Chapter 22

Athos peeled off his wet clothes and fell upon his bed. He was forced to admit he was tired; the adrenalin brought on by the far too brief fight with Giroux had now fled, leaving him spent. Something about the man's acceptance to cease fighting bothered him. His capitulation was off, though he had no idea why – it was not like him, or any of his regiment, to simply back away from a fight, not that easily.

It was generally forbidden for Musketeers to fight off duty, especially with Red Guard, though of course that never stopped either party – the hatred between the two regiments was legendary. Wearily, Athos pushed Giroux to the back of his mind – one day he would get even with the bastard. He had not forgotten the treatment he had endured, thanks to the vicious captain, when he had been incarcerated in the bastille almost two years ago.

As the minutes ticked away he continued to stare hard at the ceiling, despite the inability to see the focus of his attention in the darkness of his room. Consideration of Giroux's behaviour had been nothing more than a subconscious distraction, a way of ignoring what was to come. He had not been back to Pinot for a very long time, never intending to go back at all, but someone was intent on leading him back. If there was no clue to what happened to the Beloirs at Pinot, then Athos feared their deaths would go unpunished. Unless, of course, the person responsible showed their hand. If finding him had been their real goal all along, surely they would come for him again at some point. Well he was ready and waiting, in fact he hoped he was walking right into their hands; after all, on his lands it was his right to deal out justice.

Athos tried to picture the main street, the inn and the blacksmith's shop, but all his mind could conjure was the lone tree atop the hill at the front of the house, the wind stirring the bare branches as the blades of grass wafted beneath. A quiet, solitary spot he had enjoyed as a child, it no longer conjured memories of lazing away a warm afternoon, just echoes of betrayal and pain.

No figure hung from its lower branches now, but still the image was burned into his mind's eye. The pain and loss that had twisted the love and passion that had warmed his heart, to a cold, dark place as impenetrable as stone. The wind and rain from the current storm sent gusts of wind and rain to lash at his window, emphasising the sorrow and pain of that long distant moment.

Despite his anxiety, Athos drifted off to sleep, but it felt as though he had only relaxed for a second, when his eyes flew open, alerted by a sudden sound. Whatever had startled him had been mixed in with the noise of the storm, and he couldn't place what exactly had awoken him. Instinctively, Athos reached for the sword beside his bed and swung his feet on to the cold wooden floor.

Horses!

Over the shriek of the wind he could hear the scared whinnying of horses. Pulling on his trousers and boots, he hurriedly threw his shirt over his head and strode toward the door. Thunder rolled overhead. Perhaps it had been the storm that had awoken him and was now frightening the animals. He thrust open the door, but as he stepped outside something struck him hard in his shins, causing him to suck in a harsh breath and send him to his knees before he could grasp anything to save himself.

Rain lashed the balcony outside his room soaking him in seconds, and shaking the hair from his eyes, he realised he could smell smoke. Voices now rang out in the courtyard below; Treville's, ordering men to take hold of the terrified animals. Lightning flashed, offering a far too brief illumination of the spectacle below, but from the corner of his eye he caught the briefest glint of metal as cold steel caught him beneath his chin, lifting his head and stretching his neck.

The constant pressure indicated the person holding the knife wanted him to rise. Athos weighed up his options. His sword was little use for attacking a combatant behind him at such close quarters. Rubbing his shins distractedly he slowly rose up. The higher he stood, so the angle of the knife changed slightly, indicating whoever was holding it, was shorter than he, but the point of the blade still sat way too close to his throat for him to risk any sudden movement. Better to bide his time and find out who was holding the weapon – if they had wanted him dead then he would have been so by now.

Here they were again. Milady wondered if all their meetings would be undertaken beneath the threat of assault or injury. Unbidden, the image of a hay strewn stable at Fontainebleau flooded her memory, causing her blood to heat as she hissed with frustration.

'What do you want?' Athos breathed, not wanting to move his jaw with the blade so close.

There was hesitation, and the strong scent of something familiar hung in the air, along with the thickening stench of smoke. Though he could not bring the source to mind his body appeared to suffer no such lack of memory.

'Is that any way to greet an old friend?' the smooth, throaty voice murmured, laced with amusement as always.

Athos froze, all thoughts of the fire drifted away with the accompanying smoke. 'You have changed your perfume,' he managed to drawl.

'You noticed, how sweet. It was becoming a liability; this is honeysuckle, do you like it?' He felt the warmth of her breath on the back of his neck as she leant closer. His heart thudded in his chest, and he felt himself return to Pinot. The summery scent engulfed him. Honeysuckle had grown around the window of his room at home. Had she chosen it deliberately, as just another opportunity to mock their marriage?

'What do you want, Anne? I thought we had said all there was to be said.' He waited for her to get to the point. He knew she could never waste an opportunity to provoke and taunt him, but the noise in the garrison was not diminishing and the storm was only making things worse. He was needed.

The rain lashed at his chest as he stood near the railing. He felt soft fingers gently caress the nape of his neck and trace his spine through the linen of his wet shirt.

Milady inhaled the scent that was all Athos; cedarwood, with the addition of worn leather, acquired with his new life as a Musketeer. She had come with a single mission in mind, to get in, deliver her message and get out quickly. Yet as always, she could not resist making the most of the opportunity. Whether for pleasure, or to torment her husband, she could not say, just as she could not explain why she stood there now, her fingers tracing the pulse in his throat. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart before the tips touched the cold metal of the chain that hung beneath his shirt. Her breath hitched. Surely not, why would he still wear the locket? No, he must have replaced it – but in her heart, she knew he had not. The blade twitched and though Athos knew exactly what she was thinking he had no words to explain his attachment to the object. Making her angry was currently not a good plan.

'This is neither the time nor the place, Anne,' he hissed once more.

She gave a throaty laugh that made his pulse skip. 'Do not flatter yourself, husband…' Her flippant words gave lie to the way she stroked his skin beneath his shirt. In truth, the touch blocked out the shouting and animal screams from below. And for the briefest moment it was just the two of them, together, like it used to be.

As she spoke, the mirage wavered, but did not vanish altogether. '…I have come with a warning, Rochefort is asking about you. I do not know why, but I believe it has something to do with the death of the Beloirs. And before you ask, I was in England when they were killed.' There was a pause and Athos felt her hand warm against the skin of his waist. 'I am sorry for their deaths,' she said softly, as her fingers moved slowly over his damp flesh, leaving a warming trail as they passed. 'It was unwarranted. I know nothing about it further than gossip surrounding your involvement.

'I do know that you are going somewhere tomorrow. I have no idea where, but I think it is a trap. Watch your back, Athos, I have reason to believe one of your own may be involved – he is young, but I have not seen him before. Also a man with his face badly scarred. You should know that Giroux, scar-face and the young Musketeer were all with Suzanne d'Anjou this morning in the market. I do not know what is going on, Athos, but it makes me nervous. I will not be there this time to watch your back.' The very back that her fingers now gently explored.

The touch of him had almost been her undoing, sleeping with other men was never the same as touching this man, this flesh. Every time, when she had resigned herself to the fact that there was nothing left to damage, it felt as though her heart ripped open anew

'Turn around, slowly,' she whispered. Even as she said the words, she regretted it. Standing this close was bad enough, but she knew that despite his ability to show a blank mask to the world, she had always read a realm of emotion in those dark, insolent eyes. She stiffened in readiness, already dreading what they would reveal – but his reply surprised her.

'No!' Athos could trust his emotions to remain controllable in most situations; he had spent years schooling his features to show nothing but disinterest. But he was still a man, and this woman was still his wife. If he turned and looked at her, he knew whatever sensations she evoked would probably be beyond him to ignore.

Milady's heart flipped and shattered once more. 'So, it has come to that. You cannot even bear to look at me.' There was something in her voice that reached deep into Athos' core. He recognised the hurt that simmered beneath her attempt at contempt, and for the millionth time he wished things had been, could be, different. But even if there had ever been such a moment, it had now passed, and it was clear they were destined to continue with this dance of love and hate for as long as they both existed – yet the idea that she would one day be gone still sent an arrow to his soul. Despite his turmoil, he remained motionless and said nothing.

It was all the confirmation she needed. Fury burned in her veins, enough to overpower the utter devastation his actions elicited. She closed her eyes and breathed in his scent one final time.

'Take care Athos,' she whispered. He felt her lips kiss his neck below his ear with feathery lightness, then, using all her rage and desolation to fuel the strike, the hilt of her knife came down upon the back of his head with a fierce blow. Once more Athos staggered toward the railing in a desperate attempt to prevent himself from falling – it had only been the awkward angle of the blow and the difference in their heights that had prevented him blacking out. However, the world spun, and between the claps of thunder Athos caught the retreating sound of rustling silks. He reeled, partly from the blow and partly from the sudden change of emotion. He cursed himself for reacting to her presence the way he always did; like a lonely child, who clings on to the mistaken belief that if they are good, one day their indifferent parents may come to love them.

Shaking the dripping hair from his eyes, he clasped his sword and hurried down the stairs into the courtyard. There was no point trying to go after her; he doubted it would prove fruitful and he was obviously needed here.

The scene below was chaos. Horses were bolting all around the area before him, and fire still burnt in the corner of the garrison by the stables, but the Musketeers' efforts, along with the torrential rain, had helped to keep it isolated.

'Athos! Where the hell have you been?' Treville shouted. 'Grab that beast of a horse of yours before he tramples half the garrison to death.' Athos nodded to the Captain and sought out his black stallion in the dark. A flash of lightning, accompanied by a clap of thunder that shook the ground, illuminated the large horse rearing in the centre of the yard, surrounded by hesitant Musketeers. Porthos was trying to reassure the distressed horse, but the thunder, lightning and smoke had put the animal beyond reason.

Athos strode over to Roger and reached up to touch his side. Over the cacophony of the storm and whinnying horses, the stallion appeared to recognise his master's voice. He pawed the ground and twitched his ears, rolling eyes white and wild.

Athos managed to touch his flank and stroked the wet skin. Suddenly there was a scuffle, and one of the Musketeers dancing around the frightened Roger, cried out as he fell beneath the prancing hooves. Roger attempted to dance out of the way of the fallen man, giving Athos the opportunity to grab a hold of a handful of flying mane. He wasted no time swinging himself up onto the distracted horse's back and slowly brought him to a halt, giving the other soldiers an opportunity to drag the injured man out of the way.

With Roger snorting, but tentatively stamping the ground, the rest of the panicking horses appeared to pick up on the change of atmosphere, gradually allowing themselves to be soothed and eventually tethered.

Athos slid from his horse's back, taking care to lead the still jittery animal away from the smoking wood, and tied him up. He strode over to Treville. 'What happened?'

Treville, now assured that his men had everything under control, took time to stand still.

'Lightning must have struck the stables. It could have been worse.' Athos frowned and scraped his drenched hair back away from his face.

'How did the horses get free?'

Treville turned at the question. 'I assume the men on the gate managed to open the stalls.'

The rain showed no sign of letting up and the dirt on the floor of the courtyard had turned to mud beneath the booted feet and stampeding horses, whilst wind still whipped across the open space as the grumbling storm pursued its circling path.

Both men turned as Porthos approached. 'Trousou, won't be goin' anywhere tomorrow, 'e's got a broken arm.' The big man eyed the swordsman.

'Roger?' Athos asked his voice filled with concern.

Porthos scowled as he raised his voice over the wind. 'Yes and no. Yes, the big beast was uncontrollable until you turned up – eventually.' Athos noted the question hidden within the remark but said nothing. 'Still, it seemed to me 'e threw 'imself at Roger just as you mounted 'is back.' All three men shrugged their shoulders at the odd circumstances, but their minds quickly turned to other things.

There was no sign of the storm abating, and though the thunder was no longer directly overhead, it continued to stalk the city like an angry lion. Windows shook and children hid beneath their covers, whilst flashes of light revealed staccato figures moving jerkily to and fro.

The stables themselves had remained remarkably unscathed. Sodden Musketeers led the weary horses back to their stalls and made them comfortable. Athos whispered a final, few words of comfort to an exhausted Roger and gave him an apple to guzzle. With a final pat, he left the horse to rest and made his way toward the smoking remains of the fire. Charred wood rested against the gateway, where Porthos was already sifting through the rubble with his boots.

The captain studied the smouldering pile with a puzzled frown. 'The situation is strange. Neither Boutier, nor Gerard, who were on watch, say they opened the doors to the stalls.' he turned to his two men, noting their reaction.

'Someone set the fire but made sure the 'orses were unharmed,' Porthos finished, scowling at the suggestion it had been no accident.

Treville scowled. 'It would seem so, but why?' Athos remained silent, he knew news of Anne's return would not be well received by anyone. Yet he knew it had been her – a distraction so she could speak to him without being noted.

ooOoo

Milady had hurried past the bustling Musketeers, none of them noticing her slipping through the gate and disappearing into the city streets beyond. She stopped in a doorway and allowed herself to breathe.

She was a fool, a weak, idiotic fool.

Every time she put herself in that same old situation, she convinced herself she could cope; that she could say what she had to say and leave. The outcome was, however, very different. As soon as he was near, all those old emotions, now confused within those which had transpired since – the love with the hate, the need with the rejections – surged within her.

She knew the physical reaction was beyond the control of either of them. She had suspected he wanted her just as much as she needed him, and it would probably always be that way – that was their curse. Now she was not so sure; perhaps time and misery had swayed his feelings, perhaps it was only her curse to bear now.

Despite the discomfort, she had delivered her message. Now it was up to Athos, though she had to admit she was curious to discover where he was heading. As she made her way down the street, she passed the tavern frequented by the Red Guard and curiosity got the better of her. Pushing open the door she entered the warmth of the building and glanced around. It was busy but not full. The weather had both encouraged and dissuaded customers from seeking its refuge.

She acquired a cup of wine and made her way toward a drunken group of soldiers. She was considering how to open the conversation when one of the men solved her problem.

'Now you look like a discernin' woman. How about I buy you another glass of wine?' Milady tried not to wince as she smiled at the man and shook her head.

'No thank you, I've had enough of soldiers for one night. Had to listen to a bunch of them Musketeers braggin' about how they were goin' on a special mission tomorrow, one that you apparently couldn't solve.' That did the trick.

The four men all made their dislike over the remark quite apparent. 'Bloody fools, there was nothin' to find. We looked everywhere and we didn't see any trace of highway robbers.'

Milady opened her eyes wide and feigned fear. 'Highway robbers? Where? I often travel to my sister's in Louency.'

'Don't you worry, these attacks was nowhere near that, they started outside Gournay, near Rouen; the second Eureaux, and the last one was near Anet. Now about that drink.' He turned to see Milady hurry from the room. His friend slapped him on the back in drunken consolation and they gave her no further thought.

As she hurried along the bank of the swirling Seine, she pondered what they had told her. A hunt for three highway attacks, but no sign of any perpetrators. Something about the areas concerned set alarm bells ringing in her memory. She looked out at the dark rising waters, pulling her cloak closer to her throat as the wind tried in vain to whip it from her head. Rain lashed her face as the lightning lit the boiling waters only feet away. She was relieved when the lighted windows of her apartment came into sight, and even managed a smile when the timid maid took her soaking cloak.

Milady flung off her wet clothing and wrapped herself in a soft velvet wrap. Her hair hung down her back as she sat in front of the fire to dry it and she remembered lying with her hair in Athos' lap, as he gently rubbed it dry, before taking her to bed. Angry with herself, she stalked across the bedroom to pour a glass of brandy. Despite the warmth of the fire she still shivered. She reached for a roll of parchment from a high shelf and stretched it out upon the bed. Tracing the road out of Paris with her fingers, she finally came across Arnet; eventually she located the other two villages and her heart lurched in her chest.

There in the middle was the location she had prayed would be miles away.

Pinot. Athos was going back to Pinot, and it was a trap.

Well she was done being Rochefort's puppet. If Athos was headed to Pinot at Rochefort's or the Cardinal's behest, then so was she.

ooOoo

Aramis lay in the comfortable bed and surveyed the woman leaning over him with hooded eyes. She was undeniably beautiful, unerringly willing and remarkably unmarried – yet something bothered him.

They had met under similar circumstances several times now. It had surprised him to find she had her own apartment outside of the palace, though she had quickly justified her extravagance by saying the palace could be stifling and she needed somewhere to pursue her own life – just as she was doing now, with him.

At first, she had been nothing but accommodating, but then, as they had become more comfortable, she had begun to ask questions about his life as a Musketeer. That in itself was not out of the ordinary, most women found the life fascinating and a liaison with a soldier titillating. However, they rarely asked so many questions about his friends, particularly Athos.

She had just asked such a question, and was smiling her seductive smile whilst she awaited his answer.

'My lady, it is a good job I do not suffer jealously easily, or I would begin to question which Musketeer held your true interest,' Aramis replied, with an injured smile.

She gave a lilting laugh and stroked his chest. 'Now do not be ridiculous my love. It is you lying in my bed, not Athos, is it not? I merely find him a conundrum, and women are naturally curious. Several of the women at court would like to know more about him. He is something of a mystery I believe.' She tilted her head and allowed her curls to caress his shoulder.

The marksman rolled his eyes in mock resignation, but the glint that flashed was all steel. 'There really is not much to tell. I am afraid the ladies of the court would be disappointed.' He deflected the question as he always did, but this time he took more notice of her response.

Indeed, Suzanne showed no intention of giving up, yet now he was aware of the slightest trace of irritation in her voice as she continued to speak. 'They say he is pining for a lost love, or ran away in disgrace from a noble family.' She fluttered her eyelashes and attempted to look concerned on behalf of the shadowy Musketeer.

Aramis considered the remarks were far too close to home, whether by coincidence or by design.

He was a man who enjoyed the company of women, and was confident enough in his attraction to the fairer sex to find her persistent interest in Athos odd. Whatever the source of her curiosity, Aramis had decided it was time to go. Suzanne d'Angou was up to something and he could not help feeling it somehow involved his friend.

'I do not know, but I do know I have things to do in the morning, and so fair lady I must depart.' Suzanne made a little mewling noise at being abandoned so early, but she said nothing more.

As Aramis waved farewell, he watched as the courtier shut and bolted the door behind her. He considered staying to observe her movements; but as the rain lashed down and the crack of thunder broke overhead, the decision was made. Heading for home, Aramis pondered Suzanne's odd behaviour. Her questions had become less and less subtle over the last couple of weeks, and her inability to gain any useful information was obviously causing her to take chances, the irritation in her voice only slightly disguised. However, more telling was her failure to ask, as she always did, if he would be calling again tomorrow – almost as though she already knew he would not.

As he walked back to the garrison, Aramis began to collect all of the information he might have passed her way when they had first met, before she had begun to arouse his suspicions; he was sure it had been very little, but best be sure. But worse than her curiosity was why she needed the information or, more to the point, who needed the information.

By the time he arrived back at the garrison, the fire had been contained for some time. All that remained of the drama was a smouldering pile of wood and the lingering smell of acrid smoke. The horses were quiet, and the garrison was attempting to get a few hours' sleep before morning muster.

As the marksman approached the gateway, he noted the unusual eagerness of the guards as they noted his approach. 'Halt, identify yourself,' came the gruff demand from Blaise, one of the older, trustworthy Musketeers.

'It is Aramis,' he replied. 'What is wrong, what has happened?' He strode up to the two men and paused to receive an explanation.

The other guard, he noted, was Vidal, also older and a stalwart of the regiment. That these two were on duty together spoke of Treville's desire for diligence.

'Someone set a fire by the stables,' Vidal explained.

'Ay and let out the horses,' Blaise added. 'It was chaos.'

'Was anyone hurt?' Aramis asked, instantly turning on his role as medic.

'Young Troussou broke an arm – fell under Athos' great brute of a stallion. Not that it was the horse's fault, with all the smoke and thunder they were all out of their minds.'

'Might have helped if Athos had turned up sooner. I just hope he hadn't been drinking.' The remark made by Blaise was not intended to judge, he liked Athos and he honestly hoped the Musketeer had merely been asleep.

Aramis frowned but said nothing. After all, he had left both Porthos and himself before they had reached the garrison. Still, he doubted they would have continued drinking after he had left, but with Athos one could never be sure.

Deep in thought, he climbed the stairs to his room, passing Athos' on his way. Pausing, he listened carefully outside his friend's doorway. At first there was nothing, but as he strained his ears, he could hear mumbling. The desire to enter and intervene was strong, he knew how tortured Athos' dreams could be; perhaps the imminent return to Pinot had raised past memories. As he listened, the sounds within faded. Aramis sighed and decided to leave well alone – for now; there would be plenty of opportunity to observe his friend's behaviour when they were on the road.