Chapter 35

Athos and the King trod carefully. Despite the lightening sky outside, it was dark in the corridor now that the torches had vanished, along with Gaston and his entourage. Hammering still came from below, yet the noise provided Athos with a certain amount of reassurance; he would worry when the hammering stopped.

Finally they came to the last stairwell that would lead to the ground floor and the main door. Athos did not have time to consider another way out of the fortress; he knew where the main entrance was, so that was the way they would go. Stepping carefully over the debris of ages, the two men stood quietly at the top of the staircase, the hallway and freedom before them. The décor here was much softer, more appealing to the public eye, though of course the curtains now hung in rags, no art or personal objects graced the walls, and faded paper and ornate carvings were decayed, covered with mould and encroaching ivy.

Athos searched the open space before them. Their escape route stood on the far side of the hallway, opposite their position on the staircase, and with no cover, it might as well have been a mile away. Still, they had to reach that door and there was only one way to do it.

'When I move, Your Majesty, run as fast as you can for the door. Whatever you hear, whatever happens, just go. Do you understand?' The King nodded, his expression solemn.

'You want me to leave you. I am not sure I can do that, Athos. I am your King and I am not a coward, no matter what my brother may say to the contrary.' Louis tried to give Athos a reassuring grin, but the swordsman only sighed.

'Sire, I do not believe you are a coward, but all of this will be in vain if you are killed. Do you want Gaston to be King of France?' The ploy worked, and Louis scowled.

'I will do as you say,' was the King's only response, but it was enough.

Athos listened. He could hear voices, but only two, and they were getting louder and louder. Somebody was having a heated argument – Timot and Gaston – he recognised the high-pitched squeal of the pampered Duke. Athos and the King stood in silence, anticipation so powerful it was almost a physical thing to be touched. Carefully secreted behind a convenient pile of rubble, they hoped their presence would go unnoticed. Footsteps were approaching, and judging by the pace, someone was in a hurry.

Gaston stalked into the hall, his four bodyguards behind him and, turning as he neared the doorway, he raised his arms in frustration.

'Throw him in the lake, I do not care, but there must be some proof. France will not name me King nor see me on the throne without something to show he is dead. Take his bloody head, anything, his hands. Just see it is done.' With no further comment, he flounced out of the hall. His dramatic exit was followed by several seconds of silence, before Athos and the King heard the sound of hoof beats as they rode away at pace.

'Any moment now, Your Majesty,' Athos whispered. When he received no response, he turned to check the monarch had heard him, and was staggered to see the King's eyes brimming with tears. 'Sire?'

'I am sorry, Athos, but it is not every day one overhears such a conversation.' He rubbed his sleeve across his face and nodded. 'I am ready.'

Athos felt for the King, and he dearly hoped that one day he could make his despicable brother pay, but now was not that day. He stood to one side, forcing the King toward the door, and they were halfway across the tiled floor when someone shouted from behind. Athos propelled the King ahead of him and turned to face his opponents. 'GO!' he yelled, brandishing his sword. It was lucky for him that Timot was alone. With Bisset and Fabre dead, that only left Duval, and the man whose name Athos had never heard. At least one of them had to be down below making all the noise; if he was lucky, both of them were.

Of course, luck was something Athos had never had in abundance and, as Timot approached, Duval strode into the hallway behind him. Still, he was comfortable with such odds.

'Monsieur Athos. So we meet in the arena at last.' Timot drew his own weapon but Athos noted he did not come any closer. 'Still, never mind, I have been compensated far more by the Duke to ensure your demise than you would ever have earned me on the open market. So, I suppose that now makes you disposable.' He gave Athos a grin, though his eyes were not as confident as his mocking statement implied.

'Timot, you talk too much,' Athos growled, preparing to attack. Timot gave Duval a sign and reluctantly the man stepped forward. Obviously he was to be the first victim.

'I see you are going to help me warm up. Excellent,' Athos drawled, with the quirk of a brow and the faintest hint of a smile. Duval licked his lips. He had seen Athos fight and he was not particularly keen on his chances – still, he was a soldier and that was what soldiers did. Duval lurched toward Athos and missed, giving the swordsman easy access to his torso, and Athos did not waste the chance – his blade sliced through the man's jerkin, causing him to cry out in pain.

Anger filled Duval's eyes; exactly what the swordsman had hoped for, as it was a fighter's worst enemy. Athos grinned even wider. Excellent. Steel clashed on steel, and he managed to inflict another wound to the man's arm.

'Stop playing around, Duval. End it! This man has been starved and beaten, what are you waiting for?' Timot urged, his voice just a little hysterical.

'Indeed, what are you waiting for?' Athos asked, his own tone deadly calm.

Duval lunged forward, Athos parried, and Duval tried to wrap his blade around Athos'. It was a learner's move and Athos easily thrust the man's blade away. He knew that Timot had the right of it and he was not in the best physical condition, so drawing this out was not to his advantage. He raised his arm and bought the steel down fast, slicing Duval from shoulder to chest. The man howled and looked down. Big mistake – as he raised his head, all he saw was Athos' blade coming toward him, and he did not even have the opportunity to step backward. The sword entered his abdomen and Athos was suddenly standing right in his face.

The blade twisted horribly in the defeated man's gut. 'That is for the end you had planned for my wife,' Athos whispered close to the dying man's ear, giving the blade another agonising turn. Duval screamed then fell forward into Athos' arms, the blade thrust to the hilt. Athos shoved the man away and twisted around, feeling Timot approach behind him. He was not wrong; eyes blazing with fury and madness, Timot raised his own weapon.

Athos was repelled by the force of his opponent's blade and, stepping back to regain his footing, he found himself at the top of the steps once more. Timot fought like a man crazed, hacking and thrusting, forcing Athos further and further back down the stairs giving him the advantage of striking from above. The swordsman needed to fight the man on firmer ground; the staircase was too narrow and too steep for him to mount a decent attack, and all he could do for now was stop Timot from sending him flying to the bottom. They reached a flat intersection on the level below, and Athos realised if he descended further, it would take him back to where he had come from – and that was in no way ideal.

Athos saw an opportunity to finish Timot off, but he let out a roar and called out for the man who was presumably working below. 'Franco! Here now!' he Timot screamed at the top of his voice.

At first there was no reaction and Athos hoped Franco had not heard, but the sound of booted feet pounding up the stairwell confirmed the worst. Suddenly Athos had a man behind and one in front – appalling fighting conditions. He spun around and pushed the surprised Franco backward. The man gave way for a moment, allowing Athos to parry Timot's blade; the space was still limited, and Athos knew he was tiring.

'Is it done!' Timot yelled to the man.

Franco came at Athos again. 'It is done!' he shouted, as he danced around the swordsman. Athos had no time to consider what it was Franco had set in motion. He was aware that Timot had the opportunity to stab him in the back every time he turned to fend off this second aggressor; he had to get Franco on the same side of him as Timot. Spinning with as much force as he could muster in the narrow passage, he slid his blade along Franco's and watched the man's eyes widen. Instead of pulling back, Athos turned and threw the man at Timot, just as the kidnapper raised his own weapon, affording Athos barely any time to bring the blade down. Franco screamed as the sword passed through his shoulder. He staggered back, taking Timot with him, but the leader was now fired with some inner strength which often presented with insanity. He pushed back at the injured Franco, who in turn staggered forward and propelled himself into Athos, knocking the swordsman down the stairs.

Athos felt as though no bone in his body had been spared. Hitting his head and shoulders as he descended rapidly down each and every one of the stone stairs, all the time he could see both men preparing to follow after him. Shaking his head in an attempt to think clearly, he flinched as his hand touched a bloody crack on the side of his skull, but apart from that, he could identify no other injury.

Athos got to his feet just as the two men reached the corridor. He raised his sword and before Franco could even parry, the swordsman slashed across his throat. Blood shot from the wound, and Athos felt the warm stickiness on his sword hand, making the hilt slippery in his grip. Timot pushed the body of his last man out of the way and grinned, madness now his only reality.

They clashed, blade on blade, Athos continually wiping blood out of his eye as it ran from his head. Timot took advantage of the swordsman's injury and bought his own blade down across Athos' forearm, easily cutting through the linen shirt and drawing blood. Athos hissed as he felt the blade slice his arm – painful, but not deadly. He did not realise how far they had travelled until he became aware of the door standing open to his left, the same bloody room he had just escaped from.

Both men were now breathing heavily, both bloodied and tiring. Athos made one final lunge and managed to pierce Timot in the stomach. The man growled in agony but thrust Athos away, back into the cramped cell. He picked up one of the crates and hurled it at the swordsman's face, the loss of his grip on reality now complete. Athos staggered backward just as he heard the clicking of a key in the lock.

When he looked up, Timot was holding the key to the door in the air, and laughing hysterically.

'So you think you have won...' He coughed up a gout of blood and his red, grotesque mouth leered at Athos in triumph. 'Well you haven't, you arrogant bastard. We will go to hell together.' He dropped to the floor and, before Athos could reach him, he let the key fall through the grille before his knees. Both men froze, then the sound of something hitting the water below made Athos' stomach lurch. Timot gave one last laugh – though it was more a wet cough – before he crumpled to the floor, eyes staring at the ceiling, a hideous grin still on the madman's face.

Athos sank to his knees, breathing laboured and hands slick with blood, with no idea how much of it was his own. The slash on his arm throbbed, and even he realised it needed stitches. His head was still bleeding, and a nice lump had formed, but blood was no longer running freely. More importantly, he was now locked in the cell, with no way out, and he had no idea what was going on below.

ooOoo

Milady had no time to change direction, she was galloping too fast and the driveway was too narrow. She could see the group of riders bearing down on her; they, too, were riding at full speed. As they neared one another, Gaston became recognisable – his face was pale, and he rode out in front. The Duke passed her, staring straight ahead, giving her not even a passing glance; he left that to his men. All four heads turned her way, but obviously she was not considered a threat, for they did not even glance back as they rode on.

Milady smiled. How many times had a man underestimated her? And how many times were yet to come? As a lone figure ran in the middle of the rutted roadway toward her, she urged her mount to slow, and to her utter amazement, she realised it was the King. Milady spurred her horse, toward him, but when Louis saw the creature galloping in his direction, he began to head for the trees.

'Your Majesty, it is I, Milady de Winter.' She swung from her mount as the King stopped and turned toward her, his dagger raised in readiness.

ooOoo

Treville and his men charged down the road, pulling up suddenly as several horsemen erupted from the tree line just around the sharp bend. 'Gaston!' the Captain shouted. The three Musketeers spread out across the road, but Gaston just kept coming.

'Stop them!' the Duke shrieked, as he urged his horse forward, racing around the Musketeers. But they had no time to worry about him, as shots rang out from the other four men, now dismounting and taking up a firing stance. Porthos cried out and fell to the floor. Aramis cursed and made his way carefully behind the horses to his fallen comrade.

'I'm fine, just fine,' Porthos moaned, though his face was pale and beads of sweat stood out from his brow. 'Went right through,' he said, indicating a growing patch of blood just below his collar bone.

'Well you are still breathing and talking, so for now I will have to take that as a good sign,' Aramis quipped, as he fired at the men up ahead, grinning with satisfaction as one fell to the road and stayed there.

'Thanks for the in-depth assessment,' Porthos growled, as he attempted to raise his gun, but the strain was too much and he was forced to hand it over to Aramis, ''Ere, you take it, I can't 'old it.' Aramis took the weapon, and now with a gun in each hand, he shot twice, winging one target and putting down another.

Pulling a wry face, he reloaded. 'Not bad. Never was as good with my left hand though, unlike our friend.' Treville was now up ahead, sword drawn, and had engaged the wounded man, whilst the final soldier came at him with a cold hatred in his eyes.

'Forgive me, I will be straight back,' Aramis promised, as he dashed to the Captain's aid. Treville still had a shoulder wound which, though knitting well, would hamper his sword arm slightly.

The two men were hardened, experienced soldiers and fought well, and though the pain on his face showed clearly, Treville managed to finish off the injured man. Aramis kicked out at his opponent, knocking him off balance, before thrusting his sword into the man's heart. Then, wasting no further time on the corpse, the marksman wiped his blade clean, turned his back on the men and ran back to examine Porthos' wound.

His friend had managed to drag himself over to a tree. His face pale, Aramis pulled away his jacket and assessed the damage.

'Well, it could have been worse,' he offered, as Treville stood over him.

'You mean I could have been dead,' Porthos scoffed, rolling his eyes.

'Can he ride?' Treville interrupted.

'Yes!'

'No!' both men answered in unison. Treville scowled but Porthos' deep voice drowned out the marksman's reply.

'Yes, he can, we are too close now. You can fuss and tut when we have found Athos,' Porthos barked, glaring at both men. He placed his good hand on Aramis' shoulder and pushed himself up from the ground.

Aramis knew that apart from knocking the big man out – and that was Athos' role with his rather mean right hook – there was no way to stop him. 'Very well, but as soon as Athos is safe, I stitch that wound, or you will bleed to death.' All three men mounted, Porthos with more than a little help from Aramis, and together they steered their horses toward the point where Gaston and his men had emerged.

The three horses thundered as one up the potted drive. The sun was now at its zenith and the spring sunlight was warm on their faces, but they noticed nothing. The state of the driveway slowed them down, for they could not risk their horses breaking a leg. But the sight which arrested them was the King and Milady arguing by the side of the road.

Both turned as they heard the horses nearing the spot where the two of them were standing, the animal's hooves pounding out a steady beat.

'I have to go back!' Milady yelled. But the King held her arm firmly.

'Athos told me I was to run and not look back, no matter what happened,' Louis insisted.

'I am not saying you have to return with me. Take my horse, I will go back alone. Ride hard, there is a small village a little way ahead, look for the signs. Whoever that is up ahead, do not stop,' she instructed the King firmly. She would obviously not be deterred, and with little strength to argue, the King gave in. He was about to urge his horse forward when the three men came into focus.

'It is Treville!' Louis cried. Milady was no longer listening; she had already begun running back down the driveway toward the house.

'Captain, I have never been so glad to see you, though I must admit I would like to have seen you sooner.' Treville managed not to roll his eyes; the King was obviously in good health judging by his rebuke.

'Your Majesty, are you hurt at all?' Treville enquired.

'Well looking at you and your men,' Louis responded, noting both Treville's and Porthos' bloodied appearance, 'I am indeed better than you. But that is not important, Athos is still inside. He was fighting two men when he told me to run. He needs help Treville. Go, I will be fine.'

'You had better stay with us, Sir. How many of them are there?' Treville asked, as side-by-side they rode back toward the fortress, the King now appearing quite keen to re-join the fray.

'I cannot be sure. There were five when we arrived. Athos killed two not so long ago, and quite spectacularly I must add, so there should be three. Two were fighting Athos, and there was banging below us, so perhaps one is in the bowels of the fortress,' the King explained, just as they drew up alongside Milady.

Nobody spoke, but Aramis leant down and, in one swift movement, pulled the woman up behind him on to his horse.

'A ride, Mildady,' he quipped.

'Aramis. Better late than never I suppose. Where the hell have you all been?' Anger was evident in her voice, and for once Aramis could not blame her, as they had indeed been of little help.

'We… well, let us say we were delayed. But we thank you for the clues you left, we may not have arrived at all without them. How is Athos?'

'Alive, no thanks to you. He has taken a beating, but nothing fatal or too debilitating. I think they thought he would be worth more to them whole.' She ground out the words as though the very thought of their intent enraged her.

'Well that may well have been their biggest mistake,' Aramis answered, speaking in a far more serious tone than his usual one.

Wasting no time, they jumped from their horses, hitting the ground running. They paused before the great wooden doorway, still ajar from the King's rapid exit. All was silent as they crossed the decrepit hallway. One body lay at the top of the stairs, and Treville stepped over him, the others watching his back.

'Athos!' the Captain bellowed. 'Athos, it is Treville! Can you hear me?' As they awaited a response, it was Porthos who halted their advance.

'Listen.'

Athos had heard the shout, recognising the voice even without Treville having to announce his presence. He had shouted back at the top of his lungs, but the walls were thick and the staircases long. So instead, he took his sword and began to bang on the bars of the room, the sound echoing along the empty corridor.

'Can you hear that tapping?' Porthos asked.

Treville led the way down the stairs, where they found another body on the landing. 'Two down,' Porthos grinned.

Down the stairs they went. 'This way!' Treville shouted, as he spotted two more bodies further along the corridor.

The tapping could now be heard much clearer. Treville reached the grille first, kicking the two bodies out of the way.

'Athos.' He said the man's name as though he were greeting a long-lost friend.

'Captain, it is good to see you. I have a bad feeling something is not right. They were knocking and banging below; I suggest someone goes to check, quickly,' Athos stated, his voice calm, if not just a little ragged. Treville indicated that Porthos should come with him, but not before the big man put his hand to the grille, clasping Athos' in his own.

'We are going to have a long talk,' the big Musketeer declared. He was scowling as he spoke, though his voice caught with emotion, spoiling the effect. Athos squeezed his hand and nodded, his lips twitching at the thought of one of Porthos' little talks.

'I look forward to it, my friend,' Athos retorted.

As Porthos hurried after Treville, Aramis took his place. 'So, mon ami, you are not dead?' He pushed Athos away from the door. 'Stand back, let me see.' Athos snorted and did as he was bid. 'I knew it, you are bleeding, and it is fresh.' He scowled at Athos and tutted.

'So were they,' Athos drawled, referring to Porthos and the Captain. 'And I am fine; I have more important things to worry about, like how to get out of this room. Timot…' he indicated the corpse in the corner with a nod of his head. 'Timot over there kindly dropped the key into the moat just before he died.' Aramis peered through the grille toward the dead man.

'They are all dead then?' the marksman asked, in case the King had been in error.

'All dead. Though Gaston and his mercenaries left not long ago,' Athos added

'Oh, do not worry about them. We passed them on the road, they were not very friendly. Gaston got away, but I think we taught the others a lesson in manners.'

Running feet approached and Treville and Porthos returned. Aramis stepped aside, and all the while Milady stood in the background, watching the touching spectacle and hating the men all the more. Nobody had asked about her, not even Athos.

'We have a problem,' Treville stated, looking at Athos through the grille. 'Who has the key?' he asked, the urgency raw in his tone. He turned sharply as Aramis moaned behind him, Athos said nothing.

'It is in the moat,' Aramis explained his face filled with tension. 'What is the problem?'

'A whole lot of gunpowder and a complicated slow burning fuse,' Porthos answered, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder. Athos groaned and stepped further back into the room, so the others had a better view.

'I am afraid it is the door or nothing,' Athos explained. He remained in control, though his voice had an underlying note of sadness. 'You need to go. Take the King and get as far away from here as you can.'

'There you go again,' Porthos grumbled. Athos' mouth twitched.

'I am sorry, old friend, but I do not think even you could move this door, especially in that condition,' Athos added, his face now set with determination.

'Captain?' Aramis asked, though he knew Treville could do nothing. 'There must be another way out.' He pushed Treville away from the grille and searched the room. 'What about up there?' He pointed to the small opening near the roof.

'We tried it, it is solid,' a new voice rang out. Athos was taken aback; he had not been able to see his wife from where she stood.

They all turned to look at her, having forgotten she was still with them.

'Anne, you are here too,' Athos called. For the first time, Aramis noted a note of tension in his friend's voice.

'Yes, Athos, I am here.' Aramis ignored them and continued to search the room.

'Look, there, near the floor, there is another grate. It looks rusty, can you pull it away?' Athos shuddered, he had hoped nobody would see the small opening behind the crates, and wished he had had time to push them up against it.

'It is too small; I would not fit,' Athos declared, using the voice that ensured most people backed away.

'You could,' Aramis replied, desperation in his voice. 'Can you see daylight?'

'Of course not,' Athos snapped. The reply was so unlike him it took the others by surprise. Suddenly Aramis understood.

'Athos, you have to try. You simply cannot stand there and wait to be blown to smithereens,' his friend pleaded.

Athos said nothing, but hung his head, not wanting to look the marksman in the eye.

'Of course he bloody will,' Porthos shouted in anger and frustration. 'Athos you get in that tunnel and you get yourself out of here. We are going to have that damn chat.' Porthos' voice began to break. Both men knew of Athos' terror of small spaces; he had refused to enter the passageways at the lodge, and they had been twice the size of the one they could see inside the room.

'Son,' Treville spoke through the grille now, and Athos raised his head at the sound of his Captain's voice. 'I know this is hard, but you cannot wait here whilst there is the remotest possibility that tunnel could get you out. I need you Athos, we need you. Please, son, try, for us.' Athos felt the prick of tears behind his eyes. He would have done anything for Treville, but he could not do this.

'I am sorry, I cannot.' He spoke softly and his tone was filled with regret. Suddenly the one person who had remained quiet throughout spoke up.

'Athos, your King commands you do this. Would you deny your King?' Louis moved toward the grille and drew himself up to his full height. Athos frowned but merely shook his head.

'I am sorry, but Sire, my job was to see you safe, and that I have done. Please leave now.'

'How long?' the King demanded of Treville.

'Hard to say, it was a candle burning through a thick rope, then a lantern will drop onto the gunpowder. But it will be soon. We will have to go,' replied Treville, almost choking on his own words.

Aramis put his hand through the grille and Athos took it, squeezing it tight, 'You cannot help me this time, my friend. Take care of Porthos, he will be angry with me.' Athos could hardly bear to see the pain in the marksman's eyes.

'Do not do this, Athos. Do not make us walk away and leave you like this, I cannot bear it,' Aramis pleaded, but it was to no avail – he was aware of the terror that kept Athos from crawling into that hole. Porthos stood against the far wall, glaring at his friend, as if his will alone would be enough to force Athos into that space.

'I will not bloody stand here and watch this! Athos you cannot do this, we already thought you were dead, that we had lost you, once before. Do not make us go through that again – get in that bloody hole and save yourself!' Porthos yelled. Athos simply turned away and looked at the dark narrow hole, knowing he could never go inside.

'I order you Musketeer,' Louis shouted. Athos turned slowly and looked at the King. Quietly, he sighed and, holding the monarch's gaze, he smiled.

'But I am not a Musketeer, Your Majesty.' Nobody spoke, but all eyes were on Louis; all four pairs burning with recriminations.

'Well let me put that right. Captain, your sword if I may. Athos, please approach the door.' Athos walked forward, somewhat confused. The King passed the blade through the bars, resting it on Athos' shoulder. 'I, Louis Xlll of France, hereby bestow upon you a commission in my regiment of Musketeers. Do you, Athos, Comte de la Fère, vow to uphold the laws of France, forfeiting your life for your King?' Athos stood straight, his voice a mere whisper.

'I do, Sire,' he replied, and bowed his head as Louis tapped the sword on his shoulder. Withdrawing the blade Louis spoke, his voice trembling with emotion. 'Now you are a Musketeer, Athos, as you should have been long ago. I am sorry, for you have proved those words many times. Now I beseech you, please save yourself.' He stepped away, and Treville hardly registered the words as he attempted to force back the tears; all he could do was nod at Athos before turning to walk away, pulling the King with him.

'Captain,' Athos called. Treville stopped and looked over his shoulder as Athos passed his sword through the grille. He said nothing, but Treville frowned as he came over to take the blade.

'I will keep it safe until you take it back from me yourself,' Treville managed to rasp then, with one last smile, he left.

The two Musketeers looked on in shock as they considered the revelation made by the King, but even they knew this was not the time for such a discussion. After all, deep down they had always known such a possibility existed. Aramis backed away slowly, not bothering to hide his tears, and though Porthos tried to resist his friend's urging, Aramis placed his arm around the man's shoulder and led him away.

Milady was left alone. Just how many times could a heart break? Would this pain never end? Caught between sadness and desperation, she strode up to the bars, her beautiful face filled with anger. 'Is that it? Are you just going to stand there and die? The great Athos, the best swordsman in the country, holder of one of the oldest titles in France... and my husband? You are just going to wait for death? You are the coward I knew you were. You are a fake, Athos, and you do not deserve that which the King has just bestowed upon you. You are a coward, and I hate you!' With that, she stormed away from the bars, running down the corridor, running from the words she had flung in his face, words as hurtful as any dagger.

'Oi!' Porthos grabbed her arm before Aramis could stop him. 'What the bloody 'ell was that about?' Milady pulled her arm from his grasp and held up her head.

'If you really knew Athos,' she spat, 'then you would know that the one thing that just might give him the strength to go into the place which to him is akin to hell, is not tears and platitudes, it is just plain anger! Rage will drive him into that tunnel, and if not, then I will have to live with those words for the rest of my life. I just hope to God I do not have to.'

That said, she turned away and hurried up the stairs, Aramis and Porthos following closely in her wake. Both men considered her words, and hoped that perhaps the woman was right – for any other outcome would be unbearable.