Chapter 24

The Musketeers reined their horses to a halt.

'You mean you volunteered for a mission without knowin' where you were goin' or what we were doin'?' Porthos gawped at the cadet as though he were mad.

Du Bois licked his lips and tried to think of a way out of his predicament. Put like that it made him sound like an idiot, and right now that was exactly how he felt. At the beginning of this crazy plan he felt he had understood his part, now he was well and truly out of his depth. The only thing he was sure of was the role these three men played in the regiment and the amount of respect they commandeered. Nothing was as it should be and he was floundering.

'I know it has something to do with looking into reports of bandits on the road, but I really just wanted some action.' It was the most pathetic thing he could have said, and the look upon Athos' face clearly told him so. Aramis looked more understanding, but even he could not hide his incredulity.

Porthos began to laugh. 'Always volunteer for somethin' you don't mind doing, for you might well get pushed into somethin' far worse. But never volunteer for somethin' you know nothin' about.' He shook his head and continued to laugh at the young man's plight.

Athos gave him a scathing glance and rolled his eyes, then turned his back and kicked his horse into a canter.

Du Bois watched him go. 'He's mad at me,' he scowled. Why it should bother him what Athos thought he did not know, but it did, and that was surprising.

'He isn't mad,' said Aramis, 'it is just Athos. He is not one for social chit chat. Do not be disheartened. This is your first Musketeer mission. It may turn out to be very boring, but at least you can practise lighting campfires.' The look of horror on Du Bois' face made the other two men laugh even more.

Feeling he was being teased unfairly, the young man hung back a little and let Porthos and Aramis chat between themselves whilst he watched Athos riding alone out in front.

He had watched and listened at the garrison; after all, that had been his original mandate. The men held varied opinions of Athos, but apart from Deveaux – who hated him with a passion – they all agreed on one thing. The man could fight like a demon and was a great strategist, and even Treville took his advice when planning missions or dealing with matters of the palace. Some even said he could talk to the King without breaking a sweat, and that the King asked his opinion.

Yet for all that, none of them called him a friend. None of them socialised with him. Some were a little afraid of him, some thought he was a little arrogant, and some could not make their minds up – but they were all willing to fight alongside him. They also made it very clear both Aramis and Porthos would give their lives for him, unconditionally, and that intrigued the young cadet even more.

Du Bois was definitely conflicted. He thought back to the first time he had sparred with Athos and could not contain a low moan at the memory. He had been so angry and so embarrassed. He had behaved in the most dishonourable manner possible; in any other circumstances his father would have been ashamed of him. He still did not like the swordsman, but for some reason he wanted his approval, and why he could not explain.

He urged his horse forward and past the chattering Musketeers to catch up with Athos. He drew up alongside but received no indication his arrival had been noticed.

'Do you always ride alone?'

Athos did not turn to acknowledge him. 'Mostly,' was his only response.

'I thought you were all friends? Inseparable the others say.' No reply. Du Bois tried a different tack. 'Are you planning?'

This time Athos turned a fraction and looked at the boy from under the brim of his hat. 'Am I what?' The haughty tone was not encouraging, but at least he had answered.

'Planning. The other men say you are a good strategist. I though perhaps you needed quiet to plan.'

Athos observed the cadet's earnest face and could not help the twitch which afflicted his lips. Du Bois, not familiar with Athos' cool demeanour, did not recognise it for the smile it was and waited.

Athos thought about teasing the boy a little but decided he could not be bothered – that was Aramis' duty. 'Aramis talks too much. Sometimes I listen, sometimes I do not.' Du Bois opened his mouth to speak but he heard the other two Musketeers join him from behind.

'I should be hurt by that comment, but if I did not talk we would be silent all the way to La Havre.' Aramis feigned hurt but Athos only quirked a brow and ignored him.

'You do talk too much,' Porthos admitted.

'You too. I shall not speak again until dinner,' Aramis scowled. Porthos laughed. Du Bois watched, not sure if Aramis was genuinely cross.

'Who is catching dinner?' the marksman asked after a while.

'I thought you were staying silent?' Athos reminded him.

Aramis pouted. 'I am thinking aloud. Which is different.'

'Your thinking and your talking sound remarkably similar. Perhaps you should leave the thinking to me,' Athos suggested.

'I suppose I could sing,' the marksman offered with a smile.

Both Musketeers answered simultaneously. 'No!'

'If you start singin' you won't be needin' any dinner,' Porthos growled.

This time Aramis smote his brow and turned to an enthralled Du Bois. 'You see what I have to put up with? Come, young man, let us converse away from these two miserable old men.' With a glare at Athos and Porthos he let his horse drop back and encouraged Du Bois to join him.

Athos shook his head and gave Porthos the ghost of a smile.

'Does not stand a chance,' he drawled.

'Nope, Aramis will know 'is life story by nightfall and the boy won't even know 'e's told 'im,' the big man chuckled. 'Anyway, do you 'ave a plan?'

Athos eyed his friend. 'You were listening?'

'Course we were, couldn't pass up on 'earin' what you 'ad to say to each other,' he smirked.

'If I am honest, I do not know. How do you find something when you do not know what you are looking for?' Athos muttered to himself.

Porthos considered the problem. 'The same way we investigate any other problem, ask questions, crack a few 'eads, ask some more questions and see what 'appens.'

'Crack a few heads? Really?' Athos drawled.

'Well we 'avn't all got Aramis' charm and your Lord of the Manor glare. Some of us just make do with what we 'ave.' He gave a broad grin. 'I crack 'eads.'

Athos looked at his friend with a sad smile. 'You are much more than that, my friend. I will need to rely on you and Aramis to be my eyes. I would much rather not have to reveal myself to the villagers unless I have no other choice.'

Porthos still felt guilty for laying the burden of getting to the bottom of Athos' problems on Aramis' shoulders the night Athos cut his hand. Still, now was a good a time as any to even the balance.

'Do you think they're angry?' Athos turned and gave his friend a puzzled stare; it was not like Porthos to dig unless he felt he needed to.

'I do not know.'

'Should they be?' Porthos pushed.

Athos sighed and the big man waited for the scowl, but it was not forthcoming. 'Perhaps. They have everything they need, they pay their taxes, I pay the King. They have no complaints.'

'Makes you wonder why they need you at all?' Porthos remarked with genuine consideration.

Athos quirked a brow. 'I never saw you as a revolutionary,' he quipped.

'Don't even joke,' said Porthos, looking over his shoulder.

'We oversee the law, make sure the tenants are well housed, provide work on the estate, and sort out petty squabbles.'

'And live in luxury, whilst those tenants scrape a living to pay you taxes, so you can pay the King. Wouldn't it just be easier if they 'ad their own land and their own house and simply paid straight to the King?' Porthos was lost in his own logic now. He had no idea where he was straying.

'Then who would uphold the law, who would pass judgement, who would do the hanging? The inn keeper, the blacksmith, the cooper? Would they hang their own kin, their cousin… their wife?' The last words were spat with contempt but so quietly Porthos hardly heard.

'You are right, they could look after themselves, could pay their taxes, could till their own lands. But who would make the ultimate decisions? Who would wield the right to silence all other voices? For at the end of the day someone always has to make that decision, to take on that power. And you, my friend, cannot answer that until you carry the blood of justice – delivered upon your own kin – on your hands, Porthos.' With that, Athos rode off ahead leaving a stunned Porthos considering cutting out his own tongue.

Aramis had observed the encounter, and even if Athos had not raced off ahead, ram rod stiff and with a face a bleak as any winter day, he knew both his brothers well enough to understand something was wrong. He was torn between dashing to find out what had occurred and gently continue pumping Du Bois for information.

'What made you join the regiment?'

'My father.' Du Bois stuck to the truth – after all, it had been his father's idea not his. He had had no desire to be a soldier, yet here he was.

'Mm, not an unusual answer. Did you object?' Aramis observed the young man closely. He had never recognised any natural inclination to soldiering in Du Bois, but he supposed not every cadet entered out of their own choice. The King's Musketeers was a regiment of renown and a profession well suited to second sons and their ilk.

Du Bois considered his answer. He had not given much thought to conversing with the three men when he had volunteered, but he had been given little choice, and now it seemed he was going to have to think on his feet or risk being caught out in a lie.

'I was not particularly keen, but I could give no strong objection,' he replied cautiously.

'I suppose your older brother will take over the estate?' Aramis smiled nodding with understanding of a younger sibling's predicament.

'I have no siblings,' Du Bois blurted out before he realised his mistake.

'Really? Then why the need to become a soldier?' Aramis' curiosity was roused, but he attempted to play it down, not wishing to scare Du Bois off; he was perfectly aware of the young man's guarded response to his questions.

'I do not really see that is any of your business,' came the curt rebuff.

Aramis chuckled good naturedly. 'You are quite right, it is not. Forgive me. I will leave you in peace and plague Porthos for a while instead.' He was rather glad of the opportunity to take his leave, as the desire to find out what had transpired between Porthos and Athos was killing him.

He did not bother to beat about the bush. 'What did you say?'

'Who says I said anythin'?'

'Come, my friend, I know you and Athos too well. I know that glacial expression, and there must be some reason he is so far ahead of us. I know you did not intend to upset him, but on the other hand he is acting very strangely this morning. I fear he had a disturbed night.'

Porthos eyed his friend. 'Nightmares?'

Aramis shrugged. 'It sounded that way as I passed his room last night. Talking of which I have yet to learn exactly what transpired after I left you. It would appear I missed a great deal – perhaps it is time I caught up, before I tackle our friend.'

Athos stared at the open landscape before him, seeing nothing. Not the golden light playing upon the copper boughs, not the pale gold remains of summer grass, not the birds swooping in the pale autumn sky. Nothing. He trusted the horse beneath him to find its way over the rough-hewn road, and some inner instinct kept him riding in the right direction. How many times had Roger carried him beyond sense or reason, whether through drink, injury or simply miserable oblivion? The horse had never failed him.

Yet now he was none of those things. He was angry – not with Porthos, everything his friend had said was true. Yet what people failed to realise was that someone, some body of people, had to take those final decisions, had to be the final cog in the mechanism of responsibility. Yes, the peasants, the tenants looked to the nobility to solve their ultimate problems, whilst the nobility relied upon the monarchy – and he knew how well that worked out. If the nobility no longer existed, if the monarchy was overthrown, still someone would have to shoulder the final mantle of accountability. Sometimes it was the most intelligent, sometimes it was the loudest, but often it was simply the most ruthless, the most vicious and power hungry. If it came down to relying on someone only acting out of their own twisted need for position and domination, then the people were better off with what they had now.

The nobility was not infallible. Not every old house still upheld notions of honour and duty, but they did have generations of experience, they knew how to keep order, and they knew how to manage their estates. Now the Monarchy, that was another issue altogether. He had sat with his King in some of the darkest places, listened to the man's real thoughts and concerns, yet the petulant child that stamped his foot and demanded his own way was the real King, the man who ruled all of France's destiny. Could a displaced Comte blame people like Porthos for believing that the nobility were as corrupt and out of touch as their King?

He hoped there was still a trace of honour and duty lingering within most of the oldest families, but times were changing, and he had seen both the great in a country vagabond and the worst in a royal princeling. How could he argue passionately for one or the other? How could he defend the old ways, when he had abandoned them himself – handed his estate over to the blacksmith and the inn keeper? Could a village, a group of elders, even a new revolutionary council decide what was right and what was wrong? No, at the end of the day, the final decision rarely sat on more than one man's shoulders, and they had to be both broad and balanced – just like the scales of justice.

He had once thought he was such a man, had thought that he could carry out all that was required of him, even though such power and privilege did not sit well with his conscience. What a fool he had been. What had that honour and duty brought him? How had justice served him and Thomas? Perhaps a man's crimes should not be judged by those close to him, not even by those considered responsible for him. Perhaps anonymity and ignorance would provide a man with a better justice and protect those passing such sentences with a clear conscience and a restful night's sleep. He hoped such a possibility existed, for he wished no other soul the nights he wrangled with his so-called honourable scruples.

Aramis had listened to Porthos' account of both the skirmish outside the tavern and the fire inside the garrison. He pondered what he had heard, all the time keeping an eye on the solitary figure riding up ahead. It was nearing midday and the horses would soon need watering. The pale sun had disappeared behind equally colourless clouds, and if they were fortunate their appearance would merely herald gloom and not another storm.

'Why would somebody go to the trouble of sneaking inside the garrison at night and setting light to a pile of discarded wood near the stables, yet go to the trouble of letting the horses free from their tethers?' pondered Aramis.

'Someone, who didn't want 'em 'urt,' Porthos replied.

'So what was the point?' Aramis continued.

'A lot of fuss, some very frightened 'orses and a lot of lost sleep,' his friend complained.

'But what would they achieve?'

Both men looked at one another, smiled and spoke together.

'A distraction,' they chorused.

'Mon dieu, it was obvious,' Porthos moaned in exasperation.

'Probably not at the time, too much going on and no obvious reason. So why did they need a distraction? What did they do whilst you and Athos ran around catching horses?' Aramis mused.

''E didn't,' Porthos snorted.

Aramis looked at his friend not quite comprehending. 'He did not what?'

'Run around catchin' 'orses. 'E turned up just in time to catch 'is half-crazed stallion when the fire was actually out – never saw 'im before that.'

Aramis remembered the sly comment from Porthos that morning when Athos remarked he had been tired, but he had immediately been distracted by the swordsman's comment concerning the fight with Giroux. 'Let me get this clear. Someone set fire to the garrison, then let out the horses, to potentially create a distraction. Athos did not appear to help – despite what I imagine was a scene of smoke and noise in the extreme – until the fire was out. Which took how long?'

Porthos furrowed his brow, but to both men's surprise it was Du Bois who answered. 'Quite a while. Despite the rain the fire burnt hot, smelt like someone had thrown oil onto the wood. We were lucky the storm had dampened the stables or it would all have gone up, what with the sparks and such.'

'How long?' Aramis asked again.

Du Bois shrugged. 'Long enough to carry two score buckets of water,' he complained.

Aramis looked thoughtfully toward Athos. 'I think it is time I had that chat.' He gave Porthos a wink of bravado and cantered forward.

'What's wrong?' Du Bois asked.

'Time to stop and water the horses,' Porthos answered gruffly, deep in thought and not liking where those thoughts were heading.

Athos heard the thud of hooves and could have guessed who was approaching – he was just surprised it had taken him this long. He prepared himself for the accusations Aramis was going to throw at him, even though the marksman would couch them as gentle admonishments.

'What did he say?' was all he asked.

Athos gave him a sidelong stare. 'Nothing that wasn't true.'

'The truth hurts most.'

'I am well aware. His timing was poor. I will apologise.' Aramis nodded and said no more.

'Why do you think someone set light to the woodpile last night?' He kept the question light, but Athos knew him far too well.

'Children, vagrants, who knows? It would not be the first time.'

'Really? Do children and vagrants normally let lose the horses first?' Athos did not reply, but continued to watch the road ahead.

'The river is around here, I suggest we halt to water the horses and have something to eat. We will not reach the site of the first attack until almost dark as it is.' Athos did not wait for Aramis to acquiesce. He wheeled his horse toward a small copse and rode on.

The others followed and slid to the ground. The gentle tumble of water over stone reached their ears and Du Bois volunteered to take their mounts to drink from the nearby stream.

The three men sat on the broken stumps of trees and ate from the food they had brought in their packs. As usual, Athos ate nothing. He watched Du Bois return with the horses and tether them where the grass was still lush and green beneath the laden boughs to graze for a while. The cadet looked for a place to sit, but the only spot was alongside Athos on the decaying log he occupied. Somewhat reluctantly he sat down, keeping a safe enough distance as though Athos represented a threat, and when Athos actually spoke to him, he almost tipped over backwards in surprise.

'How is Troussou?' the swordsman drawled.

'Troussou? He is comfortable.' Was all the shocked cadet could manage.

'Really? I doubt he is that. Have you ever broken your arm?' There was an unspoken assumption of the negative in the question, which was delivered with a large dose of condescension.

'Well… no, but he was managing to eat his breakfast, so I think he was not in so much pain,' he managed to articulate, clearly struggling to see where the conversation was headed.

'Mm,' was Athos' only reply.

Du Bois looked to the other two Musketeers for a sign of assistance. Porthos shrugged and Aramis merely winked, neither of which were much use in dealing with their mercurial friend.

'Strange he should suddenly dive beneath the hooves of my horse like that,' Athos continued.

'He is a rather large… but… a very fine stallion, sir.' All three men looked at Du Bois as he stumbled over the respectful address.

Porthos was about to guffaw, when Aramis dug him sharply in the ribs. The big man scowled but managed to control his amusement to appease his friend.

'Even so, I would have said he looked more like he had been pushed,' Athos persisted.

Du Bois flushed. 'I do not know what you are implying, Athos, but I do not like your tone.'

'Sir.' Porthos added, unable to control himself. 'I do not like your tone – sir.' Miraculously, he managed it with a straight face, his tone full of gravitas. This time it was Aramis' turn to find something of fascination amongst the grass at his feet. Athos merely raised a brow and gave his friend a contemptuous glare.

Du Bois huffed and rose with as much dignity as he could muster considering the heavy burden of guilt over his actions, and the terrible knowledge Athos suspected. He stalked off back to his horse and made a pretence of checking through the contents of his saddle bag, as Porthos and Aramis finally gave in to their mirth – though it was clear Athos did not share their childish amusement.

He rose from the fallen trunk and appraised the leaden sky. 'Time to move. If I am right, I believe there is a cave structure not far from Gourney. If we travel quickly, we may reach it before the rain comes in. It will make for a more comfortable night.' Porthos smiled at the sudden news.

'Excellent, I do like a good cave, not enough of 'em about.' He grinned at Athos and accompanied him over to the horses.

'D'you 'ear that, young Du Bois? You won't 'ave to sleep in the rain. If we are lucky Sir Athos 'ere knows where there's a cave.' He slapped the young man on the back as he glared at the big Musketeer and mounted his horse.

As they began to ride, a thought occurred to Du Bois and he steered his horse next to Athos. 'You are familiar with the area we are going to then?'

The swordsman ignored him. 'We travel this way quite frequently to and fro from Le Havre,' Aramis answered.

'Did you know there were caves then?' the young cadet asked, emboldened by the possibility he may have stumbled across information that would have interested his father.

Even Aramis was taken aback by the bold question, and his response was not quite quick enough. 'I take it you did not.' It seemed Du Bois' initial arrogance had returned, and it did not bode well. Aramis heard the low rumble of irritation from Porthos' direction.

'Athos spends a great deal of time poring over maps with the Captain,' responded Aramis. 'He plans missions other than those we have undertaken, and of course we do not always carry out commissions together,' he added, attempting to keep Porthos quiet.

Du Bois smirked. 'Really? I thought you were inseparable.'

'You probably think that about your limbs, but if you keep that smirk up you're going to find out just how mistaken you are,' Porthos told him, his menacing tone removing the expression in question immediately.

'How long has Athos been a Musketeer?' Du Bois asked, deciding a different line of questioning may elicit more response.

'Why don't you ask 'im?' Porthos replied.

'I had rather given up. I thought you were speaking for him.' The trace of cockiness hovered on the edge of the response, but Aramis decided to tell him what he wanted to know.

'Athos received his commission in the summer.' He did not offer further explanation, just waiting to see just what Du Bois was trying to discover.

'How long have you been a Musketeer?' he asked Aramis.

'Three years,' the marksman answered without hesitation.

'And Porthos?'

'A little more than two,' the big man replied.

Du Bois looked at the two men, then back at Athos.

'So both of you have been Musketeers for several years, Athos has only held his commission for several months, yet you are happy to follow his lead. Why?'

To be fair, it was a reasonable question. It had always been that way, even when Athos had only officially been their sword master they had easily fallen in with his plans, in spite of the fact that they sometimes appeared suicidal. Was it his natural leadership, generations of noble breeding? Who could say?

'It's easier to let 'im 'ave 'is own way,' Porthos nodded.

Du Bois scowled, not sure if they were teasing him again.

'If we do not go along with him, he does it anyway,' Aramis shrugged.

'And that is a good reason to follow him?' Du Bois quizzed.

'That and the fact he is generally right,' Aramis added with a mock shake of his head. 'Though it pains me to say it.'

'How does a man from the gutter, know so much about how to organise a group of Musketeers?' the cadet now asked, genuinely interested.

'Cause 'es a natural,' Porthos replied.

'Natural what?' Aramis asked.

'Pain in the arse,' Porthos guffawed. 'That you can tell him.'

'You do not need to – one thing I definitely am not is deaf. And Aramis, about my always being right – you had better remember that in the next couple of days, save me having to remind you.' Athos glanced over his shoulder from his position a little way ahead and the marksman groaned and rolled his eyes.

'That's another thing, 'e has bloody excellent 'earin' ,' Porthos laughed. 'When 'e wants to.'

The four men picked up their pace and conversation ceased. The clouds had darkened, and a considerable breeze ruffled the amber leaves, sending them spiralling to the growing carpet below. September had been duly dismissed and October now ruled. Up ahead, the sun had almost sunk below the distant horizon, creating the effect of a forest aflame above and between the trees. It would soon be dark, and they had still an hour or so to go. And if Athos was not mistaken, they were not alone.

ooOoo

Beau had ridden from Benoir at dawn. He planned to head straight to Pinot, as he was confident that was where Athos was heading and did not see the point in lurking around and risk missing him – better to go straight to the cheese and catch the rat in the trap.

So it was not he who stalked the party of Musketeers through the darkened roadways, and neither was it Treville; though the Captain had made haste, he was still some way behind his men.

The idea had occurred to Giroux at the very last minute. He, of course, knew exactly where Athos was headed, though he did not know why, and he certainly did not care. He realised the Cardinal was interested in the arrogant bastard, but if he played his cards right, no one would ever link what he was about to set in motion back to him.

He entered the Bastille as darkness closed in – he was still nursing his damaged nose and his blood boiled with every painful inhalation. It was not the first time it had been broken, but this time each laborious breath only spurred him on to bring an end to the constant irritation that was Athos.

He wound his way down the darkened corridors, deeper into the bowels of the prison. The stench of putrefaction and decay made even Giroux grimace, which of course only brought about more discomfort. He reached the cell he was looking for and lit a sconce on the wall to give him a better view of the two men within. Both bore the marks of their arrest, indicating neither man had submitted to the request quietly. They had been arrested the previous day on the outskirts of the city. It had been just their luck that a group of Red Guard were heading back from a training exercise and caught the two men attempting to steal horses from an inn just outside the city.

The two men, Jobin and Peloir, had no intention of entering Paris; in fact they were finished with France and for some Godforsaken reason were planning to head to England. All in all this would prove very satisfactory for his plans, though none of these facts would have registered with him at all if they had not indicated when arrested that their place of origin was a place called Pinot.

Until recently, Giroux had never heard of the village, he had had no need. It was far enough away from Paris to be of no concern to the Guard, and nothing ever happened in that area to mark it as a place of interest – until now.

He regarded the two men with contempt. One wore a ragged patch over one eye and both looked as though they had been living rough for a fair while.

'Which one is Jobin and which one is Peloir?' he demanded. The man with a filthy patch identified himself as Peloir, leaving his sullen friend to answer to Jobin.

'So, you will both hang for stealing a horse. Not a great achievement. Not what your mothers intended, I'm sure.' His voice dripped with scorn.

Peloir spat. 'If I knew who she was I'd ask 'er.'

Jobin gave a noise between a cough and a laugh. 'Knowin' your old man it could 'ave bin anyone.'

'Well at least I've an old man to ask.' This seemed to silence his mocking friend, but it told Giroux all he needed to know.

'What if there were a way to get out of here with your necks intact?'

Both men eyed the Guard Captain with ill-disguised distrust.

'And 'ow would we do that?' Peloir enquired.

'You are both from Pinot, is that right?' The two men shuffled and exchanged a quick silent communication.

'Maybe. What of it?'

'What is there of interest in Pinot?' Giroux asked.

The two men both laughed this time, but Peloir spoke. 'Nothin', it's full of bloody farmers.'

Giroux frowned. 'Who is the overlord?'

Jobin spat again. 'Ha, our local Comte. Even 'e didn't 'ang around – that's what 'e thinks of the place.'

'What do you mean? Where did he go?' Giroux asked becoming irritated with their lack of useful information.

'Who knows? Some said 'e left with a broken heart, others said he went off to war. ''E aint there, that's all I know. The 'ouse is all shut up and the estate is run by the steward. We was laid off and 'ere we are.'

Giroux's ears pricked up. 'You lost your jobs when the Comte left? What did you do?'

'Nothin' special, just laboured on the estate. Nothin' the Comte would 'ave bin aware of – 'e clears off, we lose our jobs.'

Giroux smiled. If the overlord of the area was gone, then his plan may be even easier to execute than he had imagined. 'Then I might be able to put some money in your pockets. If you come back and prove to me the job is done, I will even give you a horse each and your passage to England. What do you say?'

The two men eyed each other with caution before turning to Giroux. 'What do we 'ave to do?' Jobin asked, his eyes narrow, his expression greedy.

'Kill a Musketeer,' Giroux growled, keeping his voice low.

The two men frowned but they did not refuse outright. 'They ain't easy men to kill, so I've 'eard,' Peloir pointed out.

'I'll give you weapons, you don't need to get close. Just shoot him. I don't care how you do it, just see it done.'

'Where is 'e?' Jobin asked.

'Pinot.' Giroux smiled.

'Ah, 'ome ground so to speak,' Jobin grinned through a selection of blackened and missing teeth.

'There will be four of them. The one you want is the one in charge, an arrogant, condescending bastard. Dark hair, wears black, rides a great black beast of a stallion. His name is Athos.'

'Athos, did you say?' Peloir asked.

Giroux stiffened. 'Do you know of him?'

The man shook his head and shrugged. 'Unusual name.'

'Will you do it?' the Captain asked. He was getting cold and the stench was making him sick – he had had enough of the conversation and just wanted to get out and drink some wine for the pain.

'Why not? But we'll need money up front, horses and weapons.' It must have been the pain that robbed Giroux of any real sense, for he readily agreed.

Out in the fresh air, he arranged to meet them and left. A little while later they were on the road out of Paris, with two Red Guard horses, guns, swords and enough money for accommodation and food.

'Well 'e was a mug. Why don't we just take wot we 'ave and leave for England?' Peloir asked.

'Cause we can get more out of 'im if we do it, and then when we get to England we won't have to start off like we are now.' He indicated their worn clothing and filthy boots.

'So if you're so clever, Jobin, 'ow will 'e know if we've done it or not?'

'We're to take 'im Athos' pauldron, 'e reckons 'e would recognize it. Says the Musketeer won't give it up unless 'e's dead.' Jobin grinned his blackened grin.

'Very well, let's get back to Pinot and get it done.' Sneered his accomplice.

'One bloodied pauldron for a new life seems like a fair exchange.' Both men laughed as they headed off along the road, only a short distance behind their quarry.