Chapter 11

Athos had not gone far when he realised that he may have overestimated his strength. The afternoon was growing dark, the sun having long gone into hiding, leaving only menacing clouds, swooping and billowing in the gloom up above.

Athos suddenly felt weary. His injured arm, now resting in a sling upon his chest, throbbed mercilessly; the willow bark he had drunk earlier no longer eased the pain he felt every time his booted feet connected with the ground. Still, he tried to make his legs move faster, for the hollow feeling inside had nothing to do with lack of sustenance and everything to do with the sense of apprehension growing with every minute he delayed.

He strode on, hat pulled down over his eyes. Though ever-watchful of his surroundings, the swordsman still preferred to keep his face hidden – what had started out as a necessity, was now a familiar habit. Of course, the fact he now wore the pauldron of a Musketeer, meant he was no longer as invisible as he would wish, but his fixed glacial expression ensured no sensible soul dared make contact with him, unless they had no choice.

Athos felt the first tentative drops of rain and frowned. Their impact grew heavier and soon he was being assaulted with large stinging pellets of water that soaked his hair in seconds. A gust of wind sprang up out of nowhere, accompanied by a deep rumbling from somewhere in the distance. Athos gave what passed as a smile – at least with weather like this nobody would bother to look his way.

ooOoo

Aramis and Porthos walked toward the field in companionable silence. It was Aramis that broke the quiet. 'Why did he do that?' he asked Porthos, frowning up at his friend.

'Do what?' Porthos answered, only half listening.

'Why did he ask you to help him put on his jacket and belt?' Aramis continued.

'Cause I told 'im struggling on 'is own was stupid,' Porthos smiled.

'Yes, but when has that made any difference?' the marksman persisted.

''E was in an 'urry.' As the words left Porthos' mouth he turned to look at Aramis, his expression darkening.

Both men reacted simultaneously; turning abruptly they headed back the way they had come, only this time they were almost running. 'He is probably tucked up with Treville going over some boring logistics,' Aramis offered, though he did not sound convinced.

''E 'ad better be,' the big man growled, his expression as menacing as the sky up above them.

Reaching the garrison courtyard both men halted, noting the Captain was just exiting his office. Treville gazed down at the two men and yelled impatiently, 'Where is Athos? I told him to come straight here.' Aramis and Porthos exchanged anxious glances. Treville was no fool and he realised something was not right. 'Is he with you?'

Aramis took a deep breath and, not for the first time, wondered why it always fell to him to break the bad news. 'No, the last we saw him he was headed to you. We went to the field to help with the cadets but…' He stopped and looked up at his Captain. Treville was marching toward them, with an expression that suggested Athos was at this moment eminently unpopular.

'Where is he?' the Captain asked, his voice low and definitely upset.

'We have no idea,' Aramis shrugged.

'Then why were you coming back so soon?' Treville queried, not convinced the two men were as innocent as they appeared.

''E asked me to 'elp 'im get dressed,' Porthos rumbled, his voice echoing the rapidly deteriorating weather. Treville scowled. He, too, knew Athos well enough to be suspicious of such a request. He quirked a brow and waited for them to continue. Whilst Aramis contemplated a suitable response, they were interrupted by the changing of the watch upon the gate. When Deveaux and his fellow Musketeer passed close by, Treville stopped them in their tracks.

'Have either of you seen Athos?' he asked. If Deveaux had considered saying anything sarky, the expression on his Captain's face was an excellent deterrent.

'Yes, Sir, he left the garrison a little while ago.' He did not need to say anything else. The look on his superior's face gave him a great deal of satisfaction – it was obvious that Athos' departure was not appreciated.

As the first large raindrops landed, Treville's eyes bored into the two Musketeers. 'Find him, bring him to me,' was all he said. Then, with a long last look at the gate, he stalked off toward his office. As Aramis and Porthos followed his gaze, they winced as the slamming of his office door rang out through the courtyard.

'That's done it,' the big man growled as he acknowledged Treville's display of temper. 'Athos, the bloody fool. Where do you suppose 'e's gone now?' Porthos muttered.

Aramis looked thoughtful. 'Something must have been important enough for him to have left the garrison against Treville's instructions.'

'You think?' Porthos drawled. 'Is 'e well enough to be walkin' about the city?' he asked, signs of growing concern now moderating his anger.

'No, he is not. It is one thing to dress and sit quietly in the Captain's office, but quite another to be stalking around Paris.' Aramis' mind's eye could clearly see a determined Athos striding through the rain-drenched streets of Paris. 'Because whatever has forced him to defy Treville, I doubt it is a gentle stroll. His body has still not recovered from its trauma, not to mention the pain he must be feeling from that arm, and to make matters worse, he has neither eaten nor drunk hardly at all in the last five days.' Aramis' voice rose as he listed all the reasons Athos should have remained behind to meekly do their bidding. 'We need to find him before he does something to undo all we have achieved – he is in no condition to go through that again.' Aramis ran his hands through his now damp hair, his face bleak, but Porthos merely ground his teeth together in anger.

'Neither am I. I'm goin' to bloody kill 'im!' With that, the big man strode toward the gate with Aramis running to catch up to him, and side-by-side they headed into the storm to find their recalcitrant friend before his own idiocy caught up with him.

'Where exactly are we going?' Aramis asked. Thunder rolled somewhere outside the city – it appeared the weather was no happier than they were.

Porthos' brow furrowed, and he slowed his pace as he considered the question. 'Somethin' made 'im change 'is mind. 'E was quite 'appy going off with Treville – well perhaps not 'appy, but content.'

'You are right. What were you saying to him?' Aramis asked, his expression suddenly hopeful.

'Me? I was moanin' about 'im tryin' to pull 'is boots on by 'imself. 'E was makin' a right mess of it.' Despite his dark mood, Porthos allowed his lip to curl ever so slightly at the memory.

'Yes, yes, I heard that part, but why did he listen, why did he not simply glare at you and struggle on? What did you say next? You were laughing about something. Try and think,' the marksman urged.

Porthos' frown deepened as he attempted to recall their conversation. Suddenly he smiled. 'That's right, I was teasin' 'im about the girl who came to the gate for 'im whilst 'e was bad. Told 'im what with her and Giroux 'e was gettin' popular. I was just tryin' to lighten the mood.' The two men stared at one another.

'What girl?' Aramis asked impatiently.

Porthos shrugged his massive shoulders. 'No idea, she never said. She asked for Athos, said she had left 'im a note. When I told 'er 'ow ill 'e was she went off pretty quickly, not 'appy either!' He looked baffled, but Aramis persisted.

'She must have said something else. I think it is fair to say Athos has not been seen with a girl for… well for as long as I have known him. I assume she was not a lady. Do you think he could have known her from before?' Aramis fired his questions as deftly as he fired his pistol.

Porthos shook his head. 'No, she was a simple girl, not much more than a child. I rather got the impression someone 'ad sent 'er – she didn't seem bothered that Athos was ill, only that it prevented 'er from seeing 'im.'

Aramis took the information in. 'That would make more sense.' Suddenly Porthos grinned.

'Jacques, she said somethin' about that was all she could do for Jacques.' 'E must 'ave sent 'er.' Beaming, he slapped Aramis on the back.

'Who is Jacques?' the puzzled marksman asked.

Porthos' smile instantly faded. 'No idea.' Both men came to an abrupt halt, looking around as if someone would suddenly point the way to a mystery man called Jacques.

'If only 'e wasn't so bloody secretive!' Porthos raged.

The rain was coming down in torrents, running off both men's hats and stirring the dried earth beneath them into rivers of mud. The thunder that had loitered on the periphery was now bellowing around the city like a drunken visitor from the country. Lightning flashed and the sudden boom overhead made the two men jump.

With the storm now making its presence felt in earnest, they found themselves standing outside The Wren tavern. Deliberating which direction to take, they noted with interest a Red Guard dash inside. Always suspicious of the regiment's behaviour, they turned their attention toward the favoured watering hole.

They did not have to wait long before the door opened once more, spewing out five guards in addition to the messenger, appearances suggesting Richelieu's men were eager to be on their way. Together, the soldiers raced toward their destination, and for reasons they could not readily identify, the two Musketeers followed in hot pursuit.

ooOoo

Athos went over what Porthos had told him once more. It had not been much, but it had been enough to set off a clamorous warning inside his head. He had no friends in Paris. He knew no one, apart from Monsieur René who had stabled Roger when he had first come to the city, and Jacques and Marie Beloir. The elderly couple had worked on his father's estate for many years, until finally, upon his death, they had decided to retire. Athos, the then Comte de la Fère, had given them a generous pension – which had probably seen his father spinning in his grave – and they had relocated to Paris to be closer to their son.

The son had died soon after, though how Athos could not remember. However, when he had closed up the house and left, he had sent what few items he wanted to where he could find them and close to hand to the Beloirs, with instructions to keep them safe, and not to mention his name unless they had no choice. It was the latter instruction that now had him hurrying through the rain, growing increasingly exhausted. Once again, Athos cursed his weakened state. With no idea what he would find when he arrived at the house, he realised this may not have been the wisest of decisions. Porthos' angry face loomed in his mind, and he felt the quirk at the corner of his mouth.

The streets and alleyways were deserted, everyone was indoors – even criminals would draw the line at coming out in such weather. So intense was the downpour, Athos struggled to see what was in front of him. Still, the regular flashes of light helped illuminate his way, and by the thinning out of the buildings on either side, it was obvious the outskirts of Paris grew closer. Crossing the river, he increased his pace; the residence of the elderly couple was nearby.

Stumbling over the uneven cobbles beneath his feet, pain rushed along his Athos' arm, flaming red and hot, and he let out a low groan. He had to admit he was glad of the cold rain as it hit his face; it was soothing and, though he knew that was probably not a good sign, he had more important things to worry about right now. Aramis would simply have to forgive him – again.

As the swordsman turned the corner of Rue de Pont, he stopped to take in the isolated spot. The road was not far from the Seine, but there were few residences, most of the buildings being empty warehouses. With the torrent of water hitting the swirling river, the fetid smell, generally contained, wafted through the air on every gust of wind.

There was not a soul to be seen. The house he was interested in was in darkness, but that meant nothing, it was the hairs on the back of his neck that told him all was not as it should be. Luckily, the weather meant there was no reason to creep around in the shadows, as there simply weren't any. The quick and blinding illumination from the storm was too rapid to identify his shape as he dashed across the open space, stopping in front of the Beloirs' wooden doorway. He waited for another boom of thunder and rapped hard upon the door – hopefully from inside they would be able to distinguish the knocking from the noise of the storm. No reply. When the next crash came, he knocked even louder, this time hammering with his fist. Still nothing, and every fibre of his being told him to kick in the door and stop wasting time. However, the Beloirs were old, and a bedraggled Musketeer bursting into their house in the middle of a storm may just hasten them on their way to an early grave.

Instead, Athos noted the small passageway to the side of the building and made his way around the back. Climbing over a small wall, the Musketeer stood before a smaller doorway, and to his horror this entrance was not even fully closed, let alone locked. With his heart beating so loudly it rivalled the noise of the storm, the swordsman pulled his weapon and pushed the door open with its point. Hinges groaned in reluctance, but that was the only noise apart from the incessant rain and rumbles from overhead. Controlling his breathing, Athos inched his way inside the building, silence his only greeting.

Leaving the door ajar, he moved cautiously around the pitch-black room, and then, with a sudden flash of lightning, he made out the shapes associated with a small kitchen. The swordsman had only visited twice, and on those occasions had confined himself to the room at the front of the house, apart from a brief sojourn into the bedroom to offer his regards to Marie, whose health had been poor, keeping her in bed.

It was not until he pushed open the door to a small passageway that his worst fears were realised. The smell was pungent, and it was an aroma he knew only too well. How impressive was his existence, he thought, when the presence of death was an all too familiar friend?

With less stealth he found his way to the doorway on his right; if memory served him well, this was the Beloirs' bedroom. Athos stood in the doorway, counting the heartbeats, waiting for the next flash of illumination. When it came, it showed a harrowing scene. The bedding was flung aside, and blood stained the sheets and the floor beside the bed. A broken glass lay discarded upon the floor, but there was no sign of a body.

Reluctantly, he turned away, and with heavy steps made his way to the next room – empty. With only one room left, the one he was most familiar with at the front of the house, Athos pushed open the door with his sword once more. As before, he needed to wait for the storm to aid his discovery, though the smell told him pretty much all he needed to know.

As the cold white light lit the scene, he felt he was watching the set of a stage. In the middle of the room was a chair, ropes dangling from the back and legs. The chair stood like an island amidst the remains of a dark liquid pool. The same liquid was spattered up the walls behind. Each wretched discovery was delivered in a series of flashes that made Athos close his eyes as if bombarded by a vicious assault.

It took him a moment to put the inevitable demise of the old couple to one side. With every opportunity afforded by the lightning, Athos searched the almost empty room. It was not there. His heart flipped as the reality hit. Was that the reason the Beloirs had been killed, for he was under no illusion the evidence suggested otherwise. As the storm raged, Athos felt his good hand shake, and holding it out before him he could almost see the guilt infused blood drip from his fingers as the weight of their deaths were added to his list of crimes.

The loud crack did not register instantly, for it echoed the sounds of the tempest outside, and only when the accompaniment of loud voices added to the cacophony did Athos raise his weapon and turn.

The man silhouetted in the doorway made a ghoulish sight; not because he was dripping in blood or bore any evidence of violence, no, it was the satisfied smirk upon his face that depicted the danger he represented.

'Athos, we meet again,' Giroux sneered.

The swordsman could only see the Guard Captain, but he knew from the sounds in the street outside he was not alone. Removing his arm gingerly from its sling, he raised his sword in readiness. It all became clear, the fuss between the Red Guard soldier and Treville, the accusation of murder. Of course, they would blame him. Still, there was a small glimmer of hope. Giroux had made no mention of Athos' true identity – was it possible he did not know?

Giroux waved his weapon at the wary Musketeer. 'I would come quietly if I were you.' Then the Captain cocked his head and added, 'But perhaps not too quietly.' With that, Giroux advanced. There was little room for the two men to manoeuvre, though Athos was happy fighting with his left hand, and he instinctively lifted his right to aid his balance.

Instantly, he realised his error. As the two swords clashed, he felt the tremors from the impact shoot through his tired body, sending shards of pain into the fingertips of his healing hand. Gritting his teeth, he twisted his sword around Giroux's and flicked the weapon into the air. The surprised Red Guard pulled his main gauche from his belt and moved from side to side with a relish that would have unnerved any other man. Realising sword play would only prolong the event, Athos sheathed his weapon and pulled out his own slip blade, the coveted knife of his brother Thomas. The two men circled one another. Giroux sprang forward, but Atos caught his arm and the two men stood face-to-face. Giroux brought his head down upon Athos' nose; pain flared, but it remained intact, despite bleeding freely.

After more thrusts and parries, the Musketeer knew his strength was failing – he had never anticipated dealing with a prolonged fight. Giroux may have been an idiot and a bully, but he was still captain of his regiment. As they moved further into the room another soldier managed to squeeze into the already tight space.

'I told you to stay outside,' Giroux growled. With three men now circling the room and a sword added to the mix, the situation was almost ridiculous. However, Athos took instant advantage of the few seconds the soldier had been distracted by his superior's remark, driving his blade through the man's shoulder. Giroux in turn tripped over his minion's prostrate form and the Musketeer bought the hilt of his weapon down heavily on the Captain's head. Giroux fell like a stone on top of the groaning soldier beneath him. Athos wasted no time – it would be a matter of seconds before the others realised what was going on and entered the room. If the occasion had not been so serious it would easily have turned into a farce.

Leaving the house by the way he had come, Athos leapt over the wall and ran along the passageway into the street behind the houses. With the cries of angry men ringing in his ears, along with the rumbling thunder, Athos ran. This was not the time to stand and fight, this was the time to simply make sure he could stand.

ooOoo

As Aramis and Porthos rounded the corner of the Rue de Pont, they watched with interest as the guards they had followed joined a small group who were already waiting. The men hovered in front of a small house, not far away; there was nothing to distinguish it from any other residential property, certainly not in these conditions.

They easily recognised the swaggering figure of Giroux as he spread his men out and gave them orders, but it was impossible to make out what he was saying, as they only had the light from the occasional flash of lightning to illuminate the scene before them.

'I 'ave a bad feelin' about this,' Porthos muttered, as his gaze raked over the assembled men.

'I must admit I would have felt better if Giroux himself had not been present. He does not usually sully himself with menial tasks, which means this is important to him for some reason,' Aramis responded. The two men exchanged worried glances before watching events play out beneath the flickering storm.

'What are they waitin' for?' Porthos grumbled. 'If it is Athos they are waitin' for, 'e is 'ardly goin' to walk up and ask if 'e can go in, now is 'e?' Even as the words left his mouth, the big Musketeer doubted the reality of his own words.

Aramis shook his head, oblivious to the rivulets of water that it sent down his face and neck. 'Perhaps he is already there.' He whispered the words as though he were talking only to himself, but Porthos heard and understood.

Suddenly, for no reason that they could see from their viewpoint, Giroux kicked in the door. No scream or shouting ensued, in fact there was nothing but silence. Then, between the rumble of thunder, they heard the faint but familiar clash of steel.

'Athos,' both men stated as one.

Dashing forward, they approached the surprised Red Guard – with seven men to two, the odds were not great.

'You sure this was a good plan?' Porthos grinned as he raised his sword.

Never one to back away from a fight, Aramis replied, 'Of course, this is Plan A. If I change my mind, I will let you know.'

The two men engaged the three guards nearest too them, and luckily the rest appeared to be torn between engaging the Musketeers and keeping appraised of the action inside the house. The distraction was working in the two men's favour but, just as a soldier stumbled away holding his leg, there was a cry from inside. Everyone froze for a second, before all the Red Guards suddenly moved as one, and Aramis and Porthos could only gaze in incredulity as the idiots attempted to all gain entrance at the same time. Eventually, somebody shouted something about the back door, and the two Musketeers wasted no more time watching the clowns in action.

'Plan B,' Aramis shouted as he began to run.

'Shame, I was rather enjoyin' Plan A,' the big man chuckled, entering the side alley at the same time as his friend.

They burst out into the parallel street ahead of the buffoons behind them, and looked left and right. 'Which way?' Porthos shouted.

'He cannot have much strength left,' Aramis replied, raising his voice above the crashing thunder. 'Surely he will head straight back to the garrison.' Without waiting to confirm the statement, both men raced off toward the river, and the quickest way back home, hoping that a tired, but safe, Athos would be there to scowl at them on their arrival.