Greetings. Here is a new story for you.
This is set in 1630, early season 1 and immediately after my story 'La Rougeole.' You don't need to have read that one, although there will be a reference to an event in it. It will be explained enough for this to stand alone.
So, welcome to the world of the Musketeers, reliquaries and relics and the ancient order of the Knights Templars in an adventure that takes place on both sides of the English Channel!
The main characters and overall creation belong, of course, to Monsieur Dumas and the BBC; I am merely borrowing them. There will, however, be appearances by some of my original characters along the way – they keep turning up! You will, perhaps, have met them in some of my other stories. I try to do the balancing act of keeping to canon created by Dumas, the BBC and the storylines I have developed.
CHAPTER 1
In the late afternoon, the yard of the Musketeer garrison was ringing with laughter as men watched colleagues sparring with each other. Without weapons, they were dependant upon brute force as they tried every possible trick, not all of them honourable, to fell their opponent. If some were not taking it entirely seriously, Captain Tréville was not concerned. It had been a hot day and the men had pushed themselves hard as they trained so if they now chose to relax a little, he was not about to object. He leaned against a wooden pillar and looked down upon them from the balcony that ran along the outside of his office and quarters.
His men. The men he commanded. The men of the King's élite regiment.
It was a huge responsibility, something he never took for granted and no two days ever seemed to be the same. There were the times when he was filled with immense pride and others when he crawled into bed in the early hours of the morning with a pounding headache after seeking to catch up with the endless paperwork, solving problems and balancing the financial books. The men who served him were his family: they followed him loyally and with trust but that did not mean there were not the occasions when they drove him to distraction, when he had to discipline some of them.
His thoughts wandered to a specific quartet who managed to cause him more headaches than most, made him lose his temper more often than all the others put together, walked a fine line between duty and insubordination and …. who were the best damned soldiers in the entire regiment! He gave a wry smile. Each was personally responsible for adding to his grey hairs with every passing day but, in all honesty, he would not have it any other way. They were a closely bonded brotherhood – his Inseparables; fiercely loyal to each other … and him. Theirs was undoubtedly the best record for results and that meant they were often tasked with the more dangerous and politically sensitive missions to accompany the mundane. It was not by accident that his own Lieutenant was counted amongst their number, but it would be wrong to assume that Athos kept himself and his brothers on the 'straight and narrow' for it seemed that trouble was attracted to him – and them – like a moth to a flame.
They were currently absent from the garrison, about some business to the west beyond the city and there was no reason to suspect that it would be anything but straightforward. It was certainly not challenging, and they were expected back before the evening meal was served.
He took a mouthful of weak ale from the cup he held, content to watch the antics below him of a pair of cadets who decided to take on a couple of the more mature Musketeers, believing - erroneously - that their youth, enthusiasm and strength would suffice in besting the senior men.
Roars of laughter from onlookers ensued as the physical contest quickly deteriorated into a brawl and it was not long before the spectators piled in to help.
Tréville chuckled softly in amusement, revelling in the moment of bonhomie.
It was short-lived as two things happened, almost simultaneously.
Firstly, a lone rider who was wearing the colours of the Royal household trotted through the archway and skirted around the melée to rein in at the foot of the stairs. Tréville swiftly moved to meet him.
"Captain Tréville, a message for you from His Majesty, requesting that you wait upon him immediately," the man said, thrusting out a folded document bearing the King's seal.
The officer had just taken it when horses' hooves clattered under the archway, men scrambling out of the way.
Musketeers only rode into the yard at that speed when there was an emergency.
Tréville ran an experienced eye over the newcomers and immediately assessed the situation. The Inseparables had returned but one of the four horses – led by his Lieutenant – was riderless. Faces were grim as Athos and Aramis slipped with an easy haste from their saddles and moved to the fourth beast which carried two riders. Porthos had one strong arm snaked around the waist of d'Artagnan who was slumped in front of him, head bowed and seemingly oblivious to his surroundings.
The Captain pushed past the King's messenger to join them, shouting as he did so. "Someone get water and plenty of it; hot and cold. Get a fire laid in the infirmary."
Without hesitation, men moved to do his bidding. It was not a cold day and there was no need for a fire to be lit but he had no knowing if a knife or needle was to be cleansed or a wound needed cauterising.
"But, Captain …" the messenger began, trailing in his wake.
"Not now," Tréville snapped. "Can't you see I have an injured man? If you must, tell the King that I will be with him as soon as I am able."
The messenger stood in mute shock. How did you tell a king that he must wait?
Tréville watched, any additional assistance from him unnecessary, as Athos and Aramis deftly slid d'Artagnan from the saddle. He groaned loudly, his head lolling when they each pulled one of his arms around their necks and supported him as they moved him with awkward steps towards the garrison's infirmary. He was limping badly but at least he was conscious.
The Captain followed them.
"What happened?" he demanded as they sat d'Artagnan on the side of a table and began to unbutton his doublet swiftly and divest him of his boots, an action that drew an agonised gasp from him.
"We were on our way back when we ran into a gang of thieves," Athos answered in a monotone. "A lucky shot creased his upper arm, and his horse threw him. He landed awkwardly, hurt his leg, hit his head and was knocked out for several minutes. Since then, he's been confused."
Between them, he and Aramis settled the young Gascon on his back on the table. Porthos, who had accompanied Tréville into the room, grabbed a pillow from a nearby bed and handed it over. Aramis gently raised d'Artagnan's head, slid the pillow into place beneath him and attempted to make him more comfortable.
"What do you need?" Athos asked, even as three men entered, two bearing water from the well or heated in the garrison kitchen and the third, who crouched before the fire and began stacking logs from the basket in the hearth.
"My bag," Aramis responded.
"On my way," Portos called out, already heading towards the door to retrieve the medical kit from where it was attached to Aramis' saddle.
"Cloths, bandages," Aramis went on as he further ripped the bloodied and torn sleeve of d'Artagnan's shirt to reveal the gash in the flesh below his left shoulder.
Athos nodded and opened the top drawer in a chest to retrieve the required items.
"My best shirt," d'Artagnan grumbled, his words badly slurred.
"I am sure the wonderful Constance will repair it for you," Aramis declared as he crossed to a cupboard and threw open the double doors, all the better for seeing the jars and bottles arrayed on the shelves within. He grabbed several and returned to the patient.
"Should I send for the physician?" Tréville asked as he watched Aramis explore the wounded arm and then tentatively probe the bleeding area on d'Artagnan's temple, looking deep into the rolling, unfocused eyes.
Athos radiated silent but concerned tension and Tréville knew that the lieutenant was likewise desperate to hear his brother's prognosis.
"It appears straightforward. I'll clean the arm thoroughly and sew it up. As with the head injury, it looks worse than it is. I'll get the bleeding stopped soon; it's already sluggish now. I don't think that will need stitches, but he probably has a concussion and, consequently, a severe headache. There's nothing broken in the leg but he's very bruised, so I'll bind it for support and just generally keep an eye on him. He will be fine."
"Are you sure?" Athos said quietly.
Aramis straightened and studied him momentarily before flashing a reassuring smile and resting his hand on Athos' shoulder. "Absolutely fine as long as we keep any infection at bay."
Athos' mouth formed a small 'O' and he exhaled loudly, his relief palpable.
Equally thankful, Tréville remembered the King's missive and tore it open. He frowned and huffed in frustration.
"Athos, I'm sorry but I need you to come with me. We have been summoned to the palace."
"Now?"
Tréville knew the reason behind his question, that the man really wanted nothing more than to sit at d'Artagnan's bedside to convince himself that all was well. Had Aramis' predicted outcome been anything different, the Captain would have gone to the Louvre alone, despite what the King's missive demanded.
"Now. He asks for both of us."
Tréville nodded towards d'Artagnan who winced, hissed in pain and swatted at Aramis' hand as he tried to clean the head injury. "Porthos is here to help Aramis but it is evident, fortunately, that d'Artagnan is not seriously hurt and therefore I need you to accompany me. I'm sorry," he repeated, as if by expressing his regret more than once, it somehow sounded even more genuine than was already apparent.
"You go. I'm …fine," d'Artagnan insisted, joining in with the conversation and gesturing wildly.
Aramis rinsed the blood from his hands in a bowl of water and dried them on a cloth. "Go! I can echo what he has said; he will be fine, I promise. The sooner you have waited upon His Majesty, the sooner you can return."
Athos hesitated still.
"That's true," d'Artagnan added, his rolling eyes settling anywhere but upon Athos, despite his best intentions.
Tréville gave a weak grin for he was unhappy when any of his men returned from a mission with an injury but at least this was not life-threatening. "There is logic in the comment. Come, and as we ride, you can furnish me with a fuller report of the attack."
Athos knew as they walked their horses side by side through the Paris street that the Captain was attempting to distract him. Composing himself and swallowing the waves of anxiety he had felt since the heart-stopping moment when he saw d'Artagnan thrown from the rearing horse, he launched into one of his succinct accounts.
They had been less than an hour from the city, the task accomplished with ease and the very documents they had been sent to collect for the King still in his saddlebag. Their five assailants had picked their ambush point well for the road narrowed and the ground rose steeply on either side of them to disappear into heavy forest.
"That stretch of road needs cutting back," Athos suddenly announced, his thoughts deviating from his report. "It is a dangerous spot for travellers."
"As you unfortunately discovered this morning," Tréville cut in.
Athos nodded. "But we were prepared for it. The lie of the land suggested a place for treachery as we rode in although when it happened, it was so quick that there was little we could do, hemmed in as we were on both sides. We had even changed our formation riding into that part with Aramis on the alert in the front. They made d'Artagnan, who was next, their target."
"They held all the advantages," Tréville said carefully, not wanting the other man to think he was being accused of ineptness. One word that definitely could not be associated with Athos was 'inept'.
Athos turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised questioningly.
Tréville continued. "They had a slight advantage in their number, of being on the higher ground and, despite your appropriate wariness, they had a limited element of surprise."
Athos appeared to think about the statement and then shrugged. "There was no advantage in what they had; we have dealt successfully with larger numbers than that."
Tréville snorted with amusement. To an outsider, one unfamiliar with Athos' traits, they would accuse him of being boastful, but the Captain knew of old that Athos was speaking of what was obvious … and true.
"How many?"
Again, that raised, questioning eyebrow.
Tréville elaborated. "How many walked away?"
Athos fell silent again, as if working out some difficult sum in his head. "Aramis took down one before he stopped to attend to d'Artagnan, so that left Porthos and me …"
"How many?" Tréville pressed, realising that Athos' anxiety for his brother was easing for he was developing the devilish mood he adopted on occasions that demanded Tréville prise the information from him by carefully selected questions.
The corners of Athos' mouth twitched and there was a satisfied gleam in his eyes.
"Let us say that none of that particular group of desperate men will be troubling that stretch of road again."
"So will I need to send out a team later to tidy up your mess?" Tréville asked. "I understand the need to get d'Artagnan back to the garrison with all haste."
Athos shook his head. "I have taken care of it. We passed through a small village a few minutes later. I explained that we were the King's men, that we had been set upon by a desperate gang, that one of us had taken a hurt and that we needed to get him back to Paris. I told them where the bodies were, asked them to bury the men back in the forest and gave them some coin for their time."
Tréville nodded his approval and they rode on in a companionable silence until the main gateway to the Louvre came into view.
"Is the King so impatient for these documents that he demands we attend upon him with all haste?" Athos wondered, tapping the saddle bag to indicate the whereabouts of the paperwork.
"I think rather that this latest summons is completely unrelated," Tréville said, "but it is well that you have brought the documents with you. Before you ask, though, I have absolutely no idea what else it might be. All I do know is that, in his insistence for a meeting, he mentioned you by name."