Porthos chuckled, grabbed the child by her wrists, and in a swift motion had her lifted and seated onto his right shoulder. She squealed in delight and then pointed toward the makeshift tent her family was using as their temporary home.

"Do you see them now?" Porthos asked and smiled when Dora giggled and strained her arm.

"Over there," Dora said. She wrapped her right arm around Porthos' head and felt him shift as he stepped forward.

Mud crept up his boots, splattered his legs, and attempted to keep him immobile as he struggled to pull himself from within its embrace. He had found Dora seated by a tree, arms wrapped around her knees, as she cried and struggled for air. She couldn't find her parents. She was with them, and then suddenly they were gone, and no matter how loud she had cried for them, they failed to hear her over the horses, the men, and the thunder. Porthos had squatted in front of her, rested his elbows on his knees and carefully learned of her predicament. She was quick to trust him, and the moment he promised to help her find her parents, she knew she was safe.

The sun was down and the evening weather had gone from cold to colder as the winter weather continued to burden the men and the refugees. The makeshift tents, wagons, and lean-tos continued to grow in number. While the people did their best to battle their own situation, they understood the burden they placed on the men who supported and helped them. Several members of the refugee camp had taken to hunting, washing, cooking, and offering medical aid to those who needed it. It wasn't much, but it was enough to continue their stay. They felt safe with the military, and those willing to sacrifice themselves for France, their homes and their lands.

"Lieutenant Porthos," Monsieur Alteir shouted when he spotted his daughter on the shoulder of the man who had helped them organize their temporary accommodations. Though muddy, it was uphill and provided less water collection than the tents below. "We've been searching for her for hours!" He ran forward, arms outstretched, and grabbed his daughter when Porthos pulled her from his shoulder and released her.

"She seems to enjoy watchin' the men start their night fires," Porthos said, and cocked his right eyebrow.

Altier nodded and chuckled as he held his daughter and rubbed her back. "She's always had a fascination with fire — I believe it's because she burned her finger as a child. The incident ignited her imagination and need for information."

Porthos nodded and watched several new refugees settle themselves along the backside of the camp.

"They arrived earlier today," Altier said with a shrug. "Most have had their homes burned. They're here because they can't rebuild," he winced, "at least not until the fighting ceases."

"Do you know of them?" Porthos asked and squinted as he fought the darkness and the lights of the fires.

"Monsieur Valleau," Altier said and chuckled. With a tilt of his head and a slight nod, he said, "His home didn't burn, but he's old nobility. Most of his family is dead and gone. He has a reputation as a meddler, but you have to take what he says with a grain of salt."

Porthos nodded. "Anyone else?"

"There's the schoolteacher. She said she's going to set up a temporary location for the children to learn." Altier shifted his daughter and smiled. "It would be good for the children to be educated — even if we are in the midst of war."

Porthos nodded. "Monsieur Valleau?" He paused and pulled his eyebrows together in a frown. "Would he know of any farmers in the area?"

Altier nodded, released his daughter and watched her run toward her mother, who stepped from the confines of the tent. "He would, but it will be difficult to get any of them to surrender their barley or their livestock." He pointed toward the chateau and rubbed the back of his neck. "Raboin — your general," he winced, "the rumors about him are…" he twisted his lips and said, "not good, Lieutenant. I won't discuss it, but if you want to know more… talk to Monsieur Jean Valleau." He turned and pointed toward the last tent that glowed with the light of a lantern burning inside.

Porthos nodded, clapped Altier on the shoulder, and walked to the tent. He passed several children who made mud pies and pretended to eat at their family's dinner table, others burned sticks and drew on the rocks with the charcoal ends, and a few simply watched the sparks of their fires fly upward with blank looks on their faces. Parents moved in and out of tents as they prepared for the evening. Muddied day clothes were exchanged for muddied night-wear. Hot water was used to thin the soup provided by Gentry at the musketeer tent. It wasn't much, and not nearly enough to survive on, but was something.

The refugees had expanded from 15 to nearly 40 over the course of the last few weeks. It was a sign that the Spanish were shifting their positions and, as a result, more French were fleeing their homes to escape the fighting. Most arrived exhausted, hungry, and devastated. While their children were the most resilient, Porthos had noticed that they too were suffering from the weather and their recent losses.

It was unfair.

Unfair for all of them, regardless of their station.

Porthos cleared his throat and said, "Monsieur Valleau?"

There was a sudden crash of a tin cup against something hard that was quickly followed by a chain of familiar and surprising curses. The lantern inside the tent flickered and Porthos watched the shadow of Monsieur Valleau as he walked with a hunched back toward the entry.

"What it is?" Came the gruff response. He pulled back the flap of his tent, pushed the lantern outside and peered through with squinted eyes and narrowed glasses that rested on the curve of his bulbous nose. Wild gray, nearly white, hair stood on end around his ears and the back of his skull. Only a few strands spiked upward from his balding scalp.

Porthos quickly introduced himself and followed when Jean Valleau motioned with his hand for him to follow.

"I don't hear as well as I once did," Jean said. "Comes with age, I guess," he chuckled, "that and screaming children." He motioned toward an old chair he had saved from his estate, and took a seat on the narrow cot that was covered in furs. "What is it, young man, that you've come looking for an old man on a rainy night?"

Porthos took a seat, rested his right leg out before him, and leaned forward. "With the additional refugees arriving 'ere for protection, I'm lookin' for food sources. I understand you might know a few farmers in the area?"

Jean shifted his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose and squinted as he looked hard at Porthos. "I've told the locals that we'd one day go hungry living this close to the border." He cleared his throat, shifted his seat on the bed, and rubbed his thighs. "The people here will not feed the soldiers working for a traitor to France."

Porthos frowned, parted his lips to say something, and winced.

Jean chuckled. "You're surprised?"

"I'm concerned," Porthos said. "Why would you call General Raboin a traitor?"

"The man has failed to supply military support to defend the northeastern border for many years. The local nobility have defended what he should have been defending — and then he took credit for it." Jean huffed and shook his head. "He's a disgraceful excuse of a man and King Louis is a fool to keep him in the position he is in." He leaned forward and pointed a crooked finger toward Porthos. "I'm old — what is the king going to do? Kill me for saying such things," he huffed. "The nobility deserve to be treated better… We have been paying taxes that have done nothing but decorate the king's palace and his estates. It's shameful." He rubbed his right thigh and watched Porthos shift uncomfortably. "The Musketeers are the finest soldiers in the king's army and here you sit, asking me…" the old man pointed toward his chest, "to help find food because a few extra refugees are arriving? No, son, your general has failed to lead, he has failed to protect, and he has sold his soul to Spain — or possibly greed — maybe both. And our king is too busy with other matters to care."

Jean shifted forward, hunched his shoulders and said, "When you pay attention to the little things — the things people take for granted," he raised his eyebrows, "such as the mentions of nondescript comments in local pubs because a certain general likes whores who like to talk," he looked at Porthos with a tilt of his head, "you learn a few things." He licked his lips and leaned forward again. "General Raboin is married to King Phillip's bastard daughter… he's as Spanish as they come."

"Can you prove that?"

"I don't need to prove it. Just look at the wagons the Spanish are taking across the Meuse near the Ramus Bridge —"

"What wagons?" Porthos asked. The seriousness of his expression caused Jean to lean back and swallow.

"The wagons — they've been going across for weeks — from France to the Dutch Republic where the Spanish are positioned…" Jean shook his head. "I thought you knew — I've seen French soldiers with them."

Porthos rubbed his face and shifted his eyes from left to right as he processed what he had been told. "When was the last time you saw one of those wagons cross?"

Jean shrugged and said, "Just days ago… the Ramus Bridge is only half a league from my home."

"The men you saw… the French soldiers. Would you recognize 'em?"

Jean inhaled deeply and sighed. "I doubt it, Lieutenant Porthos. I barely recognize myself anymore." He suddenly snapped his fingers. "There was one man… it seemed odd that he would lead a group of French soldiers… a dark fellow —"

"Like me?"

Jean chuckled and shook his head. "No, dark as in brooding — he covered his head with a hood, but he had rings on all his fingers. I thought it odd." He looked at his own hand and stretched his fingers wide.

"Were you seen?"

Jean frowned and rested his hand on his thigh. "No… I don't think so. And who would care if an old man saw anything?"

"I need you to repeat what you told me to Captain Athos of the Musketeers — 'e needs to 'ear this."

"You think this is something worth sharing?"

"Yes, Monsieur Valleau. I think this is important."

Jean slowly pushed himself to his feet. "Well then," he said and reached for a heavy cloak, "lead the way, young man."