BLUE BLOOD
A/N: I am pleased to bring you my new story, "Blue Blood."
It is always with some trepidation that I post new stories - of any length. I am sure a lot of fan fiction writers feel that way. We research, write, edit, rewrite, re-edit, and in my particular case, then cut and paste all the "conversations" that I drop all over the notebook I write in, as they come to me, so that they are in the right order. That's after I transcribe my notes, which are written in shorthand. I know, what's shorthand I hear some of you ask. I had that recently from a young family member. Then I write the rest; descriptions, backstory etc. etc. However, thinking I'm finished, I forget I have to write all the little scenes that come to mind when I am walking the dog, or shopping. There can be a lot of those.
Of course, I need to make sure the plot is feasible and workable and also that there are no twenty-first century words that sneak into seventeenth century France (OK? - one of my personal bugbears. And Musketeers don't have "lightbulb moments" or experience a "train wreck" of a mission so I have to be vigilante because I don't like to read it, so I try hard not to write it). Then, of course, there are the loose ends, all of which serve a purpose, but all of which must be picked up and dealt with. By the time I am ready to post (I like to finish the story before I do), the story is so familiar there's a fear it's boring, so I have to constantly remind myself that the dear reader has not seen it before. All I have to do then is post it and wait. That is even more nerve-wracking for an already tired brain which has had to stay up late most nights, because, basically, I do.
So, yes, I am pleased to bring this to you and hope you like it as much as I enjoyed bringing it all together for you. Oh, and isn't spell checker great?
I just thought I would share all that with you. I won't mention it again.
So onward, shall we?
PROLOGUE:
The Huguenots deferred to the Reformed or Calvinist strain of Protestantism, reflecting the beliefs of many other Protestant strains that were expanding throughout Europe. Those beliefs removed much of the Catholic traditionalism that the majority of France adhered to. They believed in the light of Christ. Thus, they were soon labelled as heretics.
Retribution came in 1562, when three hundred Huguenot worshippers were attacked while worshipping in a barn near the village of Vassy. Some six hundred were killed and over one hundred wounded.
It was the beginning of a crusade against all Protestants. A fragile peace did not hold and the purges continued under Catherine de Medici, which left seventy thousand dead, slaughtered like animals.
This was done in the name of the Catholic Church, which believed itself the only true upholders of the Christian faith.
The Huguenots were forced to either convert to the teachings of the Catholic Church or flee the country.
Within this history, two young people met and fell in love.
Unbelievably, one, Marie, was a Huguenot and the other, Antoine, a Catholic. They practised their religions indoors and never spoke about it for fear of retribution for it was a rare, almost unknown thing. When the Third Huguenot Rebellion threatened France, their lives were shattered. They tried to flee but were caught. Trapped in their small house with their two young boys by a baying mob, whipped up by a twenty-strong group of men, they knew they could not escape.
Unaware as to whether their persecutors were Catholic or Huguenot, they drew their sons toward them. Antoine implored his elder son to swear to protect his nine year old brother and they sent them out into the night in the clothes they wore and the food Marie was able to hastily put into a sack. She told them to flee and not look back, their parents intention to give them time to escape.
The boys though, in terror, turned back in time to witness their parents brutal death at the hands of the mob within the dark confines of their cottage, before the flames took hold and it was destroyed.
Running for their lives, they accepted help from a man who took them to an old couple, the Duchamps. They, in turn, got them away and into the countryside, telling them once more never to speak of their beliefs to anyone.
For there was a dichotomy. The youngest child was his mother's son and the elder, his father's and their beliefs, though not strong, were in accordance with their favoured parent. They had watched their mother worship in her own way and their father with his more formal Catholic style, little understanding the huge difference but knowing they were never to speak of it.
Marie and Antoine were tragic figures who died because of their beliefs and because they fell in love.
The mob searched for the boys, spurred on by the pack of men who initiated the search and the ultimate punishment, but to no avail. The old couple had disappeared and the boys were cared for until the couple's death.
Ten years went by. The boys eventually went their own ways, keeping in touch loosely, aware as they grew older how little they had in common, apart from an oath given to their father.
Neither though, could escape the turmoil that religion and war wrought on France. Each emerged from boyhood damaged, one with the potential to bring down the country. There was one person, though, who had known where they were and who had bided his time.
oOo
The Present
1632
Chapter One:
"You are outnumbered, Musketeers. Go now," the man shouted down through the hole in the floor above them. "Though one of you stays."
The three Musketeers stood on the floor of the derelict warehouse, looking up through the ruined floor above through which they could see a ring of men staring down at them, their weapons trained on the three Musketeers and their trainee, Athos's protégé, d'Artagnan.
"No!" Aramis shouted, taking a step closer.
A shot rang out and a musket ball hit the floor to the right of his foot.
"Then you will all die here," the man said, calmly, as several men appeared behind him and raised their weapons, pointing them down through the hole.
Silence fell. A few moments later, Athos spoke.
"Lower your weapons," he said quietly. Not to the men above, but turning to look at his brothers – giving them an unblinking stare they all recognised.
After a few very tense moments, they did so. Aramis replaced his pistol in his belt and Porthos and d'Artagnan re sheathed their swords.
At the same time, four men appeared in front of them, on their ground floor level.
Athos began to unbuckle his weapons belt.
"Athos, no!" Porthos growled, his voice urgent.
Athos raised his eyes to them once more, holding them still.
"You know what to do," he said. He slowly removed his hat, before running a hand through his hair twice. Aramis recognised the signal, giving him a reluctant nod;
Let me go. Stay alive, was his unspoken message. Find the threat and dismantle it, the instruction.
They did not like it, but they would obey Athos, their de facto leader. There was no alternative. They were outnumbered and Athos was buying them time. He was offering himself before any of them could, because he would then have to overrule them. They would protest, but they would accept it.
"Come the day," Athos said softly.
He handed his hat to Aramis and then he turned and walked toward the four men.
"Don't think about following us," their leader said. "Or we will return him in pieces."
"Hurt him and we will hunt you down," Aramis hissed, every muscle in his body tense.
Porthos reached up and squeezed his shoulder, his other hand firmly holding d'Artagnan by the arm, the young man coiled like a new spring.
"All for one," Aramis whispered, softly.
With a slow glance upward to the men above them, Athos nodded and turned back briefly and called over his shoulder;
"Tell Rochelle not to wait for me."
And with that, the four men surrounded him and they left. After a few tense moments, half the men above lowered their weapons and stepped back, disappearing into the shadows before melting away. The rest kept their weapons trained on the Musketeers below, until they too, stepped back and were gone.
"Damn!" Porthos cursed, as they were left standing, shocked and dismayed; three, where once there were four.
"Who's Rochelle?" d'Artagnan asked, staring at the door through which Athos had disappeared.
"Not here," Aramis replied, his voice low with frustration and anger.
"So, what do we do now?" d'Artagnan asked, deferring to the older men as they walked cautiously outside.
Aramis continued to walk, deep in thought as the others followed him. The gang had left, taking Athos with them. There was no use trying to follow or their brother's life would be forfeit. And anyway, Athos did not appear to want that. He had seen something, Aramis knew. Something that made him make the decision that he had.
"We do what Athos told us to do," Aramis replied, as they reached their horses, tied up outside a tavern two streets away.
"We continue the search that brought up all here," he continued, as he pulled on his gloves. "Athos will be gathering information on the inside. We need to report back to the Captain. But first, we need a drink."
"A drink!" d'Artagnan cried, coming to an abrupt halt and looking ready to hit someone.
Porthos reached out and placed a heavy hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder.
"This is now more than reconnaissance," he said. "This is a mission."
"Yes, to rescue Athos," d'Artagnan said, urgently.
"And protect their Majesties. Those men are part of a network."
"Athos said all that?" d'Artagnan said, as they walked into the tavern.
"You bet," Porthos said, his eyes taking in everyone in the bar. "He said, "Come the day. That's our confirmation."
"He said more," Aramis said, dropping Athos's hat on the table and staring at it.
"What?"
"That is the problem," Aramis replied. "I don't know."
"Is the hat a signal?" d'Artagnan asked, staring at it.
Porthos huffed;
"No, it's just a hat."
d'Artagnan grinned sheepishly, but Aramis was frowning.
"Hats mean business," Aramis said. "I believe he's telling us he'll fight his way out if necessary.
To be continued …