A/N Dear all, I cannot believe the number of you who responded to the last chapter! Thank you SO much; I'm glad you're enjoying it! I hope that the next chapter begins to answer the questions you are so eloquently putting.
My profuse apologies but with the previous chapters (as with 'Renegade') I have been remiss regarding the accent in Treville's name. I know how to do it (and others) on the computer now and will remedy it from here on in! (Typing this on the site so I don't think I can do it here.)
Anyway, the two brothers are heading back to the garrison where Athos intends to reveal all about the symbol!
CHAPTER 10
The mood of the two musketeers as they rode back from the palace was much lighter than on their outward journey. They considered the audience with the King an unmitigated success and Athos was torn between regret that Tréville had not been there to share the experience with him and relief that the injury to the former captain seemed to ignite renewed concern within the monarch. The much needed money had been promised: replacement supplies could be purchased, the men could be paid and the rebuilding of the stables could begin as soon as they sourced the necessary materials. More than that, Louis seemed to be sympathetic to their plight once more and Rochefort, in his arrogance, had managed to upset the King in his own inimitable way but Athos was not naïve enough to think that the insufferable man would not quickly worm his way back into the monarch's favour.
Despite his best efforts, Porthos could not draw out from his brother the meaning behind his veiled comment about having some kind of lead in the investigation. With a wry grin, Athos promised to reveal all when they reached the garrison and urged the big man to exercise some rare patience so that he could share the relevant information at one and the same time in the presence of Tréville, d'Artagnan and Aramis.
It was nearing noon as they rode at a leisurely pace through the streets leading to the garrison and whilst caution was at the back of their minds, the fact that all direct attacks on musketeers had occurred under cover of darkness meant that they believed themselves to be relatively safe in broad daylight and in a busy street. Even so, their vigilance was second-nature to them and their eyes constantly roamed the thoroughfare and faces of the people walking past them but they saw nothing amiss.
They were two streets away from the garrison when the attack came and it came from above them, from an upper storey window of a residential building. When he talked about it afterwards, Porthos claimed he did not know what had possessed him to look upwards. Aramis smiled indulgently and suggested that the answer was simple; it could be nothing more than divine intervention. Athos was not so readily convinced and was more prepared to attribute it to sheer luck but would not dismiss out of hand Aramis' strongly held belief.
Whatever it was, at the appropriate moment Porthos raised his eyes and saw the movement at the upper window just as the musket barrel was braced upon the sill and aimed in their direction. He did not even have the time to yell a warning. Instead, he threw himself sideways from his own saddle and cannoned into his companion, bringing the two of them crashing to the ground on the far side of Athos' horse just as the familiar cough of the musket sounded, its ball gouging out a path in the brick wall at head height had Athos, the shorter of the two, still been astride his mount.
Immediately, panic broke out in the Paris street. People were running, women screaming, men yelling as they frantically sought cover, fearful that the attack was not over and that they could be innocently caught between any exchange that might ensue between the musketeers and their unseen foe. The horses circled restlessly, whinnying their nervousness as their heightened senses picked up on the tense atmosphere.
Athos groaned after the bone-jarring impact with the ground and finding himself pinned down by Porthos who had landed on top of him in a tangle of limbs and weapons.
"You hurt?" Porthos asked, his nose mere inches from Athos' own.
"I'm not sure," Athos gasped. "I seem to have several weapons pressing uncomfortably into various parts of my body and you squashing the life out of me."
"Sorry," Porthos said hastily but made no effort to move. Instead, he peered through the legs of the horses into the suddenly empty street. "Do you reckon he's gone?"
"I am hardly in a position to be the best judge of that," Athos ground out. "Only a fool would hang around after failing to make that shot."
"I reckon so too," Porthos agreed, remaining where he was.
Where they both lay, they could feel the vibration through the earth of approaching booted feet. Figures burst into view and shouts filled the air as the shot had been heard back at the garrison and musketeers had armed themselves as quickly as possible before pouring into the street. So many armed men added to the fear and the normal citizens had bolted and barred doors and windows whilst others had sought refuge in a couple of taverns and the surrounding shops.
"Athos! Porthos!" the worry in d'Artagnan's voice was unmistakable as he neared the two horses. His view was hampered by the animals and he could only partially see where his two brothers were prostrate in the dirt. He held his breath as he pushed the rump of Athos' horse to move it out the way and gain access to his fallen friends. Aramis was close behind him. "Is either of you hurt?" he asked frantically, leaning over the pair.
From where he lay, Athos looked up at the incongruous image of the upside- down d'Artagnan. "I would have said no but if Porthos does not get off me soon, I cannot vouchsafe his continued wellbeing!"
Porthos let loose with an expletive and leaped nimbly to his feet, extending a hand down to Athos to pull him upright. Regaining his feet, the slighter musketeer bent over, hands resting on his knees as he breathed deeply, taking mental stock of his numerous aches.
"What happened?" Aramis demanded.
Porthos indicated the upper window of a house opposite. "Musket shot from there," he said pointedly.
Without hesitation, Aramis signalled to a group of five men who ran towards the building, intent upon searching it but knowing that their quarry would undoubtedly have left. He would have gone himself but he needed to be assured that his friends truly were unscathed.
"Are you sure you are fine?" he asked anxiously, a hand lightly on the big man's shoulder.
"Absolutely," Porthos assured him and looked sheepishly at where Athos straightened, groaning softly as he did so. "I had me a soft landing."
"And you?" Aramis turned his attention to the other man.
"I was the soft landing," Athos clarified. D'Aragnan, hands on his hips, laughed at his friend's discomfort.
"Any hurts?" Aramis persisted.
"Probably a few bruises from my landing and weapons pressing in on me but I'll live." He eyed the passage of the ball in the stonework and turned to Porthos, hand extended, his face serious. "It could have been a lot worse were it not for your quick thinking, my friend. Thank you."
Porthos took the proffered hand and shook it. Neither was sure who actually made the first move but the next moment the two men were embracing, trying to ignore how close they had come to yet another tragedy, one that would have been deeply personal.
Athos slapped Porthos on the back and was the first to pull away. "How did you know?"
"I happened to look up and saw the musket move. There wasn't time to warn you any other way."
Looking round at the musketeers who had protectively enclosed the men in a semi-circle, backs towards them in order to watch the street, Athos bent to pick up his hat. Banging it against his thigh to rid it of dust, he saw the group re-emerge from the house and head in his direction. "Anything?" he asked and was not surprised when they shook their heads.
Caronne spoke up. "There was that symbol again, scratched into the wall below the window."
"Speaking of which …" Aramis began, looking directly at Athos.
"Let's get back to the garrison and join Tréville. We will talk about it then," Athos assured him, reaching for the trailing reins of his mount and starting to walk in the direction of the only place he acknowledged as home, a home that was under a serious threat.
…..
The Inseparables gathered in the mess hall with Tréville when at last they were within the relative safety of the garrison walls. The priority was to impart the good news of Athos' productive exchange with the King and the four younger men were rewarded by a visible relaxing of Tréville's taut posture for he had been on tenterhooks ever since he had been excluded from the meeting. The tension re-emerged though as Porthos recounted the details of what had happened on the return journey and Aramis added all that had happened from the moment the sound of the shot was heard by those at the garrison.
His accurate and fluid account was all the more commendable given that he was simultaneously struggling to persuade Athos to remove his shirt and then to sit still whilst being examined. There were times, Aramis mused, when he thought he was dealing with a recalcitrant child rather than a grown man.
"Nothing broken," Aramis confirmed as he undid a jar of liniment.
"I said I was fine," Athos insisted archly, reaching for his shirt which lay discarded on the table top near him.
Aramis slapped his hand away from the garment and scowled. "Forgive me if I take no notice of that declaration. Your definition of the word 'fine' never coincides with that of anyone else so humour me whilst I apply some of this to draw out the bruising," and he proceeded to smooth some of the evil-smelling concoction over the array of pinkish-purple marks already angrily making their presence visible on the pale skin.
"It looks like they are having no trouble appearing on their own," Tréville observed sardonically as Athos was eventually given leave to ease the loose shirt over his head.
"It's a miracle there aren't loads more," d'Artagnan sniggered. "I'm surprised he wasn't flattened having had Porthos land on him!"
"You definitely would've been!" Aramis quipped as he sat down at the table and reached for one of the cups of wine Porthos had just poured.
Tréville attempted to smile at the banter as the younger men's laughter ran around the table but he knew well enough that one of the strategies employed by them to deal with the serious was by making light of it. Their 'devil may care' attitude at times hid their more heartfelt concerns. In this case, had Porthos not had the presence of mind to act quickly, either he could have received a potentially life-threatening injury or, more likely, Athos would have definitely been killed by a head shot. It all rested upon the position of Porthos in relation to the attacker and no-one at the table was intent on pursuing that any further. It did not need to be voiced aloud that one of them had had a very close escape from being added to the list of casualties.
"Now, about that symbol," Tréville prompted, his eyes boring into Athos.
"If I told you to think of it another way, perhaps that would help," Athos began. "Imagine it as a silvery-white symbol on an aqua-blue background." He waited patiently for any flicker of recognition in their expressions but for Porthos and Aramis there was none, save for their frowns which suggested that they were thinking hard. D'Artagnan was, understandably, at a total loss and looked bemusedly from one to the other of them.
Recollection dawned in Tréville's eyes though. "Are you sure?" His voice was nothing more than a disbelieving whisper and, when Athos nodded, he moaned.
Aramis knew, from both their reactions, that the news was not good. "Would either of you care to enlighten us?"
Athos took a deep breath. "It's the coat of arms of Saint Martin de Ré."
As d'Artagnan watched his friends, the colour drained from Aramis' face and his head bowed whilst Porthos muttered something unintelligible, the angst-ridden tone signalling his feelings only too clearly.
They fell silent, each of them lost in his own thoughts and memories.
D'Artagnan was very conscious of the fact that he was excluded from the evidently terrible experience that united the other four men and he desperately wanted to know more, not from any sense of ghoulishness but from a heart-felt need to share the men's apparent burden.
"I don't understand," he said softly, prevailing upon them to explain.
"Be thankful that you don't," Porthos growled.
"1627," Athos began, "and the start of the third Huguenot rebellion. It was the siege of La Rochelle and the English invasion of the Île de Ré. Louis wanted to join Richelieu there so the entire Musketeer regiment went along too."
"And rather than just protecting 'is Majesty, he 'ad us fillin' in wherever it took 'is fancy," Porthos concluded. He refilled all of their cups with ale and, unbidden, the four raised them in a silent toast to some memory whilst d'Artagnan looked on.
"Will you tell me?" asked d'Artagnan. "Tell me what happened?"
"Yes but not now," Athos said quietly. "There will be time enough for that and soon but right now we have much to plan. The realisation of what that symbol means raises many questions that should be asked; there are people to be seen and things we need to check. We need to act quickly and do as much as possible for the King expects an update at ten tomorrow morning." He looked at Tréville with an earnestness. "We will go together."