Chapter 16
As the two Musketeers trailed behind a purposeful Treville, the change in atmosphere within the palace was palpable. It was quiet, far too quiet. Usually there were men and women lounging around talking or whispering – dependent upon the topic of conversation – and men of import gathered in small groups, discussing the politics of the day. However, today they saw no one.
Aramis eyed his friend and smiled. 'Do you not think it is a trifle too calm?'
Porthos frowned. 'I don't like it. Where is everyone? Feels like somethin' is happenin' and nobody bothered to tell us. Perhaps there has been an outbreak of cholera!' He looked around him, expecting to see some poor afflicted creature stagger out of darkened doorway, but it remained deathly silent. That was until they reached the door to Louis' public rooms. A violent crash and an answering scream had Treville barge past the pale-faced guards, bursting unannounced through the double doors, Aramis and Porthos on his heels.
They pulled up short at the scene that was unfolding in front of them. A group of elderly ministers were herded into one corner of the room and an enraged Louis was hurling fruit at them with surprising accuracy. When the fruit did not provide him with the result he was seeking, it appeared he had turned to whatever object he could lay his hands upon – a wine bottle, the fruit bowl and now the table they had been seated upon – hence the crash. The scream had come from an unfortunate man whom the King had managed to render unconscious with what appeared to be a metal orb of some description, which Louis had somehow detached from his ornate chair.
It should have been highly amusing, but for the genuine terror upon the elderly statesmen's faces resulting from the murderous intent emanating from their sovereign.
As the King looked around for more missiles to throw, he turned to see the shocked expressions upon his Musketeers' faces.
'What are you doing, Treville? Do not just stand there, do something!' shouted Louis. 'I am surrounded by idiots and dullards. Take them away, shoot them or something, but just get them out of my sight!' Treville nodded to Aramis and he and Porthos advanced towards the terrified men.
It took no urging at all to encourage them to remove themselves from the room, the poor unconscious man carried between them. When they had closed the doors behind the terrified gaggle, the two Musketeers returned to flank their silent Captain.
One thing Treville had learned about the King was that it was best to stay silent on occasions such as these, unless Louis asked him a direct question.
'Why are these men still here? Where are my young men? Where is the Cardinal? He should be here, I need him.' Louis turned to stare at the wary Treville, as though expecting him to answer his questions. Luckily for him, the Cardinal chose that moment to enter the room – Treville suspected he had been lurking in the shadows awaiting such a moment before making his presence known. The First Minister swooped through the doorway like a harbinger of doom, his black cloak floating behind him, the only change of note being the fact he was not alone.
All three Musketeers gave a silent groan at the sight of the man who followed in the First Minister's wake.
Rochefort.
'Cardinal, where have you been? You are late.' At this point he noted the addition of Rochefort as the man moved out from his mentor's shadow.
'Your Highness, it is a pleasure to be back in France once more. I have heard news of your plans from the First Minister and would like to offer my meagre services in any way I can.' Bowing low he played his cards perfectly.
Louis was no longer stamping his foot in displeasure. A broad grin now creased his face and he beckoned Rochefort to come closer.
'Why, Rochefort, I had no idea you had returned to us. Tell me, how was Spain?' He made a face as he asked the question, making clear his disapproval without the need for words.
Rochefort delivered the reply in his usual droll tone. 'It was full of Spaniards, Sire.' Louis laughed at the comment and steered him to the chair next to his.'
'Bring us something to drink! Why is there nothing for me to drink?' Louis shouted, his petulant pout returning for a moment. No one dared remind the King he had thrown his wine and every other available object within reach at the cowering ministers who had dared offer their opinion on the running of France.
'It is not from Spain that I have come, Sire. I have journeyed from England, arriving only last night.' He made it sound as though he had indeed made some major sacrifice for his King, and Louis looked at him aghast.
'England? What on earth made you go there? Cold, damp and full of religious maniacs.' He grinned, waiting for those around him to concur.
'I was part of the Spanish concession to try and broker some form of amiable compromise between King Phillip and King Charles. Luckily, I received a missive from the Cardinal before I became bored beyond saving, or died from eating their pale, drab food.' He raised his glass to the enthralled monarch.
'Your health, Sire.' Louis grinned even wider and joined the Comte in his toast.
All this time, Richelieu had watched the proceedings as a cat would watch a small bird. There was a glint of satisfaction in his cold eyes which Treville could only assume boded ill.
'You are a breath of fresh air, Rochefort, just what I have been calling for. I need more men like you, young, vibrant, amusing. Men at the peak of their usefulness, not withering old dotards.' A quick glance at his First Minister would almost have been amusing for the Musketeers, if the prospect of a court ruled by men like Rochefort was not more harrowing still.
Louis continued. 'How can France grow strong without confident, bold men supporting its strategies and decisions? You will help me put this into practice, Rochefort – together we will make France even greater. Come, we have much to discuss.' The King rose and ushered Rochefort from the room. He did not give the Musketeers a second glance, and not even Richelieu received any form of acknowledgement from the monarch.
When only the four of them remained, Treville spoke.
'So, the Comte returns! You may wish to take care, Cardinal, I do not pretend to know what scheme you have in mind for him, but it may well backfire on you. Rochefort will have his own agenda I do not wonder. One that may not quite sit with the role you had in mind for him.'
The Cardinal gritted his teeth, it was evident Treville had struck a very raw nerve. 'Rochefort is of no particular consequence, he will be guided by me. Do you not have somewhere else to be, some toy soldiers to train or something?' For once, Treville had gotten under his skin and he was rattled.
'I have something I need to know first. Was it your guard who attacked my man Athos last night, and if so where is he?' Treville made it quite clear he expected an answer, and that he already suspected what it would be.
Richelieu rounded on the Musketeer Captain. 'I have no idea what you are talking about, do not bark at me like a flea-ridden dog. If you cannot keep track of your men that is your problem. That man Athos has been nothing but trouble since he first appeared. If my Guard have seen fit to deal with him, then all well and good.' With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the room. Porthos made a step to follow but Treville restrained him.
'It will do no good. It is my fault, I should not have goaded him. Still, it was satisfying to see him uneasy. I will find out where Athos is, do not worry.' They all realised they could achieve nothing more by staying there, and that all they could do now was wait to see what devious plans both the Comte and Richelieu had in mind – and if they were indeed of one accord.
Richelieu was furious. How dare Treville demand anything from him, the First Minister of France. The Captain was getting far too sure of himself, and it was about time the Musketeers were shown their true place – soldiers, men to be commanded, without question, men without minds of their own and crushing their ever-increasing show of egotism. He would humble Treville – the man had had it coming for far too long. As for the Musketeer Athos, he had been a thorn in Richelieu's side for long enough. He did not know what the soldier had done for the King to earn his sudden commission, apart from the obvious, but that Louis was keeping something from his minister was clear. For that alone he would have been curious, but with Brousard hanging around his neck muttering deceit and treachery, he had had just about enough of the irritating swordsman. Perhaps he could deal with Athos and Treville in one go, putting the whole regiment in its place once and for all.
When the knock came at the door, the Cardinal frowned, his musings were just beginning to give him an element of respite from his initial fury. As he grudgingly called for the newcomer to enter, his eyes narrowed and a spark of excitement lit their grey depths.
'Come in, my Lady, do sit. Wine?' His irritation was now replaced with a treacherous smile, enough to make most creatures scurry away and hide – but not Suzanne d'Angou. No, she was made of sterner stuff, she knew the Cardinal was her key to greater things – and she was prepared to suffer whatever he asked.
'Your Eminence,' she acknowledged as she slid into the appointed chair. 'How might I be of service?' Though she asked the question with an insouciant innocence, the gleam in her eye betrayed her true nature.
No stranger to subterfuge, the Cardinal recognised a fellow player.
'That is what I like about you, Mademoiselle, you do not waste time with false flattery and dalliance. However, what I wish of you will require the complete opposite, and I am sure you will be able to manage such a request without too much trouble.' He paused, watching her face and scrutinising her response for any signs of distaste. He saw none. Her only reaction was the gentle raising of a perfectly shaped brow and the slightest curve of her lips.
'I need information, but I would rather see it charmed from its source without them realising it, and I would prefer it sooner rather than later – the matter is a tiresome distraction from more compelling matters of court.' He smiled once more, the cold sneer of a man who knew his request would not be denied.
'I shall turn my attention to the matter in hand straight away. With whom am I to become acquainted, and what is it you seek to discover?' Richelieu wondered if her smile was a little too brittle, a little too bright. Still, he doubted she would mind when she discovered just who he was asking her to manipulate.
'I wish to know everything about the Musketeer Athos. Where he comes from, family, home – women.' Richelieu was interrupted by Suzanne's ill-concealed enthusiasm.
'You wish me to insinuate myself with Athos?' Her eyes sparkled, and she practically radiated approval.
The Cardinal noted the woman's response and stored her interest away for another day, irritated by her obvious liking for the mysterious Musketeer. His waspish response gave her cause to rein in her interest. 'Not quite, but I do not think you will be too disappointed. I wish you to become acquainted with the Musketeer Aramis. It should not prove too difficult – the man likes his women as much as Athos likes his wine. A lady of your talents should be able to work on his weakness without any difficulty at all.'
Suzanne gave a brief pout in disappointment, but decided Aramis would certainly make a pleasant diversion, and she had not missed the Cardinal's reference to the marksman's womanising as being a weakness – if she was going to rise to greater things then sleeping with the First Minister could be crossed off her list. Gladly!
ooOoo
When Athos awoke once more, the moon was shining brightly through the small window high up on the wall. He took a minute to clear his fogged brain, pain and the aftereffects of medication, slowing his ability to process his surroundings. Somewhere a bell was ringing, steady and mournful, the doleful clanging ebbing and flowing like distant waves. Then there was silence.
He risked turning his head toward the small table beside his cot. He prepared himself for the sharp pain in his chest, but still he hissed as his ribs protested the movement. His clothing had been draped over a chair along with his weapons belt. Had he expected it to be removed, confiscated in line with their rules? He had not really had the opportunity to give it much thought, but he was glad to see them close if he needed them.
There was a jug of water next to his head, and alongside it the object he had been hoping to spy. His father's watch lay next to the vessel – someone had obviously anticipated his need to keep track of time.
Inch by agonising inch, Athos managed to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position, swinging his long legs over the edge of the bed in one swift motion. He tried to slow his breathing, to limit the stabbing assault the action caused him. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his linen shirt clinging to his skin from the exertion. He had been here before, and he knew the best way to move his body to minimise the pain. He knew how to contain his normally fluid movements, only using those body parts necessary to achieve his aim, and if the horror of such knowledge moved him, he refused to acknowledge it.
Finally, the watch nestled into the palm of his hand. Athos eyed the water jug wistfully – that would have to wait as the exertion had overtaxed his weakened state. Three in the morning. He sighed and looked once more at the waxing moon. It was early, yet he felt as awake – if not more so – as he did most mornings. He had not imbibed for several days, and perhaps that was reason enough for his alertness. Once his heart had settled into a normal rhythm, his eyes were drawn once more to the water beside the bed, and with a heavy sense of inevitability he began to reach out for the receptacle. After several deep breaths and silent hisses, his hand closed around the handle. Lifting it high enough to pour water into the cup beside it was yet another hurdle. However, once the jug jarred upon the surface of the wooden locker he grasped the drink in his hand, to avoid having to repeat the manoeuvre for a third time.
Settling back upon the bed he drank deeply, the cool liquid in some part making up for the stabbing pain and the pounding of his heart. Perhaps a lesser man might have despaired, finding himself once more on the receiving end of a well of pain. However, Athos did not have time for such luxuries, he had things to do, and lying around bemoaning his plight would not solve the problem of Marie and Bernard's murder.
The hardest part of damaged ribs was sitting up, and now that his torso was upright, standing was slightly easier – at least that was the mantra his pained brain repeated to itself as he pushed himself upright and swayed on his feet. He might have made it as far as his clothing had he been given the chance, but it was not meant to be. Having staggered only halfway across the floor, he heard a slight sound from the other side of the door and the hint of dim light shone beneath it.
Athos scowled as the door opened and Father Barnard entered, holding a lamp aloft.
His pale face looked gaunt and lined in the flickering illumination of the lamp. He showed no sign of irritation or anger at his patient's antics, merely tilting his head on one side and observing the man swaying in the centre of the room.
'Is there something I can get for you?' he asked, his tone soft, with no trace of judgement.
Athos said nothing. His breathing was laboured, and he sensed there was a hint of sarcasm behind the question, despite there being no inkling in its delivery. In the end, he sighed and looked over his shoulder at the bed he had left behind. Even if he had succeeded in reaching his clothes, even if he had been able to put on his boots and jacket, what then? What exactly was he hoping to achieve? Had he planned to storm the city and take on the Red Guard in his current state?
Anger began to replace the irritation brought on by his incapacity. It was one thing to be unconscious, or to rail against a raging fever, but this was something else. He could think, he could see, he knew what had to be done, but his body simply could not comply, and he was livid.
The friar stood immobile in the doorway, the draught from the corridor making the feeble light dance on the stark walls like angry wraiths. Athos took a deep breath, gingerly manoeuvring himself back toward the bed. He had taken only two steps when he felt a hand at his elbow. His first response was to throw it off, but breeding won out, and reluctantly he accepted the old man's assistance.
Once he was sat upright amongst a mound of supporting pillows, Athos finally spoke. 'Thank you.' Barnard acknowledged the young man's words with the shadow of a smile.
'May I ask what you had hoped to accomplish?' he enquired, whilst prodding his patient's bruised torso.
Scowling, Athos stared at the high window, where darkness still hovered beyond. He gave a loud sigh, through clenched teeth, and his body gradually relaxed as the anger was replaced by resignation.
'Accomplish? Nothing,' came the emotive response, spat out with obvious frustration. The infirmarian merely nodded and continued with his examination.
'Your ribs feel well aligned, it may be that they were only cracked, it was difficult to tell with the amount of bruising and swelling after the attack.' Athos's eyes focussed on the lined face of the elderly Brother.
'Good, then perhaps all is not lost after all.' There was no sign of emotion on Athos' face but there was a grit in the tone of his voice that bore ill for someone.
'Of that I cannot say, I am only here to heal, what you choose to do with that state is between you and God.' Brother Barnard's pale eyes held the young man's, there was no judgment in them, just the trace of sadness.
'Believe me, Brother, I will not be consulting God over my decisions.' Athos drawled.
'That does not mean he is not aware of them, my son, nor that he does not add them to the day of reckoning.' This time there was a certain amount of censure in his voice.
Athos snorted. 'Then it will be an exceedingly long day, Brother, and I doubt the outcome will be in my favour. Tell me, is it possible for me to send a message? I wish to contact my Captain at the Musketeer garrison.' He asked the question in his most neutral voice, yet the trace of authority was ever present.
'Of course. If you dictate your missive, I will have it delivered after Lauds.' He watched Athos closely, to see if the young man would allow him to scribe. Athos simply nodded.
'Tell him I am here and await my brothers' arrival.' The two men locked eyes as if both were awaiting a further comment, and eventually the friar smiled.
'It will be done. Now rest for what is left of the night. Perhaps in the morning you will be able to sit in the courtyard and enjoy the fresh air.' Without further comment, he turned and left.
Athos hardly noticed, he was already planning his next move with the help of his brothers – for he knew he could do nothing further at this point without them.