It had taken two wagons to accommodate the bodies. The captain had refused to pile one atop another like so much cordwood, he would not disrespect the dead in such a manner. His men lay cushioned upon slashed tents folded neatly into the bottoms of the wagons, their own blankets covering their mutilated forms, weapons by their sides. He could give them that dignity at least.

They'd had to stash the wagons deeper in the woods, then cooled their heels, literally, in the shepherd's hut Benoît had shown them to, for the remainder of the day. Though keeping Porthos leashed had been the equivalent of trying to tame a wild animal. Tréville had suggested they both get some sleep. Surprisingly, Porthos had wrapped himself in a blanket, and stretched his long length out on the floor. Though it had lasted about as long as it took the big Musketeer to pillow his head on the arms. Cursing, he'd rolled to his knees and resumed pacing.

Tréville, cursing as well, though under his breath, had given up any attempt to sleep and scrunched himself into a sitting position at the head of the bed, leaning against the wall, fighting a nausea that had only just begun to subside as the day had put itself to bed, allowing night to begin creeping in with its shadows.

And now they were moving stealthily through the dark, snowy forest, the muffling snow creating a sound barrier but leaving a wide swath of footprints Porthos was trying to eradicate with a formidable evergreen branch.

Tréville was not minded to erase their trail. Being unable to rest, his mind had been collecting various bits and pieces of evidence and lining them up. He had most of them sorted and cobbled back together though he could not know the details for certain until he confronted the cardinal.

Had Porthos not been in the room with him, he thought he might have swallowed a piece of lead, so great was his horror at the thoughts swirling in his head. He would have given his own life for that of the duchesses, willingly and without debate. But there was more to this than just Cluzet and something very rotten at the core of it. He not been asked if he'd been willing to sacrifice twenty men on the duchess' behalf because the cardinal had known the answer. The probability of the First Minister having made Tréville an accessory to the murder of his own men was extremely high.

He could not accuse Savoy of the massacre. Nor allow Christine to think he imagined Savoy the villain. God, he hated lying. He bit back a harsh sigh as the dimness of the woods began to lighten nearly imperceptibly and reached back to put a hand on Porthos' arm, stopping them both. There were footprints ahead, just inside the verge, he indicated Porthos should sweep until they reached them, then stepped carefully into the already made prints.

Porthos nodded his understanding. Fortunately the snow was not deep beneath the trees. He stepped precisely into the overlay of Treville's boot prints atop the first set of prints, swished away the last evidence of their passing and tossed the branch aside.

A lamp-cast shadow lit the snow beyond the sitting room window in a soft arc, burning steadily under the gloomy eaves of night. The light blinked twice and Tréville, checking for perimeter guards slid through the shadows.

Porthos, his hand on the door latch, the door partly open, was yanked back by his collar and shaken, just a little.

"We'll knock like civilized people do." Though the admonition was gently administered.

Porthos growled but acquiesced, though the door opened fully before he could knock.

"Hello again, Benoît." The greeting was low-voiced and rough. "Take us to my Musketeer and I need a word with the duchess."

"She's waiting for you." Benoît waved them toward the stairs.

Porthos bounded ahead, his long legs taking him up the stairs three and four at a time, Tréville a few steps behind, to avoid losing his manhood to those flying boot heels.

The closed door reverberated to the demanding knock, debated allowing itself to be smashed to smithereens, then held fast rather than splintering, though it trembled with the blow.

"OPEN UP! Or I'll break the damn door down!"

Tréville, with a pained look, shouldered Porthos aside and knocked again - politely. "It's Tréville and one of my Musketeers," he stated quietly.

A moment later the lock snicked, the door swung open and very pretty female threw herself into Tréville's arms. "Thank God, thank God! Jean-Armand! I've never been so terrified in my life!"

Tréville had braced a booted foot against the doorjamb just in case, keeping them both from tumbling back down the staircase. "You did well to send for me, poppet. We'll sort this out, I promise." Tréville had dandled this young woman on his knee, presented her with her first rocking horse and later her first pony. He'd taught her to ride and fence, just as he had her brother. The king's often neglected offspring had been surrogates for the children he would never have, for in the same way a nun became a bride of the church, Jean-Armand du Peyrer had taken the military to wife.

He held and rocked the princess for the space of a few heartbeats only; Porthos was pressing against his back with all the force of a young giant. Tréville swung his armful sideways to let him pass. "Aramis is his best friend, he's been worried sick from the moment we got your message. How is he? Can he ride? We must get him out of this accursed place as quickly as possible." He felt her stiffen in his arms and kicked himself mentally. "I'm sorry, that was the wrong thing to say, my dear. You've been a pillar of strength, let me shoulder the burden now."

Christine drew back, wiping away tears with the sleeve of her gown. "I love him, Jean-Armand, with all my heart, but this is ..." she sniffed and wiped her nose again, "this is beyond bearing. I never thought he could be so monstrous."

So she knew, or at least strongly suspected. Tréville mentally wiped his sweating brow.

"Savoy sent a bird as well, said it was the work of Spanish marauders, but if it is your wish, I will take you back with us, and I will make your brother understand. Let Savoy throw himself at the might of the French throne." He meant every word, though he knew she would not accept the offer. This fille de France, and child of his heart, was as much a political animal as her mother, though lacking the armored heart. She knew her value on this border down to a sou in political coinage. But more than that, he knew she loved the dour man she had espoused.

"No," the Medici daughter sighed, "Victor owns my heart, the wretched man." Nor could she bring herself to give this beloved man more pain than he already bore. She hugged the captain hard again, before slipping her hand down his arm to mesh her small, warm fingers with his large, cold ones. "Becca thinks your Musketeer should not be moved, it might exacerbate the head wound."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Tréville let her weave him through the barrier to the side of a mattress on the attic floor, set near the chimney and enclosed by odds and ends of obsolete furnishings. They had no choice; exposing Christine to Savoy's wrath should he discover she had harbored one of the Musketeers was to sign her death warrant. Aramis must be moved immediately, even if it killed him. Which, in the sparse light of a dark lantern, looked like it might.

"Becca." Tréville touched her forearm as he knelt beside her. On the other side of the mattress Porthos was attempting to chafe life back into the pale hand he gripped with the expediency of a lifeline.

Between them, Aramis might have been an artist's rendering of a portrait so still did he lie beneath the pile of blankets.

"This is Porthos, Becca. What do we need to do to prepare to move Aramis?"

Porthos contorted his large frame to crouch closer, commencing a whispered monologue close to his friend's ear.

"I know it's got to be done, but I fear he won't survive the move." Becca dashed away useless tears. She'd kept him company for three days, cared for the needs of his body, spooned water and broth down his throat with and without his cooperation. Her hands knew his form intimately. "He's no worse than the night Benoît dragged him up here, but the vitality has fled, there is no desire to live."

Twenty men dead. Marsac missing; Aramis standing with his hand on the latch of the door to Beyond.

The captain breathed in the cold attic air wishing with all his heart he could trade places. He touched the old woman's shoulder again, knowing there was no time to waste. "I know what Aramis would choose. We've little time to waste, madame, I'm sorry. Porthos, grab the bottom blankets. Christine, can you get his feet? Becca, we need you to move back." Savoy could return at any moment, there was no time to waste. Between them, they hefted the limp body in the blanket litter.

Becca picked up the lantern and went before them, opening the door, guiding them down the stairs.

"I'll take him from here." Porthos twisted to take Aramis' head and shoulders, sliding an arm beneath the marksman's knees so he held his friend like a child pressed to his chest.

Christine wrapped and then tucked the blanket around the Musketeer so it wouldn't unravel and drag through the snow. Stepping back, a hand went to her throat. "Que Dieu garde sa main sur toi, mon cher ami." May God keep his hand over you, my dear friend.

"And you also. Do not let fear conquer you, you were a princess before you were a duchess, remember that," Tréville reminded. "The might of France is at your call, Your Highness, do not be dilatory in sending for it if necessary."

"I hear and I obey." The fondness in the quick smile her response evoked steeled her spine. "Go quickly, then, before I change my mind and repudiate my husband!"

In less than a handful of minutes, their mission had been accomplished. A trio of Musketeers, two stepping carefully into already made tracks, disappeared into the woods, the third oblivious to the fact that he was about to be hauled will-you-nill-you back to life.

TBC