So, a longer chapter today, Dear Readers, as we find out how goes it with Athos. (All mixed tenses in the last part of this chapter are intentional, by the way, lol.)
/
Chapter Nine
Four horses came thundering through the archway at the same time, pulling up short in the yard. Treville, in the lead, came straight from the palace and Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan behind, fresh from interrogating some of their most promising informants.
At one point, Aramis had had to pull Porthos away from one particular weasel of a man, who he was holding up against a wall in an alley. Porthos was inches from his face, being that the man was several inches off the ground. The man sometimes had useful information for them and had led them to believe he had something for them for coin, but this time, although he had seen the posters tacked to various buildings, it was soon obvious he had nothing to give them, despite Porthos's insistence.
Porthos had dropped him unceremoniously to the ground, where he crumpled, before being pulled up by Aramis, who sent him on his way with a kick to his backside.
"We're prey to all the chancers," Porthos had grunted, as they headed back to the Garrison.
"Even so, there may be the seed of information in there. We cannot give up," Aramis had said, squeezing his wrist.
Now, they all dismounted and walked their own horses to the stables. The stable lads took the reins once they were inside, leading the horses into their individual stalls to divest them of their saddles and tack.
Treville pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his belt as they all walked out into the yard. He came to a halt and turned toward them;
"The King has cancelled all his external appointments and will be remaining in the palace for the foreseeable future."
"The palace may be a target," Porthos pointed, his voice low, aware they were surrounded by an array of traders, bringing in provisions to the Garrison, their carts lined up in varying states of unloading. He wanted to say "So much for bravery," but bit his tongue.
"Well, he has half his Musketeer regiment within the palace, at his insistence," Treville replied, gruffly, making his way to the foot of the stairs that led to his office above.
"What about the Easter procession?" Aramis queried, as they moved along with him. "He will not want to disappoint the people."
"Richelieu and I will discuss that tomorrow," Treville replied, one step up, his hand on the railing, looking down at them. "There is time for Louis to change his mind. The Cardinal is still undecided about the opening of the Temple de l'Oratoire, but I believe the building is almost ready."
"What of you?" Treville asked his men, tapping his closed fist on the railing.
Aramis looked at Porthos and then at his feet, shifting the dirt around with the toe of his boot.
"Porthos did his best this morning, but his powers of persuasion seemed to evade him," Aramis replied.
Porthos flexed his hand in response.
"You interrupted me," he growled.
"He was no use to us dead, Porthos," d'Artagnan said, with a quick shrug at the glower Porthos gave him.
"We meet with Simeon in the morning," Aramis added, looking at Treville. "We need to tell him about Athos."
"And see if it comes as a surprise," d'Artagnan muttered, as he dropped down onto the bench at their table.
Treville shifted his gaze to their youngest.
"Explain," he said.
"d'Artagnan does not trust Simeon much," Porthos replied, slapping d'Artagnan on the back.
Treville hummed.
"He was in the thick of La Rochelle," their Captain replied, turning his eyes to d'Artagnan. "Until you have some battle experience under your belt, d'Artagnan, keep an open mind. It will serve you well."
"Carry on," he murmured then, for want of something else to say, before turning away and wearily climbing his stairs.
They watched thoughtfully until he disappeared into his office, the door closing firmly behind him.
"We must be gettin' closer," Porthos said, through gritted teeth, as he and Aramis sat at the table. "Otherwise, why would we have been of interest to those thugs? They must know Raspier."
"At best," Aramis agreed. "And at worst, we were overheard and betrayed."
"Where there's a betrayal," Porthos said, "There are others who will betray them. What goes around, comes around."
"You sound like Athos," d'Artagnan replied softly, his head down.
They all fell silent.
"So, what now?" Porthos said, dejectedly. "Cap'n wants us to "carry on."
"We split up," Aramis said. "You and d'Artagnan make further enquiries around the docks and warehouses. I'll visit the market place. We make nuisances of ourselves. There are plenty of people still loyal to the Crown. Louis may be willing to offer concessions."
"I just wish we knew what Raspier is plannin'" Porthos said. "The Wolf is a threat to the Monarchy, and he may be cultivatin' friends in high places."
"Then we need to have a word with them as well," d'Artagnan said, looking up.
"This is where Athos would have come in," Porthos growled.
"He will, my friend, once we get him back," Aramis said. "We promised him."
"We did?" d'Artagnan said.
"Of course," Aramis replied, with a smile, though not quite as bright as normal. "Do keep up."
"Don't worry, lad," Porthos said. "Athos knows what he's doin'"
d'Artagnan thought of the ring of armed men in the warehouse, looking down at them with blank faces.
"I hope so," he said, pushing himself up and walking out of the archway, his pace slow now.
Aramis and Porthos watched as he disappeared into the throng outside, before giving each other a nod and rising themselves, though their hearts were heavy and it was becoming harder to remain positive.
Above them, grey clouds had rolled in, and the air was heavy.
/
Athos, meanwhile, was beginning to think that this might not have been the best strategy he had ever come up with.
However, his need to engage with the red-haired man had become stronger since they had both acknowledged they were aware of each other. The years since La Rochelle had not dimmed that knowledge, although Athos had been the first to bring their previous "association" to the man's attention.
What he had not been prepared for was the man's animosity toward him. They had not had any dealings with each other, had not spoken to each other, did not know each other's names. They had merely seen and remembered each other. Yet the man had been vicious in his acknowledgement of their acquaintance these five years earlier.
He was alone now, nursing his hurts. They wanted Richelieu's movements and he had told them they would need to capture a Red Guard for that. They would no doubt have the information they sought more quickly, as they were not known for their stoicism. Though he did not voice that.
He had frustrated them, he knew. The red-haired man had turned and climbed the stairs, leaving him to the four men, but he had been relieved when he told them not to kill him. Indeed, he had waved them away and they had all gone off to different parts of the building. The place had fallen silent, and Athos had used the time to flex his muscles and catalogue the damage they had done to him. He was no use to them, but whether they had accepted that yet, he did not know. He ran his tongue around his mouth, finding a cut to his inner cheek, a cause of the blood he had tasted earlier. He was in no doubt that his eye was shut now, the pain in his cheekbone radiating around the socket. His shins and ankles hurt, the result of several kicks from booted feet. Even his scalp felt sore.
He cleared his throat. Apart from a small amount of water that he had swallowed after they had doused him from a bucket, he had had nothing more. His time was running short. He would need to resort to provoking them. But for the moment, he would try and rest. He would need his strength.
/
A little later, Athos woke to find three of the men staring at him. He looked around warily; the red-haired man had gone, but he was now at the mercy of these three apparently bored men, who looked as if they needed entertainment. Each had their hands on the hilt of their swords.
Before they could begin their onslaught once more, Athos straightened his shoulders.
"You damn cowards!" he said, his voice low with anger. "You have no honour. Give me my sword and you will see how a Musketeer fights!"
"See how he dies you mean!" one of them shot back.
Athos did not think the red-haired man wanted him dead, he still had questions he wanted answering, and so he pressed his advantage.
"None of you are worthy of the name you bear," he hissed. "The Wolf is a noble creature, but you are merely sewer rats. You look like sewer rats and you stink like sewer rats!
That seemed to force the situation.
One man looked at the other and he walked across to where Athos's weapons belt has been thrown in a corner. His sword was retrieved and the man began to walk slowly toward him, circling the sword until it was inches away from his face. The man moved the sword down and held it to his throat.
Athos held his head high as his eyes roamed over them.
And then, one of them began to untie him. The ropes fell away from his wrists and ankles and, with the sword still inches from his throat, the man flipped the blade upward, indicating for him to stand.
Athos rose slowly, his muscles tight and painful.
He had to turn his head to take them all in, as his eye was swollen and fully closed now. They all drew their swords simultaneously and for a moment, Athos thought he had misjudged the situation.
However, the man holding his sword turned it around and offered it to him. Athos reached out and took it.
He took a step forward, and almost staggered. He felt the blood return painfully to his legs and took a breath, before beginning to slowly circle, keeping his eyes on the three men, although one held back, remaining near the wooden staircase.
Suddenly, one, a short, overweight man, comes at him and Athos counters his strike, pushing him away into the path of the second man, who clutches him and staggers back. He quickly recovers and the two come at him together; the third watching intently from beside the staircase.
The fight is brutal, with no finesse on Athos's part; he is fighting while injured and doing his best to engage both at the same time, one after the other. There is little in the room to fall over but Athos is still careful where he treads. If he loses his footing, they will be on him, like the rats they are.
Athos's eyes flick to the third man standing by the stairs, who meets his gaze with a smirk on his face. It spurs Athos onward, though he is careful to keep out of range of this third man.
One of the two yells then and they both charge him. Athos strikes one across his jaw with his fist and the man flies backward, temporarily out of the fight. The other runs at him, totally undisciplined but dangerous and Athos curls his hand around the hilt of his sword and produces an uppercut towards his torso that catches his opponent on the collarbone with the hilt. It slows him, by which time the first man has recovered sufficiently to begin slashing the air in front of him. Athos judges him concussed but again, too dangerous to ignore. He backs away toward the chute at the other end of the room, hoping that the man by the stairs stays where he is.
Athos knows he is tiring, the beatings he has taken slowing him down. If he is to disarm these men he will have to do it soon. He also knows that the man by the stairs has now got his measure and will intervene once the others are dealt with. There seems to be no loyalty here.
There follows a volley of thrusts and parries as the two come at him again, Athos slashing from the left to the right in quick succession to keep them out of range. Just when he thinks he will tire before he can break their increasingly more erratic strokes, one of them leaves himself open. It is the opening Athos has been striving for and he pierces the man's heart. He drops like a stone. The other man is unnerved and casts a glance at the third man, who nods and waves him on.
Emboldened, the man approaches, picking up as a basket on the way, holding it out to protect himself. This obscures Athos's target so he goes for the man's legs. As soon as the man realises, he throws the basket at Athos and tries to back away. This leaves him open and unbalanced. Athos surges forward to put his blade through the man's throat. He has no qualms, having no doubt what started as a challenge had become a fight to the death.
Athos drops the point of his sword to the earth and turns to face the remaining man.
A man who was not exhausted or in pain and had been studying his moves for the past ten minutes.
The man drops into the fighting stance, a cocky smile on his face, his fingers urging Athos forward.
Athos sighs inwardly, before crouching low, his free arm held out for balance. He tightens his grip on his sword and lunges, one step then another in quick succession, catching the man unawares with his speed and making him step back. He quickly recovers though and moves to the left. Athos comes at him again, hitting his blade and sending a reverberating shock through the man's arm. He yells and swings his sword in a circular motion, easing the muscles in his forearm.
There follows a furious fight that taxes them both. The man is a dirty fighter, kicking and at one point trying gouging at Athos's eyes. Athos retaliates, remembering some of the moves that Porthos had shown him, unworthy of a gentleman, but real life-savers in an emergency, which this was fast becoming.
The man is finally caught off guard, cannoning into the staircase, he is confused after having seen Athos fight according to the strict code of conduct, until now. This is something new and he falters, not being able to predict what will happen next.
Athos has the advantage, approaching the man, who is now on his knees, attempting to rise.
It is at that precise moment that someone comes from behind him and he feels a blade bite sharply into his ribs, beneath is left arm. As he gasps, the breath driven from him, he staggers and drops to his knees.
A voice roars from the doorway; Athos hears the red-haired man, though gives no sign, his head tucked down, chin on his chest as he clutches an arm across his chest, pulling the other arm hard against the wound.
"What the hell do you think you're doing!"
Athos takes the moment to fall forward and lay still, feigning unconsciousness.
Behind him, his opponent looked up at the red-haired man defiantly, though he exuded exhaustion.
"He called us cowards, Masonne!" he growled, as he found his feet.
"You let him goad you into fighting him?" the angry man shouted. "He's a Musketeer! Do you know nothing about them? This one will probably be the son of a noble, trained from birth to hold a sword! You are lucky you are still alive!"
Noting the two dead men, he rounded on the survivor; "I should kill you myself!"
He bent down to examine Athos, noting the blood beginning to soak his shirt. Athos remained still, listening, though it was becoming harder by the minute to hang on to awareness.
"I'll finish him now!" his opponent ground out, spitting on the floor, his anger an attempt to cover his annoyance at being spoken to in such a way.
Athos felt the man move closer. His belt his strength ebbing away.
"Tie him up and leave him to die like a rat," Masonne responded, curtly. "He owes me that."
The man re sheathed his sword, much to Athos's relief.
"He'll be dead before anyone finds him. And get rid of these," the red-haired man, "Masonne," hissed, waving at the two bodies.
"Gather the pack," he snarled. "Our plan will come to fruition very soon."
Athos heard the man move toward him and he is tied up, so tightly he can hardly breathe. The wound Masonne had delivered hardly registers as he clings to consciousness, feigning oblivion. Pushed aside, he is left curled on the floor. He struggles to breathe, but listens.
They move away and just as Athos thinks he will die here after all, and it has all been for nought, he is rewarded – Masonne speaks again;
"Between the bear and the stork, the two shall fall and France will know us."
"When?" the man urges.
"You will see on Easter Sunday," Masonne replies. "They will all see."
Athos hears their cryptic words. He does not understand but commits them to memory. And he has a name for red hair; Masonne. Not only that, but a date when their plan will be carried out.
It is imperative he gets out of here now and reports. He remembers the slim blade stitched into his boot. If he can just hold on, he can escape.
Unfortunately at that moment, his captors turn their attention back to him. He is dragged unceremoniously into a corner of the room and kicked in the head.
To be continued ...