THREE
Upon opening his eyes the next morning, D'Artagnan felt mildly confused to awaken in an unfamiliar bed in a room that was not his own, but as he lifted his head from the pillow to take in the details of the bedchamber, the events of the preceding day fell into place. Reaching up, he gingerly probed the sore spot behind his right ear with his fingertips, exploring the swelling that had risen there. It was tender to the touch, so he removed his hand and rolled onto his back. Resting his hands across his abdomen, he laced his fingers together as he thought about how his journey to the village had ended.
Athos had struck him.
The very idea that his best friend had assaulted him with such vindictiveness was equally as painful as the blow itself. It had been startling enough when Athos had punched him in the jaw after receiving news of Raoul's death, but that had been a spontaneous reaction to his grief. Striking him with the hilt of the sword had been a premeditated act, intended to hurt.
Raoul was Athos's only son, and the young man's death had left him shattered and embittered. D'Artagnan could not even begin to comprehend an agony of that magnitude, but neither could he comprehend the depth of the hostility that had been levied at him regarding events over which he had had no control. Sadly, he recalled his friend's words of warning from weeks earlier: "If this king harms my son merely to take a lover, then that king will become my enemy, and so will any man who stands between that enemy and me." Because D'Artagnan had prevented Athos from attempting to assassinate the king, he now considered him an enemy and a traitor to their code, when nothing could have been further from the truth.
The sound of a door being opened and closed farther down the corridor broke into his thoughts, and he lifted his head from the pillow again to listen. Footsteps thumped heavily down the stairs, and faded away. Porthos, he concluded. No one else walked with such a swagger and a heavy gait.
Tossing back the covers, he slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, but paused there for several moments rubbing his eyes as he waited for the lingering drowsiness to fade. Glancing at the bedside table, he noticed that the tray Aramis had brought the night before had been removed. The priest must have come in while he slept and carried it away. He lowered his gaze to the floor, noticing that his boots were beside the bed, so he reached down and pulled them on, leaving the cuffs turned down below his knees.
Recalling the vertigo that had nearly sent him crashing to the floor yesterday evening, he placed his hand on the bedside table and steadied himself as he slowly eased himself off the bed. The room remained stable and the dizziness did not return, and although there remained a dull, constant ache behind his ear, the throbbing headache he had anticipated did not materialize.
He was still clothed, having laid down the night before without undressing, but his blousy white shirt with full sleeves and ruffled cuffs had pulled partially free of his breeches, so, moving slowly and carefully, he tucked the hem in at the waist to make himself more presentable. His satchel was still lying on the floor beneath his coat, where Aramis had placed it, and his riding gloves were lying on top of it. Several changes of clothes and other personal items were packed inside the satchel, but he did not want to bend over to retrieve it, fearful that the dizziness or the throbbing headache would return, so he left it where it was.
Now that he was upright again and reasonably steady, he moved across the room to the shutters and opened them, allowing the early morning light to fill the room.
His second story window overlooked the street he had traveled down the afternoon before, and as he watched, several men and boys walked past. They were clearly farmers, deduced by their manner of dress and the farming implements that they carried. One man was leading a team of sturdy horses, outfitted with a harness that would be hitched to a plow. They were likely going into the fields to work their crops.
Leaving the shutters open, he turned back into the room. It was much larger and more ornate than his sparsely decorated accommodation at the palace. A large hearth dominated the wall opposite the door, with the bed positioned near enough to benefit from its warmth on cold winter nights. A comfortable easy chair was placed near the window to take advantage of the light, and a small writing table sat in the corner.
His gaze came to rest on the wash table near the door. A water pitcher and a wash basin were sitting on it, so he went to it and lifted the pitcher, pleased to find that it was full. Tipping it over the basin, he poured enough to wash his face and drive away the last remnants of sleep from his eyes.
As he dried his face and hands on the neatly folded towel that was lying beside the basin, he noticed that a small square mirror was affixed to the wall above the wash basin. Leaning closer to his reflection, he parted the long brown hair behind his ear and turned his head slightly to see how much damage Athos had done. The normally white skin of his scalp was an angry shade of purple and blue, and a thin cut had scabbed over with dried blood. He dipped the towel in the water, soaking it thoroughly, and pressed it to the injury for several moments, allowing the cool water to sooth the feverish skin.
As he held the towel against his head, his eyes settled on his belongings once again, noticing that his sword and pistol were conspicuously absent.
Directly across the hall, another door opened and closed, and he listened to the footsteps moving along the corridor and down the stairs. The steps were light and quick, denoting a man with a purpose: Aramis.
Laying aside the towel, he went to the door and placed his hand on the knob, expecting to find himself locked in, but as he turned it, he heard the satisfying click as the latch released, and the door came open.
Stepping outside the door, he found that he was at the end of the long and narrow corridor, furthermost from the staircase. The door directly across the hall was open, revealing a rumpled bed and a hearth identical to the one in the room in which he had been placed. Approaching the door, he curiously observed the items inside without entering it. The cassock hanging on one of the pegs confirmed that this was indeed Aramis's room, and his coat and other familiar possessions were also present.
The other doors along the lengthy corridor were closed, and the walls between them were decorated with beautifully woven and colorful tapestries.
His boots thumped on the hard wooden floor as he strode past the other doors and the tapestries, and he started down the narrow staircase, wondering how they had gotten him up those stairs the day before.
When he reached the bottom, he turned toward the muffled voices that could be heard coming from a closed door behind him, but when he reached it, he paused outside it to listen, hoping the voices belonged to Porthos and Aramis rather than strangers who might be alarmed to find an unfamiliar person wandering around in their house.
The voices he had heard were no longer speaking, but he was certain they had been coming from that particular door, so he turned the knob and pushed it open. There was a high threshold and a low header, so he stooped to avoid banging his already sore head as he stepped up into the kitchen.
It was spacious, with a long wooden table dominating the room. A fire blazed cheerfully in the large hearth, and an iron skillet sat on the table, awaiting the arrival of the cook. Other cooking utensils hung on walls or sat on a preparation table against the wall. A large washtub was set up in one corner near the door for washing dishes, and a churn stood nearby. Several windows were open wide to permit the cooling breeze inside the house, and through them he heard voices speaking, so he moved closer.
A circular mortar barrier surrounded a well which stood in an open area between buildings. Beside it, Aramis was turning the crank, pulling up a bucket of cold water while Porthos leaned casually on the barrier watching and talking.
There was an open door leading outside near the windows, so he went to it and stepped outside. Turning to his right, he walked around the corner of the building and approached his friends.
Porthos saw him first, and spread his arms wide as he walked toward him, and drew him into a bear hug that squeezed the air out of his lungs. "Good morning, D'Artagnan!" he said loudly, slapping him heartily on the back. "You look a great deal better than the last time I saw you!"
D'Artagnan grunted, unable to draw in enough air to respond.
Aramis set the bucket of water on the edge of the mortar wall, and pushed playfully at Porthos. "Easy, Porthos! You don't want to cause him to have a relapse!"
D'Artagnan smiled in response to the warm greeting, and when he was released from Porthos' hug, he said, "I'm feeling much better."
Aramis stepped forward to embrace him in turn. "I'm pleased that you are suffering no ill effects from . . . what happened yesterday. Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, actually. I was so exhausted after that long ride that I don't think I even turned over all night long."
"That is good. I'm glad. I came in to check on you before retiring, but you were sleeping, so I didn't disturb you." His expression became more serious. "You have me very intrigued, D'Artagnan. Yesterday, you mentioned that there were things that you wanted to discuss with us."
D'Artagnan lowered his gaze to the hard ground, noticing the dry dusty appearance which suggested that the area had seen little rain, recently. "Yes. They were my initial reasons for seeking a leave of absence. I just hope my words will be well received."
"Sounds serious," Aramis commented.
"It is, I'm afraid. It concerns --"
He stopped abruptly when he saw Athos approaching with a bucket. Like Aramis, he had apparently intended to draw water from the well, but he slowed his pace briefly when he saw the Musketeer and his other two friends.
"Athos," Aramis beckoned. "You're just in time. D'Artagnan was about to discuss with us the other reasons why he sought us out."
Athos glared resentfully, but made no comment. Recovering from his initial reaction to seeing D'Artagnan, he strode past them as he continued toward the well, a deliberate snub. When he reached it, he attached the bucket to the rope, and turned the handle to lower it into the dark depths of the well.
"It concerns you," D'Artagnan told him. "And Raoul."
At the mention of his son's name, Athos whirled around abruptly, releasing the windlass so that the bucket dropped rapidly into the well with a muffled splash when it hit the water. "Do not dare speak to me of him!" he snarled, his eyes bright with anger.
D'Artagnan was startled by the viciousness in Athos's voice and the hatred in his eyes. "Athos, I –"
"No! You are a traitor! You are not worthy to speak his name!"
D'Artagnan broke his gaze, and as he did, he noticed a quick movement in the kitchen window as someone stepped quickly behind the shutter. His eyes lingered on the window, but the person obviously was trying to avoid being seen.
Noticing his reaction, Athos, Porthos and Aramis turned to look, and the Musketeer saw a discrete glance pass between them.
"I told you he was good," Porthos muttered to Aramis.
D'Artagnan shifted his attention back to his friends. A vague memory from the day before slipped almost into his thoughts, but he was unable to completely grasp it. He was certain that they had mentioned someone, someone who resembled the king. Even though the memory remained indistinct, he realized that they had selected someone that they intended to place on the throne when Louis was deposed, and were training him for the job.
His eyes settled on Athos again. "I know you believe me a traitor, but I have not been disloyal to you. I have tried to walk a fine line between my loyalty to the three of you and my duty to my king, trying to balance one against the other, and it has not always been easy. It has been increasingly difficult, in fact, to reconcile my revulsion of his behavior with my duty as his protector. I told you yesterday that there was another reason why I came here, apart from the warning for Aramis." Stooping, he withdrew a folded letter from a concealed pocket in the lining of his boot.
Surprised expressions passed across the faces of the three former Musketeers, and D'Artagnan deduced from them that that his clothing had been searched for documents the previous day while he had been unconscious, leaving him with a distinct sense of personal violation. They had missed the secret pocket in his boot, its existence known only to him and his boot maker.
Setting aside his annoyance at being searched, he held the letter up without extending it toward Athos. At the moment, he merely wanted the man to see it while he explained its contents. "This is a letter from Raoul's commanding officer."
Interest immediately flickered in Athos' dark eyes.
D'Artagnan continued, "I bring it because I feel you have a fundamental right to know exactly what happened to your son."
"I know what happened to my son!" he retorted. "He was murdered by that arrogant bastard you continue to follow blindly."
D'Artagnan seemed to flinch at the word bastard, and he said quietly, "I do not follow him blindly. In fact, I have seen more than you will ever know. After you left the Musketeers' compound that day when the news of Raoul's death arrived, I wrote a letter to the general and hired a courier to deliver it, instructing him to wait for the reply." He passed his hand across his jaw, as if still able to feel the blow from Athos's fist that had staggered him, both physically and mentally. "In my letter, I questioned him about why he had placed Raoul on the front lines in direct violation of the orders that had been issued by the king. This is his reply. I offer it to you, Athos, if you wish to see it."
He extended the letter toward Athos, and after a hesitation, the former Musketeer stepped forward and snatched it from his fingers, his dark, expressive eyes still blazing with hostility. Stepping back again, he unfolded the letter and read it once silently, then closed his eyes in agony.
"What is it?" Aramis asked.
Athos read aloud: "Captain D'Artagnan, I am in receipt of your letter regarding the placement of Raoul on the front lines. I do not know why the king would tell you that he had been placed in a non-combat position, as his orders to me were quite explicit. His orders were that Raoul be deployed . . ." He paused to steady the quaver in his voice. ". . . be deployed at the vanguard of the assault, directly in front of the cannon. I must add that Raoul died as bravely and heroically as any man I have witnessed, leading the assault on the fortification with great courage. I hope you will alert his father that he should be proud of his son's valor. Alert him also that Raoul did not suffer, having died instantly while . . . " His voice trailed, unable to continue.
"My heart fell when I read that letter," D'Artagnan said. "You were right. I was wrong. Terribly and tragically wrong. Louis sent Raoul to be killed on the front lines so that he would be free to pursue Christine, knowing that she would not welcome his advances as long as Raoul lived. Louis lied to me, as he has lied to everyone he comes in contact with. I am so sorry, Athos."
Athos stared at the letter, refusing to meet the sympathetic gazes of the others.
D'Artagnan continued. "Were it possible, if it would restore some measure of peace to you, I would willingly exchange my life for Raoul's. As it is, all I can do is offer my apology, and also this: If you will have me, if it is not too late for you to learn to trust me again, I am now ready to hear your plans to replace the king. I have accepted the fact that he is incapable of ruling. I ask only one thing. That Louis not be harmed. I have personal reasons for asking this, and it is my only condition."
Athos absorbed D'Artagnan's words without changing expression. He swallowed a painful lump in his throat with the confirmation that his son had been deliberately sent to his death by a ruthless king. Shifting his eyes to Aramis and Porthos, he saw that both of them were deeply moved by D'Artagnan's apology, and sympathetic of Athos's obvious pain.
Athos lowered his gaze to the letter again, fighting the emotions that were building inside him. The fire had temporarily gone out of him, but the hate had not. After a long moment, he said quietly, "Go to hell." Turning, he walked into the house, still clutching the letter in his hand. His bucket of water had been forgotten.
Despondently, D'Artagnan walked to the well and leaned his hands on it, gazing into the darkness of the large round pit.
Aramis sighed heavily, and said quietly to Porthos, "I never would have believed that there could be this much tension between the two of them. See to Athos. I will see to D'Artagnan."
Porthos followed Athos into the house, while Aramis approached D'Artagnan. Seating himself on the mortar wall, he observed his friend for a few moments before speaking.
Finally, he said in a quiet voice, "I must commend your handling of the situation with Athos. Your letter to the general reflects your belief that Raoul was to be kept out of danger. Athos will come to see that in time. It is his own personal agony that makes him strike out with such irrational behavior. His grief and depression have consumed him, but he channels that grief into fits of anger. I think he does it to keep from breaking down. He has not smiled once since Raoul's death. Not once. All the joy that was once in his heart seems to have died with him."
"He blames me for what happened to Raoul. Once, he trusted me completely. Now, when I look in his eyes, I see hate and suspicion." He exhaled heavily and as he sat down on the edge of the well beside the priest, he added, "I saw suspicion and distrust on your eyes as well, Aramis, yesterday in the tavern. And I know that my clothes were searched while I was unconscious."
Surprise flickered across Aramis's face, followed quickly by an expression of guilt. "How did you know that?"
"I saw the surprise on your faces when I pulled the letter from my boot. It was obvious that it was missed during your search."
"I must explain," Aramis said without hesitation. "Yesterday afternoon, one of my men reported seeing a column of Musketeers moving toward the crossroad from a neighboring village, their wagons loaded with vegetables and fruit. Stealing more supplies from the helpless civilians on the king's orders, I suspect. And then you showed up a short time later stating that you were aware of the Jesuits congregating in this village. Well, I wasn't sure what to think. I am sorry, D'Artagnan; we should have trusted you."
"Yes, you should have," he said, firmly. "The Musketeers were on my orders, not the king's. A fair price was paid for the food, Aramis. It was purchased, not stolen."
Aramis looked impressed. "Well, that is something, isn't it? How did you manage to convince Louis to purchase food for the starving people of Paris instead of causing the country people to starve when he steals from one to feed the other?"
D'Artagnan looked away, uncomfortably. "I didn't."
At last, Aramis understood, and his expression softened with intense admiration. "You paid for it yourself, didn't you? With your own wages. The money you have been saving for your retirement."
"The needs of the people are more urgent than mine."
"Still, it was a noble and compassionate thing to do."
"I did not do it to be noble. I remember what it is like to be hungry. It is but a temporary solution to an ongoing problem. It will have no lasting affect on the hunger and poverty. Which is why I'm here. To try to find a lasting one."
"That is what we want as well, my friend."
"The wagons should arrive in Paris today. I have placed Lieutenant Andre in charge of distributing the food to the neediest families."
"He idolizes you. Have you noticed that he even trims his mustache to look like yours? All of your young Musketeers are in awe of you, the famous D'Artagnan."
Aramis had made his statement in an effort to lighten things between them, but D'Artagnan did not respond. Shifting his gaze, he looked out across the gently rolling grassy hills outside the village.
Aramis studied his appearance for a long moment, detecting that same lingering depression that he had sensed in the catacombs, when he had revealed his plot to overthrow the king. "My friend, I continue to sense that you are carrying a secret deep within your heart. I mentioned this once before, and you declined to talk about it."
"As always, your perception is remarkably astute, but regrettably I cannot speak of it."
"I am a priest. Anything you say to me will be between the two of us, if you wish to unburden yourself. I will not judge you, and I will keep your secret. Perhaps I might even be able to help you."
"You cannot help me, Aramis. No one can. The burden I carry, I must carry to my grave."
"Is it as serious as that?" Aramis asked, prompting him in the hopes that he would continue.
After another long pause, the Musketeer nodded. "Yes, it is that serious. My life is a charade, Aramis. Everywhere I go I hear the comments from the people about the great D'Artagnan, captain of the Musketeers, a man of sterling character, flawless reputation, and conduct that is above reproach. As you mentioned, the young Musketeers under my command look up to me, and treat me as if I can do no wrong, but I do not deserve their adulation. I have trained them that duty, honor, and commitment to one's country and sovereign are foremost to the integrity of a Musketeer, yet I have failed to live up to that myself. The truth is . . . "
Here, he paused. Aramis was leaning forward in anticipation of the revelation, and his face expressed disappointment that he had stopped.
After a long moment, he continued, "The truth is I have committed an act of high treason."
Aramis shrugged, and placed a friendly hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. "I should not consider that such a terrible offense, considering the king. I mean, the rest of us have been plotting to overthrow him. That is also high –"
"The treason was not against this king, but the former."
The smile faded. "His father?"
D'Artagnan paused for another long moment, then said, "Yes."
"What exactly did you do?" Aramis asked with great concern.
"That is what I cannot reveal. What I did . . ." He stopped and almost declined to continue. He looked away, as if ashamed, then turned back to face him again. Lowering his voice to almost a whisper, he continued, "What I did has consequences that are as relevant today as they were back then. The sin I committed was against God and country, and should it become known, it would send France into turmoil."
A ripple of alarm shivered down Aramis' spine at the apparent severity of the offense. "Whatever it was, I know you well enough to be certain that you did not intend for it to reap the consequences of which you have spoken."
"I knew what I was doing, Aramis, and I knew the possible ramifications of it, but no, I did not intend that it would cause harm to anyone. But that is exactly what would happen if it became known. I have revealed as much as I can; more than I should have. I can tell you no more."
"All right, then. Just know that I am here if you ever wish to talk."
D'Artagnan nodded to acknowledge the words, but he never intended to reveal the secret that he had kept hidden for so long.
"Now, on to the matter of our mission to replace the king. I am pleased that you wish to join us, but we must be sure. When the moment comes that our plan is enacted, can we be sure that you will not withdraw? That you will not change sides when we need you the most?"
D'Artagnan sighed heavily, a deep exhalation that seemed to come from his very soul. "I have given you little reason to trust me of late; I know that. But I am deeply grieved that you doubt my convictions; that you still think I might betray you."
"I do not believe that you would betray us, but you were most emphatic in your refusal to join us before. You said you could not betray your king. I have seen your devotion to the oath you swore to defend him."
"I have watched over him since the day he was born, and as he grew I had great hopes that he would become the king we have always wished to serve. But I have seen the starving people of Paris, I have seen the corruption within his court, I have seen the deceit he uses to obtain his desires, and I have seen his treachery. It does not please me to say it, but I have known for some time that he is unfit to rule. I had hoped to guide him toward being a better monarch, but my words have no influence on him. I know I may never be able to fully redeem myself in your eyes and the eyes of Porthos and Athos, but you have my word of honor: I will see this through to the end, as long as my one condition is met."
"To spare Louis' life."
"Yes. In that small way, even though I am participating in his removal from the throne, I can honor my oath to protect his life."
Aramis nodded. "I will meet with the others. The decision to allow you to join us is not mine to make alone. As I am sure you are aware, Athos will be the most difficult to convince, but it must be a unanimous decision: All for one."
D'Artagnan nodded. "I understand. Where is my horse being kept?"
See that long low building over there?" he asked, pointing across the street. "That is the stable. Behind it is a paddock. The horse is there."
"Then that is where I will be when you reach a decision."
Aramis clapped a hand on his shoulder again, then strode back to the house to meet with his friends.