Chapter 3

Despite the early morning hours, the sky was still dark as the rain continued to pour. Puddles of mud grew in size, ran from one to another, and slowly made their way toward the field where the spring pond would continue to swell. The peak of a red sky tickled the horizon, just a hint, just enough to let the men standing in formation know that the sun would slowly make an appearance and the day would be bloody.

General Thorell exited his tent. He had tied his cloak around his shoulder and beneath his right armpit. His armor, decorated with the French seal, withstood the rain. He had refused to wear a hat, not wanting his vision impaired, and he strode forward with long determined strides toward his horse. His weapons had been polished, his saddle shined, and his horse brushed. Thorell's page was a young man with aspirations of military service, and it showed. Despite the rain, the dark clouds, and even the melancholy of the men, Thorell looked like a general ready to ride to war.

"On my orders," Thorell said as he turned and looked at his captains and Raboin's. He nodded to Porthos and the other musketeer lieutenants.

The men were tired, even Thorell's after marching for days. The atmosphere was heavy, and the weight of a loss bore down amongst them. For those who knew Captain Athos, the morning hours were darker, and for those not fortunate enough to have met him felt their burden. Thorell looked toward them. Their uniforms were worn, their weapons needed to be cleaned and polished, and their hair and beards needed to be trimmed. They needed the love and feel of a woman. They needed to be home, in the comfort of their own beds, knowing that everything they had fought for was worth their sacrifice.

"General!" a man shouted from behind the mustering line. He ran forward, waving his right hand. "General, a message!" The man slowed to a stop and handed Thorell the note. He breathed heavily and said, "A message from the Spanish General, Sanchez, sir. He sent a messenger — it just arrived a few minutes ago."

Thorell cracked the seal and opened the note. Broken wax fell to the ground and hit the toe of his boot. He ignored the raindrops that soaked the page and caused the ink to bleed. "He wants to meet." He handed the note to Porthos.

"Is that wise, General?" Captain Duris asked. "Given he may be working with General Raboin — If we have learned anything about General Sanchez…" he paused and shook his head, "we know he's resourceful."

Thorell squinted and looked across the fields and into the distance toward the Spanish camps. He could barely see their flags waving in the wind as the breeze picked up. "His men are exhausted," he said and slapped his gloves against the palm of his left hand. "He knows he's surrounded. I'll meet with him, but I request the Musketeers join me." He turned and looked at Porthos and the others.

"General?" Porthos asked with a creased brow. He glanced side-eyed at Aramis and then looked at d'Artagnan, who was just as confused.

"You just lost your captain, gentlemen," Thorell looked at all five of them. "And by the looks of you…" he paused, "I can assume he was more like a brother to you."

D'Artagnan looked away, but Aramis and Porthos held his gaze. It was not a gaze of admiration, or even one of respect, rather, it was a gaze of determination, anger, and frustration.

"Your demeanor will help influence his decision."

D'Artagnan huffed and rolled his eyes. He ignored the grip on his arm from Porthos and shook his head. "The only reason we're standing here today is because of him. The only reason you're about to meet with Sanchez is because of him. And we have done nothing but watch him hang…" He pointed toward the chateau without turning to look at it. "He still is and we've done nothing!"

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said quietly.

"He was our captain, and our brother, and we're letting crows pick at his body."

Levi bowed his head and rubbed his eyes. Marc stared straight ahead, but focused on nothing.

Thorell nodded. He looked at the men, those that muttered in agreement, and those who remained silent but devastated. "I know," he said, "but we still have a war to win, a king to defend, and a country to protect." He stepped forward and said to the three of them. "Whatever anger and hatred you are feeling right now… focus it on the men who have done this. I promise you, we will take care of Athos." He looked d'Artagnan in the eyes.

D'Artagnan clinched his jaw, pursed his lips, and nodded once.

Thorell looked at all of them again and then glanced at Levi and Marc. "Ready your horses. Let's see what General Sanchez has to say." He turned, walked to his horse, and mounted. From his vantage point, he could see the devastation caused by the fires. Thorell could also see the refugees in the distance, standing, behind the barn. Most stood outside their tents, wrapped in canvas rain clothes, watching and waiting.

Spurs rang, bits jingled, and horses snorted, nickered, and squealed as the armed forces turned toward the battlefield. Thorell looked to the men beside him, some of King Louis' finest, and he said, "When this is over… when the pain of loss subsides — it never goes away — but it will subside, remember who it was you fought for… remember why you fought. Look at your children and tell them the stories of those who fought alongside you." He nudged his horse's sides and walked toward the battlefield.

The Musketeers followed. They raised their chins, held their shoulders back, and ignored the rain and the cold as it worked to penetrate their clothes. They could not help but believe Athos should have been there, he should have ridden beside Thorell; he should have been the one to help call to an end this battle.

"Hold your tempers, gentlemen," Thorell said. "General Sanchez is a horse's ass and as trustworthy as a snake in the grass."