Chapter 4
Athos bowed to the King as the door closed on his chambers and turned on his heel, striding past Porthos without a word. Porthos tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling in frustrated silence, easily recognizing the anger simmering in the swordsman's blue eyes. Athos had brusquely dismissed Degausse as soon as the King had indicated he was ready to return to his rooms, leaving only himself and Porthos to accompany Louis through the halls of the chateau. If the monarch noticed his reduced guard, he didn't comment, but perhaps it was the coldness of Athos' eyes that stayed his tongue. Porthos sighed and shook his head, quickly catching up to his irate friend as they made their way to the wing of the chateau where they'd been assigned quarters.
Porthos did understand Athos' anger – at Bernajoux for leaving his post and at Aramis for seemingly committing the same crime. He considered explaining that Aramis had simply been attempting to rein the errant Musketeer in; trying to make things easier for Athos as they always did, but he doubted swordsman would listen. He was past the point of being pacified by reason, his ire at the insubordination showing in the tight lines of his face.
As Athos threw open the door to Aramis' and Porthos' shared room, Porthos could only follow him in, closing the door with a soft click behind them to muffle the dressing down he was certain their commander was about to unleash. He stood with his back to the wood, his brow creasing in sudden concern as he took in the other two men in the room.
Aramis sat at the table near the fireplace, his body hunched over, one arm braced against his thigh, the other holding a cloth to the back of his head. He didn't look up as the door crashed open, but Porthos could read the tension in his shoulders easily enough. Crouched before him, one elbow on the table, d'Artagnan jumped at the intrusion, his eyes quickly assessing Athos' mood. He jumped to his feet, placing himself protectively in front of Aramis' slumped form as Athos stomped across the room. Despite Athos obvious intent, the younger man stood his ground, holding out an arm to thwart the swordsman's progress. Athos, obviously surprised at the interference, pulled up abruptly.
"Out of my way," Athos ordered, his voice low. Porthos couldn't see his face, but from the mix of determination and apprehension on d'Artagnan's, he assumed the heat in Athos' eyes would melt metal. It was a wonder the young Gascon hadn't been set ablaze on the spot.
"Athos," d'Artagnan warned, "you don't understand."
Athos refused to be placated. "I understand that two of my men disobeyed a direct order! That one of the men I trust most in this world decided to abandon his post while guarding the King. I could handle this kind of insubordination from the others, from Andres or even Bernajoux, but not from Aramis!"
"Bernajoux is dead."
Athos stopped cold at Aramis' soft voice and Porthos' breath caught in his throat.
"What?"
"How?"
d'Artagnan stepped aside as Aramis slowly rose to his feet. His hand hovered behind Aramis' back, quickly offering support when the injured man swayed. Porthos immediately pushed off the door and strode across the room, eyeing his friend critically, noting the tell-tale signs of pain in the pinched skin at the corners of his eyes.
"'Mis?"
Aramis looked up, smiling weakly. "I'm all right."
D'Artagnan huffed his opinion on the matter. "He was unconscious when I found him," he reported, ignoring Aramis' narrowed glance of betrayal. "Out back by the well. He was lying next to Bernajoux' body."
Athos ire thawed, his shoulders sagging at the news of another brother lost.
"What happened?"
When Aramis swayed again, it was Athos who reached out a steadying hand, carefully guiding the marksman back down to the chair. A smile of gratitude flickered across Aramis' lips.
"What happened?" Athos repeated, his voice soft, all traces of anger gone.
Aramis took a deep breath. "I noticed Bernajoux was not at his post. Degausse obviously had no idea where he'd gone off to. Porthos and I feared he'd found some sort of… distraction."
"Bernajoux wouldn't leave his post for that," d'Artagnan interjected. "No more than you –" he stopped abruptly, his eyes apologetic for what he'd been about to say.
"It's all right, d'Artagnan," Aramis appeased. "My reputation is hardly undeserved."
"Why was Bernajoux outside?" Athos asked, bringing the conversation back on track.
Aramis shrugged. "I have no idea. I could find no sign of him in the kitchens and the woman in charge bade me to keep him away from her young charges. I assumed she had seen something, so I stepped outside, half expecting to find him in the arms of an impressionable young lady."
"But you didn't," Porthos prompted when Aramis paused. The marksman shook his head with a wince, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck.
"No. Instead I found him near the well, dead."
"Another accident?" Athos asked, his tone punctuating his skepticism.
Aramis shook his head again, slower, his expression grave. "Not unless he accidentally slit his own throat." His eyes hardened at the memory. "Bernajoux was murdered."
Athos closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing audibly.
"When I approached the well, I saw a man standing over them," d'Artagnan took up the narrative. "He ran off when I called out. I was about to give chase when I recognized the two bodies laying on the ground." He placed a hand on Aramis' shoulder when the marksman shuddered at the description. "Bernajoux was dead," the young Gascon continued. "But thankfully Aramis was simply unconscious. I know I should've gone after the assailant, but…" he shrugged, smiling at his injured friend. "I felt my presence would be more valued where I was."
Aramis patted the hand on his shoulder. "Your presence was indeed appreciated, my friend."
"This man," Athos inquired. "Did you recognize him?"
D'Artagnan shook his head apologetically. "He was nothing more than a shadow as my eyes had yet to adjust to the darkness outside the chateau. He took off toward the stables, but I wasn't able to get a good look at him."
"How did he move?" Porthos questioned. "Was he stiff? Smooth? Could you tell if he was young or old?"
D'Artagnan thought for a moment, his eyes losing focus as he tried to recall the figure in more detail. "Young, I think. He moved fluently. If he was of advanced age, he was unhampered by it."
Athos nodded. "So we are looking for a fit, possibly young man who knows his way around the grounds well enough to be able to move with ease despite the darkness of night." Athos rubbed at his neck. "I fear there will be no shortage of men who fit that description. I will inquire of the Marquis' Chief Steward in the morning. See if there were any workers unaccounted for this evening." He turned his attention to Aramis, who was gingerly pressing against the back of his head. "Will you be all right? Should we summon a physician?"
Aramis dropped his hand and shook his head. "No. Just a headache. No more than I deserve."
Porthos noticed the remorse on his friend's face. "You just said Bernajoux was already dead when you found him, 'Mis. There was nothing you could've done."
Aramis' smile was a sad, tragic thing. "I know. But it still pains me to know another brother is lost to us."
Porthos shared his pain, but it was tempered by the fact Aramis was alive and whole and sitting in front of them.
"Regardless, we can now assume someone is targeting Musketeers." Athos pulled his hat from his head and let it drop onto the table. "We shall send someone for Bernajoux' body. Tomorrow we will revisit both Mordelle's accident as well as LaPorte's. I am sure once the King is made aware, he will want us to find everything we can that could tie these deaths together. " The other three nodded their agreement.
Porthos looked around, sniffing the air. "We were told there would be food delivered to our rooms."
D'Artagnan waved a hand toward the opening that connected the room they were in with the one he and Athos shared next door. "There was. I moved it into the other room. The smell was making Aramis nauseous."
Porthos' stomach grumbled and he took a heady sniff, the aroma of roasted quail finally registering on his senses.
"The smell is obviously having the opposite effect on you, my friend," Aramis chuckled. "Go. Eat. You've been quite patient."
Porthos started to move, but stopped, turning back to the injured man. "What about you? You really should eat, too."
Aramis swallowed thickly and rubbed at his stomach, his face paling at the thought. "I'm afraid that would not be wise at the moment. But I do not expect your stomach will allow you to wait any longer. Please. Go."
Porthos hesitated, not wanting to leave his friend, but when his stomach growled again, Aramis smiled and flicked a hand at him as if trying to push him toward the other room. With an apologetic grin, Porthos did as he was told.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Taking a seat at the table, Porthos didn't immediately reach for the trays overflowing with food, guilt tempering his appetite. He felt bad, knowing Aramis was in the other room in pain, unable to partake, and his stomach clenched in sympathy. D'Artagnan clapped him on the shoulder as he rounded the table and took a seat next to him.
"Aramis will be fine," the Gascon accurately surmised the reason for the big man's hesitation. "And he did all but order you in here."
Porthos chuckled, bobbing his head in agreement. "Yeah, he did, didn't he?"
D'Artagnan returned his grin. "So eat. It would be a shame to allow all this to go to waste."
Athos had remained in the other room with Aramis, no doubt as an apology for his earlier anger and to glean details of what had happened by the well. While the marksman was guilty of the dereliction Athos had accused him of, his motives were honorable and Porthos knew the transgression would be forgotten quickly under the circumstances. Athos' fury would be redirected toward finding whoever was responsible for the death of three of their own – an offense Porthos swore would not go unpunished.
There was little they could do about it right now; Athos would send someone to secure Bernajoux' body and they would inform the King and the Marquis in the morning. Once the sun was up they could take a closer look at the area where he was killed as well as revisit the other two deaths. Perhaps they could find something amiss, but Porthos wasn't holding out much hope. There was little to indicate Mordelle's death was anything other than a tragic accident. LaPorte's demise was more suspicious, but despite the graze they'd found on the horses, there was no way to prove it was deliberate or had happened as they believed. That the two deaths were more than accidents would be difficult to prove, but Porthos did not believe in coincidence and Bernajoux' death was malicious and deliberate.
At a nudge from d'Artagnan, Porthos filled his plate, taking a still warm quail breast and raising it to his mouth. Before he could take a bite, a crash sounded in the hallway, just outside the door. He exchanged a look of confusion with d'Artagnan and they both pushed their chairs back from the table, reaching the door just as Athos and Aramis appeared in the opening separating the two rooms.
Porthos yanked the door open, shocked to find Deguasse writhing on the scuffed wooden floor just outside.
The young man had one hand around his neck, his face a ghastly gray. His eyes were wide, mouth open, a sickening white substance running down his cheek and chin. The hand not clutching at his throat pawed in the air, reaching for Porthos who immediately dropped down beside him.
"Aramis!" Porthos called over his shoulder, moving aside as the marksman pushed through the threshold of the doorway.
"He can't breathe," Aramis concluded quickly. "Roll him onto his side."
Porthos complied, settling back on his haunches as Aramis slapped forcefully at the young man's back. Degaussed coughed weakly, unable to force any more air from his lungs than he could draw in.
Suddenly the recruit's body seized, stiffening before shaking uncontrollably, his eyes rolling back into his head.
"No, no no…" Aramis mumbled, quickly pushing him onto his back, pressing down on his shoulders as the convulsions caused his head to slam back against the unforgiving wooden floor. It was over in a moment, Deguasse's body contorting one final time before going pliant, his arms dropping, his head lolling as he stilled.
Aramis leaned over him, his ear to the young man's mouth, one hand cushioning his head, the other perched on the unmoving chest. The slump of the marksman's shoulders told the others all they needed to know.
Aramis sat back on his heels, his face a mask of pain and distress, his hand shaking as he reached out and gently closed Degausse's unseeing eyes.
"What the hell was that?" Porthos breathed, his eyes trained on the body lying before him. "He was fine not half an hour ago."
Aramis ran a hand down his face, the other reverently grasping Deguasse's disheveled shirt, drawing the material down where it had bunched up across his stomach. His eyes were squeezed tight and Porthos couldn't decide if it was the pain from his head or his heart that was causing the man to look so pale.
"'Mis?"
Aramis took a deep breath through his nose and shook his head. "I don't –." He frowned, his eyes opening suddenly as he leaned over Deguasse's body, close to the dead man's open mouth.
"Aramis?" This time it was Athos inquiring, his face a mixture of concern and confusion.
"Do you smell that?"
They each sniffed the air in unison. Porthos shook his head. He twisted to glance back at the others who still stood behind him, framed in the open doorway. They shrugged at his silent question, exchanging a look of bewilderment between them.
"I don't smell anything," d'Artagnan announced, his words strung out as if he knew he was missing something crucial.
"Nor I," Athos agreed. He focused on Aramis who was pulling open the vacant eyes he had pressed shut only moments before. "Aramis," he called gently. "What do you suspect?"
Though he wasn't a physician, they had relied on Aramis' medical expertise many times. The marksman was adept at setting bones and stitching up battle wounds, his steady hands and attention to detail making his needlework quite impressive. There was no wound to sew and no bones to mend, but Porthos would trust any diagnosis his friend made without question.
"He was poisoned." Aramis voice was soft, yet Porthos could hear the steel of rage bubbling in its depths. When he looked up, his eyes were dark with fury. "He was just a boy."
"Poisoned?" Athos rumbled, his own anger showing in the set lines of his face. "How?"
Aramis shook his head, his eyes traveling back down to the rapidly cooling body. "I don't –" He took another sniff, his body stiffening, his brow furrowing.
Suddenly Aramis pushed up from the floor, launching himself down the narrow hallway. He flung open the door to the room Deguasse shared with Brisemont and disappeared inside. The others, momentarily startled by his sudden departure, nearly tripped over each other as they quickly followed. As they entered the room, they stopped and watched as Aramis hovered over the table, leaning down and sniffing the food Deguasse had obviously already begun to consume. Shaking his head and mumbling to himself, he reached for a decanter of wine, pulling it close enough to his face to take a heady sniff.
His eyes glazed as he took a small sip from Deguasse's cup, concentrating on the taste, only to spit the liquid out almost immediately.
"Aramis," Porthos called from his position in the doorway, hesitant to disturb whatever madness had taken possession of their friend. "Please. Talk to us. What do you suspect?"
Aramis shoulders slumped and he squeezed his eyes shut, a hand going back to press against the back of his head. A moment later he turned and threw the decanter against the far wall in a fit of rage.
"The smell… coming from Degausse," he whispered in response. His eyes opened but remained unfocused and Porthos wasn't sure if he was answering the question or simply muttering to himself. "Poudre de succession."
"Inheritance powder?" d'Artagnan repeated, giving the others a shrug.
"White arsenic," Aramis raised his head, his eyes focusing on them, once again in control of his emotions. "It is mostly undetectable, though in very high quantities it gives off a slight aroma of garlic." He motioned to the decanter lying shattered against the far wall. "It was in the wine. Deguasse was deliberately poisoned."
They were silent for a moment, each of them trying to process what their friend had announced.
"Why Deguasse?" d'Artagnan finally broke the spell. He was standing just behind Athos, still out in the hall. His hands were tucked up beneath his arms, his gaze trained on the body, visibly shaken by the death of the young recruit. Deguasse had only been a year younger than the Gascon. "Why Mordelle? Or LaPorte, or Bernajoux? I mean why any of us? We have no ties to anyone here on the island."
Porthos grunted in agreement. "And if it's the King they mean to harm, why kill us off one-by-one instead of going for him directly? Seems quite a lot of risk just to make him more accessible."
"All good questions," Athos responded. "And I believe we need to find the answers sooner rather than later. This will no longer wait until morning. Four men are dead. Two we know killed deliberately, two others I suspect will prove to be more than accidents. I will speak with the Marquis at once. No one will eat or drink anything until we are assured it is safe to do so."
Porthos barely contained his groan of disappointment.
"D'Artagnan will come with me. Porthos and Aramis will remain here. Move Degausse back to his bed and await Andres and Brisemont, inform them of what has happened. Do not, by any means, allow anyone to leave here alone."
Porthos and Aramis nodded their understanding, stepping aside as their commander briskly led a quiet d'Artagnan down the hall.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Porthos watched as Aramis straightened the sheet they'd lain over Degausse's body, bowing his head as his friend kneeled to say a prayer over the fallen lad. The Latin fell from his lips in a whisper, and although Porthos didn't understand a word of it, he held himself silent, reverently listening to the cadence of his friend's voice.
With a final pat to the slain recruit, they made their way back to their room, leaving the door open in order to hear when Andres and Brisemont returned from their patrol. Aramis disappeared momentarily into the adjoining room, returning with a plate of food that he placed on the table near Porthos.
"What's this?" Porthos inquired, his stomach rumbling as the aroma of the roast quail assaulted his senses. He swallowed, almost able to taste the meat on his tongue. "Athos said –"
"I know what Athos said," Aramis interrupted, a knowing smile on his face. "But I only detected the arsenic in the wine, and I can sense no odor of it on this. You've been deprived quite long enough, my friend. I assure you it's safe."
Porthos eyed him for a long moment, finally relenting, reaching for the plate. He trusted Aramis with his life. If the man said the food was safe, he had no cause to doubt him.
Footsteps in the hall outside echoed and Porthos sighed, reluctantly replacing the plate of cooling food back onto the dusty tabletop. Aramis smirked as he made his way to the door, ignoring the bigger man's expression of dismay.
Brisemont had his hand on the latch of the door leading into the room he'd shared with Deguasse when Aramis' call beckoned him to join them.
Andres, about to enter his own room, turned at the summons, curiosity no doubt making him follow. Aramis motioned them into the room then strode past them to Porthos' side. They exchanged a quick look of apprehension, knowing the news they were about to impart would be met with a myriad of emotions from anguish and despair to outright anger.
"Bernajoux and Degausse are both dead," Aramis went right for the punch, knowing the soldiers would handle it better if the facts were presented quickly and cleanly. "They were murdered," he continued before either of the new arrivals could utter a word. "I found Bernajoux outside by the well; his throat had been cut." His voice cracked and he dropped his head, the words bringing the memory back full force.
Porthos stepped closer, brushing his shoulder to the marksman's in support. "Degausse was poisoned," he picked up the story. "Aramis suspects it was arsenic in the wine. So if you find any in your room, don't drink or eat anything unless you check with 'im first."
"And just where is Athos while our men are being slaughtered?"
Porthos bristled at Andres' tone, taking a deep breath to calm himself when Aramis' shoulder nudged his own.
"Athos went to see to Bernajoux' body and report the incidents directly to the Marquis," Aramis informed him. From the cold calm of his voice, it was apparent he did not appreciate Andres' thinly veiled insinuation any more than Porthos. "We are to stay here and await his return."
"Wait?" Andres huffed, indignant. "To be murdered in our sleep?"
Aramis flinched at the words and Porthos stepped forward, his shoulders squared, eyes narrowed, his patience at an end. "Athos is in command. His orders are to remain here. You have a problem with that?" The older Musketeer's constant attempts to undermine Athos' authority had to stop.
Obviously Brisemont felt the same. "No," he said forcing Andres to step back. "We will all do as ordered." He tilted his head, his brows high as he waited for Andres to capitulate. The silence was thick as Andres stood his ground, returning Porthos stare. After another moment, the stout man backed down. With a grunt of contempt, he turned and stalked out of the room.
The other three sighed in unison.
"I'll move my things to his room," Brisemont offered. "He'd calmed down considerably during our patrol. I thought I'd gotten him to see reason, but now I fear that may be a task beyond my abilities." He turned back to Aramis and Porthos, offering them a sad smile. "Do you still believe Mordelle and LaPorte's death were accidents?"
Porthos looked at Aramis before shaking his head. "No. We're goin' to go back to the docks and the stables in the morning."
"We really have nothing to go on," Aramis conceded. "Unless one of us has some kind of connection to someone here on the island, these attacks are random at best. Their purpose still a mystery."
Brisemont nodded, "I will try to gather any information I can from Andres, though I fear he is far too angry to think clearly. If you come to any conclusions, please don't hesitate to inform us."
"We won't," Porthos assured him. "Try to keep Andres from doin' or sayin' anything stupid until we can come up with a plan to figure all this out."
Brisemont chuckled, but the sound held little humor. "I will do my best."
"That is all we can ask," Aramis grasped his outstretched hand. "Stay safe, my brother."
tbc
