Chapter 15

When Athos awoke, his head – and just about every other part of him – screamed to return to sleep once more. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and, inch by inch, assessed the damage. Legs moved without much complaint, apart from the inevitable results of a good kicking, and fingers moved – so he could hold a sword. It was only when he attempted to sit that the real pain made itself felt. As he gasped, attempting to regulate his breathing, a steady voice emerged from somewhere in the room.

'I recommend you do not attempt to sit just yet, Monsieur Athos.' The admonishment was accompanied by a firm, yet gentle hand upon his shoulder, pushing him back down upon the mattress.

As the wave of nausea subsided and the pain in his ribs settled to a steady throb, Athos opened his eyes; not so easy, as his left eye refused to co-operate, swollen shut by a lucky punch.

'Where am I?' he managed to croak, though his ribs did not appreciate the effort.

'Where you asked to be, sanctuary. That is what you wished for, was it not?' The words were delivered in the same unassuming tone, though this time Athos was aware of the vaguest hint of humour. The idea that his position may amuse did not sit well, it was enough to help him find the strength needed to focus on the owner of this voice – the one that suggested his request was somehow entertaining.

'Father!' There was surprise in Athos' voice, though he had the impression he should not be surprised, that somehow, he had recognised the priest's voice just before he had made his desperate request.

'I am Father Joseph, head of this order. We were not formally introduced the last time we met.' The older man reached for a jug of water and held the cup to Athos' mouth. As he drank, the cooling liquid soothed his throat – he had not realised how thirsty he was, and at least now he could speak properly.

'Thank you, Father,' was his simple response.

'You are welcome, my son. What priest could ignore a plea for sanctuary? Those men were out of control, and that fool Giroux would have been happy to see them kill you. I would have intervened even without your request.' He watched Athos carefully, as though gauging the Musketeer's reaction.

In turn, Athos studied the priest. Though he had no faith himself, he respected the commitment of others; he knew just how much Aramis derived comfort from his beliefs, however misguided he might be.

'You are not harbouring a criminal, Father, just a man accused unjustly, though I can offer you no proof other than my word.' As the two men continued to take the measure of each other, for the first time Athos became aware of the tension between them. Father Joseph was silent. Then, as if he had reached a decision, he smiled.

'I think your word is good enough, Monsieur Athos; I believe you do not give it lightly. I will send the infirmarian to see you, he will provide pain relief so you may sleep. Rest now, you will come to no harm here. Even if the King himself knocks upon our doors, he will not be granted access to a man who had asked for sanctuary.' With that, he nodded his head and left the room.

Athos considered trying to get out of bed, but the merest twitch of his torso sent spasms of pain through his chest. He frowned in irritation – broken ribs were never welcome, but he had far too much to do, and hiding in a church was already weighing heavily on his mind. The door opened almost silently, and two Brothers entered the room. One was Brother Matthew, the young novitiate from his previous visit, the other an older man, his face lined and wrinkled, but with periwinkle eyes that twinkled beneath his bushy brows – the only sign of hair upon his head.

'I am Brother Bernard. I must establish the state of your injuries.' It was a statement, not a request and Athos gave a hardly perceptible nod.

Approaching the bed, the man turned back the covers and laid his hands upon Athos' stomach and, despite the gentleness of the examination, the Musketeer drew a sharp breath at his touch. But when the inspection reached his lower ribs, he could not contain the cry that resulted from the agony of the monk's probing.

'Forgive me, my son, but it was necessary. You have some internal bleeding, but by the severity of the bruising I do not feel it is of great concern. The ribs are more interesting. They are not broken, however, cracked ribs can break easily if they are put under more duress too soon. I suspect I do not need to tell you how dangerous a broken rib can be should it puncture your lung.' Athos watched the monk from beneath hooded eyes. The news was both good and bad, but there was little he could do to alter the outcome. Though the elderly medic was smiling, Athos thought he could detect a warning, as though the man knew how irritating the injury was to the Musketeer, suspecting he would not comply with his advice easily.

'How long?' Athos asked abruptly.

'A week, maybe two, if you rest, if not...' He did not complete his answer. They both appeared to know it was irrelevant. 'Drink this. The bruising will worsen before it gets better. Along with several cracked ribs, you had a dislocated shoulder and cuts and abrasions associated with a most terrible beating. God must have been watching over you, my son, injuries like that could have killed a man.' There was no sign of duplicity in his words, he spoke with genuine concern.

'I doubt God was even looking,' came Athos' tired reply as his eyes closed; whatever had been in the cup had been very strong. His last thought was one of panic – what if he could not trust the order to deny entry, what if... But he had no more conscious thought, falling into a dead sleep.

The younger of the two men stood silently next to his Brother. His face showed he was probably less than twenty, but his eyes were filled with horror.

'Why would someone do this to a fellow soldier?' Brother Matthew whispered.

Brother Barnard smiled gently at the young man and placed a wrinkled hand upon his shoulder. 'Being brothers-in-arms does not mean they would not kill one of their own should they deem it just. Even brothers in blood will turn against each other when they feel they have the power of righteousness on their side. You are young, Brother Matthew, and I feel you will witness much greater horror than this in your life. Violence is a product of greed and power, just as it is of poverty and want. Some men believe they have the authority over life and death; they call it justice, or hide behind the excuse of necessity for the greater good.' Brother Barnard's voice trailed off as he considered his own words.

'What had this man done to bring about such abuse?' Matthew asked, eyes wide with trepidation.

'Murder, they say, but there are always many facets to any story. One man's definition of murder is another man's plea of self-defence, or even the cry of justice served. Do not be quick to believe the judgement of others. That is for God to decide.' The infirmarian, turned to leave the room, but Brother Matthew took a step closer to the sleeping figure upon the bed, studying him as he slept. Then, with a troubled expression, he finally turned to follow his Brother from the room.

ooOoo

Richelieu sat behind his desk, fingertips together, contemplating the current situation at court. His meditations were interrupted by a sharp rap upon the door, before it swung back violently upon its hinges, whereupon a man entered the room vibrating with indignation. He stopped just before the First Minister's desk and began to speak. He did not get far before a cold stare from the Cardinal stilled his tongue.

'Do you actually understand the premise of knocking on a door, Captain?' Richelieu asked, eyes no more than narrow slits and each word enunciated deliberately, as though talking to a recalcitrant child.

'Yes, of course, your Eminence,' the man replied, though the expression he wore cast doubt on his certainty.

'Then why are you stood before me now?' the First Minister asked quietly, rising slowly from his chair.

'I have news you need to hear...' Whatever words of import he had intended to deliver were cut off, as the Cardinal raised his voice in anger, drowning him out.

'I did not bid you enter, Captain. You knock, then you wait – you obviously failed to take in that part. You do not knock and then barge in without being summoned. Do – you – understand?' He glowered at the head of the Red Guard, enjoying watching the younger man squirm.

'Yes, Minister, I apologise, I thought…' Again, he did not complete what he was about to say.

'I doubt that very much. I suppose that is one of the advantages of the Musketeers, I am told they are chosen for their brains as well as their brawn, and they are well-born enough to know how to behave – at least most of them.' He sat once more, placing the palms of his hands down firmly on the desk. So, what is it, Captain, that is so important that you felt the need to abandon manners in favour of urgency?'

Giroux was less certain of himself now, whatever bluster he usually possessed, currently suppressed in front of his superior. 'Your Eminence, we cornered the Musketeer Athos last night, but before he could be apprehended, Monsieur le Tremblay arrived on the scene and Athos pleaded for sanctuary. We could not hold him.' He faltered slightly at the end, remembering the scathing put down from the superior friar the night before.

'Le Tremblay took him?' Richelieu rose from his seat and turned to gaze out of the window, as if he expected to see the friar in the gardens below. 'Why would the Musketeer have pleaded sanctuary? It does not sound like the Athos I have heard so much about. What did you do?' He turned abruptly and fixed Giroux with an icy stare.

The Captain lifted his chin, feeling this time as though he had right on his side. 'I had to protect my men; he has already injured one and attacked me personally. We did not give him the chance to respond.'

Richelieu smiled, a cold snide grin of contempt. 'How insightful of you. I suspect a man like him would have made fairly light work of your soldiers, if he was given a fair, fighting chance. So, I suppose he resisted arrest and you had to subdue him. Well, you can thank whatever God you look to that Pere Joseph came along, or your idiot men would probably have killed him.' Richelieu thumped his fist on the desk navigating the solid obstacle at lightning speed, as he bore down upon the stunned soldier. 'I want him alive, Giroux, do you understand? I doubt very much he murdered the old couple – unlike your ragtag bag of delinquents, Athos is a man of honour, though what good it does him I have yet to discover. Get out, and find out where he is; that is all, just locate him. Do –not – touch – him! If you harm him again, I will have your head.' So close was the Cardinal standing to him that by now Giroux could feel the First Minister's breath upon his cheek. He needed no further heeding and turned upon his heel, exiting the room even more quickly than he had entered.

Richelieu stood at the window once more. He hated the Musketeers, that was no secret. He hated the fact he had no control over them, he hated the fact the King pandered to his precious regiment, and he hated the fact they were led by Treville, a man of intelligence and integrity. But most of all, he hated the fact they were better than his pet Red Guard, he loathed that they were a fighting force to be reckoned with, men of high birth, honourable men, men who would follow their Captain to the death and gladly die for their King. He doubted many Red Guard would do the same, as most of them were little more than paid thugs, and he suspected they did as they were told simply because they were incapable of thinking for themselves.

Angry and frustrated, he yelled for a messenger. 'Go to Benoir and fetch that idiot Brousard. Tell him to come at once.' With the message dispatched, he gave what for him passed as a smile. Calling yet again, he sent a second message. It would not hurt to attack the problem on two fronts. He had not really been anything other than interested in the man Athos, but he was proving to be a constant thorn in his side. Now he was under Le Tremblay's roof, and the friar was a man who never did anything without a reason. Strong though his faith may be, he was also a powerful political ally, and the Cardinal was interested to know why he had seen fit to stop the carriage in the first place. Very interested indeed.

ooOoo

Porthos and Aramis had broken their fast in silence, both men deep in thought.

Aramis was the first to raise his head, startled by the burst of laughter from the young cadets behind him. 'Well, what do you suggest we do first?'

Porthos frowned. 'If I'm 'onest , I have no idea. You?'

'It pains me to say so,' replied Aramis, 'but I think we had better leave the next move to Athos. We are treading on sensitive ground, and we do not have the right to intrude on areas of his life he has not already shared with us. Let us hope he does not take too long.'

'It don't feel right, just sittin' 'ere. You know we can't trust 'im to stay out of trouble,' growled the frustrated Musketeer.

Aramis gave an eloquent shrug. 'We have no choice, my friend. Anyway, Treville needs us to accompany him to the palace today. Apparently it has become a den of intrigue and whispering in corners.'

'Like usual then,' muttered Porthos as he rose from the table and stretched his great arms, cracking his knuckles. He caught Deveaux's eye and the poor excuse for a Musketeer rose too.

As Porthos and Aramis walked toward the door, he caught them up, making the move look as natural as possible, though he could not hide his enthusiasm.

'I hear Athos came off worse against a party of Red Guards last night – so much for the master swordsman.' Deveaux stupidly thought he could just walk off sniggering with delight, but Porthos had other ideas. He caught Deveaux by the throat and lifted the man bodily off the ground, gripping his throat, whilst the shocked Musketeer spluttered and slowly turned blue.

'What are you talkin' about?' the big man shouted. Aramis pulled at his friend's arm but his grip was too strong. Porthos was worried and frustrated, and Deveaux was the perfect outlet for his emotions.

Aramis left his hand upon the muscular arm and added as casually as he could, 'If you throttle him, he will not be able to answer your question; perhaps you could relinquish your hold long enough for him to speak.'

'Then what?' snarled Porthos.

'That depends on what he has to tell us,' Aramis smiled.

Porthos grunted but released his grip on Deveaux's throat just enough to let the man croak out a reply.

'I do not know the details. A party of guards caught him on the bridge and gave him a good kicking. Then some priest intervened and took him off in his carriage – still breathing.' He made the last part sound as though it was a failure on the part of the Red Guard, and Porthos squeezed harder.

'Well, what now?' the Musketeer asked over his shoulder, his voice trembling with fury.

Aramis looked thoughtful. 'I think he has told us what he knows,' he replied, and giving a broad grin he turned and walked away. Hate sparkled in Porthos' eyes, when a voice interrupted.

'What is going on here?' The Captain's bark cut through the silent refectory like a knife.

Deveaux kicked his legs and a reluctant Porthos slowly lowered him to the floor. It was then he noted the other Musketeers who had been standing around ensuring Deveaux's cronies could not offer him any assistance. Athos was well respected, even if some of them found him slightly aloof. Deveaux on the other hand was generally hated.

'Porthos was showing Deveaux a new move,' another voice spoke out. All eyes turned to see who had spoken, and both Aramis and Porthos were amazed to note the response had come from Du Bois.

Treville, knowing full well what Porthos had been doing, narrowed his eyes. 'Really? I would be interested to see if he has mastered it. Perhaps later he can try it out on Porthos and see if he can repeat the manoeuvre.'

Then, keeping his face as straight as possible, he shouted the familiar command: 'You two, with me, now!' Porthos took a moment to give Du Bois a nod of thanks, the young man smiling in return.

'Well, that was a turn up for the books,' Aramis stated as they trailed behind Treville.

'Perhaps he is beginning to realise what a worm Deveaux is,' Porthos offered.

'Maybe. But what should we do about Athos? How badly hurt do you think he is?' Aramis had moved into full medic mode and looked frantic.

'Well, it's possible Richelieu maybe useful for once. If it was 'is guard that beat up Athos, Treville will find out.' Porthos raised a brow and looked toward the Captain, striding forward now with a greater purpose.

Treville flung open the door to his office. The room never changed or altered in appearance. A large, and usually cluttered desk stood opposite the doorway, cupboards and drawers stuffed with scrolls and papers, maps hanging from hooks and arrayed upon the walls. Against the back wall a makeshift cot was always present, for those nights when the Captain was particularly busy, or simply too tired to retire to his own quarters. Right now, he took up his usual position behind his desk, hands planted firmly apart and glaring up at them; he was in no mood for their usual half-truths his mood written clear upon his features.

Porthos did not even attempt to prevaricate. 'The Red Guard gave Athos a good beatin' last night. We don't know 'ow bad, but we thought you could find out from the Cardinal?' The big man spoke swiftly, making it sound more like a command, than a question proffered to a senior officer.

Treville might have taken exception to Porthos' tone, but on hearing what the soldier had to say his body language changed completely. Standing upright, poised for action, he barked out his questions. 'Where, and how do you know?'

'Deveaux just informed us. He, of course, took great pleasure imparting the news.' Aramis avoided his friend's eye, but Treville made the connection and glared at Porthos.

'Hence the extra training practice?' the older man suggested, his voice laden with sarcasm. 'Details?'

'Deveaux said it was the Red Guard and they caught Athos on the bridge. If he walked there after he left us then it must have happened within the hour, as he was already in the vicinity. Apparently, a passing priest intervened. Who, and how badly he was hurt Deveaux did not know – if he had, he would have told us?' Aramis added, attempting not to dwell on his friend's strategy.

Treville ran his hands through his hair and began to move. 'Right, we are due at the palace anyway, I will try and find out what I can. Will that man never give me a moment's peace?' Despite the frown upon his face, both Musketeers knew he was more worried than angry, though they had to admit they echoed his plea.

ooOoo

The crossing had been calm and swift, for which Milady was extremely grateful. She did not wish to be in close proximity to the Comte any longer than she had to. Despite his suggestion that they remain separate, he had still managed to insinuate himself into conversation with her. Luckily, there were few other passengers and, unlike her, those that were on board remained in their cabins below deck.

She liked to feel the wind in her hair; there was something about being on the ocean that made her feel free. She could not say why, it was nothing picturesque, no artistic appreciation of the majesty of the sea, but simply the lack of crowds, people, demands. To her, the ocean was like the night – a void that held no expectations, made no demands, just endless hours of peace and solitude. Unless, of course, she dreamt – and that was a whole different story.

If she and Athos ever shared their nightly torments, they would be horrified to know just how similar they were.

Now she could see the coast of La Havre in the distance. Despite the clear sky, the town appeared hazy; a sea fog beginning to form. She pulled her heavy cloak more tightly around her slender form. The wind was bitter; autumn was proving to be cold, any hint of a late summer fading as the season progressed. The waves rose and fell, wake from the vessels making the water closer to land choppy. Several other ships were in the vicinity, the port being one of the larger ones closest to Paris.

As the end of the journey loomed closer, Milady allowed herself to speculate on what may lay ahead. She had no idea what the Comte had in mind for her, but she was not going to allow herself to become some powerful man's puppet like she had in the past. This time, she would make sure she had independent means, so she could enjoy the lifestyle she desired. Then, if she decided to be useful, she would consider her options. Unfortunately, she had to remember she had left Paris beneath a cloud, and the Cardinal would not take kindly to her swapping her allegiance to his minion, Rochefort.

Finally, she stood on the dock. A large travelling carriage approached, and as she was the only female standing alone, the driver steered a path directly for her.

'Milady de Winter?' he asked, touching the front of his hat in a half-hearted show of respect.

She nodded and let out a sigh of relief. Despite his other faults, the Comte had at least considered how she might travel to the city without drawing further scrutiny upon her arrival.

As she watched the scenery outside of the coach pass by in a blur, she allowed her mind to wander over other things. She became aware of the trees bending over in the harsh wind which had developed since leaving the port. The last few leaves clung to their host, a futile attempt to dance to the music of the air for a little longer. Eventually, one-by-one they lost their battle, joining their fallen brothers upon the floor, their new role to provide the landscape with a temporary blanket of copper before the winter rains and frosts turned it to a black sea of rotting vegetation.

If there was a metaphor for life within her contemplation, she did not – or chose not to – acknowledge it.

On the outskirts of the city, the carriage pulled to a stop outside a rather seedy-looking wayside tavern. When the driver opened the door, Milady demanded to know why they had stopped.

'My instructions said to stop 'ere. Don't know why, didn't ask.' With that, he stood back and held the door for her as she stepped down. She was only grateful he had not offered her any physical assistance.

Entering the gloomy interior, she at least appreciated the respite from the raging gale, now in full flight beyond the walls. The inn was not as bad as the outside had suggested. In spite of the rather rural clientele, the landlord approached and led to her to a private parlour; he had obviously been expecting her.

Despite her internal warning system moving to high alert, she was still surprised to see the Comte already ensconced before the fire, booted feet resting on a stool and drinking wine from a cup.

'Ah, Milady, so glad to have your company at last. Do join me by the fire, whilst our meal is prepared. I thought we might have a little conversation before we reach Paris. I am sure it will be somewhat busy, when we arrive.' He gave her one of his smarmiest smiles and she bit her lip in disgust.

'Have you also decided where I am to live when we get to the city?' She remained as aloof as she could, though there was something about his smug arrogance that made the knife beneath her skirts call out to her, her palm itching to put it to good use.

Rochefort raised a brow and made as if to give the question some thought. 'I will need you close to the palace, we don't want you roaming around too much; you never know who might recognise you. For now you are my secret.' He raised his glass in salute and, resisting the temptation to throw her wine in his face, she instead offered him an indulgent smile.

'I have secured an apartment on the Rue d'Honore – it is close, but not too close, to the palace. That way communication should not prove a problem. I will let you set up the establishment as you wish.' He smiled as though she should be eternally grateful, but instead she sat on the very edge of her chair waiting for the catch.

'And what exactly do you wish me to do?' she asked, her voice steady, showing no sign of the trepidation she felt.

'This and that,' Rochefort added. 'I know your skills are varied, but until I have a better idea of the situation inside the palace, I cannot say. Just ensure you are available at all times.' Finally, she bristled at his superior assumption.

'Do you intend for me to remain a prisoner within four walls until such time as you have need of me?' Her chin tilted stubbornly, her green eyes flashing a warning to the man seated opposite. He did not answer straightaway, but sipped his wine as he considered his reply, eyes narrow, judging their prey like a cat.

'Not at all, as long as you leave an indication of where you might be found, and do not stay away long. However, I do not expect you to leave the city without my say so. You are my creature now – and do not forget it. The hour is late, so I think we will continue our travels. Your driver is instructed to take you straight home – you will find a woman waiting for you, keep her or dismiss her as you wish. Just make sure you employ someone you can trust.'

Milady had no intention of keeping anyone Rochefort had employed – the woman was probably already in his pocket. No, she would find someone to suit her own purposes. As the carriage wove its way through the familiar streets, she began to feel the blood thrum through her veins. She was home, and for some reason she felt her heartbeat increase, pounding loudly inside her chest whilst the thrill of anticipation made it flutter with excitement.