Chapter 9

Athos did not know how to respond to Aramis' question – as the marksman had suspected, he was indeed conflicted. There was a part of him that had emerged from the brooding darkness and longed to reach out to the light that was his burgeoning friendship; he longed for the warmth and reassurance that this new-found support offered him.

Though these two men constantly volunteered love and encouragement, without judgement, he still found it too good to be true, and so fell back upon the response he knew so well, which had protected him from the cold reality of human interaction – he withdrew behind the walls he had erected, the ones built to keep the pain away. Fearing his brothers' judgment, he kept silent, his fears and longings churning within him like a bubbling volcano, his subconscious ever fearful of the moment he would finally erupt beneath the pressure.

Nothing was his inevitable reply. Aramis was not surprised, though he could not deny he was disappointed. After recent events, he had allowed himself to believe, now that they had cleared the air, Athos had accepted their presence and would let them into his life. He had been wrong. The man who stared at him across the table had hidden behind his old mask of neutrality, whatever fierce emotion he had witnessed earlier now shuttered away, where he alone could dwell and mither over it. So Aramis bit down upon the reply that hovered upon his lips, lowering his eyes in the hope that his own emotions were not obvious.

Porthos had watched the scene unfold across the busy tavern, just as Aramis had. He watched again now, as the marksman attempted to coax information from the brooding Athos, and he was tempted to smack the swordsman around the head as if he were a recalcitrant child. Instead, he scowled and looked from Athos' dark and tense expression, to the crestfallen face of Aramis. He knew his friend would take Athos' reluctance personally, and it would hurt the Musketeer, despite his attempts to suggest otherwise; Porthos understood that Aramis interpreted Athos' cold front as a personal failure. He wanted to shake Athos and tell him to stop being so bloody selfish, but he knew he would not, for he too felt the swordsman's emotional battle. Athos had to decide to come to them – there would be no other way.

The atmosphere had grown tense. Athos knew he was to blame, and the crushing disappointment that came off Aramis and Porthos in waves threatened to drive him deeper into the well of guilt his conscience was falling into – yet he simply could not allow himself to grasp at the lifeline the two men offered. Aramis finally broke the silence.

'If you two gentlemen will excuse me.' The Musketeer offered a bright smile as he stood, exiting through the milling crowd, toward the door. Porthos looked at Athos, attempting an expression that bore no criticism or judgement, but his face was an open book compared to Athos.

The swordsman fought his own internal battle, reason finally gaining the upper hand. 'I will talk to him,' he volunteered.

Porthos quirked a brow, 'Now?' Athos blinked, somewhat taken aback, then he sighed and, resigned to his fate, he gave a slight nod.

'Now.' He stood and strode through the crowd, the drunken revellers parting as if they sensed the strength of emotion the man exuded. Porthos thought Athos looked more like a man approaching the gallows than attempting to discourse with a friend.

Aramis gulped in the fresh air as though, inside the tavern, he had ceased to breathe. For a hardened and brave soldier, he often feared he was too sensitive for his own good – a sentiment both Porthos and Treville supported. His head told him he completely understood Athos' reservations. He understood the man's natural reserve, but that did not stop his heart from breaking just a little every time he watched his friend retreat into his despair, not allowing him and Porthos to help.

He was so deep in thought, as well as tending to his own personal needs, he did not hear the soft footfalls approach behind him until he felt a sharp blade at his throat. A deep guttural voice spoke close to his ear, the smell of body odour and liquor, combined with the grating tone, setting the marksman's teeth on edge.

'Not so cocky now are you, Musketeer?' the voice crowed. 'Drop your weapons, all of them, and kick them away.' Aramis hesitated for a moment too long, whilst his brain ran a series of options through his head. He gasped as the blade split his skin and felt warm blood trickling down his throat. 'I said now! Do not think, just do it!' the voice rasped, agitation clear. Aramis had no choice. He unbuckled his weapons belt and sighed as he heard his sword and beloved musket hit the floor; he kicked them away, feeling the blade ever present at his throat. 'Right, now listen good. Tell your friend that if he wants to live to see another day – or if he wants his friends to see another day – to back off and mind his own business.' He laughed, as if he had made a joke, before continuing: 'I will know if he has been asking questions. Do you understand?'

Athos walked across the room, staring intently upon the doorway. The wooden object may as well have been the portal to hell by the way he glared at it with a mixture of anger and fear. He hesitated, hand upon the iron latch, trying to find the courage to take him over the threshold. Porthos watched him falter and held his breath. If he could have helped him find the courage by will power alone, he would have – but this was Athos' battle, not his. He let out a sigh of relief as the man finally pulled open the door and stepped into the night.

Athos turned down the dark alley, guessing Aramis' need for privacy; what he had not expected was the scene unfolding before him. Aramis stood facing away from him, kicking his weapons belt aside, whilst a man stood behind him, holding a weapon of some sort to the marksman's head. Whatever emotion had been churning inside Athos was immediately replace by ice cold fury. It was the sort of anger that allowed him to channel that passion down the length of steel, enabling him to deliver a terrifying judgement – as this man was about to find out. He slipped back out of sight, long enough to draw his sword, aware that silence was necessary to achieve his goal. Creeping back into the alley, he heard the man began to laugh. Athos was grateful for the deep cackle, which covered the sound of his booted feet as he eased closer to his quarry.

When the man ceased his laughter, Athos could hear him muttering something in Aramis' ear, giving him just the time he needed to prod the man in the back with his sword.

'Let him go!' Athos hissed; his voice cold enough to freeze the blood in his victim's veins.

The stranger paused for a fraction of a second, but he had no intention of surrendering, not to the man who held a sword to his back. With one swift movement, he clubbed Aramis to the temple with the butt of his knife and thrust the man away from him. Pivoting on the spot, knife extended before him, he drew his own sword. It was lucky for him he carried a sword, for the knife flew from his numbed fingers just as the weapon left its sheath.

Athos spared a glance toward the fallen Musketeer; he was conscious, but the glazed look on his face suggested he was still stunned from the blow to his head.

The swordsman saw the flash from the blade as the hooded man spun to face him and, flicking his wrist, he knocked the knife from the man's hand, sending a wave of pain down the assailant's arm which caused him to hiss with pain.

'You!' the man growled. 'If I had known you were coming, I would have waited and slit your throat, you interfering bastard.'

Athos gave a twitch of his lips before offering an acidic retort. 'I fear my father may have taken offence at your suggestion, and I now feel obliged to defend my mother's honour, as well as revenge the injury you have done to my friend.'

With that, Athos lunged, and the furious clashing of steel echoed in the dark gulley, finally shaking Aramis from his stupor. The marksman tried to stand but his head swam, and he was not sure exactly how many men were fighting in the alley – which troubled him somewhat. Athos allowed his sword to slide down his opponent's, keeping the blade at bay, whilst enabling him to get close to his adversary. With a manoeuvre that had impressed Porthos only the other night, but took the masked man by surprise, he whipped his head back and landed a heavy blow to the man's nose and was rewarded by a satisfying crack and a shriek of pain. Athos sprang away, sword raised, in readiness for the anguished riposte he anticipated. Blinded by blood, pain and fury, his assailant lunged, a hate-filled scream accompanying his attack. Athos smirked in satisfaction as the man allowed his anger to override his tactics. He lashed out wildly, whilst the swordsman's cold logic flowed through his arm as he struck the man's blade, twisting it with enough force to send it flying through the air.

Just as he was about to press his advantage, he felt something catch beneath his boot and his attention was momentarily distracted by the bellowing cry which erupted behind him. Athos staggered, desperately attempting to correct his footing, as something seemed to anchor his right foot to the ground.

'Oi, what's goin' on?' An angry Porthos entered the fray just as Athos, already unstable, found himself pushed hard in the chest. Unable to steady himself, Athos threw his arms out in front of him in an attempt to stop himself from falling. Just as he realised his efforts were in vain, and crashing to the floor was inevitable, he felt himself collide with something solid, which abruptly halted his decent. The fact that the solid something let out a loud oomph, revealed it was likely to be Porthos' chest. Whilst this was happening, the man responsible had obviously decided it was time to make his retreat and dashed past the two entangled men.

'Count your days… swordmaster,' he managed to spit, as he passed Athos, before running from the alley and into the night.

Porthos grabbed hold of Athos' shoulders and manoeuvred the man upright, just as the sword master kicked away the object that had bought about his literal downfall.

'If you do not mind, that is my favourite musket you are abusing with your boot,' Aramis muttered as he held a cloth to the side of his head. Both men turned to look at the seated Musketeer, Porthos letting out a guffaw, glad both his friends appeared unharmed. Athos glowered at Aramis.

'Perhaps in future you could avoid leaving it lying around where someone might fall over it.' Athos delivered the retort with haughty sarcasm.

'My apologies, I am sure. Next time I am asked to relieve myself of my weaponry whilst a blade is held to my throat, I will endeavour to be more thoughtful.' Despite the droll banter, there was a gleam in each man's eyes that told of his relief at the other's continued survival.

'What was that about?' Porthos enquired.

Athos shrugged his shoulders and, as Aramis struggled to his feet, both men ended up looking to him for further explanation.

'I am fine, just fine. Thank you for asking.' He glared at his two friends.

'You are standing and flippant, therefore you are fine.' Athos managed to deliver the line with his usual disdain, though neither Musketeer doubted the humour behind the remark. 'We are long overdue in our report to Treville. Talk as we walk.' With that, he turned abruptly and made his way out of the alley.

Porthos and Aramis ran to catch him up, Aramis fastening his weapons belt as he strode beside Athos. 'It would appear you have not been playing nice with the other children,' Aramis said with a smile, aware of Athos' attempt to ignore him. 'Your friend back there is obviously displeased with you.'

'Really? I thought when he mentioned slitting my throat, it was an unusual term of endearment,' Athos deadpanned.

Porthos grinned. 'That's pleasant. You really do have a way of pissin' people off.'

Aramis slapped Athos on the shoulder. 'Joking aside, my friend, he had a message for you.' Aramis frowned recalling the blade slicing into his throat.

'I think his message was evident,' Athos responded.

'It was more than that, he wanted you to back off, mind your own business if you– or your friends – wanted to see another day.' Porthos glanced at the marksman, then both men turned to Athos, noting the man break the rhythm of his stride, before increasing his pace, face fixed in a mask of cold contempt. He was immune to threats against his own person, but a threat to his friends made his blood boil with fury.

Though he knew neither man would bat an eye at such a threat, he was enraged that they had, yet again, been dragged into a situation of his making. Aramis was anticipating just such a response and intended to nip it in the bud.

'It is not a situation of your making, you informed Treville of your suspicions, making it a Musketeer concern. It is now the responsibility of all of us to uncover who is behind the racketeering.' He paused for a moment, his handsome face frowning as he considered another possibility. 'I assume that is what he referred to? You have not involved yourself in any other situation that would encourage your demise?'

Athos snorted, 'Despite what you think, I do not make a habit of embroiling myself in the illegal affairs of others. Not unless I am drawn into them directly or…' He paused, long enough for Porthos to intervene.

'Or what?' the big man asked, his face full of genuine interest.

'Or the victim is unable to defend themselves.'

'How very noble of you. Your honour does you credit, my friend. 'Aramis' words were well meant, but they caused Athos' heart to skip a beat, so close had he come to the truth of it.

They had reached the garrison gates, and as one they all fell silent, the shadow of the infirmary darkening their mood, both literally and metaphorically, as they passed beneath its canopy. It was with an element of reluctance that the three men mounted the stairs to Treville's office. The light had begun to fade, and the glow of a lamp was evident through the window, only emphasising the coming of evening and the length of their absence. All three were beginning to regret their delay, caused by seeking refreshment at The Wren, and Porthos wished he had listened to Athos' advice, especially as their brothers lay ill within the garrison walls.

Athos lead the trio up the stairs, the slow rhythm of their booted feet evidence of their growing reluctance. Like errant boys awaiting their fate, they halted before the door as Athos knocked.

'Come!' The severe command from the Musketeer Captain had the three friends standing to attention as they filed into the office and arranged themselves in front of Treville's desk. The man noted the familiar formation but did not allow it to mellow his mood. He was irritated. His day had gone from bad to worse and, whether these men deserved it or not, they were going to get the sharp edge of his tongue because of it.

'Where the hell have you been?' the Captain barked. The three men stood straighter, each managing to find a spot of interest on the wall just above the top of Treville's head. 'Well?' As was slowly becoming the norm, Athos spoke for the three of them. Generally, it was because he had the knack of delivering a succinct report; including all the important detail, but none of the more flowery elements he would have got from Aramis. However, Treville had come to realise that succinct could also mean devoid of all of the dangerous, or reckless, or just downright stupid parts. For their sakes, he hoped that was not going to be the case now.

'We believe we have discovered the source of the fever. There is a well that services the Peacock Tavern, it is not in good repair and is likely to be the cause of the men's illness. Currently the inn is closed, and all but two of the inhabitants are laid low with fever. For the time being it will remain closed, ensuring nobody else comes into contact with them. Whether anything can be done to alleviate their suffering… we offered no promises.' He looked directly at Treville as he gave this last statement, the rest having been delivered in his usual concise manner, though directed somewhere to the left of where Treville currently stood scowling.

There was a lengthy pause, which Athos did not appear intent to fill. This time it was Aramis who spoke up.

'How are the men?' His eyes showed his concern and Treville understood it was genuine, but he was unable to climb down from the angry mood which threatened to overwhelm him.

'Tricoux is dead and Gallét is hanging on by a thread. Three more are showing symptoms. Apparently, Lecroix helped Serge prepare food in the kitchen earlier this morning before he, too, succumbed, that must be why men are developing fever who were not present at the tavern that night. We have had to destroy all that was in the kitchens and send for food prepared outside – Serge is beside himself.' He glared at the three men as if they were somehow solely responsible for recent events. Silence reigned once more. Aramis hung his head, devastated at the news, and Porthos lowered his eyes, whilst Athos' face remained impassive.

'These inhabitants of the tavern, were they not so disabled that they were able to attack you? Or did your day end in its usual manner – with you finding time to drink and brawl in some other establishment whilst your brothers died in agony?' It was cruel and unfair blow and Treville knew it. However, losing good men in battle was one thing, but this was something else entirely; the letters he would have to write to loved ones could not be elevated by tales of bravery and honour, just simple bad luck – it was all wrong.

'Could you not have simply walked past for once?' The question was clearly aimed at Athos, and the Captain was aware of the pain and sorrow that flickered momentarily in those green eyes, before he shuttered of his emotions yet again. However, neither Aramis or Porthos were prepared for their brother to take the blame, both men spoke as one.

'That is not fair, Captain,' Aramis proclaimed, the sadness from earlier now replaced with dismay.

'It was my fault,' Porthos announced firmly. Treville simply glared, but he could not help feeling a flicker of guilt at the accusation he had just made. Athos had said nothing, his face a cold mask, still staring intently at the wall.

The cold, heavy feeling that settled in the swordsman's gut, prevented him from speaking. He did not even hear what was being said. Treville was disappointed in him, the Captain believed he had sought the solace of drink whilst others around him had suffered, and he had not been wrong; that it had gone against his better judgement changed nothing. He became aware that Aramis was speaking, and he attempted to concentrate, though the beating of his heart attempted to drown out anything else, as it thrummed inside his head. It had been almost two days since he had eaten a decent meal; it seemed every time a plate was set in front of him, something momentous occurred to dispatch his appetite. His body now seemed to be rebelling and he felt so very tired. He was once more reminded of the letter inside his coat, it felt as though it burned through his very skin. Ironic, as it was situated above his frozen heart.

Aramis had obviously been speaking for some time, explaining events at The Wren.

'The man caught me at a disadvantage, but he gave me a message to give to Athos. Athos emerged and managed to drive him off, with the help of Porthos' timely arrival.' Treville's face darkened even more, if that were at all possible.

'You believe it was one of the men demanding protection money?' Treville barked. Aramis nodded.

'It would seem the most probable explanation.' Treville turned to Athos, his face softening a little, the guilt of his earlier accusation surfacing once more.

'Did you recognise him Athos?' His voice was less stern, and Athos finally looked the Captain in the face. Treville sucked in a breath as he saw the look in the young man's eyes. He was not sure what emotion flickered in those green depths, but he knew his words had hurt him as effectively as any blow.

'No, I did not, he wore a scarf over his face. However, his words were telling. He called me swordmaster!' He looked at the Captain now, all signs of sorrow eradicated, and as he raised a brow there was nothing but concentration and cold calculation on the young man's face.

'Swordmaster?' Treville questioned. Both Aramis and Porthos turned to Athos in surprise, as neither of the men had heard the mystery man's parting comment.

'How many people do you think would know of my arrangement within the garrison?' Athos asked quietly. The three men watching him grew thoughtful.

'To people living around the garrison, you would most likely be just another Musketeer, you are regularly seen with Porthos and me,' Aramis stated. Athos nodded, though his gaze never left Treville.

'The King, Richelieu and the Red Guard, they all know of your role,' the Captain offered, though his face was slightly incredulous at what he was suggesting. Again, Athos nodded.

'Noting that nobody was taken to the Châtelet after the Red Guard took the two men away after our disagreement, and the fact they not only recognised me but knew of my position…' His voice trailed off and Treville ran his hands through his sandy hair. All the previous anger drained from his body and his shoulders lost their rigidity, slumping just slightly.

'You think the Red Guards are behind this activity?' the Captain asked, though he appeared to have already reached his own conclusion. Athos shrugged.

'It is a strong possibility, and one I feel we cannot discount. Perhaps more discreet enquiries should be made.' Treville straightened and his demeanour once more took on an air of irritation.

'That will not be possible.' The three men shuffled and made as if to speak, but Treville raised his hand to silence them. 'The King has made it clear he wishes to embark upon his tour the day after tomorrow. Apparently, he is bored, and has decided we have had sufficient time to plan.' Athos looked aghast, grasping the logistical problems in an instant.

'How many men are we down with fever and on reconnaissance?' he asked quietly. Treville took a breath, heartened by the sensible question. Something about having Athos back to discuss the situation with diffused some of the Captain's tension.

'Thirty altogether. There are thirteen in the infirmary and seventeen visiting the proposed destinations on the King's itinerary, though they are not expected to return until next week. On top of that, we may be away for over a month. I cannot leave the Garrison deplete entirely for that length of time, even with the King gone from the city. I fear I will have to take some of the cadets and, though they are all good men, they would not be my first choice for such a journey.'

'Why now?' Aramis asked. Treville laughed, though there was no humour in the sound.

'From the look on Richelieu's face, I suspect he has been whispering in the King's ear.' Treville shook his head in frustration.

'Why?' Porthos queried, somewhat confused. 'I thought the Cardinal was against the journey. What has he to gain from encouraging a premature start?'

'I am convinced he sees this journey as another opportunity to see the regiment fail. No doubt his spies have kept him abreast of our depletion and he is making good use of it. We will have to be on our guard at every moment, as well as obvious threats, for who knows what the First Minister has planned.' The three men let the implications sink in. They would be on the road for at least three days before they reached the safety of Rambouillet, and they doubted the journey would be trouble-free. If Richelieu wanted to end the tour before it began, that stretch of the journey would be his first opportunity. Treville interrupted their thoughts with an unexpected statement.

'Athos, you will have to accompany us. With the men so depleted the King could not object, in fact he has granted me the right to bring you along. I am afraid the Cardinal aided my request, though I am not sure his motivation was on the lines of my own.'

Athos was stunned, and it was Porthos who spoke up.

'Why does Richelieu want Athos to come?' Treville shook his head as he pondered the same question that had been buzzing around his head since his return from the Louvre earlier in the day.

'I am not sure, though we should be alerted by his enthusiasm in persuading His Majesty. He reminded him that Athos was considered the best swordsman in the regiment, if not all of France, and witnessing his skill would be highly entertaining.' All eyes were on Athos, both Porthos and Aramis concerned for their friend who had for some reason garnered the interest of the Cardinal. Athos' face no longer showed surprise. He had retreated behind his defences once more, yet his eyes held Treville's and, for a moment, the Captain thought he saw anger flashing in them.

'So, he anticipates sword play?' Aramis spoke aloud that which all of them in the room were thinking. 'Well he is not wrong in his summation, so let us make sure His Majesty is impressed.' Athos stared at the Musketeer with horror, rolling his eyes as Aramis winked and Porthos let out a loud guffaw; even Treville managed a thin smile at the faith the two Musketeers had in the swordsman. Finally, Treville retreated behind his desk.

'Get plenty of rest, tomorrow there will be much to do. Musketeers are officially confined to barracks until we leave.' The Captain allowed himself a laugh at the three shocked faces before him. 'I cannot afford to lose any more men, especially you,' he added quietly. 'Athos, report to me after muster in the morning, I would like to discuss options.' Athos nodded, and all three had headed toward the door when Treville added: 'I will see what aid can be delivered to The Peacock. It is not their fault, and we must eliminate the source of the disease for good.' Aramis smiled and left the room with a lighter heart.

As Athos passed through the door – first in, last out – Treville stopped him. 'Athos.' The swordsman turned, his face showing no reaction.

'I am sorry, I should not have presumed earlier. I was worried and angry; I should not have said what I did.' Athos paused a beat before nodding to the Captain, accepting the apology. He turned and closed the door behind him, the sound of booted feet on the stairs gradually receding. Treville sighed. Athos may have accepted his apology, but the Captain had seen the hurt in those eyes, and realised that, this time, it was he who had managed to hammer yet another nail into the coffin that housed Athos' guilt.