Chapter 4

As the two men walked into the dim interior, Athos became instantly alert; he had been biding his time, hoping he had chosen the correct establishment. The landlord had been sick for the last week, and the swordsman had banked on this to have delayed the collection – he had been right. Slowly, he rose from his table, not wishing to alert the men to his presence until the last minute.

oOo

'Well it has not been the day we anticipated,' Aramis sighed, as he emerged from the extremely unpleasant infirmary. Porthos slapped his friend on the back.

'Serves 'em right, they should know better than to eat in a place like that. Dunno wot they were thinkin',' smirked the big Musketeer.

'Food poisoning though? Still, I have done what I can, the infirmarian can take it from here. The night is wearing on, do we risk eating out?' He appraised his friend, amused to see the look of consternation on his face.

'Well we know The Wren's food is good,' Porthos answered hopefully.

'We also know, it will be full of Red Guards, and they still want to hurt us – badly – after your last bout of good luck. I do not have the energy to convince them otherwise for a second time.' He raised a brow at his friend, and Porthos chuckled.

'Well,' he said, placing a muscled arm around his friend's slim shoulders, 'let us see where the night takes us.' With that, the two men left the garrison, and its sick inhabitants, in search of good food and good wine.

oOo

Athos had been desperate to find something to take his mind off what had just happened, his emotions in a state of unmitigated chaos. Walking toward the two men, he let his anger have free rein; and though only a fraction of it was caused by his unsuspecting victims, they were going to suffer the result – in its entirety. Wine had never stood a chance of obliterating his consciousness tonight, a decent fight was the only alternative, he needed oblivion now more than ever, from wherever it came.

Athos had always been able to channel his aggression when he fought. Though fury burnt in his eyes, his actions were cold and calculating, and he supposed that, at least, was something he could thank his father for. Silently, he moved behind the two men, and began to speak, his voice haughty and arrogant – angry Athos at his best.

'Gentlemen, I believe that money does not belong to you. I suggest you return it or…' He let the sentence hang in the air, smirking at the two astonished men and, raising a brow, he awaited their response.

The landlord appeared terrified. 'This is nothing to do with me, I've never seen him before,' he pleaded. One of the men glared at the desperate man.

'Well don't worry, because you won't be seeing him ever again.' He grinned and turned to face Athos, the other man following suit.

'Or what?' the second man asked, his voice muffled by the scarf around the lower half of his face. Athos tilted his head, appearing to give the question some thought. Satisfied with his answer, he gave the slightest curl of his lips before replying.

'Or, I will simply peel it from your dead hands.' He gave the slightest incline of his head whilst waiting for one of the two men to make the next move. When the pistol emerged, he was already one step ahead. The knife left his hand so quickly, only the merest flash of steel caught the recipient's attention, before embedding itself in the shoulder of the arm holding the weapon. From that point, everything happened at once. With his free hand Athos drew his sword, relishing the feel of its weight in his hand – he had remained inactive for too long. He could not help but smile as he lifted the weapon to his forehead; he might be about to kill them, but that didn't mean he was without honour.

He took a step backward, sending a table flying, ale pouring in all directions, and hoped that the owners of the spilt beverages would not be encouraged to join the fray. The man with the dagger wound pulled the knife from his shoulder and, as blood flowed freely from the wound, Athos noted that he was obviously the stupid one. He risked a glance to see where the knife had fallen, before raising his sword. The first man roared in anger and leapt toward Athos, his own sword out in front of him, but Athos deflected it with no difficulty.

He began to manoeuvre them toward the door, there was no room inside, and he did not wish to injure any innocent bystanders. Stupid now had his own sword raised, and they both came at him simultaneously. Athos parried the two blades and thrust the uninjured man backward, accidentally taking his comrade with Athos made to move forward once more, he heard a voice in his ear, as something was pressed into his left hand. The landlord looked scared, but a remnant of hope lit his eyes as he whispered to Athos.

'Ere's ya dagger, make sure you kill the bastards!' Athos did not break his concentration, just nodded and gratefully accepted its return. The handover had taken only a few seconds, but it was long enough for Stupid and his companion to gain their footing once more. Athos took two very quick strides forward, lunging at the two men. At that moment, one of the obliging patrons pulled open the door and the two men hurtled backwards – just as the tip of Athos' sword tore open the injured man's jerkin. He howled in pain and stumbled backward into the street.

oOo

'Now, where do you suggest we settle our weary bones this fine night?' Aramis asked, as they sauntered along the quiet road. He inclined his head toward his friend, who was about to speak, when the door of the nearby tavern opened, and two men literally fell out, one screaming in pain. Aramis and Porthos took a step backward, vaguely interested in seeing how the scene would unfold, though not eager to get caught up in it.

Just then, a cold and deadly Athos came tearing out of the tavern in pursuit of the two men. The Musketeers, their eyes wide and their mouths open, could not believe what they were seeing. Porthos made to step forward, but Aramis placed a restraining hand on his friend's arm, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

'Might be worth watching,' he suggested, and Porthos gave a chuckle of delight.

Athos was parrying and lunging at the uninjured man with fierce accuracy, resulting in several tears in his doublet, and there was blood dripping down the finger of the hand not holding his sword. The other man, Stupid, was beginning to feel the effects of blood loss, and decided a less subtle approach might be more effective. Climbing up onto a stack of boxes, he threw himself at Athos' back, causing the swordsman to stagger. Clinging tight, he held him around the throat and, as Athos attempted to fight off his other opponent, he was now struggling to keep his balance. Becoming irritated with this new distraction, Athos whipped his head forward, then threw it backward with full force, catching the fool on his back across the nose, eliciting a sick crack as the bone smashed. Falling to the floor, he howled, as he clutched at his bleeding and broken nose.

'E might talk like a nob, but 'e can sure fight dirty,' grinned a proud Porthos. Aramis beamed, though he winced at the man's pain.

Athos raised his sword, and tilted his chin upward, a sure sign he was going in for the kill. When a sudden cry from the end of the street halted his attack, he turned, as did the two Musketeers, in time to see a party of guards appear around the corner. Athos hesitated for split second, then punched the man hard in the face with the hilt of his sword, before hastily melting into the shadows. Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances, deciding that, as this was not their fight, they were not going to be found by the Cardinal's guards standing over a couple of bloodied men. Though neither of them had any idea in which direction Athos had gone, they, too, turned and fled.

When they were convinced the guards had not followed them, the two Musketeers halted their flight. Porthos leant against the wall, doubled over, waiting for his breathing to settle. Aramis, despite his rapid gasps for air, wore a stupid grin as wide as the Seine. Porthos eyed his friend's joy and shook his head. He tried to scowl but eventually, even he began to chuckle.

'E always did know how to make an entrance!' the big man snorted, glee chasing away any reservations.

'Did he see us?' Aramis asked.

'Nope, doubt it, 'e had other business to attend to. Which reminds me, perhaps we need to ask some questions. After all, we were after food and drink,' he smirked at his companion. Aramis clapped him on the shoulder and, hesitating no longer, he strode back in the direction they had come.

As they neared the tavern, Porthos noted a small boy hovering in the doorway of the building opposite, he whistled softly and indicated for the child to come over. The lad checked over each shoulder but made no move to approach the two men. Porthos understood his doubts and produced a coin from inside his doublet.

With a renewed interest the boy moved forward and, when he was still some distance away, he asked haltingly: 'Wot yer want?' Porthos smiled and pointed to the tavern door.

'Just take a look inside and tell us if there are any Red Guards in there,' the big man explained, crouching down to avoid towering over him. The boy noted the pauldron's on the two men's shoulders and smiled.

'Is there gonna be a fight?' His eyes were shining with excitement. Porthos shook his head and laughed.

'Not if we can help it.' The boy appeared slightly crestfallen, but took the money anyway. He scurried off toward the tavern, opened the door and went in. A couple of minutes, later he came back out and walked over to the waiting men.

'Nah, they wos in earlier, but there wos some trouble and they dragged two men off. They aint bin back since.' Aramis nodded and thanked the boy, who ran off into the night – well, as far as the corner – before finding a new place to wait and watch.

'Shall we?' Aramis asked, gesturing Porthos to precede him into the tavern. The air had turned cold, as it often did in spring, but inside the tavern the fire was lit, and the air was humid and thick with smoke.

'Needs to get 'is chimney swept,' Porthos choked, as he waved his hand in front of his face. They worked their way toward the bar and requested an ale each.

'I hear there was trouble in here tonight,' Porthos stated, in his usual forthright manner. Aramis, meanwhile, was giving the serving girl the benefit of one of his very best smiles, hoping his charm would produce more answers than his friend's less subtle approach.

A short while later, both men sat down with their food and ale and listened to what the other had discovered.

As he tucked into his dish of steaming stew, Porthos imparted his information first. 'It seems the landlord was having some trouble with a couple of customers, when Athos barged in and took 'em to task. Reckon there is more to it than 'e's tellin', though, 'e seems scared. Said 'e 'ad never seen Athos before tonight. Sumthin' tells me that part was true.' Aramis appeared smug, and wiped his beard before sitting back on the bench and relating his news.

'My informant was far more forthcoming.' Porthos rolled his eyes but continued to dip bread into his stew. 'Apparently, she works most nights as the barmaid at The Fleece, but tonight her friend needed a favour – don't ask – so she swapped. Now your landlord may not have seen Athos before but she had, and this is what she told me…'

'I couldn't believe me eyes. It was the same gent as last night, ever so 'andsome he was, and 'ad a real nice way of talkin', made yer shiver it did.' She shivered and rubbed small pudgy hands along her bare arms, to illustrate her point, though the look on her face said she rather liked it. Aramis raised a brow but made no comment. 'Well me and 'im 'ad a little business last night.' She gave a sly smirk and Aramis almost choked on his ale.

'You did?' he asked astounded, the shock on his face eliciting a guilty expression. She blushed slightly, twisting her hair around her fingers.

'Not like that! Wot kinda girl do ya think I am? Though I wouldn't a minded.' She giggled and gave Aramis a nudge. Noting his expression, not to mention the shiny coin he was passing between his fingers, she reluctantly resumed her story. 'Well, 'e wanted to know about the trouble we wos 'avin' at The Fleece, the two men who kept coming in at the beginnin' of the month, demanding money. So I told 'im. After that I 'ad to go and work – the landlady is a real bitch. So, imagine my surprise when he comes in tonight as large as life. Though he didn't look 'appy, 'e 'ad a right face on 'im. I was glad it wasn't me 'e was angry with, I can tell yer – face like thunder, angry, but cold, if you know what I mean?' Aramis knew exactly what she meant, and he wondered what had happened to pitch his friend into such a mood.

'Then what happened?' Aramis encouraged. She shrugged.

'Not sure. I didn't want to bother 'im, 'e didn't look in the mood. Next thing I know, 'e's knifed one of 'em and is fightin' with the other. He pushed 'em both out into the street. Thought that was it, but next thing I know, the damned guards come in, pushin' everyone around as always, shoutin' about who was 'e. Well, we didn't know did we, so we couldn't tell 'em. Not that we would 'av anyway, after all, he was only tryin' to 'elp. I just 'ope 'e aint made it worse.' She looked worried and Aramis handed over the money, hoping it might ease her pain.

'One more question. The two men, were they after money from the landlord tonight?' She nodded, though not particularly enthusiastically. Aramis stood and thanked her for her help.

'So you see, it appears Athos has got himself involved in some form of protection racket.' Porthos scowled and shook his head.

'I've told you before, 'e simply can't keep out of trouble – attracts it like bees to honey.' Aramis shrugged, but even Porthos' annoyance could not dampen his mood.

'He is back in Paris, that is all that matters. Now all we have to do is find him.' Porthos began to shake his head, then he paused.

'Why?' He looked at Aramis intently.

'Why what?' Aramis retorted, frowning.

'Why do we 'ave to find him if 'e's in Paris and 'asn't come to find us?' Aramis rolled his eyes.

'I thought we had discussed all of that, and moved on. Just because he has chosen to return to Paris, does not mean he felt comfortable returning to the garrison. We just have to convince him he is wrong.' The idea revitalised his enthusiasm, and even Porthos began to smile.

'Just as long as I don't have to carry his bleedin' carcass home again…' he chortled, though both men secretly hoped he was right.

oOo

Athos took the back streets, blood boiling that he had not been able to conclude what he had started – he had let the landlord down. Bewildered, he found himself standing in the street between Monsieur René's and The Red Barrel. He didn't care about the quality of the wine anymore, just how much he could consume to make the memory go away. He pushed open the door and, making his way over to his usual table, signalled for a bottle of wine. The landlord set it down and left him to it, though not before he had received payment. Athos suspected the man had seen enough tortured souls to recognise when a man planned to drink himself into oblivion, and knew to make them settle up first.

He downed the first glass in one go and poured another, trying desperately to think of something else, anything – but his thoughts kept coming back to her.

Having picked himself up off the floor, he had rushed straight to the tavern, kidding himself the distraction would erase the memory. What an utter fool he had been, erase what had just happened? Never. He could hardly still his own hands at the thought of it, and only now, as he sat in the darkness of the inn, could he really let himself begin to react to the shock. Another glass, and another. Still he could smell her on his shirt, on his skin, and feel her fingers along his jaw. Groaning inwardly, he sent for another bottle and began to work his way through that. How could she still live? He had thought himself mad, beginning to doubt his own memories, but all those moments, the smell of her perfume, it had been real, all of it. If only he could understand what he felt, sort out the emotions running through his head.

When she had touched him, stood so close, the loneliness, the existence of which he had denied for so long, had become overwhelming. Just to hold another, to feel the warmth of her embrace, had been more than he could withstand. But it was her behaviour he could not comprehend. Surely her first intent had been to harm him, the knife was proof of that. And then she had changed her mind, but why? Did she, too, feel the same loneliness, the emotional isolation that was slowly eating away inside him? Did she suffer alone in the dark as did he? He could not decide whether the possibility that each of them shared the same torment, the same terrors in the night, was a comfort, or just another sign of his own shallow weakness.

The second bottle was empty. Suddenly he shivered, and lifted his head, though it felt heavy, and his eyes beginning to blur. There it was again, the slightest of breezes, as though the air around him was colder. Perhaps he was going mad, or perhaps the dead really were visiting him tonight. He stood and walked over to the bar, focusing on the landlord, who observed his approach. Coin exchanged hands and Athos carried the two bottles outside. The air was cold, and the mist from earlier appeared to have evaporated, though he could no longer rely on what he saw before his own eyes. Desolate, he gazed up at the sky. It was clear, and the moon shone brightly upon the sleeping city, the stars twinkling brightly in the inky darkness. He should have been able to appreciate their beauty, but strangely they merely increased his anger.

How dare anything behave normally tonight? How dare the stars gleam in the heavens and the moon continue to shine? Nothing was normal anymore, for what pitiful existence he had managed to salvage from his former life, she had once again shattered.

He raised the bottle in fury, making to smash it to the ground, a strangled sob ripping from his throat. No, he would drain it down to the dregs, for he knew they would still come; he could feel them in the very air, watching waiting, appearing when he was at his lowest ebb, when he could not deny them; though now there would be one less – she was not dead. But as the tears slipped from his tired eyes, he knew she would still come.