Chapter Eight
Athos walked with the men.
He walked with two in the front of him and three behind.
He did not try to escape, because he wanted this.
It would come at a cost, he knew, but if he could keep his wits about him and listen, perhaps provoke, maybe single out a weak member of the pack to work on, he may come out of this alive and with valuable intelligence. He could also buy his friends time to continue their search for Gaspar Raspier himself, unencumbered by the thugs he was currently keeping company with.
The streets narrowed.
Some people, as the sun was setting, were scurrying home. Ahead lay the wide dull brown expanse of the Seine; boats and ships moored out on the water and along the riverside quay for the night. Lamps were lit on the vessels as the seafarers made their evening meals and settled for the night, ensuring ropes and rigging were secured.
One of Athos's 'escorts' broke away and turned left up ahead, the others coming to a halt.
Athos waited patiently, his blood thrumming in his veins as he missed nothing; the way the men shared a look, who deferred to who, which alleyways they moved through. A short, sharp whistle came and someone shoved Athos in the back. He stumbled slightly before finding his feet. The man behind him laughed but was silenced by a glare from the man in front who turned around sharply.
"Be quiet," the man hissed, as they moved forward once more.
The man who had peeled away returned, stepping out from around the corner of a tall building and waving them on. They continued on and if any passer-by was curious, they didn't stay long enough to query what the men were about, casting their eyes down and hurrying on.
Athos glanced around as he took the location in. Warehousing and sheds, ice houses and lock-ups, all closed for the night now. There was an open door ahead, a dim light spilling out onto the cobbles. The men walked quickly towards it. Once inside, it was obvious that the man who had gone ahead had lit some lamps, which now lined the dim passageway ahead.
Athos was pushed on, though his feet were steady now. Toward the end of the passage, there was a sharp turn and then steps down. Athos's chest tightened; a cellar then. He was in for a cold night, no doubt. He regretted handing his hat over to Aramis, but no doubt he would see it again. He had yet to discover what they wanted of him, though he had his own thoughts about that. He was a King's Musketeer, privy to state secrets, movements, capabilities. He pulled in a breath and realised his muscles were taut.
They had not searched him, but they had removed his weapons belt, strung now across the shoulders of one of the men in front of him. A slim blade remained tucked into his boot in a channel specifically sewn for the purpose though. It would be used only as a last option for he wanted information from them as much as they wanted it from him.
They reached the top step and before he could be pushed onward, he took the first step down. Ahead, the lamps dimmed as they descended into semi darkness.
Once in the cellar, Athos was roughly relieved of his jacket which was tossed into a corner on top of his weapons belt. He looked around but it was a bare room, a vaulted ceiling held up by wide, heavy timbers. Cobwebs hung in the corners. The floor was rough earth. There was a chute at the other end of the room and a few old baskets lay strewn around. A grainstore of some sort. It had clearly been abandoned for some time.
Surrounded by the five men who had brought him there, he was shoved forward and someone kicked his knees from behind. His legs buckled, sending him to the ground. He was pulled by his hair into a sitting position as his hands were tied in front of him.
Athos put his head down and closed his eyes.
His ears though, were pricked for any word uttered.
He was taunted, shoved and pushed around by booted feet, his hair yanked once more, before they stepped back. Someone spat on him. He kicked out at the man and caught him a blow to the ankle. It earned him a kick to his thigh. The men spoke amongst themselves for a while, though said nothing of relevance, unfortunately, before moving to another room, leaving one man by the door to watch him.
In the meantime, Athos shifted on the floor where they had dropped him, by the wooden stairs that led up to another floor.
"This is all very amateurish," he sighed, knowing it was anything but, but needing to draw a reaction from his guard.
"Shut your mouth," the man growled. "You'll learn soon enough."
"I do hope so," Athos said, albeit under his breath this time. There was no need to provoke them too soon, but he always found it so hard not to, in similar situations. Aramis called it a fault. He tended to agree.
Soon, three of the men came back and Athos braced himself, staring up into their faces, defiantly.
He has not seen the red haired man since they left the warehouse, but these men were obviously true to him. No doubt, he would appear at some point.
A fourth man entered, dragging a heavy wooden chair behind him, which he placed in the centre of the room. He looked down at Athos and smirked, before standing back against the wall, his arms crossed over a broad chest. With a curt nod of his head, the three dragged Athos to his feet and across to the chair, where he was forced to sit, a blow to his stomach assisting matters. His bonds were cut and retied to each arm of the chair, before his ankles were similarly tethered.
His stomach twisted with tension, the muscles aching from the blow. He pulled in a breath before releasing it slowly, readying himself. This is what he wanted after all. To be at the heart of it. He had expected this, but he knew that controlling his mind was easier than controlling his body and he felt an unwelcome surge in his veins as he fought the urge to struggle against his bonds.
However, they left him alone then. A favourite ploy of the torturer. He welcomed it though, as he closed his eyes and concentrated on how he would endure against what was to come.
All was quiet in the cellar at first. Athos had lulled himself into a state that would help him cope when footsteps came from above, making slow, firm progress across the floor. He counted the footsteps, for no reason other than to gather himself. Nine steps. Then, they stopped.
He raised his eyes and after a few moments, which seemed an eternity, a pair of booted feet appeared on the top step of the wooden staircase, each slowly descending step bringing the man into view.
Dull, brown boots, a little worn. Black breeches. A sword. A Brown doublet. White hands, freckled. Finally, a face.
Not a large man, but lean and well muscled. He was pulling gloves on, slowly. When he reached the last step he raised his eyes and looked coldly at Athos.
The red-haired man.
The man pursed his lips as if in thought, prolonging the moment before he turned to the man leaning against the wall and nodded.
Athos turned his head to watch as the other man pushed off the wall and came at him. Unlike the red-haired man, though, he was fast and Athos reacted, shifting his torso back in the chair.
There was no escape.
He received the first blow across his face.
His head snapped to the left, the blow to his cheekbone making his eyes sting. Lifting his head, he stared at the man, emotionless. In his peripheral vision, he saw the red-haired man nod once more.
This time, it was a slap, in the same place. Less painful than the blow, but he knew that this was just the beginning. The man shook his hand out. Unnecessary, Athos thought, but again, there was a show to all this.
Several blows and kicks later, he was finally asked a question;
"Tell us what you know about the Temple of the Oratoire du Louvre," the red-haired man said.
Athos spat blood on the ground, lifting his head to look at the red-haired man. He studied his face, but said nothing.
Truth be told, the question had caught Athos off guard, but it was confirmation that the recent activity in that area of Paris, rue Saint-Honore, was part of the wider plan and not just a haphazard attack.
He knew the Temple, of course. It had become one of The Cardinal's pet projects.
Building had commenced in 1621, but ceased four years later. He knew that, as Richelieu had spoken of it in Court. Over time, Louis had developed an elaborate architectural plan for expansion of the Louvre as far as rue Saint-Honore. The "chapelle" had to stand at an angle to the rue l'Oratoire in order to fit the designated footprint of the area. Building had recently recommenced after Richelieu had persuaded the King to fund it as part of his own plans for expansion and, as he no doubt knew, Louis had been enthusiastic about incorporating it into his scheme. It was an attractive building and would look well as part of his Royal Estate.
Richelieu had been a frequent visitor thereafter and the word was that he planned to consecrate the altar in the near future so that it could begin to be put to use. It must have raised many curious eyebrows when the scaffolding went up and building recommenced, but Athos did not know when it would be finished or when services would be held. He could tell these men nothing. Alarm bells rang though, as it was Catholic buildings that had been damaged of late and in the same vicinity. Was this evidence that Richelieu was their lone target?
At least he was within the gang now and judging by the line of questioning, he was in the right place. He just had to play his cards close to his chest until he learned more.
When he did not answer, he received another blow, this time to his jaw.
The men laughed. They were in no hurry, it seemed.
He ran his tongue over his teeth to check nothing was loose or broken, though he could taste blood. His tormentor turned to the back of the room and the red-haired man gave a single nod. He had remained apart, watching.
Athos sighed and braced himself.
The blow almost knocked him backward in the chair.
"Who were you seeking at the warehouse, Musketeer?" the red-haired man now called out.
Athos looked up and met his eyes.
He could feel sweat trickling down his back and blood down his temple. The vision in his left eye was blurred now.
He licked his lips. It was time to stir the pot.
"Raspier," he said, his voice hoarse from lack of water.
The man, though, did not appear shocked. He smiled.
"Raspier?" the man replied. "Do we know him?" he asked, brightly, looking around at his men, his arms thrown out expansively.
"Aye!" they all chorused.
"The prey seeks the predator," the red-haired man sneered.
"I saw you," Athos said, as he raised his head and shook sweat-soaked hair from his eyes. "On the walls of La Rochelle. Before the gates were sealed."
The man frowned, his fist tightening. Then, he seemed to settle as realisation appeared to dawn on him.
Athos watched as a sinister smile broke out on his face.
"And I saw you," the red-haired man replied, stepping forward.
To be continued …
A/N:
The Temple of the Oratoire du Louvre is as explained above and was in fact used for the funerals of Louis XIII, Anne d'Austrich, his queen, and Cardinal Richelieu himself. It still stands proud on the rue-Saint d la'Oratoire and holds services every Sunday.