Greetings, all. Many thanks, as always, for reading and commenting on the last chapter. The intrigue continues as Athos goes off on his own in pursuit of Gallegos.

CHAPTER 42

I

For a man who was recently arrived in Paris, supposedly for the first time, there was no hesitation on Gallegos' part as he moved with some speed towards his destination. As he was not a tall man and, consequently, suffered a shortness in the legs, his small, precise steps gave him an odd, mincing gait that would have rivalled the most affected of the French courtiers. He definitely knew where he was going and had probably studied a map of the city's streets.

He was also blissfully unaware that he was being followed by one of the King's own Musketeers. Head down and cloak pulled tightly around him, Gallegos was doing his best to conceal his Spanish garb. He must have been conscious of the mixed feelings towards his countrymen that many ordinary citizens of Paris felt, despite their having a Spanish Queen.

It made Athos' job an easy one as he moved stealthily in the shadows, for not once did it occur to the Spaniard to look around to see if he were being followed. Fortunately, he was not straying too far from the Louvre as it was just over ten minutes later that he ducked unnecessarily through the low doorway of a tavern, for he was in danger of striking his head.

It was one of the older Paris establishments and although Athos had visited it a number of times, he had not had occasion to cross its threshold as patron for more than a year. It boasted a new proprietor who was keen to develop a better class of clientele in its position close to the palace and the river, and a freshly painted sign outside heralded the tavern's new beginnings as it also bore a different name; Saint Julien, the patron saint of hospitality.

Bertrand was not foolish enough to think a courtier might give him their custom, but he hoped to attract some of the palace staff and was rewarded for his efforts when some of them began to drift in at the close of their duties. He was certainly quick to shout for assistance if any dubious riffraff visited and started any trouble so, occasionally, Athos and his brothers had been dispatched from the garrison to restore peace.

Unfortunately, the place had also become a drinking haunt for some of the Red Guard, which was another good reason to avoid it. 'Differences of opinion' between the Musketeers, especially the Inseparables, and Richelieu's men had become legendary, for all the wrong reasons.

As Athos lowered his head to avoid injury on entering, it crossed his mind, not for the first time, that one welcome renovation would be to raise the height of the doorway. The tavern dated back to the medieval period but surely there must have been individuals taller than this entrance warranted! The frame did not even carry a warning sign for those oblivious to the imminent danger.

Glancing quickly around him, Athos noted two things. Firstly, there was no sign of any Red Guard and he breathed a sigh of relief for he did not want to attract any unwanted attention that might hamper his task. It was probably too early in the evening for them to be out imbibing and also, with the Ambassador's visit, they would have been on additional duties, as were the Musketeers. Secondly, Gallegos had sat himself in the farthest corner of the room and was facing the door. Thankfully, just as Athos spotted him, he was distracted by a serving girl delivering a drink so that he had not noticed the Musketeer enter.

Athos moved to a table against the opposite side wall so that he could keep an eye on both Gallegos and the door. The place was not too busy yet and he had an uninterrupted view of the man he was watching.

"Not seen you for a while," said a gruff voice. Bertrand hovered by the table. "What can I get you, Musketeer?"

Athos ordered a red wine and sat back in the lengthening shadows, happy that few tallow candles and lamps had been lit so far.

Bertrand returned with the wine and, as he set it down, Athos reached for his coin purse, but the man waved it away.

"On the house. I remember you from when you sorted out that trouble in here last month."

"Thank you," Athos replied, remembering the incident well. A market trader had had a bad day – or week – and had drunk himself into a belligerent state, taking offence where none had been given and initiating a fierce brawl that had involved most of the patrons, so that Bertrand and his tap boy had been unable to manage it on their own. As Athos recalled, there was significant damage to tables and benches but, looking around now, there had been some good repairs.

He took a mouthful of the wine and winced involuntarily at the tart flavour, suspecting that he had not been rewarded with a good vintage. Thank goodness he had not had to part with any money for it. He was wondering if he dared insult Bertrand by ordering something else when a new man paused in the open doorway, looked around, spied Gallegos and crossed the room to join him.

Athos watched them carefully. From their easy manner, this was no meeting of strangers; they had encountered each other before. Their conversation was intense, secretive though, as they leaned across the table towards each other and kept their voices low. Athos would have loved to have been nearer but realised that there would have been little point for he would not have understood their conversation. The newcomer was dressed as a civilian and was not in the clothes of a poor man. There was something about him, his colouring and bearing that informed Athos he was another Spaniard.

Time dragged by and he sipped at the wine, schooling his features to hide his disappointment. It would have made his scrutiny a little more pleasant if he had something that was drinkable but at least it meant that he could make it last. He was, after all, on duty, and needed to maintain a clear head.

The two Spaniards obviously had plenty to discuss but, eventually, Gallegos retrieved something from beneath his cloak and slid it across the table. A moneybag. The recipient pocketed it, stood, bowed a brief farewell and headed for the door, passing a little closer to Athos' table than before. The failing light of evening meant that more lamps had been lit and an influx of patrons were blocking the man's easy exit.

The Musketeer had deliberately not removed his hat on sitting down and, from beneath its lowered brim, he had a brief but perfect view of the man as he left. Definitely Spanish and easy to remember with the ugly scar that puckered the skin from the corner of the left eye, across the cheek bone and down to his chin.

Now Athos had a dilemma. Should he follow the scarred man or Gallegos? He was only one man after all, and he rued the fact that none of his brothers was with him. Swiftly, he made a decision to ensure that Gallegos returned safely to the palace; it was the more obvious way of reducing the risk of an international incident should anything befall the little man.

II

Tréville knew that the food before him was excellent but he could not distinguish any of the flavours. Such was the turmoil of his mind that he could have been eating paper for all he cared.

Richelieu had quickly noticed his distracted air and demanded to know what bothered him so he had explained about the obvious lie regarding Gallegos and what could be read into the situation. They had surreptitiously continued a conversation, relieved that neither of them was expected to maintain small talk with other diners or any of the royals and their guests. The Queen and Ferdinand were kept busy acting as interpreters between Louis and de Calatrava.

It was Tréville this time who was the first to notice one of his men standing in the doorway where Porthos had earlier been waiting for him. Now it was Aramis' turn and Tréville was relieved to see Brondate at his side, although the Spaniard was looking somewhat sheepish and his complexion was a curious grey colour.

Louis was not so happy when Tréville sought to excuse himself from the table again.

"Surely your men can cope with something on their own, my dear Captain." The words 'my dear' were heavily laced with royal sarcasm. "After all, they are supposedly my élite regiment! Is it too much to hope that they can think for themselves on occasions?"

Tréville bit back a retort. It would not do to antagonise the King, so he smiled apologetically. "Regretfully, Sire, there are some garrison matters that have to be dealt with as soon as they arise as do any matters of security," he added pointedly, praying that Louis would pick up on the comment.

He did as there was a momentary flash of panic in the royal features but, to give Louis his due, it was quickly suppressed.

"Then you have my permission to leave – again," Louis said tersely and turned his attention back to his full plate, not seeing or blatantly ignoring the Captain bowing and moving from the table to join Aramis.

"How is he?" Tréville demanded, the slightest inclination of the head indicating Brondate.

"He'll live," Aramis answered in a whisper. "What about the meeting with the Ambassador?"

"I told him that you and the Captain here were walking the route of the procession to get the lie of the land. You'd better tell him that so you both have the same story, should there be any need. Will there be a problem with that?"

Aramis glanced at Brondate who stared worriedly at both of them, not understanding a word that passed between them.

"None whatsoever. He is hardly going to admit to being drunk when he is responsible for the Ambassador. I am sure he will go along with anything I say for a quiet life," and he smiled encouragingly at the Spaniard.

"I look forward to hearing everything you have to say about this incident; from what I heard from Athos via Porthos, it could be very interesting." Aramis nodded and Tréville knew that he understood the implication. "I have said that I want to see the three of you back in my office at midnight. In the meantime, you are going to have to act as my interpreter with the Ambassador. I have my own trust issues now and need reassurance that Brondate will translate accurately for de Calatrava. The meeting is rescheduled for after this meal."

III

Porthos had scoured every tavern and alleyway within a fifteen-minute walk from the Louvre. He had checked darkened buildings, both front and back, to ensure that they were all securely locked and had even crossed the bridge to walk around Notre Dame but of Athos and Gallegos there was no sign. He was not sure whether to be relieved by that or not, but he was tired and very hungry. When he heard bells striking the quarter hour, he knew he had only forty-five minutes to get back to Tréville's meeting in the office and, as his stomach grumbled relentlessly, he knew he would have to eat. The Captain was no doubt right; Porthos had missed Athos somehow and the swordsman was probably even now safely back at the garrison.

He turned his steps towards home, for that was how he had long regarded the garrison. It was where he laid his head when not on a mission but, more importantly, it was where his brothers were and that knowledge imbued him with a strong feeling of contentment.

He had not gone far when he saw a familiar figure striding towards him, and his heart sang with relief.

"What are you doing out here?" Athos asked as he approached.

"Looking for you," Porthos admitted.

There was the characteristic eye-roll, a trait that spoke volumes but this time it was accompanied by a fond twitch of the lips.

"Are you that convinced that I will only find trouble?" Athos asked as they fell into step together.

"More likely that it'll find you," Porthos corrected. "D'you have a successful evening?"

"Oh yes," Athos said, suddenly growing serious. "Gallegos, at the very least, is up to something."

"An' as the Ambassador covered up for 'is absence at the banquet by tellin' an outright lie, we can safely assume de Calatrava is in whatever it is right up to 'is ears."

"I have a horrible feeling that you are correct and all we have to do now is find out the what, the where and the when," Athos agreed.

"Shouldn't be too difficult then," said Porthos lightly.

When Athos shot him a sideways look of incredulity, Porthos guffawed and slapped his brother firmly between the shoulder blades in a friendly gesture, nearly knocking him off balance. It only served to make the big man laugh louder as the pair increased their speed, eager to return to the garrison. It had already been a very long day and it was not over yet.