Chapter 2
"Why Douai?"
Athos turned to d'Artagnan, his confusion at the Gascon's question obvious on his face.
"I mean, why would Aramis travel all the way to Douai to retire?" d'Artagnan shrugged, frowning. "It's not like there aren't monasteries in France. Why would he choose one that is on Spanish soil, knowing how strained the relationship between France and Spain is right now?"
"He had no way of knowing Louis would declare war over Rochefort's deceit," Athos reminded him, but the question remained, and it was one he'd asked himself a time or two on their journey.
They had been riding in the low lands for the last hour, wary of anyone who could wonder of their purpose. This part of Flanders had been under Spanish rule for quite some time, and although he knew the monastery at Douai was an old and respected one, he had no more idea of why their friend had specifically chosen it than d'Artagnan.
"It wasn't the where that drove Aramis to Douai," Porthos finally responded, "but the who."
Athos' and d'Artagnan's twin looks of confusion elicited a rumbling chuckle from the bigger man. He shifted in his saddle, the long ride taking its toll on them all. They had removed their pauldrons as a precaution in case they happened upon anyone who may see fit to question the presence of three of France's Musketeers riding north, directly into Spanish territory. Despite the vigor with which they had departed Paris to retrieve their brother, their need for caution had increased as they neared their destination and the vigilance had tempered their drive.
"The abbé at the monastery is a man named Fouquet," Porthos explained. "He's an old mentor of Aramis'. Someone he's known since seminary school in his youth."
"Aramis went to seminary school?" d'Artagnan's voice betrayed his surprise.
"Apparently his parents wished him to be a priest," Athos grinned. "He informed me of this fact when we were in the convent with the Queen."
D'Artagnan shook his head. "They got their wish."
Smiling wistfully, Athos nodded. "But," his face sobered, "was it for the right reasons?"
It was Porthos' turn to look confused. "You know 'Mis has always turned to religion when he needed guidance."
"Yes, but I can't help wonder if this time his decision was based more on penalty than need."
"You think he went there to punish himself?"
Athos shrugged. "I believe he shoulders much of the blame for what happened. Had he not allowed himself to make the mistake of sleeping with the Queen, Rochefort would not have been able to use it against her."
"Perhaps," d'Artagnan argued. "But he can't blame himself for what Rochefort did," He shook his head. "The man was insane. That much was clear."
"Aramis' first instinct is to protect those he loves. Perhaps he felt the only way to do that was to make sure nothing like this could ever happen again."
Porthos nodded, thoughtful. "That sounds like 'im. If he's not around, the Queen and the Dauphin remain safe from anyone who would think twice about Rochefort's claims – including the King."
They rode in silence for a while, each man contemplating the actions of their missing comrade.
It was d'Artagnan who finally broke the silence. "Even if Aramis does blame himself," he said, trying to understand all that had transpired. "I thought becoming a monk was supposed to be something like a calling, not a punishment."
"True," Athos agreed. "But Aramis may not see it that way. To him, isolation from everything and everyone he has harmed is as much a salvation as it is penance."
"But he hasn't harmed anyone."
Porthos laughed at the Gascon's naiveté. "Good luck convincing him of that. All I know is we have to persuade him Paris – and everyone in it - is better off with him than without him."
"Is that all?" Athos mused. "Should be simple then, yes?"
"Didn't say that," Porthos scoffed, grinning. "But I can be pretty convincin' when I set my mind to it."
Athos returned the grin. "I'm counting on that, my friend."
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
The monastery walls butted high into the sky, the gates heavy and formidable – a fortress. Sitting half a lieue outside the village of Douai, it had once been a stronghold for the Spanish army, but had been abandoned by the military long ago, considered unnecessary and too costly to maintain given the relative peace in the region. Now, with war looming, Athos could see it for what it was; a citadel that would be able to withstand attack, a bastion of strength for whoever lurked behind its doors.
At least the monks had no need for such protection, theirs being more divine than begotten of man.
He had not expected the gates to be closed, surprised when they approached to see no one about. He had visited few monasteries and had little knowledge of how they operated, but he had expected to find the gates open, villagers and monks alike combing the grounds in a companionable existence. But that was not the case.
Although they heard activity beyond the gates, there was no sign of welcome, and the hair on the back of Athos' neck prickled, his senses alert, searching for the cause of his alarm. A quick glance to Porthos showed the other Musketeer wore the same guarded expression and they exchanged a nod, their soldier's instincts instantly on alert.
They dismounted and Athos handed his reins to d'Artagnan who, though lacking the same experience as the others, had also sensed something amiss, and took them without a word. He approached the gate, noting the large, brass bell mounted on the side and rang it to announce their arrival. Moments later the door creaked open, and an older man clad in a monk's cassock slid through the narrow crack.
He bowed without speaking, looking upon them with guarded curiosity.
Athos returned the bow, cordially. "We are seeking a friend who traveled here recently," he intoned, unsure if the man even understood French considering they were so far beyond the border.
The monk smiled. "Many have come to us seeking refuge in God. Perhaps you could describe your friend?"
Athos looked back toward Porthos who smiled encouragingly.
"Aramis defies description," he said dryly. "But I will endeavor to convey what I can." He quickly gave the monk a physical description of the man, hoping his long, dark curls and well-kept beard would be enough to trigger the monk's memory. He couldn't believe the monastery welcomed many travelers in the last few months and was more than a bit wary of the monk's reaction as he described their missing brother.
"No," the monk shook his head, considering. "I don't recall anyone fitting that description seeking solace here."
"Perhaps we could speak to the Abbé Fouquet?" Porthos stepped forward, his concern written on his face.
"I am Fouquet," the man tilted his head as he studied them. "Have we met before?"
Porthos shook his head. "No. But Aramis told me about you. Maybe you know him as –"
Before he could finish, Fouquet held up a hand. "I'm afraid I know not of this Aramis you speak of, but I will consult with Brother René. He may have information concerning the friend you seek." The man shifted his eyes toward the jutting wall, raising his brows as if to convey something of importance.
Athos followed his gaze, surprised to see a man watching them from atop the tower in the corner of the wall.
"We would appreciate your efforts," he said quickly, stilling Porthos' protest with a hand on the larger man's arm. "We will seek a room in the village for the night. If you or Brother René have any information regarding our friend, you may contact us there."
Fouquet smiled, his expression one of relief as he turned and disappeared back through the gate. Athos heard the thud of a bolt securing it as soon as it closed.
He shook his head slightly as Porthos opened his mouth to speak, letting his eyes slide toward the tower and the man still watching them intently. Porthos, the experienced soldier that he was, caught the look and turned to follow Athos back to the horses, sneaking a glance at their observer himself.
"What was that all about?" d'Artagnan asked as he handed the reins back to Athos.
"I believe the monastery has been taken."
"Taken? By whom?"
"Spanish most probably," Porthos offered. "Fouquet knows Aramis, which means he probably knew exactly who we were. The only reason he'd deny it was if there was someone listening and he didn't want them to know."
Athos nodded as he stepped around his horse and mounted, adjusting his hat as he studied the man in the tower. "We are being watched. There is something not right. Fouquet was attempting to warn us before we gave ourselves away."
"So what do we do now?" d'Artagnan asked as he, too, mounted his horse and turned toward the road. "We can't just leave if Aramis is in trouble."
"We will do exactly that," Athos commanded. "Aramis knows where we'll be. We must trust he will find a way to contact us."
"And until then?" Porthos asked.
"Until then," Athos sighed. "We wait."
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Aramis watched his friends from behind the monastery walls and smiled. God forgive him but he was desperately glad to see them. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed them until now.
No. That was a lie. He'd been denying the truth all this time. But they were here now, and while he didn't yet know why, he couldn't find it in himself to care. The thrill of seeing them again was like a balm to his soul. That was the truth of it, and while the knowledge filled an emptiness inside him, the reality of his need burned like ash in his mouth.
So what then of his promise to God? He'd resigned his commission, left the family he had come to love, for what? Was his leaving for honor, or had he simply been trying to escape his own failings, his weaknesses, his life and the mess he'd made of it? The danger he'd presented to his brothers was something he could not bear to further, the manipulation of a situation he'd created to begin with when he'd slept with the Queen. What Rochefort had done had been the product of a sick and twisted mind, but had he not given the man the ammunition to use against them?
Aramis sank back into the cool shadows of the corridor, behind the thick stone, away from any chance of discovery and chastised himself a fool. Lowering his head he leaned into the solid wall and began to pray.
"Exactly what is it you pray for, Brother René?"
The familiar voice beckoned him from his entreaty and Aramis turned. Fouquet stood, framed in the light from the window, hands buried in his cassock, kindness and a calm that Aramis had long admired, shining in his eyes.
Aramis sighed, leaning into the wall for support. "I'm not sure I know anymore, Abbé." He shook his head, weary, no longer able to meet the abbe's searching gaze. "I thought I did, but now –"
"Come," the abbé swung an arm out and beckoned him forward. "We should speak in private."
Understanding immediately, the Musketeer moved the few steps needed to reach the confines of his room and stepped inside. His thoughts eddied in a sea of confusion, guilt and joy, the latter leading back to the former in a constant circle of frustration.
The door closed, but Aramis did not yet have the courage to meet Fouquet's eyes. "I came here to keep a promise."
"Yes, that is what you told me when you first arrived."
"But you don't believe me?"
"It does not matter what I believe or do not believe. What matters is what you believe. If it is true that this is where you truly belong, then your heart will settle here as if it were the home you'd denied yourself all this time."
Aramis closed his eyes, his mind picturing them, the only real family he'd ever known; Porthos, whom he'd trusted with his life so many times over, Athos who was like an older brother, and their newer member, d'Artagnan, who had made a place in his heart where he thought none existed.
"And is it?" the abbé continued. "Is it the home you'd long denied yourself?"
Aramis looked beseechingly at his mentor. "I wanted it to be. I thought it could be… I thought God would help it to become so, but," he ran a hand through his hair and began to pace, "I have prayed and prayed to him every day since coming here and He has not answered me."
Fouquet nodded. "Perhaps He has, but you cannot hear Him."
Aramis sighed, frustrated, his mind too clouded to understand the older man's rhetoric. "Abbé..."
"Do you remember the day you arrived? We spoke long into the night about what transpired in Paris. You wept, we prayed and you begged me to let you take vows that night. Do you recall?"
"You told me the time was not right."
"I did. Do you know why?"
"I didn't then and I don't now," Aramis retorted, petulantly, the sting of Fouquet's refusal still strong.
The abbé tilted his head, one brow cocked, his smile knowing. "Don't you? You aren't ready for this kind of life, René. You've convinced yourself this is what you want, but when Spanish troops stormed through the gates today, what was your first thought?"
Aramis looked at his cot, his weapons and leathers carefully stowed beneath it. "To protect you and the other monks. To get my pistol and..."
"Your first inclination was to violence, to answer the call that beckons you to fight. But that is not all. There is still another, louder voice that calls you."
Aramis nodded and lowered his head. "My friends." He sighed, his heart at war with his head. He ran a hand through his hair, and leaned back against the wall, weary. "I had no idea God spoke in riddles."
"Not riddles. Not if your heart is truly ready to hear. You just weren't ready to listen before, but I think, perhaps, you may be now."
Aramis nodded, his lips a tight line, and pushed away from the wall. "I cannot let the Spanish take this monastery, Abbé."
"And I cannot condone violence, my son," the Abbé responded. Aramis felt his resolve dim. "Instead, we will rejoice in praise of God for sending His guardian angels to protect us." Fouquet grinned. It was the first actual grin Aramis had seen on the man in all the years he'd known him.
Aramis wanted to return his mentor's conviction but his mind was already at work, listing the steps to take next. He dropped to his knees next to his bed and carefully dug out the wrapped leather packet that contained his weapons and uniform, and laid them on the straw mattress.
Fouquet looked on. "Your friends said they would be staying at an inn in the village."
Unrolling the leather cover, Aramis first picked up his pistol, his free hand caressing it almost lovingly. He grabbed a small oil coated cloth and began cleaning the barrel. "You told them I was here?"
Fouquet shrugged, the gesture odd on the normally stoic man. "Not in so many words, but I'm sure they perceived the implication."
A timid knock at the door quelled his reply. Both men stilled. Aramis held up a hand in a gesture of silence to the abbé and rose quickly, eyes narrowed, his body suddenly tense. He palmed his main gauche, throwing his wool blanket over the other weapons to hide them from view. Curling the dagger into his hand at an angle that would allow for a quick strike, he slid the weapon into the sleeve of his cassock.
Taking a deep breath, Aramis nodded to the abbé. Fouquet opened the door, both men relaxing marginally when they recognized Aaron on the threshold. The young novice stood wide-eyed, his face flushed, sweat beading his forehead as if he'd just come a great distance. Gaze shifting between the two men, his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
Aramis leaned out, eyes darting up and down the corridor, then grabbed the young monk by the collar and dragged him quickly inside. Fouquet closed the door quietly behind them.
Aaron looked from Aramis to Fouquet. "I know this was probably wrong of me but… but I followed them."
Aramis glanced at Fouquet who shook his head, confused. "Who? Who did you follow?"
"The men from the gate who asked after you. They're Musketeers, aren't they?" Aaron's eyes danced in eager delight. He was breathless, but Aramis recognized the excitement shining on his face. The Musketeer suspected the novice's current search for air was as much due to the thrill of the risk as the distance he'd run. It was a dangerous expression for a monk surrounded by ill-mannered Spanish soldiers.
Aramis nodded. "Yes, they're my friends, Aaron. Men from my regiment."
Aaron beamed. "I knew it. I figured you'd want to know where they were staying and that they'd want you to know where you could find them, so I followed."
Fouquet came forward and placed a hand on the novice's shoulder. "That was a very dangerous thing to do, Aaron," he intoned, his voice deep with reproach. "If you'd been discovered, you not only endangered yourself, but the men you followed would be at risk of inquiry."
The young monk's shoulders slumped, crestfallen. "I'm …. I'm sorry, Abbé. I just wanted to help. If Aramis…er…Brother Rene is in danger here, he- I just thought it best he left with them. I didn't mean-"
Aramis grabbed the young monk by the shoulders. "I know you meant well, but if something had happened to you… let's just say I have enough guilt weighing on my mind."
Aaron nodded. "I helped Pietro with his cart," he grinned sheepishly, "well, that's how it appeared. He just happened to be going in the same direction as your friends."
Aramis smiled broadly, and chuckled, low and warm. "You remind me of another reckless young lad I have had the honor of knowing."
"He'd have done the same thing?"
"Oh, most assuredly. Acting with minimum forethought to his own personal safety; that's our d'Artagnan." Aramis gaze sobered a bit. "But mind you, he had experience with swords long before he came to the Musketeers and even he was no match for trained soldiers. You are in no way to do anything remotely risky again. Do you understand?"
Aaron nodded, reproved. "I understand."
Satisfied, Aramis turned, uncovered the weapons on his cot and picked up his pistol once more. "I must get word to my friends. They are blind to the danger they have walked into – a danger that is yet again my fault – and my leaving here is not an option." He looked at Fouquet. "Even guardian angels need knowledge of what they would face."
"You are only four men against a troop of soldiers..."
"Four Musketeers," Aramis corrected. "You and the monks are in danger so long as the Spanish are here. It is our duty to protect you."
"The situation is hardly in your favor."
Aramis grinned, his hand scratching at his beard. "Oh, I don't know. I've faced worse odds." He picked up his other pistol and began to rub it down. "Besides, this monastery gives the Spanish a tactical advantage. This close to France's border they could march on Paris, and that is something I must not allow."
"Even with my prayers and those of everyone here, the odds of your success are not high."
"Odds…," Aramis scoffed and began to load one of the pistols. "I never did much care for odds. Strategy is more to my liking, and one of the best strategists I know is outside these walls right now. I need to get word to him, and those odds may turn most favorably."
"I know a way to contact your friends."
Both men turned and looked at Aaron expectantly.
TBC
