XXX - Brothers in Arms

Bernajoux and Cahusac waited on the Rue St. Honoré outside the gates, just as Jussac had instructed them. They were silent, one out of habit, the other because of an old throat wound. There was nothing to say, all the talking wouldn't have changed things; Sorel had done something foolish and would suffer the consequences tonight.

Somewhere nearby, a night watchman proclaimed the eleventh hour of the evening. The singsong of his verses echoed through the alleys without finding a real hearing and soon his horn faded away. He continued his rounds, the regular thumping of the halberd on the street departed. It almost seemed as if the nightwatch suspected the impending punitive expedition and left the field to the Cardinal's guard.

Bernajoux scratched his scarred nose and looked at Cahusac. The senior soldier kept his eyes on the light cone of a street lamp with an expression of utmost concentration, as if he were mentally occupied with one of his mathematical problems. A decisive idea for a solution, however, did not seem to come to him. Bernajoux grumbled something unintelligible and then lapsed into silence again. If even Cahusac's wealth of experience was not enough, to have been through a similar situation before, there was really no more advice.

It had to be Sorel, of all people. He had come to them two years ago, a fledgling from the province, nothing but nonsense and dreams in his head. A lanky lad who often enough stumbled not only over his own feet, but also over his pertness. He was full of confidence and ambition to make a name for himself without family influence. They took him under their wing, with that paternal rigour that Sorel could chafe at. He had grown into a talented guardsman, one who already had his officer promotion half in his pocket; and now he had bitterly disappointed his teachers.

Bernajoux had clenched his fists under the table as their lieutenant reported everything and then said what to do next. Jussac spoke true that the responsibility for Sorel's misconduct fell upon them all. Even d'Artagnan seemed affected. He, too, had believed in Sorel to the last, had participated in his training with finishing touch. He had not handed him over to Rochefort, instead he sat at the table with his new comrades and held a council of war. In the end, Sorel's fate was decided.

Bernajoux looked to the gate as Cahusac stirred beside him. It was time, Jussac and d'Artagnan strode towards them. Side by side, as if it had never been otherwise. Both wore stony expressions; two lieutenants who did not like what they had to do next. United in the hope of averting the worst of the damage. They didn't need to give marching orders, Bernajoux and Cahusac joined and backed them up.

They formed a discreet ronde, only the men from the innermost circle. It was a strange picture, Biscarat was missing. Not for very long. They had left the first streets behind them, enveloped only by the dim light from Cahusac's lantern and their footsteps muffled by the mist creeping from the Seine, when, as quietly and fluidly as a shadow, a fifth man joined them. Biscarat appeared so suddenly beside Jussac that Bernajoux was not the only one to instinctively reach for his sword. The men relaxed, their weapons not drawn, when they recognised the Gascon. Away from the Rue St. Honoré, the side streets lay pitch-black and impenetrable to all gaze. Biscarat might have been following them unnoticed for quite a while. He was not the only one, a murmured word to Jussac, a barely perceptible nod in reply. Rochefort had certainly not let them go alone.

Biscarat raised his voice and announced for all and sundry to hear, »Sorel and his damsel have left the house.«

Jussac nodded grimly. »Which way?«

»Rue de la Vieille Boucherie

A street below the Pont Neuf, towards the old town wall. Out of Paris by what seemed the shortest route. It was almost too easy. »We'll intercept them.«

They continued on their way in fives, watched by furtive eyes. Biscarat had only noticed a single agent - because he wanted to be noticed. The guardsmen were supposed to know that their every step, every deed, every conversation was being watched. There was no escape for Sorel, even if they had wanted to help him.

The houses closed ranks as the ronde advanced. Rue de la Vieille Boucherie had once been an important trade route long before Paris had grown beyond the old town boundaries. Today it was just one narrow, densely built-up alley of many. It was barely good enough for a quick connection between two main streets and was quite tranquil to look at during the day. Ivy grew on the buildings, the windows were decorated with carvings, blessings had been written over the doors. Time seemed to stand still here, the houses were crooked and hunched due to the decades that had weighed on them. In the all-encompassing darkness, the glow from Cahusac's lamp seemed like the last revolt before the dead rest. He extinguished the light and the guard was swallowed by the night. They waited.

A faint glow from the other direction finally caught their attention. An unsteady flicker that soon gained strength and threw the silhouettes of two people onto the fronts of the houses. A cavalier and his Mademoiselle. They turned into the street, unaware of the trap and their pursuers. The young woman clung to her lover's arm, her eyes wide with as much fear as trust. She was wrapped in a wide coat, her angelic blonde curls only poorly concealed by a hood. Although she seemed as fragile as a porcelain doll, lost in the real world and in need of protection, she took command; Her companion matched his steps to hers and when she pointed ahead, he swayed the lamp there. He seemed to listen to her every whispered word and did not urge her to hurry. The couple seemed to be on a romantic stroll, not on the run. Their attention was more on each other than the surroundings. It was their undoing.

Odette was the first to notice the Red Guard. Her breath caught, she winced and stopped. Sorel's hand immediately hurtled towards the sword hilt, he held the light higher and shouted, »Who goes there?«

The cone of light touched black riding boots. Odette hid in the back of her beloved and yet found no protection. They were surrounded, every escape route cut off. Sorel realised the hopeless situation when Cahusac's lamp flashed, revealing the guards. He took a firm stand, ready to fight tooth and nail. It was impossible to keep each of the men in view at the same time. Sorel quickly and appraisingly scrutinized the face of each. Their expressions were stiffen by determination, hidden behind it was silent regret. Jussac took a half step towards him, Sorel's head jerked towards him, every fibre of his body tense. Pressed, he said, »Mon lieutenant...«

»It's too late for that, lad.« The coldness in Jussac's voice left no doubt that all the words had been said, all the explanations and apologies uttered. »Surrender and His Eminence might show mercy.«

»Might!« Sorel snorted, and turned around to d'Artagnan, whom a movement towards Odette had revealed. Sorel signified to his beloved to stay close to him and demanded defiantly, »Let us go and no one shall be harmed.« He obviously wanted to stall for time while the pair was encircled tighter. Every second had to be used to perhaps still find a way out; or at least to enable Odette to escape. As long as there was still talking, hope was not entirely lost. It was pure desperation, nothing more.

Odette gently placed a hand on Sorel's arm, a wistful, tender smile on her lips. She silently asked him not to sacrifice himself and then spoke to Jussac. »I shall go with you, Monsieur. Obediently and without resistance.«

»Commendable.« snarled the Lieutenant, unimpressed, and signalled to Biscarat and Bernajoux. But before the two would have moved even a single step forward to take the duke's daughter into their midst, Sorel drew his sword and shouted, »Stay back!«

»Grégoire!« Odette shrieked as two pistols were immediately pointed at Sorel at close range. Bernajoux and Biscarat only waited for the firing command, no pity in their eyes for the traitor. The sword point twitched in front of them, Sorel could pierce one of them before falling himself. »There is no mercy waiting for me. No intercession in the world will change that. You must not go with them, Odette!«

The young woman trembled, her fingers noticeably shaking. But she broke away from Sorel and announced graciously, befitting a dame of highest rank, »It is not for you to decide, Monsieur.«

Sorel froze, turning white as a sheet. But his resistance was still unbroken, he held the sword firmly in his hand. Jussac bowed his head respectfully to the daughter of the Duke de la Nièvre. »A wise decision.«

He gave a brief signal and d'Artagnan approached Odette. She punished him with contempt for his polite gesture of offering her his arm and stepped away from Sorel without further prompting. Her last mistake that night.

D'Artagnan grabbed her and pulled her relentlessly towards him. At the same time, a flash of light hit her eyes, sparks flew. Only then did she hear the bang, see the smoke from Biscarat's pistol; the stunned expression on Sorel's face. He turned to look at her while the sword was already slipping from his fingers. The clang of the weapon as it hit the cobblestones was unnaturally loud. The lamp rolled next to it and came to rest on its side. A second shot echoed through the street. Bernajoux finished it, Sorel stumbled forward, then collapsed. The acrid smell of gunpowder wafted over to Odette and a scream escaped her throat.

D'Artagnan hugged her tightly, cradling her head at his shoulder, not allowing her to endure the sight. She did not resist, she fell silent with her heart bursting, cold as porcelain. The merciful unconsciousness never happened, while behind her Sorel was held in the arms of Bernajoux, who threw away his pistol. His scarred face was twitching in genuine grief.

Biscarat knelt by them, his hands ran over Sorel's body examining it, found two holes in the clothing. Blood. So much blood. A pool on the ground, their uniforms soon soaked. Spasms shook Sorel, Bernajoux held him and whispered soothing words. Then it was over. Cahusac lowered the lamp.

D'Artagnan peered over the frozen Odette to Jussac. The lieutenant of the guard wore a deadpan expression and permitted the friends to bid farewell to Sorel. The last breath escaped his lungs with a sigh. They had granted him the mercy of a quick death, saved him from an embarrassing interrogation and a dishonourable walk to the gallows. Sorel had known and asked for the last favour they could do for a comrade.

A shadow in a doorway moved, retreating discreetly. Jussac could make out bite marks on a cheek from the corner of his eye and snorted contemptuously. The report to Rochefort would only be completed with his own. He went over to d'Artagnan, who gently disengaged Odette's cramped fingers from his uniform. Her face was a proud mask, hiding all her discomposure and grief behind noble education and dignity. Standing tall, she let Jussac and Cahusac lead her away, back to the Palais Cardinal. Back to her family. The shadow followed them.

D'Artagnan looked at Bernajoux and Biscarat, who were still sitting by Sorel and talking quietly to each other. Sorel's eyes were closed, he was lying quietly, almost comfortably still in the arms of his comrades. His face seemed peaceful, as if he was listening easedly to the conversation. They had put the sword back in his hand as a last gesture for a fallen soldier. It almost seemed as if he would jump up again at any moment, cheerful and cheeky, and want to give d'Artagnan a headache.

The blood painted a different picture. D'Artagnan picked up the lost lamp. Bernajoux and Biscarat would take care of everything else, he was not needed here anymore. Biscarat looked up at him and frowned. »And now that all is done and said, you want to leave us?«

»Do I?«

»Indecisive.« stated Bernajoux aptly, with his usual monosyllabicity.

D'Artagnan did not feel like talking and shrugged. »We shall see.«

Biscarat eyed him appraisingly. »You should leave.« A fine smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. »Right now.«

He pointed to the end of the street. A figure stood there, wrapped tightly in a cloak. The wind played with her copper-coloured curls, carrying the smell of gunpowder and blood to her. She stared at the men, saw Sorel lying lifeless on the ground. Couldn't spot Odette in that picture. D'Artagnan uttered half an imprecation against Biscarat and ran off as Elise spun on her heel and fled.

Her feet barely touched the pavement, she almost flew over the joints between the stones. The hem of the dress beat against her shoes, robbing her of stamina with every step. Elise threw herself around every street corner, making unpredictable hooks to confuse her pursuer in the winding alleys. Alas, it was of no use to her. She wasn't the only one familiar with the area and knew every shortcut between Rue Férou and Rue des Fossoyeurs.

D'Artagnan called after her, at first insistently and then more pleadingly each time. It was no use, she turned around the next corner and d'Artagnan entered just as blindly into the narrow connecting alley.

Something got between his feet, he stumbled in mid-run and fell to the ground sprawled. He jerked his arms up just in time to absorb the fall, then convulsed painfully under a kick to his bruised ribs. It drove the air from his lungs, he rolled onto his back and saw a billowing hem of dress that caressed impossibly pretty ankles.

It was his last thought before his pistol was snatched from him. The barrel pressed uncomfortably into his stomach and Elise fulfilled her promise to shoot him.

Her cheeks were heated and her green eyes like floating islands. D'Artagnan counted the moments when Elise's face hovered over him, timeless and beautiful. The spell broke in a deafening bang, in choking smoke and sparking.

Elise coughed and dropped the pistol, staggering to her feet. Her back pushed against a house wall, she braced herself against it and stared in disbelief at d'Artagnan, stunned by her own act. She had shot him!

D'Artagnan lay very still and listened to his own breathing, his heartbeat. Strangely calm and even, as befitted for a brave musketeer. Or for a guardsman? The unbelievably cold burning through his whole body set in a blink of an eye later.

»Heaven's sake!« The curse lent itself perfectly to being shouted. That was why Jussac uttered it so often. It had jagged syllables, different from the habitual »By the Devil!« D'Artagnan tried both curses in union. »By heaven's Devil sake!«

An exquisite alliance they both struck up! The pain subsided, leaving a burnt smell on his clothes, scorch marks and reddened skin. An unpleasant burn blister probably awaited him. He sat up, wiped his doublet and looked over at Elise with a grim face. She blinked and completely forgot to run away again. Unbelievable how calm she was! She merely frowned and looked at the pistol. D'Artagnan pulled himself to his feet with a moan, reached for the gun, made sure it had cooled down and reattached it to his weapon belt. »Have you regained composure, or are you already reaching for my sword mentally?«

»Scoundrel!«

»Termagant!«

They stood furiously facing each other, but d'Artagnan secretly hoped Elise would let him comfort her as Odette had. The agitation of the last hours was visibly wearing at her, she was pale and exhausted. But she only seemed to be gathering new strength to escape again later. Lucky for him that she had lost her own pistol and used his instead. He raised his hands placatingly. »Let me explain.«

»Sorel is dead!«, she threw at him in a tearful voice. Annoyed, she wiped the tears away.

D'Artagnan nodded slowly. »The guardsman named Sorel lost his life tonight, indeed.«

Elise was confused by the strange wording. She contemplated while her gaze once again slid to his pistol. Over his unharmed appearance. »There was no bullet.«

»Only gunpowder. Jussac checked the pistols before we-« He never finished the sentence, for now he found Elise in his arms, relieved and infinitely angry with him at the same time. She snapped, »That was a silly plan! You said nothing about this

D'Artagnan stroked her hair soothingly and murmured, »For your protection. So that no one would see you, none of Rochefort's agents, you were not to be with us.«

»But the blood! So much blood...« Elise shuddered at the memory. »It wasn't Grégoire's at all?«

D'Artagnan snorted. »Biscarat's humour. He muttered something about Rochefort who generously allowing us time for such a manoeuvre. While you were out bribing a coachman, he visited the slaughterhouses. Swine's blood.«

Elise grimaced, half disgusted and half relieved of all fear. »So he's still alive.«

»Sorel is dead, Mademoiselle.« D'Artagnan sighed heavily. »You are next.«

Elise wriggled out of his arms indignantly and glared at him. »You want to turn the shot in this alley on me? I'm supposed to have died here?«

»Rochefort has fished a corpse out of the Seine that he could present to the Cardinal - and you still have a letter to the abbot of Noisy in your pocket.«

»Is that always your preferred solution?« Elise braced her hands on her hips and threw her head back. Her curls bounced jauntily. »Send women away to a monastery when they become too complicated for you?«

»Only once, many years ago!« defended d'Artagnan jokingly and with a bitter after taste on his tongue. He did not get a deserved slap. Elise had been cultivated by her service in the palace; only noble dames slapped, servants obeyed. Servants did not think and had no opinion.

But Elise had an opinion - and what an opinion! She took out the letter to the Abbé d'Herblay and ripped it up. »Think of something better, Chevalier.«

D'Artagnan could not withstand her gaze for more than the duration of a blink. »You are determined to stay in Paris? You are threatened with arrest or worse.«

»Odette needs a friend. You said it yourself. I'm going to accompany her as soon as father and uncle decided her fate.«

Elise's decision seemed unalterably made. D'Artagnan had no choice but to obey, and secretly he was glad of it. It was a selfish, foolish feeling of joy not to lose Elise tonight after all. Sorel would have laughed at him. »Then we'll have to hide you until then.« In a place where no one would look for her. Where it was too obvious and Rochefort's bloodhounds wouldn't dare to go. D'Artagnan smiled roguishly. »I know of someone who owes me his life...«