Dear all, thank you for the lovely comments on the previous chapter. Yes, that was Milady at her worst. I felt very guilty about poor Brother Laurence! So what will happen now without him to act as guide? Will Tréville find his missing men soon?
Just about to head back to the wreck of my home so apologies for any errors that have slipped through.
CHAPTER 7
I
There were certain things that men of the Musketeer regiment knew were guaranteed to annoy the man who commanded them and one of them was tardiness. Woe betide the man who kept his Captain waiting if he did not have a very valid explanation and there had even been rare occasions when a compelling reason had not been accepted. There was a distinct difference between being tardy for muster or specific duties and being late when returning from a mission; the latter had lots of potential causes and then the inevitable anxiety about the men involved would begin to emerge. The young monk was tardy though and the men had no problem in sensing their Captain's displeasure. It emanated from every pore of his being as he paced the yard.
Brother Laurence had been given strict instructions as to when he was needed back at the garrison for their departure and he was not there. Tréville, though, was directing his anger inwards at himself. He should never have let the young man go alone to Notre Dame; he could – and should – have spared a man. They were not all involved in preparing for the rescue mission – for that was how he referred to it currently in his mind. Now, he had had to give the order launching another 'rescue' mission, sending out eight men to locate the young novice who was probably wandering the Paris streets, lost and struggling to find his way back. They had been tasked with searching main thoroughfares and side streets between the garrison and the cathedral, and then the religious building itself.
Tréville looked about the yard which was full of men, the ones who were to accompany him and brothers-in-arms who had been helping them prepare for their departure. The air was filled with the sounds of jingling harness, noisy exhalations and stomping hooves of impatient mounts, human coughing and muted conversations . Some men were already sitting in the saddle, talking down to nearby friends whilst others stood by their horses, carrying out last minute checks of saddlebags and buckles, a hand subconsciously stroking their restless animals.
Claude was at the back of the group, inspecting once more how the ammunition had been packed on a smaller horse that was in the charge of another soldier. He nodded his approval at the man, patted the animal's neck and moved to stand beside Tréville. The clash of weapons could be heard from one of the training yards to the rear of the main garrison buildings; someone was putting the cadets through their training to keep them busy whilst the more experienced men had moved as a unit to ensure all that was required was done.
Anxious eyes periodically settled upon the Captain, his anger simmering as the delay continued. A moment of unguarded irrationality had him wondering if the novice could realistically locate the cave again if he could not find his way back to the garrison and then he considered himself unfair and unjust in his criticism of the young man. After all, Brother Laurence was no imbecile. He had made his way to Paris alone and on foot. Had he not admitted that he had had the presence of mind to conceal himself when the need arose, and he could always ask for directions. Tréville was looking for any conceivable excuse rather than the one that was rearing its head - that something had gone catastrophically wrong.
Suddenly, a Musketeer ran through the archway and shouted Tréville's name. It was the grim-faced Henri Camart, one of the men despatched to seek out the young novice. The Captain strode towards him.
"The alarm has been raised at Notre Dame," Camart announced. "A young monk was found dead in a side chapel with his throat slit. He was slumped at the altar and was probably taken by surprise as he said his prayers."
Standing beside a wooden post, Tréville vented his anger by hitting the structure with his fist, ignoring the pain that erupted through his hand and lower arm.
"What more do you know?" he ground out.
"People were already gathered around the scene; some women were screaming, a couple more fainted and chaos was the result. Thumery and I forced our way through them and recognised the victim as the man who had been at the garrison."
"A side chapel, you say?" Tréville was already wondering which one, its position within the building and how such an atrocity could come about. Then there was the identity of the perpetrator and the motive. As the young man said before he left excitedly for his visit, he was a man of God with nothing of value. His death had to be related to the assault on the Abbey and his missing men, but how?
"I heard someone say the chapel was dedicated to a Saint Denis," Camart went on, oblivious as to the significance of his words for he had not met the novice, spoken to him nor known from where he hailed.
Tréville was sickened. There was the link. Saint Denis, bishop of Paris in the third century, had suffered decapitation at the hands of the Romans for his faith. Legend had it that he had picked up his head and walked several miles while preaching a sermon on repentance. Tréville had heard the story many times and really did not know what to think. He wanted to believe in miracles, but the life of a soldier rooted him in a certain reality and practicality. The irony of the situation was not lost on him though for the Abbey where the novice was in training was named after the very same saint; it had to be more than coincidence. In the assassin's macabre act of slitting his victim's throat, he was almost re-enacting the Saint's death, although it had not been enough to separate Brother Laurence's head totally from his shoulders and , for him, there was no hint of a miraculous resurrection, albeit temporarily.
Was this merely an act of opportunism or a carefully planned murder? Tréville shook his head. How could it have been the latter? Who had known of the young man's flight to Paris on an errand of mercy? He had to have been followed or under surveillance but by whom and for whom?
The Captain rued the violent waste of the life and had already grown to like the young man. Now his worries were increased tenfold about being able to find his missing men. The rational side of him resumed command: he knew they were in limestone caves beyond the Abbey in the forest. He and his men would probably have to leave the main paths in search of the caves for the novice had said they were hard to find through the dense undergrowth and trees if you did not know they were there. But he knew of their existence and the outcrop of rock had to be sizeable to house such hiding places. His concern remained that the men who were hunting them might reach them first. There was no time to be lost.
He could relieve the Abbey of its attackers; there would have to be other brothers there who knew of the tunnel and caves and who could act as his guide, but his men were in desperate need of medical attention and any fight with those that sought them could be prolonged. No, Athos, Aramis and Porthos were his priority. With twenty-one good soldiers accompanying him, they would find the caves themselves. Experience dictated that they understood all sorts of rough terrain and perhaps it would not appear as daunting to them as Brother Laurence thought. The only worrying thought was that what was straightforward to them might equally be straightforward to those in pursuit. It would be a grave mistake on Tréville's part if he were to underestimate their unknown enemy.
"Mount up!" he barked the order as he donned his gloves and strode to his horse. The stable boy handed him the reins. Claude swung easily into his own saddle and walked his horse to come abreast of Tréville.
"The young monk?" he queried.
"Dead," the Captain answered succinctly. "Murdered in the cathedral."
Claude gave a low whistle through his teeth at the news. "Poor lad. 'E didn't deserve that," he murmured sympathetically.
Tréville grunted. "No he didn't and it's my fault."
"Not sure how you come to that conclusion," Claude raised an eyebrow.
"When he asked permission to go to Notre Dame, I should have said no or at least sent someone with him. Now the boy has been killed and I could have saved him from that. At least I should have pressed him for more information before I let him go off by himself. This can only delay us finding Athos, Aramis and Porthos," Tréville admitted bitterly.
"You couldn't have seen that this was goin' to happen," the older soldier insisted.
"That doesn't excuse me," the Captain replied. "He came to me with news about my men and whilst here, he was my responsibility. I failed him. Whatever is going on has caught up an innocent individual in its web."
"You think it's all related?"
"I can't afford to think anything else, Claude. I just cannot fathom the who, why and a host of other questions. Camart!" He called over the man who had brought him the devastating news. "We need to depart. I have men out there needing assistance. Go back to the Cathedral with my authority and take six men with you as support. Examine the area and see what you can find out. Talk to those working there and any people who saw the novice when he first went in. You will collect the body and follow us to the Abbey at Saint Denis; he deserves to be laid to rest among familiar surroundings and by those who knew him best and who will mourn his premature passing."
"Of course, Captain," and Camart turned on his heels to fulfil the command.
As the column left through the archway on their rescue mission, Tréville could not help but contemplate what had happened at Notre Dame. The act of violence was also a desecration of a holy place which would need to be re-consecrated. Whether that was just the chapel or the whole building was not his decision to make and he wondered if Richelieu would become directly involved.
II
The weather was in their favour and ground conditions had improved likewise so they made reasonable time. In just under two hours, they crested a hill and saw the two towers of the west façade of the Abbey church of Saint Denis before them. In the distance beyond the Abbey, Tréville could see the vast expanse of densely forested, rolling countryside. Frowning, he pulled out his spy glass and scanned the dark forest, each undulation of the land and any variation in the level of the dark green canopy for a hint as to where the massive limestone outcrop might be. He then trained his eye on the Abbey itself; there was no movement, no sign of life. He wondered how many of the enemy remained within its walls and where the Abbot and brothers might be being held.
"Your plan?" Claude asked, breaking into his reverie.
"As I said, we find my men first and then we turn our attention to ridding the Abbey of those who have no right being there. We cannot help but pass close to the Abbey, so the attackers will be only too aware of our presence. If they have lookouts who are worth anything, they should be able to see us right now on this hill side," Tréville stated flatly.
He gave the signal and the column moved on at an easy pace and ever alert. They were approaching the gated entrance to the Abbey's other buildings when several men ran recklessly into the path of the lead horses, causing the soldiers to rein in hard. Those who spilled out into the road all wore the garb of monks and one stumbled towards them.
"I am Theobold, Abbot here. You must go quickly. The limestone caves," the man gasped and pointed towards the forest. "That is where the other Musketeers are hiding. Men went out looking for them. They must have found the caves because they came back for the men who were guarding us. They locked us in a store room, but we managed to break out. You must hurry!"
His words were interrupted by pistol fire coming from the forest and Tréville uttered a roar as he urged his mount into a gallop, the rest of his men reacting and following almost immediately.
There was no finesse, no attempt to take the attacking force by surprise; he simply wanted to drive them off so that he could reach his three injured Musketeers. Any casualties, fatal or otherwise, amongst the enemy would be an additional benefit, as would the taking of any prisoners but that was not foremost in his mind. They galloped along the roadway that entered the forest until Tréville halted and slid from the saddle, a pistol in each hand as he crashed through the undergrowth in the direction of the gunfire. His men spread out, their instinct and training taking over so that they did not need further instruction. Steadily, the line moved between the trees towards the sound of conflict and approached the attackers from behind.
Tréville saw where the trees began to thin out into a clearing occupied by bushes and some large boulders, behind which some of the attackers had taken refuge. Ahead was a sharp incline of dark grey rock and as the Captain studied its face, he could see what appeared to be the entrance to at least three caves. From the middle one, there suddenly came the flash and retort of pistol fire. That was where his men had taken refuge!
The ensuing battle between the newly arrived Musketeers and the group intent upon slaying their hidden brothers was short-lived. There were eight of them, so Brother Laurence had been correct in his estimation that four had fallen during the escape bid. Of those eight, four were wounded, two were killed outright and the remaining two had run with some of Tréville's men in pursuit.
"Athos, Porthos, Aramis!" the Captain yelled. "All is well, you are safe now and can come out."
The only answer he received was a pistol fired in his general direction but wide of the mark.
"Hold your fire!" he ordered, convinced his men had not heard him. "It is me, Captain Tréville. You can leave your hiding place."
Suddenly, Porthos lurched into view and stood swaying in the opening of the cave, a pistol in his hand and he seemed intent upon using it again.
Tréville moved out slowly, his hands raised, so that Porthos could see him clearly.
"Porthos, it is me, Tréville. It's over; put down your weapon."
At last, it seemed to register with Porthos who had been calling to him as his eyes focused upon his Captain with some recognition. He began to smile and then to laugh, a familiar, reassuring sound that signalled his relief at the timely intervention by his brothers-in-arms. Tréville risked a return smile as he began to scramble up to meet him/ The laugh continued, growing louder, a strange, maniacal laugh that was far from natural and Porthos gesticulated wildly with the pistol.
"Did you hear me? It's safe now," the Captain said again. Closer now, he could see the fresh blood trail down the left-hand side of Porthos' face. "Porthos, it's me, Tréville. You can lay down your weapon."
At this, Porthos howled even louder. He spread his arms to take in the pistols around his feet and it was immediately clear that he had waged a one-man war against his attackers for Tréville identified the weapons as belonging to Athos and Aramis. Of the men themselves, there was no sign.
"There's no more shot, no more powder, nothin'." Porthos sank to his knees, his pistol hanging loosely at his side before his fingers opened and it clattered uselessly to the ground.
Tréville covered the remaining distance at a run and crouched before him, hands on the big man's shoulders to steady him. This had been too close. If he and his men had arrived any later …. He dared not think about what the consequences would have been.
"You are safe now. It's over. You're safe."
Gradually, the disturbing laughter eased.
Tréville looked around him and towards the mouth of the cave that the big Musketeer had been guarding but there was no sign of his two friends. "Porthos, where are the others?" He could not forget Brother Laurence's comment that his men were still alive when he left them.
"I guarded them; I looked after them," Porthos mumbled.
"I know you did and you did well, but where are they? Where are your brothers?" Tréville persisted, his worry mounting.
"I hid them," Porthos admitted cryptically before his eyes closed and he pitched forward against his Captain.
A/N
A French league or lieue in pre-French Revolution period was anything between 3.25-4.68 km (2.02-2.91 miles)
One average modern route from Saint Denis to Île de la Cité = 18.8 km (11.7 miles) (Love the way they tell me it can be covered in 10 minutes on a particular A road!)
I have opted to use the shortest lieue so the total distance is 5.79 lieue.
Other research has suggested a horse can cover about 4 miles in an hour walking, 6 miles trotting and more (obviously) galloping. The patrol will use a mixture of the three in reaching Saint Denis, not wanting to push the animals relentlessly but still with a sense of urgency so I have ascertained they will cover the distance in less than two hours. The terrain and 'roads' would have to be taken into consideration and would possibly slow them a little too.
Saint Denis is the patron saint of Paris. One of the side chapels in Notre Dame is named for him.
West façade of the Abbey church of Saint Denis – current images will show one distinct tower at the west front. There were two towers originally, but the north tower was dismantled 1844-45. It was not designated a cathedral until 1966 and the Vatican has never officially granted it the title of a minor basilica.
