Chapter Three
The man walked up and down the sumptuous room, booted feet thudding upon the marble floor, his face lined with concern.
'I should not be seen here,' he complained.
'Why ever not?' the Cardinal asked, his manner irritated. 'You are an old friend, you are not known at court, so I doubt anyone will be interested.' The Cardinal's scathing tone was not lost upon the visitor, but he knew better than to argue – he needed the man's assistance, it was as simple as that.
'Whatever you say. What news have you? Is everything going as planned?' The man looked harassed; he should have hidden his anxiety better. Once again Richelieu smiled, he knew he had the upper hand, and that was the kiss of death to most who embarked on any form of intrigue with the First Minister.
With his cat-like sneer, the Cardinal spoke again. 'All is well, Monsieur. I suggest you retire to the country and leave everything else up to me. As you say, it is best you stay out of Paris.' The other man paused in his pacing and grunted.
'If you think that would be for the best.' He tried to sound casual, but his relief was palpable. 'Well, if you require no further involvement from me, I will indeed remove to Benoir. You know where to find me if you have further need of me.' He bowed low and left the room as if he were being chased by the hounds of hell.
'Indeed I do, Monsieur, indeed I do,' Richelieu muttered to himself, smug and satisfied with the outcome of the conversation.
Richelieu watched the man leave the room, though so uninterested was he in the landowner's troubles that he hardly noticed his absence. If he had not had a personal interest, he would simply have dismissed the man in an instant, no matter how old their acquaintance had been. As it was, he had needed to dredge his memory to remember the man at all; the days when they had talked together of their futures and hopes had been eons ago. Those days, and those men no longer existed, and the First Minister had no desire to remember them.
To think that on any other day he may have turned him away. Fate must indeed have been smiling upon him when curiosity had encouraged him to agree to an audience with the Baron.
However, the tale he had told had been a fascinating one and, despite the Cardinal's feigned boredom, he had been transfixed by the story of one man's weakness towards a women, betrayal, and murder. It answered so many questions, though it introduced many others – but what was he to do with the information?
There was, of course, the possibility that Brousard was wrong, but Richelieu knew too many pieces of the story that the cash-strapped landowner did not. Still, whatever happened, having the man's son on the inside of the Garrison could be very useful, and he may even be able to kill two birds with one stone.
As he glided around the large, empty room, his thoughts were interrupted by a sultry voice.
'You look worried. Can I be of any assistance?' It was obvious from her inflection just what assistance the woman was offering.
Richelieu turned his attention to the figure emerging from the doorway. The man was able to change his disposition in an instant, though just how genuine that change of mood was, who could tell.
'My dear, how delightful, I must say I was not expecting to see you here. I thought we had agreed this was not a suitable meeting place.' Though he maintained a fixed smile the words were ground out of a rigid jaw, the speaker obviously trying to hide his evident irritation.
The woman gave a small moue and moved closer.
The Cardinal watched her as she sashayed toward him, remembering the last woman to slip in and out of this room. Though they had traits in common, this woman was not Milady de Winter. How far she would go to make herself useful he had not yet decided, but time would tell. She had been hopping mad when Milady had fled to England, would she be inclined to join with him now to bring down the holier than though Captain and his arrogant Musketeer?
The Cardinal's forced smile widened; no cat could have looked more satisfied as it observed its prey. It was doubtful the man had shown any genuine amusement – apart from the odd beheading or torture victim perhaps – since he was a child, and even that was unlikely. Still he attempted to lull the woman into his web.
'However, now that you are here, I have a proposition for you.' The woman's eyes widened. She had wondered how long it would take to break the man down; she had begun to believe she was losing her touch, or that the Cardinal really was a man of God – despite the rumours.
However, now the moment had arrived, she could not deny a shiver of revulsion at the prospect of attaining her goal. Still, a woman had no control or power except through a man and, next to the King, Richelieu was considered the most powerful man in France. So she would do what she must.
ooOoo
The rest of the week passed without any great event. Treville kept the three men busy, Athos in particular. He had the swordsman working late into the night, going through the recruit applications, making sure they had chosen the best that were on offer. Neither of them mentioned Du Bois, though he was expected to arrive first thing in the morning.
Athos was perfectly aware of the Captain's ploy, and despite his clawing need to enact his nightly ritual, he could not in good faith disappoint his mentor so blatantly. Of course this did not bode well for the hours that followed, the hours when the swordsman sat alone in his room, drinking from his solitary bottle of brandy, in the hope that he could dispel the creatures that visited him when he closed his eyes. The ones that haunted his daylight hours were bad enough, but at night he had no control over their behaviour; their taunting came unbidden, their cruelty and their judgement relentless.
On top of these expected fiends, he now suffered a whole new terror, one that he had thought he had confined to the locked rooms of his childhood – the cloying, suffocating panic that enveloped him when the light faded.
He had awoken some weeks ago thrashing in his bed, feeling as though he were drowning in gritty water, as he sensed the sides of his room and roof pushing him further beneath the filthy depths.
As his heart rate began to slow, he became aware of the sound of dripping water from the guttering, resulting from a sudden shower. The dripping noise had triggered repressed memories of those final hours trapped in the tunnel. Inevitably, one memory led to another, and he had spent the remainder of the night reaching out for soft fingers, listening to a familiar voice offering hope and solace in the velvet silence – only to wake as always alone and angry. Whether it was because of his frustrated needs or his uncontrollable weakness, it did not really matter. Why could they not let him be?
But there was a far deeper fear that hung around the periphery of his consciousness, even more terrifying than any memory. What if they did not visit him of their own volition, but he himself summoned them each night in an attempt to assuage his own torturing guilt, to provide him with some desperate form of absolution? For if that were indeed the case, perhaps there would never be an end to his hours in hell.
Friday morning dawned hotter and more humid than ever, the storm that had been threatening to break all week having still not arrived. Athos slid to the side of the bed. He was still tired, but it was pleasant to awake without a thumping head, to join morning muster without concerned looks from Aramis and Porthos, and without sniggers from Deveaux and his cronies.
Athos stood and splashed his face with water, but even that felt warm, and in the end he placed the bucket upon the table and sank his entire head under the liquid's surface. Despite the feeling of relief from the stickiness of the night, he still withdrew his head more quickly than normal, his heart rate increasing as he drew in a ragged breath of air. He let the lukewarm liquid trickle down his body, the linen shirt he threw over his head sticking where the rivulets coursed down his back. Pulling on his boots he bent over and completed his ritual of stretching, ignoring the rapid beating of his heart. It had been a long while since he had been able to complete the manoeuvres without the room spinning, and if his panic still thundered in his ears, he chose not to acknowledge it.
Having lost his old leather jacket on his last mission, the swordsman pulled on the relatively new one, which was still slightly stiff. Despite the heat, he fastened it up tight and strapped on his weapons belt, his hand caressing his sword as he thrust it home. As he went through the door, he gave no last glance – there was nothing in the room worth checking – and he strode down the stairs to join the other Musketeers in the courtyard.
Making his way along the ranks, he noted Deveaux's irritation and disappointment at his sober state. He took his place in his usual position next to Aramis, with Porthos on his other side. He wondered if it were mere coincidence that they always made a space for him between them, or whether they were constantly prepared to provide a steadying prop should he need it. A pang of guilt speared his conscience as he thought of their selfless attitude, against his purely selfish follies.
Treville's door opened and he walked out on to the balcony; he could often be seen leaning on the balustrade surveying his regiment or seeking out a particular Musketeer. Today however, he was joined by a young man wearing suitable attire for a Musketeer cadet.
'Is that 'im?' Porthos murmured.
'Mm!' was Athos' succinct reply.
'I don't like 'im,' the big man stated emphatically.
Athos snorted, a curl of his lip the only sign of his amusement.
'We owe him the benefit of the doubt,' Aramis offered, aware of two heads swivelling in his direction, each bearing a cynical expression.
'You are both far too judgemental,' the marksman sniffed.
He was met by a series of stifled sounds, registering a mixture of sarcasm and disgust, and he could easily identify which came from whom.
'Men, this is Monsieur Du Bois. He is joining us a little early, ahead of the new recruits. Gerrard, if you will show him to the dormitory and give him a tour of the garrison. When he is finished, I would like a summation of his needs. Athos, Aramis, Porthos – that is you!' The three men nodded in unison. Porthos gave a snort of amusement, 'Excellent, I get to knock 'im on 'is skinny arse.' The big man's grin was always infectious, but neither Aramis nor Athos were smiling.
Despite what Athos had told them of his introduction to the man at the palace, Aramis, as always, felt everyone deserved a chance to prove themselves. Athos, on the other hand, had felt the eyes seeking him out, hunted amidst the rows of Musketeers, only to witness the cold satisfaction when Du Bois had finally located him. He remembered the thinly-disguised challenge the young man had issued at the palace. He was not in the slightest concerned by the suggestion, but he was overly conscious of the underlying reason for the young man's interest – particularly with the Cardinal's involvement.
The men began to move away to their various assignments, leaving the three friends watching the seasoned Musketeer, Gerrard, happily guiding the young man around the garrison. As they emerged from the dormitories where the cadets were housed, the young cadet's arrogant sneer had been replaced by a thunderous expression.
'Appen 'e's not pleased with 's accommodation,' Porthos chuckled.
'I have always thought the prospect of such close camaraderie a boon of being a cadet,' Aramis offered with a cheeky smile.
Athos merely quirked a brow and gave Aramis a look that said he suspected the marksman was either mad or simply naive, the twinkle in his eye softening his mien just a little.
All three watched as the two men approached, Gerrard holding back, a look of amusement upon his weathered features. Du Bois scrutinized the three men, as if deciding who best to address his concerns to. Porthos scowled, and Athos looked as cold and haughty as usual, so DuBois – as expected – plumped for Aramis.
'There appears to have been some kind of mistake. I must have a room of my own.' He stared at Aramis as though he would obviously solve all his problems, and that the dormitory was nothing more than an obvious oversight.
Aramis grinned. 'Monsieur Du Bois, I am Aramis, this is Porthos, and Athos – whom I believe you have already met.' He gestured to his comparisons who merely nodded their heads in acknowledgment, partly because Du Bois looked at them all as though their names were the last thing he needed to know, now – or almost certainly at any time in the future.
'Indeed,' he snapped. 'But my room…' Aramis interrupted him by raising his hand.
'I am afraid, Monsieur, rooms are only assigned to Musketeers. Cadets share a dormitory until they receive their final commission.
Du Bois looked horrified.
'My father is a very important man, he will not accept such an arrangement.' He stuck out his weak chin and placed his hands upon his hips.'
Porthos stopped scowling and scratched his head, glancing at Aramis with a mock expression of concern. 'His father is important.'
Aramis' smile faded and he looked thoughtful. 'That is interesting,' he said, and in turn deferred to Athos, who now lounged against the balcony post, arms folded.
'His father is important,' the marksman reiterated, frowning as though greatly perturbed.
Athos nodded and enquired of Porthos, 'Did the Comte de Lyon's son have a room of his own?'
The big man narrowed his eyes in concentration. 'Not that I remember.'
Athos nodded and turned to address Aramis. 'Did the Marquis of Royan's youngest son have a room of his own?'
Aramis feigned innocence. 'I do not believe he did,' he replied, shaking his head as though enlightened.
Athos appraised the young man, finally addressing him with his usual arrogant drawl.
'Is your father more important than that?' He already knew the answer, for Treville had told him the man in question was no more than a wealthy baron – and one with no great power.
Du Bois appeared apoplectic with rage, his attention skipping from one Musketeer to the other, all whilst Gerrard was trying his best not to laugh aloud at the three men's antics.
'The Cardinal shall hear of this, mark my words!' he asserted, before striding off toward Treville's office, fists clenched at his sides. All three Musketeers watched him leave with varying degrees of amusement. Porthos simply broke out into a loud guffaw, which the young man could not have failed to hear. Aramis grinned broadly, whilst Athos allowed the fleetest of smiles to flit across his lips before addressing the marksman.
'How is the benefit of the doubt working for you now?' He raised both dark brows and tilted his head, causing Porthos to renew his bellow of laughter.
Aramis shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 'Perhaps he will mellow.' Athos rolled his eyes and Porthos slapped the marksman on the back, still chortling with laughter.
All three men walked over to their regular table to await the angry young man's return. They knew it would not be long, as Treville would have no truck with such histrionics. In fact even the son of a royal Duke would have quailed at the prospect of disrespecting the Captain when his ire was roused. And so it came as no surprise when soon after they heard the door above close, firmly, but not slammed.
Eventually, Du Bois descended the staircase, and it was a rather subdued but red-faced young man that stood before the three waiting Musketeers.
'I am to begin my assessment in any order you deem fit,' he forced out through gritted teeth.
Porthos grinned with anticipation and looked to the other two. 'Me first?' If he asked the question with a little too much enthusiasm, Du Bois did not appear to notice. However, his eyes widened at Aramis' reply.
'He will need both eyes and a steady hand for me; therefore I will go before you break him Porthos.' They both turned to Athos, who shrugged. 'He purports to have some skill with a blade, so I will deal with what is left.'
The somewhat disconcerted young man attempted an air of bravado, but his pale face belied his efforts. Aramis stood and gestured for him to lead on toward the armoury.
'That should bring him down a peg or two,' Porthos chuckled. Athos simply watched them leave, aware that Deveaux also observed the young man's steps.
ooOoo
The man had been watching the house for a couple of days. He had spent far longer than he had expected locating the couple he sought. With a face like his, people were reluctant to volunteer information, usually assuming his intentions were nefarious. The years had not diminished his anger over such reactions that his damaged appearance aroused, and he relished the opportunity his new ally was providing for him to finally take his revenge.
The man and his wife had returned to the house not long before, but the watcher was waiting for dusk, intending to take advantage of the poor light.
As the road grew quieter, he waited patiently, melting into the growing gloom. Windows began to glow from within. Despite the heat of the day, the nights were beginning to draw in; soon the leaves would begin to fall, and the crisp chill of September mornings would be upon them. Carts were now all put away for the night, market stalls had closed, and even the birdsong had grown quiet.
Feeling confident the time was right, the slight figure slid from his hiding place at the head of the narrow alley and slunk from shadow to shadow, where possible avoiding the pools of light. He approached the door. No illumination showed from within, and for a moment he felt a spasm of irritation – had he waited too long? Had the old fools taken to their beds early?
With a last look over his shoulder, he knocked firmly upon the door, unsure what he would say if they asked who was there as opposed to opening it directly. He was about to knock for a second time when he heard shuffling from within.
He held his breath, waiting for the question to be asked, amazed when he heard the bolts being drawn back. The old man was more foolish than he had supposed.
However, as the oak creaked upon its hinges, he could see a leather and chain contraption that prevented the door from being forced open from without.
'Who's there?' came the long- anticipated question, the voice elderly but firm. The man to whom it belonged stayed well back from the opening.
'René, it is you, is it not?' the skinny man responded, keeping his voice as friendly as possible.
'Who wants to know?' The voice was wary. The old man drew closer to the door, and to the visitor's horror, held a lamp aloft. The old man watched as the stranger blinked at the sudden glare, shielding his eyes and at the same time, not realising he was using the reasonable reaction to also hide his face – but it did not help.
'I know you, you used to work on the estate,' the old man stated, his tone now curious – but the man at his door could still recognise the old judgmental tone in his voice.
'That was long time ago,' he smirked. 'I heard you now resided in Paris and thought I'd look you up.' It had seemed a fair comment, but he realised in retrospect that in reality it sounded weak.
'Why?' came the suspicious response. So, the old man wasn't such a fool; there would be no fireside chat about old times. Perhaps honesty was the best approach.
'Thought I saw his lordship the other day, but he was dressed like a Musketeer. Had a bet with a friend, thought you might help me earn a few sous.' He had decided earlier that would be his excuse if he had to ask outright, and it sounded believable.
The old man's reply was swift and brief. 'Then you've lost your bet. His lordship went travelling last I heard.' Before any more questions could be asked, the door shut with a resounding thud, followed by the sound of a heavy bar being dropped into place.
The man spat on the floor and cursed under his breath. He was none the wiser and he had nothing to show for his wasted days. Perhaps his new partner would have more luck. Turning into the darkness, he clenched his fists and headed toward the familiar tavern to plan his next move.
ooOoo
Du Bois followed Aramis back toward the bench. He looked a little happier than before, though as he watched Porthos stand and crack his knuckles, any confidence he may have gained slowly ebbed away.
Aramis grinned. 'Not a bad shot, but not a good one either.' The latter remark earned him a scowl from the cadet. 'But I can make something of him. He is all yours Porthos.' Aramis slipped onto the bench opposite Athos and sat back to watch the show.
Porthos was beaming, and slapped Du Bois on the back, almost sending him sprawling.
'Do not break him, mon ami,' came Aramis' amused request.
'Do not kill him,' was Athos' offering, delivered in his usual disinterested drawl. Porthos merely laughed and beckoned his wary opponent to make the first move. Du Bois circled the big man, who still grinned as though enjoying the game. Suddenly the cadet ran at the Musketeer but Porthos merely side-stepped the charge like a matador with a bull, raising a brow at the two men upon the bench.
Over the next twenty minutes, Du Bois landed on most parts of his body, and sometimes even Athos winced at the grunts of pain the action elicited, but still the young man got up and persevered. He did manage to connect a couple of blows, but they made little impact on the big man.
'He must be feeling sorry for him,' Aramis remarked as Du Bois landed a hit to the back of Porthos' head.
'No, he is bored!' came Athos' laconic reply. Both opponents were now sweaty and covered in dust.
Athos rose and nodded to the large Musketeer. Porthos raised both hands and smiled, 'Enough,' he chortled as he walked up to Du Bois and held out his hand. The young man was panting, but the anger showed clear upon his face, and he refused to acknowledge the gesture.
'I will not shake the hand of a street brawler!' He spat out his words, his face twisted in disgust. Porthos guffawed, which only served to increase the young man's ire.
Du Bois looked at the two men observing from the bench, his face flushed and incredulous.
'Is that how a Musketeer in the King's regiment should fight?' Aramis looked merely sorry for the young man and it was Athos who answered the query.
'It is if he plans to stay alive. Go and get some food.' He stood to stretch his legs and found the young man drawing his sword.
'Oh no, now it is your turn is it not?' Du Bois danced around and stood with his weapon ready, his eyes taking on a manic glint.
Athos merely looked at him and snorted. 'Get some food, I will not fight you until you have rested.'
'I do not need a rest, old man; perhaps it is you who are tired. I hear you keep late nights.' His arrogance was astounding, and the fact that Athos was only the boy's senior by a few years made the remark all the more ludicrous. If Du Bois thought to rile the swordsman, he had a lot to learn.
'Eat,' was Athos' only response. Aramis and Porthos no longer appeared amused, watching the interaction between the two men with interest.
'Why, so you can slink away for a drink?' Du Bois mocked.
'No, so that when I beat you, you will have no excuse,' Athos answered over his shoulder as he walked toward the stable. Du Bois made to follow, but Porthos placed a large and heavy restraining hand to halt his course.
'I wouldn't do that if I were you. 'E's right, we all deserve a drink and food. Lesson one, always eat and rest when you get the chance, for you don't know when you might next get the opportunity.' He kept his tone pleasant and steered the cocky recruit toward the canteen. He gave Aramis a concerned glance as he passed. The marksman understood his meaning and sought out Athos, just in case.
The swordsman was standing talking to the stable boy and turned as he heard Aramis approach. His expression remained neutral, but he was not in the least surprised to find his friend had come looking for him.
'That was interesting was it not?' Aramis suggested. Athos stroked Roger's neck and looked thoughtful.
'He was certainly well informed,' was his only reply.
'He has been listening to gossip,' Aramis offered, not sure how the remarks had affected his friend.
'Really? He only arrived a few hours ago, and apart from Treville, he has only spoken to the three of us.' He raised a brow and looked at Aramis for confirmation.
'That is true.' The Musketeer appeared puzzled. 'Well he did not hear it from the Captain, he would never had discussed such a thing.' Aramis had no doubt in his voice – Treville was a man of discretion and professional to the bone.
Athos stared across the now-empty courtyard and shook his head. 'No, he did not.' His words hung in the air and it was what he did not say that made the most impact; the unanswered question lying unspoken between them. Where had the obnoxious oik gotten his information from?
As Porthos and Du Bois entered the canteen, Gerrard, the older man who had shown DuBois around earlier, called to Porthos. Pointing Du Bois in the direction of Serge he made his way over to the table full of chattering Musketeers.
Du Bois watched him go, seething with anger. How dare they poke fun at him? He was not afraid of Athos; he knew the man's reputation with a sword, but he also knew the man's reputation with a bottle. A life like that left its mark, and he was about to show them the man was a fraud. Rest? What a joke! Still there would be no excuses, he would put the drunk in his place.
His demeanour had not gone unnoticed, attracting attention of one other man. 'You must be the new recruit, I am Deveaux. I could not help but notice you in the courtyard earlier with the street fighter. The man is a common rascal, do not judge us all by his underhand tactics.' Deveaux showed his contempt for Porthos by sneering in the big man's direction, having made certain his back was turned first – though Du Bois did not notice.
'Indeed, I am Du Bois, the younger son of Baron de Benoir.' He gave the slightest dip of his head. 'I must admit, I was horrified by his tactics, but then he associates with a womaniser and a drunk, so I suppose it is no surprise.' Deveaux beamed and gestured toward the table where his cronies sat.
'Please, will you not join us? You will find men of a like mind in our company.' Du Bois smiled and followed the snide Musketeer to his seat.
Porthos watched them over Gerrard's shoulder. Now that was a partnership he would have to watch – between them they could stir up a heap of trouble.