"Grudge"
Aramis woke to a throbbing in his head and wondered for a moment if he had somehow tried to outdrink Athos in the tavern last night. A foolish endeavor, to be sure. But as awareness slowly spread through his limbs, he realized he was sitting upright, back against something firm, and an experimental shift revealed his arms weren't cooperating. No, they were pulled back, and the coarse fiber of hemp scraped along the skin of his wrists.
Well, this did not bode well.
He pried his eyelids open, squinting into the dimly lit surroundings. The air was musty with the scent of straw and dust but lacked the pungent odor of animals to go with it. However, he was clearly in a barn, a shabby one stale with disuse.
Aramis shifted again, tugging at his bonds. How had he gotten into this mess? And what kind of mess was it? His memory was fuzzy, courtesy of the blow to the head he could feel the pulsing evidence of, localized on his left temple. Better he had gone toe to toe with Athos and his liquor.
"Good, you're awake," a voice said off to the side, startling him into a flinch.
Aramis craned his head back as his captor stepped into view. His vision swam briefly but then cleared and he was able to take in the poor cut of cloth, mended several times over, the pair of blades at the belt, and the black doublet. His eyes tracked upward to a pockmarked face with a bushy beard and black hair pulled back at the nape. Cold, ruthless eyes bored into him, igniting a spark of familiarity. Aramis squinted as it took him a delayed moment to place the man.
"Blanchard," he breathed in surprise.
"I'm surprised you remember me," the man remarked blandly.
Of course Aramis did. Blanchard had petitioned to join the Musketeers when the regiment was first formed. He wasn't chosen though. Aramis didn't know why; it hadn't been his place to know. He'd later heard that Blanchard resigned as a solider and left Paris.
Aramis drew his shoulders back against the post. "What do you want?"
The man rested a hand on the hilt of his rapier, thumb stroking the knuckle guard. "I've had a lot of time to hone my skills these past few years. I'm as good as any musketeer." He snorted. "Better, perhaps, as I took down one easily enough."
Aramis narrowed his eyes. "It's not hard to waylay a man from behind. A child and a well aimed stone could do the same."
Blanchard's nostrils flared and his hand stilled where it gripped his sword.
Aramis eyed it warily, aware of the precarious edge he was finding himself veering toward. There was something off in Blanchard's mien.
"What do you want?" Aramis asked again. "To test your mettle against a musketeer? You only needed to come to the garrison and ask. Myself or many others would have happily obliged."
"I seek an audience with someone in particular. Someone who will rue not accepting me into the regiment."
Aramis frowned. "I'm not the one who denied you."
A strange stillness came over the man. "No, you weren't."
Fear slithered down Aramis's spine.
"Sit tight," Blanchard said. "You're only the incentive in this scenario." He turned on his heel and left.
Aramis struggled against the ropes with renewed urgency. He couldn't allow himself to be used as bait for the captain, which was what he deduced was Blanchard's intention. Treville was the one who'd hand-chosen his first musketeers. The fact that Aramis had been targeted was probably not a coincidence, given he was one of the original company.
He sucked air through his teeth as the rope abraded his flesh, but the bonds were secure. However, Aramis's hand brushed against a rusty nail protruding from the back of the post. Working the rope against the tip, he began to move his hands back and forth, back and forth, in an attempt to saw through the ropes.
Treville stared at the missive in his hand, the paper crinkling where his thumb pressed too tightly into it. It wasn't signed, had been delivered by a messenger boy who hadn't been able to describe the hooded man who had paid him to courier it, and lacked anything to substantiate its claim, leaving Treville to question the veracity of it.
Heavy footsteps sounded outside his office before a knock rapped on his door.
"Enter," he barked, looking up and expecting to see the three he'd summoned. Only two stepped inside.
Athos and Porthos came to stand at attention in front of the desk.
Treville swallowed his mounting trepidation. "Where's Aramis?"
"No idea," Athos replied mildly. "He's not in his room at the garrison."
Porthos let out a soft snort. "I'm sure he's in someone's room."
Treville narrowed his eyes. He wasn't unaware of his men's reputations or vices and had given up actively discouraging them long ago, settling instead for disapproving glares when they sauntered—or shuffled—in late for muster.
He passed the note to Athos. His lieutenant's eyes roved over the scrawled words, narrowing a fraction.
"Was any proof sent?" he asked because the man was as practical minded as Treville.
"No. But I can't dismiss Aramis's absence as coincidence."
"And yet, anyone aware of his proclivities could be using them to bluff."
"Proof of what?" Porthos all but growled.
"The note isn't signed, but whoever sent it is demanding a meeting with the Captain of the Musketeers at noon today outside the city," Athos explained. "If the captain doesn't show, Aramis's life will be forfeit."
"And you're willing to bet this is a bluff?" Porthos exclaimed incredulously.
"I didn't say that."
Treville turned and walked to where his baldric and weapons were hanging on hooks on the wall. "We don't have time to verify. I will go to this meeting. And if Aramis is in fact in some woman's bed, I will have him cleaning the stables for a month."
"We'll ready the horses," Athos said.
Treville shot a glare at him. "The note clearly stated I come alone. We don't know who we're dealing with or how many. They could have lookouts."
"All the more reason not to walk into an obvious trap."
Treville held back a sigh, unable to argue. If Aramis was being held hostage, Treville would need his men; if Aramis wasn't there at all, then he himself would need the backup.
He hoped the marksman was with some woman and not, in fact, in serious trouble.
Aramis's wrists were chafed raw by the time he was finally able to cut through the rope enough to slip free of it. He crept toward the barn door, listening for sounds outside. It was quiet. Blanchard didn't seem to have a company of men with him. That was good. Just one lone madman seeking revenge then.
Aramis had two options: escape to warn the captain, or subdue Blanchard himself. The latter wasn't very feasible if he was unarmed though. He cast his gaze around the barn in search of his weapons but didn't see them. He was going to be very cross if Blanchard left them in an alley somewhere.
He spotted a pitchfork against the wall and picked it up. Better than nothing.
Easing the barn door open, he peeked outside. The immediate area was clear. Aramis frowned. Would Blanchard have left, believing his prisoner secure?
There was some woodland several dozen yards away, and beyond the tree line the rooftops of Paris. So he wasn't that far outside the city.
He ventured out further, only to stop when Blanchard stepped around the corner of the barn. The man narrowed his eyes but otherwise seemed unfazed.
"Well, I commend you on slipping the ropes. What was your plan afterward?"
Aramis shrugged and lifted the pitchfork.
Blanchard arched a brow at it and drew his sword. "Hardly a match."
"A musketeer must be resourceful."
Aramis swung the pitchfork up as Blanchard advanced, catching the man's blade between the prongs. He twisted the handle to wrench the sword from Blanchard's grip, but his opponent drew his gauche with his other hand and thrust it forward. Aramis had to leap back to avoid getting stabbed. He brandished the pitchfork, but the motion sent a wave of dizziness through his head and he stumbled. Blanchard grabbed the farming tool and yanked it away.
Aramis threw a punch at him. He wasn't as fond of brawls as Porthos, but he'd picked up a few tricks. Blanchard's head snapped to the side and Aramis grabbed his sword arm. The man retaliated with an elbow to his face, and Aramis's vision went spotty for a few precious moments in which fire speared through his upper arm. Another blow to the side of his head followed, dropping him to the ground in a haze of blackness.
He hadn't fully lost consciousness, but the head injury had him down long enough for Blanchard to grab some rope and start looping it around his wrists. His arms were then forced up so that his hands were just under his chin, and Blanchard began twining the rope around his throat next before securing it to one of his wrists again. He let go and took a step back. Aramis's arms naturally fell lower, which tightened the hemp line around his neck, cutting off his airway.
With a startled gasp, he drew his arms up trying to relieve the constriction. The rope loosened a fraction, allowing him to suck in a ragged breath.
"Best keep your arms up if you don't want to suffocate," Blanchard said.
Aramis gaped at him. He'd never heard tale of a configuration like this, nor would he have ever dreamed of inflicting it on someone, not even a prisoner of war.
Blanchard smirked. "A skilled soldier must be resourceful."
Aramis wanted to comment that Blanchard was no soldier, leastwise not an honorable one, but he didn't have the breath to do so.
Blanchard grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet, then back into the barn. Spinning him around, the man took another two pieces of rope and tied them around his waist and legs to the same post from before, forcing him to remain upright, which was going to make keeping his arms up that much more strenuous. His left arm was already burning from what he guessed was a stab wound.
With a self-satisfied glare, Blanchard turned and left.
Aramis struggled to draw in breath, struggled to keep his arms raised as the noose slowly tightened around his neck.
Treville reined his horse in at the edge of the tree line, Athos and Porthos staying a few paces behind to remain concealed. The meeting place was nothing more than a barn standing out in the open, but it meant there was no way to approach from any direction without being seen. However, there didn't appear to be any guards stationed outside.
"I don't like it," Athos commented, a spyglass to his eye.
"I have little choice." Treville nudged his horse forward and broke cover, approaching the barn at a wary trot.
At the sound of clomping hooves, a man emerged from the building. Treville slowed his mount as he took in the strange figure. No, not strange.
Treville barely suppressed a noise of surprise. The years had not been kind to Blanchard. He had been a decent enough soldier when he'd petitioned to join the Musketeers, but he'd possessed an arrogance that had grated Treville. Honestly, the man would have been a better fit for the Red Guard, though Treville hadn't suggested that when he'd denied the man a commission.
Blanchard sneered in obvious derision at him.
Treville dismounted and stepped away from his horse. "Where's Aramis?" His gut was pinging that the marksman was probably not back in the city with some woman…
"He's here."
Treville's jaw tightened. "We won't speak until I see him."
Blanchard's eyes flashed, but he wordlessly turned and stalked back into the barn.
Treville sidestepped to get a glimpse inside. He didn't see any men, or horses. He quickly held up one finger to signal Athos and Porthos before Blanchard was returning, hauling Aramis in front of him. The marksman's arms were bound up at his neck in a strange fashion and his face was red. It took Treville only a moment to realize he couldn't breathe. Blanchard had a hand fisted at the back of his neck, pulling on the rope.
"Release him!" Treville barked.
"Certainly. I'm not interested in him anyway."
"Then what are you interested in? What is this about?"
"You denied me my acceptance into the Musketeers. I'm here to show you that was a mistake."
"By threatening my man?" Treville demanded.
Blanchard's other hand came to rest on his sword. "By challenging you to a duel."
Treville blinked. Was he serious? Was that what this entire lure was about?
"And what will that prove?" he asked. "Your actions here have already confirmed my original assessment—you could never be a musketeer."
Blanchard yanked back on the rope and Aramis's eyes blew wide as he sputtered and choked. "Choose your next words carefully, Captain. They might be the last ones your man ever hears."
Treville had gone rigid, but now he drew his sword. "Very well. Let him go. Your quarrel is with me."
Blanchard's face cracked into a manic grin and he flung Aramis to the ground, leaving the marksman to cough and gag as he pulled his rapier and advanced. There was no courtesy, no signal to start, only the lifting of steel and the duel began.
Athos watched through the spyglass as the captain met with a man who'd stepped out of the barn. Athos didn't recognize him. He waited tautly as Treville then signaled that there was only one. That surprised Athos. One man was behind this lure? For what purpose?
Then he saw Aramis being dragged out, wrists and neck bound in a cruel fashion. There was blood on one sleeve. The situation looked everything like a hostage exchange, except the captain had nothing to hand over.
Except himself.
The realization struck only a second before Treville drew his sword and the man threw Aramis aside in favor of brandishing his own blade.
Athos wrenched the spyglass down and shoved it back into his saddlebag. "We'll make our way around the rear of the barn," he said to Porthos. "Keep out of sight."
They backed their horses up and turned around, riding back through the woods and coming out once they were out of view of the barn. Then they made a circuitous canter to come at it from behind. There was a horse tethered out back, confirming the captain's signal that only one man was involved.
Athos and Porthos quickly dismounted and crept along the side of the barn, the clash of swords at least letting them know their captain was holding his own. Not that they had to worry. There was a reason he was the Captain of the King's elite guard.
Still, Athos was eager to put an end to whatever this was, and the first thing they had to do was secure Aramis.
The marksman was sprawled on the ground on his side, breaths wheezing sharply in his chest. Porthos drew a knife and quickly cut through the ropes. Aramis coughed raggedly, his entire body shuddering with strangled efforts to breathe.
Ice filled Athos's veins as he turned his attention to the fight. Treville's opponent was skilled but also moved with an almost possessed intensity. Sometimes that proved to be a man's weakness; other times it gave him an advantage.
The man caught the hilt of Treville's blade and twisted, disarming him. He then slammed his body into the captain's shoulder, knocking him to the ground.
"And now I've bested the Captain of the Musketeers," he gloated.
He raised his sword to go in for the kill. Athos pulled his pistol and fired, hitting him in the shoulder of his sword arm. The man fell backward with a cry and Athos marched over to kick his weapon from his hand before he could wield it again.
The felled man snarled up at him viciously. "So much for the honor of the Musketeers," he spat.
"Honor for honor," Athos replied darkly. "And there was none in abducting a musketeer and stringing him up in such a manner. I will see you hang for it. The honorable way."
"I beat two of the regiment's best," the man went on, propping himself up on his elbow. "The King should reward me with a position."
Treville had gotten up and come over to stare down at him. After a prolonged beat, he bent forward and punched the man so hard he hit the ground and didn't move.
Athos arched a mild brow. "Who is he?"
"A disgruntled soldier who didn't have what it took to be a musketeer."
With that, the captain spun on his heel and walked over to Aramis, who was sitting propped up against Porthos. Treville crouched down in front of them.
"Are you all right?"
Aramis gave a jerky nod. There were rope burns around his neck and wrists, and Porthos had his bandana clamped around a bleeding wound in his arm. This close, Athos noticed a contusion on his temple as well.
"Blan-chard…wanted…revenge," he rasped.
Treville nodded solemnly. "And now he will get justice."
"Don' try 'n' talk," Porthos chided softly.
Aramis closed his eyes and leaned his head back against Porthos's shoulder.
Athos snatched up the rope pieces and went over to secure their prisoner. And while he would never restrain someone in the manner this Blanchard had done to Aramis, Athos didn't refrain from making the knots a little extra tight. Athos would see their brother avenged in the manner of the law.