Chapter 30
Milady had no way of checking the impression her clothing might provoke, for shepherds did not feel the need to keep mirrors for monitoring their appearance. She had packed a dress more in keeping with village life, and her luxurious hair was now hidden by a scarf – all to help make her arrival in Pinion more believable – and even her warm velvet cloak had been replaced by a brown drab travelling version. Milady had no intention of sparking anyone's memory, for she doubted that of those present the night she and Athos first met, many would have forgotten the encounter. When news of their relationship began to make its way from the château to the village, it became apparent all of those in the tavern that evening had a story to tell – whether accurate or not.
She rode her horse slowly through the busy street, somewhat surprised by the sudden growth in traffic going to and fro. She had forgotten about the small local market, but Milady was glad of the distraction – it appeared luck was on her side for once. Farmers and other nearby residents regularly came along to either sell their own wares, or stock up on provisions, and the presence of one unfamiliar woman would not stand out. Today she was a servant doing her mistress's bidding whilst the lady in question visited with a local family.
When Milady opened the inn door and stepped within, the memory of her first visit hit her with an impact no less painful than a punch to the stomach. She gasped at the physicality of her discomfort, brought on by the simple re-enactment of that fateful evening. She stood motionless for a second. This time the noise within the busy room did not pause, or quiet – today she was just one more woman visiting the market. The sensation of anonymity would have been enjoyable, had her attention not been riveted on the empty seat, the one at the rear of the room, by the window – obviously too cold to be popular now winter was drawing in. (i)
As though her feet were acting without instruction, Milady realised she was repeating her movements of that spring night as she sank into the vacant chair beside the icy blast. Shivering, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head; there was no need for her to freeze. Unexpectedly, a friendly voice beside her made her jump.
'Not the best seat in the house, love. That blasted window never shuts properly unless my Pierre gives it a good shove, and he's not here.' The smiling woman gave Milady an apologetic shrug. 'Would you like some nice hot stew to warm your bones?'
Milady nodded her thanks and fought to gain control of her roiling stomach. It was the same woman, the woman who had served them that night. There had been no sign of recognition on the landlady's part, but it had been yet one more horror to be endured. Every table, every beam was the same – nothing had changed. Yet everything was different.
The outer door opened, as a solitary man walked into the inn, and before she could stop herself, Anne looked to see who had entered. When the shadowy figure saluted a group of friends and headed toward their table, she chastised herself for the sharp pang of disappointment that clenched in her chest, and the growing lump that stuck in her throat. Where was her anger when she needed it? Where was the bubbling hate that had sustained her through her darkest days? Why had she so badly wanted to see him enter, just like he had that evening, when her world had tilted and a whole new future had blossomed? That was until they had murdered everything that was good in each other, and they had been doomed to a hollow existence in a world without colour or hope. A world without love.
Rubbing her eyes, Milady felt out of her depth, for as the past began to threaten her present, she was forced to reconsider her logic in returning to Pinon, to where it had all begun. What exactly did she hope to achieve? So far, all she had accomplished was the wrenching open of old wounds, though truth be told, they had never fully closed. Perhaps it was time to allow them to heal, though deep in her heart she suspected that was no longer possible; yet if she kept tearing at the wound, she would have to acknowledge the possibility that she may finally bleed to death.
Had she been aware that at that precise moment her husband was experiencing the same tortuous pain, the same visitation from memories he, too, had tried so hard to supress, it may have provided a level of satisfaction – but it would not have diminished her growing agony.
(i) The Future is Not Ours to See - Short Story of Athos and Milady's meeting.
ooOoo
The Musketeers rode hard, breaking their gallop occasionally, allowing their horses to gather their breath. Aramis noted the surrounding view slowly alter. The scrubland and wooded areas slowly diminished, giving way to several cultivated fields, the odd farmstead increasingly evident. Dotted around the landscape, everything appeared well maintained and thriving, giving the impression Athos' lands were healthy and in order.
''Ere we go,' he heard Porthos mutter.
Aramis turned his attention from the distant fields back to Porthos and noted his friend's scowl. Following the Musketeer's concerned gaze, he realised Athos, who was some way in front, had stopped. Not too far beyond, a high wall interrupted a line of tall trees, indicating the edge of a grand property. There was no doubt whose, nor of the effect its appearance was having on its owner.
Athos had veered around the estate, approaching it so they would enter from the walled kitchen garden. The estate boundary here was the edge of the manor's grounds and meant the party had managed to avoid any of the busier thoroughfares. With Dubois injured, their previous plan – to stay in an empty estate cottage – was simply out of the question.
Aware the others had stopped close behind him, Athos gave Roger a gentle kick and the horse resumed a steady trot. No one spoke. Dubois was out cold, only the occasional moan indicating he was still breathing, and as for the men at his back, he knew they were simply maintaining their temporary silence out of respect for his feelings.
With his old home in sight, anger began to bloom within. He would not let this house be his weakness. He had a job to do, even if the outcome was still obscured in a thick fog. If nothing else, he would not let another person die for some act he may, or may not, have committed. Though God knew which ill-considered or drunken action had brought about such a spiteful vengeance – for this time he retained the strong impression that at least his wife had no part in it – and no matter what might develop, he desperately hoped it would stay that way.
Athos led them toward a trailing mass of ivy, and only as they drew level did they realise there was a doorway that had been invisible from a distance. Athos withdrew a key from his jacket, and with a reluctant grinding sound it stubbornly turned in the lock. Luckily, the path behind it had been kept clear, and with a gentle nudge of his boot the heavy door swung open, producing only the merest squeal in further complaint.
The air was still, and the sudden cloud of angry crows which took flight were the only response to the creaking hinges disturbed by the men's presence. The flock swooped and re-grouped like a black cloud, their cawing loud and ominous, ebony wings beating a rapid retreat to a more distant part of the gardens. Athos watched with growing envy – if only he had that option. He told himself running away was not in his nature, but there was a woman out there who knew that was a lie.
Reluctance pulsing with every step, Athos led the way through the narrow gateway and down the flagstone path. Here and there was evidence to suggest someone still worked the kitchen garden, though in a somewhat reduced capacity than they once had. Much of what had been cultivated ground was now overgrown, and though the weeds had been cut low, wild fruit bushes and trailing brambles continued to thrive in rampant abundance.
Slowly the group trotted beneath an ancient archway, emerging onto a long, sweeping drive, the château suddenly looming up before them.
Aramis was beginning to fidget. Though aware of Dubois' growing needs, he also understood just how difficult this moment was for his friend, and he simply could not find the words to hurry him along.
Porthos gave a low whistle. 'And you decided to become a Musketeer.'
At that moment, had he been on foot Athos would have floundered, and only Roger's steady progress ensured he did not. Tearing his eyes away from the manor, he headed toward the stables. He had no idea if there were any horses still there, or even a groom, so when a young lad with ginger hair appeared he was both surprised and grateful. The boy was obviously shocked to be receiving visitors at all, but his eyes widened even more when he recognised the Musketeers' blue cloaks.
Only the unmistakable authority in Athos' address diverted the stable hand's attention. 'Are you alone?' Athos asked, the low but commanding tone of his voice re-kindling the boy's nerves.
'No, sir … that is, Gerrard is, the head groom, sir. He is just dealing with some tack.'
'I need stabling for four horses, can you accommodate them?'
'Oh yes, sir. The master keeps a good stable, your horses will be well looked after.'
'Where is your master?' Athos asked, his heart hammering against his ribs.
'I am afraid he is away travelling, sir, we have no idea when he might return.' The boy's prompt reply held no hint of discontent or judgement. Athos breathed deeply. It would seem Madame Renard, his housekeeper, had followed his instructions to the letter. He only hoped he could keep the news of his arrival a secret too.
Dubois chose that moment to regain consciousness, or at least move restlessly within Athos' grip – reminding him of his injured burden. He stared at the boy as though he had forgotten his presence. Some emotion passed across the swordsman's face, and Aramis had the distinct impression it was guilt.
'I have wasted time,' he hissed, though to whom he addressed the statement was unclear. 'Porthos, your expertise I think.' The big Musketeer jumped from his horse and took the prone figure gently in his arms and carried him like a baby – though his expression remained wary, for he was still undecided about the cadet's intention.
'Back to the 'ouse?' he queried, not quite sure of Athos' intentions. Treville said nothing, content for now to give Athos his head.
Athos paled slightly, which at this point was almost an almost impossible feat, his skin already being a grey and unhealthy pallor, whilst his dark eyes held a hunted, almost feral glint. Aramis did not know which man he felt the more concern for, Dubois or Athos, as neither man's appearance boded well.
The swordsman gave a single nod and strode toward the front doors of the house with purpose. When all four finally reached the steps, Athos faltered. He had no idea how to enter, and he had no idea who he was entering as – Athos the Comte de la Fère, or Athos the Musketeer. He closed his eyes and moaned, and raising his hand he struck the door with his fist. He had the key, he could simply have walked in, but still, somehow, he could not. There was no sign of movement on the other side of the great wooden door, but the four men waited.
Suddenly there was the sound of a heavy latch lifting and the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was a short, round woman of indiscriminate age. Her cheeks were pink, and on her belt a large set of keys jangled as she huffed with outrage.
'How can I help you, gentlemen?' she demanded, though there was little sign of welcome, or much interest in helping evident in her question.
'Mme Renard, I apologise for the lack of notice,' Athos began. The woman opened her mouth and peered more closely at the man standing before her. Her face flushed, and her hands flew to her mouth, and with a broad smile and tears in her eyes she held out her hands.
'Oh, master Olivier! Oh my, what a surprise. Why did you not say? I would have been ready for you.' Taking her outstretched hands, Athos gently moved the woman to one side.
'I will explain later, right now we have an injured man. I need hot water, towels and bandages.' The woman, still shocked, suddenly became aware of the three men standing behind her master, as well as the injured one in Porthos' arms.
'Oh my, take him into the parlour and I will have a fire set immediately.' With that she hurried away muttering to herself as she bustled down the servants' stairs.
Athos moved as though he were making his way to the scaffold, but he threw open the tall double doors and they entered a beautiful room decorated in cream and blues. Most of the furniture was covered in dust sheets, but Athos pulled one from a large table and indicated Porthos should lay Dubois down. As the medic leaned over the prone form and began to remove his clothing, Athos opened the shutters and let the midday light shine in to illuminate the extravagant space.
Mme Renard appeared in the doorway with another young man, who had obviously hurried to put on his liveried jacket. She shooed him toward the large grate and the boy immediately began constructing a fire.
'Here are the items you requested, my Lord. Should I get you something to drink, or eat?'
'Both would be excellent, thank you.' The woman scurried off, dragging the gawping boy with her.
With the fire drawing well in the hearth, Athos walked over to the table.
'How is he?' All three men eyed Athos, studying him, as though they expected to see some change in the Athos they knew – no longer a soldier, but the Lord of the house in which they stood. What they saw was a man lost and broken, barely holding himself together.
'He has lost a great deal of blood. The stitches are holding in his chest, but the exit wound is far too large and ragged for me to sew.' Aramis ran his hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. 'The ball has travelled across the inside of his chest and exited through the back of his shoulder. I confess I have never seen anything like it. In answer to your question, I do not know how he fares – or if he will live. I do not know what damage has been done.' His voice rose in despair.
Porthos placed a reassuring hand on Aramis' shoulder and the medic dropped his eyes to his bloodied hands.
'Do you have everything you need?' Athos asked, no trace of emotion in the question.
'Thank you, I can think of nothing more,' Aramis replied with a wan smile.
'Then if you will excuse me, please eat, drink and rest. I have something I must do.' With that he grabbed a bottle of wine from the tray Mme Renard had provided, and left the room with both fear and purpose in his gait.
'Where's 'e goin?' Porthos growled.
Treville made to follow, but Aramis took hold of his arm. 'I am not sure now is the right moment.'
Treville scowled. 'I have left the regiment in order to prevent you all walking into a trap. He needs to hear this too.'
'I am quite sure he already knows – though how, or rather who warned him, we do not know,' the medic reluctantly admitted.
The Captain screwed his eyes half shut. 'I have left the garrison to tell you something you already knew before you left?' Treville almost shouted. 'Why did you not inform me?'
'Because we did not know,' Porthos' loud voice boomed in the shrouded room. ''E only told us because I asked 'im where 'e was on the night of the fire. Remember, 'e was the last one to show.'
'And what did he say?' Treville demanded, barely managing to keep his growing anger in check.
'Said someone prevented 'im from coming to 'elp. Said they had a knife but told 'im to watch 'is back. That they suspected it was a trap. They 'ad seen Giroux talking with a stranger, Suzanne D'Anjou and a young Musketeer near the garrison.' Porthos hoped he had kept to the salient points – after all, he had heard Athos leave out more than he divulged on more than one occasion.
'And he had no idea who it was, who would want to warn him?' Both Musketeers shook their heads. Luckily for them, at that moment Dubois began to come round, emitting a long and pitiful moan.
'I need to find the kitchens,' Aramis stated. 'I must make up some pain medicine so that he can rest. I do not want him to move the packing inside his wound.' He had to admit he was grateful for the excuse to leave the room, as he sensed there was an almighty row brewing between his Captain and Athos, and he was not sure he wanted to be there. On the other hand, someone had to be the voice of reason, for he knew how Athos enraged Treville with his skilful avoidance of the truth.
ooOoo
Athos had taken the wine and left his friends behind. This was something he had to do himself, alone. He pulled the cork from the bottle and spat it across the hallway as he made his way toward the stairs. With his destination now firmly in mind, he took the main staircase two at a time, wine spilling over his fingers like blood, dripping to the carpet.
As he reached the landing, his breathing grew ragged and the pain in his chest bloomed with intensity. He continued past the drawing room, past various closed chambers, until he reached the room at the end of the corridor.
Athos withdrew another key from his breeches and inserting it into the lock gave it a quick turn, before thrusting the object aside. With hardly a pause, the simmering swordsman kicked open the doors with his foot, taking a deep swig from the bottle as he did so. The room inside was not covered like the rooms downstairs, but was just as he had seen it last, the way he had instructed it be left.
The apartment was large and airy, with long, golden drapes covering the tall windows. Delicate furniture suggested the room had belonged to a woman. Yet chairs lay on their side, tables were overturned, smashed porcelain scattered around the floor, and in the centre of the room a large dark stain, a mark that had seeped deep within the tapestry image on the expensive rug.
Athos continued to drink deeply. He did not even notice the superior quality of the wine, nor did he note the angry voices rising from below. He merely stared at the dark discolouration upon the carpet, and with one final, long draw from the rapidly emptying vessel, he smashed the bottle in the midst of the stain, letting out a howl brimming with pain and rage as he did so.
He spun round, gripped in the midst of fury and thrust open one of the sets of adjacent doors leading off the room. Within, yet again, there were no dust covers, no attempt to protect what was contained within the space, and only the closed shutters kept out any attempts from the outside world to peer in upon it secrets.
On the dressing table, a silver brush lay discarded, and small delicate glass vials that once held her oils and lotions lay within the layers of dust. One had broken, and the heavy scent of jasmine hung motionless within the stagnant air. On the floor was a puddle of silk – the dress she had discarded that day, choosing a simple shift to go receive her judgment. A testament of innocence, or simply a way to entice the unsuspecting René? With a growl of frustration Athos swept the remaining bottles from the table and slumped to the floor, his back against the bed, gripping his throbbing head with his hands.
He had forced himself to revisit it all. His wife's final moments, his brother's violent end. Now, two years on, did he feel any different? Did he believe her protestations of innocence? The truth was he was afraid to know. For if Thomas had been telling the truth – and her actions since that day certainly supported it – then she was a seasoned liar and a criminal, who had never loved him at all.
If she were to be believed, then he had put to death an innocent woman, and a woman who had loved him with her body and soul.
It was a question he dared not ask, for he could not live with the answer. Only one definitive fact remained – his brother was dead, his wife had killed him, and it was all his fault. God, he needed more wine.
ooOoo
The King tapped his brocaded foot upon the floor, the wine in his hand dangerously lapping the edge of the goblet.
'Where is Treville? Why am I still waiting?' The Cardinal stood just behind the King's seat with a smug expression of barely suppressed delight; the statesman so loved it when the self-righteous Captain of the Musketeers stepped out of line. He was so looking forward to the man's dressing down from the King – his replacement was too much to hope for, but a little humiliation would be enough.
Richelieu's day had not been going well. Right from the first he had been pestered with petty grievances and insignificant interruptions. Did people not realise he had a country to run?
The first of such occurrences had begun with outrage, but at least it had induced an enticing outcome.
'Giroux, please tell me you have not come to cry about over-zealous Musketeers or imagined slights to your ill-trained and maladjusted men. If they have stepped out of line, simply shoot them. I do not have time for pouting,' Richelieu snapped, as he steepled his fingers and awaited the soldier's concerns with impatience.
With a smug confidence the soldier spoke. 'I thought you would like to know the Musketeers left at first light.' He straightened his shoulders, the trace of a smirk playing around his mouth. 'Reynard Dubois managed to accompany them, as instructed, so we will have a man close to them at all times.'
'Think? Think? I do not employ you to think, man. I employ you to take that pointy steel at your side and employ it with a certain amount of accuracy, to subdue scum, and whatever else I ask of you – thinking not being one of them.' The Cardinal paced up and down behind his desk, his face showing the first signs of irritation.
Richelieu paused, momentarily confused. 'And who, by all that is holy, is Reynard Dubois?'
It was Giroux's turn to frown. 'Why, he is the son of your friend, the one you asked Treville to take into the regiment, our spy on the inside.' He shifted a trifle uneasily. He knew the Cardinal's moods were legendary, and had hoped his news would garner some congratulation from the First Minister, but such aspirations were rapidly vanishing.
'On whose instruction did you send him?' the Cardinal enquired, his voice low and controlled.
Yet again Giroux shifted uneasily, frantically attempting to retrace his previous discussions with the Cardinal regarding the Musketeers' mission, with so many of his instructions in the past being nothing more than inferred suggestions.
'I thought, as he had been placed inside the garrison, and that we had laid a false trail for them to follow, you would appreciate a man on the inside.' The Red Guard Captain held his chin high, not wishing to let the First Minister sense his hesitation.
'Fool!' Richelieu screamed. 'Have you any idea where they are going? No, you do not. How could you?' The Cardinal's face flushed red before paling to white, his lips hardly visible in his fury.
Hoping to climb back from the pit he had unwittingly dug for himself, Giroux attempted to calm the politician. 'They are going to Pinon, Your Eminence. I thought that was where you wished them to go?' He prayed he had said something right at last, but when a small wooden box sailed through the air, causing him to duck and take several steps backward, he realised his mistake.
'How do you know they are going to Pinon?' came the icy calm question.
Giroux's eyes shifted left to right, assessing his chances of exiting the room alive. He tried to swallow, but his mouth had suddenly gone very dry.
'I am sure you must have mentioned it, My Lord Cardinal.' It was a thinly concealed show of panic and Richelieu smiled, like a shark sensing blood in the water.
'I am quite sure I did not, Captain. Now why don't you tell me just who told you about Pinon, and why I wished our errant Musketeers to go there?' He leant both hands on his desk and stared the mortified Captain down.
There was nothing for it, he would have to give up the man who called himself Beau. Still struggling to find the right approach, he began to speak. 'There was a man, he said he was working with the Baron, the man you sent one of my men to bring to Paris. I assumed he was informed of our interest regarding Athos. He has gone to Pinon.' He paused, not knowing what else to admit to, and what information he could keep to himself.
The Cardinal's face remained blank. 'Why has he gone to Pinon?' he asked very, very slowly.
Giroux did not want to answer this question, for though he did not know the truth of it, he could make a very good guess. 'I think, that is I do not know for sure, but I suspect … he may intend to kill him.' There, he had said it, and God help him if this was contrary to what the First Minister had in mind.
Again the Cardinal said nothing. Instead, he turned away from the Captain, considering what the man had told him, and reviewing everything he already knew of the swordsman. As though in a dream, Richelieu drifted over to the window, gazing out across the roof tops of Paris. 'Kill him, you say? Why, I wonder, would he want to do that?'
This time Giroux was certain of his answer. 'I believe he hates him, though why I cannot say.'
Richelieu laughed, though the sound was more like a bark and displayed no sign of humour. 'Really, well that makes a change. Apart from those puppet Musketeers, I have yet to find anyone who does not want to kill him.' He walked up and down, attempting to tie the loose ends of Athos' story together, to see if it really did lead where he was beginning to suspect it might.
A noble with a host of family skeletons in his closet, a dead brother and an errant wife. Milady de Winter with her strange fixation with the Musketeer; a woman he would have thought impervious to such fascination. Yet she had risked losing the protection of the most powerful man in Paris, defied him even, to help Athos. The Cardinal did not like mysteries, they led to mistakes, and he liked to be well informed. Athos was a mystery, and a damned annoying one. What was worse, the King thought well of him. But did the King know who he was? Yet another intrigue. Perhaps this man, Beau, might be doing them a favour after all. Broussard would definitely think so, for Richelieu was sure it would solve the debt-ridden Baron's problems too.
Turning back to the nervous Giroux, the Cardinal gave his minion a feral smile. The Guard Captain felt the cold malevolence emanating from his superior and gulped.
'Perhaps it was not so ill-judged – it may be to our advantage. I presume there is no connection back to you, or more importantly, to me?' His voice was smooth and hypnotic, like a snake mesmerizing its victim before it makes its fatal strike.
Giroux licked his lips. 'There is no connection, my Lord.' He had no intention of admitting his decision to send two assassins after the Musketeer of his own volition, for either they would succeed or not –and if defeated, he doubted they would live long enough to tell any tales.
'You may go. But remember, no more acting on impulse. You are my tool, and you will do as I instruct. No more thinking – this time you were lucky.' With that Richelieu left the room by the small door secreted amid the dark panelling and Giroux almost collapsed with relief. When the fear began to bloom into anger, he vowed that should Athos manage to return to the city, he would kill the man himself…