Chapter 32

The waiting had been frustrating, but with so many years already passed, a couple more days made next to no difference. Beau had never been a patient man, which had probably been the source of many of the difficulties and pitfalls he had encountered during his life.

To begin with, he had harboured only burning thoughts of revenge, to pay back the man who had ruined his life. Then time had moved steadily on. Several years were spent travelling around, moving from job to job, the cause of his misery receding to a dull repetitive irritation – unless he received more than the usual level of abuse, and then he answered that insult with swift and violent retribution. Now, only a lack of self-control would cause his resentment to boil over, reigniting the old fury – which was why he rarely ever over-imbibed.

Eventually, Beau had returned to Paris, out of funds and out of ideas. How could he ever have predicted his first full day in the city would prove so enlightening? Had he been a God-fearing man, he would have deemed it a sign. With nothing more pressing to occupy his time, Beau had supped his ale, whilst staring up at the indifferent soldiers riding through the crowd. It was then he had recognised him, or at least someone who had looked very much like him – even the bloody horse looked the same. This soldier, riding through the streets of Paris, as though he had not a care in the world, lording it over the peasants from his lofty position. To Beau's bigoted mind, there was little difference – Musketeer or noble bastard – the end result was still the same: keeping the little people in their place.

Beau's hatred had sprung to life in a second, burning with a fierce resentment, fuelling the old bitterness, pain and horror. If it was him, and if he could find out for certain that it was, he was he was going to make him pay – and he would make it long and humiliating, just like his own life had been.

Beau had noticed the good-looking woman sitting by the fire, just as he'd noticed her disgust when she had seen his face. Definitely time for retribution.

Beau drained the cup of ale he had nursed for the last hour or so, and stood. Nobody noted his movements; he was nobody, not worth their notice, and if they had, they would have turned the other way to avoid gazing upon his ravaged face. Time to see how the land lay up at the manor.

ooOoo

Richelieu was still pacing up and down when there was a rap on the door. 'Go a-w-a-y!' the First Minister roared. 'Unless you have something useful to impart or have been sent by the King.' He spat out the words with precise deliberation and, not expecting anyone to dare enter, was somewhat surprised when the door opened.

'Ah, Rochefort, I hope you will not disappoint me and whine about some imagined slight.' The Cardinal gave the slightest twitch of a smile, but there was little evidence he had been joking.

'Forgive me, your eminence, I thought you may wish an update regarding this morning's addresses to the King. They were few, but not without interest.' Upon hearing this, Richelieu indicated the Comte should sit, having taken the bait just as the young Comte had intended. The First Minister poured them both a cup of wine before seating himself behind his large and imposing desk. Sipping his drink, he studied the confident – almost arrogant – man seated opposite. The Cardinal had no illusions about the Comte de Rochefort – the nobleman was self-serving and ruthless. For now, he was content to do the Cardinal's bidding, but the First Minister was in no doubt it was simply to promote Rochefort's own aims. Should those aims diverge at some point in the future from his own, the young man would smile and simper words of support, whilst secretly plotting his own agenda behind Richelieu's back. Still, for now he would keep him close; the King liked him and that could prove useful. After all, Paris was a dangerous city, and nobody was guaranteed safety.

'I am all ears. Unfortunately, I was unavoidably detained.' He adopted his usual pose, upright in his chair, fingers pressed together as if in prayer.

Rochefort wondered if the man ever prayed, or indeed if he even believed in the God he purported to represent – somehow he doubted it.

'The King is getting restless. He expected to have appointed a new council by now, but it has not been as straightforward as he first supposed. Even the King realises the need for intelligence, and it would seem he has so far been disappointed. Of course, the blame will have to fall somewhere, and everyone is keeping a wide berth lest the blame fall upon them.' The Comte paused to allow the Cardinal to consider his information.

Richelieu gave a feral smile and shrugged his shoulders. 'I have attempted to manipulate the men who have so far gained the ear of the King; anyone who could have a sensible thought between his ears I have… dissuaded. However, this cannot go on for much longer. We need a council, decisions have to be made. I admit I had hoped His Majesty might have seen the folly in his argument by now, but I suspect his lack of progress may only further his delay in recalling his old council. Spain is cosying up to the English King and I do not like it. France does not need this unrest; it is time to put a stop to this insanity once and for all. I must give it more thought.' Richelieu eyed the young man as if his words had been a dismissal.

The two men eyed one another like two stags in a glen, one older and more powerful,the other younger and in a hurry to make his mark. But there would be no locking of antlers today, though both knew the moment would come; and Richelieu would be waiting – this was his domain and he intended to keep it.

Rochefort rose and bowed, striding toward the door. At the last moment he turned, as if he had just remembered something. 'Oh, the King asked for Treville, he was most upset when he was told the Captain was out of Paris on personal business.' Richelieu showed a glimmer of surprise. Rochefort preened to have access to information before the Cardinal, for it was not often one could outperform the First Minister's network of spies.

'He then asked for the Musketeer Athos, who is also absent from Paris. Apparently, he is attempting to run down supposed highway robbers. Needless to say, the King was even less pleased. Interesting that he should ask for a mere Musketeer though, do you not think?' Rochefort studied the Cardinal's face for any sign of interest, but there was nothing, and to the Comte, that said everything. The young man offered a final smug, yet servile smile, before bowing his way out.

It was all the Cardinal could do to refrain from throwing something at the closed door. Athos… again. The man was running out of rope.

He had to find a way to convince the King that his old council should be reinstated; perhaps he could suggest a couple of new members, someone under the age of forty perhaps to appease his pride. Of course they would have to be of noble background. An idea began to take seed in the furtive cesspool of the First Minister's mind. There were certain dangers involved, and it would have to be delicately handled, but it would be interesting if nothing else.

There was much to think about.

'Send for Mme d'Angou and get me Brousard, I thought he would have been here by now. I will not wait forever.'

The soldier at the door saluted and made a speedy exit, hoping his spell of duty would be over before the Cardinal ran out of patience.

ooOoo

Peloir and Jobin had opted to ride on to Pinon and await their victim's arrival. They had been surprised by the welcome they had received from one or two old friends. Admittedly, those old friends were not held in high regard by the inhabitants of the village, but still, it was nice to be remembered.

The first night had consisted of much drinking and reminiscing, but it had not taken long for the good humour to turn sour.

'So you have not found regular work since you left the estate either?' Jobin asked Bertrand, a friend from the old days.

'Nah. The estate is run on a much smaller staff now the Comte is no longer in residence. Occasionally, if there is extra work needed, repairs to fences or forestry, we get taken on, but on the whole, we're ignored. Many found jobs in Anet or local farms. We manage.'

'Don't suppose the Comte cares one way or the other,' Peloir spat, wiping his hand across his mouth.

'He did right by the staff who had worked the estate for years. Many of them received a good pension, and even a cottage. Even we got a small payoff – so can't really complain – though we did not expect him to be gone so long. Don't rightly know if he's still alive even. Suppose he must be, or some other nob would have turned up by now.'

'Some blustering noble did try and cause a fuss some months back. My Bessie works up at the manor a couple of mornings a week, and she said he did a lot of shouting, demanding to be let in. The housekeeper and one of the stable hands soon saw him off with a flea in his ear, so I guess they must know where the master is.' They all peered at the man who had spoken and considered what he had said. The wind and rain still raged outside, and the old cottage creaked and moaned beneath the onslaught, whilst the draught whistling through the warped wooden slats caused the candles to gutter and fade. The four men held their cups a little tighter and huddled closer to the fire.

'So it's pretty much empty then?' Peloir asked, thinking there might be the possibility of some petty thievery to top up their income if they played their cards right.

'I would have said so,' replied Bertrand. 'Though a funny thing happened this morning. I was doing some work for Old Tom at the Bakery, when he took delivery of a note from the manor. Seems Mme Renard had placed a large order for bread, far more than normal for the number of staff present in the house. So I asked around. Seems the butcher and one or two other stores had received similar notes.' He looked at the other three men to monitor their reactions.

Peloir and Jobin exchanged looks of interest. 'Something you're not telling us Peloir?' Bertrand asked.

The man with the eye patch shrugged his shoulders. 'Nothing of interest. But you are right, perhaps they are expecting visitors.' The men said no more on the matter, but Peloir ensured the rest of their conversation ran along very different lines for the remainder of the night until, well into their cups, they decided to call it a night.

ooOoo

For a miserable night, there was certainly a surprising amount of people abroad, and all of them appeared to be converging on the de la Fère chateau. Milady had followed Beau, keeping to the shadows – a task made all the more easy by the steady downpour and the thick, dark clouds from which it fell. The moon and stars had long since abandoned the night, seeking their own shelter, like the woman below, leaving the sodden landscape to cower in darkness beneath the obsidian sky.

She was feeling unsettled and disconcerted by how the poorly-lit tracks and lanes were at the same time both familiar and unknown. Though she was aware of the direction they were leading her, they bore no similarity to those sunny fields and flower-filled pathways from the past. Out in the darkness, a bell tolled the hour of eleven. Late for a small farming village – all of the working inhabitants would have been asleep in their beds long ago, so whatever this man was up to was highly dubious.

The further they travelled, Milady abandoned any remaining doubt that the man she followed was heading for the manor house. Even without the light of the moon, she could still make out the familiar shape of her former home against the brooding sky. The silhouette caused an involuntary shiver, not from the outward cold, but from an internal chill that slithered down her spine. Though prepared, she still found the memory unsettling.

Beau ceased his rapid pace and stopped, studying the layout of the grounds. There were plenty of places to hide; bushes and trees aplenty grew in the gardens that spread out toward the rear of the house. From here, they had a clear view of the upstairs apartments that housed the sleeping quarters. She almost gasped out loud, when she noted which windows were lit from within – Thomas' room and the group of rooms that had belonged to her and Athos – the rest lay in darkness, watching and waiting. The combination spoke volumes. Even her cold heart jolted at the prospect of her husband's current state of mind, and yet she could not dismiss the niggling idea of revenge that proposed itself, despite her unguarded moment of empathy. Milady watched the man she had pursued. He appeared content to simply observe, until suddenly he put on a surprising spurt of energy and almost sprinted around the corner of the building toward the front of the house.

Milady wasted no time, and lifting her heavy skirts she moved just as swiftly in an effort to keep up with him, all the time ensuring she maintained a reasonable distance. From the front of the manor, the picture was very different – here you could see into many of the main reception rooms, the study, morning room and main parlour. There were dim lights burning in several of the rooms but no obvious movement inside. She would like to have stayed a little longer, but the man was on the move once more – only this time he was heading toward the stable block. If she thought it strange, she did not deliberate for long. If she wanted to see what he was up to, she would have to risk getting closer. The stranger slipped inside the stables and Milady crept up behind him. Standing on her tiptoes, she peered through one of the grimy windows. It was almost impossible to make out what he was doing, and her heart rate was so rapid she could hardly breathe. Should she dare risk following him inside?

Her feet moved before she realised – she had reached a decision. Slipping amongst the dark shadows of the building, Milady was overcome by the warm, sweet smell of hay and the cloying smell of horses. It was much warmer in here and she could easily make out the shuffling and movement of several animals. The grey mass before her moved, and a slightly denser patch of black shifted further inside the building. She had no clue as to what it was, until she heard a hiss of breath, almost akin to pain – or hate.

'So here you are, I'd recognise that arrogant head anywhere, you're suited to one another,' the speaker spat, indicating his disrespect for the object of his ire.

The growling voice carried easily in the silence, and Milady's heart almost leapt out of her throat at the sudden sound. She might have been puzzled by the remark, but in fact she gave a knowing smile, as she had no doubt to whom he had addressed the scurrilous remark. She held her breath, waiting to see if he would take any action, for even she would not stand by and see any of the horses harmed. To her relief, the shadow began to move away from the stallion's box and toward the doorway. Safe in her empty stall, she watched him leave. She should have followed him, but she didn't. Instead the former lady of the manor traced his path toward the snorting horse and slowly reached out her hand.

'He was right, you are alike. Yet I know he cares for you more than he does himself.' She stroked the velvety nose of the black beast. In this light he was nothing more than a towering outline. Her ministrations seemed to settle the animal and she slipped from the stables out into the frozen air.

There was no point debating which way to go, for the man would have long since slipped away into the night. However, she knew where she was headed, and hurried along the stiffening grass toward the side of the building. Here stood a small doorway the staff used to access the kitchen garden. She had often used it herself and, unbeknownst to Athos, she still had access to a key. When she had first encountered Thomas, his growing dislike of her frightened her. She had kept the key in case she ever needed a way out of the house in secret. How she wished now she had used it.

Her green eyes had more in common with a cat than people realised – whether it was her propensity to wander in the dark, or some innate mechanism of self-preservation she did not know, but she had excellent night vision. It only took a little poking around to locate the statue she sought. The broken and blackened maid held a small basket for gathering her wares, and deep inside, beneath the damage and detritus of previous seasons, lay the cold, hard metal of a large key.

She smiled, enjoying the small victory, and clutching her treasure, made her way toward the small wooden door. The key turned in the lock without any trouble, though she could have hoped for a quieter entrance. The metal ground out a reluctant scream as it fulfilled its purpose. She stood quite still and listened for any evidence the noise had been heard.

Silence.

It was turned midnight. Though she suspected all of the remaining staff would be asleep, she could not say the same for the men she now suspected were housed within the walls. Of one, she was only too aware that sleep was not his friend. The chances of coming across her husband during her foray were highly likely. She moved around the familiar stairwells and corridors with a confident stealth, her ears attuned to the sounds of an old and mournful house as it pretended to slumber. Though it was dark, she ran her hands over familiar objects, her memory of them bright and vivid in her mind's eye. The vase on the small hall table that she had filled with flowers; the pale blue sofa in the small parlour where they had spent far too many enjoyable moments. She stiffened suddenly, a cough froze her movements, and she shrank further into the parlour doorway. Though she had guessed their presence, the sound still caused her a moment of dread, for there was no mistaking the sound of the one man who hated her more than most – Porthos.

The cough had emanated from the morning room next door. Silently she tiptoed closer, her tongue licking her dry lips and, ever so carefully, she peered into the seemingly empty room. Milady was taken aback by the sight that greeted her eyes. As she scanned the room, she made out Aramis asleep in a large chair, comfortable and relaxed as though he had not a care in the world. Perhaps his God had granted him a peaceful rest. Another figure fidgeted in his sleep, and for a moment she could not put a name to whom she recognised as another Musketeer, for his blue cloak draped over his form identified him as such. It was not until he moved, and the dim light of the fire caught his face, that she realised it was Treville. Now that really was a surprise. What was the Captain of the regiment doing here in Pinon?

Another cough made her start – Porthos must be somewhere nearer to the fire. She considered taking a closer look and stepped further into the room. Luckily for her, the big man had his eyes closed, though his moving hands told her he was not asleep. It was the figure lying on the makeshift bed by the fire that caused her breath to hitch, almost giving her presence away. There was only one man left to identify, and he appeared to be injured. She frowned, what had her fool of a husband done now? How was she supposed to punish a dead man? The figure in question chose that moment to give a pitiful moan, causing Porthos to jump to attention.

Even if the big man had not whispered the injured soldier's name, she had already found relief in the knowledge it was not Athos – his voice she would recognise anywhere. It was then she remembered the young Musketeer, the one she had seen in the tavern receiving his instructions to accompany them, and suspected that it was he who had succumbed to some form of assault. Dubois, at least now she had a name.

Milady melted back into the shadows of the corridor, rather smug in the knowledge that they remained ignorant of her presence.

She continued along the unlit passageway until she reached the door to the drawing room. How many evenings had they had spent together here? Athos would read to her, and she would listen to his seductive voice until she could not resist the temptation to reach out and touch him. That would put an end to the reading, but was the start of a long night of passion that she never grew tired of. Memories tugged her closer and she was totally unaware that she had entered the room. Slowly her eyes traversed the shrouded room, where heavy dustsheets covered all of the contents, creating the impression of tombstones; the moon had appeared in the time she had been inside, and the pale grey light morphed the covered furniture into grim markers of the dead.

When her foot collided with an object upon the floor, she was jolted out of her memories, and the empty bottle rolled a short way along the carpet until it came to a stop. If she had not nudged it with her toe, she would not have glanced down at the sleeping figure partially hidden from sight beneath a blanket.

Her eyes flew wide, Athos! She had known he would be here, and yet the realisation was still like a punch to the stomach. From the way his arm was hanging limply from beneath the covers, she suspected he had fallen asleep with the now discarded bottle in his hand.

'Oh Athos,' she whispered. Gently she lifted the arm and tucked it beneath the blanket, the heavy fumes of wine telling their own tale. 'Amongst your so-called brothers, but still alone.' An errant lock of dark hair fell over his eyes and she instinctively reached out to tuck it away. With a scowl she stilled her hand. What was she doing? This was not why she had come.

Backing out of the room she made her way around the house, peering into more shrouded rooms, each with a memory to share. By the time she found the source of all their misery she was exhausted. The sight of the blood stain almost made her swoon, for no dream or memory could recall that moment so vividly than the sight of the blood she had spilt, the moment when her world had crashed down around her head. How long she stood there she did not know, but eventually she followed the path Athos had taken only a few hours earlier, surveying the destruction of her room and the heavy scent of jasmine, now soaked forever into the fabric of the carpet and bedding of the apartment. The glass shards twinkled in the moonlight, emphasising the level of passion that had erupted when her husband had entered the room. Had it spawned from hate, or grief, or was it the outpouring of sheer disappointment? Whichever way she did not want to know.

By the time she made her way back out through the kitchen doorway, she could already hear the faint stirrings of a waking household. No doubt the staff were beginning their day, lighting the fires and preparing for their newly arrived master. Somehow the idea of Athos the Musketeer being Athos the Comte de la Fère felt incongruous. He was no longer the same man, yet his more recent persona held as much attraction and magnetism for her as the clean cut and noble version ever had – perhaps even more.

She hurried out into the burgeoning day, inhaling deep breaths of the frigid air, as though inside she had forgotten what it was like to breathe. It had not been much warmer inside the manor, but out here the estate was now a blanket of white, with the grass standing frozen to attention in preparation for the coming dawn. Tired to the bone she moved with heavy limbs, tracing the gravel path back across the entranceway toward the pathway to the village.

A sudden noise made her turn her attention back to the house, and as she did so she saw her husband emerge from the long windows of the drawing room and step out onto the terrace. She watched transfixed as he emptied a jug of water over his head, soaking the linen of his shirt in the process. The grey light had taken on the slightest rosy tinge as it reflected upon droplets of water that flew from his hair, creating a jewelled halo as he shook the water from his head. Athos stood straight, lifting his face toward the prospect of the morning sun, and closed his eyes. Standing there he looked every inch the man she knew and remembered, a man who could take on the world, and win.

The man that opened his eyes and gazed out over his land with abject misery, before dropping his head and returning to the gloom of the house, was the half-life creature she had created, and only the firm stride of his walk told her the old Athos was still in there, merely struggling to come to terms with the sensations returning to his home had disturbed, and she knew only too well how he felt.

With a myriad of conflicting emotions crashing around her head, Milady stumbled back to the village and her bed, only wishing the man she had left behind her would be there to take her in his arms and make the world go away.