Chapter 9

The door squeaked as Athos pushed it open. He was met with warm air and the sweet scent of a woman's perfume. The fire blazed in the fireplace, flames danced upward and sparks flew. Wood rested in a rack next to the hearth within easy reach. The bed was made and the gold and blue coverlet draped to the floor. The windows overlooked the canal, and he could hear the battle from the window.

An unlit candle stood on the table next to the bed. Wax had dripped down the sides and collected along the holder. A half empty wine glass looked abandoned and dust tickled its surface.

Athos gripped the handle of his sword tighter and walked across the room. His heart raced and blood worked its way through his veins. He was hot, then suddenly cold, and his body yearned for rest. He grabbed the collar of the cloak, tossed it to the floor, and then gently grasped the edge of the door to the small study and pulled it open.

Rain slapped against the glass window, and gusts of wind made it appear like sheets. The small desk was covered with papers, maps, and lists, and Athos stepped closer to look at the script across the pages.

General Raboin had written a letter to his wife and his children. He urged them to flee Spain for fear of reprisal from the king for his failures. The script was erratic, forced, and droplets of blood marred the words. He knew he had lost the battles. His effort to allow Spain to cross onto French lands had been thwarted, and he knew his failure would be perceived as a devotion to France.

Athos shifted the letter, folded it, and slipped it inside his belt. He turned to the window, watched the rain slide down the glass and pool on the windowsill before running like a waterfall over the edge of the stone siding. He took one last look around the small study and then tentatively reached for the door to the library. He ignored the shaking of his hand, not from fear, but from exhaustion, and focused on the duty before him.

He could feel his blouse stick to his skin where his blood had dried. The fabric had become rough in sections and felt like sandpaper against his injuries. Hunger pains had subsided for the more immediate pain of overworked muscles, fatigue, and blood-loss.

Athos took a deep breath and gently opened the door. He paused a moment to keep his senses on alert. Like the bedroom, the library was warm, too warm, as he entered. The fire blazed and General Raboin fed it more wood as he leaned against the mantle with his head bowed. He was draped in a long cloak that hung to the floor. He turned suddenly, when he felt a chill, and looked at Athos.

Sweat beaded Raboin's brow. His normally vibrant features were pale, and his hair clung to his scalp. "Strange isn't it," he said and looked at the fire once more. "That I should meet my end like this." He pulled the cloak from his shoulder and exposed the wound that festered and seeped. "It's in the bone," he said and looked at his upper arm that was three sizes larger than it should have been. He leaned his head to the left and exposed the dark streaks that ran along his neck and toward his chest. He pushed himself away from the mantle and stumbled toward a chair where he sat and leaned back with a heavy sigh.

Raboin swallowed, rested his arm against his chest, and extended his legs before him. "I wanted to kill you right after I met you." He raised his eyebrows and waved his hand toward his desk. "I knew you would be a problem… I had heard the king speak of you and your men… of the inseparables." He chuckled and then coughed with a groan. "I didn't believe it… not at first." He looked at his shoulder, poked at the injury, and said with a wince, "Courtesy of Aramis I suspect — he would have made me a fine lieutenant."

Athos leaned against the end of a bookcase and lowered his sword. "He's the best marksman in the regiment."

Raboin huffed and said, "He's probably the best marksman in all of France." He raised his eyebrows in knowing indifference. He shifted uncomfortably and winced again as he tried to make himself comfortable. "Grimaud wanted to wait to kill you… he wanted to see you in action… I think," Raboin said, "I think he knows he can't beat you… not in a fair fight." A slight smile curled his lips. "But as I look at you now…" he chuckled, "he might."

Athos swallowed. "Why didn't you kill me and the others when you had a chance?"

"I wanted to," Raboin said. He reached to his right, groaned, and then grabbed his glass of wine from the table next to his chair. "But Grimaud was right to wait… had I killed you earlier, King Louis would have charged in here with every military commander at his call. You do not kill a King's Musketeer…" he raised his glass, "you let a King's Musketeer die."

"What about your family?"

Raboin looked away and focused his attention on the fireplace. "I look just like him… King Henri," he said. His voice grew distant as he contemplated his words. "My father," he craned his neck and looked at Athos. "I always knew the man who raised me wasn't my father —"

"I do not care about your lack of family ties, General. You were given a position of leadership to fight and protect the king and his lands. You betrayed France… You betrayed your king… you betrayed the men who fought for you."

Raboin snorted and raised his glass to take a drink of wine, but he paused, shook his head, and with a slight chuckle, said, "Your honor and duty is exhausting, Athos… haven't you ever," he frowned, "just once, wanted to experience something that caused your heart to…." He paused and said, "Sing. There is something about the feel of woman next to you, the laughter of children — my children — there's something special knowing that the blood that runs through your veins will continue for generations." He sipped at his wine, and then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Perhaps that's not important to you… perhaps, you're more concerned with pleasing your king than feeding your soul." The wine swayed in its glass as he shifted. He rolled his eyes and took another drink. "Do you know why I wanted your men to believe I'd hanged you?" He raised his eyebrows. "They still believe you to be dead." He chuckled and then coughed. "Had Thorell not arrived when he did, your men would still be watching the crows pick at your body."

Raboin grew quiet for a long moment and then quietly said, "I wanted your men to know the grief I was feeling… I wanted your men to know what it was like to lose something they loved and respected. I wanted them to hurt." He turned cold eyes toward Athos. "I wanted you to watch it — to see their anguish." He clenched his jaw, looked at his glass of wine, and said, "I may not have been able to accomplish that." He flashed his eyes toward the door. "But I will watch you die."