I thought I'd try my hand at an old fashioned murder mystery. Musketeer style, of course. Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Sharlot, who I cannot do this without. I bow to your wisdom.
…And Then There Were Four
Chapter One
Athos sighed as the royal carriage came to a halt once again. Louis' pale hand extended through the curtained window, white lace handkerchief waving languorously in the breeze.
"I wonder what our gracious King could possibly need this time," Aramis wondered aloud. He made a valiant attempt to conceal his grin, but his voice betrayed his amusement.
It had been a long journey from Paris, the King stopping the caravan almost hourly for some impetuous request or another. They were close to their destination of the city of Vannes, but the constant and superfluous demands of the King had slowed their pace, making what was normally a three day journey take almost five, and severely testing Athos' already strained nerves.
"Whatever it is, I'm sure it is of the utmost importance," the marksman continued, unabated in his sardonic narrative. "As was the last stop where he insisted on having his afternoon refreshments even though it was hardly noon and there was no source of water in sight. Or the one before when he –"
"Your point?" Athos interrupted. He rolled his eyes; Aramis was enjoying his frustration entirely too much and he silently cursed him for it.
It had been a true test of their devotion to the crown to escort Louis on this excursion – one Athos had every intention of reporting to Treville in excruciating detail while enjoying the fine bottle of brandy the Captain hid behind his desk when they returned. Tasked with command, it was Athos' duty to see to the King's demands, something he was finding quite challenging in the wake of the monarch's numerous indulgences and limited tolerance.
Traveling such a distance by padded coach was much more relaxing than on horseback, though if Athos knew of a swifter way to get Louis to his destination, he would gladly make use of it. Unfortunately, reality did not offer them a way to bring Vannes closer to Paris, so his Highness had little choice but to tolerate the relatively comfortable means of transport, though he had spent the better part of the journey making his displeasure known. Once they reached the port, they would board the ferry that would take them through Quiberon Bay to their final destination of Belle Île. Athos could only hope the vast waters of the Bay and the ocean beyond – a view unavailable in Paris – would temper the tedium of the long journey and give pause to Louis' adverse behavior.
It had been Cardinal Richelieu who had insisted Louis speak with the Marquis of Belle Île, Nicolas Foquet, about the appointment as his new Finance Minister, convincing the King of the benefits of gracing Foquet with his presence as opposed to summoning him to Paris. Louis had reluctantly agreed to the journey, petulantly stating it would be refreshing to take a holiday from what he deemed the grueling trials of being a monarch. Though he had first sought to accompany the King, failing health had forced the Cardinal to stay behind – an occurrence that was both a gift and a curse.
Richelieu had appeared relieved to have an excuse to avoid the long journey to the western coast of France, but the Queen had been obviously disappointed, stating her desire to see the blue of the ocean. Despite his normal selfish need for company, Louis had reluctantly conceded that she should listen to the physicians who cautioned her to remain behind for the sake of her unborn child. While having the Cardinal or the Queen to accompany him may have made Louis more amenable and the journey easier on everyone, the Cardinal's health and the Queen's pregnancy were of concern. So, without anyone else to entertain him or listen to his constant complaints, His Majesty's concerns fell to Athos to handle.
"Athos?" Louis voice, petulant as always, drifted back toward the Musketeers riding at the rear of the coach.
"Mon dieu, kill me now," Athos mumbled under his breath, eliciting a low chuckle from Aramis at his side.
Ignoring his friend, he slowly pulled his mount out of formation, taking the time to assess the troops whom he had been assigned command.
Porthos and d'Artagnan rode at the front of the procession followed by Andrés, an old soldier who was as broad as Porthos but not nearly as tall, and Deguasse, a new recruit on his first mission. While he'd had his doubts about taking either of them on, Treville had assured him Deguasse was quite capable and would follow directions to the letter, eager to impress, and willing to do whatever it took to become a member of the King's guard.
Andrés on the other hand, had little respect for his temporary commander and didn't have a problem letting it be known. Having been passed up for promotion many times due to his lack of leadership skills, Andrés was of the opinion that seniority was more important than ability, and believed command of the mission should have fallen to either himself or Aramis due to the fact they had been commissioned long before anyone else. Athos knew Aramis had no desire to command, content to follow his lead, though quite capable if the situation demanded. Andrés was not as satisfied with the arrangement. Athos expected resistance at some point, though so far, the older man had merely taken to grumbling his dissatisfaction with the circumstances, neither making an attempt to malign nor aid in Athos' decisions. He didn't know if it would last, but he was content to ignore the man's obvious disdain in the meantime.
Aramis rode beside him, directly behind the King's coach, leading the other four men assigned to the detail. As he glanced back, he noted Aramis speaking with Bernajoux, a handsome, affable man whose liaisons with women rivaled Aramis' rumored conquests. How much of Bernajoux' amorous activities were true was anyone's guess, but while Aramis' dalliances were of the heart, it seemed Bernajoux simply enjoyed the challenge. It had been said some of his conquests had been less than … amicable… but there had been no complaints or accusations brought forth as of yet, so Treville had been content to ignore the gossip until there was something to substantiate the rumors. After all, if one were to believe everything said about Aramis' conquests, you would have to wonder how the man found time to do anything else. Bernajoux' mouth broke into a grin beneath his heavy moustache at Aramis' murmured comment and Athos rolled his eyes, wondering what the two could find so amusing about the situation.
As Athos swung his horse out into the tall grass bordering the road, his gaze shifted to Mordelle, a newly commissioned Musketeer riding next to Bernajoux. The young man leaned so far forward to join in on the other Musketeers' revelry, Athos feared he would topple awkwardly from the saddle. It was no secret his commission had been purchased by his uncle, but it was a common practice, one many a Musketeer had taken advantage of.
Mordelle had taken an instant like to Aramis, following the marksman, constantly offering to accompany him on any mission he could be of service. Aramis had welcomed the young man at first, but Athos could tell Mordelle's almost obsessive regard for the Spaniard was beginning to wear thin, leaving Aramis increasingly uncomfortable in his presence. He'd taken the ribbing from Porthos and d'Artagnan well concerning his new shadow, but even they had begun to see the tension the young man's behavior was having on their friend and had done what they could to keep the new man busy with tasks that would keep him away from Aramis' path.
Unfortunately, Treville had assigned him to the detail – at Mordell's own request Athos had learned – before any of them could caution the Captain against it. Aramis had simply shrugged when he'd been informed of Mordelle's inclusion, smiling in concession, promising to make the best of the uncomfortable situation. Even now Athos could see how the young man's attention wore on his friend as Mordelle attempted to insert himself in their conversation, but Aramis appeared at ease, his smile quite genuine to anyone who didn't know him well.
Bringing up the rear of the procession, horses stomping impatiently, were La Porte and Brisemont, both seasoned soldiers of mild temperament. La Porte mostly associated with Andrés, which gave Athos pause, but the tall, thin man had shown no outward disrespect toward his command so far. Brisemont, on the other hand, was quiet, well read and obviously of noble birth if Athos judgment was correct. He didn't speak of his past – he didn't speak much at all – content to follow orders and serve to the best of his ability. Athos wished the regiment had more soldiers like him.
As he pulled his horse alongside the carriage, Louis leaned back, sighing dramatically. "It's about time. I'm roasting like a pig on a spit inside this confounded contraption." He fanned himself with his handkerchief uselessly. "How much longer until we reach Vannes?"
Athos clenched his teeth against his frustration, forcing his expression to remain neutral. "An hour or two at most, Sire." If they could avoid any more unnecessary delays.
"Well then what are we waiting for? Move on! Move on!"
Athos sighed, nodding his acquiescence, not trusting himself to speak. He reined his horse around and gave Porthos a quick nod before returning to his position next to Aramis behind the slow moving coach.
"Look at it this way," the marksman grinned, leaning closer and lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Once we are onboard the ferry, he will have an entirely new crew to make demands of. Perhaps it will be a momentary reprieve."
Athos rolled his eyes, not believing it for a moment.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
The Marquis himself was waiting at the port to welcome Louis to Belle Île. As the King disembarked from the ferry, looking a bit green from the constant tossing of the bay waters, Foquet quickly ensconced him in an elaborate, open carriage for the journey from the dock to his chateau further inland. The Musketeers, having been forced to leave their horses back in Vannes, resigned themselves to walking along behind the carriage while the Marquis' mounted guards lead the procession.
A short distance from the docks, long, tall walls of smooth gray stone jutted up from the narrow beach, fortifying the shoreline along the coast. Though he could see no armament in plain sight, Aramis was sure there were guns and perhaps even a canon or two providing protection from any unwanted intrusion that may attempt to infringe upon the tranquility of the island.
From what Treville had told them, Belle Island was often attacked by various sea-borne enemies until it became part of Brittany and French rule under the ownership of the family of Foquet. The walls of the citadel stretched along the coast as far as the eye could see, the rolling waters of the bay thundering against them as they hindered its progress out into the deeper waters of the ocean. It was quite a beautiful sight, mesmerizing in its glory as the power of nature crashed against the fortitude of man.
Aramis felt Porthos step up beside him, but didn't turn his eyes from the sight of the waves surging against the walls.
"Isn't this a spectacular view?"
"It's a wet one."
Aramis snorted through his nose and shook his head before turning to stare pointedly his friend. "You have no regard for the beauty of nature, Porthos."
The larger man shrugged. "Perhaps not, but I do have a healthy respect for the force of it." He tipped his chin toward the wall of the citadel. "That looks like someplace I never want to be."
Aramis grinned as he returned his gaze to the powerful display of the water clashing against the stone. "Its danger is part of its beauty, my friend."
"Well I'm content to watch it from here," Porthos admitted. "Swimmin' never was something I took to growing up in the court."
Aramis nodded, knowing his friend's harsh upbringing in the Court of Miracles had allowed little cause for recreational fun. "I spent many a day splashing in the waters off the coast, but even I would not attempt to tame such a fierce mistress."
It was Porthos' turn to snort a laugh. "That may be the first time I ever heard you turn down a mistress."
Aramis' smile was sad and he turned his face from his friend in an attempt to hide his melancholy. Ever since he had learned of the Queen's pregnancy, he'd found himself unable to find joy in the arms of any other woman. It was as if the imminent birth of her child – their child – had tempered the desire that he had found solace in for so long. He fervently wished he could share this new development with Porthos, but knew Athos was right; to impart any hint of his indiscretion would be selfish, placing Porthos' life in as much jeopardy as Athos' and his own if anyone should discover their secret. Despite his longing for his friend's trusted guidance, he could not be the cause of such threat to those he held dear.
He pasted on a grin, tilting his head roguishly. "Angry husbands I can handle. The force of nature may be a bit beyond my skills of diplomacy."
Before Porthos could respond, a scream came from the other side of the dock and the two Musketeers dropped their gear, dashing to the edge of the wall across the wooden platform.
Athos and d'Artagnan were leaning over the edge, the rest of the Musketeers standing nervously behind.
"What happened?" Porthos asked between quick breaths. "We heard a scream."
"It was Mordelle," Athos stated. "I don't know why he was on the wall, but one minute he was there and the next…" He didn't have to finish the sentence to convey what had happened to the newly commissioned Musketeer.
Porthos pushed past and leaned over the wall next to d'Artagnan, his eyes raking the turbulent waters below.
"Did anyone see anythin'?"
d'Artagnan shook his head. "We were stowing the gear in the cart Marquis Foquet provided," he explained with a shrug. "I thought Mordelle was right behind me. Next thing I know I hear a scream and he's just gone." The Gascon waved a hand toward the water, still churning despite the devastating loss.
"Maybe someone should've been paying closer attention," Andrés muttered just loud enough for them all to hear.
"What are you insinuatin'?" Porthos immediately jumped to confront the older soldier, looking down his nose, his eyes narrowed in challenge.
"I'm not insinuating anything," Andrés retorted, looking around to the others. "I'm just saying the kid wasn't where he was supposed to be and that someone should've noticed and ordered him to get back to his duty." His dark gaze flickered to Athos, not giving ground even as Porthos took a step closer.
"Porthos," Aramis cautioned. He didn't like Andrés' thinly veiled accusation toward Athos any more than the big Musketeer did, but he knew this was neither the time nor the place to confront the old soldier. He'd served with Andrés long enough to know the man was as stubborn as he was stout. He had never been much of a leader, but he'd been a competent soldier and had served with honor for most of his career. He had no idea what had brought about his discontent, but whatever it was would be best handled with a bit more discretion instead of out on the dock for all to see.
He stepped up to the wall and looked down into the dark, churning waters. Silt and sand made it impossible to see anything below the surface. He shuddered at what such a tremendous force could do to a human body. Silently crossing himself, he whispered a prayer for Mordelle's soul, suddenly regretting his avoidance of the younger man. Mordelle's attention had made him uneasy, but he'd rather endure the discomfort than have the young Musketeer come to such a tragic end. He doubted they would be able to retrieve Mordelle's body from the turbulent depths of the bay, but knew placing blame would only make a bad situation worse. Mordelle's loss was a tragedy, but an accidental one. All they could do now was carry on with their mission and make sure no harm came to the King.
"Finish loading the cart," Athos ordered, holding Andrés' stare. La Porte stepped forward and placed a hand on the older man's shoulder, effectively breaking the stalemate. Andrés finally dropped his gaze and allowed his friend to lead him back toward the pile of gear still sitting on the dock.
As they watched them go, Aramis stepped up beside Athos, his shoulder brushing the other man's in silent support.
"He's going to be a problem."
Athos grunted in response. He nodded toward the King's carriage, which had already rolled off the dock and onto the stone paved road. "You and Porthos stay with the King. D'Artagnan and I will inform the Portmaster of Mordelle's death. We will meet you at Foquet's estate."
"Better idea," Porthos interjected. "You and d'Artagnan go. Aramis and I have a little talkin' to do."
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
The last of the gear was packed onto the cart and Aramis ordered Deguasse and Bernajoux to escort it to the Marquis chateau. As the others picked up their weapons to follow, Porthos grabbed Andrés by the arm, squeezing to get the man's attention.
"Whatever problem you 'ave with Athos, it stops now."
Andrés shook off the bigger man's hold and stepped back, eyeing him cautiously. "Treville may have given him command, but that doesn't mean I have to like it."
"No," Aramis conceded, "but you do have to respect it."
La Porte came up beside Andrés. "I would think you of all people would understand what Andrés is saying."
Aramis' brow furrowed in confusion. "Me? I have no problem with Athos' leadership. Why would I feel otherwise?"
"Because you have been a Musketeer longer than him," La Porte's tone belayed his surprise at having to explain. "Both you and Andrés have been with the regiment since it was conceived. Doesn't it make you angry that Treville has passed you over in order to show his favor to a drunkard?"
Aramis exchanged a look of disbelief with Porthos who growled in response.
"I have no desire to command," Aramis responded indignant on his friend's behalf. "But that is beside the point. How Athos spends his time when not on duty is none of your concern. He has earned the Captain's – and the King's – trust and respect. I, for one, would follow him into certain death."
"Like Mordelle did."
Porthos shoved Andrés menacingly. "Mordelle fell. It was an accident. Athos had nothin' to do with it. You start saying otherwise and we're goin' to have a problem."
Andrés snorted a laugh. "The mighty Inseparables. I should've known you wouldn't be able to see past your own self-importance. Mark my words, Mordelle won't be the last. Athos' inattention is going to get more men killed." He turned and made his way toward the cart, La Porte following in his wake.
"That went well," Aramis sighed.
"He's got a real chip on his shoulder, eh?"
"So I would seem."
"What are we goin' to do?"
Aramis tugged his hat from his head and ran a hand through his unruly curls. "The same thing we always do, dear Porthos. Have each others' backs." He dropped the hat back onto his head and nudged the bigger man, pleased to see the tension in his shoulders lessen just a bit. "Come on, let's report Mordelle's death to the Portmaster and catch up with the others."
tbc