Chapter 31
Where the second bottle of wine came from Athos was unsure. One of the servants? Out of a bedroom? He really did not care. The angry swordsman strode from room to room thrusting the doors away from him as though in doing so he could drive away his past. With every continuing step his anguish overflowed; he realised there was not a corridor, desk, table, rug or bed that did not remind him of his wife. Their passion had been fierce and urgent, no waiting to hide in the shadows of the night for them.
In this place, he could not separate his dreams from reality. How could he sleep beneath the very roof under which his brother had been killed? Night after night, Thomas had sought him out, pleading, begging for Athos' understanding, to finally admit what kind of creature he had married. Would he come again tonight? Would the vision be stronger, would Thomas be angry? Only now had his brother returned, when it was too late.
ooOoo
When Aramis and Porthos heard the scream of pain echo from the rooms above, they wasted no time. 'Watch Dubois, try and get him to drink the willow bark,' Aramis pleaded as they left a simmering Treville with no choice but to watch over the patient.
'Where is 'e? Porthos barked.
The sound of smashing glass and a loud thump exploded from somewhere within the château. 'I suggest we follow the sounds of destruction,' Aramis replied as he mounted the stairs at a run.
More banging, the suggestion of splintering wood, followed by more smashing of glass. The house was huge, and they searched room after room, each one empty and cold, containing nothing but pale and immobile ghosts. Then they realised the sounds of Athos' violent outburst had ceased, leaving the frustrated Musketeers at a loss where to head next. One by one they pushed open doors to opulent rooms, void of life. Finally they noted the door to the room at the end of the corridor was open, and having exchanged a quick glance, just to ensure they were thinking the same thing, the two men broke into a run.
The room they entered told a frightening tale. The scattered pottery remnants and fallen furniture evidenced a powerful and prolonged struggle, yet it was the old, dark stain surrounding the remains of the broken wine bottle that held their horrified gaze.
'That ain't wine, is it?' Porthos whispered.
'No, mon ami, I suspect it is not.' Aramis crossed himself and sent a silent prayer on behalf of whomever's blood it was that had soaked into the floor long ago. They followed the trail of open doors and entered the bed chamber. Before they had the opportunity to take in the surroundings, they were overpowered by the heavy smell of jasmine, which assaulted their senses fresh as the day it had been spilt.
Her room. Of that there was no doubt. Remains of the recently demolished vials, crunched beneath their booted feet. 'I don't like where this is goin'.'
Aramis shook his head in sorrow. 'Neither do I, my friend, neither do I. We had better find him.'
Exiting the room, they listened for any indication of Athos' location, but the house was eerily silent.
Hearing steps behind them both men turned, only to find Mme Renard approaching, carrying a pan and brush. As she drew closer, the two men could tell the woman had been crying.
'Mme Renard,' Aramis smiled kindly, 'Do you know where Athos is?' The woman glanced toward the doorway of the savaged apartment.
'Not for certain, sir. But if he isn't in the stables, and I haven't heard the main door close, then …' She paused to consider the question. 'Well he's too big to hide in the linen cupboard now.' Her attempt at humour softened both men's hearts. 'You might try the downstairs morning room. That was where I saw him last – the morning he left – and his Lordship was in a similar mood then.' She looked at both men, her eyes filling with tears once more. Seeing the need for further explanation, she added, 'It has the view you see, the view of the tree.' With that she sobbed and rushed inside to clean away any damage before she was forced to tell any more of her master's secrets.
Unsure where the morning room was, the two Musketeers hurried back down the main stairs and began thrusting open doors. As they passed the room containing Dubois and Treville, the Captain barged from the room. 'Well, where is he?'
'Somewhere down here, Captain,' Aramis replied.
'Then we had best find him.' Treville turned and walked along the corridor, where portraits of Athos' ancestors stared blindly down at the Musketeers in outrage.
'Captain!' Porthos called.
Treville paused and looked over his shoulder, something in his two men's expressions, causing him to frown. 'What is it?'
'Upstairs,' Porthos whispered, his memory of the disturbing scene giving his strident tone an edge of reverence. 'It isn't good.'
Though Treville had no idea what the two men had witnessed, he, out of all of them, knew the true details of Athos' previous life, and it did not take a vivid imagination to guess what evidence they had found.
When the three men first opened the door of the silent room, they presumed it was empty. Only Aramis' nod toward the far window caused them to closely examine the space once again.
The drapes had been drawn back to reveal long floor to ceiling windows that opened onto a terrace. They could not see much, apart from an outstretched leg and a single booted foot. Treville was the first to step into the room. There was much to discuss, and he was unsure how Athos would wish him to proceed. Should he continue to protect the swordsman's secret, or was it time for Aramis and Porthos to hear the full truth? When Aramis placed a hand on his Captain's arm, the older man glared, but in the end he hung back and allowed the two soldiers to precede him into the room.
Athos sat on the floor, an empty bottle lying at his side. He stared out of the window to a tree on the distant hill beyond. Though they could see nothing of import, the pain and torment flitting across their friend's face suggested he could see far too much.
The two men took a position on either side of Athos upon the floor, whilst Treville stood a little way behind.
'Don't suppose there's anythin' left in that bottle is there?' Porthos asked, with a hint of sorrow.
To their horror, Athos reached behind his back and pulled out a third already opened bottle and passed it to the big Musketeer. Porthos took possession, scowling over the top of his head at Aramis.
'We understand this is painful for you, mon ami – coming back here. Talk to us, let us in, let us help,' Aramis pleaded.
'You cannot. No one can. Too late.' There was the slightest slur in the swordsman's voice, but they suspected it was more to do with his desolate state of mind than the wine – two and a half bottles was child's play to a man like Athos.
True to his nature, Porthos took the path that a lesser man would have avoided, refusing to skirt around what he saw as the main issue. 'We saw the blood, and we know she was here.'
Aramis stared at his friend in startled dismay, but Porthos was angry. Not with Athos, but angry at the woman he hated, and whatever crime she had perpetrated to cause his friend's constant misery.
'She's not worth it Athos, she's plain evil. She's a murderer.'
Athos turned to stare at Porthos with a look that squeezed the big man's heart in a vice, and before he could continue his tirade against Milady de Winter Athos spoke, his voice ragged and tormented.
'And she's my wife…'
It felt as though the air had been sucked from the room – nobody spoke, time froze. Athos' eyes searched Porthos' face, frantically looking for some sign. The anguish in his eyes was something Porthos suspected he would never forget, and despite his revulsion he wished he could have taken back his words, taken back the accusations that had caused his brother so much pain. Instead he took hold of Athos' shoulders and pulled him into a fierce embrace. Athos either did not have the strength to resist, or he needed the reassurance the gesture offered, for he did not object or pull away.
Whatever role they had suspected the woman had played in Athos' life, they had not foreseen that. Treville said nothing, waiting for the full story to finally come to light.
Nobody moved or spoke for some time. Rain began to fall, and at some point, amid the silence, it turned to snow, though there was little chance of it staking a claim on the already sodden ground. When the light began to dim, the encroaching gloom allowed Athos to tell his story within the protection of the growing shadows.
Starting from the beginning was akin to reliving his nightmares whilst awake. Struggling, Athos watched the patterns form and run down the glass, as the rain and snowflakes, mingled and died upon the grimy surface. 'We met by accident. I should not have been there. I was … dragging my feet, unable to face what awaited me at home. Once again, I let my brother make my apologies on my behalf. Always the brother with the golden tongue, I knew he would smooth the path and make it right. It had been a hot day, I was thirsty after spending many hours on the estate. One glass of wine, a few minutes of solace, before going home, that was all I sought.' He stopped, as if remembering the day in question.
'She was sat by the window, her face was turned, and I could only see her profile, her hair. There was an incident, a trifling affair, but we spoke. She smiled and I was lost. I thought we both were.'
'I took her home. Thomas was waiting. Catherine, her father, the vicar and his wife – all waiting. All waiting for me to speak aloud what they all discussed in secret; to finally name a date. But I could not do it. I could not marry a woman I did not love, did not even like.' Aramis closed his eyes, well imagining his friend's dilemma.
'I behaved badly. I could have saved everyone a great deal of embarrassment, but I did not. I flaunted Anne before them all. I left them to dine, and I took her to bed.'
'We were married within two weeks. It was May, and she wore forget-me-nots in her hair.' The revelation explained so much; the significance of the small flower that had often evoked much pain and misery, the faded token he wore in the locket around his neck.
'I should have known it was too good, too perfect. We could not be separated, not for a moment. Thomas was jealous; we had always been close, and he felt the shift in our relationship intensely. He offered to do the right thing and marry Catherine. Her father insisted, he said it had been arranged. Of course I felt responsible for the situation my brother found himself in. I assured him he did not have to make good a promise made before he was born.' Again silence, as his shadowy face displayed a canvas of emotions.
It was around that time he began to come to me with tales of mistrust – that Anne was an opportunist, that she only wanted my money, she only wanted the title. Yet she had asked for nothing – not a jewel, not a gift, not even a wedding gown.' As he made his claim, he looked from Aramis to Porthos, as though beseeching them to understand. 'I could not believe him. Then one day he informed me he was going with friends to Paris; he was a way a whole month. We were alone, a month of blissful happiness. When Thomas returned, he was fired up with rumours and stories. Said he had proof that she was a thief, a temptress, and a murderer.' Athos' voice broke and both his friends edged closer, offering their support, despite their lack of words. Treville listened to the tale, and though he knew the story, he had never heard Athos tell it with such tortured emotion.
'His distrust grew to hatred, we argued. He begged and begged me to listen, to throw her out before she could do any harm. But the harm was done, I loved her, and we were not whole when we were apart. Every day I ask myself, could she have been lying, was it all an act? She asked for nothing, just my love and attention. Till this day I still do not know the truth, I never will, but I cannot believe it, even though I know now what she is capable of.
'Two weeks after his return, I was called away to the village to settle a dispute – I cannot even remember what it was. I was not away from home long, yet it was the longest we had ever been apart in all the months we had been together. She had requested I take her with me, but I told her I would not be long – if only ...' his voice trailed away once more, lost in a memory of what ifs. When he spoke once more the emotion was no longer evident, his tone cold and rigid. 'I suppose I had neglected my duty. When I arrived home …' Athos closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, the two men could feel him tense at their sides. Whatever he needed to say was tearing him apart.
'When I arrived home, there was screaming and chaos. Servants crying, scurrying around. I ran, just ran. When I reached her apartments, she was simply stood there, in that room, crying, dagger in her hand, blood down the front of her torn gown. When she saw me, hope filled her eyes, she pleaded and she begged, she held on to me in desperation. I did not listen, could not hear her, for there on the floor, in the middle of a pool of blood, lay my brother. He was just seventeen. My little brother, whom I had sworn to protect. Murdered by my wife.'
'Did anyone see what happened?' Aramis urged gently, as Athos began to withdraw once more.
'No, no one. She said he had forced himself on her, told her he was going to prove she was nothing but a whore. I could not believe it of Thomas. I sided with my dead brother over my living wife.' Athos voice broke at the full horror of his choice.
''E was your brother,' growled Porthos.
'But I loved her,' Athos moaned. 'She denied it right to the end. She had screamed and cried for me to see her, to listen to her side of the story. I simply could not do it. The staff, the workers in the grounds, they all watched me, watched to see what I would do. I held her life in my hands. I had no choice. I had to do my duty, what was expected of me. In the end, she stopped asking for me. Went quietly to her death. Dressed in white, holding forget-me-nots. I could not watch, I could not even give her that. I rode away, like a coward. I rode hard – where to I have no memory of – and it was hours later that I returned. I stayed long enough to leave my steward a letter and to pack a bag. I never returned.' He did not mention the visit some months ago to see her grave, to prove to himself that she had been buried, or that the lie had at least been sustained. It was not important.
Athos' eyes began to droop. His friends understood just how difficult the revelation had been. When his head fell against Porthos' broad shoulders, the big man did not hesitate. Scooping him up, he laid the sleeping Athos on the sofa, hoping he would sleep a dreamless sleep – though from what he had just told them, he doubted it very much.
The three men left the room and returned to Dubois, who thankfully still slept, if rather fitfully.
'Well I wasn't expecting that,' Porthos huffed, pouring himself a glass of rather fine-looking brandy that had appeared since they were last in the room.
'We should have realised, should have known. It was right before our eyes. His wife, of course she was.' Treville stared at the fire. 'You knew, did you not?' Aramis asked the Captain.
'I did, but it was not my secret to reveal. I did my best to keep them apart, but they…' He shrugged at the frustration that was Athos and Milady de Winter.
The two men nodded in understanding.
'Do you think she was telling the truth?' the medic asked.
'What do you think?' Porthos hissed.
'I believe we will never know, but we have seen them together. Whatever bound them then, I fear binds them still,' Treville stated.
'She has helped him twice now; she risked her life in that tunnel. I believe on some level she still loves him, but she hates him too, and for that he blames himself. He believes he spawned the creature she has become, and for that he pays a hard price,' Aramis sighed.
'I suppose we should be grateful she is safely in England. At least that is one less thing to worry about.' Porthos nodded, savouring the brandy with a smile. He turned toward Aramis, but the medic was staring at the fire with a frown. 'What's up?' the big man asked quirking a brow, glass paused halfway to his mouth.
The medic attempted a weak smile and shook his head. 'No, nothing, just musing.' Porthos appraised his friend with suspicion but let it pass. 'Why do you not go and find the lovely Mme Renard and ask about sleeping quarters? I suggest you and the Captain get some rest whilst I watch Dubois, then you can take over later.' Porthos scowled at the brandy but good naturedly went off in search of the housekeeper.
'What is it?' Treville asked as soon as the big Musketeer had left the room.
'Perhaps nothing, but it has been bothering me ever since Athos confessed about the night of the fires that someone would care enough about Athos to warn him, yet he claimed he had no idea who it was. Someone who recognised both Giroux, and Suzanne, a lady of the court who moves in the most rarefied of circles. Add to that the fact that Athos rarely goes out, and has no friends.'
Treville rolled his eyes. 'It cannot be!'
Aramis shook his head and rubbed his tired eyes. 'I hope I am wrong. Having his wife back in the country will only bring misery to Athos – to them both. Whether she is part of this plot I cannot possibly say, but I fear that if she is, it may be more than he can stand.'
'How would she know? Why would she have come back from England? The Cardinal would have her killed if he knew,' Treville persisted.
'There is one other warning she – or they – gave Athos. They mentioned Rochefort was asking questions about him. Has the Comte not just returned from England?' Aramis asked.
Treville groaned. 'She cannot be working for that treacherous hyena?'
'I have no idea, but we should be ready, all the same.'
Athos had been so very tired, both in body and spirit. He had not slept well for far too long, nor eaten regularly enough – not that he ever did. The arrival at Pinon had drained every ounce of energy he had left, and the wine had not helped. He slept deeply, but like so many nights, he was not alone. However, this time his dreams were different, they were not the tortured persecution of the dead he was used to. This time it was an event that was both familiar and distant, vivid and yet cloaked.
The day was cold. He sat in the window with his little brother, eagerly awaiting the arrival of someone. The frosted pane was obscuring the white covered grounds of the estate, and he had had to stand on the sill to get a clearer view of the drive. The image wavered and changed. He was seated by the fire with a man, they were laughing and talking – not his father, they never did that. Thomas was no longer there, but the boy Athos was content and happy. Once again, the scenery changed. He was cold now, standing alone on the grass of the park, searching for something or someone. He could hear cries, but he could not locate the origin. He knew it was his little brother, and he knew he was shouting for him, crying for his aid.
'Thomas, where are you?' Athos ran across the grass and stared out over the frozen ground toward the lake. He could see no one,let alone his brother. 'Thomas!' There it was again, that strangled moan. This time Athos had a better idea where the cry had come from. His boots slid on the slippery grass and twice he fell to the ground, but he continued toward the plea as fast as he could. It felt as though he had been running for hours in his dream, but eventually the old folly came into sight. Yes, there was movement within – it had to be his brother, for no one else would be out here in such weather.
Athos slid and slipped as he made his way slowly and painfully to the top of the steep rise, just in time to see a large figure pressing his brother's face into the cold snow that lay on the peak. Athos wasted no time, and finding his grip on the flagstones beneath his feet, let fly with his small fist. He felt the pain from the contact travel up his entire arm, but he was ready to punch again if he needed to. The large figure staggered back beneath the blow, his hand attempting to stem the tide of blood that fell from his nose. Athos took full advantage of the moment to bend down and pull the small, shaking figure of his brother into a fierce hug. Thomas clung on with all the strength his five-year-old body possessed, whilst Athos shook with cold, raging fury.
He sensed the hulking presence before the impact hit. As he flew backward into the stone pillar, his head exploded and his vision began to blur. Two small arms circled his waist and began to cry. 'You have killed him! Athos, please wake up.' He remembered nothing more. Then abruptly the scenery changed yet again. Now he was overly warm and he could hear the crackling of the fire, whilst angry voices raged above his aching head. Thomas – where was his brother? He pushed himself up from the soft cushions beneath his body and the voices ceased.
'Athos, my boy, I am so sorry…' The voice was cut off by one much louder and far more enraged.
'What did you think you were doing? How could you allow your brother to be treated so?' Athos' head ached appallingly. Once again the argument thundered on, though he could no longer make out what they were saying.
'I truly am sorry, Athos, but I cannot stay here and endure these lunatics' ramblings a moment longer. I am sorry.' After that, there was only the slamming of a door, then another, followed by the distant sound of horses and spinning wheels upon the driveway. Athos could not open his eyes they were so heavy, and he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep. But he needed to know where Thomas was first.
When a hard hand gripped his shoulder and shook him, his tired eyes flew open, and he automatically attempted to stand and defend himself. In his concussed state he could only assume the bullying figure must have returned. He curled his hands into fists and endeavoured to lash out.
'It is a little late for that now,' a cold voice hissed, dripping with sarcasm. 'Get to your room and stay there whilst you contemplate your failure.' Athos recognised his father's voice now, though he could not make out his features, whether because of the dream, or because of the pounding in his head he could not tell.
'Shall I carry him, my Lord?' asked a hushed voice.
'No, let him stand, he is not a child.' A fact many would have disputed, for Athos was eleven years old, and had sustained a rather vicious blow to the head when he had fallen against the stone column. However, even at his young age, he had long since learnt to expect little sympathy from his parents, especially if the injury was considered to be the result of his own folly. He had come to realise that if he was hurt, it was easier to keep the injury to himself; a habit he would never grow out of no matter how many times the scenario repeated itself. Again the picture blurred, and he felt rough, cool hands on his hot brow and a cold cloth pressed to his cheeks.
'Oh Master Olivier, you really should see the doctor, but your father will not hear of it.' There were further mutterings, but he decided they were not meant for him to hear. Soft pillows were placed beneath his aching head and cool liquid held to his lips. He gave the ghost of a smile. 'Where is Thomas?' he managed to croak.
'Oh don't you worry about young Tommy, he's with your mother. There is a lot of wailing and moaning from the countess, but he's really had nothing more than a bad fright, nothing like this here wound. But you don't see her crying over you, do you?' This last sentence was said just outside of his hearing, or so the housekeeper thought. Athos closed his eyes. It did not really hurt any longer that his mother cared little for him, though he would have loved to know why, for he had tried so hard to be good. Then sleep came. Thomas was safe, and the nice man had taken the bully away. He did not know how he knew that, but he did.
When Athos awoke, it was still dark outside, though the sky was beginning to pale, heralding in the start of another cold day. A hard frost covered every blade of grass, plant and tree, shimmering in the clash between the fading moon and the rising sun, creating a beautiful pink landscape that sparkled in the dim light. Athos flung open the window and breathed deeply. He was not unused to awaking feeling the grim after-effects of wine, but this was different. Something had happened in the night, something had changed.
He inhaled the frigid air and walked to the sideboard. He could not prevent the smile that the sight of the water jug induced, though whether it had been his friends or Mme Renard who had provided it, he was not precisely sure.
First he filled a cup, then with the jug in his hand he walked out onto the terrace, where he threw the rest of the liquid over his head. As the icy air stroked his wet skin, he gasped with the shock. Gasping for air, he ran a hand through his hair and poured the remainder of the jug over his upturned face. Luckily, someone had thought to remove his jacket and so only his shirt dripped water as he shook his head like a wet dog.
Eventually the cold began to bite, causing Athos to return into the darkened room. Leaving the doors open, he walked over to the grate and began to build a fire. Fragmented memories of the previous evening began to filter into his conscious thoughts. Sitting between a silent Porthos and Aramis, telling the full story of his brother's death. So it was done, and now they knew the worst of it. It had been necessary for him to disclose the full disgrace of his past for some time, but as usual he had never been able to find the right moment, or the right words. He would know the second he set eyes on them if they were now appalled by the man they had called brother.
But something else was bothering him. Something else had changed during the night. Something in his dream, but he could not quite bring it to the forefront of his mind. Whatever it was, it hovered just out of reach, hiding in the shadows of his head, where his past visited him in his sleep; during those dark hours of the night, when obscurities became certainties and puzzles revealed their answers, only for their outcomes to remain elusive once you tried to drag them into the full light of day.
And so this thing, this answer, gloated and teased his memory, refusing to reveal itself. Yet it was relevant, important to their problem, he just felt it.
ooOoo
Milady had eaten, and sipped her wine, watching men come and men go. She was beginning to tire; the biting cold from the window told her the weather was worsening, but perhaps that might be to her advantage.
When the woman came to remove the empty bowl, Anne made a point of shivering somewhat dramatically.
'Oh you poor love, you must be frozen. Pierre has just returned, I'll send him out to shut that window. It's been so busy tonight, what with the market and the weather. There, I never thought, will you be wanting a room? What with the snow coming down, though I doubt it will come to much.' She tilted her head and looked Anne in the eye.
For a moment Milady panicked, had she been recognised? No, there was no hint of memory in the woman's eyes, but perhaps a room would allow her to sit for a little longer. The tavern was beginning to empty and she could make the excuse of wishing to move closer to the fire.
'That would be most welcome. I came to buy herbs for my mistress – she does not enjoy good health and is travelling to stay with friends near Le Havre. But the manor is isolated, and she wished me to find what she needed, in case they could not be obtained once we reached our destination. However, it is getting dark, and she will have arrived by now, so I doubt there is much hurry.' She gave the woman a timid smile. 'Perhaps there is a table free closer to the fire?'
'Of course, dearie. Come along, I'll move those oafs out of the way – they should be getting home themselves. I'll fetch you a warm drink of something to soothe your frozen bones, whilst I get a room ready.' Anne smiled. Whatever rooms they had were considered more than adequate for the likes of a serving maid, but she clearly remembered the consternation on their faces when they thought a lady of quality needed one. Then again, times had changed, and perhaps so had they.
She sat near the flames from the well-established fire and attempted to melt into the background. From this angle she could see alcoves that she had not realised existed before. In one such position, a man sat alone. When her gaze fell upon his face, he gave her a twisted leer. She was nothing if not a consummate actress, and despite the shock that vibrated through her body she made no sign of recognition, only the flickering hint of distaste – for she was sure he would be used to that.
As she turned toward the fire once more, her mind whirred at a frantic pace. So he was here. What had Giroux called him? Beau? Well that was either a cruel joke, or a nickname garnered through a lifetime of ridicule. Either way, his connection to Athos was a mystery to her, yet she sensed this man's presence in Pinon could only mean more trouble for her husband. As the possibilities tumbled through her mind, the woman, Bessie – for she had finally remembered the landlord's wife's name – brought the warm milk and rum.
'There you go, my dear, that will see you right until morning.' Anne tilted her head so as only the woman could see and hear her.
'Please tell me, who is that man sitting in the alcove? I must confess I find his appearance quite alarming.'
Bessie did not need to look toward the scarred man to know to whom Milady referred.
'You know that is a very good question. He turned up yesterday and has spent many an hour in here ever since. Horrible face he's got, but then I don't suppose it's much fun living with it either. Still, I can't help thinking I've seen him before, but it was a long time ago I believe, and it just won't come.' Goodnight, my dear, here is your key. Sleep well.' Anne took the key and offered her thanks. With little option left to her, she drained her cup and walked toward the stairs. She had no choice but to walk past the man in the alcove, and as she did so, she heard a cold chuckle. 'Goodnight, my lovely.' The ruthless voice made her shiver.
Mounting the stairs as quickly as she could, she entered her room and doused the candles. She took up a position by the window and watched. She did not have long to wait before the scarred man appeared below her window rubbing his hands together against the cold. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and began to walk along the main street. Without a moment's hesitation, Anne turned and left the room. Then, having locked her door, she hurried from the inn and slipped through the shadows in Beau's wake.