CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
The King and Aramis left the bedchamber and crept into the corridor, turning left.
Ahead lay the short flight of stairs d'Artagnan had negotiated earlier and they continued into the short corridor where he had encountered his own assailant. Coming to the bend in the corridor, Aramis held out his arm, preventing the King from getting in front of him as he quickly looked down the second corridor.
Ahead lay three doors, one of which stood ajar.
As they drew closer, the noise of steel on steel came from within, drawing Aramis forward; the King following obediently in his wake.
Flattening himself against the wall, Aramis tilted his head to peer into the room.
He was just in time to see d'Artagnan, hair plastered to his forehead, turn in a full circle, sword in one hand and dagger in the other, and lash out at a man dressed as a footman. It looked as if their battle had been going on for some time and both were obviously tired.
"Three," Aramis said, totting up their known assailants, as he watched the battle. This one, he was certain, would soon be added to the other two, already dead. That would leave two, one of which was currently being pursued by their dear Comte.
Turning his attention back to d'Artagnan he could see that the young man was the superior swordsman and Aramis smiled proudly, though the other man was taller and broader. There was room to fight here. It was a sparsely furnished room, though a table had been overturned beneath the one tall window. There was a large tapestry secured on the wall ahead of him, the bottom hem loose against the skirting.
Ready to step in should he be needed, though not wishing to intervene just yet or allow the King anywhere near, Aramis continued to watch the swordplay with keen eyes. Bidding the King remain just inside the doorway, he walked softly into the room and skirted the periphery, eyes on his young friend and the man he battled.
d'Artagnan met his eye and grinned as he parried a downward thrust, followed by a kick. He was obviously enjoying himself. Stepping lightly backward, d'Artagnan drew the man away, while nodding to Aramis and flicking his eyes to the tapestry.
Aramis nodded in understanding, as d'Artagnan manoeuvred his body between his opponent and Aramis.
Aramis approached the tapestry as d'Artagnan swung around, driving the man toward it. The man was now looking distracted and somewhat nervous, having caught sight of Aramis in his peripheral vision, and the man standing nervously by the doorway.
"It's alright," d'Artagnan said, cockily, "It's only the King, come to watch. Oh, and one of his best Musketeers."
As the man's eyes widened, Aramis put his hand over his heart and bowed toward him. Louis straightened and put his hands behind his back, a picture of study.
d'Artagnan pushed the man forward with several fast steps. As they reached the tapestry, Aramis bent and took hold of the hem, lifting it away from the wall. It was heavy and obviously had not been moved for a long time, as dust rose into the air. d'Artagnan launched the man into the wall and Aramis neatly and casually dropped the tapestry over him.
The man yelled, but could not move from beneath the heavy weight and d'Artagnan skewered him through the weave.
"Well done, d'Artagnan!" the King cried, as the man slid down the wall from beneath the heavy cloth.
"That's a shame," Aramis said, as they looked at the body.
"It can be mended, I think," d'Artagnan said, inspecting the hole in the tapestry thoughtfully, which coincidently, seemed to have skewered a large stag, embroidered on a forest floor.
"The blood may take a little longer," he added, as he wiped his blade on the edge of the tapestry. Behind it, the man crumpled and slid fully into view.
"True," Aramis said, sadly, his hand once more over his heart.
"So," d'Artagnan said, re sheathing his sword. "What's been happening?"
Before Aramis could reply, the King suddenly cried out;
"Another hidden doorway!" Louis exclaimed, to the confusion of his companions, who could see nothing. The King, however, continued to exclaim.
"I had forgotten about these passageways you know, until Milady discovered the one leading to my room! That suite used to be my mother's! My ancestors were truly devious people!" he said, giving them a toothy grin and walking across to the panelling.
"Indeed they were," Aramis said, with a quick bow, as the King looked at him. "As you say."
"If you would?" Louis turned away and motioned to d'Artagnan, who took hold of the tapestry and pulled it aside.
Still, they could see nothing.
"I know how this one works," the King continued, ignoring their confusion. Reaching up to the picture rail he ran his hand along it. A piece of the rail clicked downward, and a door in the panelling duly opened, softly.
"I used to hide behind this tapestry when I was a child! I remember them building this one, but they did not know I knew," he continued, clapping Aramis on the shoulder.
"The influence of your ancestors, perhaps?" Aramis murmured. Fortunately, his sarcasm was lost on the King.
"Do you know where it leads?" d'Artagnan asked.
"No idea!" the King laughed, "Though perhaps, to my Receiving Room?"
"Where we started," d'Artagnan replied, flatly.
"Yes!" the King said, in delight, "Isn't it wonderful!"
Aramis drew d'Artagnan aside as the King tentatively stepped into the passageway.
"You should know," he said, "Athos is somewhere within these walls in combat with a man called Dubois."
"Who?" d'Artagnan asked, suddenly tensing.
"I have no idea, the King was very vague on it. Though he did hit one of them."
"What?" d'Artagnan said, his eyebrows raising. "Which one?"
"He does not recall," Aramis muttered, keeping his eyes on their wayward King, still standing in the passage doorway.
"We have to find Athos," d'Artagnan said, re sheathing his sword.
"What about Porthos. And more to the point, Milady?"
Aramis shrugged, helplessly.
They both looked at the passageway. Neither of them had yet had the pleasure of traversing them.
"Shall we?" d'Artagnan said, a little dubiously.
"Better withdraw your sword," Aramis advised. "Who knows what we will encounter?"
"Sire," he called across to the King. "We will take that route. Though let me lead, and d'Artagnan will take up the rear."
"Excellent!" the King replied. "Lead on, Aramis!"
"I never liked that tapestry," Louis added, as he walked between them into the gloom of the passageway.
"Just as well," d'Artagnan said, quietly from behind.
"There will be a lot of cleaning up when this is over," Aramis muttered up ahead.
oOo
Meanwhile:
The King's words echoing in his head, Olivier moved as quietly as he could through the passageway after Dubois.
The King had called him "Athos."
Why?
Added to that were Dubois's strange taunts. Both talked as if they knew him, though he did not know himself. All he could do was find the man and interrogate him. He had the key to this. He knew by now that the Musketeers knew more than they were telling him, but he did not feel threatened by that. It was the King's words that had shook him. A derivative of his name, never used. Why would the King use it now, when they had only just met as Comte and King after so many years?
Looking down, he watched as he placed one foot in front of the other, reminded of the strange dream he had had which had plagued him in its confusion.
However, he thought, shaking himself and pushing the negative thoughts aside. He had never felt so alive.
His blood on fire, he pressed on into the gloom.
Wary, but ready.
oOo
Olivier came upon Dubois in the passageway, staring through the spy holes. He carefully took the scene in. They both knew what lay beyond.
There was a red mark on the wall which was now familiar to him, indicating a door, but it made his stomach clench.
He had to stop this man before he fell upon those defenceless women.
There was no time for stealth as he threw himself forward.
Half ready and hearing him, Dubois did not turn to engage him but suddenly barged his way into the room by brute force and Olivier heard the women's resultant screams as he ran after him.
Pushing themselves back against the walls, the women shrank back as the two men faced each other.
Glad of the unencumbered space at last, Olivier dropped into a balance stance and trained his eyes on Dubois one more, ready to launch himself if the man threatened the life of one of the young women of the Court.
Dubois turned languidly to face him.
"These walls will be sprayed with your blood, Musketeer," he spat, "And then, I will find your whore and slit her throat, as you should have done."
An image flashed into his mind of the tip of his blade against soft, white flesh, but it was so alien, so shocking to him, he shook his head to dislodge it. His vision greyed for a moment, but he lifted his blade purposefully. There would be no interrogation. He would have to kill this man if he wished to save these women and survive.
"You talk too much, Dubois," he growled. "This is your day to die."
God, give me the strength, he silently whispered.
To the sound of the women's screams, he lunged.
To be continued ...