Chapter 24: Défunt.

The Cardinal's 'one condition' had been an escort of two Red Guard soldiers and it was just Louisa's luck that they should be keen and conscientious. She regarded them with chagrin as they walked one at either side of her, all-the-while watching every move she made from their peripherals. They had tried to glean her plan of action, asked her where it was they were heading to, but Louisa had met each inquiry with silence. If this was to be the way of things then she had conditions of her own, the utmost being her prerogative to remain silent.

At first she had taken pleasure in their bewilderment, summoning annoyance to their features with every indecisive footstep she took, each time she led them down an alleyway only to turn around and lead them back out again. She had managed to keep this up for nearly an hour when the smaller lighter haired man growled, gripped her arm and threatened to report to the Cardinal if she did not cease in her little game. She had managed to shrug him off with ease, fixing him with a murderous glare that said he ought not to have threatened her.

She made a move for the knife in her boot then, only to realise that it was not in its hiding place. Snippets of the scene at Levesque's invaded her mind and she all-at-once remembered the way her dark dagger had settled gracefully in Aramis' palms.

Defeated, she had grumbled an acquiesce and set a coarse for the man she wanted to see and the questions she wanted answered. Though she was sure that Porthos was a good man and likely to keep his promise of a favour, she could not be sure that he would have been permitted to protect the former Red Guard; Athos may have forbade it, Aramis and D'artagnan could have likewise dissuaded him.

It was a cold and jagged fear that wrapped itself around her when she finally did reach Gaspard's house. She suddenly found herself unable to breathe at the sight of chaos and commotion surrounding la maison. A large crowd had gathered outside and were spouting insensitive remarks and howling to see the body.

She forced herself into the throng, her passage hindered by the peasant fervour; hands gripped her shoulders and tried to force her back, selfish footfall caught her skirt and petticoat, halting her progression on several occasions. Eventually though, she clawed herself to the forefront of the throng and immediately wished she hadn't.

A cart was waiting by the porch, a skinny young lad and a portly man wearing grubby white stood by it. She knew what the cart meant and who the men would be. She steadied herself on the arm of a musketeer who was trying to keep the crowd back. He regarded her curiously, but the muscles in her neck would not allow her to meet his gaze.

Sudden movement from the doorway settled a murmuring hush upon the crowd. Two musketeers carried a shrouded weight between them, the body heavy and hidden, the white cloth sporting a single blemish of crimson.

She wanted to tear her gaze away, but she found she could not. She wanted to turn and run, but her muscles forbade it. She wanted to put the image from her mind and pretend she had never seen the body that could only have been Gaspard, but her mind's eye was already thinking on the dream she had had in that very house. She recalled the pistol in Perrault's grasp, watched the pellet burying itself in her saviour's chest, almost choked on the despair that the murder summoned.

She was granted a moment's reprieve from her thoughts as further movement on the porch shifted her focus. Two more men appeared in the doorway, stood a second to survey the body as it was arranged on the paupers' carriage. One appeared regretful but not personally so, the other possessed a more calculating demeanour, perhaps turning his thoughts to what he might do now that the man he had been assigned to spy on was currently unmoving beneath his shroud.

Before she could stop herself she lunged forwards, halted by the musketeer's arm that had only a moment ago given her support. She looked beyond him, ignored his instructions that she should keep back, honed her focus on the one man at the scene who might listen to her.

'Athos!' She called, watching the man's gaze lift, turn and scour the crowd for the origin of the cry. There was a catch in her throat that had hindered the volume. She cleared her throat to dispel it, tried again. 'Athos!'

She felt her heart splutter when the musketeer's eyes finally fell on her and for an instant they held surprise, disbelief, suspicion. She was acutely aware that instead of helping her, Athos might order her arrest and for a moment that felt like an age, he held her gaze and afforded no clue as to his intentions. Suddenly, his focus lifted. She watched him give a nod and panic descended, muscles tensed ready to make an escape. She felt the panic lift and the pressure against her lessen as the human barrier bent his elbow, raised his arm and let her pass.

There was no time to afford the man any gratitude; Even though the lumpen mass on the cart could be none other than Gaspard Renaud and the shroud hiding his face could mean none other than death itself, she could not help but to feel that if she spared the musketeer a moment, hindered her progression even an instant, she might lose the one vital trice that may see her close friend and guardian restored to life again.

She was at the cart in an instant. Shaking yet determined fingers reached upwards for the cloth, peeled it downwards in a sort of swift reverence. She knew what she would find beneath it, but there was no preparing her for the sight of Gaspard's unmoving, colourless face. The only consolation was that his countenance was unmarred. She recalled the swollen and bloody face of the fisherman and was at least grateful that Renaud had suffered less than he. There was only a slight reddening of the flesh at his neck that unsteadied her.

Someone in her vicinity cleared their throat to hurry her along and she lifted her gaze to find the stout man raising his eyebrows at her expectantly. She was too numb to protest and gently replaced the cloth, pausing a moment as the hem reached Gaspard's chin. She leaned in slowly, planted a tender kiss on his frozen forehead and restored the shroud to its original position.

The man gave a nod and the skinny lad obediently took up the front of the cart. She watch them turn and rattle away, the abrasive itch of moisture in her eyes.

'Au revoir, vieilami…' she breathed, '…aller avec mon amour durable et de gratitude éternelle.'

The street all at once grew quieter then, the crowd dispersing with nothing further to hold their collective gaze.

'I am sorry for your loss.'

The sentiment seemed genuine, wrought in familiar halcyon tones. She turned with a nod, made a vague swipe at dispelling the tears and steadied herself with a breath.

'Where's Porthos?' she ventured, 'Was he here?'

Athos opened his mouth to speak but another voice cut him off.

'Athos! I thought you said she was at le Chatelet!' The statement was gruff, accusing, gloating. There was no mistaking the man it belonged to.

The sound of his voice dried her eyes and sobered her mind. The images of her dear departed Gaspard were suddenly replaced by a tableau of daggers at Levesque's throat, swords in his gullet and pellets in his brow. She squared up to him, fixing him defiantly with no small amount of malice in her darkening orbs.

'She was.' Athos admitted.

'Then we should return her there!'

Perhaps it had been his intonation or perhaps she had caught a flash of movement as he reached for his sword.

Whatever it was, it had summoned an instinctive reaction. Before she knew it, there was a sword in the grip of her right hand, the point humming at Levesque's sternum. She was only half aware of Athos' shadow in her peripherals and she could not fathom whether he was bemused at the fact she had so swiftly relieved him of the blade at his belt or pleased with her intended reprimand of the hidden musketeer.

Levesque, though obviously startled by the woman's actions, tightened the grip on his own sword. However, before he could draw it more than an inch, she advanced. Levesque stumble backwards to avoid the sting of the foil piercing his chest. He caught his heel, tumble to the ground with his head only a few inches from the porch step. He stared up at her with calculating eyes, gave a laugh.

This unnerved her; she had expected to see panic etched into his features, not buoyancy.

'She thinks she can use a sword now.'

She flicked her wrist deftly, punished the musketeer's disparaging tone with an exemplary nick on his chin. A smile twitched at her lips as the man on the door step grimaced, wince and dabbed at the new wound with a tentative palm. She permitted the movement and returned the sword tip to Levesque's torso. She wanted him to test the shape and depth of the incision, wanted him to know that she could indeed handle a sword, that any further scornful remarks would be chastised precisely and promptly.

'Did Gaspard teach you that?'

She fought back her fury, quarrelled with the smog of incense suddenly behind her eyes.

'How dare you?' she found herself growling through gritted teeth.

The man at her feet winced then as she applied a slow and steady pressure on the sword.

'Elle...' Athos coaxed, suddenly appearing at her right shoulder. He slowly outstretched an arm, curled his fingers around her own on the hilt. Her gaze remained unwavering, the muscles in her arm loathe to relax.

'I say…' Levesque began, his breath hitching in his throat as the tiniest spot of blood eked out from beneath the weapon, '…good riddance to him…once less Red Guard dog to-'

The conclusion to the sentence was lost to an agonised cry from the hidden musketeer. The spot of blood grew as she leant harder on the hilt, her actions dictated by anguish and wrath. If she could not have Gaspard's murderer (for she was certain she knew who it was who had killed him) then she would settle for this cretin.

'Louisa…'Athos began again, a gently chiding quality weaving around her name, '…that's enough.'

She felt his fingers tighten around hers, the muscles in his arm twitch in an effort to prevent any further harm coming to his comrade.

'Come with me. Porthos and I have something to show you.'

His words were calm and reassuring and she was tired and mournful. Such a combination eventually bid her grip on the sword loosen.

She relented, allowing Athos to rethread the blade into its sheath, and turned, her focus heavy with lassitude and longing for this all to have been some terrible nightmare from which she might wake to see Gaspard's reassuring smile. She walked a little way off, pushing past her escorts who had been watching the events pass incredulously. She shot them a venomous scowl that said that she would not hesitate to strike them if they should continue to follow her and was glad to see the essence of apprehension in their brows.

Before he caught up with Louisa, Athos spared a moment to offer a hand to his fallen comrade. Levesque took it and rose to his feet. He lifted the hem of his shirt as soon as Athos had loosed him and ran a tender finger over the small puncture wound. It was nothing much and would heal soon enough, he was sure, but the damage to his ego was going to be harder to remedy.

'That woman is dangerous!' he hissed, setting his gaze and illustrating his meaning with a jabbing finger in her direction, 'I'll see to it that she is-'

Once again, his sentence was interrupted by a wince and he dropped his gaze to find Athos' gloved palm flat against his chest.

'I think it best that you not return to the Garrison. I'm sure that the Captain would agree that you are no longer fit for duty and should, hereby, be suspended from the ranks of the musketeers until such a time as he sees fit.'

'You can't do that! You're not the Captain! '

'That may be so, but when you threaten and provoke an interest of his, upon whom the safety of France depends, no less, then I am certain he would agree with me. What's more, if you resist his decision, I am also sure that he would not hesitate in making such a suspension permanent.'

Athos watched as the man before him gave a shake of his head in submission and pushed past him, an angered stride conveying him to his house.

Once he was certain that Levesque would be no further hindrance, Athos came alongside Louisa and the pair began a solemn and silent trudge towards the Garrison.