Chapter 19

The sky was leaden, dark clouds threatening to drown those below with yet more rain – the last thing anyone inside the hunting lodge needed. Those waiting within paced up and down, or sat in a heightened state of nervous anticipation, pretending to read or take part in some tedious parlour game, whilst the walls began to close in upon them as they contemplated their fate behind forced smiles.

Treville stood in the window, his expression intense. However, it was not the ever-present threat of more rain that caused him to adopt such a thoughtful stance – he had no control upon the weather – it was the young man below who was eliciting the Captain's brooding scowl.

From his viewpoint, Treville could see the object of his dilemma clearly. Men were busy going about their duties, even Red Guards recognising the presence of danger. The morning may have been cold, damp and grey, but the regiment had positioned braziers at intervals around the lodge to make guard duty more bearable. The temperature had dropped sharply, and was far colder than was to be expected for the time of year, and there was no point losing a man to the chill weather when they were already far too thin on the ground for the situation in which they now found themselves.

Athos was keeping those men who were neither resting, nor occupied with other duties, busy. Presently, it was the two young men who had only recently made the move from cadet to soldier; pauldrons still shiny and unscathed, men still untested in the heat of action. All serving soldiers knew that periods of inactivity, when waiting for the enemy to show their next move, could lead to nervous tension. Men dealt with it in different ways, some morose and silent, others argumentative and aggressive, whilst the most dangerous of all were those who became increasingly afraid and trigger-happy.

Athos was seeking to avoid the latter by keeping the young men focused; he hoped experience would prevent the former – though he had little faith in the truculent Red Guard.

Treville watched, deep in thought, as Athos corrected the young men's stances. They began to spar and the Captain could tell by the reaction of the two young soldiers that Athos was offering words of encouragement. One of the pair, Bisset, found himself at the sharp end of his opponent's sword for the second time in as many minutes. Athos shook his head and drew his own weapon, indicating the defeated soldier should stand aside. Treville had to smile as he recognised the brief look of triumph cross the face of the young victor.

The two men began to move, one barely a man and the other, despite his air of experience, still young enough to be the Captain's son. The sound of metal on metal rang out in the otherwise silent countryside, Athos simply going through the motions of how to block an opponent's thrust, delivering a commentary as he did so. Even without the passion or extra finesse present in a match of equal men – not that he had ever witnessed Athos' equal – it was still a joy to behold. Despite the fact that only a second before, the tip of that said steel had been pressed to one of their chests, both young men were smiling as Athos sheathed his blade and dismissed them.

The door opened silently, and light footsteps approached the preoccupied Captain. Treville showed no concern, as he was fairly sure who it was. The man came to a stop beside him, and he, too, looked down, taking in the scene below. Both men remained silent as the two new Musketeers went off happily to attend to whatever chore Athos had directed. The man himself was now peering over a piece of paper with Renier and pointing to the forest – ever the strategists. One of the two young men returned, leading Athos' black stallion, and the swordsman mounted up and rode off toward the spot he and the older Musketeer had been discussing.

'He should not be going off on his own,' Treville growled.

'He has no choice, if he feels something needs checking. We are stretched too thin,' Aramis responded simply. He paused for a moment. 'How long do you intend to stay mad at him?' He remained staring out at the diminishing figure, now almost nearing the distant tree line. Treville had turned abruptly, glaring at the young man by his side, and it was only his respect for the marksman – and perhaps a little of his own doubt – that prevented him from issuing a harsh reprimand in response to Aramis' words. Instead, the anger that had threatened to spill over dissipated into a more stubborn denial.

'I am not mad at him, and if I were, it would be because he deserves it.' Almost as soon as they had been spoken, Treville was aware how petulant the words sounded. Aramis finally turned toward his Captain, his handsome face registering a mixture of sadness and concern.

'I see. That must be why he, alone, has not had a duty inside the lodge for two days; why he has overseen the weapons check and the stables, trained the men and done the rotas. I am just glad you are not mad at him.' Aramis turned back to the spot he had last seen Athos. The sky was still dark and a light drizzle had begun to fall; a low mist hovered over the ground, creating shapes and patterns that rose like wraiths, only to vanish into the damp air.

'We try to assist him, Aramis, yet he continues to place himself in harm's way; continues to let her close to him. How can we be of any help if he refuses to accept it?' He ran his hand through his thinning hair, a state of affairs he often blamed Athos for, due to the increased stress the swordsman had brought into Treville's life since his abrupt and dramatic arrival at the garrison.

Aramis sighed. 'I do not profess to understand him, but I believe he is prepared to put himself in harm's way if it provides a means to an end. He believed she could give us information and, despite what we believe, he must still have some faith in her judgement. As to the tunnels… well you know about that.' Aramis continued to stare at his Captain, watching his reaction, and hoping Treville would begin to relent in his punishment of Athos. Tyjr reville listened to the young marksman speak. He often wondered if it was the man's faith that allowed him to view a situation with so broadminded an approach. Aramis noted the softening of his Captain's features and breathed an inward sigh of relief.

'I am beginning to think there is no end to the dark experiences hidden in Athos' past,' the older man groaned. 'When he returns, tell him to rest and resume duties tonight on the lower floor. Then get your own rest so you can watch him.' As the man stalked away, Aramis could not help but smile as he heard the Captain mumble under his breath, 'It comes to something when I have to set guards to watch the guards.' As he left the room he was still muttering, the remainder of his complaint fading away.

Whilst the two men stood debating his indiscretions, the object of their angst was pausing astride his horse, just within the tree line of the dark forest which surrounded the lodge on three sides. Despite Aramis' reservations concerning his friend's treatment over the last two days, Athos could not have been more grateful. Not just because he had been able to avoid his wife, but because he did not have to stand beneath Aramis' intense scrutiny, or Porthos' scowl. Neither of them knew what had occurred in the barn between him and Anne, and that was the way he wanted to keep it. He could hardly believe it himself, and even now his emotions swung from passion to anger, and from horror to sorrow. He did not understand how he had let it happen, and he was no longer sure he trusted his own judgement where his wife was concerned; better to keep out of her clutches. Worse still, though he knew it would be justly deserved, he feared the awful look of disappointment on the faces of those he had come to care for should they discover his betrayal. It was as Athos had long suspected, he was destined never to do right by those he loved.

Water dripped relentlessly from the sodden canopy, even though the leaves had not yet unfurled from their spring cocoon, the cold weather delaying their delicate splendour. Spring had definitely not offered much in the way of encouragement, and many trees and plants still lay dormant, awaiting the warmth that must surely come. Regardless, water still clung to the buds, which in turn were clinging to the spidery branches, occasionally showering the lone rider with icy droplets when they could no longer bear their burden; water that somehow managed to find the opening of his coat and run down his skin like icy fingers stroking his spine.

Renier was a seasoned Musketeer, not subject to nerves or wild imaginings, and he had been convinced there had been movement, a figure perhaps; but Athos wanted to be sure. He knew he probably should have taken another Musketeer, but the truth was they simply did not have enough men. Their departure had been bought forward unexpectedly with a large proportion of the garrison still away on various assignments, and now they were not even in a position to send for reinforcements without risking the King's safety.

Athos sat very still, listening to the slow plop, plop of the dripping rain. The weather had reduced visibility even out in the open. Grey leaden skies and the misty drizzle left the landscape shrouded in an oppressive gloom, and within the trees the situation was worse. A damp smell of rotting foliage hung in the air, the temperature plummeting the instant he had dipped his head to pass beneath the low-lying branches and into the forest, where not even the grey light of day managed to illuminate his way.

Athos was not able to discern much as his eyes focused and his ears adjusted to the quiet after the pounding of his horse's hooves, but he could just make out the distant noise of rushing water. Though the road was still impassable, the water had receded, but the river's flow was still far too fast to risk attempting to cross the ford.

A sudden snapping noise and Athos had his weapon drawn, pistol cocked. Roger snorted and shook his head, protesting at having to endure such depressing weather. The swordsman decided sitting atop his horse was merely inviting trouble, making himself a sitting target, so he slid from his mount and looped the reins over a convenient branch. Treading carefully, he headed further into the trees toward the noise, pistol ready, sword in hand. A movement on his left halted his progress and, as he turned to investigate, a shot rang out. The impact of the bullet spun Athos around and he grabbed hold of the tree next to him for support. Warm liquid ran into his eyes, as pain erupted in his head. Reaching up, he breathed a sigh of relief; though it hurt like the devil and was bleeding profusely, it was only a flesh wound.

Unfortunately, the distraction had been enough. Even with the sodden, leaf-strewn floor, Athos could make out the fading sound of galloping hooves breaking the silence. The swordsman attempted to clear his head. He tried to wipe the blood from his eyes, though he knew he was only making matters worse.

Back at the lodge, the shot had echoed across the empty landscape like an explosion from a cannon. Those on guard had immediately produced their weapons and taken cover, whilst those musketeers in the barn or stable shot to attention and took up a defensive stance near the approach and entrance. Treville would have been proud of his men's reactions had he noticed, but he and Aramis ran down the front steps with only one destination in mind, closely followed by Porthos.

'Was that a shot fired?' barked Treville, as he stared off toward the forest where he had last seen Athos riding.

'Yes, Sir,' came the response. 'From somewhere over there within the trees,' Bisset answered.

'Is Athos back yet?' Aramis asked, the concern evident in his voice.

Porthos interrupted, a scowl marring his features. 'Back from where?'

Bisset ignored him, but responded to the marksman's question.

'No, he went to check out the tree line. Renier thought he saw something, but he was not sure.'

'Get our horses,' Treville ordered, but Porthos stayed his hand.

'E's comin' back, an' upright at least.' They all froze as they studied Roger thundering across the open ground. Their worst fears were laid to rest – he was mounted and upright – though Aramis knew that actually proved nothing where Athos was concerned.

As man and horse drew closer, Aramis let out a curse. 'Mon dieu, I knew it!' Though not yet close enough to see clearly, the gory visage of the spectacle riding toward them was still evident. Porthos was muttering to himself, his one-sided conversation swinging from frustration and concern to anger – a situation he experienced far too often. The big man found it hard to forgive Athos when he unnecessarily put his life or safety on the line, his fear and love for his friend often manifesting itself in anger, as it did now.

'What was he doin' goin' alone?' This time it was Treville who answered.

'His job, as always. He knew taking anyone else would leave us vulnerable to attack.'

'Or at least we would only lose one man, not more, if it were an ambush,' added Aramis quietly, his gaze intent on the lone rider, as he ran scenarios through his head, preparing to treat whatever injury presented itself.

Athos could see the welcoming committee as he neared the lodge, his horse slowing its pace a little as he felt his master's grip begin to relax just a fraction. Though the wound was not life-threatening, barring infection of course, it had still caused the man's body to react to the sudden violation. He felt a little dizzy, whilst the cold wind seemed to bite a little deeper and, without warning, he suddenly felt very tired – not a sensation he often acknowledged. Wiping the blood from his eyes, he guessed that the rain and his gloved hand had turned him into a fairly macabre sight. As he pulled Roger to a stop, he prepared himself for the barrage of complaints he knew would be forthcoming.

Treville's presence had not gone unnoticed – it would be the first time Athos had interacted with the Captain since he had been dismissed from the lodge.

Athos jumped down from his mount, staggering slightly when the thumping that had begun in his head turned into an explosion as his booted feet struck the ground. Aramis, as always, was by his side in an instant, and for some reason it irritated Athos. Grunting, he brushed his friend's ministrations aside.

'I am fine, it is a graze, that is all,' the swordsman growled.

'Good, then it will not take but a moment to confirm your self-assessment,' Aramis responded, batting Athos' hand out of the way. 'It is a rather deep scratch, but you will live. That is, of course, assuming you have not wiped any filth into it from your gloves.' The tone of his voice, and the fact he had suggested such an eventuality, were the only signs of his annoyance at Athos' dismissal.

Porthos was not so subtle.

'Thought you were trainin' the young 'uns. What were you doin' ridin' off alone?' Athos raised a brow and began to speak, but Treville cut him off.

'I understand why you did not take more men; we do not have as many Musketeers as I would like but…' he faltered for a second. Losing you… one of my best men... Though the words went unspoken, they hung in the air, all the more loud for their silence.

Treville gave Athos one last look, then nodded to Aramis. By now, reports of the incident would have reached the King, and Treville had no doubt that as a result the monarch would not be a happy man.

As it turned out, news had spread even faster than the Musketeer Captain could have anticipated. Those incarcerated within the walls of the hunting lodge were as receptive as dry tinder to a spark; the shot had been so loud, it was inevitable that someone within would have heard it, and any doubt would have been instantly dismissed by the reaction of those Musketeers within the building. The soldiers had immediately ushered everyone away from doors and windows, only heightening their susceptibility to any further gossip.

It had not taken long before it was known that a Musketeer had ridden alone to scout the perimeter of the surrounding forest, and Milady had known instantly who that lone soldier had been. It felt as though ever since that first reunion in the alley, she had been able to sense his presence, knowing when he was near or far. She felt his absence now, and she prayed it was not permanent.

She had entered that stable determined to slake her burning revenge once and for all, and how that rage had turned so swiftly into something else entirely, she had no idea. Part of her anger with Athos had always stemmed from the invisible power he had over her. Damn the man, he had no idea how a brooding look, or a flash from those green eyes, could sway her resolve. He did not prance or swagger to get a woman's attention; just the opposite – he was happy to avoid their attention completely, which made them want him all the more.

It seemed every woman yearned to heal a broken, damaged man – especially a handsome one. She had never thought of him as such when she had met him, though there had always been a darkness within him even then, but she knew she had been the one to finally break him completely.

She tried to tell herself she regretted what they had done inside that barn, tried to believe that for her it had merely been a cruel form of punishment. The look on his face as she had left told her he was beyond mere pain, and she should have been glad. However, the reality was she had wanted him as badly as she ever had, maybe even more. There had been a desperation to the act, a joining that had nothing to do with love or tenderness, just a powerful need, as though each were trying to consume the other – as if they had both understood this would be the very last time. A warped and powerful goodbye, as vicious and painful as any thrust of a knife.

Worst of all, she now felt nothing but emptiness, as though she had become a hollow purposeless shell. All the fire that had burned deep in her belly had been extinguished; the revenge that had warmed her nights and illuminated her days was no more.

Milady had been terrified that when she saw Athos again she would continue to experience that same lack of feeling, and she finally understood that such a loss would be as painful to her as killing him – that was until she had heard that shot!

No matter how often you imagine death, or your reaction to loss, nothing prepares you for the gut-wrenching terror of dealing with the reality – the sudden finality of a person's absence for ever. That sick feeling roiled in her stomach now as she fidgeted idly with the book lying in her lap.

'You are quite white, Anne. Are you well?' Suzanne asked. Though the woman's lovely face attempted a modicum of concern, her eyes were empty of emotion. 'Are you worried it might be our brooding Musketeer? I should not worry, I am sure he is more than experienced enough to handle any situation.'

The intention behind her words was quite clear, and Milady was tempted to give the spiteful cat a detailed description of just how experienced Athos was. Luckily, the Musketeer Captain entered at that moment, heading toward the King's private rooms.

Suzanne wasted no time.

'Captain Treville, do tell us, were any of your brave men injured?' Treville was about to reassure her, when he noted the green, cat eyes of Milady hanging onto his every word and, before he could stop himself, he spat out words he would not otherwise have uttered. He wanted to hurt her – if it were at all possible, and for reasons he could not have put into words, he knew his response would hit home. A woman needed to care about a man to put as much effort into hurting him as she did.

'Athos was shot!' was all he said, then continued toward the King's rooms, leaving the ladies open-mouthed.

Both Milady and Suzanne eyed each other. Milady would have gained a great deal of satisfaction from the horrified expression on the courtier's face, but she was too shocked herself to notice, or care.

The Musketeers had relaxed slightly, and Milady was not prevented from approaching the window; she strode across the room, making no effort to hide her determination. She studied the comings and goings below, searching each man as he emerged from the barn or outbuildings, instantly dismissing them one by one. She noted Porthos and her breathing increased, where there was one, there were usually three. Her gaze found Aramis, and then her eyes rested on the figure at his side. The straightness of his spine and the determined swagger of his walk was all she needed, the bandage around his head simply confirmation.

Athos was alive!

Had she stopped to analyse her reaction, she would have been delighted to realise her feelings were still as passionate as ever, not empty and cold as she had feared; but she did not consider them. She had spotted an opportunity for another form of revenge, only this time Athos was not the target.

She turned toward her rival, a devilish smile upon her beautiful face – no need to waste an opportunity.

Athos had allowed Aramis to fuss over the scratch for, despite his ever-deteriorating mood, he had experienced the pain of infection too many times before and so, for once, had let sense overrule his innate stubbornness. Now bandaged and morose, head thumping with every step he took, the swordsman accompanied his friends to a quiet corner of the barn, where a section had been screened off away from windows, so that Musketeers could get some rest away from the bustle of activity during the day.

'Drink this, I know you have a headache,' Aramis directed, holding out a flask of liquid.

'I do not need anything. I am fine, as you can see,' Athos growled, glaring at the flask as though it held poison.

'You have just been shot in the head, and the only reason you have a scratch, rather than having had your brains blown apart, is because you are so thick-headed. I know you have a headache, so drink this for our sake, if not your own.' Aramis thrust the flask toward Athos once more, and Porthos stood up, indicating he would brook no argument, his expression clearly saying drink it or I will pour it down your stubborn throat.

Athos took the flask and sipped from it, all the time glowering over the rim at the two men making sure he complied. However, it did not taste as foul as some of Aramis' medicines; and he ought to know, he had tasted enough of them.

'It could be worse,' he reluctantly admitted, his mood lightening just a little. Aramis grinned, sensing his friend beginning to unbend, his shoulders relaxed at last.

'It will help you sleep, then we can sleep. Tonight Treville wants us all on duty inside the lodge.' He noted the look of surprise from Athos, but merely smiled at his friend's disbelief.

Porthos bought them back to the matter in hand.

'Did you see anythin'? Anybody?' His face bore a look of intensity, and Athos snapped back to attention as he considered the question.

'No, there was no time. It was dark inside the trees and I had just decided to dismount to make myself less of a target when the shot was fired. I heard the sound of hooves but nothing else. I am surprised they did not find me and finish me off, but for some reason they obviously did not want a fight.' They all considered the strange behaviour of whoever shot Athos, but they could not come up with a satisfactory explanation as to why they would leave a wounded Musketeer alive.

oOo

'You did what?' roared the man by the fire. Standing to full height, he took a single step toward the older man who had just entered the room.

'I couldn't see in the dark, 'e just looked like a soldier, I thought one less would 'elp.'

The man looked incredulous, as the nervous speaker shuffled beneath his scrutiny. 'Though I doubt that very much, nobody shoots anybody, IS THAT CLEAR?' His words rang out loud enough for the rest of the men assembled outside the building to hear them quite clearly.

The man scuttled away, considering he had got off fairly lightly, and just two men were left in the room. The lighting was low, only the flickering flames from the fire and a single candle illuminating the space, and one could be forgiven for thinking it was night, so dark was the gloom from the weather outside.

'The men are getting restless, they cannot understand why we do not make a move. We could get inside the lodge by using the tunnels; they obviously do not know of their existence or they would have investigated. We could end this tonight.' The man who spoke was dressed well, but the scarring on his face meant most people would turn away rather than look at him straight on; a situation which stirred the resentment and fury that burned away inside him, just as fiercely as the fire that had marred his features.

The other man stood staring into the glow of the flames. His clothes were a little finer, but bore signs of poor upkeep. His hair was a little too long, and the expression on his face was no less intense than that of his colleague, but held a colder, more ruthless quality.

'No! If we were to be spotted we would be caught like rats in a trap. We need to take them in the open. We just require this damn rain to stop and for them to continue with their journey. Then we can both get what we desire and end this for good.'