Chapter 13

The night had not passed quickly enough for the two Musketeers. Aramis and Porthos were now huddled over in discussion eating a hasty breakfast, whilst Dubois, accompanied by a group of his fellow recruits, was seated at the adjacent table. It appeared that he had finally managed to gain their approval, for they were all enjoying the banter and camaraderie one would expect from a group of young men their age. However, it had not escaped the two Musketeers' attention that Dubois had one ear on their own conversation, edging his chair just a little closer every time they lowered their voices.

'We appear to be immensely popular this morning,' Aramis grinned, giving the slightest indication he was talking about the cadet sat behind them.

'Yeah, I'd noticed. Must be our sparklin' wit and personality,' chuckled Porthos. 'So, what's the plan?'

Frowning, Aramis dabbed at the corner of his mouth. 'You are doing it again. Why do I have to come up with the plan?' Despite feigning irritation, Porthos chuckled even harder at his petulant friend.

'I like to 'ear 'em, they are always so entertainin',' he replied. 'And they show such flair,' the big man added, smiling innocently.

The two men rose from their chairs and, attempting to appear hurt, Aramis continued, 'You do not ask me for my plan when Athos is here.'

'That's 'cause I don't 'ave to, 'e always 'as a plan,' Porthos said, scowling.

'But they do not have my flair,' Aramis beamed.

'No, they are carefully thought out, complicated and generally suicidal, and they 'ave a nasty 'abit of involvin' 'im goin' off on 'is own,' Porthos growled, though he could not hide the fondness in his eyes for their missing brother. 'Like now, only this time strike the carefully thought-out part.'

Aramis laughed, and together they left the warmth of the refectory. Outside, the chill hit them instantly, causing them both to shiver. Aramis was about to impart his plan, when a voice hailed them from behind.

'Aramis, wait!'

As the two men turned, they were somewhat surprised to observe Dubois hurrying after them.

'Is it true that Athos has disappeared?' the young man asked, trying not to sound too eager, and failing.

Porthos stepped forward, and Dubois took an answering one back. 'Why do you want to know?' the intimidating Musketeer ground out, using a tone that would have done Athos proud.

'I am sorry, I was concerned. I thought he was seriously ill. Sorry, I should not have asked.' The young man attempted to back away, but it seemed his feet had forgotten how.

'He is on leave, he needed to recuperate, and he hates the infirmary with a passion,' Aramis offered, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

'Oh, of course. Well, please tell him I asked. Give him my best wishes,' Dubois' response came out in a desperate rush. He took another look at Porthos and swallowed hard. Luckily, his limbs suddenly remembered how to co-operate once more, and he scurried away, putting his new-found mobility to good use.

As they strode toward the gate, Porthos voiced what was on both men's minds. 'What was all that about?'

Aramis shrugged his eloquent shoulders. 'No idea, perhaps he was genuinely interested.'

Porthos snorted. 'Nosy more like. I don't like 'im.'

Aramis glanced up at the big man; it was unusual for Porthos to take against anyone without a good reason, and it made the marksman pause for thought. He had to admit the young man did leave a lot of unanswered questions behind whenever they encountered him.

'Looks like we're goin' straight into winter and forgettin' about autumn,' Porthos grumbled pulling his cloak around him. As they passed through the gates and out into the city square, they noted the two Red Guards Giroux had stationed there. Both men were talking to a pair of pretty ladies, and did not notice them leave.

'They obviously weren't told to watch who left,' Porthos chuckled. 'And that's why they are all idiots,' the big man added, grinning.

He turned to Aramis, but the marksman waved his hand to forestall his question. 'We are going to find the girl.' Porthos quirked a brow and smiled at his brother's response.

'I never said a word,' he laughed. 'But I suppose she must 'ave some connection with the dead man if we are assumin' she came to Athos for 'elp.' Porthos talked as much to himself as to Aramis, simply voicing aloud what he suspected Aramis had been thinking.

'That is my plan. We talk to the neighbours and see if any of them can shed any light on events. Do you think it has flair?' Aramis beamed, ignoring the eye roll from the man at his side.

ooOoo

Athos did not go far, just far enough to reassure anyone watching that he had left the area.

Loitering in the recess of a dark alleyway, he considered his next move. Someone had come to see Jacques, what for he did not know – information possibly. Information about him? Athos had an uncomfortable feeling that was what Jacques had been trying to tell him – someone was looking for Athos. Or more accurately and far more disturbing, had they been looking for the absent Comte de le Fère?

The street maintained a steady flow of people, coming and going. Many of the warehouses in the district moved and received goods brought by the river traffic, ensuring a constant rumble of carts over the cold cobbles. Evidence of the sharp, early frost, that had cleansed the city before dawn, remained where the sun's feeble breath had failed to reach. Mostly the glistening coating had burned away in the weak morning sunlight, but where the cold shadows lay, it loitered on, a sharp reminder to those who lived and slept on the streets that the respite and safety of summer was long gone. Each year hundreds of poor wretches starved, or froze to death, on the harsh city streets. Athos assumed it was the same the world over, where the weather turned cold enough to freeze a man's blood where he lay.

He was not cold, but his arm throbbed. He had risked a look at the wound in the early hours and had breathed a sigh of relief; though a little pink, it was not the angry red that indicated infection. It was healing, but the unexpected exertion and lack of medicine had intensified the pain and caused it to bleed. Where he had contacted Giroux's pompous nose, his head still ached, but with no broken bones it would soon diminish. Athos concluded the only sensible course of action would be to enter the house once again. He needed to know what had become of his trunk.

The swordsman waited until there was a lull in the ebb and flow of traffic before slipping out into the street. It would make more sense to enter via the rear, though the Red Guard Captain could have set a watch at either entrance. Still, if he had to fight his way in, so be it, he could see no other option.

And so it was, whilst Athos forced open the door to the rear of the Beloirs' home, Aramis and Porthos were standing at the front of the unassuming house, deciding which door to begin with.

Having come to a decision, the two Musketeers knocked on the door and stood back to await a reply. When no answer was forthcoming, they stepped away, somewhat deflated.

'Never mind, we will try another,' Aramis stated. Despite his earlier conviction, he was beginning to wonder if his plan would bear fruit at all. They rapped loudly upon another door. This house was attached to the residence where the crime had taken place, and hopefully the occupants would be able to provide them with some clue. When the door eventually opened, the same woman who had earlier spoken to Athos stood before them, only this time, by the look of her, she was in the middle of baking, and she did not appear at all happy at being disturbed.

Aramis took off his hat and bowed, giving her his most charming smile. This did a little to soften her irritation, and she still glowered at the two men standing in the street outside her door.

'What do you want?' came her terse enquiry.

'Madame, we are sorry to interrupt your endeavours, but we are making enquiries about the events that befell your neighbours.'

'The Beloirs,' she replied, nodding. 'Do you Musketeers not talk to each other?' She added. 'I have already spoken to another of you only a couple of hours ago.'

Aramis was instantly alert. 'Really, was it an elderly man with a beard?' he asked, deliberately avoiding any similarity to his missing brother.

'Not at all. This one was young, dark, rather good looking and very polite. Though just a little aloof, if you know what I mean. Wasn't he one of yours?' she asked, looking somewhat nervous.

'Yes of course, you describe Monsieur Têtue, he is a Musketeer, but we have not had time to discuss each other's findings as yet. If it would not trouble you to repeat to us what you told him, we would be most grateful.'

Porthos was looking most uncomfortable and made a loud choking sound, which made the woman eye him suspiciously.

'Very well. He asked about a young girl who may have been known to the murdered couple. I sent him around to speak with Jeanette Arnoux. She lives at the back of the Beloirs' home. She looked out for them, fetched food and such like. I assume he went there next.' With one last look at Porthos, she pushed the door closed with a firm thud, followed by the unmistakable sound of a bolt being drawn.

Finally, Porthos let out a loud guffaw. 'Têtue? Really? Monsieur stubborn!' The big man wiped his eyes as his amusement overflowed. 'Oh how I would love to see Athos' face if he knocks on that door again.' He began to laugh once more slapping Aramis on the back.

The marksman smiled, though he appeared rather contrite. 'It was the first word I could think of,' he offered, throwing his arms wide.

'Perfect!' Porthos continued chortling, shaking his head at his friend. 'I simply can't imagine why.'

They arrived at the house belonging to Mademoiselle Arnoux, situated at rear of the elderly couple's property, and knocked upon the door, but there was no reply.

'I suppose it was too much to hope for. We will return again later. Though I suppose whilst we are here, we should take a look at the crime scene. Maybe it will provide us with some clue as to why Athos should be involved,' Aramis suggested. Porthos nodded, and together they headed back toward the alleyway, where they had spotted a side entrance to the rear yard.

ooOoo

Athos had been standing in the front parlour, trying to make out what looked different from his last visit, when he heard a distinctive roar of laughter. Part of him was not surprised; they were following the same lead he had done, though he would have liked a little longer to observe the house. It all went quiet, and as he peered through the window, he saw his two friends heading down the side alley. When there was no sound from the rear of the house, he concluded they had been sent to Jeanette's, but if she had left after he had, then they would not find her at home, so their next course of action would be to look in the Beloirs' house.

Athos gave a huff of frustration and went back to searching the walls of the sparse room. Just as Jeanette had pointed out, the trunk that had lain against the wall was now gone, a vase of dead flowers standing upon a small table having been left in its place. Puzzled, he gazed at the floor, as though expecting to find some clue leading to the whereabouts of the vanished piece of furniture. Sure enough, and much to his surprise, there on the floor were the almost invisible marks of scuffing; long, faint scratches to the wooden boards, as if something heavy had been dragged across them. Athos threw back the rug and traced his fingers along the tracks left upon the floor.

He was just about to reach the wall of the room, when the sound of booted feet approached the small space. Athos lifted his head and turned toward the door, just as Aramis and Porthos entered.

He raised a brow but offered no word of greeting. Both startled Musketeers looked at him in amazement., 'We've been lookin' for you,' Porthos growled.

Athos nodded, but still remained silent. Aramis took a more constructive approach. 'How is your arm?' He crouched down beside a frowning Athos and took the hand, now hanging free from its sling. 'I see you are using it,' the medic muttered in irritation.

'I was given little choice,' was the swordman's only reply.

'What's goin' on?' Porthos interrupted, cutting to the heart of the matter as usual. There was a great deal more he would like to have said, but he had to admit his curiosity was getting the better of him. Dealing with Athos' behaviour could wait.

'I am looking for something,' Athos offered, pulling his hand from Aramis' grasp and returning to the marks upon the floor. He tapped at the alcove and all three were surprised to hear the supposed brick wall ring hollow. Athos stood and knocked further up the wall – still no evidence of solid stone. Looking around, he picked up the wooden chair Jacques had been tied to. With a passing grimace he swung it with full force and smashed it into the wall.

'Whoa!' Porthos shouted, noting the gasp of agony as the chair made contact with the false panel. 'Why don't you let me do that?' Though it was not particularly solid, the tremor of the impact had sent pain vibrating up the swordsman's injured arm.

Athos hesitated for a moment before handing the chair over to Porthos with a nod of gratitude.

Aramis took the opportunity to seize Athos' hand, turning it over to see if there was fresh blood on the wrapping. The bleeding caused by his fight with the Guard Captain had now dried, and his sudden act of aggression had thankfully not caused the wound to re-open. 'I want to see that hand,' he stated emphatically. 'But first, pray tell me why are we demolishing the wall in the house of a murdered couple?'

Porthos had now broken a significantly large hole in the false wall, whilst Aramis and Athos stared at each other in a familiar battle of wills. Their deadlock was broken when Porthos suddenly ceased hammering the wall.

'I'm guessin' it has somethin' to do with this,' Porthos broke in, waving his hand over the large ornately carved chest hidden within the cavity. Without asking for permission, Porthos threw open the lid, allowing the weak morning light to illuminate the rich colours of the de le Fère crest.

Athos hung his head – not in fear or regret, but in relief that the contents of the chest were still safe.

Both Musketeers looked toward Athos for an explanation, their curiosity seriously piqued.

Of course, Athos offered no such clarification. 'I need to move it,' was all he said. Now three sets of eyes were trained upon the large chest, all as puzzled as the next.

'Can't we just empty it?' Porthos suggested hopefully.

Athos eyed the big man with a look of sufferance. 'You can see we cannot.'

'We could empty it then destroy it,' Aramis offered, not at all sure the suggestion would be positively received. 'Surely the contents could then be safely taken back to the garrison?'

Athos appeared frozen as he gazed at the chest. 'Very well, if it must be done, then let us do it quickly.' He walked toward the chest and dropped to his knees. He reached in and removed several folded garments and a pair of sturdy boots, rather too fine for the life of a soldier. Porthos glanced at Aramis but said nothing.

Athos secreted several parchments beneath his jacket, then reached for another object. It was small, and the sun caught it and sent a sparkle of light to reflect upon the wall. Again, he placed it inside his jacket. The last item, he withdrew and stared at for some time, finally casting it back inside the chest, then firmly closing the lid. 'Take it and burn it out back. I would be most grateful,' he added, his voice quiet and his expression blank.

Without question, the two men took up the ornate handles and carried the heavy chest into the empty yard. 'Once this takes hold we will need to be long gone,' Porthos pointed out.

Aramis acquiesced vaguely, whilst he appeared to be giving the object some consideration. 'If anyone comes to see what is amiss, they will simply find a burning chest, there is only the crest that can do him harm. We must make sure it is destroyed.' He looked up at Porthos, who nodded in understanding and disappeared back inside the house. When he returned, he was carrying an oil lamp. Aramis had the lid of the chest open and appeared mesmerised by the object he was holding – the one Athos had thrust back inside the empty chest.

Porthos peered over his shoulder and snorted in disgust. In his hand Aramis held a small double heart-shaped frame, fashioned in what appeared to be silver, and inside each aperture was a small portrait. Though neither couple were openly smiling, there was an obvious joy that emanated from their expressions. Their happiness had been caught and immortalised in a moment in time – Athos on the left, and Milady de Winter on the right – the loving husband and wife.

'Put it back where it belongs and let it burn,' Porthos growled. 'He does not want it.'

Aramis looked worried. 'What if it does not burn?' He shook his head sadly and held his hand out for the oil. 'I'll do it, go and see if he is ready to leave. Knock him out if necessary, but make sure he moves when this thing catches fire.' Porthos gave a cheeky grin and turned back toward the house, showing far more eagerness than was strictly necessary.

Scattering oil liberally over the inside of the chest, paying particular attention to the inside of the lid, Aramis stood back and lit the wick of the lamp, and when the light glowed and burned freely, he threw the object into the chest. With a loud whoosh the whole thing went up in a fountain of flame. He stood for a few seconds watching the vivid colours of the de le Fère crest peel and blacken, and when he was sure the job had been successful, he turned and joined the others in the doorway.

With Athos' possessions stowed in a borrowed bag, they exited the property and made their way into the busy street. Smoke was not unusual – Parisians often burnt rubbish at any time of the day or night – and only when someone realised which house hosted the inferno would they invariably go to check. By then, the three men would be long gone.

'A drink, I think,' Porthos announced. His companions nodded and they headed for the closest tavern.

They entered the unfamiliar inn. It was lunchtime and busy, river men and traders alike sitting at the various tables consuming steaming bowls of stew and plated pies. The aroma was intoxicating and Porthos radiated anticipation.

'Stew and ale all round,' he beamed as he approached an empty table toward the rear. There was no need to look for privacy – the noise in the establishment was so loud there was little chance of being overheard. Judging from the clientele, it appeared to be a tavern of worth, none of the folk sitting in the crowded room appearing to be in need or financial strife. Indeed, money flowed freely and the atmosphere was rather amiable.

When finally they were settled with bowls of inviting stew before them, plus a full jug of ale, Porthos spoke. 'So, what idiocy made you leave the garrison on your own this time?' He made no attempt to hide his annoyance, taking it out on the bread, as he tore off a chunk and thrust it into the rich gravy.

Athos remained silent, aware of the scrutiny from both brothers. 'Treville is somewhat upset,' Aramis added, this remark finally eliciting a deep sigh from their silent brother.

'And for that I am sorry,' Athos offered, his voice oozing remorse.

'Not for us then, the ones left to make your excuses, the ones rushing all over Paris lookin' for you,' Porthos continued to grumble.

Eventually, Athos lifted his head, and the look of sorrow in his green eyes made Porthos' anger vanish in an instant. 'What happened?' he asked, his deep voice now free of any further recrimination.

Athos took a deep breath and considered where to start. 'The day I left my estate, I was… somewhat distracted.'

The spring had been a glorious one; day after day, warm golden light had lit the surrounding pastures, as the fronds of grass swayed rhythmically in the gentle breeze, to a tune only they two could hear.

Together they had walked and lain in the soft meadow, filled with love and fuelled by passion. She danced in the spring sunshine, then lay beside him, forget-me-nots entwined in her dark, flowing hair, the tiny petals becoming entangled in his own dark curls as they locked together as one.

That fateful morning, he had sought an audience with her one final time. There was nothing more to be said, but he felt it his duty to see the arrangements were in place.

Despite what she had done, Athos could not allow her to be restrained in one of the normal hovels used to house criminals; he had seen to it that she had been a prisoner in her own room these last few days. To begin with, she had screamed his name continually, but then she had fallen silent. Nothing. Not a cry nor a plea for mercy.

Silence.

When he knocked upon her door, he heard her voice bid him enter. The beat of his heart quickened, though his hand lay frozen upon the handle. Slowly, he pushed open the door and faced her. There she stood, against the open window, hair flowing free around her shoulders, dressed in a simple white shift that moved and flattened against her shape in the soft breeze.

He had not been sure what to expect, but the silence that greeted him was not something he had envisaged. They stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes, though in reality must have only been seconds.

'I came to see… to see if you were ready. Would you like to change your mind and speak to a priest?' Athos asked, not able to break eye contact with his wife.

'What for? So he can urge me to save my soul, to beg forgiveness for my sins?' Her voice was laced with bitterness. She paused then continued, her voice now softer, almost void of any emotion at all. 'For what should I beg forgiveness? I have done nothing wrong.' Her voice rose a notch and she took a single step forward.

'Athos, I have done nothing wrong. I love you, with all of my heart, with my very soul. I had no choice. Why can you not believe me?' she beseeched him. Her hands were held out to him now – all he had to do was take a single step forward and he would be able to press his fingertips to hers. But he could not.

'He was my brother,' was all he could say, and that was stated so quietly it was almost impossible to hear.

'He attacked me, Athos, I had no choice!' She shouted the words this time, though she made no further attempt to come closer.

'And what about the lies, the thieving, the life you led before? Was that Thomas' fault too?' His blood was heating up in his veins now, and his eyes sparked with fire. 'Was it his fault that he did not trust you, that he guessed you were simply using me?' The couple had argued often, both volatile, both had a temper. Things had often been flung and voices raised, but they had always ended the same. Violent passion, entwined in one another's arms as though if they held each other hard enough, and long enough, they could force themselves to become one. The arguments had always been worth it, but not anymore.

'No, please, you do not understand. When I first saw you, yes I thought maybe there was something for me to gain.' Her voice trailed away. 'But it did not work out as I expected. I fell in love. It felt like nothing I had ever felt before, as though without you I could no longer exist, that everything before had simply been hollow and without purpose. You made me feel, Athos, really feel. I was not lying when I said I loved you. I am not lying now. I loved you then, I love you now, and whatever choice you make today, I will always love you. Even if I learn to hate us both because of it.

How prophetic those words would turn out to be.

Athos gazed at her lovely face – a face he had held, caressed, woken next to. When he spoke, his voice was a mixture of hurt and anger. 'I loved too, perhaps too hard and too much. I will not make that mistake again.' With that, he left the room, his heart beating so hard and so fast he could hardly hear her cries above the sound of it reverberating in his ears.

Leaving the house, she had maintained her silence. With her head held high and her hair trailing over her shoulders and down her back, she stood in the same simple shift, holding the wooden rail tight, as the cart had made its way toward the solitary tree upon the hill. René had positioned the wagon beneath the lower branch that stretched out across the meadow. Where once they had leant against its broad trunk and shared their desires, those dreams were now about to be destroyed – completely and utterly.

Athos sat astride his horse and watched as the rope was thrown over the bough's rough bark and placed around her slender white neck. In her hands she held a small bunch of flowers. He knew what they were even from this distance – her flower, the one he would forever associate with spring days and passion. He could watch no more. He saw the horse dart forward, and as he turned his head, he heard the sickening sound of the branch creak as it took her slight weight and throttled the life from her body.

He raced back to the manor like a man possessed. Striding from room to room until he came to his own, he flung the trappings of his fêted life from him and changed into the most serviceable clothes that he had. Throwing the possessions that meant the most to him into a trunk, he turned his back on his home, and a life that he could no longer look in the face. Every surface in every room seemed to sneer and remind him of his failure, and the portraits upon the walls were almost deafening in their judgement. He had taken up his grandfather's sword and slashed the painting that seared him the most. It had hung for only a matter of months, but the surrounding faces gladly watched its defacement with smug satisfaction.

He had then mounted his horse once more and rode hard and fast. To where he did not know, and did not care. He realised he no longer cared about anything at all.

Athos' stew had grown cold. The other two men were enthralled by the dreadful story he imparted to them, and when Athos stopped speaking, Aramis gently reminded him to conclude the tale. 'And the trunk?'

Athos did not acknowledge the question, but after several moments began to speak once more. He shook loose the past and stared at the two men.

'I knew Jacques and Marie – they had worked on the estate for years. When I inherited, I made sure they could retire in comfort, and they moved to Paris to be near their son. The son died soon after, but they stayed here in spite of that. I arranged for the trunk to be sent to them with a fee for their compliance. They were happy to store it for me, though they were instructed never to mention either its existence or its ownership to anyone. They were never to mention knowing me at all. Athos paused to drink from his cup.

'When I eventually rode into Paris, I made myself known to them and retrieved one or two items that I needed. I saw them once again just after the incident at the Queen's party. That was the last time – I have not seen them since that day. They were good people. I will find out who did this, and they will pay.'

The two Musketeers shivered. They were used to Athos' cold tone, but the way he stated his intention was beyond cold – it was without mercy, and rang as firm and final as any death knell.