Good afternoon, I trust this finds you all well.

So, what has L'Hernault done?

CHAPTER 85

Porthos and Aramis turned full circle.

"Where did that come from?" Porthos asked as he and Aramis frantically studied the windows that were now in shadow.

"More that way," Aramis said, pointing towards the northern corner of the building.

"Who were they shootin' at? It wasn't us an' they couldn't 'ope to reach the camp from 'ere."

"No idea," Aramis answered, puzzled. Then his eyes widened in horror, and he slapped Porthos on the arm to gain his attention. "The camp!"

Its significance was not lost on the big Musketeer. "Where Athos was goin'."

They broke into a run and headed towards the end of the building, skidding to a stop when they rounded it and saw two men on the ground, a third kneeling over them.

"Athos!" Porthos bellowed and took off again, Aramis close behind.

By the time they reached him, Athos was on his hands and knees, groaning and swaying, whilst Claude steadied him.

"Athos?" Aramis dropped in front of him, fingers beneath his chin to raise his head. "Where are you hurt?" he demanded at the sight of the blood that ran in rivulets down his face and spattered his clothing; blood and something else.

"It's not his," Claude said reassuringly and nodded to where Planque lay unmoving.

Porthos finished his examination. "Dead," he announced simply. "Hit in the head."

"Not a pretty sight," Claude concurred.

"But you are hurt," Aramis insisted as he helped Athos to turn and sit in the dirt.

"I am fine," Athos said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and beginning to wipe the mess from his face. "When Planque was hit, he knocked me off my feet and I landed awkwardly on my left side. I'm fine," he reiterated, slapping Aramis' hands down as the garrison's medic attempted to unbuckle the leather doublet.

"Let me be the judge of that," Aramis declared. "I want to check those stitches. They're due to come out soon so it would be unfortunate if you were to tear them now."

As Athos grudgingly surrendered to his friend's care, Claude gave Porthos a brief account of events as he knew them. It was, sadly, very little.

Musketeers, drawn by the sound of the shot, raced over the ground from the camp whilst a few Red Guard appeared from around the building so that Porthos and Claude now had the task of keeping the newcomers back, especially when the Cardinal's men recognized the body as being that of their Captain.

Immediately, allegations of Musketeer wrongdoing rent the air and the situation was turning uglier by the second.

"Enough!" roared Porthos and the men abruptly fell into a shocked silence. "Stop with the accusations before you know the details. These three men were walking together over to the camp, Musketeer and Red Guard together, when the shot came from the building."

As the ranking officer on the scene, Athos struggled to his feet to assume control. He felt that he would have very little authority if he remained sitting on the ground. He swayed and Aramis caught his elbow, but he shook off the grip.

"You men," and he looked directly to the half a dozen Red Guard that were present, "go around the outside of the building that way and apprehend anyone you see. You are not to use force unless they pose a threat to you."

"An' who are you to be givin' us orders?" a belligerent voice shouted.

Athos, his face still bearing the marks of Planque's drying blood, gave one of his piercing stares guaranteed to cow even the hardest ne'er-do-well. When he spoke, his voice was deep and resonant, the tone brooking no nonsense. "I am Athos and the Captain's second-in-command. In his absence and," he indicated Planque's corpse, "that of your own Captain, I suggest you do not waste any more time." He then ignored them, turning to the Musketeers. "You six, do the same in that direction."

As the Musketeers obeyed without question, the Red Guard looked at each other. One of them shrugged and headed off where Athos had sent them.

"Claude, I need you to go to the Cardinal and tell him what's happened," Athos continued.

"Serge looks as if 'e's in a hurry," Porthos said and gesticulated to where the cook was coming towards them as fast as he could, chest heaving, waving wildly behind him in the direction of the camp and shouting at them, his words indistinct.

"Now what?" Aramis asked as he, Porthos and Athos moved to meet the old man.

Serge was wheezing for breath. "Fightin' … Red Guard … Musketeers … over food … couldn't ... stop'em," he gasped.

Athos rolled his eyes. "What else can go wrong today? No!" he called out to the other Musketeers who were about to follow him. "I need you to make a circle at a distance around the body. Protect the area. No-one is to come near."

He started to run to catch up with his friends, the fastest he had tried to move for a long time, but the pain in his side slowed him considerably and he had to grit his teeth to endure the effort of a jog.

Serge's cooking area – the tent, campfire and preparation table – had been flattened, caught as it was in the centre of a massive brawl between the men of the two regiments. One of the supply carts had been pushed over, depositing boxes and sacks over the ground, some of them bursting on impact to spill their contents into the soil.

Porthos waded into the fray, pulling men apart and throwing them aside as though they were rag poppets, bellowing at them to stop their nonsense whilst Aramis primed his pistol and fired it into the air.

Athos grabbed an empty box and set it upside down on the ground. It was not much but, when he stood on it, it provided him with a little extra height so that all could see him.

"This is neither the time nor the place for such a scene," he began. There were some audible, caustic comments from members of the Red Guard, some of whom recognised him from the Palace or when their paths crossed in Paris taverns. Porthos stepped towards them, using his fearsome glare, height and build to good advantage silencing them.

"Is a man called Grenouille here?" Athos called out.

There was a murmuring and heads turned to focus on one man crouching in the dirt. He was every bit as Claude had described him. As he stood up, he seemed to keep on unfolding and growing. Athos would not have thought it possible, but he was definitely taller than Porthos and broader at the shoulder. Of indeterminate age, he was balding and incredibly ugly with his upper lip curled in a lop-sided snarl and pale, bulbous eyes.

"Who wants to know?" he demanded contemptuously.

Athos sighed. He was becoming frustrated with repeatedly introducing himself to the Red Guard and he took a deep breath to contain his temper.

"I am Athos, Tréville's lieutenant. I understand you are my counterpart in the Red Guard." He stepped down from the box and walked slowly, the men of both regiments falling back to give him easy access to the giant.

Grenouille straightened up, his fists clenching as he stood there, intent upon intimidating the slighter Musketeer but Athos could play his own psychological game and he deliberately stopped short of the man to avoid having to tilt his head back in order to look him in the face; he was not prepared to lose the little authority he had in the situation.

"You need to get your men in order. I am here to tell you that Captain Planque has been murdered."