Chapter 28
When Aramis and Porthos re-entered the Bell and Anchor, neither Athos nor Dubois were anywhere to be seen.
'Seems we are the first to arrive,' Aramis remarked, the twitch of his eyebrow indicating his nagging unease.
'Well 'e gave 'is word not to leave, so I'm guessin' 'e'll be back. If 'e meant to sneak off, 'e would 'ave avoided such a promise.'
Aramis smiled at his friend, relaxing a little. 'You are right. Athos would not go back on his word.' Feeling relieved, he took in the bustling customers, noting the smiling publican making his way toward them with a purpose.
'Aha, maybe Athos has left a message,' the marksman grinned.
'Gentlemen. I was to give you word from Monsieur Athos. He has begged two rooms for the night, he thought you might like to freshen up before your luncheon. It's the first room on the left at the top of the stairs. We've got a nice lamb stew when you are ready.' That said, he hurried back to the bar.
Both men looked at one another in confusion. 'Freshen up? Since when 'as Athos worried about freshenin' up?'
Aramis shook his head, as unconvinced as Porthos. 'Do you think it is a message, a warning of some kind?'
'Now that's a possibility. I'm guessin' there is only one way to find out.' With that the big man drew his pistol and headed for the stairs, scowling intensely as he went. Aramis, equally armed, followed at his side, the noise and hubbub of the tavern blocked from their minds as they concentrated on the room at the top of the stairs.
They stood for a minute outside the door the publican had indicated. There was silence inside, no indication it was occupied. With a silent assent, Porthos gently lifted the latch whilst Aramis barged into the room weapon primed and ready. Both men pulled up short when they observed a rather intrigued Athos sitting on the edge of one of three cots, clutching a bottle. His curious expression was quickly replaced by a sardonic smirk, before continuing to indulge in his wine. A quick appraisal of the room revealed that nobody else was present.
ooOoo
On arriving back at the tavern, a quick sweep of the room convinced Athos they were the first to arrive, which suited him just fine.
'Do you have two rooms for tonight? One for my men and me, and one for the boy.' Dubois scowled at the inference that he was not one of Athos' men, but said nothing.
'Certainly,' the landlord grinned. 'Would you be wanting to use them now?' he asked, eying the water that dripped steadily from Athos' hat and Dubois' hair. Athos gave a curt nod, and the landlord took two keys from behind the bar and led them up the staircase.
'This is yours, Monsieur Athos, the boy is at the end of the corridor.' With that he handed over Athos' key and led a sulking Dubois away. Athos stood just inside the empty room and waited for the man to make his return to the bar. As afternoon turned into evening, rain still hit the window, and with a rising wind it struck hard.
As the innkeeper reached his door Athos forestalled him. 'A bottle of wine.' The innkeeper nodded, hurrying away to do the man's bidding.
With a dry shirt hanging loose on his still damp torso, Athos dropped to the cot with a deep sigh. His head ached from the morning's tension. How many times had he heard the wind whisper in the trees and imagined it cried out his name? How many times had he expected someone to question his identity as their eyes bored into him as he passed? The tortured swordsman exhaled, long and slow; it felt as though this was the first true breath he had taken since entering the village at dawn. He allowed himself to close his eyes, feeling suddenly tired – a weariness that seeped into his very bones. As always, he blocked the sight of reality that existed before him, his mind conjuring its own images to take its place.
No matter how desperately he attempted to separate the past from the present, Athos' ravaged mind worked overtime, confused as old memories became inextricably woven with recent events, until there was a only a soup of faces, accusations and sorrow. Unfortunately, those images, just as they had during the last few hours, intruded clearly behind the lids of his aching eyes; his previous life, as vivid and intense as the one which he currently sought to ignore, was vague and blurred. A hesitant scratch on the door heralded his wine – at least he hoped very much it was the wine and not Dubois or the others.
'Come.' The door opened and in walked the maid who had served them their breakfast. Her eyes went wide as she drank in the sight of a somewhat damp and dishevelled Musketeer with a shirt clinging all too suggestively to his body.
'Your wine, Monsieur,' she giggled, not taking her eyes from the man before her. Athos noted none of this and stood to take the bottle, leaving the petite maid staring at a damp expanse of chest as she held out the wine. With cheeks flushed pink and her breathing somewhat rapid, she finally raised her face to give the Musketeer an impish smile. She was certainly in no hurry to leave – that was until she gazed upon his expression. Her smile vanished and the girl gave an involuntary shiver. The man who towered over her exhibited a face bleak as a barren winter, his green eyes cold and filled with disdain. Offering nothing more than a bobbed curtsey the girl hurried from the room, her heart beating rapidly, no longer fuelled by lust, her desire instantly doused by the Musketeer's wretched demeanour. As she crossed herself and offered up a prayer, she could not shake the feeling that the ghosts of the dead had just stared her in the face.
Though he had been completely unaware of the girl's attraction, Athos had not been so immune to the girl recoiling in fear before she fled. He had seen it too many times before.
Why are you not listening to me Olivier? How can you marry a stealing, cheating whore? Do not forsake who you are, do not let her lead you down the wrong path. Your passion frightens me brother…
Why do you stare at me so Athos? Why so cold my love? I have done nothing wrong husband, nothing. I love you, do not gaze upon me like I am a monster, you are scaring me. Athos please…
How could he stand to think his angry, frozen countenance had been the last expression his brother had seen on his face. How right his wife had been to fear him. Her only mistake was that it was he who was the monster, not her. Despite the crimes his brother had accused her of before his death, the creature she was today was his own doing – her loving husband – and no other. He drank freely from the bottle, relishing the rich, dark, fruity flavour as it slipped down his throat. As Athos closed his eyes, images of his wife's begging morphed with that of his brother, both pleading with him to listen. They intertwined and distorted, slowly receding, replaced by happier times, picking flowers in the meadow and racing alongside his little brother toward the town of Anet, then bringing him back to the stark cold realisation that he was here yet again, only this time he was alone.
That day they had rode home happy, he and Thomas. Catherine had sulked in her room whilst the brothers brandished swords, carefree smiles on their faces. They had sat side-by-side as they chattered over their evening meal, something they were never allowed to do when their parents were present. A happy memory, one he so desperately wanted to cling on to – so rare, so precious – pleasant memories he could only conjure whilst he was awake and in control. During the moonlit hours, his mind punished him with images which were far darker and twisted, much more suited to the man he was now – the memories he really deserved.
All so long ago, and yet so close and so vivid. Today he had stood in the same places, walked through the same gates, shackled by guilt as he was destined to be – only this time there was only the cold company of ghosts to haunt his steps.
Suddenly, with only the slightest creak of a floorboard to warn him, the door burst open. Aramis was first, wielding a pair of cocked pistols at Athos' head, followed by a simmering Porthos.
'Where's the boy?' Porthos demanded.
Despite the abrupt disturbance, Athos gave his usual twitch of the lips. 'I thought he may prefer a room of his own.' His voice was cold, haughty and without emotion, and only the twinkle in his eye gave him away. The two Musketeers frowned, totally puzzled, before realisation finally hit.
'You have news,' Aramis grinned, suddenly comprehending Athos had wanted to speak to them in private.
'No, I thought you might like to freshen up,' the swordsman quipped, his face a picture of innocence.
Porthos gave a loud guffaw before snatching Athos' wine and taking a deep swig. Athos scowled, seizing it back.
'I believe we can safely concur, no recent skirmishes have occurred either in, or around Anet, as it is fair to assume that if there had been, the inhabitants would have been aware of them. Neither the farrier nor the mayor has any such knowledge. Of course, that does not prove the other claims are also false, but it does lessen their credibility,' Athos declared.
'So you believe it was a ruse all along? What of Dubois, did he say anything to indicate he is aware of the play?' Aramis questioned, replacing his pistols and leaning against the wall.
Athos shrugged, staring at the bottle clutched in his hand. It had not gone unnoticed by his friends, that he had chosen to partake of wine so early in the day. 'He appears somewhat conflicted.'
''Ow's that?' Porthos rumbled, reaching out for the bottle as Athos pulled it away.
'He appears to be party to certain information which is making him uncomfortable, whilst showing a genuine interest in other areas of our enquiries that belie his role of traitor.' Athos raised his brows and looked in askance at his brothers.
'So maybe he is beginning to question his role in whatever this is. Perhaps we can turn that to our advantage,' Aramis smiled.
'Don't get your 'opes up. I still don't trust 'im ,' Porthos spat, finally managing to snatch the bottle from Athos, only to find it empty. 'You really need to learn 'ow to share,' he grumbled, pouting at the empty bottle and its owner.
Aramis realised Athos was silently waiting for their report pertaining to the morning's activities. He faltered for a second beneath his friend's steely gaze, remembering the tale they had been told by the crippled soldier. Judging by the look on Athos' face and the fact he had already downed most of a bottle of wine so early, he decided repeating what they had been told was not a good idea. Asking about the death of his brother was out of the question. With a resigned shrug, he kept the information pertinent to the mission. 'The same story everywhere we went, no news of attacks of any kind.' Porthos noted the omission but silently concurred with Aramis' decision.
'So why the secrecy?' Porthos asked, waving his hand to indicate the privacy of the room.
Athos stared at the floor; this was the part where they shouted, complained and argued. Taking a deep breath, Athos raised his head and regarded his friends, fixing them with his most superior stare. 'Tomorrow I will go to Pinot.' Both men opened their mouths, but Athos raised his hand and glared. 'I will not go alone, but I need Dubois as far away from me as possible. That is where you come in my friend,' he added, staring at Porthos. 'I need you to take Dubois on to Gournay, whilst we say we are taking Eureaux.' He stiffened his spine as he prepared for the onslaught of debate – and he was not disappointed.
'What, are you mad? Oh, I forgot, yes you are!' Porthos yelled, rising from his bed and pacing across the small room.
Simultaneously, Aramis reacted in a similar fashion. 'No, that is both stupid and selfish.'
Athos remained silent.
Aramis dragged his hand through his hair. He understood Dubois was an unnecessary risk, but losing Porthos to keep the idiot out of the way did not sit well at all, not with so much uncertainty involved.
'We have no idea what we are walking into, Athos, no idea how many may be waiting for you to arrive home. Nor do we have any idea of their intent. We need Porthos.' The simple statement was true, and Athos was aware of it, but he could think of no other option to keep the young man away and out of trouble – and he had really tried.
'Do you have a better idea?' the swordsman asked, his voice low and menacing. 'For I cannot think of one, bar shooting him of course!' Both he and Porthos held eye contact, but it was Porthos who gave way first.
'That's probably a safer choice, I'm not a bloody babysitter,' the big man growled before stalking from the room.
Athos sighed, he was fully aware the plan was a poor one and he understood Porthos was hurt at being the one chosen to lead Dubois out of the way, and it did not sit well with any of them.
He gave Aramis a tired smile. 'I thought as a last resort he could knock him out.'
'Perhaps, we could risk taking him to Pinot, just keeping him out of the way. There is no reason he should find out who you are, or even where we are, if we are careful. Better to risk it and keep Porthos with us.' The marksman, spoke quietly, hoping he might be able to break through whatever was eating away at his friend. Athos still held the empty bottle, gazing at it with a deep longing, Aramis knew the signs only too well, and made a silent pledge there and then not to let his friend out of his sight. He would be Athos' shadow as long as it took to get to the bottom of this new level of melancholy.
Athos lifted his head. 'Perhaps you are right, I know of a place where we can leave him. It is on the edge of my land and there will be no reason for him to make contact with anyone from the estate or village. We could employ the ruse of watching out for approaching riders.'
Aramis beamed. 'Much better, my friend. However, what if we put suggestion one to him first, just to see how he reacts.'
Athos gave a rare, slow smile and rose, patting Aramis on the back. 'Lead on.'
By the time they arrived back in the bar room, the place was heaving. The clientele consisted of an interesting mix, as one would expect from a travelling town – farm workers, merchants, traders and craftsmen of all types, chatted and mixed in amiable companionship, seeking their evening meal after a busy day.
There was a heavy odour of wet leather, with something that smelled far better remaining unidentified. A mist hung ghostlike in the air, as the various inhabitants gradually began to dry as they basked in the heat from two large fires. The atmosphere was cloying, saved only by the smell of delicious stew, bowls of which were evident upon many of the tables.
Porthos and Dubois were already seated; the younger man wore a clean linen shirt, but had discarded his outer garments. All three Musketeers, though stopping to replace their damp shirts, still wore their cold heavy jackets, adding to the humidity of the room. Despite his ill humour, Porthos had obviously anticipated their needs in their absence, for just as they were seated, the inn keeper came over with a tray bearing four steaming bowls of stew and a jug of ale. The big man was never one to put emotion before food.
Just as they began to spoon the warming broth into their mouths, Athos spoke. 'Tomorrow before dawn we ride to the other two destinations. Porthos and Dubois, you take Gournay. Aramis and I will ride to Eureaux.' He said nothing more. Porthos gave him a withering stare before attacking his food as though it were the enemy. Dubois on the other hand looked a little panicked, alternating his attention between Athos and the obviously upset Porthos. Still nobody spoke, continuing to eat their meal, whilst Athos picked the meat from his stew and swallowed it with the little enthusiasm, glowering at the food as though it were potential poison.
When three of the bowls were wiped clean, Dubois broke the silence. 'I would rather go with you,' he declared, eyeing Athos with trepidation.
All three Musketeers looked at him in surprise – not because of his request, but for the fact that he had stated it so boldly. 'Why?' came the dry response from the swordsman.
Dubois flushed. 'I… I feel I can learn a lot from you.' He gave the other two men an apologetic shrug, but offered no other explanation.
Aramis studied the young man's expression for any sign of guile but was surprised to see nothing more than genuine feeling. If he had not been searching for evidence of his guilt, he would have sworn the cadet eyed Athos with nothing short of admiration. Strange, very strange indeed.
Athos made no outward sign of his feelings, giving only a curt and frosty response. 'Very well, you ride with me.' Before either of the other two men could object, he gave them the slightest indication he had something else in mind, implying they should hold their tongues until Dubois was no longer there.
Porthos, still glowering, eyed the remainder of Athos' stew. 'Do you want it?' Athos asked.
'Nah, you picked the best bits out.'
Athos gazed down with surprise at the bowl as though he had no memory of doing such a thing.
'I'm goin' to play some cards.' The big man glared at Athos, in preparation for the inevitable warning to play nice. However, the atmosphere was still strained, and Athos did not want the man going off to the game itching for a fight.
'Porthos, take it easy, I need you tomorrow.' The Musketeer frowned at the uncharacteristic admission, then he noted the merest quirk of Athos' brow and the sideways glance at Dubois, slowly realising there was a different plan afoot. With a broad grin and a lighter heart he went off to make some money to round off an interesting day.
Athos turned to the fidgeting cadet. 'You should rest, we ride early in the morning, and if there is frost tonight the going will be hard.' His tone was haughty and left no room for discussion. Dubois had already won one victory from the enigmatic Musketeer and decided to quit whilst he was ahead.
'Goodnight, and thank you,' he said, and addressing a brief nod to Aramis he headed for the stairs.
'Are you going to tell me what plan C is?' Aramis queried, smiling at the waitress and asking for a bottle of wine.
Athos did not hear his friend speak; he was once more deep in thought, but not in the past – this time his musings were very much in the present. Why did Dubois wish to stay by his side? Athos had no fear of him – barring him sneaking up and stabbing him in his sleep – the swordsman could defend himself against the untried cadet with one arm tied behind his back. No, he did not believe Dubois meant him harm. The boy had made no attempt to sneak away, which would have suggested he was giving someone information, leaving Athos struggling to see the point of the lad's presence. In fact the whole mystery was beginning to make him angry, very angry indeed.
'Athos, plan C?' Aramis urged pouring two glasses of wine. 'By the way, what did you say to our pretty maid Mary? She looks at you as if Satan was sitting at the table.'
Athos winced, remembering the way the girl recoiled from him earlier. 'I find that a such a response is perfectly normal upon closer acquaintance.' He shrugged, but Aramis knew there was no humour behind the remark. It should have been the perfect lead into the question which was burning fiercely inside his head. What happened to your brother? Who is Milady de Winter? But the words simply would not come. Aramis took it as a sign that God deemed the time for such discussion was not yet here. He simply hoped God would lead him right when the appropriate time came, because Aramis suspected he would need all the help he could get from the Almighty when the question was finally aired.
'Tomorrow I will ride with Dubois. You and Porthos follow at a discreet distance. He is a novice and I doubt he would notice if you rode on the back of his horse.' The remark held no humour, only the usual haughty disdain. Aramis almost spat out his wine, and he laughed long and hard. It was almost unheard of for Athos to make a joke – sarcasm yes, but not an out and out joke.
'Oh, mon ami, that has done me good,' Aramis stuttered, finally managing to control himself, aware he was garnering attention from other drinkers, including Porthos. Athos simply smirked.
Aramis' demeanour changed abruptly, scrutinizing Athos carefully. 'You are not trying to distract me from some foolhardy plan are you?' he asked warily.
This time Athos gave the ghost of a smile and shook his head. 'No, if he wishes to ride with me, then there must be a reason, and I am forced to admit I cannot fathom what it is. So I would rather he was beside me than where I cannot see him.'
Aramis could not argue with such practical logic.
ooOoo
Milady rode into Pinot just before noon. She could have reached the estate much earlier, but for a multitude of reasons she simply did not have the motivation to travel any quicker. The de la Fère lands were large, but not vast; still it was an old and wealthy title that held much prestige within the nobility.
She had considered riding brazenly through the village, but dismissed it as a foolhardy strategy. Though she had to admit observing the reactions from those inhabitants still believing she was truly dead would have given her a great deal of pleasure. However, for now she merely wished to watch and listen.
She crossed the estate boundary in a distant corner, where fields of pastureland stretched as far as she could see. Milady chose her path carefully, though each familiar tree, stream or grassy hill caused her heart to constrict and her breath to catch in her throat. Athos and she had ridden across these same cold, damp undulating fields when they had been green and lush, filled with wild flowers and poppies beneath a summer sun.
Glimpsing the church on one such mound, Milady paused to wonder what had been done with her supposed mortal remains. Would her dear husband have washed his hands of her fate, or would he have demanded she be laid in unconsecrated ground – as was her due – labelled by the overlord as a murderess? She could have expected nothing more. Milady held her head high and told herself she did not care, she had outwitted him at the end, and it mattered not where an empty box had been lain. It was with a small cry of surprise when she suddenly found herself standing by the small gate at the rear of the ancient cemetery, having no memory of heading toward the cluster of weathered stones.
As though drawn by some invisible tide, she pushed against the rusted gateway. The pathway was obviously rarely used, and the creaking metal protested, fighting against a tangle of foliage which attempted to bar its way. The grass and roots tore apart as the gate finally swung open. In the silent graveyard, Milady trod upon the overgrown pathway, making her way cautiously between what were obviously the oldest and now long-forgotten stones. Once-clear inscriptions were now little more than scratches upon the surface of the markers, ivy and moss running riot along with the twisted and blackened remains of the wild summer roses.
The air was cold and her breath billowed in the air as though intent upon proving she had no place here with the dead. There was no bird song, and the sun, or what passed for such a thing, was sinking swiftly below the horizon, casting the damp ground beneath her feet in a morbid gloom.
As she brushed past the overgrown foliage, a sweet scent filled the air, causing her to scan the wild and abandoned bushes for its source. Milady's eyes lighted on the pink early flowering viburnum, but it was the bronzed leaves and light blushed tinge of the late blossoming honeysuckle which made her gasp and recoil. The prolific bush fragranced the shaded corner of the plot, its sweet smell causing an onslaught of memories to breech her defences. During those long, passionate summer nights, the honeysuckle around their bedroom window had created an intoxicating scent, adding to what had been an already heady atmosphere.
She balled her fists, tearing her eyes away from the provoking flower, spurning the scent and the tortured memories it conjured. As she wound her way amongst the stones, she realised she had no idea where she was going, no idea why she had come. Her gloved fingers caressed the top of a fallen angel and she smiled at the irony. She had never been an angel – born so low there was never very far to fall. Her eyes drifted to the writing on the next marker; perhaps it was the engraved sword that had caught her eye.
In memory of P. Geroux
Swordmaster
The wording was brief and succinct, but she knew who the man was. He had been Athos' favourite tutor. The man had died young, and it was the only time his father had ever conceded to allowing such a person to be buried here, a corner of the graveyard normally saved for long-serving family retainers.
Her heart thumped wildly as she moved from stone to stone, unsure whether she was afraid, or angry. It was only when she reached the end of the row that she discovered what she had never expected to find. There it stood, a simple white cross set on a slight grassy mound. Her heart hitched as she drew closer, her feet drawing her in whilst her head screamed at her to run.
Plain and simple – A.F 1625 – no sentiment, no detail, just that. Her heart would have hardened, she would have kicked at the marker until it no longer existed, obliterating the relic standing in testament to his betrayal. Yet there, growing in profusion upon the mound, sprouted the new soft furry leaves of the plant that would smother the grave come spring. A sturdy species that could survive the harshest of winters, yet bore one of the most delicate, almost frail of flowers. It lay dormant now but would provide a blanket of blue when the warm April sun breathed life into the earth beneath her feet. He had seen to that, she knew it without question.
Just like that symbol, she, too, had weathered the harshest of conditions, yet unlike the forget-me-not, her frailty had not survived.
Milady turned her back on the grave, this time walking with far more purpose, back to where her horse waited patiently by the open gateway. Using the low wall to mount, she galloped across the open field as though the hounds of hell were on her tail. As she rode, so fury began to bubble in her veins, buried and forgotten. Well she would see about that.
She was tired. Tired of running, tired of hating. She had no idea who wanted Athos to return to Pinot, or what they intended to do with him when he arrived. However, her path was clear – it was time to end this. She understood that she could not do it herself; she had tried more than once, but his presence, so close, had always undone her purpose. No matter how much she wanted to be the one to do the deed, it would have to fall to others, though she would be close, and if necessary, would deliver the final blow.
If that could not be achieved, then perhaps it would have to be her who would finally succumb. After all, her grave was already prepared.