Chapter XXV: The Traitor

Successful crimes alone are justified.

- John Dryden (1631–1700) -

-o-

The Sixth of March, 1631. The countryside outside of Mestre, Republic of Venice.

In the end, their departure from Venice was as abrupt and without fanfare as had been their arrival to the city ten days before. To d'Artagnan, and he suspected to others also, it was a relief; he was not in the mood for ceremony or elaborate goodbyes, but was itching to get back on the road and closer to home. As soon as Leon had sent word that the Duke was leaving Venice in a few hours, the Musketeers had gathered their few, already packed belongings and had informed their hosts that they were leaving – immediately.

To the Monteverdis' credit, they were little surprised and didn't try to delay their departure. Athos had done his work well the day before; it seemed that their hosts had suspected that the Comte de la Fére would soon leave to follow his disobedient wife. D'Artagnan wondered how real was the irritation and moodiness that Athos' portrayed, if Milady's sudden secret departure and stealing of the treaties had affected his friend more deeply than he wished them to know.

D'Artagnan, to his own consternation, noticed that he himself hadn't remained unaffected; he was angry that Milady had managed to deceive them, and he was – perhaps unfairly – incensed by the fact that Louise had chosen to remain loyal to her mistress and had gone with the traitorous witch. Although, what else could the maid had done, as her entire livelihood very likely depended on Milady, he could not tell. He also still felt the sting of failure at having forgotten the crucial detail of the women being in Savoy until it had been too late. If only he had remembered sooner…But as Athos had said, what was done was done. They had all done mistakes during the mission, but now they had to focus on what lay ahead: the Duke's arrest and all of their safe return to Paris.

The midmorning had yet to turn into noon, when they arrived at the stable, where they had left their horses. The animals were excited to see them, no doubt having been bored at being idle so long and without their masters' care. D'Artagnan studied his own steed carefully, judging if the horse had suffered from any mistreatments or other calamity. Luckily, none was apparent and he paid the stable's owner the agreed sum without complaint. Then, without any further delay, the Musketeers gladly mounted their horses and rode out of town.

The walls of Mestre fell out of their sight and the gently sloping countryside greeted them. The signs of early spring were everywhere around them: green plants pushed up stubbornly from the brown earth, a few small flowers were already beginning to hesitantly bloom, and birds flew excitedly above the fields. The air was pleasantly warm and smelled fresh – a nice change to the ripe stink of cities and towns. D'Artagnan felt himself lighten, the oppressive atmosphere of Venice falling further behind him as they rode ahead. He knew that the most dangerous part of their mission was still to come, but couldn't help the almost gleeful feeling that was born of being back on the road with his trusted companions.

Just ahead of d'Artagnan, Athos was leading the group, sitting tall and straight astride his own horse. Although he had hardly exchanged any words during the ride, and d'Artagnan had a better view of his leather-clad back than of his face, Athos seemed more focused and calm than he had at any time in Venice. It gave him hope that perhaps this time his friend would get over Milady's latest treachery with less dire consequences than the last time, when it had taken Athos months to drag himself up from the darkly melancholy mood that had manifested in heavy drinking, short temper and even sharper laconic wit than usual. D'Artagnan had no wish to repeat the experience.

Behind him, Aramis and Porthos followed, their conversation purposefully carefree. D'Artagnan listened to their jesting with a grin, content to let the words weave a familiar camaraderie around their small group. He kept an ear out for any signs of fatigue and pain in Aramis' voice, and he would have turned around in the saddle more to check his still ailing companion, if he would have thought he could get away with it. But d'Artagnan knew such an action would only annoy Aramis, and besides, Porthos was no doubt already watching their friend like a hawk. There would be no chance that Aramis would suddenly keel over or ride himself into exhaustion.

Deciding that, for the moment, all was as well as it could be, d'Artagnan let himself enjoy his surroundings. For days, he had been forced to play in a twisted, dangerous game, shackled to a role that had given him little pleasure; now he could be himself again. D'Artagnan, the King's Musketeer. Not a lying spy or a false valet. More than that, he was going home. His heart beat faster just from thinking of Constance, of her sweet face and unfailing honesty. Had she missed him while he had been gone? Could that have been enough to change her mind, to persuade her to give them a chance to be together? He would give almost anything, if that were to be so…

Enticing thoughts about the woman he loved were brought to a sudden halt, when the travelers came to a junction on the road. It was the appointed place, where they would wait for the Duke and his entourage. A good spot for an ambush, the road was lined with tall, thick hedges on both sides, and in the middle, where the road forked into two, was a deep, muddy ditch. D'Artagnan eyed the pit with suspicion; he bet that someone would end up there. It just better not be him.

After being both the authors and recipients of many ambushes, the Musketeers knew their roles thoroughly and dismounted in silence, taking the horses to a safe distance away and settling out of sight on both sides of the road. D'Artagnan found himself half inside the bushes, the thorny branches pricking his skin distractingly. He resigned himself for a long wait; in his experience, the high and mighty were always behind schedule.

Aramis and Porthos had taken positions on the other side of the road, while Athos had settled a few feet away from d'Artagnan. They waited in silence, listening for any sound of approaching travelers. They waited, and the sun rose steadily higher. D'Artagnan's sharp attention towards watching the road started to wane, his thoughts turning into the man by his side. After a brief, silent debate with himself, he plunged ahead and voiced what he had wanted to ask ever since they had arrived in Venice.

"How is one supposed to properly press those damn shirts?"

The deep silence that greeted his question was full of incredulity. D'Artagnan could just imagine his friend's raised eyebrows and barely held-back grin.

"Yeah, I know, this is hardly the place, but it has been vexing me," he continued, unrepentant.

"I wouldn't know," Athos answered, smirk evident in his voice, "for I had a valet to do it."

"Was he better than me?"

"D'Artagnan –" Athos paused, letting the expectation for the coming quip build-up. "Almost anyone would have undoubtedly been better than you. Do not change careers, you are a lousy servant."

"I take that as a compliment." He smiled; it was good to banter with his friend again. It seemed that Athos' spirit wasn't so heavy as he had feared, wasn't dragged down into self-loathing and despair that could only be drowned in a large amount of strong drink. D'Artagnan wasn't sure how the circumstances of Milady's betrayal differed from the last time she had deceived his friend, but he took it as a good sign that Athos' reaction to it at least seemed somewhat different. Maybe he had gotten over her. However, there was no chance in hell that d'Artagnan was going to ask him about it. He wasn't suicidal.

Reluctant to abandon the jesting, he continued, "Belief me, those menial tasks were torture –", but the sound of hooves and men cut him abruptly short.

On the road, there were riders coming towards them.

-o-

Despite the fracture in his right arm, Aramis loaded his rifle quickly and efficiently; it hurt like hell, but that was life. The Duke's entourage was steadily coming closer, the horses trotting towards the junction on the road, where the Musketeers waited them with bated breath. The next few moments would determine whether they would return to Paris as victors or losers, alive or dead. They would see if their decision to trust Il Rosso would prove to be a wise or a foolish one.

A shrill whistle from Athos was all Aramis needed to step in the middle of the road, his weapon aimed unwaveringly at the approaching riders. Porthos stepped beside him, his own trusted musket ready to fire. The vanguard was taken completely by surprise; the two soldiers foolishly yanked their bridles, their horses rearing up and coming to an abrupt halt just before Aramis. The rest of the entourage was soon following suit, the Duke among them. Amid the chaos, Athos and d'Artagnan appeared behind the disorganized group, effectively cutting off their escape.

"Halt!" Porthos boomed, "In the name of King Louis!"

For a small moment the Duke's soldiers seemed to hesitate, perhaps weighing the pros and cons of the situation; their ambushers were not that many, but if they really had the authority of the French king…

"They are robbers and murderers! Fight them!" The Duke yelled, goading his men into action. He drew his rapier from the scabbard, but Aramis noted that Gaston stayed carefully in the middle of his escort, surrounded by men, who offered ample cover.

"Now, there's no reason to be uncivil," Aramis quipped. "After all, I'm sure we are all men of honor." Blood rushed inside his body, gloriously giving strength to aching muscles, banishing any feelings of weariness and illness. He stared at the richly-clad peacock atop his horse, knowing he would fight and win to get to the man. He would fight them all singlehandedly if he had to. That man was responsible for the torture he had endured – but more than that, the man was a traitor to France.

"You're mad," the Duke sneered, "you cannot win. There are only four of you against twenty."

"Count again," Porthos growled, and as if on cue, the Duke's entourage exploded into violence – amongst themselves. A man raised his musket and fired, killing a soldier next to him; another shoved his blade deep into the back of the nearest man. It was brutal and quick – the Duke and his soldiers were taken completely by surprise. Their comrades had betrayed them.

More than half of the men escorting the Duke were Venetians; his own soldiers in short supply, Gaston had resorted to loaning guards from his Venetian host Gonzaga. However, the men, who had been tasked with his protection, were really in the pay of the Inquisitor. They were led by Leon, the small statured spy, who observed the fighting around him with passionless calm.

The Venetians made quick work of the French soldiers, not showing them any mercy. Aramis felt a twinge of uneasiness at the sight of the butchery; he didn't agree that anyone, let alone his fellow countrymen, should be killed without first giving them a chance to surrender. And although they could have laid down their arms at the very beginning of the ambush, they couldn't have known that the real ambush was yet to come.

"Traitors!" The Duke hissed, looking enraged. He still sat atop his horse, face white with fury and fear. His men lay dead on the ground, and the Venetians surrounded him with loaded muskets, not giving him any opportunity to escape.

"I have never worked for you," Leon answered, sounding slightly amused. His companions stayed silent, looking anything but contrite. "He is all yours," the spy continued, this time addressing his words to Athos, who walked briskly to the Duke's side.

"We are the King's Musketeers, and we have been tasked to –"

"So this is what the famed Musketeers have resorted to," Gaston spat. "Working with spies and traitors of a foreign nation against the royalty of your own country."

"Your Highness, you are under arrest on suspicion of treason," Athos stated calmly, his face expressionless.

"You don't have any authority to arrest me!"

"We have the authority of the King." Athos took out the letter King Louis had given them, the letter which stated clearly that they had the authority to arrest any French citizen, even on foreign soil. He handed it out to the Duke, who upon gazing the writing, turned even paler.

"Now, dismount and disarm yourself," Athos ordered. It was clear from the tone of his voice that he would tolerate no opposition. The Duke of Orléans showed that he possessed some common sense – or more likely, self-preservation – and did as commanded, although with the most reluctant air imaginable.

Porthos had already moved closer to the pair, and now pushed inside the circle of armed Venetians, taking his place beside the Duke. It was his job to keep an eye on Gaston, while Athos 'searched' for the evidence. D'Artagnan and Aramis stayed where they were, at the front and the back of the gathering. They could quickly go on to the defensive and help their friends if needed. Naturally, they didn't wholly trust Leon and his men to leave peacefully once they had gotten what they had been promised.

Athos started going through the Duke's saddlebags, and Aramis tensed, watching the Venetians carefully. Would they notice Athos slip the documents amongst Gaston's things? Would they even care as long as they got the treaty?

It was the first time the Musketeers had planted evidence, and to all intents and purposes, it went smashingly. Athos didn't pointlessly drag it out, but drew the sheets of paper from the saddlebag and pretended to examine them briefly.

"What –" Gaston began, sounding astonished, but luckily quickly realized it was best not to continue. The light shove Porthos had given him might have had something to do with it.

"These treaties prove your disloyalty to King Louis and to France," Athos remarked sternly, looking straight at the Duke. "We are escorting you back to Paris, where you will face judgement for your crimes."

Without any hesitation, Athos then walked to Leon. "France gives its thanks to Venice for the help it gave to solving this matter." He handed the beady-eyed spy half of the papers – the real treaty – and put the remaining sheets inside his doublet. Unfortunately, it was just a fake document they had hurriedly made the night before to throw off any questions of the whereabouts of the second treaty. It would be of no help to them in Paris, for they couldn't very well present it as evidence of treason. But the Duke – and the Venetians – didn't know that yet.

Leon studied the treaty carefully, and after judging it to be authentic, grinned and tipped his hat to them. "Gentlemen, it was a pleasure doing business with you. However – don't come back." He whistled sharply and like a pack of hunting hounds, the rest of the Venetians turned to follow him.

Aramis watched as the men rode away, the pressure slowly easing around his lungs. The further the riders moved, the more he relaxed. When the Venetians had vanished from his view, Aramis lowered his rifle, suddenly feeling the sharp ache in his right arm.

"I have no idea where those papers came from!" The Duke exclaimed, indignant. "I have been framed! The King will hear about this!" Alone with the Musketeers, Gaston probably now felt safe enough to complain and protest.

"Oh, I'm sure," Aramis muttered, thinking that the journey home would be anything but pleasant with the Duke among their group. There already was a calculating expression on his face; Aramis didn't doubt for a moment that the man wasn't feverishly trying to find a way out of his predicament.

"Let's go," Athos urged, clearly wanting them to get moving towards France as quickly as was possible. Aramis agreed with him; they were courting trouble every moment they stayed on Venetian soil.

As d'Artagnan and Athos went to retrieve the Musketeers' horses, Aramis walked to each of the bodies on the ground, repeating a short prayer in his mind. They would have no time to bury the dead, but at least they could take care of the animals that, now without their riders, were milling around the scene restlessly. Besides, the extra horses would be of use; they could travel that much faster, if they changed horses every time the animals tired.

"Best not do that," Porthos suddenly announced jovially, "lest there be an unfortunate accident."

Aramis swiveled around to see the Duke bent towards the ground, obviously trying to get his hands on a dead man's rapier. Porthos, who kept holding the bridle of the Duke's horse, was aiming his musket at Gaston confidently with one hand. Despite his genial tone of voice, his eyes were hard and cold. Gaston froze mid-movement, slowly straightening up. He was intelligent enough to realize that Porthos would have gladly shot him without much provocation.

Aramis couldn't blame his friend; he knew it must have rankled Porthos fiercely that the Duke was unlikely to be punished for ordering his men to torture Aramis. They would have to settle for him to be convicted for his crimes against the King and France instead.

Something bright glinted in the corner of his eye; instinctively, without any thought, Aramis was already moving. He slammed into the Duke, throwing the other man out of balance. Just in time: the explosive sound of a shot hitting the ground beside them was deafening.

Aramis covered the Duke with his own body, his rifle lying uselessly some distance away. He couldn't remember dropping it. A horse was whinnying in fear, more shots were fired, and Porthos yelled, "Stay down!" Aramis had no plans to do otherwise; they had little enough cover in the ditch, where he and the Duke had somehow ended up.

The exchange of fire didn't last but a small moment that still seemed to stretch into eternity. By the time Athos and d'Artagnan hurried to the scene, the situation was already over.

"Single shooter, some distance away. I think I got him," Porthos growled.

"The Duke?" Athos inquired, sounding worried.

"Here," Aramis groaned and shifted away from the spluttering man half-buried beneath him. Everything in him ached and hurt and worse, there was fetid, thick mud in his mouth and face and everywhere.

"Are you alright?" D'Artagnan asked. The bastard was clearly trying hard not to laugh.

"Just peachy," Aramis grouched back, for once agreeing whole-heartedly with the Duke, who was spewing colorful curses in several languages.

It was going to be a long road back to home.