Athos was determined to bring his dealings with Joan to a swift and decisive end. He'd walked away without a backward glance yesterday (well, perhaps he'd looked out of Treville's window a couple of times during the briefing, but he was sure nobody had noticed). He wasn't fond of goodbyes, especially when there was an appreciative audience who would gossip over every last detail for days.
He woke as soon as the first carts rumbled past his window on the way to the market, thanks to that stupid promise Aramis had extracted about his drinking. His normal wine-induced stupor was impervious to any racket short of a fire in the next building. He lay there for a few moments, contemplating the cracks in the grey plaster ceiling. It felt strange to wake in his own bed without a trace of a hangover; he was used to it on missions, but never at home. Maybe Aramis and Porthos had a point, damn them, and he really did need to cut down on the bottle for a while.
He dragged himself out of bed and headed for the public baths. Freshly washed and in a clean shirt, he felt better than he had for weeks, though his muscles ached a little after two days of hard riding. Joan must be so sore… no, best not to think about her.
He walked into the garrison yard to find no one about but a group of astonished stable boys. Musketeers were night-owls by preference: long evenings on guard duty while the king amused himself at court, and leisure time spent carousing in taverns didn't lend itself to early rising. He spared the lads one hostile glare, and then went to look at the lame gelding he'd ridden yesterday. He ran a practised hand down the injured leg – the horse was still favouring it, and the joint was warm and a little swollen. The improvement since last night was marked, and the beast should be sound again within the week. Treville wouldn't be faced with the expense of replacing it. He checked each of the horses in turn, then moved on to a minute inspection of every item of tack. Who knew when a man's life would depend on the strength of his stirrup leathers or girth?
He was a soldier, making sure that his horses and equipment were in perfect condition. He had every reason in the world to be in the garrison. Duty was the only thing that had brought him here. Besides the others wouldn't be up for hours yet, so they'd never know. It wasn't like he was going to see her.
The stable boys had stopped their normal morning jobs and were huddled in the corridor outside the tack room. He couldn't hear their conversation, but the puzzled glances in his direction gave him a shrewd idea of the subject.
The clatter of wheels and hooves on cobbles announced the arrival of a cart in the yard. The wagon was here to smuggle Joan and the children out of Paris. They were going to transfer to a coach a couple of miles from the gate and re-enter the city to start their new lives. Treville had arranged everything, and Athos had it plain he didn't want to know any of the details. As the noise of the cart stopped, and footsteps sounded in the yard, Athos froze, wracked by indecision. It was hopeless, and there seemed no point in tormenting himself with feelings that had no future. But surely, as a gentleman, he at least owed her a respectable farewell? She had been so brave.
"Ohhh," said a voice from the huddle in the corridor, in the unmistakable tones of a teenage lad who has discovered a dirty secret. A chorus of frantic shushes and smothered laughs followed. Athos closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He'd borne the teasing from Aramis and Porthos for years. Now he was an object of amusement for a gaggle of lads who were still hoping for the first fumbling attentions of whatever scrubby scullery maid they managed to bamboozle. He treated the boys to a glare that made them scatter and busy themselves with their neglected jobs, then stalked into the yard.
Joan and the children stood at the back of the cart with Aramis and Porthos. How those two had managed to drag themselves here at this ungodly hour… For a brief moment Athos hoped that he could just step back into the stable without being noticed, but Porthos waved him over with a broad grin on his face, and Aramis (who would be repaid in full measure some day soon) smirked and winked at him from behind Joan's back.
She wore a simple black dress, suitable for a widow on a long journey. The tightly-laced bodice clung around her slender waist, and though the modest neckline was in keeping with the mourning colour of the gown, the slight swell of her breasts were visible above the soft fabric. Athos swallowed and dragged his eyes up to Joan's face. Someone had pinned up her hair for her. Thérèse, he hoped, though perhaps it had been Aramis. He had no doubt that Aramis had supplied that damnably distracting dress. Joan smiled at him, and he couldn't help smiling in response. Behind Joan, Porthos grinned like a fool and elbowed Aramis in the ribs.
"I'm glad to see you again Monsieur," she said, "I didn't have the chance to thank you yesterday."
Her eyes held his, and he couldn't help wondering how she might have thanked him. If things had been different. He hadn't always been this stupid, shuffling wreck of a man. Back before he met Anne, before his marriage and his life had gone to hell, he'd known how to talk to women. He remembered how her body had felt, tucked against his chest on the ride yesterday. She'd been all bundled up in her boy's jacket and scarf then. Now her throat was bare and her hair pulled back to show the long, smooth line of her neck. Aramis coughed and Athos realised that he had been standing there, staring at her like a fool for far too long.
"No need for thanks," he said, wishing his voice didn't sound so hoarse. "I… we all did our duty." Aramis winced and cast his eyes heavenwards and Porthos shook his head in despair. Joan tilted her head slightly, staring at him as though she were trying to puzzle him out.
"Come on," said Porthos, breaking the awkward silence. "Time you were leaving." He bent and lifted the children into the wagon in turn, settling them into the gap that had been left between the crates. Someone had found Luc and Clotilde new clothes too, smart black outfits befitting their new identities as the orphaned offspring of a respectable provincial merchant.
Joan scrambled up behind the children, nestling herself between them. Aramis and Porthos lifted more crates onto the back of the wagon, hiding them from view. As soon as the rough sailcloth cover was tied in place over the load and its hidden passengers, the driver shook the reins and the wagon rumbled into motion.
She was gone. Athos rubbed his forehead with his hand. Wine would feel really good right now. Aramis hadn't said anything against drinking in company. Perhaps he could persuade them to join him?
"Duty?" said Aramis. "Was that really the best you could come up with?"
"It was true," said Athos. To hell with the drink. The sooner he could get away from this conversation, the better.
"She practically threw herself at you," Aramis continued as if Athos hadn't even replied. "A fond farewell can stand you in good stead for later." He grinned suggestively.
"There isn't going to be any later," Athos pointed out. "Treville said we're to stay away from her, remember?"
Aramis shrugged. "I thought that was just a general guideline, more than an actual order." No change there then. There were a number of bets around the garrison about whether Aramis would meet his end on the battlefield, or at the hands of an outraged husband. To Athos's knowledge, Aramis had a stake in at least three such wagers (with instructions that any winnings should go to his parish church), and he always bet on a husband.
Athos shook his head and turned away. It was going to be a very long day.
TMTMTMTM
Treville stood at ease in front of the Cardinal's desk, flanked by Athos and Porthos. Richelieu concentrated on the papers spread in front of him, shuffling the sheets, running a long, pale finger down the neat columns of figures, pausing every so often to make a note in the leather-bound ledger at his elbow. It was theatre, nothing more—another of the petty shows of power that dominated life at Court. The Cardinal ignored his visitors, and the Musketeers (well practised at waiting through interminable Royal functions) stood impassive until he was forced to notice them.
"You wanted to see me Captain?" asked Richelieu. His voice was calm, almost bored, but his eyes were as cold and alert as ever. He knew Treville would not have troubled to bring witnesses for a trivial matter.
"I have news for you concerning The Circle."
The Cardinal leaned forward, all pretence of disinterest gone. "You told me all was lost," he said as his eyes flicked to Athos and then Porthos. "Am I to understand that your... subordinates failed to obtain accurate information?"
A soft, hissing exhalation from Porthos was the only reaction to this sally.
"We have discovered that Corday trained a successor," replied Treville, ignoring the slight on his men.
"He survived the attack?" Perfect. Let the Cardinal fall into the trap of his own assumption about the gender of Corday's heir. Joan and the children had returned to the city in their new guise of Thérèse's widowed cousin and her stepchildren. The longer the Cardinal looked for a young man alone, the safer Joan would be.
"He was away from the farm at the time," replied Treville. "When he returned and found the bodies, he left immediately. The killers had stolen all the horses, so he had to walk to Paris. He identified himself when he reached me."
The Cardinal stared at Treville, his hard eyes half-closed and hostile. "Such devotion to duty shows great promise. I would like to thank him… personally."
Now for the hard part. "He insists on remaining anonymous, as before."
"Really?" The Cardinal's hands were steepled in front of him, his fingertips just brushing his neatly-trimmed beard. Such clean hands, when you considered all the blood that they had spilled. "Hardly wise, in light of recent events."
"He will continue to run The Circle. I have taken steps to establish a new base of operations." A fine new town house on the Rue des Violettes to be exact. Ten years, he and Thérèse had been dancing around each other, without commitment on either side. Now he'd had to buy her a bloody house. Joan wasn't the only one making personal sacrifices; though he had to admit Thérèse had many wonderful (if exhausting) ways of showing her gratitude.
"The risk is unacceptable," said the Cardinal. "Enemies of France have disrupted The Circle once. This time, it must be better protected." His eyes drifted to Athos, raking slowly up and down the silent figure with open contempt.
Athos had a cooler head for that sort of insult than most men, but Treville knew better than to expose a soldier to outright provocation any more than he had to. Time for a distraction.
"It wasn't an attack on France," he said. "Not deliberately." He placed the little packet of documents on the desk, sliding it across to Richelieu with one finger. "I'll leave you to deal with this as you see fit—it's not a military matter."
"Oh?" said Richelieu, making no move to touch the bundle of papers.
"It seems that a local administrator was rather indiscreet with information about the plans for His Majesty's new fleet. A family of merchants wanted to keep the knowledge to themselves, for the sake of profit."
"The love of money," said the Cardinal, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "I will take steps to… discourage such initiative in the future."
That was one less problem to worry about at least. Anyone 'discouraged' by the Cardinal was never going to be a threat again—not in this life.
"Convey my compliments to your new friend Treville. And tell him I look forward to meeting him." The tone of dismissal was unmistakable, and Treville saw no reason to prolong the interview any further.