12

They were running.
They were running faster than Aramis had ever run, so fast that he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. The sky was getting darker, the cover of the trees hiding most of it anyway, and the uneven ground made every step a gamble... They would never make it.
At least, Nicole, Valentin and Yves were out of danger.
For now.
Maybe they would reach a village before the night.
Maybe they would even find help, and then…
Aramis eyed Juste Jules who was running slightly ahead of him.
Then what? Even if we escape, nobody will believe us. And even if someone believes us, that won't save him, after...
He tripped on a rock, and the strongman caught him just in time to prevent him from face planting into the muddy leaves. He barely hold back a cry when his injured biceps caused him a throbbing pain.
"I'm sorry," Juste Jules uttered between breaths, and Aramis rolled his eyes.
"You saved my life. Can you please stop apologizing?"
"We're not safe yet. And you know what I meant."
Aramis leaned on his friend to get up and tested his arm. Blood was still pouring from the wound but it moved alright, considering.
"Let's not have this debate now," he grumbled, tightening the piece of cloth that vainly attempted to stop the bleeding. "I think I can hear the dogs again."
"The horses won't follow in this undergrowth."
"They may find another way. They know those woods and we don't."
"Can't change the fact that I'm glad Nicole got away."
"I hear you on this, my friend."
Juste Jules smiled, and this moment of semi levity allowed Aramis to gather his breath. He could feel that the strongman was berating himself for their situation, and for having… interrupted the duel. And, as much as he wished he didn't, Aramis couldn't help but resent him for the latter. He may have been raised in a brothel and became an entertainer, he was still a gentleman, at heart if not in name, and, as such wasn't entirely sure he treasured his life over his honor. However, he wouldn't say that to Juste Jules. Especially not now, with their odds so…
"You ready?" the strongman interrupted his thoughts. He nodded. "Let's go then."

So they ran again. Their minds blank except from the occasional looking back at how they ended up in this situation.

xxxx

Aramis had no idea how Nicole did it. She was guiding them through the woods, alert to signs only she could see. They'd tried to help, at first, and then to merely understand, but it was as of she could converse with the vegetation.
"Here!" she said, pointing at nothing at all, and changed direction.
They followed her through a blackberry bush, and past a muddy slope she efficiently stepped over, minding her long skirt.
That was the other amusing thing with Nicole's scouting talents: no matter the number of jewels or layers of fabric she wore, she remained perfectly silent and left no tracks of her passing behind her.
There was a clearer path behind the shrubs, and the two men were finally able to notice a trail and signs of horse shoes.
"They're heading north," Juste Jules stated, and Aramis added.
"To the caves. It seems that you were right, Nicole."
"Did you have any doubts?" she teased, but he could see lines of worry on her smiling face. He raised his eyes and squinted to the skies, trying to make out the time of day through the leaves. But it was Juste Jules who hopefully voiced:
"It's not dusk yet."
Nicole nodded and, when Aramis touched her arm, buried her forehead in his shoulder. She stayed like this for just a moment, taking a breath, before straightening.
"Let's go," she decreed. "We can't waste any more time."

They heard pistols being cocked before they reached the caves. Then barking, and Aramis knew that, this time, ruse alone would never save them. Their enemies were not drunk, lazy aristocrats, torn between the outrage of their intrusion and the wish to find as much fun as possible out in it. They were fighters, taking their orders from a proud and smart nobleman. A proud and wily nobleman, he mused as the old Vicomte stepped down the hill, who wore his deviousness on his face. He was tall and handsome, despite being in his mid fifties, with wavy white hair and beard, and fine leather hunting clothes that probably cost as much as the Valentin's carriage and tack. Athletic, with a squared chin, he didn't look much like his son, except for the blue eyes and wicked smile. He started clapping mid-hill and didn't stop until he reached one of his men, who'd conveniently stepped out of the woods a second before, pistol in hand. Another appeared behind Aramis and his friends, completing the vicious choreography.
"Well done," the Vicomte whispered, yet his strong voice traveled all the way to his three young antagonists. "I'll admit I'm surprised. I sincerely believed you were just a bunch of overweening amuseurs who would get lost in the forest and give me plenty of time to head home and have a nice glass of wine before they found the corpses of their loved ones."
Aramis shivered and heard Nicole gasp and Juste Jules take a step forward.
"Stop where you are," one of the men ordered, waving his weapon, and Aramis had to hiss:
"Juste Jules, please!"
"They're still alive," the Vicomte amended. "I told your lovely friend here we would wait for the night, and we de Cénon are men of our word."
"With all due respect, my Lord," Aramis objected, his hand on Nicole's arm, "Your son made us a similar promise, and yet here we are."
"Well," the man shrugged unapologetically. "I can't be held responsible for other people's engagements, notwithstanding the fact that they are family. In spite of your… treacherous ways, my son said he wouldn't go after you, and he kept his own word. I do hope that, should you survive this evening's performance, you'll be so kind as to remain honest in your telling of the tale."
"A performance?" Juste Jules scoffed. "It's not a game."
"Oh but it is, young man. It is very much a game, thanks to my fair and playful nature, which gives you a chance to fight for your lives in lieu of having your death decided by a court of law very much concerned with my interests. So..." he carried on. "Who's the sharpshooter?"
He knew the answer already, his eyes on Aramis, who merely replied:
"At your disposal, my Lord, if that's your wish, but I would demand that you free my friends first."
"You insolent bastard!" one of de Cénon's men growled, the second one barking:
"You don't make dem…"
The Vicomte had only to raise a hand to make them shut up.
"Please," he said, with mock annoyance. "We are all gentlemen here. Well," he amended with a glance at Juste Jules: "Most of us."
The strongman had too much on his mind to take offense:
"Aramis doesn't have anything to do with what happened with your son. I'm the only one responsible, and he just got caught in the middle trying to help me."
"But help you he did, didn't he? He broke into my home, with the old man and this… woman," the Vicomte added, eyeing Nicole who tensed with something that was not fear. If Aramis did nothing, one or the other of his friends would get themselves killed.
"My Lord," he said, interrupting the Juste Jules who was about to argue. "I never ran away from a duel and I do not plan to start today. I merely ask… wish for a sign of good faith on your part. I cannot force you to release my companions, even if I were impudent enough to try. But we have weapons. And, pardon my insolence, but we know how to use them. Why risk a bloodbath if you can spare innocents and still get your revenge? We have nothing to lose, Vicomte. What about you?"
Aramis heard someone moving behind him and, guessing that dodging the blow would start a fight, was ready to take it. But, again, a wave of hand from the Vicomte stopped any attempt at violence.
"I'll give you this, lad," de Cénon stated. "You have guts. And you did find your companions in time, after all." He drew his pistol before asking the fellow at his side: "André, do fetch the old man and the boy for me, please."
The man obliged, visibly unconvinced, and Aramis could feel his tension ease. Everything but the renewed barking was silent while André climbed up the hill and disappeared into a cave, then came back a couple of minutes later, Valentin and Yves before him. Three more men followed, with the dogs in leash. The wrists of both the Valentins were tied, and their youngest had a black eye, but they seemed otherwise unarmed. Juste Jules growled:
"They hurt Yves."
"I advised him not to antagonize those who hold his life in their hands," the Vicomte said. "But I see, now, where he acquired his manners."
Aramis ignored the jab:
"Are you okay?"
"We are," Valentin reassured him. "Thanks for being here, Aramis, Juste Jules, and… I'm sorry."
"Touching," de Cénon commented. "Now, shall we proceed? Mister Sharpshooter here has agreed to a duel if I let the rest of you go free. I have no objection, to be frank, so long as I don't ever see you in my town again."
My town, Aramis noted. There was a count in Tours, and dukes in Paris, related to the royal family who could have claimed ownership of the estate. Even crazy popinjays like the de Cénon would not show such bravado if they were not confident of their disproportionate influence.
"No way!" Yves exclaimed. "We're not leaving our friendsh!"
"Shou will do ash you were told," André laughed, and most of the other men followed. Aramis could almost hear Juste Jules' teeth clenching. The boy, for his part, had heard well enough through his life not to be bothered by such petty needling.
"How do we know you won't kill ush anyway?" he asked, ignoring Valentin's glare.
"You would if you'd been raised by gentlemen," the Vicomte sighed. "But your trust is no concern of mine. Your carriage is still where we left it. You will retrieve it and disappear. André, untie them."
André drew his knife and obeyed, deliberately nicking the boy's hand in the process.
'You son of a…" Juste Jules shouted, and it took both Aramis and Nicole to hold him back this time.
"Juste Jules, Nicole," the young man ordered. "Go with them."
"I most certainly will not!" Nicole protested and, before the Vicomte could say anything on the matter, Aramis insisted:
"It's getting dark. They'll need your help to find their way."
De Cénon raised a brow:
"Oh. So that's how you made it here so quickly. Another clever move. A pity we met in such unfortunate circumstances, I could have used a few quick-witted actors, instead of the boring debauchees my son keeps hiring behind my back."
Aramis looked Nicole in the eyes:
"Have you ever seen me lose a duel?"
"Don't try to manipulate me out of this," she snapped.
"I wouldn't dare." He took her by the shoulders, this time, and put his forehead to hers. "Nicole, there's nothing you could possibly do to help me on this. But you can get Valentin and Yves out of the forest before nightfall, safe from the brigands and the wolves."
"Wolves won't attack a group of four people unless they're starving," she tried, and then, more desperate: "What if you win but you're hurt?"
Then his men will finish me, Aramis though, but it was Juste Jules who answered:
"In that case, I'll take care of him." Before anyone could argue, he insisted: "I stay," and to the Vicomte: "My Lord, I am the offender here. I am shamed by my inability to offer you reparation myself, but I won't leave my friend alone to right my wrongs. I'll be his second. If it's a duel, he'll need one."
"So be it," de Cénon declared, and Aramis couldn't help but feel a chill of fear as to why he was being so lenient about the whole thing. "The three distractions will go, and we'll proceed as gentlemen. Now you," he pointed at Juste Jules, "drop your weapons, and the others will be off on their way."
Nicole looked like she was about to argue further but, as recklessly as she behaved at times, she was no fool. A glance at her father finished convincing her. Aramis released her, his hands lingering a bit more than necessary on her arms. Before he knew it, hers were on his cheeks and she planted a kiss on his lips.
"We'll be in Fondettes for the night," she said. "Be there before noon."

As the three Valentins exited the cleairing, Aramis watched André disarming Juste Jules. His second pistol had been taken from Nicole, and was now secured in the other man's belt. For some reason, it annoyed him. Before leaving Herblay, he'd chosen his weapons with great care and, since then, spent hours maintaining them in pristine condition. Seeing one of his most precious possessions in the hands of some inbred aristocrat henchman disgusted him.
"So," he said, itching to get it over with. "Shall we begin?"
A wave of his other pistol backed his words but, again, the Vicomte raised a brow.
"And what do you think you are doing with that, young man?"
Aramis held back a shiver.
"I always duel with my own weapons, My Lord. Surely you will not deny me this precaution?"
"I will not," de Cénon confirmed benevolently. "But you are mistaken. As the offended party, the choice of weapons is mine. And I choose swords."

xxxx

"They're getting closer!" Juste Jules yelled, out of breath.
Aramis almost tripped again and cursed.
"How are they so quick? I can barely see my own feet!"
"They have torches!"
He stopped, and blinked against the dark. There were lights indeed, maybe thirty yards away, and from their height and the way they were moving…
"And horses," he muttered. "They're still on horses. They know the roads, they are making us run in circles, and they're hunting us down like animals!"
"The darkness could work in our favour," the strongman tried.
"Against hounds? I don't think so. And they'll find us long before true nightfall anyway."
It seemed like hours ago that they'd untied Nicole, but it was as if time passed in slow motion.
"The caves are our only chance," Juste Jules stated.
"Are you kidding? That's the first place they'll look!"
"We can ambush them!
"For God's sake, Juste Jules! With two pistols?"
Never before had Aramis seen his friend so willing to take charge, and he couldn't, for the life of him, decide if this change was guilt- or panic-driven. There was no trace of hysteria in the strongman's eyes, though. Fear, of course, but no confusion, and far less despair than Aramis guessed could be read on his own face. His arm throbbed. He wasn't losing a lot of blood, but it was enough to weaken him and dull his judgment, especially after such a run. Maybe that was just it. Maybe Juste Jules simply wished to relieve him from the burden of thinking their way out of this mess. The problem was that the strongman, for all his qualities, had never been a strategist.
Until today.
"Aramis, do you trust me?"
"With my life, Juste Jules. But…"
"So follow me."
"They will search the caves."
"I know. But I may have a plan. Please, for once, follow my lead. You know I won't risk your skin in vain and I promise: I will get you through this."
A barki rang out very close by and Aramis was snapped out of his ruminations. He was shocked and exhausted, and it was very tempting to rely on someone else for once. At his nod, the strongman took his good arm and they were running again. He did his best to follow, and to ignore the lightheadedness that threatened to possess him. When they made it to the caves, not far from those where they'd parted with Valentin, Nicole and Yves, he almost fell to his knees.
"Now what?" he asked his friend who was wandering near the edge of the small cliff.
"Now come here." With a worried look back in the direction of the upcoming torches, Aramis complied. "I want you to know something," the strongman carried on when he reached him. "Whatever happens, it's nobody's fault but mine, you did all you could to help me and I'm mortified I've dragged you into this."
Aramis waved impatiently.
"I know. Pep talk later. What's your big plan?"
"I'll tell you but you'll have to cooperate with me."
Aramis raised a brow.
"What do you need?"
"Just a confirmation, for my own peace of mind."
"What?"
Juste Jules smiled:
"How well can you swim?"

xxxx

Aramis was a good swordsman. Much better, in fact, than many noble sons he'd trained with. He'd had excellent instructors, before and during his stay in Herblay. Some had criticized his lack of patience, but his agility, speed and, mostly, the accuracy of his aim, had been customarily praised.
Sure, since his joining the Valentins, he had neglected his daily practice. But he had sparred. With Juste Jules, Nicole and Yves, who needed the instruction, and, occasionally, against bandits or brawlers. Only once or twice had he felt really threatened, and, even knowing he'd relied on his reflexes and quick wits perhaps more than on his technical skills, he had survived with no more than scratches.
So, he was good.
But de Cénon was exceptional.
De Cénon was a man blessed with a robust constitution, who'd been raised by a military family, and trained under the masters of the art. De Cénon had dueled, he'd been to war, and, for forty years, had come back from battlefields fair and fit, and ready to draw his sword again.
De Cénon, he realized, barely parrying a lunge, was going to eat him alive.
He held his ground, as best as he could, aware that if he didn't, he would never regain it, and executed a series of compound attacks that briefly surprised his opponent. He knew that only a feint, ideally a vicious one, could save him, and wondered if he could take advantage of the ground. De Cénon was not as flexible and swift as a young man could be. When his boot slipped on the leaves, Aramis saw his chance and jumped into the opening.
A second later, his arm was on fire.
He moved back and parried almost blindly, only the automatisms acquired from years of practice protecting him from the next blow. Juste Jules yelled in fear and anger, de Cénon's men in joy, and the dogs restarted their cacophony of barking before being beaten into silence by their owners.
De Cénon was on him again before Aramis could blame himself for having fallen for such an invitation. He dodged, unable to lift his sword quick enough to riposte. His right hand was trembling and he shifted his weapon into the left just in time to block another attack. The Vicomte was giving him no respite. The man was too seasoned to let his arrogance get the better of him and wouldn't give his opponent any chances. What felt a second later, Aramis was on the ground, on his back, the point of a blade under his chin.
"Any last words?" de Cénon asked.
And Aramis didn't have time to open his mouth before the Vicomte's head exploded.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then someone shouted: "Kill him!" and Aramis was on his feet.
He wasn't sure how he'd done it, but, next thing he knew, he was holding André hostage, his sword under the man's throat and, careful to keep him between him and the furious men, yelled in turn: "Drop your weapons or he dies!"
It was as blunt a move as it could get, because he could only guess at the value of André's life. The man had seemed vaguely in charge, and, in any case, in his master's close confidence, but it didn't mean the others would bother to save him if that meant letting their prey escape. There was some confusion, that allowed Aramis to spot Juste Jules safely positioning himself behind him, his hands still shaking from having thrown the rock at the Vicomte's head.
"Drop your weapons!" he ordered again, and André growled:
"Do as he says. We'll find these cowards later and make them regret they were ever born!"
As incongruous as it was coming from a fellow who'd kidnapped an old man and a boy to get back at the victims of his master's son, the insult stung. Aramis knew Juste Jules had only acted out of friendship and fear for him, but he'd never wanted to win this way. For a second, he contemplated the idea of surrender. He would give his sword to André and face the consequences of his deeds, except…
Except his deeds had been honorable.
He'd fought well, lost against a better opponent, and had been ready to meet his end until Juste Jules, who hadn't been raised a nobleman and only cared for logic and what was fair and rational, to hell with etiquette, had saved him.
If they didn't flee, the strongman would be prosecuted. Not only for destroying the young vicomte's reputation, but for murdering one of the most influential nobles in the region.
He would be lucky if he was only hanged for this.
The last of de Cénon's men dropped his blade. Only the glares and the barking still threatened them. Aramis' arm hurti like hell.
"Hold him," he told Juste Jules and, when his friend complied, he gathered his pistols and said:
"Let's go."

They'd been walking for maybe twenty minutes, and had not even stopped when Aramis had tightened a piece of his shirt around his biceps. Only André's occasional insult or voluntary stumble had given rhythm to their escape. Aramis eyed Juste Jules a couple of times and the strongman didn't seem to acknowledge until he finally asked:
"What?"
And it was a genuine question.
It was tense, a bit wary, but there was not an ounce of guilt in it.
"Juste Jules…" Aramis voiced, incredulous. "You can't…" And, since the his friend's face remained impassible: ""What did you do? It was a fair fight."
Juste Jules was so startled that he released his grip on André for a second, and the man's shoulder promptly slammed him in the jaw. He fell backwards and Aramis didn't have the time to catch their hostage before he fled. He put his left hand on his pistol but didn't close his fingers on the handle.
"What are you waiting for?" Juste Jules yelled. "Shoot him!"
Aramis breathed out heavily.
"No need to waste a bullet, they'll know our position soon enough." He looked directly at his friend and added: "Now we run."

xxxx

"How well can you swim?"
"I… very well," Aramis answered. "As you kn… oh no. We won't…"
But Juste Jules had already seized his shoulders. He smiled, no trace of fear in his eyes anymore. The barking was stronger and the light of the torches flickered very nearby in the background.
"I wish you all the happiness in the world," the strongman said. "It was a privilege to be your friend. And I'm sorry, and I'm telling you this without sarcasm, that I deprived you of your honorable death, but I don't regret it and, well… I love you."
Aramis only had the time to utter: "What?" before he was pushed off the cliff.

xxxx

À suivre.

x

Note: For the sake of historical accuracy, know that there was actually no Comte in Tours at the time. After having been a duchy, Touraine (the region which Tours is the Capital) was merely an old province of the kingdom of France. It was still nicknamed "The Garden of France", because the kings used to take residence there when they had enough of Paris.