Chapter 10

As Treville sat up late drinking a glass of good brandy, his mind wandered over the events of the past few days. So much had changed in so short a time. The party organisation and then Athos; Treville had a feeling his addition to the Garrison would be both a boon and a challenge. He had been worried, for a moment, that the man would turn down his offer, and that would be that. If he had chosen to walk away from the Garrison, there would have been nothing further he could have done. And, if his suspicions were correct, Athos would have returned to a life of obscurity and self-loathing.

He thought back to the night before, and the memories that had slipped into his consciousness unbidden. Noise from the Garrison had long since died down, and only the occasional whinny from the stables, or the hoot of an owl, broke the stillness outside. The fire had been low in the grate, and already the windows were frosted over, the room beginning to chill. Still he had not been able to sleep.

As he rose to throw more wood upon the fire, he heard a cruel voice in his head. Do not be so stupid. Use your head not your foolish heart. Overlaid, he could hear the dignified tones of Athos. Head over heart…head over heart… It was his mantra, the rule he schooled the young cadets to live by. Broken pieces of a puzzle, fragments of a picture stored deep in Treville's mind. A summer's day long ago. Standing guard whilst the King held court. The sun was shining … children laughing, playing outside in the glorious gardens. Ladies fanning themselves beneath the trees in the dappled shade… Do not be so stupid… there it was again, the superior, arrogant voice, somehow familiar. Head over heart. Then suddenly he remembered.

He was back in the past. A young soldier on guard duty at the palace, long before the formation of the Musketeers – the days of the old King. Louis had been a child. Dignitaries had gathered for his birthday – his tenth, if Treville's memory served him correctly. Other children had been invited by his mother, Marie d'Medici, and they were in and out of the palace and grounds keeping the soldiers on their toes. One small child wasn't interested in the other children's games and he had pestered the soldiers, albeit politely, with questions of battles and military strategy. He had sat with Treville for a while and proudly produced a selection of small soldiers, and the boy informed him of his planned skirmishes and tactics, with a seriousness that went far beyond his years.

Later in the day, he had seen the boy fencing with another much older child. It had been a competition intended to keep the boys out of mischief. The quiet boy had shown a great deal of skill, but the match had been declared a draw when the older one, the spoilt son of a Duke, had called a hit unfair, claiming the sun was in his eyes. The small boy had not contended the issue, he had simply bowed and accepted the decision. Feeling sorry for him, a young cadet had offered to spar with the boy instead.

It came flooding back so clearly now. The afternoon sun had flashed upon their steel as the soldier found he had to pay far more attention to the sword play than he had been expecting. Once again, Treville had been impressed, not only with the boy's ability with a blade but with the gravity in which he listened and took the advice he was given. If he made a mistake, he did not make it twice. If his opponent bested him, he withstood it like a little gentleman, and made no complaint. He must have been tiring, for the day had been long and hot. Attempting to perform a move too advanced for his years, he had tripped and ended up on the stone-flagged floor with a bloodied nose.

At that moment, the boy's father had happened upon the scene. Treville could still remember the look of anger upon his face. Tall and dark, he strode toward his son with an expression as cold as ice. Fearing the man was about to reprimand the young cadet Treville had stepped forward. The nobleman had simply ignored him as he addressed his son. Treville had watched in horror for, instead of sympathising with the boy and tending to his injury, the man berated his him, degrading him in front of all the visiting nobility and their children. The boy had stood up straight, white-faced and mortified, as his father had pulled his strategy apart and belittled him to all present.

Treville tried hard to picture the boy's features, but they were lost in the years that had passed in between. What he did remember, however, was the impression the boy had left behind - a keen mind, intelligent but remote. Lonely. Though the faces were blurred by time, the man's words were not. 'How could you have been so stupid? …Never let your head be ruled by your foolish heart. …Head over heart. If you do not, you will be undone, and you will deserve your end. Just as you did today…You are a disgrace!'

The boy had stood with his chin up, looking into his father's disappointed face, just the tell-tale wobble of his bottom lip giving away his emotions. He took his punishment like a man, bowing and apologising to his father. But just before he left, he turned to the young cadet, who stood appalled at the child's predicament, bowed and thanked him. With tears in his eyes the boy had been led away by his father, in disgrace. Head over heart… the Comte de la Fère.

Treville was not sure if the boy had been the first-born son, or if the Comte still lived. He knew it was an old and wealthy family, with rank and influence within the nobility. If Athos was that small child, then it might explain his discomfort with affection and physical contact. But what could possibly have happened to bring him to the point at which they had found him? Treville considered what he knew about Athos. The pieces certainly fit, or was he simply trying to find a solution to a complicated puzzle? Treville vowed he would find out, but for now he would tell no one.

The three men had begun their mission soon after dawn and had been riding for several hours. The wind was biting, and they had conversed little, their heads tucked inside their cloaks and scarves, to prevent their faces freezing. They were riding through a wood of sorts, though the trees were sparse and broken by large scattered clearings covered in scrub. It was a bleak part of the countryside, and the bare and blackened trees added a sinister backdrop to their already uncomfortable journey.

Porthos rode up alongside Athos, who had said less than both of the other two Musketeers. In fact, Porthos realised he had not spoken at all.

'I don't know why the King had to hold the Queen's party in December,' Porthos grumbled, shifting his scarf higher over his face. Athos did not make any move to acknowledge his presence but simply replied:

'Because that is when the Queen has her birthday.' Porthos scowled at the man for a moment, before his eyes crinkled in amusement.

'Yeah s'pose so. But I've heard the English King has two, one when the weather is better. Seems like a good idea to me.'

'I don't see the point,' said Aramis, shaking his head. 'It's England, the weather is never better.' Porthos nodded, and even Athos snorted in agreement.

'We should rest the horses,' stated Athos, and the two Musketeers readily agreed. 'I think I can hear water just through those trees, and if I'm right, this spot is probably as good as any other to stop and refresh the horses. If we are lucky the trees will provide some modicum of shelter.'

'And we can boil some water for somethin' warm to drink before my blood freezes in my veins,' grinned Porthos, looking much happier.

Without further discussion, the three men split up to undertake their various tasks. Athos led the horses toward the sound of water, where he found a small stream, and Aramis collected kindling, whilst Porthos found enough stones to surround a pit for the fire. Soon they were sat around the crackling flames, a warm glow slowly making its way into their frozen marrow. Aramis and Porthos bantered between themselves across the dancing flames, whilst Athos sat with his back to a tree and quietly listened. The three of them shared a meal of bread and cheese, though Athos only picked at his.

'If you aren't goin' to finish that…' stated Porthos, his inference clear. Athos smiled and handed his untouched loaf to the big man. 'You don't eat enough to keep a bird alive. I don't know how you keep goin',' Porthos tutted. Aramis made a note to ensure that Athos ate a decent meal at wherever they spent the night - he didn't want him fainting with hunger. Having eaten, the Musketeers cleared away and mounted up, not wanting to delay any longer than they needed to. The sky was overcast and threatened snow.

Resuming their journey, only the muffled beat of the horses' hooves sounded as they cantered through the damp undergrowth. It seemed the very forest was frozen in silence. As the afternoon wore on and the light began to fade, they reached a small village. Like most villages in this part of France, many of the inhabitants made their living by farming small patches of land. The street was quiet apart from a few travellers, the odd dog and couple of early drunks. Most people, those who were not working the land, were tucked up indoors. The village inn looked to be sturdy and in good repair, the sign hanging over the door swinging slightly as the wind began to rise. Athos looked up to the sky as the stable boy took the reins of their horses, leading them away to a warm bed of hay. A blizzard would be a disaster; they would not make Orleans and the Châteauxif there was a heavy fall of snow. As they entered the tavern, it was obvious that several fellow travellers had come to the same decision - the room was full. Spotting the new arrivals, the landlord - a large genial man with an obvious limp - came over to welcome them. He noted the men's Pauldrons and smiled broadly.

'Musketeers! Welcome gentleman, it has been a while since we had such privileged company.' The men smiled, it was not always the case that the regiment was given such a warm welcome. 'As you can see, I'm afraid the weather has bought many to our door in search of shelter. If it is a room you seek I can only offer you the one. It only has two beds but I can move in an extra cot, if you don't mind sharin'?'

'Not at all,' grinned Aramis, aware of the look on Athos' face. He knew the idea made the man uncomfortable, but it was better than the alternative. Porthos looked at the gloom outside and shivered, there were already small flakes of snow hurtling passed the windows in the gusting winds.

'Well I'm just glad we're in 'ere and not out there,' Porthos declared, Athos grunted as they followed Aramis to a table nearer to the fire. Nobody had taken particular interest in their arrival, that they had noticed. Athos had scanned the dimly-lit room, but most of the occupants were deep in conversation and wore the garb of farmers or travelling merchants, probably on their way to or from Paris. Relaxing a little, he joined the others, as they ordered food and drink.

When the fare arrived, it was plain to see that Porthos was delighted. The pie looked excellent, and he rubbed his stomach in delight.

'Now that's what I call a pie,' he smiled, as he tucked in with enthusiasm. They ate in silence. Aramis was glad to see Athos partaking of the meal, even if he did lack the zeal of the big Musketeer. When they had finished, they poured more wine and sat back and considered the company. Porthos spied a group of men about to begin a game of cards, his eyes lit up and he made to rise. Athos reached out and placed his hand upon Porthos' arm. With a look of reproach, he spoke in a low voice.

'Be nice! We do not need the attention.' Porthos placed his hand over his heart and looked wounded, before grinning and walking away. Athos rolled his eyes and gave Aramis the hint of a smile.

'Are you finished eating, mon ami?' the Musketeer asked, eying Athos' half-full plate.

'Not necessarily,' he countered, raising his brow. He moved the food around upon the dish but didn't actually raise it to his lips, Aramis noted. However, the same could not be said for the wine. He was concerned that, without distraction, Athos would continue to drink, and to withdraw into whatever dark place he went to, when left to his own devices.

'What are our thoughts about Gaston and his plans?' asked Aramis, in a bid to rouse Athos from his inertia. Athos looked up, his face taking on a thoughtful expression before he responded.

'I do not know. Treville did not find any proof that the King has been in contact with Gaston.' Still considering the question, he continued:

'Nevertheless, I cannot believe it was Louis's idea.' He looked at Aramis, awaiting his opinion.

'The more I think about it, the more your notion makes a lot of sense. Louis was outraged when Gaston's plot was revealed. In fact, I was surprised to find he had returned to France.' Athos smirked.

'And how did the King know that he had?'

Aramis looked shocked. 'Mon dieu, of course. Come to think of it neither he nor the Cardinal looked surprised when his presence at the château was mentioned. But then I would expect the Cardinal to be aware of the Duke's location.'

'He would know where to find the devil, my friend,' nodded Athos, with a hint of malice in his voice.

As the men sat in the warm tavern bar-room, the storm continued to rage outside. Though the winds were gale force, luckily the snow was light, and if it did not worsen would not delay their journey the next morning.

In a similar tavern not far away, the story was different. The dank and grim looking establishment was well off the normal thoroughfare. Its inhabitants looked both drunk and dangerous. Any unfortunate stranger who stopped for respite from the storm would be lucky to survive to see the morning without getting his throat slit. No, he would be better taking his chances outside. The woman walked into the room, her long woollen cloak hiding her face. There was a lull in conversation as she searched the smoky room. One drunk came up behind her and tried to grab her around her waist, leering as he pulled at her cape. With one flick of her wrist, she picked up a bottle from the nearby table and, without any sign of remorse, hit the man cleanly over the head. His stunned expression hardly registered before he hit the filthy floor with a sickening thud. For a second there was silence, and her heart hammered, awaiting a response. Finally, a roar of laughter erupted, and the man's friends came and dragged him away, propping him up in a corner to sleep it off. The rest eyed her with suspicion, and something akin to fear, as she headed for a table in the corner.

'You know how to make an entrance,' the man seated at the table hissed. The woman pulled back her hood and narrowed her green eyes, as she snapped:

'If you had wanted a more ladylike approach, then you should have chosen a more ladylike establishment.' The man curled his lip.

'You attract too much attention.' The woman looked at him with a condescending stare.

'I do what needs to be done. Let us hope the same can be said of you.' Her voice dripped with contempt as she refused the glass he offered her.

'My men are reliable. We will see to it that your letter is not delivered. What about those delivering it?' he asked, a sneer upon his face.

'Kill them.' She replied without hesitation.

'All of them?' he queried, wanting to make it quite clear what she was asking. She swallowed and wished she had accepted the offer of wine. Pausing just for a moment she replied:

'All of them.' Tossing a purse full of coin at the man, she pulled up her hood and made her way to the door. As she stepped out into the snow, she was glad the icy flakes were melting on the warmth of her cheeks, for it gave her an excuse to ignore the salty tears that slid from her eyes.