my best, Sire. What is it you wish me to do?' The King clapped his hands and looked from the Cardinal to his Captain.

'We are going on a trip, Treville. Myself, my wife, the Cardinal, and one or two others. We have been inside for too long, and I wish to see what is happening outside my doors.' Treville looked taken aback. He glanced at the Cardinal, and the man's frozen smile told him that he, too, was less than happy with the news.

'A trip, Sire? Forgive me, I am not sure I understand.' Treville attempted to keep an expression of mild surprise fixed to his face when, in reality, he wanted to rant and scream. God only knew who had put this latest madness into the gullible monarch's head.

'I told you he would be surprised, Cardinal,' the King giggled. Richelieu raised his eyes to heaven, as if praying for patience.

'You did, Sire. And I think it is safe to say you were correct.' He looked at Treville, his eyes almost pleading with the man to say something.

'Well, Captain, after the trouble with my brother, there were whisperings you understand, you know how gossip spreads. I even had a letter from a member of the family offering their sympathy, after my terrible accident. Sympathy, I ask you, Captain, rumours of the King of France having a terrible accident. I considered another party, did I not, Cardinal?'

Richelieu visibly paled before he replied. 'Indeed you did, Sire, but we decided, did we not, that something more personal would be better. I recommended individual invitations, but Your Majesty had ideas of his own.' He eyed Treville, making it quite clear that he had not encouraged this latest lunacy.

'Of course I did, Cardinal. I am the King, I have marvellous ideas.' He was still grinning broadly, but could see that his Captain was still in the dark.

'You see, Treville, the Cardinal pointed out that a party would be expensive. After all, last time I had to rebuild half the palace, but the least said about that the better. So, why not let other people have the expense – I shall go to them!' He grinned in delight and awaited the Captain's reaction.

'Your Majesty, plans to visit some members of the nobility, to ensure they can see you are well, is that your proposal?' The King almost jumped up and down in his seat.

'Yes, yes, Treville! Some of the pompous fools were probably in league with my idiot brother – won't they squirm when they have to show fealty to their King and pay for it themselves?' Treville had paled. The very thought of ensuring the Monarch's safety for such a journey was already giving him a headache.

'Just how many do you envisage visiting, Sire?' He hardly dared listen to the reply and, when it came, he nearly choked.

'Well, I counted at least ten who were conspicuous in their absence; Interesting do you not think? However, the Cardinal has pointed out that some of them were very old, may even be dead, so I have agreed on five. Won't it be fun?' Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances – five members of the nobility, spread over God knows how many leagues.

'Your Majesty must realise that ensuring your safety on such a trip will be subject to many risks.' Louis pouted.

'You see, Cardinal, I told you Treville would make it sound dreary. Well I am sorry, Captain, but I want my Musketeers. They are my regiment and they will protect me, of that I am sure. To show you I am not at all unreasonable, I will not leave until the end of March. After all, I need to give those lucky enough to entertain their King, sufficient time to prepare – some of these country estates are such dowdy affairs. Now, speak to the Cardinal and he will give you the list. Forgive me, but I need to go and consult on a travelling wardrobe. One must look the part, especially when one wants the nobility to grovel. Good day, Captain.' The King departed, taking his entourage with him, and leaving Treville, Aramis, Porthos and the Cardinal staring at each other in amazement.

For once, Richelieu looked apologetic. 'Do not think I had anything to do with this ridiculous notion, he actually came up with it all by himself. It is madness of course. Giving them time to prepare – plot and unite more like. Still, I suppose we can hope the shock or fear of financial ruin might bring on the odd apoplexy, or encourage them toward suicide. Meanwhile, what do you intend to do about it, Treville?'

The Captain ran his hands through his thinning hair, Aramis was familiar with the gesture, routinely used by their Captain, when he was angry or frustrated, or simply dealing with Athos. The memory made him smile.

'I doubt, at this point, there is anything I can do. Who has he chosen and how long is this trip going last?' Treville asked in frustration.

'He is beginning by retracing the journey Gaston made, stopping at the Château Rambouillet and Château d'Ambois. The whole journey could last for months, dependent upon how long it takes His Majesty to bankrupt each household.' Treville shook his head in disbelief.

'Months then. That is madness.' He looked horrified at the thought.

'Of course, he may get to the first household, hate the food and decide he is coming home. That is the beauty of dealing with our King, you never know what he might do next. Anyway, Treville, I suggest we meet tomorrow, when you have had time to digest the information. I have to admit, for once I am glad this journey is on your shoulders. I almost feel sorry for your men.' With that parting shot, Richelieu left the room, leaving a bewildered Treville alone with the two Musketeers.