Chapter 8

Aramis talked as they walked, Porthos and Athos striding alongside, listening intently.

'According to Lemarché, he was supposed to attend the celebrations with them but had fallen badly during the afternoon's sparring, twisting an ankle; luckily for him, he decided resting it was more important. Anyway, he told me that Gallét had something planned, something he thought would be highly entertaining. He was not sure what it was, but he overheard him talking about The Peacock. Now I have not frequented the inn – it is a fairly recent establishment compared with many taverns in Paris –but I do believe they run another form of business in the rooms behind. I could hazard a guess at Gallét's idea of a surprise; Belvoir is a green lad of nineteen, and if the rumours about The Peacock are true, he would have had the shock of his life.'

Porthos began to chuckle and Athos gave the slightest twitch of his lips. Gallét was a good soldier, but his idea of a joke often went too far. Still, he was a good man at heart, and they did not like to think of him suffering so badly for a birthday prank.

As they walked along one of Paris' main streets, the three men fell silent, content to be together again, at least for now.

March was coming to an end and April would soon be upon them. The air was beginning to lose the chill of winter, bright sun warming one's face, promising the return of summer. Of course, the passing of March also heralded something else – the onset of the King's tour.

The Peacock was an old and fairly dilapidated building, certainly not somewhere you would expect to find a party of Musketeers; they halted outside the entrance sensing something was wrong. Though some taverns stayed open day and night, most closed eventually, if only to allow the owners to take stock and get some rest. But business was money, and to find a tavern closed at this time of day was unheard of.

'What do ya think?' Porthos enquired, a wary look on his face.

'Knocking cannot hurt,' Aramis replied, ever the optimist. He looked to Athos for confirmation and the man gave a slight nod. Stepping forward, Aramis rapped hard upon the door, then stood and listened. The only noise came from the street behind them – there was no sound from within. Aramis tried again, this time beating at the door with his fist. Silence for a moment, then the faint sound of furniture being shifted behind the solid oak. The door latch lifted, and slowly it opened, just enough to allow an ashen face to peer out into the bright sunlight. The three men took in the appearance of the young girl, who had limp yellow hair and wide pale eyes.

'We aint open, the landlord's sick.' She whispered the statement as though it were a secret, her frightened eyes darting from one man to the other and then toward the street beyond, as if to ensure nobody was listening.

'What are his symptoms?' Aramis asked. Urgency was evident in his tone, though he attempted not to frighten the girl any further. She hesitated for a second and Aramis thought she was considering shutting the door. 'Do not worry, we will not hurt you or bring you trouble. How many people are ill?' The girl looked as though she was about to cry.

'Everyone, 'cept me and Mary.' A stray tear slid down her face and suddenly she looked very young indeed. If the rumours surrounding The Peacock were true, the three men could guess what she was doing in the less than salubrious establishment.

'How many is that?' Aramis urged as kindly as his patience would allow. The girl wrinkled her forehead as she struggled with the question.

'There's Monsieur Vert and 'is wife, then there's the girls, five of 'em. They's all sick. But I think there may be more. Madame Vert thought it was the food, and we sold out of food on Saturday, we was real busy.' She looked terrified, as though, with everyone else sick, the blame would fall on her. Aramis was gently pushed aside, and Athos approached the girl. Her eyes flickered for a moment, he did not have a kind face, and when he spoke the girl looked as though she was about to flee.

'Where do you get your water from?' As usual no preamble, straight to the point, though she seemed slightly relieved by the simplicity of the question.

'Out back, we have a well.' She looked from Athos back to Aramis, hoping one of them might relieve her of the problem. It was Aramis who spoke.

'Keep them comfortable and try and make them drink, not water but tea. Do you have tea?' The girl nodded, taking in every word as though her life depended upon it – which it possibly did. 'Other than that, try and have as little contact with them as possible. Do you understand?' Again, she gave a slight nod of her head. 'I will try and get a doctor to attend, but I cannot promise.' Aramis looked downcast, not at all convinced he would find anyone who would bother to come out and help those within. By the time he shook off the depressing notion that those afflicted were likely to be left to suffer alone, he realised the girl had withdrawn inside and shut the door; not only that but Athos was no longer with them.

He turned to Porthos, who nodded his head toward the alleyway at the side of the building, before turning and following after Athos. The two men headed down the dark, filthy passageway just in time to see Athos turn the corner toward the rear of the tavern. As they approached, the stench of rotting food and rubbish was overwhelming, and they fought the urge to cover their noses. At the end of the narrow enclosure they found Athos surveying the small patch of land they now found themselves in. Several rats scurried to escape the human invasion of their territory, their small feet scratching upon the hard dirt of the floor.

'Urgh, I 'ate rats,' Porthos growled, stamping his large boots down hard upon the floor as if to emphasise his point, as well as ensuring they stayed well away.

'This is Paris, mon ami, it is hard to avoid them,' Aramis pointed out, grinning at his friend's obvious discomfort.

'We need to find this well,' Athos stated, rooting around amongst the long grass. As they rounded the pile of refuse, a well-worn path became apparent and the opening of the well emerged. Surrounded by a wall about waist-high, the shaft was roughly six hand-widths across. The wall was in poor repair, suggesting that the rubbish piled high against it could probably be found at the bottom of the shaft on a far too regular basis.

Athos leant over the dark well and wrinkled his nose. 'This water probably comes from the Seine; God knows what lies at the bottom.' The other two men concurred, holding their hands over their mouths.

Convinced they had discovered the source of their colleague's illness, there was little else they could achieve. Treville may be able to summon the help of a physician, but it was unlikely he would offer much in the way of assistance.

As they retraced their steps down the passageway, Porthos increased his pace as the sound of scurrying feet echoed behind them. Aramis laughed, whilst Athos' face bore the trace of a smirk, both men amused to see Porthos practically run toward the light at the end of the gloomy corridor. Reaching the open and noisy street once more, he gave a shiver.

'I think it's time for a drink. That place 'as left a nasty taste in my mouth. God knows what Gallét was thinking.' Indeed, the idea of encouraging a green and vulnerable lad to lose his virginity in such a place was poor taste even for the errant Musketeer. Still, it would seem that he was now to pay a considerable price for his lack of judgement.

Spring sunshine slanted low across the busy street, already the afternoon was wearing on and, uncharacteristically, Athos was ready to admit to himself that he was hungry. His head had begun to ache once more – in fact, he was not at all sure it had ever stopped, he had just been too busy to notice. As they reached the tavern, Porthos barged in through the door like a man who had not partaken of sustenance for an age. Aramis winked at Athos before soberly addressing Porthos, 'One quick drink my friend, we have too much to do.' He offered the disappointed Musketeer his most sympathetic expression as Porthos watched a plate laden with food pass before his eyes, the aroma which reached his nose making him groan in frustration.

'We missed lunch and I'm starvin,' Porthos complained, scowling at the two men who were attempting to keep straight faces. He looked defiant, daring them to deny him his right to regular meals. As he glowered at his friends, he could not help but notice the look on Athos' face as more meals were delivered to waiting tables. In an instant Porthos ceased to frown, now he was grinning from ear to ear, 'E's 'ungry! I can tell, don't even bother denying it,' he warned, wagging a finger at Athos. 'You just watched that stew with the same look you normally reserve for a good brandy.' He smiled and folded his arms, a smug expression settling upon his face. Aramis smiled happily, and turned to see how Athos would react, anticipating some acidic retort or a simple roll of his eyes at the very suggestion. But no, Athos was smiling, and when Aramis raised a brow in surprise, the swordsman simply shrugged his shoulders and slapped Porthos on the shoulder.

'For once, my friend, I am in agreement. I, too, am ready to eat, and perhaps this is a good time to consider what we have learnt.' The three men walked to the bar together in total accord. Once they were seated with ale and wine, they began to discuss their rather bizarre morning.

'From the circumstances we witnessed at The Peacock, I think it is fair to surmise that there was no malice intended – our men simply made a poor choice in their venue.' Aramis nodded his head, saddened by the suffering that might have been avoided had Gallét not been so intent on giving Belvoir a night to remember. He hoped the man would be able to live with his decision when, or rather if, the lad recovered. 'The tavern will have to be quarantined,' said Aramis, 'plus we must ensure no one else drinks from that well, though it did not appear to serve any other establishment.' He looked up, but noted only Porthos was paying attention.

Athos was staring across the room, his glass halfway to his mouth. Aramis turned to see what had caught his attention. A small boy was standing in the doorway, eyes darting around the room as though he was searching for someone. Finally, his eyes locked with those of Athos and the boy froze. For a moment he looked as though he was about to run, especially when the man in question rose from his seat and began to stride toward him. He quickly weighed up his options but glanced at something in his hand. Whatever it was, it seemed to make up his mind, he widened his stance and stood his ground, though his expression said he would rather be anywhere other than where he was, confronting this man whose face turned his blood to ice.

Athos stood before the boy looking down at the upturned face – a picture of rebelliousness, which under different conditions he might have found amusing. However, he had seen the lad before, and the circumstances had not been easy to forget. Whether the boy had played an active part in the charade, or had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, he was about to find out.

'We have met before I believe?' Athos murmured, never for a second taking his eyes from the boy. The lad blinked rapidly, not even daring to shuffle his feet. There was no way out, and he suspected the man would simply lift him bodily off the floor if he so much as twitched. He gulped and settled for nodding his head.

'Are you looking for me now?' he asked, his voice low, but the authority it bore very clear. Swallowing hard, the boy gave another small nod.

Athos tilted his head and thought for a moment then, taking a deep breath, he asked quietly, 'Did she send you?' He watched the small upturned face – the eyes flared and the fear in them provided the answer he sought. 'I see. What were you to do?' This time the boy did not hesitate, he thrust the piece of paper he had clutched in his hand toward Athos. The man did not take it straight away, instead he simply stared, his face a blank mask, causing the boy to finally speak.

'Please mister, take the paper, she won't pay me if ya don't.' Athos blinked, though he still made no move. Slowly he reached out and took the folded paper. He held it in his hand but made no move to unfold it and read its contents. So engrossed was he in the small note, he failed to react in time to prevent the boy from slipping past him and escaping out into the street. Still, what could he have revealed? Athos knew she would only have told the child what she wished him to know.

Slowly he unfolded the note. The red seal seemed to stand out from the pale parchment, an intricate M entwined with a W pressed into the wax. He was not aware of his actions as his fingers stroked softly over the imprint beneath his fingers, caressing the wax until it softened beneath the warmth of his touch. Athos was in a world away from the tavern, in which he stood until a voice spoke softly over his shoulder.

'Is something amiss? Aramis enquired. 'Your food is ready.' He did not push for an answer, merely taking in the small envelope clutched in his friend's hand, the knuckles that held it white with tension. Athos said nothing, merely thrusting the missive inside his jacket and, turning abruptly, he failed to look his friend in the eye, simply returning with Aramis to their table. Porthos raised his brows at the Marksman, but Aramis merely shrugged his shoulders and sat himself down. Athos no longer appeared to have an appetite, pushing his food around the plate as though he didn't really see it.

'There is no need to spear that beef, the owner has been long dead,' Porthos offered, in an attempt to lighten the mood that had settled over the company. Athos grunted and finally gave up any attempt at interest in the stew. He pushed the plate away and stared into his glass instead. The two men exchanged glances, both recognising the signs they were witnessing. When Athos poured himself another glass and drank it down in several gulps, their minds were made up. Porthos took hold of the plate of stew and silently asked if Athos was finished. The man waved his hand indicating he had no further use for it, leaving Porthos – never a man to let food go to waste – to dig in. Aramis pondered the situation, trying to decide the best course of action. Athos had received a communication from someone and, judging by his reaction, it was not particularly welcome. Taking a deep breath, he decided that jumping in with both feet was the only approach – if Athos chose to shun him, then so be it.

'What is wrong, my friend, do you suspect bad news? I could not help but note the letter in your hand.' His voice was gentle and there was no suggestion of judgement or insistence. Athos raised his head, and once again Aramis was stunned by the level of pain in those green eyes, but there was a flicker of something else. Anger? Fear? It was so fleeting that he was unable to interpret the emotion, but Athos was conflicted, of that he was certain.

oOo

Milady paced up and down in front of the Cardinal's large desk – she was always puzzled as to why the man had such a large apartment but chose to furnish it with so little of interest. She had concluded that he aimed to intimidate, and she had to admit it worked very well. However, at the moment she was nervous, though she was trying desperately not to show it.

'My dear, you seem agitated. If the job is too difficult, I can always find someone else to accompany me.' He attempted a smile, but on him it was just a narrow dark slit in a face that promised cruelty and deceit. She forced herself to appear as nonchalant as possible, even though her heart was beating so hard she was convinced he must be able to see it, if not hear it, hammering against her ribs. She ceased her pacing, blinking slowly and peering at him from beneath her dark lashes.

'Difficulty is not the issue. I cannot be seen to accompany you, yet you wish me to be your eyes and ears within the party. How exactly do you suggest I do that?' the Cardinal grinned, though his eyes still remained cold and hard.

'That is in hand, do not worry. Just be ready when I call for you, and make yourself presentable to appear before the Queen. Is that your only concern? You seem unusually distressed, is there something I should know? If it is the business with Montmorency, that cannot be traced back to you, unless there was something you were not telling me.' She shot him a look, the reference to the man she had murdered the last time she had visited Rambouillet had unnerved her even more. Still she remained aloof, shaking her dark hair from her pale shoulders.

'No, there is no way anyone can connect that with me. Only Aramis and Porthos were present at the Château de'Rambouillet, and they would never expect the culprit to still be present.' Richelieu pressed his long fingers together and touched them to his pale lips.

'And the sword master, Athos, he, too, was present, was he not?' It took all of her self-control not to react, though she could not be sure that her eyes did not give away her surprise. Why would he have mentioned Athos? Surely he could not know anything of their past history? No, he was fishing; his empire was based upon information and secrets, and she would not add to his bounty.

'Yes, I believe he was, though there is no reason for him to journey this time, he sealed his fate with the King at the Queen's party.' She smirked and held the Cardinal's gaze; he nodded, with half-closed lids, in a lazy expression of agreement.

'Good, then be ready, the King is getting restless. Something tells me he could demand to leave at any moment, and if we must go then I would rather it be sooner than later. The quicker we leave, the quicker his Majesty will likely change his mind, and decide he would rather be enjoying the comforts of home.' Something in the man's eyes caught her attention.

'Do you have plans to aid his decision?' she ventured, knowing that too many questions could be her undoing. Instead of backing off, Richelieu preened and smirked.

'Far be it for me to spoil the King's plans in any way. However, there are many dangers and pitfalls that can mar a long journey, especially for a man so used to the excesses of luxury and comfort as those afforded the King.' Milady raised an elegant brow and began to pull on her gloves.

'Very well, I will make my preparations and await your further instructions.' Turning her back to the Cardinal, she sashayed toward the doorway, all the time aware of the penetrating stare fixed upon her retreating figure. She did not hurry, but forced herself to travel slowly, even though the sensation was very much akin to being stabbed in the back.

Richelieu watched her as she left – the woman was beautiful, but she was not irreplaceable. Paris was full of beautiful women, though it was true that they were not all as proficient with a blade as Milady de Winter. She would be a useful asset on this debacle and, if necessary, she would provide a suitable scapegoat should one be needed.

He tapped his fingers on the desk in a rare show of irritation. There was still some secret which he could not unearth, some connection to the man Athos. It showed as clear as day in her face, and the way she held her body at the very mention of his name, despite the fact she tried so hard to hide it. It was more than mere attraction or infatuation – he was not even sure a woman as cold as her was capable of such emotion – no, it was much stronger. As strong as love? Or hate? He was not sure, but his curiosity burned to find out, and find out he would, one way or another.