Aramis clutched the letters. The handwritten scripts that told of d'Artagnan's daily life while fighting a war leagues away. He looked at the bundle, felt the heft of it, and silently wished he could do the same; send messages of hope to the woman he loved. He could not think of anyone more devoted to his wife than d'Artagnan, and Aramis felt a hint of jealousy. They shared a bond that anyone would envy. He thought about the ring he kept close to his chest, placed carefully alongside the cross that hung over his heart. The portrait of his son from his mother: a gesture of love, but a reminder of what he could not have.
Not with her.
Aramis wasn't a fool. He knew Anne would never be his, but there was a part of him that refused to give up the dream. His memory of her was branded into his mind, and there were moments when caught her scent on the wind, a flash of her smile in a stranger, or the glimmer of her eyes at night when he looked at the moon. He admired d'Artagnan. He admired the love d'Artagnan shared with Constance; the way they shared each other with the world. Aramis would always have to hide his feelings, shadow himself in the recesses of palace when her presence became too much to bear, and stand strong while she stood beside the king.
He nodded to several men as they walked back from the fields. The cannons, though quiet now, would eventually start again. No matter the men's determination, devotion, or courage, the Frenchmen fighting this battle would never win against cannons.
Aramis had removed shards of rocks, wood, and metal from the bodies of those he fought alongside. Most would survive, but a few had lost their lives. Blood loss, trauma, and the sheer devastation of cannonballs against bone had ravaged them and proven their weakness against a stronger enemy. And now, with cannons at the forefront, winter fever making its way through the camp, and the increase in refugees; food and supplies were running dangerously low.
Aramis opened the entry flap of Athos' tent and found him standing beside his desk.
Athos sealed a letter with wax and the Musketeer symbol. "I'm sending another letter to Minister Treville," he said, and looked at Aramis. "I fear he is not receiving those I have already sent."
"Do you think they're being intercepted?"
Athos tossed the seal stamp to the desk and watched it roll to a stop near the base of the lantern. He rubbed his brow, placed his hands on his hips, and then looked at Aramis. "I assume so. I would have heard from Treville by now… it's been weeks."
"Perhaps," Aramis said unconvincingly with a shrug, "he's on his way with supplies."
Athos huffed and shook his head. "Raboin has deliberately kept us isolated. Thorell was supposed to arrive weeks ago, supplies are delayed, we are fighting an army of cannons with muskets and our general…" he paused and took a deep breath, "is standing by and watching his men suffer the consequences of his inaction." Athos turned and took a seat in his chair. He kicked his feet out before him and rubbed a hand over his face. "He has locked himself in the chateau on purpose… he only ventures out on occasion." He looked toward the flap entrance of his tent, and then glanced toward the lantern that flickered. "From what I've been told… this is unusual behavior for him. His men… even General Thorell mentioned his active involvement during battles." He frowned which exaggerated the creases at the corners of his eyes.
"How so?" Aramis asked. With the letters still in hand, he took a seat on Athos' cot and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
"He fights alongside his men… his men have told me as much." Athos rested his elbow on the armrest and placed his thumb beneath his chin, and rubbed his bottom lip.
"What is he waiting for?" Aramis asked. "He's spread his army too thin. He knows the heaviest battles are occurring along the northeastern side of the border." He shrugged and scratched at his bearded jaw. "It seems as though he wants to lose this war?"
Athos cocked an eyebrow and nodded. "It would appear that way." He leaned forward, rubbed his face, and threaded his fingers through his hair. He looked up when the flap of his tent opened and Porthos walked in with a guest. Athos raised his eyebrows in question.
"Captain," Porthos said with a sense of authority. "Meet Monsieur Valleau — he has quite the story to tell." He grabbed the short stool and motioned for his guest to take a seat.
"Where would you like me to start?" Jean said.
"The beginning," Athos said. He sat up, rested his right arm on the desk, and looked at Valleau, who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.
"I own land…" Valleau said and then repeated everything he had told Porthos. He described the wagons, the horses, the men who guided them across the river. He spoke about the frequency with which they crossed. There wasn't any hint of malice or hyperbole to his story, just an old man telling his tale to those willing to listen. He was known as a meddler, always in others' business, and always making note of anything new. He was lonely, and had been for many years, meddling was what brought him a bit of joy, even if his neighbors hated him for it. But as he sat before these men, the King's Musketeers no less, he found he was no longer meddling, but perhaps sharing more than he understood. There were consequences for such things… What if the information he shared was seen as way for him to seek attention? What if they didn't find anything? Being dismissed by a neighbor was one thing, but being dismissed by the king's guards was something else entirely. For the first time in many years, Jean Valleau regretted ever getting involved. He wished now that he had kept to himself, enjoyed his land for what it was, and listened to the birds, the night creatures, and his horses, over the voices of those with something to share. Perhaps he should have listened to his wife when she told him to stay out of everyones' business. The temptation, however, was just too strong to resist.
Athos stood, grabbed a map from the shelf behind his desk, and unrolled it. "Show me where?" He placed his lamp on one corner, a book on another, and held the bottom center to keep it in place. He looked at Jean and watched him stand and then walk closer to the desk and look at the map.
"This is my land," Jean said and drew his shaking finger around an area north of their current location. "This here is the Ramus Bridge. Named after my great grandfather." He looked at Athos. "King Henri reinforced it — it's one of the strongest bridges over the Meuse River — in France at least. I couldn't tell you what they have in the Dutch Republic."
"How many men crossed with the wagons?" Athos asked, and released his hold on the map. It curled onto itself and rolled to a stop near the base of the lantern and the book.
Jean shrugged and scratched his grizzled chin. "Goodness, young man," he said. "It varied — depending on how many wagons they brought across. At least two men per wagon and sometimes five wagons at a time. I only saw one occasion when they only brought one across." He shrugged again and crossed his arms over his chest. "And that one was full of women," he raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, "loose women, if you ask me. Saw more than one bare shoulder in that lot."
Athos looked from Porthos to Aramis, and then back at Jean. "How soon do you think they might take another few wagons across?"
The old man chuckled and said, "That's easy. They run like clockwork — should be the Sunday after next… every four weeks." He shrugged.
Athos clinched his jaw and nodded. "Thank you, Monsieur Valleau. I'll have a Musketeer," he looked at Porthos and tilted his head toward the exit, "escort you back to your tent. Refrain from sharing what you have told us."
Jean swallowed and, with a quick nod, turned to the exit. He turned back suddenly, a hint of curiosity caused him to stall, and ask, "Is this something that could make a difference for you all? In a good way, I hope?"
Athos looked at Musketeer Adam, who entered the tent, followed by Porthos. "Adam will see you to your quarters."
"It would be nice to be able to return to my land." Jean looked at Athos. "Is that something that can be arranged?"
"Our goal is to get everyone home safely, Monsieur Valleau. Including you and your neighbors."
Jean quirked a smile, turned, and looked up at Adam, who motioned with his hand toward the exit.
"Monsieur Valleau," Athos said and caused him to stop. "Are there any noblemen in the area who would be so kind as to sell the Musketeer regiment some beef or lambs?"
Jean scratched the top of his head, pulled his eyebrows together, and thought for a long moment. "I know several in the area. Many are defending their own lands, but," he winced and pressed his lips together into a fine line, "if you travel west, there is a small community called Fismes. There is a farmer there, Monsieur Moses Toye, who raises English cattle — ugly beasts — but, if you tell him who sent you, and let him know it's for the King's Musketeers… he may sell you some."
"Thank you."
Jean smiled proudly and looked at Adam.
"Monsieur," said Adam, and motioned with his hands toward the exit.
"Young man," Jean said as he pushed past the tent flap, "did you hear about the chicken…" his voice faded as the flap swung closed.
Athos looked at Porthos and Aramis and said, "The only person I know that punctual is Treville, which means the Spanish are intercepting our supplies —" he folded his fingers together behind his head and inhaled deeply through his nose.
"Raboin has to be orchestrating it," Aramis said. "How else could every shipment go missing?"
Athos nodded in frustration. He lowered his hands and with his left hand pulled at the edge of the map and looked at the location of the bridge.
"How do we prove it?"
"Find the wagons," Porthos said with a shrug.
"We need more than the wagons," Athos placed his inkwell at the bottom center. "We need proof that Raboin is the one who organized it —"
"We need someone who can verify it was Raboin who made the deal and has kept them informed about the delivery of the wagons," Aramis said, and cocked an eyebrow.
"The man in the cloak… the one with all the rings," Porthos said. "Raboin's lieutenant?"
"Grimaud," Athos said and clenched his jaw. "By Monsieur Valleau's description, he could be the one organizing the thefts and working with the Spanish to get them across the river to their camps."
"As ordered by Raboin?" Porthos clarified.
Athos drew his finger over the site on the map where the wagons had been seen. "We need to put a guard on Monsieur Valleau." He looked up. "Should he inadvertently share with someone what he shared with us," he shook his head, "we will lose our opportunity to regain the next shipment and find proof of Raboin's dealings."
Porthos turned, walked to the exit, and said over his shoulder., "I'll have Adam stay by 'is tent tonight an' rotate a couple of others for the task. They're trustworthy."
"They're Musketeers," Aramis said with a quirk of a smile. "Of course they're trustworthy." He watched Porthos nod and leave. "What do you want us to do?"
Athos exhaled through puffed cheeks and paused. "I meet with the captains in the morning —"
"You're going to tell them?"
"No," Athos said, "not yet. I need some time to think about this. About the next step." He rubbed the back of his neck. "We need to find supplies, food for the soldiers and the refugees." He looked at Aramis. "I've informed General Raboin that the Musketeer regiment will see to them — he wanted them sent away, but," he shook his head, "given the weather, the distance to the next town that can manage them, and the number of refugees arriving daily — they wouldn't survive the trip."
Aramis bit the bottom right side of his lip. "They've been helpful," he said, "much more than expected. If we can get them organized in such a manner —"
"You can't be the lieutenant for a company, Aramis, the regiment's physician, and help organize the refugees too —"
"I can manage some of the doctoring and my men."
Athos looked at him skeptically. "Where is the physician, Monsieur Tolin, and what about those he trained from each of the companies? You cannot do this by yourself."
"Monsieur Tolin has improved and is now seeing patients —"
"He's sober?"
Aramis nodded. "He has pulled himself together, and the men he trained are assisting."
Athos took a seat and looked at the flame in the lantern dance as it flickered and swayed. He glanced at Aramis and noticed the handful of letters.
"D'Artagnan's letters to Constance," Aramis chuckled. "He's written one every day. He would like to get them to Paris."
Athos frowned, stared at the letters for a long moment, and then motioned for Aramis to place them on the table. He tapped his finger on the desk and then flipped through several. "Notify your men that if they want to get letters to their loved ones, to have them ready by dawn."
Athos reached for his note to Treville and then tapped it on the desktop. "Send word to Levi and Marc that I need to see them."
Aramis quirked a smile and stood. He looked took a breath, exhaled slowly, and paused before he turned for the door. "Be careful, Athos. If General Raboin is willing to betray France and King Louis — he will not hesitate to kill anyone who gets in his way of doing it."