CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Comte knocked on the Captain's door early the next morning.
"Come," the gruff voice called.
Inside, Treville was waiting, along with Aramis.
"Good morning," the Comte said, as he strode in.
Seeing Aramis, he walked across and held out his left hand.
"My apologies for my outburst last night," he said softly, holding eye contact.
"It's alright, you had cause," Aramis replied, taking his brother's hand.
"I had no right," the Comte insisted. "You have all been generous with your time and hospitality, not to mention your care," he said. "There are gaps in my memory, that is obvious, but, as you say, only time can offer a remedy. And if not, I will continue my life in Pinon."
This was unbearable, Aramis thought, before realising he still hold of Athos's hand.
Treville came to the rescue.
"Have you eaten, Comte?" he asked.
The Comte let go of Aramis's hand and turned.
"No, but no matter. Eating has become tedious of late," he replied, casting a glance back at Aramis. "Although I am now aware of the value of it," he added. "Are you accompanying us to the Palace, Aramis?"
"No, sadly. We are on duty," Aramis replied. "In fact, I should go or you will arrive at the Palace before us."
"That would be bad form," the Comte murmured, with a smile.
"A hangable offence, if his Majesty is having a bad day," Aramis replied, returning the smile.
Aramis nodded to Treville, before taking his leave. He stopped at the door and turned back.
"How is your shoulder, after yesterday?" he asked.
"A little stiff," the Comte replied, "But not as painful as I thought it may be, thanks to the strapping you put on."
"I hear you entertained my Musketeers yesterday with a fine display," Treville said.
The Comte looked at Aramis.
"I was in good company, Captain," he replied. "It was good to flex my sword arm once more."
"I hear you use both hands," Treville added, sitting back in his chair.
"Yes, it is the way I was taught. My father insisted upon it. He did not want me favouring one hand over the other. It was a hard lesson to learn but well worth it, in the long run."
"It would be a very useful skill for any Musketeer," Aramis ventured.
"Undoubtedly," the Comte replied.
"Well," Aramis said, looking at Treville, "Duty calls."
With a quick nod to both men, he pulled open the door and left, running quickly down the stairs.
"Are you quite sure you do not wish to break your fast?" Treville said, turning once more to the Comte.
"Quite sure," the Comte replied.
"Then," Treville said, pushing up from his desk, "Let us go to the stables and get you a horse."
It was the first time Athos would ride following his accident. Fortunately, it was a short ride to the Palace and they would go at a gentle walking pace, as the streets would be busy.
Treville led the way to the stable, and they paused to look around at the horses that were currently stabled in their stalls, looking for one he knew had a quiet nature, though he would not voice that to the soldier standing quietly beside him.
In the end, the horse found him. Roger started to stamp the ground as soon as he saw his master, though the Comte looked surprised.
"He remembers me," he said, turning to Treville.
At Treville's quizzical expression, the Comte added, "From our recent visit."
"Ah, of course," Treville replied.
He called the stable boy, Jacques, across and asked him to saddle Roger while he saddled his own horse.
Treville watched as the Comte checked the girth and bridle were secure, before they led the two outside.
The Comte mounted, pulling himself up quite gracefully by the pommel with his free hand.
"That is the most difficult part of the day over," he murmured, wryly, as he settled in, which made Treville smile.
If only that were true. There were a number of obstacles that may arise today and it would be a miracle if they did not encounter any.
This visit was the only thing left for them to try; time was running out. The Comte had indicated that he would soon return to Pinon if he did not recover his memory. Even if he did not, Treville knew, he could hardly stay with them, in the Garrison. So, Pinon it would be. Once Athos's mind was made up, it was difficult to shift him and Treville knew it would be the same with the Comte.
Aramis, d'Artagnan and Porthos had left for the Palace and so Treville and the Comte turned their horses toward the archway and walked them steadily through in the streets outside.
"I wonder if I was on my way to the Palace when I met with my accident," the Comte mused as they progressed. "I can think of no reason why I would be in Paris at this time of the year," he added.
"It is possible," Treville remarked as they skirted the stallholders who had set up at the crack of dawn. "Perhaps it may come to you."
"I have heard that mantra for several days now," the Comte murmured, his eyes on the road ahead.
"Then I will offer you no more," Treville smiled.
The Comte returned the smile, though did not turn his head to look. He had learned the Captain's change of tone from watching him at muster. His voice was a weapon in itself, along with the glare that could turn a man to stone. Little did he know that he too possessed similar weapons, if testament were taken from d'Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis.
They arrived at the Louvre a short while later, handing the horses to the stable boys in the magnificent stable block, before heading into the main building.
Treville was aware of the Comte looking around.
"It has been some years," Treville said, cautiously.
"It has not changed," the Comte said. "Maybe an extra wing or two?"
"Richelieu was an avid builder. Sorry, a visionary," Treville huffed.
"So I have heard," the Comte replied. "And I saw his Red Guard in action."
Treville all but growled.
The Red Guard were the bane of his life. That reminded him to keep an eye out open for their devious captain, Rochefort. There was no love lost between he and Athos. Aramis had told him how Athos had put the man on the floor in the forest, "Just to see what it felt like." Treville had laughed at the tale but Rochefort was growing more powerful by the day and he would hold grudges, no matter how small; that he was sure about.
He hoped that the strategy for today was still known only to himself, his three trusted men and the King and Queen.
Treville walked past two guards, who did not challenge him; he was well known in the palace. Further along, two ornate doors were flanked by two guards dressed in cream uniforms and helmets.
"How is the arm after the ride," Treville asked now, as they passed through the doors and onward along the corridor.
"Truth be told, I took a little laudanum during the night," the Comte replied.
Treville nodded. "Better to deal with the day," he replied. He had had his own injuries throughout his military career and knew the pain of it.
"That is what I thought," came the soft reply.
He did not add he had taken it to ward off the recurring dream. Even now, it lingered, a shadow in his peripheral vision just out of reach. He did not know what it meant. He did not know what any of this meant. His body had more scars than he had first thought, but all were neat. He could only presume that he had had the services of an excellent physician but he did not know how he had accumulated so many injuries, unless his sword training had been particularly rigorous, which would have explained why he could fight as well as he had yesterday without too many ill effects.
On the way into the King's receiving room, Athos straightens his back and walked ahead. As they approached the doors, the guard opened them. The room beyond was empty, the King and Queen yet to arrive, though d'Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos were standing to the left of the dais awaiting their entrance.
The Comte saw them too and quickened his pace.
Which was fortunate, as just as the Comte entered the room, a familiar figure stepped through a door into the corridor behind him.
Milady de Winter.
Seeing Treville, she leant against the wall and watched him approach her. He grabbed her arm and pushed her back through the door, closing it behind them.
"Are you Olivier's personal body guard now?" she sneered, as she shook herself free and stepped back.
She met his glare with a knowing smile.
"How do you ..." he started, before realising she had used his birth name.
"Walls have ears, Treville," she said quietly.
"It didn't take you long to find your way around," he ground out.
"I like to know my surroundings," she replied lightly, turning and walking back toward the door, glancing over her shoulder and holding his stare.
"If you heard everything you claim," he growled, "You know that Athos is not himself. Do not talk to him. Do not catch his eye."
She leant back against the door and tilted her head, her hand going to the ever-present ribbon around her throat.
"And, if you know what is good for you," he finished, hand on the hilt of his sword, "Do not let him see you."
"It's that important?" she said, raising an elegant eyebrow. "My, my. How very interesting."
With a swish of her skirts, she was gone and he was left to fume, wondering if he had made it worse. Of all the bad luck, she should be in the very place … but of course, she would be if she had overhead the conversation yesterday. And what motive could she have, apart from wanting to cause mischief?
Sighing, he made his way to the Royal Receiving Room to reunite with the Comte.
Looking around, he was relieved to see Milady had not slipped in through another door, though he doubted she would stay away. Others were arriving now. Petitioners and nobles seeking an audience.
The Comte was standing at the far side of the room, in conversation with a minor baron. He doubted the noble would know Athos, and he relaxed. Soon the two were joined by others and the Comte graciously extricated himself, moving to the side and standing alone. It saved Treville from worrying about any detailed conversations he may have which may raise awkward questions. He hoped the King would not be too long for obvious reasons.
Walking up to Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan, he drew them close.
"She's here," he said, quietly. "And she knows."
"Damn" Porthos breathed, his hands curling into tight fists.
"How?" d'Artagnan said, his eyes on the Comte across the room.
"She makes the King's business her business," Treville ground out. "In her position, she must stay one step ahead now."
"On a lighter note," Aramis said, leaning forward, "Rochefort is not at court today."
"You are sure?" Treville said. This was much better news.
"He is meeting the new Spanish Ambassador," Aramis replied, with a smile.
"I'd like to be a fly on that wall," d'Artagnan muttered. They all suspected that Rochefort had had a hand in the brutal demise of the last Ambassador.
With that, the doors were flung open and two guards walked in, followed by the King and Queen of France. Conversations ceased.
People gathered around in front of the dais and Treville lost sight of the Comte, who had stepped back. Treville would introduce him to the King later, after the petitioners and nobles had gone and only they remained. Checking that his Musketeers were focussed, he adjourned to the corridor.
In a side room, Milady was blazing.
Olivier was not Treville's. He was hers. Whatever hold Treville had over him was forged after he had left Pinon. How dare he lay conditions on her with regard to her own husband!
Of course, Treville wanted his soldier back.
"He is not himself," he had said.
"Then, if he is not himself," she said to herself with a smile. "He is not yours."
Over the years, she had enjoyed taunting her husband.
She had followed him on several occasions, transfixed by the change in him from Comte to Musketeer. She had even followed him into an alley, calling out to him. That had not ended well. She was Richelieu's creature then, and he had reminded her of it.
The last time she had seen him to speak to, they had approached each other warily in the market place as she browsed. Still glowing with her new found position, confident of the King's protection, she asked him to consider that she may have changed.
He had stared at her, before saying,
"You are no more capable of changing your nature than a scorpion."
He had followed the barb by saying that from now one, they would be strangers to each other.
She remembered she had replied, "You are a stranger to yourself."
How true that was now, if what she had heard was true!
And now, here he was. No longer the Musketeer Athos, but the Comte de la Fere! How very interesting.
She had watched Athos from afar many times. Saw how he walked with his sword arm held out as though casually making way for the weapon at his side, when in fact he was ever in readiness to withdraw the blade in an instant at the first sign of trouble. She saw how he used his eyes to scan the room without turning his head. How he knew where his friends were. Where each exit was. Each window.
Not this man.
This man would not protect the King. He would not be in a constant state of readiness.
If he scanned the room, it would only for the purpose of … what? What would Olivier look for in the King's presence? She had never attended court with him. She had never visited Paris. He had had no wish to rub shoulders with the aristocracy unless he had to, returning to her quickly.
Treville had warned her. No, threatened her, no less.
She slipped from the room and made her way to the Receiving Room.
It was her turn to scan the room now, and seek out her husband.
Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan were on duty, blue capes and all. And they were watching her warily as she stood quietly inside the door.
She would have a little sport with them.
To be continued ...