I must add an apology to those of you who may not have read the one-off story entitled Athos and the Gamekeeper. It was intended as a flashback in this work, but instead took on a life of its own and was published as a short complete story. However, actions in that plot will have a marked effect on the narrative of this chapter. You can find it on the same site, and may prefer to read it first, before reading Chapter 27.

Chapter 27

Athos was prepared for an argument, but anticipating their reaction he had already formed his own defence. 'I promise not to leave Anet without you.' The words carried the full force of his personality, leaving neither Aramis nor Porthos with any form of recourse.

Porthos scowled. ''E bloody reads minds now,' he muttered to himself.

Aramis gave a sad smile. 'Thank you. Where will you go?'

Athos did not need to consider his answer; the past was still tugging him into its misty deception. 'The stables. Anyone who has passed through will most likely have visited there.' Aramis nodded. 'We will check the other hostelries; will you take the village dignitaries?

Athos' hands clutched the rough wood of his chair. He knew it was an obvious question, as it was only polite to explain their presence to the head of the town, if only to set his mind at rest. Yet what that may reveal he did not wish to acknowledge. Would the story of his madness have travelled this far? He had kept his wife's perfidy as quiet as he possibly could, but how had he been supposed to cover up the death of a local noble and the hanging of the Comte's wife? He almost groaned as the enormity of the gossip-mill brought with it a whole new set of problems.

At the time he had simply fled, giving no thought to what the villagers might conclude from his actions, or what rumours they may spread further afield. After all, Anet was the nearest town and many of the Pinot farmers would sell their wares there. How could he not have considered the implications? The whole tragedy was beginning to spread its consequences like dandelion seeds in the air, out of control, no say in where they landed, or what might take root in consequence.

In reply to the Musketeer's question he simply nodded, but not before Aramis had noted the white knuckles gripping the arms of the swordsman's chair, or the grey pallor of his friend's skin. As they all rose, he placed a hand on Athos' arm, murmuring close to his ear. 'Are you well, mon ami? Whatever is wrong, please share, for it is clear it is eating away at you.'

Athos gazed at the hand upon his arm as though it was a portent of doom. After a second, he looked into the marksman's eyes with an expression nothing short of desperation, but with the blink of an eye, the nonchalance was back, silently telling his friend to back away and let the matter drop.

Aramis sighed and removed his hand. 'Take care, mon ami, take no chances.' He glanced in Dubois' direction and whispered: 'And watch your back.' This at least elicited a quick smirk. With nothing more to be said, Athos strode from the room, leaving Dubois tripping over himself to catch up; certainly not a dignified exit for the already flustered cadet.

'Wait, slow down. I thought we were going together?' Dubois shouted, as Athos continued to forge his way relentlessly through the growing crowd of people visiting the market.

Athos never turned his head, nor slowed his pace, only calling over his shoulder: 'We are together, you are simply behind me.' Dubois grunted; there was really no answer to that.

As the two men made their way toward the town stables, the grey clouds that had gathered silently overhead began to shed their load. It was not the heavy downpour of storms, but the steady relentless drizzle that made its way into every crevice or uncovered part of a person's body. Slithering down the back of a neck and soaking the hair in minutes. Dubois began to mutter as misery set in.

'Hat,' Athos commented as the cadet finally caught him up.

'I am sorry?'

'You need a hat,' Athos drawled.

Dubois frowned and glanced at the dark hat the musketeer had pulled down over his eyes. He had to admit it did appear to direct the rain away from the swordsman's neck, whereas he was currently cringing whilst the cold water crept further and further inside his shirt.

Athos was aware of the stares and murmured remarks as he cut through the crowd with an unrelenting pace. He glanced at no one, simply stared above their heads and kept his eyes firmly on his destination. He had visited the town on many occasions, with Thomas and on his own, and even with his father on the odd occasion. He had never really taken more than a passing notice of the buildings or its inhabitants, but today was different. Every whisper, every turned head seemed to burn into his very being, and the buildings seemed larger and sharper. Memories of those long ago visits suddenly raced through his head, faces looming into his subconscious, leering and mocking his downfall. Sweat began to bead on his brow, and he was grateful for the continuous drizzle as it both cooled and hid his anxiety.

At least Dubois was silent, and for that he was extremely grateful.

They turned off the main thoroughfare and through a rough stone archway into a wide courtyard. Athos stiffened. He watched the man approach and stared, frozen in time, searching again for his lost horse, so many years ago.

The man was older than Athos, but not by much. He wiped his hands on a grey cloth as he walked toward the two men. He scrutinised Dubois before resting his eyes on the Musketeer.

'Mornin', gentlemen. What might I do for you?' Several other men stopped what they were doing and watched to see what happened.

Athos gave a slight nod to acknowledge the greeting. 'We have received word that there have been several attacks made upon travellers and merchants upon the road between Paris and Le Havre. One of these, supposedly, occurring not from Anet. Have you heard of any such event?' As he waited for a reply, Athos scanned the surrounding courtyard, taking in the frozen tableau, as the men ceased their work as they, too, awaited the ostler's answer.

Athos turned back to the man and raised a brow to encourage a reply. The man appeared somewhat puzzled, and perhaps a trifle relieved; so much so, his answer was somewhat lacking the seriousness of the question. He gave a sunny smile and laughed. 'No, no, we have heard of no such events. We have many travellers come this way, either seeking beds for the night, or just somewhere to freshen up and rest their horses. We would have heard if there had been trouble.' He shook his head as if to emphasise the negative response. Athos stared at the man – he could see no sign of a lie, yet the man appeared familiar.

'Have you worked here long?' The question took the ostler by surprise.

'All my life I suppose, my father and his father before him worked the blacksmith's forge, and the stables. My brother works in the stables at the tavern.' He shifted his feet and Athos was aware the man looked somewhat uncomfortable.

'He does not work with you here?' Athos pushed. Something was nudging his brain, something that shouted to be recalled, but simply would not make itself known.

The ostler looked both shifty and sullen. 'No, he doesn't.' Athos was about to ask why when Dubois spoke up. 'I see no sign of a forge.'

The ostler's face darkened. 'We don't work it no more, not since my father passed.'

Dubois nodded and turned to appraise the other men, who had now returned to work, all except one slightly older man, who was edging ever closer to the conversation. Bored, the cadet turned to leave, just as Athos spoke.

'That must be why you appear familiar, your brother is looking after our horses,' he said. The ostler spat in the dirt.

'I bet he is. Good day to you.' With that he turned his back on the Musketeer and slouched back toward the stables. Only the slightly older man still watched – now only a few feet away. As Athos made his way toward the exit, he gave the watcher a cursory glance and felt the hair on his neck prickle, causing an involuntary shudder. He pulled his hat down even further over his eyes and walked quickly away.

'Now what?' Dubois asked. 'That man looked decidedly shifty to me, I think he was hiding something.'

Athos appraised the young man for the first time since they had left. He gave the slightest twitch of his lips; by now even Dubois had come to realise this was the closest Athos generally came to a smile. 'You may be right.'

'Why did you not press him?' Dubois persisted.

'And ask him what? Why his brother no longer worked at the stables, why they no longer worked the forge? Neither of those facts could have any bearing on our mission. I am more and more convinced the supposed attacks are nothing more than a ruse. What do you think?' This time Athos paused, giving the younger man his full attention, examining Dubois as he awaited a response.

The cadet could feel the Musketeer's scrutiny boring into him. Did he know? Did he suspect Dubois of being a conspirator? Suddenly the young man felt every inch the traitor he was. He could feel his face warming and he desperately tried to think of a suitable reply.

'Why would somebody lie about such a thing?' His voice cracked slightly under the pressure of Athos' gaze, those eyes displaying a knowing expression, both sad and resigned.

Athos turned to walk away. 'That is something I intend to find out.' As they walked on down the street, Athos began to consider their next move. If no news was forthcoming in Anet, then they would have no reason not to move on to Pinot next. The very concept made his throat constrict, and then there was the added problem of Dubois and how to get rid of him.

Just up ahead a building stood slightly on its own. Nothing particularly grand, but if Athos remembered rightly it housed the offices of the town's mayor. Perhaps they would find what they sought there.

ooOoo

Forgeron groomed the large black horse, its coat gleaming in the dim light of the stables. In turn the animal watched the ostler with a wary eye, ready to complain at the slightest sign of disrespect.

'Now you're a fine one, aren't you my boy?' He liked horses, perhaps a little too much, especially if they were worth a sou or two, and this one was definitely worth a bit. Not that the other two weren't fine animals, but this black beast was a beauty. Roger stamped his feet as if to say he had had enough, and the man gave his flank a slap before moving away.

A scratching sound caught his attention and he walked toward the doorway, the object flying open before he could even reach the handle. Standing on the other side a man appeared, flushed and out of breath.

'Tunellier, what are you doing here? Don't tell me my brother let you off early?' The laughter that followed exhibited no mirth, only bitterness. The visitor looked over his shoulder before entering the stables and closing the door behind them. It was warm inside; the wet October day had grown colder, even bringing to mind thoughts of snow. The air was filled with the scent of fresh hay and horseflesh. Only the odd snort from the horses, snuffling as they munched their oats, disturbed the uncomfortable silence.

'So what do you want?' Forgeron demanded.

''Ave you seen the Musketeer? the older man asked.

'Which one? There's three of them, and a kid.' Forgeron spat.

This appeared to throw Tunellier – he had only seen Athos and Dubois. 'Tall, dark, cocky, talks like a nob.'

Forgeron laughed. 'I know the one, threatened me not to abuse the horses. As if I would.' He gave a smirk and shrugged his shoulders. 'What of him?'

The other man shuffled and held up his hands in supplication. 'Now listen, 'ear me out. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I swear I've seen 'im before. In fact it's not just 'is face. As soon as I 'eard 'is voice I knew it was 'im. But it just don't seem possible.'

Forgeron was getting restless. 'We don't get many Musketeers here. In fact I cannot remember one in years.' His brow creased and a strange, grim expression crossed his weathered features.

'That's just it, it was a long time ago, and 'e weren't no Musketeer then.' Just at that moment, Roger gave a snort and kicked out at his stable door. Perhaps the beast was nervous, or maybe he simply did not like the company; either way both men turned to look at the fiery animal. Tunnelier gave a moan and stared wide-eyed at the highly strung horse. 'My God, I'm right, it is 'im – that's the bloody same 'orse!'

'What are you talking about? Spit it out will you, I've got work to do and I doubt my brother knows you are here passing the time of day when there is work to be done.'

Tunnelier, grabbed the younger man's shoulder. 'Think, doesn't the horse look familiar to you? Did you not recognise his voice?' The man's eyes were wide and held a mixture of hate and fear, as he ran his tongue nervously over his lips. 'Did you not see his sword?' This time his voice dipped into a whisper, but his grip increased.

Forgeron frowned, turning once again to examine the nervous horse. The black fur gleamed, and the white blaze seemed to shine like a beacon in the dark stable, the whites of his eyes only emphasising his discomforted mood. The man retreated into himself, pondering the questions, and thought back to the Musketeers' arrival and Athos' haughty remarks. He closed his eyes and let his memory search through its many rooms until the past and present finally merged into one.

His eyes flew wide, and he stared at the other man. 'It cannot be possible, this horse is too young, and he would hardly be a Musketeer.'

Tunnelier ran his hand through his almost non-existent hair, gesticulating his own disbelief. 'I know, it's impossible, but I swear it's 'im… though I suppose it could be a relative.' He offered the suggestion, though he knew it was unlikely.

'What exactly happened at the manor?' Forgeron demanded.

'Nobody knows exactly, only rumours and gossip; they are a closed mouth lot in Pinot. Seems they had a lot of time for the Comte, the young one that is, not the old man – he was a bastard.' He spat on the floor as if to cement his opinion of Athos' father.

'So what were the rumours?' Forgeron asked, beginning to lose his temper.

Tunnelier, shrugged again. 'My sister-in-law's cousin lives in Pinot, but she only moved there last year. She says there is nobody living at the big 'ouse – only a couple of staff to keep it going. Grounds are looked after, and the farms and fields are in good condition, but nobody knows the whereabouts of the Comte.' He scowled and rubbed his chin as he searched his memory for gossip, he had never really listened to his wife's prattling but now he wished he had paid closer attention. 'There was some rumour of his brother dying, the little un, the one that started the trouble. Sommat to do with a woman, but it's all very muddled.'

'Why the hell would he show up here dressed as a Musketeer?' Forgeron muttered to himself.

The older man perked up. 'Perhaps 'e's come back to trick us, to see if we will do it again, that's why 'e's brought that brute with 'im. Look at the trouble 'e caused. You wouldn't be workin' ere if it hadn't of been for 'im. You would be running your own stable, and your own forge. It's all 'is fault. I saw 'im fight that day, and I would recognise that sword anywhere. I know it's 'im. What'll we do?'

Forgeron snarled, his face twisting into a mask of cold hatred. 'Ready what you need and wait for my word. Is your son still sweet on young Mary in the tavern?'

'Aye, 'e is that.'

'Then make sure she listens carefully to what they are saying. I want to know where they are going and when. Do you understand?' The other man nodded and gave a sinister smile.

'I'll tell 'er. I'll be ready.' With that he turned on his heel and left Forgeron alone. Slowly, he turned and examined Roger.

'Well now, could you really be related to that beast which caused all of the trouble back then?' He walked slowly up to the horse and offered him an apple. 'Not your fault though, was it? If that bastard who owns you is the same man who ruined my life, then my fight is with 'im, not you.' He stroked the horse's nose before turning toward the doorway – he had plans to make and a great deal of thinking to do.

ooOoo

For a small-town, Anet had far more stores and craftsmen that it first appeared. They soon discovered that it was a regular stopping off point for those on their way to and from the port. Despite not being large, it managed to support such a variety of trades due to the regular demand – lame horses, broken axles, ill travellers; you name it, and the solution could be found in Anet.

The sky grew ever darker and the cold rain more persistent, stinging Athos' eyes as he made his way toward the building he associated with the town's mayor. His heart beat rapidly inside his chest, and his palms within his gloves felt too hot and damp, though it was nothing to do with the rain.

He tried desperately to remember how many times he might have spoken to the man, but it was so long ago and he could not bring their interactions to mind. He had visited with his father, but had rarely been introduced, only the basic civil formalities observed. His father had only taken him so that he could witness for himself the responsibilities that would one day be his. No matter what Athos thought of the man, no matter how his manner had differed from his older son's, they had one thing in common – they looked very alike; and worse still, if you listened to the elderly Lady de Valoir, they sounded even more alike.

Faces could be forgotten, but voices, especially if heard without the distraction of looking at the speaker, could summon the deepest of memories. The old Marchioness had only heard Athos' voice, and though blind, she knew straight away who he was, because she had once been in love with his father, whose voice she would never forget.

Dubois' interruption ripped into Athos contemplation. 'Do we know who the mayor is?' His voice held no arrogance, only genuine interest.

'Monsieur Pernier.' Athos replied. Dubois took the matter for granted, not considering how the Musketeer would know, but assuming it had all been part of the mission brief.

They walked up the steps to the heavy wooden door and entered the dimly lit building. The furniture was of good quality, but old and covered with a fine layer of dust. Sitting at a small desk, with nothing but a candle to light his way, a small bent clerk peered at a column of figures in a large gilt ledger. Athos had no memory of the man and exhaled the breath he had been holding.

The clerk, hearing the boot-heels tapping on the tiled floor, lifted his head and peered equally hard at the two men approaching. His small gold-rimmed glasses held thick lenses and it was obvious his sight was incredibly poor, no doubt from working by the light of a candle for far too long.

'Good morning, how can I assist you, gentlemen?' His enquiry was automatic – the only thing he could in all likelihood discern was the fact they were indeed men.

'Good day to you, I am Athos of the King's Musketeers. I would like to speak with the mayor.'

The clerk sat up as straight as his crooked spine would allow. 'Musketeer. Well now, I see, most unusual.' He peered a little harder as if to confirm what Athos had said. 'If you excuse me I will enquire whether he can see you.' He scurried off with an odd loping gait, probably due to the permanent twist of his torso.

Athos smiled, knowing the town's mayor would not refuse to see him – if only out of curiosity – for at the end of the day, rebuffing the Musketeer would be tantamount to rebuffing the King himself. Though many people knew of the Red Guard, they were not well liked, for obvious reasons, and nor did the people hold them in esteem. However, whether because the Musketeers travelled with a little more pomp and ceremony, with their blue capes and infamous pauldrons, or whether because it was well known they were the King's own regiment, they elicited far more courtesy and co-operation. Of course, as much as their status drew respect and aid, it also engendered resentment from those who believed the King a foolish and extravagant fop.

Dubois had obviously been thinking along a similar vein. 'Will he see us?'

'Yes,' was Athos' only reply. Dubois nodded. He was beginning to get used to the surly Musketeer's monosyllabic answers, and in some ways he preferred them to Aramis' prosing and Porthos' grumbling.

A shuffling noise echoed from further down the dark corridor, heralding the clerk's return. The strange little man came into sight giving them one last myopic appraisal before he spoke. 'If you will come with me, gentlemen.'

They followed at a considered pace to allow the odd man to maintain his lead. When he opened the door and announced them, the mayor was standing with his back to the door studying the goings on from his window. Athos could not help but note the light-filled room with its sumptuous furniture, and compare it to the ill-lit corridor the clerk was forced to inhabit. For some reason it annoyed him, and he clenched his rain soaked gloves at his sides.

'The King's Musketeers, Monsieur.' He gestured for Athos and Dubois to enter the room before silently closing it behind them. Dubois found himself grinning – he rather liked being called a Musketeer, but when he realised what he was doing he quickly cleared his throat and scowled at the mayor's back. Athos waited patiently, he knew what the elder was doing; aware that the Musketeers held a good deal of power, he was making a point that in Anet he was the man that held the power, he was the man in charge.

Eventually he turned to face them and Athos almost gasped. It was not Monsieur Pernier. This man he had never seen before.

'Is something wrong, Musketeer?' the mayor asked noting the reaction on Athos' face.

The swordsman calmed at once. 'Forgive me, I was expecting to see Monsieur Pernier.' The man smiled and nodded.

'A common error to be sure. I am afraid Monseur Pernier passed away recently, and I was elected in his place.'

'Elected? Did the Comte not select you for the position?' Why Athos asked the question he had no idea – it had been stupid – but he had already decided to dislike the man, and he was curious as to how he had managed to secure the position without the lord of the manor's permission – which he definitely had not given.

Dubois noted the question and frowned – more and more Athos' behaviour did not fit with the information he had been given. Strange.

'It was the mayor's turn to look uncomfortable, but he straightened himself and took a deep breath. 'Unfortunately, the overlord of this area is travelling and could not be contacted. Obviously, we needed to fill the position, and with no knowledge of when the Comte would return to the village, elders voted on the selection.' Athos could find no fault with that, in fact it sounded like an entirely sensible decision. 'Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, gentlemen?'

Athos repeated the rumours of highway robberies yet again and received the same reaction. The mayor appeared genuinely confused.

Shaking his head he sank into his chair, gesticulating that the other two men should do the same. When Athos made no move to sit, he shrugged and sat anyway. 'I have heard nothing of this. Anet receives many visitors each day, but if there had been problems close by, we would know; this would be the first place they would seek shelter.

Dubois spoke and this time it was Athos' turn to be affected by the question. 'Are there not other villages near here where victims may have sought protection? The Comte's estate for example?' It was a brave move, but Dubois was beginning to question the validity of his original information.

The mayor shook his head. 'Pinot is the Comte's estate, but as I said, he is not in residence. It is a small village, and the manor house is currently unoccupied.'

Dubois was not about to let the matter drop. 'So who upholds the law and deals with local judiciary?' The question sent a stabbing pain to Athos' gut. He could just see his father's reaction, sneering at his son's failure, furious at the neglect of the family's responsibilities. But Athos had dealt out punishment, and once had been enough, he wanted nothing more to do with it.

'I do.' The mayor once again showed signs of uncertainty.

'I am sure you take the responsibility seriously in the Comte's absence,' Athos stated. He wanted to get out of the room, the building, the bloody town. What he really wanted was a drink. 'Thank you for your assistance, we will take our leave.'

'From the town?' the mayor asked hesitantly.

Athos turned. 'As soon as we have concluded our questions, later today or tomorrow.' With that he opened the door to the room and strode back along the corridor.

'Do you really have to go so quickly?' Dubois muttered.

'Would you like to spend a little longer in your sodden clothing, or would you prefer to change and take some refreshment?' From the man who never ate, and probably hadn't even noticed that he was wet, it was an astonishing question. But Dubois did not know Athos well enough, and considered the swordsman was only being solicitous of his comfort.

'Thank you, I would like both of those things.' Softening a little toward the silent Musketeer, Dubois relaxed a little. 'Do you like being a Musketeer?'

The question came out of the blue and Athos turned to look at the cadet. He saw nothing in the younger man's face but honest curiosity. It was a question Athos had asked himself on many occasions; when drunk and tired he had considered taking Roger and simply riding as far away from Paris as he could.

He would normally have sidestepped the question, but instead he answered. 'It is rewarding.' Not exactly the answer Dubois had hoped for, but his courage had been strengthened by what he had misinterpreted as Athos' consideration.

'Why? It is both dangerous and uncomfortable.' At this Athos gave a snort of amusement, the statement yet again begged the question, just what exactly had led Reynard Dubois into the regiment?

The rain was coming down with full force now and on occasion icy pellet spelted their skin, making them hurry along the muddy road back toward the tavern. Athos could not think of an answer to this last question. Should he say? It gives me a home, a purpose, somewhere to belong? Instead he gave the simple answer. 'It was an option when I had few others.' It was honest and probably would have elicited far more questions had they not arrived at the tavern doorway. 'Go on in and secure a table, I will check the horses.'

ooOoo

Aramis and Porthos had spent the morning visiting the remaining taverns – for such a small town there were a remarkable amount of watering holes offering a range of amenities. In every one they heard the same incredulous answer – from the inn keepers, the serving girls, the cooper, the blacksmith and the vintner – no attacks on the highways in the vicinity of Anet.

They arrived at the final tavern cold, wet and hungry. Aramis had finally given in to his friend's pestering and allowed Porthos to order something to eat. 'Make it something small – if we do not eat at the Bell and Anchor then Athos will not eat either,' the marksman chided.

''E won't eat either way, 'e just pushes it around 'is plate, tormenting it.'

'Well us not eating will hardly set an example, will it?'

Porthos scoffed at the remark. 'You think 'e would do somethin' just because we did it? When 'as 'e ever done that? 'E's more likely to do just the opposite. Which brings us back to 'is not eatin',' the big man laughed as he ordered a pie and ale. 'What? It won't stop me eatin' another one, and 'is too probably!' Porthos gave a belly laugh and then sobered a little. 'You are right though, at least if we nag 'im 'e might manage some bread and cheese.'

'Something is different, whatever despair he harbours, appears to be consuming him. I am worried. I am not sure I have ever seen him wearing such an expression of... I am not sure what it is, but it is terrifying.' Aramis' own distress, clearly overwhelming.

''E's going back to the place where 'is problems began. 'E's never really told us what 'appened you know. We know she 'ad somethin' to do with it, and we know 'is brother was killed, we believe by 'er. But 'e's never told us exactly what 'appened. So we 'ave no idea what 'e's feelin' – but I'm bettin' it's not good.'

'Sometimes you are very wise, my friend. Perhaps it is time we asked him exactly what did occur – it may be vital to whatever is behind this whole plot.' Both men nodded, concurring on the strategy, though neither of them relished the idea of being the first to broach that conversation. Just then the inn keeper approached their table with a broad smile. The inn was quiet, and he obviously had something to say. He was not particularly old, but walked with a pronounced limp.

'Musketeers, I heard you was in town. Welcome, it has been many years since we have had your patronage. Oh, occasionally a couple will pass through, but not to make an official stop. Probably been ten years since that happened.' He chuckled as though remembering the occasion with fondness.

'You make it sound as though it was a memorable event,' Aramis smiled.

'Oh it was, young man, it was. Anet is a busy little town, we have our share of fighting, thievery and so on. But I remember that day as though it were yesterday, quite the crowd. And of course afterwards there was a right to do.' Aramis and Porthos were now hooked.

'What 'appened?' Porthos asked, settling down with his ale and tucking into his pie with relish.

'Well, I was a young man then, waiting to take up my soldiering.' He gave a sad smile. 'That didn't last long. A musket ball took my leg off.' He gave the lower part of his leg a tap and the men heard the sound of wood beneath the cloth. 'Still they saved my life, and I took up the tavern after my dad passed on. So life is good.'

'Then please take the weight off your leg and join us for a drink,' Aramis urged.

'I don't mind if I do, thank you.' The man lowered himself into the chair and stared off into the distance, as if attempting to recall details of the day in question, to form a clear and vivid picture in his mind's eye

'At that time, the old Comte was still alive – he was a proper tyrant. Had two boys, one the spitting image of himself, and a smaller one, blonde and cheeky, nice little lad.'

'What about the older one?' Aramis asked without thinking.

'Ah, well he was a quiet one. Respectful like, always said good day, please and thank you, usually earned himself a stinging look from the old man for his troubles. They would come into town every so often, when the Comte had business with the mayor. But if the Comte were on business and away from the estate, then the two boys often rode into town and the older one would buy the little one some sweetmeats – they were right fond of one another.

Aramis' heart sank at the thought of what life had later had in store for the two brothers.

'Well, that day there had been a right fuss. Two Musketeers were in town looking into a gang of horse thieves – a ring that went from Le Havre to Paris, stealing thoroughbreds and moving them on to Spain, or anywhere else where they wouldn't ask too many questions. Just about mid-morning the little brother came riding into town on the Viscount's big black horse – it was obvious that the horse was leading the rider and not the other way around. Just as they reached the Bell and Anchor, he lost his grip and fell. Knocked him sick, but nothing broken. They took him into the tavern, and I had the job of trying to catch the beast and take him to the stables.

He shook his head and chuckled. 'It was a fine horse; turned out he had a silly name, but I cannot remember what it was now. Anyway, about an hour later, close to midday, two riders came thundering down the street, a man and a woman – well more a boy and a girl.

The two Musketeers exchanged surprised expressions. 'The older brother?' Aramis asked.

The inn keeper nodded. 'Yes, the Viscount and the daughter of one of the local land owners – nasty madam, still is.' He glanced at the Musketeers in case he had said something out of line. They offered him an encouraging smile and urged him to continue. 'Dark haired, pretty?' Porthos could not help but ask.

'No not her – gingerish, spiteful face and cold as a fish.' Not Milady then.

'Well, to cut a long story short, the horse was nowhere to be seen when the Viscount went looking for it, but he was too distracted at the time, worrying about the little one. It didn't take long to find out he was well and nothing but a little guilty. Turned out he had stolen the horse to teach the Viscount a lesson. Ha, ha, bet he got the telling off of his life. So they were just leaving when some strangers, who had been staying overnight, came riding through the town leading a big black horse. That damned horse was having none of it, doing everything in his power to stand his ground. Of course the young Viscount recognised his horse and demanded they hand it over. Well they took no notice of a strip of a lad, but between him and his horse, the boy was determined.

'Turned out they had bought it fair and square from the farrier, though they must have known it was a dodgy deal. They refused to hand it over, and that's when the fun began, because the horse started doing tricks, just from nods and a wave of the young Viscount's hand. The crowd loved it. Of course things turned nasty about then and the Viscount pulled his sword, gave them the full force of his title and took one of them on.'

Aramis could not help but smile, some things had not changed. He could see it now, and wished he had.

The inn keeper smiled. 'Now that was a sight to see in itself, a young lad of no more than sixteen taking on two full grown men. The crowd was right behind him, yelling they should give him back his horse. That was when the two Musketeers turned up. It was obvious to everyone it was the Viscount's horse, and they made sure it was returned to him. All in all it was most entertaining, what with the tricks and the fight. Never forgot it.'

'What 'appened to the farrier?' Porthos growled, wanting to punch him even after ten years.

The innkeeper's face took on a serious turn. 'Mm, that is where the story takes on a darker turn. After the Musketeers had their proof, they took Matthew Forgeron back to Paris – turned out he was part of the ring they had come to investigate. He was hung, along with several others he gave up – eventually.' He shivered at the thought of the methods of persuasion used in the Chatelet.

'What about the Viscount and his brother?' Aramis asked, his voice not much more than a whisper.

The Innkeeper's demeanour changed, and his face became more guarded. 'Not really sure, they still visited now and again, but I guess they grew up and moved on to other things.'

'Does the Comte still visit?' the Musketeer pressed on.

'The old Comte died, and the young Comte is travelling,' was all the man said.

'What about the brother?' Porthos added.

'Was a shame, think the young lad took sick, died a couple of years back. Some say that's why the Comte went away, too many memories. Shame, nice boys.' He stood as quickly as he was able and rapidly made his goodbyes, hurrying away and disappearing into a back room.

'Well that was a change of attitude.'

'Let's 'ope, there's more folk like that, keen to keep Athos' secret, or think enough of 'im to keep any rumours to themselves. He could do with a few friends.'

With that they left the tavern with much to consider and made their way back to the Bell and Anchor for Porthos' second lunch.