Chapter 8

London, England

The ballroom was full. Over-heated bodies pressed against each other, whilst fans fluttered furiously as women struggled to maintain a pale and ladylike facade. Wherever you looked, candelabras burnt, the golden light flickering and bouncing from crystal to crystal, sending a myriad of colours spiralling around the room – an obscene display of wealth and extravagance only heightened by the display as it caught the sapphires, emeralds and rubies which abounded, and echoed their brilliance upon the canvas of the creamy walls.

There would have been rich pickings to be had tonight if she had not been on her best behaviour or, at least, not in the market for murder and robbery.

The man at her side was making more monotonous introductions to yet another boring Englishman, to whom she curtsied, making the appropriate responses. She reluctantly submitted herself to the lecherous assessments that inevitably followed these moments; old men, marvelling at the fortune of one of their generation making such a splendid catch.

Yet despite her silent revulsion, since her arrival in England a few months ago, she was secretly delighted with her achievements. Though her flight from Paris had not been urgent, there were items she had been forced to abandon and debts owed to her, that she had not had time to claim. Still, she had left with her life, so anything was now possible.

Dover had provided her with ample cover. As she took her time observing those about to embark upon long voyages, she knew just what she was looking for, and fate appeared to play right into her hands – it certainly did not take long to identify the most suitable target.

In fact, after a mere two nights staying in the busy, main coach road Tavern, she noted a prospective victim – a young woman, foolishly travelling alone, intending to embark upon a journey to the Americas to begin a new life with relatives she had never met. The young woman had been only too eager to make the acquaintance of a sophisticated widow travelling back to France after the sudden death of her husband. The woman, whose name was Annabelle – another remarkable sign that fate was lending its hand – was innocent to the point of stupidity, and it took only a few glasses of wine and the promise of a marvellous view of the stars to send the girl to a watery oblivion.

Milady de Winter was put to rest, and Lady Annabelle Renard – the widow of the late Baron Renard, a reclusive and wealthy French noble – was born.

Now armed with an excellent supply of clothing and jewels, Milady arrived in London ready to make her debut on the aristocratic, social whirl; there was nothing like a virgin hunting ground to make the blood thrum in her veins.

Milady had spent weeks considering what was on offer. A young man would not be appropriate alas; what she needed was an older man, a wealthy man, not necessarily with a title, but childless – one whose sudden death would not be questioned, especially with a young new wife. After a great deal of simpering and crocodile tears, she had speared an elderly Earl, widowed and childless – perfect.

Now, amidst the gaiety and snivelling compliments, strode a dangerous complication. It was with furious irritation, and a not insignificant amount of fear, that she locked eyes with the young man rapidly approaching her party. He heralded from the latest Spanish contingent attempting to curry favour with the English King, trying to put an end to an ever-embarrassing war with Spain.

Charles, of course, was having none of it. He had still not forgiven Philippe for the humiliating disaster of the failed match between himself and the Infanta. However, Milady did not care about war with Spain, or even talks of the possible war with France. What she did care about was the spark of recognition on the face of the man now bearing down on her.

There was no chance of flight. She could faint, but if she were feigning unconsciousness, she could not control what was being said over her head. So, with little option to avoid the inevitable confrontation, she held her ground and let her cunning have free reign. Now standing only inches away, she dropped a low curtsy and waited for him to speak.

'What an honour to see you again, Milady, and so unexpected,' the young man drawled, a feral gleam in his eyes. The elderly Earl surveyed the fair-haired man in front of him and gave a courtly bow.

'You have me at a disadvantage sir.' The Earl eyed his fiancé and looked in askance for an introduction.

'Please forgive me, my dear, I am forgetting my manners. May I present the Comte de Rochefort.' Displaying her most winning smile, she continued. 'This is my intended, the Earl of Dunmarrow.' She watched carefully for any clue which would indicate his planned response, but the Comte merely smiled, though the expression was not comforting.

'Rochefort, my pleasure. It is so nice for my intended to meet someone from her own country. I am afraid my French is rather rudimentary.'

Rochefort gave the Earl a smug acknowledgement before turning on her with a feline smile. Speaking in his natural tongue he addressed the woman, choosing his words with care. 'Milady, what a surprise to see you here, and it appears I should be offering felicitations on your upcoming nuptials. Will the Cardinal be officiating?' The smirk on his face was fair warning of the harm of which this man was capable. She knew of his alliance with Richelieu and could only dread how much of her association with the First Minister he was aware of.

'I have left France, and my life is now here,' she replied, her own expression as contrived and alert as his.

'Really, and was the First Minister sorry to see you leave? I thought you two were thick as thieves – or should I rephrase that...' The smile was more firmly fixed, but his eyes were as cold as ice and she felt the force of his malevolence. So he knew.

The Earl was beginning to look rather left out, though Rochefort had deliberately talked at speed to lessen the likelihood of the old man following their conversation – even with his marginal French he would have picked up on the reference to King Louis' right-hand advisor.

'The Cardinal and I have parted company,' she replied, her delivery rather pithier than her smile and the coquettish tilt of her head implied.

'How unfortunate,' was the Comte's only response. Reverting back to English, he turned back to the rather confused Earl. 'May I offer you my congratulations, my Lord. I wish you and…' He paused deliberately, and for the briefest moment she considered tipping her wine down the front of his breaches, but he continued speaking before she could act. '… Lady Renard, a successful union.' With that, he gave a stiff bow, turned on his heel, and headed back the way he had come. Milady watched him leave. So he also knew her name, she realised, or at least the name she was now using. What else he knew was unsettling. Perhaps this called for a regrouping – it would appear that a retreat to the country was called for.

ooOoo

Paris, France

Athos slept on throughout the next day, Aramis and Porthos taking it in turns to sit beside their unresponsive friend. The only positive side to his deep sleep was his apparent oblivion to the fever raging throughout his body. As Aramis gazed down upon Athos' flushed countenance, he could only marvel at the peace in which the man appeared to exist, as his whole outward appearance screamed only pain and misery.

The inflammation had spread no further, and the two men had been overjoyed to observe no further putrefaction when Aramis had re-dressed the wound a few hours previously. Both he and Porthos had celebrated the small success – anything to take their minds off the reality of the situation. Lemay had warned them that little was still known about the condition known as heavy sleep, and he could make no promises as to Athos' state of mind when, or if, he eventually awoke.

Heaping concern upon concern, they mithered about the prognosis for his right hand, the thought he may yet lose it being too much to comprehend. Yet again, the young doctor had erred on the side of caution. He admitted he could see no long-term damage, no ligament or nerves affected, but infections could leave a trail of disaster of their own – only time would tell. After all, it had been a mere cut across Athos' palm and, had it received immediate attention, the chances were all of this could have been avoided.

When Porthos noted the dark shadows around Aramis' eyes, he knew that if their injured brother sustained permanent damage, the medic would blame himself for neglecting to realise the injury had occurred right under his nose, and probably as a direct result of his attempts to help Athos face his demons.

Porthos had assisted Aramis in the drawn-out attempt to keep Athos hydrated, slowly and gently dribbling water down his throat. The patient probably only managed to swallow a fraction of the water they gave him, but it was better than the alternative. The swordsman's features were becoming gaunt, and his eyes, now permanently closed, were sunken. Lemay was fearful of the on-going lack of hydration, but he could think of no alternative solution other than the one they were already employing.

With Aramis busy in the role of medic, Porthos attempted to take his mind off Athos' plight by teaching the new cadets hand-to-hand combat. His booming voice – accompanied by occasional raucous laughter – penetrated the cool interior of the infirmary, causing the doleful Aramis to smile.

As one by one, the young men hit the ground, Porthos began to relax for the first time in days. His opponents were hauled back onto their feet by the jolly Musketeer's large hands and, despite their sore bodies, his defeated opponents could not help but smile in response to the big man's encouragement.

Du Bois had been sitting with the others awaiting his turn. He had heard all Deveaux's rantings regarding Porthos' colourful history, and his ungentlemanly fighting style, but he had still watched with interest. He could not help wondering, surely, if you were fighting for your life then behaving like a gentleman would be the least of your concerns. Still, as the group he was sitting with slowly dwindled, he began to experience a modicum of apprehension.

He was abruptly shaken from his thoughts upon hearing his own name echoing loudly in his ears; it seemed Porthos was ready. The Musketeer was beckoning him over with both hands and had a broad grin upon his face, and if there was a degree of over-eager anticipation in his expression, Du Bois chose not to see it. However, as the younger man squared off to the giant opposite him, both men were interrupted by a disturbance at the gate.

'Please, you don't understand, I must see Monsieur Athos, please!' The woman's plea carried across the stifling courtyard, where the two fighters and their audience had been standing in silent anticipation.

All eyes swivelled to the gate, including Devaux, who had been glowering in the shadows of the stables dreaming up revenge on the man he blamed for his current humiliation. The guard's response was too quiet to make out, but her distraught tone carried clearly.

'Did Monsieur Athos get my letter? Did he leave a reply? Oh! Why will you not let me see him?' the stranger cried, wringing her hands in anguish. The woman's eyes searched desperately away from the gate, as though she expected to see Athos somewhere in the garrison beyond.

'Give me a moment,' Porthos nodded to the waiting Du Bois. The young man hardly acknowledged the address, so fixed was his attention on the drama unfolding at the entrance.

Porthos strode over toward the pleading woman and, as he drew closer, he could make out she was in fact no more than a girl. The guards were trying to calm her; at least this time she had been luckier, both Musketeers on duty were old hands and offered no untoward comments on her request, though it did come as a surprise. Athos was one of the last men within the compound to have females asking for him at the gate. Now had it been Aramis...

'What's the problem?' Porthos asked Benoit, the older Musketeer on watch.

'This young lady is asking for Athos, she says it is imperative she speaks with him. I have told her he is currently indisposed, but she will not believe me.' The man was genuinely at a loss how to deal with the situation – Musketeers were not generally trained to deal with weeping women!

Porthos approached the confused girl, but she in turn shrank back as he loomed over her. He held up his hands in a show of submission and smiled.

'I am Porthos, Athos' friend, Mademoiselle. I am afraid it's true, Athos is in our infirmary, gravely ill. Perhaps I can help.' The girl gave a small cry, her hands flying to her mouth.

'So, it is true. How long has he been ill, did he even receive the note I delivered?' Her eyes were wide and full of hopelessness.

''E's been unconscious these last two days. I'm sorry, but I've not seen any note. Do you know who you gave it to?' But his question fell upon deaf ears, as the girl was no longer listening, and wringing her hands she turned away, muttering to herself.

'I am sorry Jacques, I can do no more.' With that, she turned and scurried off into the crowd. Porthos called after her but she did not turn or acknowledge his appeal.

Porthos stood alongside the two Musketeers and watched the girl disappear. She did not look like a street child, more like a girl in service, but to whom? Who would be asking after Athos? Porthos felt a growing unease – was there someone else out there in the city who knew of Athos' background, and more to the point, were they supposed to?

He looked back toward the waiting cadets. He wanted to talk with Aramis, but only Du Bois now awaited his attention, so he might as well get it over and done with, and then he could leave his task with a clear conscience.

'Sorry, Du Bois, I'm ready.' Dubois began to chuckle.

'I did not see Athos as a ladies' man.' The sneer on his face, let alone the implication of his remark was no way to begin a bout with the big Musketeer. Either he was stupid, or had no love of life.

'What's that supposed to mean?' Porthos growled.

'Nothing. It is just that Athos does not appear to show much interest in the fairer sex.' Du Bois deliberately let the statement lie, aware that the rest of the cadets were listening with undisguised interest.

Porthos seethed. He was quicker with his fists than repartee, but he could not let the innuendo stand – the man's comment could not have been further from the truth. Despite his own dislike of Milady de Winter, anyone seeing the two of them together could never draw any conclusion but the glaringly obvious, and if Athos never looked at another woman it was because he had good reason.

'You don't know just 'ow wrong you are,' was Porthos' reply, and something in his voice made the young cadet give a cheeky grin.

'Oh really, do tell.' He realised the big man would say no more, but he had heard enough; the inference had caught his imagination, and was definitely something he ought to pass on. He really did need to find a way to get out of the garrison.

Unfortunately for Du Bois, his attention was brutally returned to the matter in hand. Porthos was lifting him bodily into the air and, before he was truly aware of the sudden change in his situation, the cadet was being deposited in the dust with very little ceremony. He gave a loud groan, but his anger blossomed with the discovery of each new protesting muscle. He flew at the big man, ignoring the broad grin on his face – Athos would have shaken his head in disgust had he observed the young man's blazing fury.

The hothead butted Porthos in the stomach, but the giant hardly exhaled at the impact, the smile never leaving his face. He grasped the cadet around the waist and tipped him once more on to his backside. However, as much as he was enjoying Du Bois' humiliation, he really needed to be elsewhere, so realising that Du Bois had no intention of learning anything he had to teach him at this point, Porthos bought the bout to an end. When the headstrong recruit flew at him once more, Porthos simply landed a short sharp punch to his gut. Du Bois' eyes bulged, all the air leaving his body in one explosive breath. He fell to the floor and curled in a ball, clutching his stomach.

'When Athos' is better, you might ask 'im what you did wrong,' was all Porthos said, offering no hand to help the young man rise. After all, Du Bois did not see him as a gentleman, so why bother to extend such a courtesy – he deserved to grovel in the dirt. Without further comment, the Musketeer turned on his heel and strode off toward the infirmary, shouting over his shoulder as he went.

'Take a break and get refreshment from the refectory, Aramis will take you onto the trainin' field after luncheon.' With that, the cadets began to disperse, eager for a drink on such a hot day. It was interesting that none of them approached the man still groaning in the dirt, though he had now raised himself into a sitting position, the look upon his face thunderous.

ooOoo

Athos lay in darkness. Not an uncomfortable darkness, he felt no fear or concerns; this was not the suffocating experience of the tunnel, this was weightlessness – freedom.

Perhaps he was dead, but he did not think so. If he was, then it was nothing like the death he had expected – there was no fiery pit of eternal damnation, and this was enough for him to discount his demise, for he was quite sure hell awaited him with all its fury. As he debated his current state, something began to penetrate his senses. Into the silence seeped a cry, desolate and needing, a woman. This realisation created a sudden turmoil within his relaxed stupor. A woman, crying, needing... could it be?

He needed to go to her, to seek out the cause of her distress. That she needed him was obvious, how or why he did not know, he just understood he was wanted, understood he was required to leave this comfort behind and go to her aid. Again, the cry, this time more desperate than before. Athos tried to call out to her, to tell her he was here, that he was coming, but he heard no response from his own lips. Though his mind tried to connect to the woman, his body refused to participate.

As abruptly as it had begun, the voice ceased, but Athos was still troubled. The euphoria that had engulfed him not so long ago was now a thing of the past, and gradually he became aware of a dull throbbing, a heat that engulfed him. So, was this it, the inferno he had expected, the end he had anticipated, his long-awaited judgement? Perhaps that had been his final test, he had been needed and he had not attended. How he had wanted to, but he had failed, and the woman cried no more.

Yet perhaps he had it wrong, perhaps it was because he had wanted to help her, to go to her aid, after all that she had done, perhaps that was his sin. He could not deny it, indeed it was a wickedness he felt all too well, that she still called to him, despite the evil she had perpetrated. So, if this was indeed hell then he conceded defeat, he truly deserved eternal damnation. As the fire began to slowly consume him, Athos moaned. Perhaps this would be an end to his torment, though somehow he doubted this was how hell worked.

ooOoo

Porthos entered the infirmary, his mood troubled, not just by Du Bois' appalling remarks but by the distress of the girl at the gate. The first thing he saw was Aramis bent over Athos' prostrate form, calling his name. All thoughts of Du Bois and the girl were instantly relegated to a forgotten place.

'What's up?' He covered the short distance in seconds, peering down at Athos standing alongside his friend.

'He moaned,' Aramis cried with delight.

Porthos immediately felt lighter. ''E did?' They both stared intently at the silent Athos as though willing him to speak.

As if on cue, a murmur escaped from Athos' lips. The two men could not make out what he was saying, but they did not much care, he was talking and that was wonderful. As they smiled and slapped each other on the back, Athos' eyes flew open. 'Go... must… go…' The words were hardly audible as they wrenched themselves from his parched throat. He stared at the two men without any sign of recognition. A sudden attempt at movement made him cry out, the jarring of his injured hand sending painful shockwaves up his arm. His eyes rolled back into his head and he went limp.

'Athos!' Porthos cried.

Aramis automatically felt for his friend's pulse at his neck, 'He is alright, I believe he is merely sleeping now.'

'How can you tell?' Porthos demanded.

Looking contrite, Aramis pinched the inner flesh of the uninjured arm and the patient flinched.

'That's how,' Aramis said with a slightly guilty look, but Porthos offered no recriminations, just gave a loud guffaw and slapped the medic on the back.

'I will sit with 'im, you go and get some lunch, you are due to take the cadets on to the trainin' field this afternoon.' Aramis rolled his eyes.

'What was he trying to say?' the marksman asked.

Porthos shrugged his wide shoulders. 'I 'ave no idea, just fevered mutterin's. Doubt 'e meant anything.'

Aramis bit his lip and gazed at Porthos with a deep sadness in his dark eyes. 'He did not know us did he?' His earnest expression hit the big Musketeer with more force than Du Bois could ever muster.

'It's early, 'e was probably not really awake – next time, 'e will know us next time.' He gave Aramis a reassuring smile, though he, too, felt a deep chill in his bones. Nobody really knew how Athos would react to the heavy sleep; the man could still awake, but their friend could nevertheless be lost forever.