Chapter Fifteen
The bodies of the two priests had been removed by the time the Musketeers arrived. They now lay in the chapel where Aramis had first investigated the destruction of the statues.
Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan removed their hats as they crossed the threshold. They were led to a small room at the back of the chapel, where the two bodies had been prepared and laid out, both covered by a sheet.
This time, Aramis was met by a old priest and his heart lurched. As the priest pulled the sheet from the face of the first body, he let out a breath. It was not the priest with the sad eyes he had met. But when the second sheet was lifted, this was indeed, that man. Aramis crossed himself and said a brief prayer. d'Artagnan and Porthos stepped back outside as he did so, taking the opportunity to look around. There was no further damage; the two priests had been killed on the street, perhaps not together, but they had been left together to bring maximum distress to the locals and the clergy.
There was nothing to say.
Aramis felt a sense of inadequacy as he left the chapel. Nothing had changed since his first visit. The fear had increased, the activity had increased and the hate was being felt.
The old priest had beseeched Aramis to find the culprits. Aramis promised they would do all they could. Short of telling him they too were grieving for their friend, who may also be dead, he heard himself say the words but they felt bland and inadequate. He joined his friends outside in the street. Angrily he kicked at the dirt embedded in the cobbles.
"He should be back by now," d'Artagnan said, thinking of their lost brother. He was not far from all their minds.
Aramis looked up and ran his hand through his hair, glancing at Porthos.
"Depends where they've taken him," Porthos replied.
"Could be anywhere," Aramis conceded reluctantly.
"The mountains?" d'Artagnan asked, searching their faces.
"Anywhere," Aramis repeated, his words as inadequate as those he had just given the old priest.
"Do you still think this was a good idea!" d'Artagnan said, his eyes blazing.
"It was Athos's idea," Aramis said, softly.
"Well, perhaps this time, he was wrong," d'Artagnan retorted, angrily.
"Let's not be too down-hearted," Aramis sighed. "This is Athos we are talking about."
But Simeon was late reporting back and Aramis's words were no comfort.
/
The "Adrianna":
Athos shifted in the narrow bed.
The room dipped and swayed beneath him and it took him a few moment to gather himself. His eyes roamed above him at the wooden timbers. They creaked with each swell beneath him.
A ship. He was on a ship. And lying in a berth.
He had a disturbing blurred memory and remembered a face peering at him, but no more.
The room was dark, wood panelled. An oil lamp hung on three chains from the ceiling, swaying slightly but a shaft of light came from above, which came from a ceiling prism. It reflected natural sunlight from above onto the desk below, which had been placed directly beneath it. A row of hooks behind the door held coast and hats, one with a large deep red feather. The only other furniture was a wooden chest with brass fittings.
He turned his head and looked across to the desk at the opposite side of the cabin.
A man sat writing there, his face obscured by his thick dark hair, though there was a gold ring glinting in his earlobe. The desk, a large, ornate affair was spread with papers and a squat figurine of sorts that looked as it it came from foreign climes. There was a wide-bottomed glass decanter on the desk with a dark liquid inside.
Athos shifted and could not help a groan escaping his lips as a sharp pain shot along his side and under his arm.
The man looked up.
Athos stared at him.
"It is you," he murmured. "I thought I was dreaming."
The man dropped his pen and sat back, the chair creaking.
"Athos!" he said, with a wide smile. "Welcome aboard."
"Foubier," Athos replied, in surprise.
"And here I was, thinking we were on first name terms," his companion said, amiably.
Athos allowed himself a small smile, but did not attempt to sit up. He could tell that would be painful.
"Jacques-Luc," he said, slipping his hand under his head on the pillow.
"What has it been?" Foubier was saying, enthusiastically. "Two, years since we met? What were you doing in that warehouse?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Athos replied, wearily. Everything hurt and he attempted to rouse his muddled mind in view of the sudden turn of events.
"Business," Foubier replied. "Always, business, with a man called Simeon."
"You know Simeon?" Athos said, surprised they had a mutual acquaintance.
"Not really, no." Foubier replied. "I have done business with him only on two occasions, but our meeting was arranged a few weeks ago. I have a certain cargo he required, but he was late. I went to our meeting place and saw him in the vicinity, acting very furtively, I might add."
"So, you decided to follow?"
"I was curious," Jacques Luc said. "And cautious. My lifestyle is not always conducive to my good health, you understand. In this instance, it paid off. Imagine my surprise when I found you in the cellar of the grain store. He must have heard me coming, we only saw each other briefly before he ran. And you were hardly in a condition to realise and appreciate our reunion."
Athos rubbed his face. "It's all a bit of a blur," he said.
"What was Simeon doing keeping you tied up like that?" Foubier asked, cautiously.
"He was doing what you were doing, I imagine," Athos replied. "Investigating the premises, but you seem to have scared him off."
"So it wasn't his doing?"
"No." Athos replied, non-committally. "He is an old "acquaintance," if you can call him that. We have worked with him in the past. I had the pleasure of meeting the ones who did this and he was not amongst them. Where are we, by the way?"
"You are on my ship, "The Adrianna." I believe you've been on it before," Foubier smiled.
"Only the gangplank, as I recall," Athos smiled, relaxing now in the knowledge that his ordeal was over. "I did not see the name of it."
"In answer to your question, we are moored south of Rouen. I find the Seine is a worthwhile route when the weather is not promising. You would be surprised at the amount of illegal traffic that uses this magnificent waterway."
"I can imagine. Luckily, the Seine is not part of our particular remit, unless absolutely necessary."
"You should pay it a little attention," Foubier replied. "I can introduce you to some very interesting people."
"I am sure you can and I know where to come if such an investigation ever becomes necessary. In the meantime, I have ..."
"To get back to Paris," Foubier interrupted. "No doubt your Captain awaits your report."
"What do you know of it?" Athos asked, cautious once more.
"Nothing, though I am still curious as to why you were in that cellar, tied up and left to die by the look of it."
Athos did not reply, carefully gathering his thoughts on what to tell this man.
"We have tended you these last two days, Athos. At one point, you thought I was Aramis and you still wouldn't tell me your secrets. It is only for Treville's ears, I understand, believe me."
Athos watched him carefully, before laying back down.
"Then I have been gone from Paris for four days," Athos said.
Foubier waited while Athos got his thoughts together.
"We had word of a potential uprising," Athos said. "We were seeking information on a man called Gaspar Raspier, a very dangerous man, know as The Wolf."
"And you were captured? Careless, that's not the Athos I know."
"Not exactly careless," Athos replied. "It was a means to gather information."
"That seems rather excessive," Foubier replied, his eyebrows shooting up.
"It is what we do, sometimes when the need arises."
"And what do your fellow Musketeers think of this course of action?"
"They were not best pleased at the time, though they could do nothing in this instance."
"Yes, I can see that once your mind is made up, you will not be easily swayed. Sometimes your nobility betrays itself. And not always in a good way," Jacques Luc said, pouring a dark liquid into an ornate silver goblet. "Authority and nobility goes hand in hand, in my experience."
"Rum," he said then, as he walked across the cabin and handed it to Athos, who raised himself a little and accepted it.
"From Jamaica."
Athos did not pass comment on the alcohol's origins, but quickly tossed it down his throat.
"Is it to your Lordship's taste?" Foubier smirked.
"Don't," Athos growled. "And if I remember, I could ask the same of you."
Jacques Luc gave a throaty laugh. "Kindred spirits. Who would have guessed? Blue blooded to the core but both denying it runs through our veins."
"I do not deny it," Athos said, coldly. "I prefer not to acknowledge it. And I told you when we first met and you broached the subject, I gave it up."
Foubier huffed.
"One day, I will find out why," he said, pouring more liquid into the goblet.
"Likewise," Athos said, raising the cup.
"I lost the reason to stay," Foubier said suddenly, his voice quiet.
"At least you have not lost your respect for good liquor."
Athos paused in raising the cup to his lips and met Foubier's sad gaze, and waited.
Foubier had referred to his ship as the "Adrianna," though the scripted timber was not affixed to the boat, for they needed anonymity. It was kept in Foubier's cabin. It hung behind his ornate desk.
He saw Athos looking at it.
"Adrianna, my wife, died of typhus," he said, simply. "A terrible death."
Athos had not seen Foubier so transformed in his demeanour and sought for words to empathise. His own wife had supposedly died by his hand, and so he struggled.
Foubier picked up on his reticence.
"It was a number of years ago now. The pain eases, though she is with me always. She was as beautiful as her name."
"Adrianna," Athos said, quietly. "From the Latin, "From Hadrian," the birthplace of the Roman Emperor Hadrian."
"I didn't know that," Foubier smiled, sadly. "She would have liked that."
"Go on," Athos encouraged.
"Without her," Foubier added, "The Château was a bleak place. I took what was mine and left the rest in my brother's capable hands. And Henry's, but the damn simpleton followed me. Thought I couldn't look after myself. True, we got into some scrapes, before I won the lugger in a card game. Henry had sailed before and it seemed like an adventure. The crew have been with me ever since."
"And the privateering?"
"Well," Foubier scoffed, pulling himself together, "One has to live!" he deflected, though not with his usual bravado. "Why the Garrison?"
"I didn't set out to become a Musketeer," Athos said, the rum warming his blood.
"And yet, here you are," Foubier smiled. "And, it seems, one of the King's favourites," he added, knowingly.
"Why do you say that?"
"Your Captain Treville is a good man," Foubier said, quietly, "He would not have just anyone under his command."
"Ah yes, I forgot, it was Treville who originally hired you. And he would not hire "just anyone."
"I didn't turn up unannounced, it is true," Jacques Luc chuckled. "How is Elizabeth?"*
"She is well, I understand. She is with child."
Foubier slapped his thigh at the news and laughed out loud.
"A mother! Well, it all worked out well, didn't it," he said.
"It did. She was vindicated and married a little later with Queen Henrietta'sblessing."
"She will make a fearless mother," Foubier smiled, fondly, gazing down into his glass.
"I believe so," Athos agreed, as they both lost themselves in thoughts of their adventure.
"Was Treville disappointed?" Foubier said then.
"Why would he be disappointed?"
"Do you not think he carried a torch for Mistress Cromwell?"
Athos frowned.
"I didn't see it," he replied.
"My, your heart is hardened, isn't it?" Jacques Luc said.
"Perhaps it was none of my business, Foubier," Athos growled.
Jacques Luc held his hands up in supplication.
"My apologies," he said, but was back on the subject moments later; "Thinking your Captain may not have returned from England must have caused you a few sleepless nights though," he persisted.
"Where are we again?" Athos asked in an attempt to change the subject as the ship rose and fell.
"We are moored in a secluded inlet with no direct land access."
"How far from Paris?" Athos suddenly asked, aware that he had obviously been transported from his original captivity in the warehouse region to this ship.
"Not too far," Jacques Luc replied. "I have business in Le Havre in a few days. You sidetracked me," he explained, realising that Athos remembered little of their prior conversation.
"My apologies," Athos said, rubbing at his forehead, suddenly very tired.
He reached up and gingerly pressed the skin around his eye, wincing at the soreness.
"Marcel says your eye is not damaged, just badly swollen. The bruising is to your cheekbone."
"Good to know," Athos mumbled, taking another drink of his rum.
"You spoke of a bird," Foubier said. "In your fever."
"A bird?" Athos murmured.
"You weren't exactly making sense, my friend," Foubier shrugged.
Athos rubbed his forehead.
"I cannot remember!"
"Do not tax yourself, Athos. It will come back to you, when you have recovered a little. You are hardly in a fit state."
"It was the whole purpose of being there," Athos trailed off.
"Rest, Athos," Jacques Luc said, suddenly serious, walking back to his desk. "You have been through an ordeal. I will ask Marcel to bring you some food and a pain draught. May I recommend you take both. Later, we can talk about what you want to do."
He watched as Athos closed his eyes and slipped back to sleep.
Despite what he had told Athos, he knew that Aramis was a trusted friend and he had, albeit inadvertently, entrusted part of the information on the night of his fever.
Jacques Luc watched his profile in repose. He had not told Athos about the stork specifically, nor the bear he had also spoken of. That would have been too confusing for him at the present time. It was unnerving to see him agitated. He released the empty goblet from Athos's limp hand and pulled the sheet over his guest.
Whatever Athos had overheard, it was of no use until his mind was clearer. He hoped that it would all come to him. Perhaps with a little encouragement, it would. And anyway, he was curious. He sensed an adventure and would enjoy prompting, when the time was right.
He walked out of the cabin and quietly closed the door.
As he made his way to the small galley, Foubier was puzzled. If Simeon was known to Athos, why did he have a knife pulled on him? What were his intentions and why had he disappeared so thoroughly?
According to Athos, Simeon had not captured him, but Jacques Luc was sure he was a threat to him. Other enemies, those thwarted by his rescue, would be circling. The Monarchy was at risk. For that is what Athos had been certain of. And a date, eight days hence. And then, there was the red-haired man who Athos had mentioned and strange talk about birds and animals. For the moment, he would keep it to himself, as Athos had not meant to impart any of his intelligence. No doubt Athos would make sense of it all soon.
As he approached the galley, he wondered if Henry would be agreeable to continuing his business arrangements in Le Havre without him. This was an adventure he was loathe to miss. It would be a three day ride back to Paris but first, he just had to convince the Musketeer currently asleep in his bed to recuperate and then to allow himself a travelling companion.
To be continued ...
*This again refers to my story, "Treville's Promise," in which Elizabeth Cromwell found herself in quite a predicament.