Morning. Here is a longer chapter to make up for the delay in posting. Life is, as ever, busy with getting ready for some work being done on the house which is set to disrupt things from this week until the mid-autumn and I did return to working on my novel this week. Trying to juggle too many balls as usual. (lol)

So, the journey to Dover is underway. Thanks to all who have read and reviewed.

CHAPTER 11

I

Tanquerel was making plans in his head.

The Musketeer Athos was the very suspicious one although what had initially given rise to it, Tanquerel could not fathom. Yes, the incident with the glove could be regarded as careless, but he thought that he had given a plausible explanation, yet it seemed to confirm the soldier's unfavourable opinions. That they had reached an accepted impasse was obvious, but they disliked and distrusted each other.

He had witnessed the close friendship between the three men, heard their banter and teasing but had also been privy to their serious, professional side and understood only too well why they had been selected to accompany him. They were highly skilled in what they did and, consequently, dangerous – a threat to his task.

He had no doubt that in the face of an all-out attack, they would be the victors. True, they might not escape completely unscathed, but he did not have the additional manpower to overwhelm them. They were a problem and one that needed solving on the return journey. The reliquary was not to reach Paris.

He knew that it would be the end of his employment with the palace but if the reliquary gave up its secrets – and he did not mean the dusty bones within – he would never have to work again.

Tanquerel briefly toyed with the notion of winning the Musketeers over to his way of thinking and procuring their support in his quest. After all, what would one of the King's men earn in a month? A year? He could make it pay them more than in their wildest dreams. But then there was that Athos. He had the breeding and bearing of a nobleman and probably had sufficient funds in his own right. What need had he of the promise of a greater reward? Besides, his very manner screamed of honour and duty, and he was duty-bound to get the reliquary to Paris, as were his companions.

Quiet and aloof, he was the thinker of the three and Aramis had said he was a leader, that the men would follow him. Remove him first from the equation on the sea journey home and his two friends would be so burdened with grief that it would increase their vulnerability. The big one, Porthos, looked as if he could handle himself well in a fight so that had to be avoided as the three men working with Tanquerel would not have the physical prowess to subdue him. However he was to be taken down would need to be stealthy, unexpected. A knife in the back during an unguarded moment in a dark street in Calais perhaps? The emissary would need to think of a valid excuse to send the man out from the inn on their one night there. It would not be easy if he had already lost a friend in suspicious circumstances.

That would leave Aramis. One man to be overwhelmed by three, four including Tanquerel. No matter what his training, the odds would be against him considerably and he should, in theory, be easier to defeat.

The finer details were all that were needed for Porthos and Aramis. With Athos, it was easy. A sleeping draught provided by Aramis would render him helpless. Of course, it meant that Aramis would need to be drawn away from the sleeping man's side but that should be easy to arrange temporarily. Silencing an already incapacitated Musketeer would not take long.

Satisfied with his plan so far, Tanquerel began to think about what he would do when he was not at the beck and call of France's King and First Minister.

II

Porthos saw Tanquerel standing at the rail and looking out to sea. His brow creasing, he wondered at Athos' level of suspicion towards the man. Even as he was slipping into an induced sleep, the Musketeer lieutenant was insistent that the emissary be watched and that the ship was searched. The latter task could not be undertaken by one man; there were far too many places on board where a man - or men - might secrete themselves and have the opportunity to move on from hiding place to hiding place, ever one step ahead of the searcher.

It was an unreasonable order and Athos would have known that on land and in his right mind. Aramis' concoction had been strong and fast acting, addling Athos' thoughts. If Porthos had not known what had happened to Athos' uncle and how the loss of that same ship had nearly taken his father and brother too, then he might have feared for his friend's reason. All that stuff about not being able to save himself if the ship went down! As if that were likely to happen to them on a daylight sailing!

He had heard tell that if you stood on the Calais shore on a clear day, you could see the English coastline with the naked eye, no spyglass needed. He did not know if this were true, but he did know that they were crossing the water at its narrowest point and should only take them three hours with a fair sailing. It had been mutually agreed with Aramis that they would not tell Athos that, in bad conditions, it had been known to take thirteen hours. That would be far longer than the dreadful crossing to Ré from La Rochelle when high winds had prevented them from entering the narrow opening into the island's harbour so that they had been anchored outside, tossed relentlessly on the open sea, a nightmare for Athos and half the regiment who had all succumbed to debilitating seasickness.

Porthos felt the deck moving beneath his feet; he dared not say to Athos that he loved the sensation, no matter how bad it got but he maintained his silence for that would be like rubbing salt into an open wound. Athos did not like having any weakness and he felt an illogical shame about being rendered so helpless any time he set foot on a boat of any kind, and there had been several occasions in the Ré debacle. Each time he had been stricken. If that were not bad enough, the fear of drowning in the same manner as his beloved uncle was deep-seated and beyond comprehension.

It was the only time when Athos let them witness his terror and it was only because it was beyond his control. In turn, that worried Porthos. He did not like seeing his brother in such turmoil. None of them was immune to fear; they knew it from the battlefield and in their duty protecting the sovereign in the face of attack, but there was usually an adrenalin rush to fuel them onwards, the excitement of matching skills with an opponent in a test of strength, strategy and skill driving them.

It was totally different when the adversary was one such as this – the sea – when there were few practical means of defence and no methods of attack. The remedy made by Aramis had been one such attempt and, if they made the journey in the allotted time, all might be well, but it only took a change in the wind or a deterioration in the current calm conditions to delay them.

If Athos could sleep the journey away, he would arrive in Dover feeling well, refreshed and composed for the exchange meeting.

Porthos joined Tanquerel at the rail.

"How is your friend?" the emissary asked.

"'E's asleep now an' should stay that way until we arrive," Porthos answered as he watched the French coastline growing ever smaller behind them.

"I did not appreciate that he suffered so, especially when the sea appears calm."

Porthos gave a wry grin. "It could be as calm as a village pond an' 'e'd still get sick. It's just one of those things. Good thing as Musketeers that we spend most of our time on solid ground."

"Indeed." Tanquerel hesitated. "Aramis seemed to hint that there was more to your friend's aversion to sea travel."

Porthos' eyes narrowed. "An' 'e didn't say what?"

"No, but I thought perhaps it was -."

"Then you can carry on thinkin', but I'm not sayin' anythin' either," Porthos interrupted.

"I meant no offence," Tanquerel was quick to appease the big man.

"None taken." Porthos had seen the speed with which the emissary had gone on the defensive; something he was very adept at doing.

"He is obviously a man of many skills if Captain Tréville is content to have him as his second-in-command," Tanquerel continued.

"Many skills," Porthos reiterated slowly. "P'raps you'll get the chance to see 'im with a sword in 'is hand. There are lots of men in their graves now who've underestimated 'im an' no doubt there'll be many more," he added pointedly. "He's a leader an', just like our Captain, where 'e leads, the regiment will follow."

"Your loyalty and friendship are admirable. Aramis said much the same thing."

Porthos felt the first stirrings of anger. "You seem to 'ave spent a lot of time discussin' Athos. Why the interest?"

Tanquerel shrugged. "He intrigues me. He's a soldier and an officer, but he has an enigmatic air about him and the bearing of a nobleman; I suspect he has a past though."

"We all 'ave a past," Porthos declared, refusing to be drawn any further.

"I have no doubt you do," Tanquerel said carefully, eyeing the Musketeer as if speculating upon how he came to be wearing the famous and coveted pauldron.

"Like I said, we don't get the call to be at sea very often, so it doesn't affect Athos often enough to bring 'is abilities into question. We prefer to rely on 'is intelligence, integrity, an' sense of honour an' duty. 'E 'as good instincts an' I quickly learned to trust 'em an' him. 'E's particularly good at seein' those who lie to 'im or who're out to deceive 'im in some way."

Porthos was not about to elucidate upon how Athos had developed those skills, that they were the result of hapless past experiences, and if he had slightly exaggerated Athos' aptitudes, then all to the good for his words hung heavily in the air between him and Tanquerel. Their eyes were fixed in an unspoken challenge as the emissary absorbed the deliberate message.

Tanquerel broke eye contact first and focused on the French shore now becoming a distant line behind them.

Porthos noted his small victory and strove to lighten the mood by changing the subject. "Now, we're stuck 'ere for a while an' need to pass the time. I'm interested, so what else can you tell me about this reliquary?"

III

Aramis was sitting on the deck, oblivious to the discomfort afforded by the wooden planks. With his long legs stretched out before him, he had the grain sacks against his back, Athos' head near his left shoulder. His hat was tilted over his eyes and he dozed intermittently, his sub-conscious aware of his sleeping brother's regular breathing.

As soon as that began to change, Aramis snapped awake, removed his hat and twisted, grinning broadly as he saw the green eyes reluctantly flicker open.

"Hello," he said softly, not wanting to startle Athos with his close proximity.

Athos nodded a greeting and then the groggy eyes slid closed again.

"How long have I been asleep?" he murmured.

"Nearly four hours. That should have given you a good rest."

Aramis watched and waited as his brother absorbed the answer.

It was not long before Athos' eyes opened wide and he struggled to sit up.

"We are still moving. Why have we not docked? What has happened? What is wrong?"

"Easy, easy," Aramis advised, laying the flat of a hand on Athos' chest, hoping that the touch would ground him "Nothing has happened, the ship hasn't sunk and there is nothing wrong. Not really."

"What do you mean 'not really'?" Athos demanded, leaping to his feet to look out over the side. Such was his haste that he nearly toppled and grabbed at the rail to steady himself.

"We have not got too far to go now," said Aramis, coming up beside him. "You can see the chalk cliffs of Dover. That, my friend, is England."

"Then why are we not there?" Athos ground out. He could not ignore the swell on the water and feel the vessel rise and fall beneath him. In his head, he knew this was a calm sea, but he could feel his stomach start to churn.

Aramis sighed. "The wind dropped, delaying us, and the Captain did not want to risk us running aground on the Goodwin Sands that lay between us and the shore. The channel through which we navigate is narrow. The tide was low as we approached and the sands were exposed; they were quite an impressive sight."

He thought it better not to add that he had seen the ruined hulls of vessels partly buried in the treacherous sands, their backs broken. That was something Athos did not need to know and Aramis was relieved that he had been asleep and spared witnessing the maritime graveyard. It would have been an unwelcome reminder of past events.

"Where are they now?" Athos arched an eyebrow.

"The tide has turned again and covered them. With that, the wind has got up again so our passage through the channel is safe. We should encounter no further delays." He glanced sideways at his friend who had fallen silent. "Try to keep your eyes upon the horizon; I have heard it said that it helps ease the onset of the nausea."

Obediently, Athos did as he was told and stood in silence for a while as if transfixed, his teeth clenched. But the horizon and, more importantly, the white cliffs themselves refused to remain still, rising and falling of their own volition in keeping with the vessel as it surged through the waves towards its destination. Even as he focused on them, he could see the rolling sea in his peripheral vision.

To Aramis, the deterioration was as obvious as it was sudden. Sweat broke upon Athos' brow and his skin took on an unhealthy, grey clamminess. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and he swallowed repeatedly. It was not long before he emitted a long, low moan.

"Do you feel sick?" Aramis asked worriedly. He had vainly hoped that they would have docked before Athos began to suffer but it was clearly not to be.

Athos nodded and Aramis made him turn and resume his seat upon the sacks. He placed the bucket at his feet and lay the waterskin by his side.

"We are prepared and I am with you. You will get through this."

Unable to answer, Athos closed his eyes and trembled. His worst hangover would be preferable to the way he was feeling right now.

IV

Sometime later, Aramis joined Tanquerel and Porthos on the other side of the ship.

"Thought you promised not to leave 'im," was the immediate welcome.

"I did but he wanted to be left alone for a while," Aramis said.

Porthos' brow furrowed. "'E's awake then?" When Aramis nodded, he continued. "'Ow long's 'e been awake?"

"Long enough."

The implication was clear. It was long enough for Athos to begin suffering the effects of being on board a ship.

Porthos shook his head, disappointed for his brother who seemed destined never to enjoy a sea voyage. "Can't you give him more of that stuff?"

"He can't even keep down sips of water now," Aramis answered.

"Will he be able to ride once we have docked?" Tanquerel wanted to know. "We are to be met by someone and he will be bringing us horses. It is a long, steep climb up to the castle."

"'E'll be fine," Porthos said with a confidence he did not feel. "Once 'is feet are on firm ground again, 'e'll soon be back to 'is old self, you'll see."

His eyes met those of Aramis but said nothing more. They both remembered what the sailing to Ré had taken out of their brother and the rest of their comrades who were similarly afflicted; it had been a day before most of them were recovered from the weakness and exhaustion the sickness had brought with it.

Knowing Athos the way they did, though, he would climb into the saddle and hang on with a grim determination as they wound their way upwards to the formidable fortification that dominated the skyline above Dover.

V

Athos was doubled miserably over the bucket, fearful that the unrelenting retching would tear his insides apart. Stomach muscles cried out at the violence they endured. With nothing left to bring up anymore, he spat bile into the bucket and sank back on the sacks, the wood cool against his back as he rested his head against the ship's side.

His eyes were mere slits as he concentrated on taking deep breaths to control the nausea that refused to abate. The view of the deck before him was partially veiled by his lids and lashes, but not so obscured that he failed to see the figure standing a few feet away to his left and watching him. The sickness momentarily forgotten, Athos felt with his boot for the weapons belt discarded at his feet. Perhaps his movement alerted the watcher for whoever it was melted away towards the stern.

It was but a few seconds and, given his current state, Athos might have been excused for thinking that he had imagined it had it not been for the dark green cloak and the flash he had seen of the long, white-blond hair as the man turned away hurriedly.

A/N

The Goodwin Sands is an infamous shifting sand bar in the English Channel, probably named after the Saxon Godwin, Earl of Wessex and father of Harold Godwinson, later King of England until stopped in 1066 at the Battle of Hastings. Of course, he was defeated by William, Duke of Normandy, who hailed from Falaise (very impressive castle there!) and that is where the Musketeers went to get the documents as the de Ricart estate is outside Falaise in Normandy (in my world!)

About ten miles long, the Goodwins are 6 miles off-shore from Deal and Dover. There are thought to have been some 2000 shipwrecks there since Roman times, the last being in the mid-20th century. At low tide, when the sands are exposed, cricket matches have been held there! I have stood on Deal beach and looked out at low tide and seen, with the naked eye, three masts of a sunken vessel sticking up out of the water. Time and the sea have taken their toll and it is no longer visible. The Sands appear in a lot of literature. They are thought to be where Ian Fleming had Chitty Chitty Bang Bang land for the picnic. Antonio's ships were lost to the Sands in Shakespeare's 'The Merchant of Venice' ... and now they make an appearance in 'Reliquary'. Who'd have thought it? :)