Greetings, all. Firstly I must apologise for the inconsistent uploading (and writing) at present. So much is happening here and it's likely to get even more chaotic before it gets better. If any errors have crept through here, it is because I was proofreading against a backdrop of sawing, drilling, digging, music and laughter. Good to hear them so happy in their work! Never made so much tea and coffee in my life but the men work on.

Thank you to everyone who has been reading and left comments. I really appreciate it

And here, the ship carrying the Musketeers and the emissary arrives in Dover!

CHAPTER 12

As the ship docked in Dover and the crew secured it with heavy ropes, Athos waited for the gang plank to be put in place, impatient for the sensation of solid ground beneath his feet once more. He had not yet spoken to his brothers of the man who had been watching him, but he was convinced that he had not imagined the episode and, unbidden, Tréville's words of advice came back to mind – to trust no-one - and the number of those to whom it applied seemed to be increasing.

At least one of their followers had managed to secure a passage to England on the same vessel. Were all three of them aboard somewhere? How had they known the Musketeers and Tanquerel would be on the Orléans? Or was it the result of opportune questions in the right ears along the quayside or in the Calais taverns that had given them the vital information they sought? That, therefore, raised a concern about the vessel's captain. Was Jacquot also colluding with the men who had trailed after them from Paris?

Athos was puzzled. What did the men hope to gain by sailing to England? Why did they not remain in Calais and watch incoming vessels for the group's return to France with the reliquary? Perhaps he had made a terrible mistake in assuming that the greatest danger to them was once they were back on French soil. Perhaps whoever they were fully intended to make their move beforehand.

He wished that he knew who it was that they represented. It was all too easy to think they were working for the disgruntled cousin but that could also be an error. Who was this cousin anyway? Did he bear the de Ricart name? Suddenly, Athos realised how poorly prepared he and his brothers were for this mission, but he could not hold Tréville responsible for it have been clear from the outset that the Musketeer Captain was just as lacking in information. Was it yet another case of Richelieu holding back and only imparting that which he considered they ought to know?

Athos thought back to the meeting at the palace when he had accompanied Tréville. The Cardinal had been concerned with the safety of the documents and seemed genuinely surprised that the Musketeers had been attacked as they neared Paris, presumably for what they were carrying. It did not excuse the Cardinal for not initially stating that the documents were important and d'Artagnan had been injured in the process.

Athos briefly shut his eyes, seeing again the incident when the shot sounded. The young Gascon had cried aloud at the same time as his horse reared in surprise. He had crashed to the ground, landing awkwardly and lay unmoving. There had been no opportunity to intervene as Athos, Porthos and Aramis were embroiled in a fight to suppress the attackers. Porthos was searching through the pockets of the corpses for any clue as to their identity when Athos and Aramis dropped to their knees on either side of the young Gascon. There was an anxious wait as Aramis examined him with deft, gentle fingers and there were the first stirrings of d'Artgnan struggling back to consciousness.

They had been led to believe that they were on a simple collection of some letters for the King, but it had turned into something more sinister. D'Artagnan could have received a mortal wound, and they had considered it strange at the time when there was nothing on any of the men to hint at their identity. All pockets and pouches were empty. A desperate band of poverty-driven thieves would have had some personal items about them; at least, that was what the Musketeers usually found.

Then there was their current situation which had been presented to them as an equally straightforward escort duty, but which was fast deteriorating into a dangerous farce! Tanquerel was not what he seemed, of that Athos was convinced. He might have worked for the King and Cardinal for eighteen months, earning him an unprecedented level of trust but it also made him privy to certain information that he could use to his own advantage. All Athos needed to do was to discover the wretched evidence and he was fast drawing the conclusion that he needed to do it sooner rather than later if he and his brothers were to survive this mission.

Tanquerel was too eager to swing from the offensive to the defensive and the watchers seemed too careless, allowing themselves to be spotted at every stage, as if they were gradually wearing down the three Musketeers and biding their time. How Athos longed to be facing them now, sword in his hand, three against three; for some reason, he was not including Tanquerel at this stage. It was as if he were already saving the emissary for a different confrontation at a time when he could verbally hurl every shred of evidence he had garnered against the man.

Athos closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples, an annoying headache worsening by the minute; he was sorely lacking in liquids but any remedy for that would have to be deferred until they arrived at the Castle. His stomach, already aching, tightened into apprehensive knots as he contemplated what might await them.

"I shall remain here until you gentlemen have concluded your business," Jacquot was saying as the Musketeers and Tanquerel gathered at the head of the gangplank.

"We will be ready in the morning," Tanquerel informed him. "There will be no purpose in staying any longer."

"Then we should be able to catch the early afternoon tide," Jacquot said. He eyed Athos curiously and turned to Aramis. "Same arrangement for the return journey?"

"Thank you, that would be appreciated," Aramis answered softly.

"He really doesn't like being on a ship, does he?" the captain grinned.

Ignoring protocol that would allow Tanquerel to go before him, Athos was already heading down the gangplank, Porthos hurrying in his wake. Watching the pair as he followed Tanquerel at a more sedate pace, Aramis half expected Athos to sink to his knees and kiss the dirt in gratitude. As it was, with legs still unsteady, Athos staggered a pace and raised a dismissive hand to ward off any assistance from Porthos.

A group of men on horseback and leading other animals waited nearby. As the passengers disembarked, a tall, dark-haired man in sombre clothing dismounted and approached them, giving them a smile of welcome. A handsome man, he carried himself as a soldier and looked slightly older than the Musketeer brothers.

Appraising them swiftly, he held out a hand to Tanquerel and began to speak in a lilting, flawless French.

"Welcome to Dover, Monsieur Tanquerel. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Robert Fitzwilliam, Lieutenant of Dover Castle. I trust you had a pleasant crossing; it has certainly been a fine day for it."

As Athos scowled, Porthos and Aramis grinned at each other from their positions slightly behind him.

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant," Tanquerel answered on behalf of the French party. "It was a fine journey, although most of us enjoyed it more than others," he added.

Athos felt a sudden urge to wipe the smirk from his face.

"These men are my escort," Tanquerel continued, indicating each of them as he spoke. "Athos, lieutenant in His Majesty's Musketeers, and his comrades, Porthos and Aramis."

"And a warm welcome to you too," Fitzwilliam said, his smile growing broader as he nodded to them and shook Athos' by the hand. It was a firm, genuine handshake. "Your fame as the King's élite regiment goes before you and reaches even our shores. You were at La Rochelle and the Île de Ré, were you not?"

"We were," Porthos said. "An' you?"

"La Rochelle but not on the island," FitzWilliam said easily, "but I heard a lot about it. I would welcome the opportunity of speaking with you further about that time and also hearing about the daily running of your regiment, Lieutenant." Dark eyes filled with humour and enthusiasm fixed upon the Musketeer.

"Presuming that our duties allow, we will enjoy that," Athos said, the stress on 'we' deliberately including his brothers. A slight widening of the eyes indicated that Fitzwilliam had heard and was intrigued by the emphasis.

"I have horses here for you." Fitzwilliam gestured towards the four that were being led forward.

"They're fine-looking animals," Aramis said appreciatively as Tanquerel took his choice and mounted first.

"Thank you," the Lieutenant said. "We have some good breeding stock in the castle's stables; the stallions are selected from here and overseas."

The column made their way from the quayside and towards the main part of the town which nestled in the valley. It was unremarkable and like so many along the French coast. It had its warehouses, taverns, a marketplace and the same sense of hustle and bustle. The people looked the same – harried in most instances – and raucous laughter periodically rent the air, but the words shouted by those plying their trades and wares were incomprehensible to the Musketeers who looked about them, ever alert and interested in what they were seeing.

Two of Fitzwilliam's men rode out in front, followed by the officer and Athos. Tanquerel came next, flanked by Porthos and Aramis whilst the remaining English soldiers brought up the rear.

The road began to climb steeply, winding its way upwards ,and the horses slowed considerably. There was no need to push them unnecessarily and, as they made their ascent, it afforded the Musketeers the opportunity to gaze at the impressive fortification that was ever present, looming over them.

"Does being lieutenant of the castle give you specific responsibilities?" Athos asked as they rode easily.

"I have the powers of the Constable in his absence. We keep a garrison here and administrative staff so I am kept busy," Fitzwilliam answered.

"Is he absent a lot then, the Constable?"

Fitzwilliam laughed. "I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen him since I arrived two years ago and still have fingers to spare, so I was very surprised when he arrived two days ago for the handing over of the artefact."

"Does he have other commitments then?"

"Howard is Earl of Suffolk and lives at Framlingham Castle." When he saw that Athos looked puzzled, he explained further. "It is in East Anglia, many miles north-east of London and a good five day's ride from here, but the Earl broke his journey at the court in London. His family are the most prominent Catholics in the land, and he is here representing the Queen at the hand-over."

Athos absorbed the information. "Do you know of any who are opposed to the passing of the reliquary?"

He said it casually, but Fitzwilliam's head snapped round, and he studied the Frenchman carefully, a soldier's instinct warning him that more lay behind the words.

"I am not aware of any specific antagonism, but it does not surprise me. Forgive me if I speak plainly for I do not wish to cause you any offence."

"Please go on," Athos encouraged him. "I welcome your perspective."

Fitwilliam hesitated. "There are those in certain quarters who have not taken the Queen to their hearts and she, I am sad to say, has not endeared herself to them."

"There are also those who do not accept our Spanish Queen," Athos added, demonstrating that they had similar situations.

"Ours is a Protestant country," Fitzwilliam continued, "with a deep-seated suspicion of those who follow the Church of Rome, begging your pardon. We have had a turbulent religious history since King Hal was on the throne."

"I have heard it," Athos acknowledged with a sympathetic dip of the head. He might no longer adhere to the Catholic faith into which he was raised, but he respected those – such as Aramis – who held a firm belief and so it angered him when religious conflict led to so much discord.

"I know Queen Henrietta Maria is sister to your King and she is still so very young at twenty, but she does insist upon certain privileges for her and her supporters, favouring some over others; all acts which irk many in the King's court."

"In the Louvre, His Majesty was vociferous about his sister's lack of a coronation," Athos said carefully.

Fitzwilliam sighed. "It is true that, as a Catholic, she was not permitted to be crowned queen in an Anglican ceremony and was only permitted to witness Charles' coronation from a distance, so I am sure that this did not sit well with her, but I have heard that, after five years, her learning and use of the English language is still very limited which isolates her in the royal court.

"But I detect that there is a reason behind your question. I would appreciate a sharing of information so that I can decide if I should have my men on alert."

Athos quickly and quietly told him of the attack on him and his brothers when they left Falaise, and of the three men who had followed them from Paris with the various sightings there had been, including the most recent one aboard the Orleans. He finished with the limited description of them.

"That could apply to many," Fitzwilliam said ruefully. "Rest assured, we will increase security at the castle for I do not want anything happening on my watch! I know there are those who would do whatever possible to create chaos with anything associated with the Catholics. What better opportunity than during the return of a Catholic saint's bones to his countrymen at the request of our Queen?"

As they continued to talk, Athos found himself warming to the straightforward Englishman.

"Your French is excellent," the Musketeer said. "I must apologise that my understanding of English does not pass beyond a few words of greeting and thanks."

Fitzwilliam huffed at the praise. "Given my family name, I am descended from a French baron who followed Duke William to assist in the settlement of this tempestuous land. I still have cousins in Normandy whom I visit, hence my knowledge of your language."

He was smiling broadly as they passed through the Constable's Gate into the middle bailey and missed the Musketeer stiffening beside him. It was as if a cold hand had gripped Athos as Fitwilliam's words registered. Cousins in Normandy!

Tréville's words shouted their warning at him inside his head.

"Trust no-one!"

A/N

Fitz – medieval French for 'son of'. In the Anglo-Saxon, Harold Godwinson (King Harold defeated in 1066 at Hastings) was Harold, son of Godwin. (I already touched on him with the Goodwin Sands.)

Fitzwilliam is my creation, although his role existed.

Theophilus Howard, 2nd Earl of Suffolk, was Constable of Dover Castle and Lord Warden of the Cinq Ports from 1628-1640. (Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, was also Lord Warden for many years before her death.)