Chapter XXXIV...in which Athos still has his hands tightly wound around Michel's neck, and Anne and Aramis reluctantly part in the light of day...but take their time saying farewell...
CHAPTER XXXIV
Charlotte had been nervously hovering by the window of the kitchen, despite Porthos' best attempts to distract her. She had not even touched the delicious-looking scones that Serge had placed in front of them, slathered with butter right out of the oven. When she finally caught a glimpse of her father coming down the stairs, she was disheartened to see that he looked even more furious.
Standing behind her, Porthos put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "He'll come 'round," he said softly. "Once he gets to know Athos a bit, he'll realize how wrong he was to judge him so quickly—and so harshly."
"I wish I shared your optimism," murmured Charlotte pensively. At that moment, however, her attention was distracted by a commotion outside the Captain's office. As she looked up, her blood ran cold when she saw Athos grappling with Michel. The musketeer gained the upper hand quickly with a well-placed blow to the jaw, and had his adversary trapped against the railing on the balcony in an instant.
Reeling from the punch, Michel dropped his hands, trying to steady himself. Athos took advantage of the opening to close his hands around the apprentice's throat, leaning him backwards over the railing.
"Porthos, he'll hang if he kills Michel!" Charlotte had started to dart across the courtyard before the words were even out of her mouth, but Porthos was even quicker. For a big man, he moved with the grace of a cat, and had scaled the stairs to reach Athos' side in a matter of seconds.
He could not recall ever having seen Athos look so intense, so focused, and so full of hatred—even when he had confronted Milady in the square and had pretended to try to kill d'Artagnan. When Porthos first seized his arm, his friend threw him off with a powerful elbow to the ribs.
"Athos, leave 'im!" shouted Porthos in frustration. "He's not worth it!"
Athos' eyes were trained on Michel. "I want to watch him die."
He said it so quietly that at first Porthos was not sure if he had heard correctly. Michel was beginning to turn blue, and Athos turned to look at Porthos with a vacant look of desperate pain. "I don't want him to even breathe the air that Charlotte breathes, let alone touch her…and the thought of him marrying her and making love to her...I cannot…I will not allow it, Porthos."
"Athos!" The cry came from behind Porthos, and Charlotte pushed past him to plead with Athos. "Please, don't do this! This is not who you are. The warm, honourable, upright man I know would never kill someone vigilante style!"
Her words seemed to have little effect, and she dropped to her knees and clutched at the sleeve of his leather doublet.
"Please! If you have any feelings for me at all, stop! I could not bear to see you hanged like a common criminal! ATHOS! For me! Stop, I beg you!" Her voice cracked and she began to sob in earnest.
As if he had been released from a trance, Athos looked down to see Charlotte's panicked face. He stepped back, releasing his grip on Michel. The apprentice slumped to the ground, gasping for air. Pulling Charlotte to her feet, Athos drew her into his arms and hugged her fiercely.
"I will not let him hurt you." He then shouted, his voice trembling with rage, "Do you hear me, Michel? It is only because of her intervention that you still draw breath. Next time, I will kill you, make no mistake."
His hands were shaking, and Charlotte took them in hers to attempt to calm him. Turning to Bertrand, his voice resolute, Athos said with absolute conviction, "Mark my words, Monsieur, your daughter's spirit will be broken if you move forward with the foolish idea to wed her to this sorry excuse for a man. What kind of father wants to see his daughter sentenced to such a life?"
Bertrand, not intimidated, stepped forward and replied, his voice icy, "One who wishes to save her immortal soul. Perhaps the current state of affairs is my fault for not sending her to the convent as her mother had wished. Nevertheless, I will not see her involved with a musketeer whom I have just witnessed trying to kill a man who has literally supported my daughter and my business without complaint. Such steadfast responsibility marks a man of true honour, not your violent attempts at intimidation."
Taking Charlotte firmly by the elbow, he led her out of the garrison. As her figure receded into the distance, Athos kept his eyes focused on her until she was no longer visible. Once she had vanished, he put his hat on. "Captain. Porthos. I will see you for muster tomorrow morning. I intend to remain untraceable for the rest of the day. Do not attempt to follow or find me, as I will not be fit company for any human being for quite some time."
Striding out of the garrison at a purposeful pace, he quickly moved through the marketplace, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him. His mind, reliving the events of the past twenty four hours, led him on a circuitous route into one of the seedier quarters of Paris. Usually Athos was content to drink away his troubles with his friends within eye contact. However, on the few occasions when he was in such a bitter mood that he could not stand to even be near those he was closest to, Athos habitually came to a rundown tavern that he had stumbled across several years ago. At that time, he had been charged with investigating the murder of a dissolute nobleman who was one of the King's trusted advisors. The trail of evidence had led him straight to the Black Swan and the motley assortment of criminals who frequented it. Two hours and six bottles of wine later, he had been able to extract a confession from one of the customers, who had then found himself booked for an appearance at the scaffold.
The man whom he had arrested had been troublesome for the tavern owner for some months, and he was relieved to have his problem customer permanently removed from the premises. Motioning for Athos to join him in the wine cellar, he had whispered, "Wine on the house, whenever you want. Just don't wear the pauldron in 'ere. I don't want to get a reputation for caterin' to the good guys."
Athos had inclined his head. "Understood." Perhaps once or twice a year, he would make his way into the tavern and take the small table at the farthest end of the room. This particular table was near a drafty window, and was almost always left uninhabited due to the chill. For Athos, however, it suited him well to be removed from the action and warmth of the main part of the room. He would gather his cloak around him, pull his hat down low over his head, and drink steadily until he had entered such a state of oblivion that whatever had driven him to seek solace in a bottle was well forgotten. He filled his goblet, downed it rapidly, and drank another in quick succession. The pain in Charlotte's face when she left the garrison was still fresh in his mind, and he began to doubt that there was enough wine in France to make him forget her for any period of time.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
As the morning light crept insidiously into Anne's bedchamber, Aramis gazed at the sleeping Queen, who was cuddling their son, and realized that he had never been so unhappy to see a new day dawn. Despite his tendency to enjoy life's pleasures into the wee hours of the morning, Aramis was definitely a morning person, as was d'Artagnan. For the lad, it likely had something to do with growing up on a farm. Aramis? Well, he was just wired that way.
Watching the baby sleep in the arms of his mother, Aramis desperately wished that every day was like this. He finally roused Anne gently, and placed the baby in the bassinette. He coaxed her to tell him the whole story of the note in her prayer book and the marked passages in her Bible. When she had finished, he had felt a real, gnawing fear enter his soul. His face betrayed his thoughts, and Anne looked at him anxiously.
"I had started to think I had overreacted and that maybe it was a cruel prank… but you believe it is a real threat." Her voice was nervous. "How could someone know?" she blurted out. "It would be impossible. Only Athos was there to see anything."
Aramis looked at her, his deep brown eyes troubled. "There are two possibilities. One is that someone suspects the paternity of the Dauphin to be in question, but has no proof. This could be a strategy of sorts, meant to shake you up and provoke some kind of reaction or indiscretion. It would be entirely cruel and twisted, though."
"Not the King..." Anne said nervously.
"You told me you had lain with him—" Aramis paused, realizing how much he hated the thought of Anne even being alone in the same room with Louis, then continued on carefully "—within a week of when we were together."
"I did," Anne said fiercely. "God help me, I thought I would scream when he touched me. After having been loved by you in such a passionate, yet tender way, then going back to his bed-there is no other word for it than awful. But I was determined that he never suspect the child was not his—and the only way that could happen was by submitting to him."
"So he has no reason to have any doubts," said Aramis practically. "In any event, even if he did suspect such a thing—the King is many things, but subtle is not one of them. This is not his method of dealing with problems."
"Richelieu?" suggested Anne uneasily. "It would be more his style."
"Possibly, but why not just go to the King? It really does not have his signature on it either. Besides, this person has at least a passing familiarity with Scripture," he grinned, "—which is something I doubt our dear Cardinal has."
"The second possibility?" Anne asked.
"Someone has direct knowledge of us having been together."
"Impossible." Anne dismissed the idea outright.
"Is it?" he looked at her inquiringly. "After our third—or was it fourth?—round that night, I do recall actually dropping off to sleep. I doubt you remained awake all night-although I am quite certain that my skill at pleasuring you surely woke up every part of your body at some point."
She made a face at him. "On second thought, you and the King do have more in common than me—you both have extremely high opinions of yourselves."
He caught her hand and kissed it. "Ah, but that is only a problem when the object of our affections does not share that opinion…and I have no fear of that where you are concerned. You sang-or should I say screamed?—my praises quite a few times that night."
"You are incorrigible!" She rolled on top of him, the defined muscles of his abdomen sliding against her body in a way that never failed to thrill her. She kissed him along the curve of his collarbone, causing his dark, mischievous eyes to light up in delight, and he flashed her the seductive smile that had sealed her fate from the first moment she saw him. Anne looked at him indulgently, as if she were talking to a small child. "I must warn you that this morning, I am quite immune to your charms, Monsieur. I shall have to discipline you if you continue on in this fashion."
He laughed, taking a lock of her blonde hair and twirling it around his finger. "That tone of voice, my love, only works for its intended purpose if you are an old crone dressed like a sanctimonious governess. When a gorgeous woman is lying on top of me naked and saying the same thing, it conjures up quite a different picture in my mind-of discipline, that it." He grinned, swatting her bottom playfully.
"Well, don't be so sure you will be the one in control. I happen to know your Achilles' heel now," she said sweetly, sitting up and seizing one of his feet. "I had no idea you were so ticklish until last night."
Kicking his foot out from his grasp, he began to wrestle with her in earnest. She was surprisingly strong for a petite woman, but within a minute, he had forced her to concede she was beaten.
"If only defeat was always this pleasant," she whispered as his hands roamed over her.
Out in the courtyard, sounds began to be heard—grooms calling to one another, horses whickering, carts rolling across the cobblestones.
Realizing that he would need to leave soon to avoid prying eyes, he sighed.
"I hate to say it, but I-."
She put her fingers on his lips. "I know…but don't say it. I can't bear to hear it. This was so lovely. Perhaps—just once more? We have at least fifteen minutes before anyone comes looking for me."
"Anne," he said reproachfully, "We promised each other last night that we wouldn't make a habit of this."
"Alright, we won't," she agreed coyly. "We will make it a tradition instead."
Groaning at her stubbornness, he flipped her deftly onto her back. "I suppose I must be a slave to your directives, since you are the Queen of France."
"That's more like it," she replied in a soft voice, smiling at him with a speculative look in her eyes. "And in fact, I have some fairly explicit instructions for you, but remember-the clock is ticking. So try not to get too creative."
"Your wish is my command," he murmured, and then listened to her attentively, his grin widening.
Next time...Milady begins to put into motion her plan for Athos' destruction.