The Eye of the Storm

Chapter One

Aramis shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly around his body. The weak winter sun had been overtaken by white clouds filled with the promise of snow and the daylight was rapidly waning. As evening approached the temperature, never higher than freezing, began to plummet. He had been late leaving the Viscount's estate as the man had insisted that he wait for a reply to the missive he had been delivering. Although he had fretted and paced the floor there had been nothing he could do to speed up the process. Now, with dusk only a few minutes away he was still at least two hours from the nearest inn.

He urged his horse into a canter even though he knew it would be short-lived. Once it became fully dark he would be reduced to walking the animal to avoid mishaps. The first flake of snow fell, a big white fluffy flake that was quickly joined by a myriad of others. Under other circumstances he could have admired the beauty of the scene. The hard packed dirt of the road quickly became covered by a carpet of white and the snow blanketed the leafless trees like the most delicate of lace shawls.

His shivering increased as a gust of wind blew from the north, driving the snow horizontally across his field of vision. He pulled back on the reins, slowing to a more sedate trot. His fingers began to feel numb, not even the heavy leather of his gloves being sufficient protection against the cold. His breath steamed in the air and there were ice crystals dancing at the edges of sight.

He could feel all his muscles tensing up in reaction to the bone deep chill. He unwound his scarf from his neck and wrapped it around his mouth. His hat was pulled as far down as he could manage and already the brim was becoming heavy with snow. He hunched his shoulders, relieved that his leather cloak at least prevented the moisture from reaching his body.

The land around him began to take on a dreamlike quality when viewed through the swirling snow. Visibility had been drastically reduced and it was becoming increasingly difficult to see the path. His horse tossed its head in irritation before slowing further. They were now travelling at no more than a walk making Aramis despair that he would ever find the comfort of the inn. His teeth began to chatter.

He tried thinking about a roaring fire but it made no difference to his rapidly chilling body. He knew he was holding the reins although he had now lost all feeling in his hands. Darkness came crashing down around him. There was no gentle transition from day to night. Any light that might have remained was completely subsumed by the steady fall of the snow.

His own mortality reared its head. Man couldn't compete against the unstoppable forces of nature and he was many leagues away from safety. He urged his horse to keep moving. The heat from the animal was the only thing mitigating the cold but even that was insignificant. The weather was extreme and he had never experienced its like before. The temperature continued to drop.

He lowered his head to gain some shelter from the wind which was searching out every crevice where it could find entry. They plodded forward into the teeth of the storm and he could feel that his horse was struggling. There was the sudden crack of a branch overburdened with snow and his horse, already spooked by the weather, lurched forward into an ungainly run. Aramis swore and clung on as best he could while the animal careened forward amongst the trees. Branches whipped by him, one of them catching him across the cheek. His skin was so numb that he had no idea if it had done any damage or not.

The snow was several inches deep on the ground making the footing treacherous. Aramis tried to haul back on the reins without success as the terrified animal continued its headlong flight. There was no warning. Between one heartbeat and the next the horse lost its balance, its front legs buckling. Aramis was flung over its head, crashing to the ground and impacting with a tree. He lay, winded, gasping for air.

It was the distressed whinnies from his horse that forced him to move. He rolled over, almost crying out when a sharp pain lanced across his right ankle. For a moment his vision became blurry as he fought down a surge of nausea. He pushed himself into a sitting position, the wet snow permeating his breeches. He didn't dare remove his boot to assess the extent of his injury. He couldn't feel any bone movement leading him to believe it was nothing more than a bad sprain than a break. However, in his present predicament either could be fatal.

His horse, he discovered, had fared worse. It was lying on the ground, its right foreleg obviously broken. Aramis crawled towards it and reached out to stroke its face. With tears freezing in his eyes he unclipped his pistol and held it against the animal's forehead. Trusting brown eyes regarded him pitifully and he had to close his own eyes before he pulled the trigger. The sound was almost immediately swallowed up by the dense snow and he fell back to lie on the deceptively soft mattress.

He didn't know how long he lay there before he came back to his senses. If he didn't move soon he would never rise again. He used a tree trunk for support as he climbed painfully to his feet. His ankle, he quickly established, could hold his weight although it was agony and he couldn't manage more than a shuffling walk. He looked around for a length of wood to use as a cane, eventually finding a gnarled branch lying half buried. Even with that his mobility was poor and his chances of reaching the inn before he froze to death non-existent. Nonetheless he began to move resolutely forward. He was a Musketeer and Musketeers never gave up hope.

TMTMTM

Athos, followed by Porthos and d'Artagnan rode through the archway leading to the garrison just as the snow started. They handed their horses over to the care of the stable boy and headed for the refectory.

"I wouldn't like to be outside in this," d'Artagnan said, shaking his head to dislodge the snowflakes that had settled there. "I hope Aramis has found shelter."

"Knowin' Aramis he's all tucked up in front of the fire with a flask of wine and a willin' serving girl on his lap." Porthos carried a jug of ale over to their table, leaving d'Artagnan to bring the tankards.

"That is undoubtedly true." Athos smiled at Serge who had limped through from the kitchen.

"Chicken stew tonight," Serge said.

"It will be very welcome." D'Artagnan sat and waited for Porthos to pour the ale. "The Palace is starting to look very festive."

"The King likes Christmas. He is worse than a child. All the nobles are expected to send him presents." Athos brushed a few stray flakes of snow from his shoulder.

"And we get the privilege of escortin' him to Notre Dame for Mass and then standin' around for hours while he hosts a ball," Porthos said gloomily. "I hate Christmas."

"It's not so bad." Athos drank deeply and sighed with contentment. "Serge always cooks us a special meal and Treville rotates the guards so that we get at least part of the day to ourselves."

"It will be strange," d'Artagnan said. "Not having Christmas with my family on the farm."

Seeing the youngster's downcast look Athos reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "We will do our best to make it a memorable day." He only vaguely remembered his first Christmas after Thomas' death. He had believed he'd lost everything…that his wife as well as his brother was dead. To the best of his recollection he had spent the day in a tavern on his own consuming copious amounts of cheap wine. He was determined that d'Artagnan wouldn't be left alone to brood on the loss of his father.

The somber mood was broken when Serge carried in a tray laden with bowls and a basket of bread. Athos nodded his thanks, inhaling the aroma of the stew. His mouth began to water in anticipation.

"What does anyone buy the King?" d'Artagnan asked. "He's got more than he could possibly ever want."

"Good question." Athos ate the first mouthful which was as good as he'd expected. "Horses, hounds, jewels. His particular favourite last year was a miniature portrait of himself set in a gold frame encrusted with diamonds. No-one could ever accuse him of humility."

"The year before that it was an Irish wolfhound. It was a magnificent animal," Porthos conceded. "One hell of a hunter it turned out to be."

D'Artagnan dipped a chunk of bread into his bowl. "He's a fortunate man."

"That's what comes of bein' born into the royal family. Wealth breeds wealth in my experience."

"That is certainly true."

"How did you celebrate Christmas in Pinon?" d'Artagnan asked.

Athos sat back, his thoughts flying to the only Christmas he had spent with Milady. It had been one of the happiest days of his life. She had gifted him with the locket he'd worn until recently with the pressed forget-me-not inside. It had been a reminder of an idyllic summer. Sensing that he was being watched by his friends he hurriedly tucked that memory away again. "We opened up the hall to the people and laid on a feast. It was the only day when they didn't work and we wanted to make it special for them. Life on the land is hard as you know only too well, d'Artagnan."

The door to the refectory opened to admit one of their fellow Musketeers. Porthos peered through the opening. "The storm's gettin' worse. It'll slow Aramis down."

"He should be no more than half a day's ride from Paris," Athos said. "Despite the weather I'm sure he'll be back tomorrow."

"I hope so. It isn't the same without him," Porthos said.

Athos finished his meal and pushed his bowl away. "It is rather quiet."

"Well I don't reckon we'll be goin' to a tavern tonight," Porthos said. "Who wants more ale? And I could get my cards if anyone fancies a game."

"We must first have your word that you won't cheat," Athos said. "It's one thing to take money from the Red Guard and quite another to take advantage of your friends."

"I'm offended," Porthos said, not looking in the least put out.

"Porthos."

"Alright, but I'm getting' better at it."

"That's what concerns me."

Porthos chuckled and went to collect his playing cards.

D'Artagnan grabbed another flask of ale and carried it back to the table. "He won't be able to help himself," he said.

Athos gave a long-suffering sigh. "I know."

D'Artagnan glanced towards the door. "Do you really think Aramis is alright? He had a lot of country to cover."

"Don't worry, d'Artagnan. Aramis is like a cat, always finding the perfect spot to curl up for the night. He'll be absolutely fine."

Tbc