Dear all, I can't access any reviews at present but have watched the number changing. Many thanks to all of you who continue to comment and support so encouragingly. As soon as the site is fixed, I will respond to all of you. Until then, here is the next chapter but I will give an advance warning that the content is somewhat grim in nature.

CHAPTER 4

It had been a long night and one that had passed without sleep. As the fingers of dawn clawed their way across the eastern sky, Serge eased his aching bones down onto a bench in the middle of the mess hall and surveyed the empty room, his eyes misting as he thought on the comings and goings of men since the previous evening and the sad reason that presaged their activity. For many hours though, he had seen and heard from no-one, their extended absence nothing less than ominous. He, the kitchen boy and anyone else who remained had prepared all that they could in readiness for the group's return for they would have need of sustenance at the very least. All he could do now was take stock of his arrangements and wait.

When the alarm had been raised at the garrison the evening before, there had been an immediate exodus, meals abandoned. Time was not wasted in saddling mounts; instead the men had broken into a run, over twenty of them with Porthos and d'Artagnan leading the way. Serge listened as the thundering sound of their footsteps across the yard and through the arch receded as they disappeared from view.

Duties over, other musketeers arrived at the mess hall and were instantly struck by the lack of colleagues. As soon as Serge divulged the reason, they were gone, hunger and tiredness forgotten in their desire to join comrades as quickly as possible to offer their assistance.

Now there was only silence. The kitchen boy, who become less productive as the night wore on, yawned widely over his tasks and eventually, at the nod from the old soldier, had curled up on the floor as close to the warmth of the oven as he could whilst still allowing Serge access to pull out freshly baked loaves and replace them with another batch. He told himself that he had to be kept busy, had to keep himself occupied, had to stop himself from thinking about those poor children …

Two of them, a boy and girl aged six and three respectively, were the centre of their father's world. Serge could remember when each of them was born and how excited Thibaut had been; how the mess had rung with celebratory singing and the imbibing of much ale as many of the musketeers had joined in congratulating the new father on the latest addition to his family. Frequently, Thibaut would proudly share their smallest achievement and Serge would listen with a genuine smile on his face. Party to each step of their development, he felt that he had known them a lifetime when he eventually met them quite by accident in the market. Thibaut was buying ribbons for his wife and daughter when they paused to exchange pleasantries and little Clara had held up her new rag doll to the old soldier to seek his approval. Serge had praised the neatness of the blonde woollen braids, her patchwork dress made from a range of colourful scraps of material and the cherubic embroidered smile, all courtesy of her mother for her third birthday. Mariana Thibaut was a skilled seamstress, making all the children's clothing and her husband's finely stitched linen shirts. It brought her occasional commissions from some of the musketeers and more than once had procured work from Constance Bonacieux when the orders had been piling up in the months before d'Artagnan had recommended the woman he loved as a companion to the Queen. Constance had then suggested to a number of her regular customers that they seek to employ the services of the talented Madame Thibaut.

The Thibaut family was an example of happiness and contentment. All seemed to be going so well for them. He was one of the few married men in the regiment and he was proof that such a domestic arrangement could work successfully. Mariana was a soldier's wife, resigned to the risks he could encounter when called to protect his King but she was proud of her man and deeply in love with him; that much was evident to anyone who witnessed her lips part into a warm smile, the gleam in her eyes and the soft flush creep across her cheeks whenever she saw him.

Now danger had gone to meet them and in the place where they should have been safe. Serge wondered what could have started the fire and was fearful at the thought of the bolts of material that Mariana would have stored within the house; they would have added a ready fuel to the hungry flames.

The rattle of a cart's wheels stirred him from his reverie and he held his breath. That sound had signalled some terrible arrivals of late as three musketeer bodies had been brought home. Reluctantly, he dragged himself to his feet and from there to the door, opening it slowly to see what awaited him.

It was not good.

The horse-drawn cart entered slowly through the arch, the horse's head drooping as if it could not cope with its sorry responsibility as it delivered his worst fear – the covered shape suggested more than one corpse in the bed of the cart.

The nightmarish quality of the sight was further exacerbated by the demeanour of the men who accompanied it, some thirty-three in all. They moved sluggishly in a silent, dream-like state, their eyes wide and red-rimmed whilst the whites were in stark contrast to their smoke-blackened skin. All carried their leather doublets either over one shoulder or dragging along the ground in a hand too tired to lift it any higher. Untucked shirts had sleeves rolled up to the elbows and everything - hair, skin, linen and leather – was begrimed through fighting the hostile conflagration. Worse than that, the tell-tale odour of the fire clung to them and infiltrated the very air that surrounded them. In short, they stank.

Serge retreated to the doorway of the mess hall and yelled out for the kitchen boy. "Paul, hurry up and bring out that water we've been keeping hot." He indicated to the two lines of empty bowls, soap and cloths that he had laid ready and invited the men to clean themselves as best they could before going inside to eat. He watched as they obediently began to strip off shirts and awaited the water.

Not a word had passed anybody's lips, their silence unnerving. He did not need to ask any questions; he had seen the same reaction too many times in the aftermath of bitterly fought battles. These men were exhausted to the point of dropping, all reserves of energy long gone, and they had been witness to a horror that defied description. A few of them stopped to help carry the covered bodies into the infirmary and Serge felt the rush of tears to his eyes as two men were easily able to carry a small bundle each. It had to be the children. He saw Aramis inhale a great shuddering breath and Porthos put a comforting arm around his shoulders as they followed the corpses inside.

D'Artagnan had dropped his soiled shirt to the floor and moved as if to begin washing himself when instead, he gripped the table edge in both hands, his arms extended and taut as he bowed his head, his eyes tightly shut against the world and the memory of what had happened during the night. Athos paused long enough to rest a comforting hand upon the young man's shoulder before both he and Treville approached the cook, their movements lethargic.

"I have food ready; you all must be hungry. Some of the men didn't finish meals last night or missed them completely," Serge offered,

"Thank you," Treville acknowledged. "It is welcome but please do not be offended if the men have little stomach for it."

"A rough night?" Serge asked.

Athos nodded and ran a hand through filthy, knotted hair. "About as rough as it can get," he agreed. "We could not get to them. The house was well alight by the time we got there; they all perished. We have spent the rest of the night working with local people to save the neighbouring houses otherwise the whole street could have been destroyed. It's only in the last hour that we have deemed it safe enough to leave."

"It is so sad," Serge's voice caught as he thought of the lost family. "They were so lovely; it is not fair. Do you know how the fire started?"

Treville shook his head. "We will go back and examine the ruin but for now we needed to come back, eat and rest. The men need the chance to grieve. This is the fourth member of the regiment to be lost now in little over a week and everyone is reeling; they cannot absorb what is happening."

"Come and eat," the cook urged.

"Soon," Treville said. "I need to freshen up first."

He and Athos waited at the table for a space and Paul refilled two bowls for them as they soaped their arms and torsos.

Porthos reappeared and joined them.

"How is Aramis doing?" Athos asked.

"Holding together – just. I know I ought to have stayed with him as he tended them but I couldn't look on their remains anymore, especially the little ones." He sniffed and focused on rubbing hard at his arms in an attempt to scrub himself clean. Not one of them could bring himself to admit though that the smell of the fire still filled his nostrils and that was what he inhaled and exhaled all the time. At least all of them had eventually ceased the coughing that wracked their frames after the smoke inhalation, although their chests still ached with the effort.

Porthos dried his face and, as he lowered the cloth, asked the question that had been uppermost in his mind. "You both saw it, didn't you?"

"Yes," Athos and Treville murmured in unison. No-one could have failed to see the same symbol daubed large on the wall of the house opposite in charcoal. The fire at the Thibaut household which had tragically claimed the lives of the young family had been no accident.

D'Artagnan's comment of the day before that the killer or killers only targeted lone musketeers was no longer true. None of them was safe, not even their families. Everyone in the regiment was in mortal danger and until they could identify or remember the significance of the ever-recurring symbol, they did not know where to start in their search for justice for they could not think of anything that linked the four dead men. The chilling realisation was that Thibaut's family were totally innocent of what lay behind the killings; they just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and that meant that those responsible were desperate and cold-hearted, hell-bent on achieving their aim, whatever that might be.

Treville threw his cloth down on the table and stood, hands on hips as he looked around at his shattered men. Suddenly he assumed a grim determination in his eyes that Athos had not seen for a long time. The regiment was at its most vulnerable, especially as it did not have any recognised authority figure. Well, if the King was going to neglect his duty, Treville was not going to tolerate it any more. As the men still looked to him for leadership, then he would lead them and if the King did not like it, then he would have to do something about it, such as changing his decision regarding Treville and formally re-instating him as Captain - not that he realistically expected that- or at least making a prompt decision as to his successor.

"Athos," he said in a tone that had been sadly missing since his motivational speech to the villagers at Pinon, "get cleaned up and change. You're coming with me to the palace. If the King won't listen to me, we'll do everything we can to make sure he listens to you. I don't care how long it takes but I swear that I will neither eat nor sleep until he has damn well listened to one of us."