Chapter 14
Thank you for continuing to read this story, despite the awful delay. As a home tutor I have been exceedingly busy, ever since last July, and finding time to write has been almost impossible. However, I keep trying to find a minute or two here and there. So once again, I am sorry to keep you all waiting. I hope you continue to bear with me.
Evening was well upon them by the time they left the warmth of the tavern. Up above, the sky was filled with dark, purple clouds – their menace only broken by the occasional streak of oranges and gold – just as though it, too, had been bruised during the recent storm.
'Right, time to 'ead back to the garrison and see what Treville makes of all this,' declared Porthos, shivering at the sudden drop in temperature.
'Mm, well that will certainly make for an interesting conversation,' Aramis mused. 'Perhaps we could say Athos had some sort of relapse and wandered off, not knowing what he was doing.' Despite his eagerness, the marksman's voice suggested he was not terribly convinced by the idea.
'Huh! What about 'e just does that thing where he looks like 'e 'asn't done anythin' wrong, whilst Treville barks at 'im for ten minutes, then gives it up as a lost cause and kicks us all out?' offered the big Musketeer hopefully.
'That sounds like a better plan. You see, you do not need to rely on me all of the time, you show flair too,' teased the marksman, slapping Porthos on the shoulder. Smiling, the pair turned to Athos, expecting to see the swordsman respond in his usual way, with an exaggerated eye roll, or scathing stare.
What they saw instantly wiped the smiles from their faces. There was no evidence of concealed amusement or even amused annoyance; no twinkle in his green eyes that hinted he was secretly enjoying his companions' banter. Athos' face was as bleak as winter.
Seeing the two men's reaction, Athos shook his head. 'I cannot go back with you.' He held their gaze, watching helplessly as the two men's expressions changed from amused to horrified. He knew what was about to come, and the defensive shutter dropped rigidly into place, protecting him from showing what he truly felt. Better for them, and much better for him.
'You cannot be serious,' Aramis gasped.
'No 'e bloody isn't!' Porthos bellowed. 'But 'e's comin' with us if I 'ave to knock 'im out and carry 'im!' The big man scowled, cracking his knuckles as if to emphasise the point.
They stood together, facing each other in an all too apparent deadlock. Had he wished to do so, Athos could have sliced the tension and put it in his pocket as a reminder of the occasion. No sounds interrupted the moment, no scurrying workers in carts rumbled past to break up the tension. It was as if time had frozen, designed to allow them the opportunity to take in what Athos had just said; for the three of them to pause, whilst the world held its breath before the inevitable, passionate storm erupted.
'Treville…' Aramis began, but Athos held up his hand.
'Treville will have no choice but to hand me over to Giroux. I was there, I injured one of his guards and knocked him out. Even without the accusation of murder, the Guard Captain will have enough to remove me from the garrison.'
The two Musketeers tried to come up with a suitable argument. Porthos ground his teeth, exasperated, whilst Aramis strode up and down in frustration. All the while Athos just stood still and silent, and though the two friends wanted to shout in irritation, they knew the swordsman was right. They also knew that if Giroux managed to get the errant Musketeer inside the walls of the Châtelet once more, God alone knew what he would do to him.
'Where will you go?' Aramis sighed, already resigned to his friend's departure. Porthos glared at the marksman, wanting to voice his disbelief at his brother's willingness to acquiesce to Athos' statement – but what could he say? He knew only too well that once Athos had made up his mind, neither he nor Aramis could change it.
Athos gave the ghost of a smile; Aramis' sad attempt at reassurance was more heart-breaking than any appearance of melancholy. 'I have plans,' was his only response.
'Plans? What does that mean?' snapped an incensed Porthos. 'We know your plans; it was one of your plans that got you into this mess in the first place!' Aramis placed a hand on his friend's wide shoulders to calm him down.
'How will we keep in touch?' was all the marksmen said, having come to terms with Athos' intent.
'I will get word to you,' was Athos' terse response, and before the two men could extract further details, he spun abruptly and walked away.
'Athos, wait!' demanded Porthos. But there was no reaction. The object of their frustration disappeared around the corner, leaving them to stand and watch his departure with a mixture of fear and desolation.
'He will not look after that hand, I know it,' stuttered Aramis.
'Then why did we let 'im go?' growled Porthos in exasperation, though the question was rhetorical, and they both knew it.
ooOoo
Athos walked away with a heavy heart. The three of them made a formidable foe, but he could see no way in which to involve his friends without incurring the Captain's wrath. He was a thorn in the garrison's side once again, and he would not bring dishonour on the regiment he so respected, and nor would he place his Captain in such an intolerable and impossible position. He would find out who was looking for him, and maybe then he could return to Treville and seek assistance.
As the words faded inside his head, a snide voice crowded in to take its place, the sneering words battering his subconscious. You won't seek help will you? You won't involve them? You will walk into whatever danger awaits you alone, as you always do, just the way they expect and want you to. You arrogant, stubborn fool; what will your honour and your noble spirit stand for when you are lying with your neck on the block, awaiting death? Nothing!
The swordsman ignored the voice twisting and tormenting his mind; he was used to ignoring voices inside his head, and this one was going to have to try much harder. The bridge loomed before him and he halted for a moment to watch the darkening waters of the Seine swirl and flow beneath the graceful arches. The recent rain had swollen the banks, and logs and debris bounced and plummeted as the water swallowed and regurgitated them at a whim.
As he leant upon the parapet, the cold whipped over the vast expanse of water with nothing to interrupt its biting journey. Athos removed his hat before it was stolen from his grasp. His hair immediately plastered itself to his face, and brushing it aside with an unconscious gesture, he was all the time contemplating his next move.
He already knew that whatever was happening was not Musketeer business; this went further back, back to his life before, the life he had tried so hard to leave behind. He could think of no reason why his past should be of interest to anyone – the estate was in good hands, taxes were paid, his absence was his own affair, and he was happy forgetting all about the Comte de le Fère. However, someone was intent on reminding him, and who and why tormented his every moment, along with the fate of Jacques and Marie Beloir. But Athos had formulated a plan – though he had not expected it to come to fruition quite so soon – and he did not want his friends around to see him put it into action.
Athos was deep in thought, the wind whistling around him, when he became aware of footsteps behind him, but even as he turned, he realised he was too late. The fist caught him square on the jaw, causing him to stagger back hard against the cold bricks. His hand grasped the hilt of his sword, but something struck his injured hand and sparks of light danced in front of his eyes, as the edges of his vision began to dim. Struggling with the shrieking shards of pain that radiated along his arm, he shook his head and grasped his main gauche. Instinctively, he threw the blade, hearing a responding cry of pain – though he was hardly aware of it making contact.
His vision had just begun to clear, when something hard struck him in the ribs, whilst a sharp pain shot through his skull. As Athos fell to the floor, he just managed to curl into a ball, protecting his head as best he could before kicks rained down upon his prostrate body, and the world went black.
ooOoo
Rochefort read the missive for the third time, not quite believing the information it contained. As he stared out of the window, his mouth stretched into a feral smile. The scene outside was enough to dampen anyone's spirit, with the heavy grey sky emptying its misery with a blustery passion against the diamond panes.
However, the young Comte was not aware of what lay beyond the rain splattered glass – his mind's eye created a very different picture. He could see the frustrated face of his mentor, France's First Minister, amongst a back-drop of Louis' excitable zeal, and he once again considered the news the man had enclosed within his missive. He wanted Rochefort home. Apparently, the Cardinal had plans for him. Rochefort's smile widened. All he had to do now was decide how to turn the Cardinal's plans to his own advantage.
As Rochefort left his apartments and went in search of the Spanish contingent, he caught a flash of peacock blue at the end of the corridor. Closer inspection told him it was no other than Lady Renard;he had to admire at the audacity of the woman. He wondered what had terminated her relationship with the Cardinal, for despite Richelieu's love of secrecy, Rochefort had been aware she was the First Minister's creature, and he knew exactly what she was capable of. An interesting woman, and useful; far too useful to leave in this grey wet country with their cold indifference and lack of passion – not to mention their food.
Perhaps Milady should have left Paris for her intended's estate yesterday, as he had wished. If only she had not waited for her new wardrobe to be delivered (but she enjoyed the finer things in life, and what was the point in marrying a man old enough to be her father if she could not reap some personal benefit?). She would return to the haunting question if only many times in the coming weeks, but then wasn't that the story of her life?
Milady tapped her foot in irritation. She had hoped to be on her way to the country by now, though God knows what she would do there, especially in this miserable weather, added to which she had always hated rural life. Inevitably, her thoughts turned to another country, another estate, another man and, as always, her hand twisted the velvet band that encircled her slim throat. Fields of grass and meadow flowers bending in the gentle wind. A sea of blue forget-me-nots. Poetic justice, she supposed, for she could never forget. She straightened her spine and gritted her teeth. This was all his fault. She had cultivated the old anger and it burned and blazed almost as hot as it once had; it was the only thing that made her feel alive in this hollow, cold life she inhabited in England.
When a voice in her head reminded her of her most recent parting with Athos, of the words so nearly spoken, she dismissed it as a temporary aberration. He meant nothing to her, she wished he were dead. So, when she finally noticed Rochefort walking toward her, she was in no mood for the Comte's games.
'Lady Renard.' He allowed the words to roll slowly off his tongue, as if he were trying out her new title for size.
Her cold green eyes glared at him; gone was the simpering smile and the ladylike demeanour. 'What do you want, Rochefort? Do you not have some diplomat to blackmail or courtier to despoil?' Her words came out low and bitter.
Rochefort's brow rose slightly, but he made no immediate response, and though he smiled, there was no warmth, only the hint of something sinister. 'Why, Madame, have I offended you in some way?' He took in their surroundings; no one stood near enough to overhear their conversation. 'I am returning to France. It appears the King has had one of his ideas and the Cardinal requires my presence.' He watched her response closely, intrigued to see if she would show any awareness of the current conditions at court.
She gave nothing away, merely looking at him in irritation. 'I wish you bon voyage – forgive me if I do not say au revoir.' At that, she turned to leave, but his hand gripped her arm painfully.
'I have not told you all. The King intends to create a new council. It appears the only criteria are that the members are young and passionate, so I should fit right in, and I want you to come with me.' The cold smile had disappeared, yet he still held her arm tightly.
Milady frowned, her expression incredulous. 'What makes you think I wish to return to France, yet alone with you?' she asked, her words dripping with disdain.
'Because, Milady de Winter, I know who you are, I know what you do, and I know who with,' Rochefort growled. 'Pack your things, we leave first thing tomorrow.' And with that he released her arm.
Her heart beat rapidly. 'I cannot,' was her whispered response.
'Surely you are not concerned by that old letch you planned to marry?' he snarled. 'No, it is nothing to do with him is it? What did happen between you and the Cardinal?' He smirked at her discomfort, though she tried to hide it. 'Do not worry, he will not know you have returned, our relationship will be known only to us, and I am sure Richelieu has more than enough to worry about. Be at the docks at dawn; it will be best if we do not acknowledge each other.' That said, he left her standing in the corridor without a backward glance.
Milady was aware of no one, or anything. Return to France? She could not deny she missed France, more than she had thought possible. As if to emphasise her misery, a strong gust of wind lashed the rain against the window making her shudder. Yes, she wanted to go home, but what awaited her there caused her heart to constrict inside her chest.
She had lived in a bubble since she had arrived in England; a perfect existence, but one so fragile it could shatter in an instant. Nothing to remind her of home, even the pitiful efforts of the court to speak French rang false. She could not imagine any of the privileged folk milling around the corridors and grand drawing rooms felt anything akin to passion, whether love or hate. Compared to them, her fury and betrayal must burn so bright they should be hiding their eyes whenever she approached.
Yes, she would return to France, if only to look into his eyes once more. For whatever she found there, it had to be better than this bland, polite shell of an existence. Better to burn up in an agony of pain and loss, than simmer behind a mask of pasted smiles and feigned delight.
She walked from the court with a lightness to her tread she had not felt for far too long, and the pounding of her heart had nothing to do with the tempo of her step.
ooOoo
'What do you mean, he would not come back with you?' Treville bellowed, his face red with fury.
'He did not wish to compromise your position. He knew you would not be able to keep Giroux from taking him to the Châtelet.' Aramis grimaced, knowing they all remembered the last time Athos had been inside the prison under the watch of the Red Guard Captain – he still bore the scars. Treville was about to reject the appraisal when Porthos spoke.
''E didn't want to disgrace the regiment,' he rumbled, clenching and unclenching his large, gloved fists.
Treville expelled a long breath and hung his head. When he looked up at the two men the anger had fled, leaving the Captain looking tired.
'He was here when the murders were committed, that much I know. I would not have let them take him for that.' He glared at his two men, as if to challenge them to disagree.
'He knows that,' Aramis sighed. 'But the facts remain, he did fight with Giroux when he was supposedly in a coma – in fact he knocked him out – as well as injuring one of the guards.' He gave a slight shrug, but he could not hide his satisfaction at the idea of Athos giving the Red Guard Captain just a fraction of the pain the man had administered to him.
Porthos was less subtle. ''Bout time too.' His face was thunderous, but Aramis and Treville knew his anger was not directed at Athos but stemmed more from frustration.
Treville gestured toward the two chairs in front of his desk, and once more the brandy was handed round. 'So, what do we do to help?' Treville asked, resigned to the fact Athos would not officially seek his aid. 'I am not comfortable with the idea of him running loose around Paris with a head full of revenge,' the Captain growled.
'Believe me, Captain, neither are we,' Porthos agreed.
'Then we need to help him without his co-operation. We need to mount our own investigation into the Beloirs' death. Did he say who they were?' the Captain demanded, his voice brisk and business-like once more.
Aramis nodded. 'They used to work on his father's estate. When the old Comte died, Athos gave them a good pension and they moved to live in Paris to be closer to their son. Unfortunately, he died soon after, but they stayed.' He paused for a moment, trying to decide how much he should disclose. However, Treville had suspected Athos' true identity long before his friends had found out, Athos having confided much of his past to his Captain when he realised, he could no longer keep it from him.
'And you may as well tell me the rest,' the Captain murmured, giving Aramis a half smile. Aramis sighed, Athos would not object, and in fact at this moment in time, he really did not have much option.
'They had been storing a chest for him – clothing, odds and ends. He had visited once or twice, but not for some time. Apparently the chest had been moved and re-housed in a hidden compartment behind a false wall. Worse still, a witness has stated that the chest was still in evidence the last time they visited and they suspected it had only been moved at some time in the past week or more.' He looked to the Captain, waiting whilst he joined up the dots.
Treville scowled, his mind considering everything Aramis had said. 'So, for some reason the Beloirs suddenly felt the need to hide the chest behind a false wall, and around the same time sent the girl to fetch Athos. They are then tortured and murdered, the chest presumably remaining undiscovered. I assume Athos found it?'
Porthos growled. 'Of course – he had us burn it.' Treville's brows rose in surprise at Porthos' revelation.
'It bore the de le Fère crest inside the lid,' Aramis explained. Treville wiped his hand across his brow.
'Of course it did. So, this is not about Athos the Musketeer, this is to do with Athos the nobleman. Why do I find that more worrying?' He ran his hand through his hair and scowled in irritation at the annoying gesture.
'Did you speak to the girl? If not, you should make that a priority. However, I will require your presence this afternoon; I have been called to the palace. The King wishes to discuss his new arrangements.' The Captain's face clouded, and the two men felt his pain. 'Let us see what she can tell us.' He stood and the two Musketeers stood too, and with a nod they left the office and bounded down the stairs. Aramis' boot had hardly touched the floor when he heard a snide cackle.
'What has he done now? Something not too awful I hope, I would hate to see him arrested, or even executed. Though I suppose it was only a matter of time. That is what happens when you start to let riff-raff into the regiment. No morals, no honour.' He could not help letting his eyes roam over Porthos as he added this last observation. In a flash Deveaux's smug expression vanished as Aramis drew his weapon and sprang forward. It was only the sound of a door closing and booted feet descending the stairs that prevented the marksman from embedding the pistol beneath the surprised Musketeer's chin.
'I thought you two had somewhere to be?' Treville barked, though his eyes were pinned on Deveaux. 'And you, there are stables still to be cleaned, get to it.' The gloating Musketeer had never looked so keen to muck out in his life and scurried away without a word. Treville eyed the two innocent looking men and grunted, before stalking off across the courtyard. It was unfortunate for Deveaux that Aramis and Porthos had agreed to ride in order to save time. But it appeared luck was on his side, and on their arrival at the stables they found two more soldiers within discussing the state of an injured horse.
As the two friends took their mounts out into the cold, Aramis bent closer to the twitchy Musketeer. 'Later!' was all the marksman whispered. It was enough.
ooOoo
Athos knew when to fight and when it was far too late for that, and this was such a moment. From the direction and the ferocity of the attack it was clear he was way outnumbered, and from the remarks offered regarding his parentage and profession, he established his attackers were probably supposed to uphold the law, not perpetuate crime. This conclusion had been drawn very early on, now there was a fog to his conscious state, if that is indeed what he was experiencing. The angry voices sounded far away, and even the pain had receded, shutting off that part of his mind that recognised the agony he was experiencing. Some form of understanding returned as he sensed someone was attempting to pull his arm away from his head, but instinct screamed that if he allowed that to happen he would be dead, or worse.
Just as he attempted to pull the perpetrator to the floor, the noise of carriage wheels rumbled across the cobbles, and for a second Athos thought he was about to be abandoned, crushed beneath its wheels. Luckily, the horse's hooves came to halt – rather too close to be comfortable, but stop they did. A heavy boot came down upon his injured arm and he moaned loudly. Meanwhile, he dimly registered the creak of a carriage door closing and Athos thought he could make out a new voice: calm, cultured, but not happy, not happy at all.
'What is the meaning of this? What has this man done to deserve such treatment?' the voice asked.
A far more familiar tone replied, 'I am Captain Giroux of the Red Guard. This man is wanted for murder, and other crimes. I suggest you climb back into your coach, Father, and continue your journey. Leave this miscreant to us,' the confident guard scoffed.
'Really, Captain.' The voice came closer, and the boot that was resting on Athos' arm pressed down harder, its meaning clear. Say nothing.
Athos was nothing if not obstinate; he recognised the voice, a talent he had learnt from nights of hard drinking and lack of clear focus. 'Father,' he gasped, as the foot pressed harder, his call becoming no more than a pitiful cry.
'Let me see that man,' the priest demanded, and despite Giroux's attempts to dissuade him, the cleric bent over Athos.
'Sanctuary,' was Athos last word, as darkness consumed him. He hoped he had been right, otherwise that may just have been the last word ever to leave his lips. Consciousness flew so quickly he had no time to see his life pass before him, and for that at least he was grateful.