Chapter Three
Aramis was tasked with investigating the initial incident in the small chapel. The priest was sweeping the floor as he entered. Crossing himself, Aramis made his way toward him. At the sound of Aramis's boots on the flagstone floor, the priest looked up and took a step back, his sweeping forgotten.
"Forgive me," Aramis said, raising his hands. "I am Aramis, of the King's Musketeers. I believe you had an incident a few days ago? May I ask a few questions?"
The priest put his broom aside and waved Aramis to a nearby pew.
"Of course. There is damage to the door," the man said, "And what you see before you."
He nodded toward a long cupboard set against the stone wall. Arrayed on the top were two statues of the Virgin Mary, one small and the other a little larger; both in pieces. An ancient triptych of the Holy Birth, the image somewhat dull and cracked but the gold paint shining through,was laid flat next to the broken statues, one panel torn from its hinges.
"The altarpiece," the man sighed. "Though it can be repaired. As can the door."
He was a thin man, with what Aramis could only describe as sad eyes, though that may be on account of his current circumstances, he conceded.
"Do you have any idea who would do this?" Aramis asked, as he stood to examine the damaged pieces.
"There is also damage along the street," the priest said. "Ruffians? Drunks? Who can say?" he murmured, crossing himself and taking a cloth from the cupboard. He threw it gently over the damaged pieces and turned to Aramis.
"The Huguenots have had their day," he said quietly. "At least in France," he added. "But there will always be an undercurrent of tension. They believe they follow the right path."
"You think this is the work of Huguenots?" Aramis pressed.
The priest looked around the chapel, before looking back at Aramis and sighing heavily.
"Huguenots, Heretics. It is all the same," he said.
"So many souls lost in pointless wars," he added.
"On both sides," Aramis reminded him. "People fear the loss of what they know," he added, aware he was walking a fine line with this man.
The priest looked up sharply, observing Aramis critically, but apparently seeing no criticism.
He waved a thin hand over the cloth; "The loss of our icons, our art, our practises," he said. "Catholics will not allow it."
Aramis could see he would not get far with this man; he had given his life to the Catholic faith after all.
"Did you, or anyone, see anything?"
"They came in the night," the priest said, bitterly. "Like animals."
"If you have any more information, you know where we are," Aramis said, gently.
"You need to stop this!" the priest said, vehemently. "There are those who will not hold the peace. The Musketeers need to stop this! The Catholic faith is the true way!"
"We are doing all we can, I assure you," Aramis replied, tilting his head to the man and turning to go.
"Forgive me," the priest said. "All men are worthy in the sight of God. It is just, this ..." he said, waving his hand sadly over the cloth. "It is not necessary. We can all worship Him according to our faith, surely?"
Aramis nodded in acknowledgement and took a few coins from his purse, dropping them into the bowl on the small wooden table by the door. The priest picked up his broom and continued to sweep the floor.
A little further along the street, Aramis sought out the buildings that had served as a seminary and the meeting room. They were close to each other, in the shadow of the scaffolding that took up the rest of the street. It was the same story, there was little to be gleaned after the event; two people who had left the building at night attacked from behind and more damage, this time a small fire. Needless to say, those using the buildings were fearful of doing so again.
As he left, a thought occurred to him that as well as having Catholic connections, the scaffolding was close to the perimeter of the Louvre where renovations and building works heralded its further expansion. The King had grand plans for Paris, as had his mother before him. Localised threats could soon turn into something much worse. The thought accompanied him as he made his way back to the Garrison.
The tension increased with more beatings in some quarters. The Musketeers spread throughout the quarters that were targetted. The Huguenots they spoke to had all sworn allegiance to Louis after the Third Rebellion and had no desire to dredge up the recent past. They were still trying to make a living and fit into a changing society and anything that threatened that was anathema to them.
It was exasperating, but no one seemed to want to talk.
oOo
"This came in earlier," Treville said, as he pushed a parchment across his desk toward the four men standing once more before him in his office. They had seen him ride in an hour earlier and had been waiting for a summons. The thunderous look on his face could only mean trouble.
Athos took a step closer and picked it up, reading it carefully, before his eyes swept up to meet his Captain's steely gaze. Treville sighed, sitting back in his chair, before turning his face toward his window in thought.
Athos turned to Aramis and Porthos with a frown, before his eyes moved down the line to d'Artagnan, who would know nothing about what they were about to speak.
"The name was picked up in a hostelry by one of Richelieu's spies," Treville added, gruffly. "The man thought it sufficient to report it, given the recent rumours and activity."
"What is it?" Aramis asked, but Athos did not reply, lifting his eyes to Treville once more.
"Is he still alive?" he asked, quietly.
"It would seem so," Treville replied, though he did not turn his head to look at them. "Though I had hoped not."
"Will someone please tell us," Aramis sighed, breaking their line and stepping forward.
"Gaspar Raspier," Athos said, his voice flat.
It was as if he had thrown a bomb into the room and awaited the explosion.
"Raspier?" Porthos breathed, his fists clenching.
"No, surely ..." Aramis said, looking at Athos, who continued to watch Treville.
"It is hearsay," Athos said then.
"It comes from Richelieu's network," Treville said then, turning at last to look at them. "They are usually very thorough in investigating any leads. We have to assume it is true. Gaspar Raspier not only lives, but has become active once more."
"Who is he?" d'Artagnan ventured, uneasy at the obvious increasing tension in the room.
Aramis put his hands on his hips and sucked in his bottom lip, before turning to their young recruit.
"He is a renegade," he said. "A gun runner and an extortionist."
"He's a Huguenot," Porthos added. "And an anarchist."
"They call him The Wolf," Athos murmured. "He is as feral as his name suggests."
"He hates the Monarchy, Richelieu and the Musketeers," Aramis said.
"Not necessarily, but probably, in that order," Athos added.
"An' we thought we'd 'eard the last of him," Porthos growled.
"Oh," d'Artagnan said. "Sounds ominous."
"'Oh,'" indeed," Treville growled, "And yes. It does," he snarled, his fist slammed into his desk, making them all flinch.
They did not need to be told to get out onto the streets to make further enquiries.
oOo
"Do you think it is him?" Aramis asked, as they walked toward their table in the yard, another days footwork and questioning ahead of them though now, at least, with a name.
While they were in their Captain's office, Serge had placed a tray on their table with three bottles of wine and four cups. He too had seen the Captain's face that morning when he had ridden through the archway.
"It has all the hallmarks of The Wolf," Athos murmured, a deep frown creasing his brow as he leant his back against a post at the end of the table.
"You know him?" d'Artagnan asked, dropping down onto the bench.
"The Wolf?" Aramis replied. "We have had occasion. He was responsible for many Huguenot uprisings, culminating in the greatest of them all. The Siege of La Rochelle."
"Was he not captured? I thought they capitulated?" d'Artagnan asked.
Growing up in Gascony in a quiet village he was aware of many of the incitements that had occurred. Farmers had been pressed into growing more produce. Some farms had not survived, driven too far, but they were somewhat saved from the realities and the bloodshed.
"He disappeared," Athos intoned. "Very thoroughly."
He pushed himself off the post and stepped up to the table, reaching for one of the bottles of wine Twisting the cork from the bottle, he poured four generous measures.
"Gentlemen," he said, as he finished and leant over the table, bracing himself on his arms and taking a deep breath;
"If this is who we think it is, we will need the best strategy we have ever devised."
It was deathly quiet as Athos turned and looked at each of them in turn.
"This has all the hallmarks of The Wolf," he reiterated. "He will not show his hand too soon." He sighed, raising his cup and taking a good measure of wine. "We thought him dead, a long time ago."
"It may not be him," Aramis ventured.
"If it's not him, who else?" Porthos asked, his cup held tightly in his hand.
"A son, an elder of the pack," Athos suggested.
"The pack?" d'Artagnan said, warily.
"He is, as his name suggests, a wild warrior," Aramis replied. "Some say descended from Norsemen."
"A Shaman?" d'Artagnan asked.
"No. He is an ordinary man," Athos replied. "There is nothing magical or mysterious about him."
"So why is he so dangerous?" d'Artagnan continued.
"Because he has no soul," Porthos replied.
"To defeat him, we need to be as cunning and as determined," Aramis stated.
"But we are not like him," Athos replied. "We have honour. However, we must set that aside, Gentlemen. If The Wolf reaches the King, he will not stop until the House of Bourbon is obliterated."
"We must meet 'im on his own territory," Porthos concluded.
"It was said," Athos said, looking at Porthos, "He had many lairs."
"If he reaches Paris, he will reach the King's Own Regiment," Porthos said, bluntly, smashing his curled fist into his palm.
"And if he breaks through?" d'Artagnan asked, looking from one to the other.
"Then the Red Guard. And the Noble's armies." Aramis replied, rubbing his hand against his cheek.
"All this for one man?" d'Artagnan said.
"If this is The Wolf, there will not be one pack. There will be several. He will deploy them on all fronts," Athos replied.
Aramis finished his wine and dropped his cup not too gently back on the table;
"We need to move the King away from Paris."
"It does not matter where we hide the King. He will find him," Athos said. "He must be finished now, once and for all."
"Will the King agree?" d'Artagnan said, holding his cup but not drinking.
"The King will be terrified," Aramis said, quietly. "He will do what we ask. The Cardinal is another matter. He is hailed as the Architect of La Rochelle. He has basked in the victory ever since."
"The Cardinal knows of The Wolf?" d'Artagnan asked.
"Oh, yes. He is a personal enemy of Richelieu. He was a thorn in his side."
"As much as The Wolf hates the Crown, he hates the Church just as much. France under his rule will be unrecognisable," Athos conceded.
He eased himself down onto the bench, feeling every year of his age.
"We must stop him before he makes too many allies," he said. "There are many with the same thoughts, though not the audacity and hatred to undertake it."
"This, Gentlemen," Aramis said, firmly, "Was why the Musketeers were formed. To protect the King and France."
"Can one man bring down a country?" d'Artagnan mused, finally taking a sip of his wine, the image of this man now firmly planted in his mind.
"Think of Caesar," Athos said, softly. "But," he added, "Where there is power, there are those who would betray and kill to see their own ambitions fulfilled, with no thought to the aftermath."
They fell silent, thinking on Athos's words. This was how anarchy was spawned. Often the in-fighting caused more damage than the cause they served.
"Well, we have ambitions of our own," Aramis said, slapping his palm on the table.
"Has anyone ever seen this Wolf?" d'Artagnan asked. "Do we even know what he looks like?"
"There is one," Athos said, cautiously. "From that time."
"Why would he help?" d'Artagnan asked.
"He was useful before," Athos replied. "The Wolf will come to the goats."
"But the goats have teeth and are just as cunning," Aramis smiled at him.
"So Treville, the Red Guard and the Noble's armies are the goats?" d'Artagnan said.
"No," Athos replied. "They probably won't agree to it at this stage."
"Consider us the goats," Aramis said, slapping d'Artagnan on the back.
To be continued ...