Chapter 19
The weeks had passed slowly; trees blown bare by the vicious winds now shivered beneath a frosty blanket from which they struggled to emerge each morning, and the sun, when it briefly appeared, held no warmth to combat the rapid onset of winter.
But none of this affected the everyday comings and goings of Paris – men needed to work, children needed to be fed and goods needed to be traded. Smoke rose from the many braziers that had sprung up amidst the market stalls in an effort to prevent market traders from freezing where they stood, and men and women stomped the frozen ground, rubbing chapped hands together, their attempts at warming them with their own breath a pitiful waste of effort.
The King had been ill – not that any of those trying to earn a crust were even aware, or, would have particularly cared. His symptoms were an inevitable cause of the colder weather and would have hardly been noteworthy to those whom he purported to protect. However, the merest snuffle had the monarch take to his bed amidst warming pans and inhalants; Louis demanding only his most favourite meals, which in itself proved he was in fact hale and hearty. Still, it gave the court some much needed breathing room, with the young pretenders hovering uncertainly in one corner whilst the old guard watched. One or two of the stalwart councillors dared to make decisions that could not wait, but they were deemed either very brave, or very stupid, their actions meriting a gift of land and higher rank or death – depending on the whim of the recovering King.
At the garrison, life had continued very much as normal. Athos had taken time to heal, watching the new cadets begin to flower beneath their mentors' care and helping Treville with mundane administration. There had been no more talk of him being wanted for murder. Apparently, Giroux had been bought to heel for some reason and Treville assured him they were looking elsewhere for the culprit. Athos doubted they were looking very hard.
As the morning passed into afternoon, he polished his sword and watched the cadets being tossed and bruised by Porthos, the big man's merriment going some way to ease the young men's pain.
Today, the wind was less virulent, and the weak sun had at least attempted to take the chill off the morning. Athos had resumed sparring with a young man who had earned his pauldron just a year ago. It was the first time the swordsman had sparred with another soldier for several weeks and it felt good; he was moving much more freely, and only the most sudden movement caused him to grit his teeth. He had taken the first few swings with care, unsure how his healed ribs would fare, but when he felt nothing but a faint ache, he entered into the bout with his usual flare, if not a little too much exuberance. The young man was on the defence from the start, but he watched and learnt from his mistakes as much as he was able.
When the two men had finished and shaken hands, Treville watched from his balcony. He wasn't even aware he was smiling. It was good to have his protégé back on form, and he certainly showed no signs of his recent beating. Athos sat at their favourite table and attended to his weapon once more.
Aramis sat by his side, thrusting a plate of bread and cheese under the swordsman's nose. Athos merely glanced at it, then resumed his polishing.
'Claude says you didn't show for dinner. He thought it must have slipped your mind, so he sent you this.' Aramis placed a mug of ale next to the plate and waited.
'Hmm,' was the only response he received.
'Porthos is going to be done with those poor devils any minute now and then you will have missed your opportunity. You know how inflicting pain on those unfortunates gives him an appetite.'
Athos slowly returned his sword to his scabbard and gave Aramis a glacial look, which of course the marksman ignored, merely grinning in return. Knowing he would get no peace, and silently admitting he may even be hungry, Athos ate the bread and cheese, downing the ale with ease.
'Nice to see you earning your keep at last,' the marksman laughed nodding to the resting cadets.
At that the big Musketeer dropped onto the bench hot and thirsty. 'Perhaps he can muck out the stables and move some barrels too,' Porthos griped with a cheeky twinkle.
Athos again said nothing, just quirked a brow and drank some more.
The big Musketeer dropped down onto the bench. 'Is 'e talking you to death again?' he asked Aramis with the ghost of a smile on his face.
'I have not been able to get a word in. He has, however, worked with the cadets today, though I think he may have grown sluggish,' Aramis added.
''E does look a little porky,' the big man noted.
At this Athos paused in his drinking and wiped his glove across his mouth, stating in his most superior tone, 'Porky?'
'I'm not sure I would say porky, perhaps a little less toned,' coughed Aramis, obviously struggling not to laugh.
'It's the lack of exercise, 'e's gotten lazy. All this paperwork and ale,' finished Porthos eyeing the cup with longing.
Athos stood, unsheathing his sword and swinging it in an arc, catching the light from the sun as it swooped through the air. 'Would you like to put that to the test… gentlemen?' He raised a brow and his lips twitched just a little.
Aramis and Porthos grinned at each other. 'We thought you would never ask,' Aramis responded. The three men joined the swordsman in the middle of the courtyard and began their display; for there was no doubt that it was just that. Those men who were not busy with chores stopped what they were doing and cheered Aramis and Porthos on, though it was in fun and no disrespect to Athos. Treville heard the fuss and came out to watch. He did not join in with the encouraging remarks – he knew what the outcome would be, whether it was just for their own amusement, or in earnest. All three of these men had their areas of expertise, but none of them wielded a sword like his old sword master.
Soon Athos had Aramis' weapon clattering to the cobbles, and with a move that should have made Porthos proud, he brought the big man to his knees, eyes wide with surprise and Athos' blade poking his gut. 'Porky did you say, or was it lazy?' Athos pretended to consider the earlier remarks. Then with a rare, but dazzling smile, he reached out to help his friend to his feet, but with a move he never saw coming, Porthos twisted his arm and landed Athos on his backside. The audience laughed, clearly enjoying the energetic banter from the three friends.
'No, not porky, or even lazy, but definitely cocky.' This time Porthos pulled Athos to his feet placing a beefy arm around the swordsman's shoulders, before leading them both back to their table, where a fresh jug of ale had appeared.
Treville laughed and walked back to his office, where he found a cadet delivering a sealed missive. Recognising the seal, the Captain frowned; he supposed the peace could not have lasted forever. He turned back to the railing and shouted down to his men.
'Athos, Aramis, Porthos. Saddle up, you are coming to the palace with me.'
Below, the three friends groaned and downed their drinks. For Athos, it was his first time attending on the King since before the Beloirs were murdered, and the memory made him flinch. All this time and he had achieved nothing. Spending the earlier part of the day putting the cadets through their paces had eased some of his frustration, but it was time to put his plan into action – he just needed the right set of circumstances.
The men fetched their horses. Athos stroked the neck of his large black beast, looking forward to taking him out beyond the confines of the stables at last. He had not been outside the walls of the garrison since leaving the care of the monks, and was beginning to thing he might go mad if he had to be confined for much longer.
So the swordsman breathed a sigh of relief as they made their way out of the garrison. With blue capes draped over their horses the Musketeers always made an impressive sight when on official business.
ooOoo
Milady had been cooling her heels for almost two weeks, trying to rid herself of the anger the Comte de Rochefort's arrogant behaviour wrought in her breast. She had sent the maid and cook he had provided packing on the very first day, and now only employed one girl to do everything. Having threatened the servant with hell and damnation should she ever breathe a word of her mistress's movements or callers, the terrified soul now cowered whenever Milady encountered her, which only added to her mistress's irritation.
Having paced through every room, and changed her gown twice, she was no longer prepared to sit around waiting to do the Comte's bidding. The sun was out, though the day was cold. She would visit the market and see what gossip she might discover – at least news from the populace would be a good excuse if he called and she was out. The very thought that she was at the Comte's beck and call made her vicious.
The streets were as crowded and fetid as usual, but at least they were French streets, which made it somehow slightly easier to bear. She pulled the thick velvet of her cloak tightly around her, the hood hiding her features from those who would show the slightest interest.
She was simply itching for mischief, and for reasons she ignored, headed toward the garrison.
Nothing had changed. The busy market near the entrance teemed with life from all levels of society, and the smoke hung in low clouds from the glowing braziers, causing the view to waver and dance before her eyes. She stood near to one and warmed her hands as she sipped a mug of something warm and aromatic. Gossip abounded, but apart from a snippet concerning the King's illness she heard nothing of merit. It was the sudden sound of hooves that drew her attention back to the garrison gates. Four horsemen emerged, blue capes draped over the horses' backs.
It was easy to identify the four men; how often had she accompanied them now? She would have said she had felt just about every emotion possible concerning her husband, but right now she may just be inventing a new one, for never had she felt such a burning mixture of desperation, lust and rage in the same fleeting moment.
One was pointless, one was unavoidable, and the other might just see her through the next few weeks.
ooOoo
'So what about a drink at the tavern tonight?' Porthos asked hopefully. Neither he nor Aramis had gone out drinking without Athos, and he was beginning to get the fidgets.
'Or are you visiting your mystery woman?' the big man teased Aramis.
Aramis answered with a smile but did not linger on mention of the lady in question. 'I might, but there is always time for a drink first. What do you say Athos?'
The swordsman gave his friends a sidelong glance and smirked.
'That, mon ami, is as close to a yes as I think we are likely to get,' Aramis explained to Porthos.
Athos frowned and turned to look over his shoulder. There was nothing amiss that he could see, but he had felt a sudden cold wind, as though someone had walked over his grave.
Milady continued to stare after the four horses long after they had disappeared. Her heart raced, but this time she was determined to keep her distance. Nothing good ever came of contact with the Musketeers, and despite everything she had done she knew they still hated her – she had finally convinced herself that there was no going back. If she had ever been close, it had been after Athos' escape from the tunnel. As they had shared their goodbyes, she had felt the faintest flicker of hope he would relent and ask her to stay. But he had not, and she would never beg, not ever again. She had once begged for her life, she would not beg for his love – not now.
As she emerged from the shadowy doorway, a glimpse of fine fabric and golden hair caught her eye. Well, well, if it wasn't Lady D'Anjou. The last time she had seen the Queen's companion, she had been fighting food poisoning at Fontainebleau, but far more interesting was the man to whom she was speaking. Milady knew his face, but she could not remember where from; he was obviously a man of means, but she was sure it had nothing to do with her life at court. She supposed it could have been Suzanne's father, the age was right, but somehow, she did not think so.
The way they were talking and looking around them suggested something far more like an intrigue. Perhaps it was no more than an affair; after all, Suzanne was hardly an innocent flower. Milady moved on, the man's name would come back to her. Right now she needed a distraction, and without conscious consideration she followed the direction taken by the four riders.
Had she waited just a few minutes, she would have noted two more figures emerge from the same gloomy doorway as Suzanne D'Anjou. The younger man was dressed in the garb of a Musketeer cadet, and the fourth was none other than Albért Giroux, the Red Guard Captain.