'What's your name?' asked Constance.

The young man who had arrived a couple of minutes before was knelt next to d'Artagnan holding a cup of water to the restrained man's lips. D'Artagnan watched as Constance adopted that motherly way she had with younger people, even when they were only a couple of years younger than herself.

The young man glanced at d'Artagnan.

'What difference would it make if we knew your name?' d'Artagnan said.

'Simon,' replied the young man quietly before glancing behind him. 'I didn't know what they were going to do. I'm sorry.'

D'Artagnan glanced at Constance, she had been correct, the young man might be their way out of the dire situation.

'Simon,' said Constance, 'why have you stayed here, if you don't like what they are doing to us?'

Simon looked down for a few seconds, 'they killed my older brother, Max, he hadn't been stealing. Marcel is the one that's stealing, he set Max up to take the blame after Max stopped him from hitting me a couple of weeks ago.'

Simon sniffed a couple of times and wiped tears from his eyes.

'They stripped him and threw the lime on him, it must have gone in his eyes he shouted but when they kicked him to the ground and poured water over him… he screamed…' Simon stared off into the distance for a few seconds, the tears fell from his eyes unchecked, 'he was writhing with pain. When water is put with the lime that's been through the kiln it becomes very hot. The burns on his skin… the smell… I tried to reach him, but Henri held me back. It took ages for Max to die, they just watched, laughing. Marcel kept looking at me and smirking.'

Simon sniffed again. Constance managed to reach out to the young man and patted his arm. D'Artagnan was sure she would have gathered him up in an embrace if she were not restrained.

'Why don't you run away?' asked Constance.

'I've nowhere to go, I won't get paid until the work is done.'

D'Artagnan realised that Simon was as much a prisoner as they were, he may not have been restrained but he could not leave if he did not want to end up a beggar on the streets.

Constance laid the seed of hope for the young man, 'we could help you if you helped us. Can you get the keys to these locks or get us free somehow? You could come with us; we'll make sure you are safe from them. We'll see that you are rewarded for your help.'

Simon looked back at the campsite for a few seconds, d'Artagnan could see the man weighing up his options. He ran his fingers through his tightly curled black hair, a nervous gesture they had seen him do a few times.

'I might be able to get the key. Babin keeps it on his belt most of the time, but they all strip off to bathe in the stream on the other side of the camp,' said Simon. 'Maybe this afternoon?'

D'Artagnan nodded his encouragement, 'just be careful, come straight here when you have it, we can go whilst they are busy at the stream.'

Simon managed a smile, 'thank you,' he said before scrambling out of the pit and walking away without looking back.

D'Artagnan looked at Constance, 'you were right. Poor lad, having to see his brother killed for something he hadn't done.'

Constance had managed to kneel up and was looking over the edge of the pit.

'He's gone back to work as if nothing's happened, he's not acting differently. I don't think he'll give himself away.'

D'Artagnan wondered if he could allow himself a little hope that their ordeal might be over soon.

MMMM

The cartwright had a large workshop a couple of miles from the Palace. Treville, Athos and Jacques had ridden as quickly as the busy streets would allow. Jacques had explained to them that his father, a Baron living in the south of France, enjoyed working with his tenants and had taken him to watch carts being made when he was a boy. The skilled profession had fascinated him ever since. Athos found the young courtier a breath of fresh air compared to some of the fawning men and women who followed the Royal family around, he could understand why the Queen had asked him to be her private secretary.

The workshop's double doors were open, they could hear people working inside. A new cart stood outside, a couple of boys were busy making finishing touches to the woodwork, adding a few fittings. The apprentices looked up as the Musketeers stopped their horses and dismounted.

Jacques stepped forward, 'is Monsieur LeBrun in?'

The boys nodded and pointed towards the workshop.

'Jacques?' came a voice from within, 'what brings you here?'

A middle-aged, balding, man stepped into the light. He wore the typical heavy-duty leather apron of a craftsman. The bruises on his face, however, looked out of place. LeBrun smiled and held out his hand to Jacques who shook it.

'It looks like you've been on the wrong end of a fist as well, my friend,' LeBrun said as he took in the marks to the younger man's face.

LeBrun looked towards Athos and Treville raising his eyebrows with a silent question.

'We are investigating an attack that happened outside the Palace this morning,' said the Captain. 'We believe the perpetrators were using one of your carts.'

'I recognised it,' said Jacques. 'It was the men with the cart that caused this,' he gestured at his bruised face.

LeBrun stared at the secretary for a few seconds, 'then we may have been attacked by the same men,' he said. 'I told you last time we met that I had a couple of carts nearing completion. One of them was to be sold to a builder by the name of… Babin. But the man did not want to pay. He wanted to hire the cart instead. I told him I didn't hire out my carts they were for sale. He hit me. Just like that. Totally caught me off guard. Next thing I knew the apprentices were trying to get me to wake up and the cart was gone.'

Athos glanced back at the apprentices who were watching the exchange.

'Did they see anything?' he asked.

'No, Babin and his man had long gone by then. He'd come prepared, had a couple of horse with him ready.'

'Do you have an address for Babin?' asked Treville.

LeBrun shook his head, 'sorry, as he was collecting the finished cart, I never got one from him. He paid the deposit when he made the order and appeared an honest man. Guess I was wrong.'

Treville sighed.

'He told me he was building a little outside the city… but that doesn't narrow it down for you does it?'

Athos looked at his Captain, 'we don't know how long they have. It could take days, even with the entire garrison searching, to find them.'

'One thing I do remember,' said LeBrun, 'the two men that came. Their clothes were covered in light-coloured dust. I don't know what it was.'

'Thank you, Monsieur,' said Treville. 'If we can restore your cart to you, we will.'

'I'd be grateful,' said LeBrun. 'I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help.'

The Musketeers and Jacques mounted up and slowly walked the horses away from the cartwright.

'Can I make a suggestion?' asked Jacques.

Treville nodded.

'You could try some of the traders and guild taverns. There are bound to be men there who either work on or are supplying building works.'

Treville nodded, 'it is as good a place as any to start,' said Treville. 'Perhaps you should return to the Queen, let her know what is happening. We will get word to you with any further developments.'

Jacques nodded.

'Thank you for your help,' said Treville. 'You really have helped us. You may not think you contributed but you've done more than most courtiers would have done under the circumstances.'

Jacque managed a smile, 'I hope… no… I know you will find them. Good luck.'

The secretary urged his horse into a canter and disappeared along the road, turning towards the Palace at the end.

Treville turned to Athos who was again staring off into the distance, his expression the same as when he had been trying to remember where he had seen the burn marks before. The Musketeer realised he was being watched.

'The burns,' he said. 'When LeBrun said that the buyer, Babin, and his man were dusty… I think I remember where I've seen the burns before. I think it is lime after it has been in the kiln.'

Treville shook his head, not understanding.

'When I was a child my father had a few cottages built on our estate. My brother and I spent ages watching the stonemasons and labourers. They created a small lime kiln a few hundred yards from the building works. The lime when it had been in the kiln it was powdery, white.'

Athos paused for a few seconds, Treville guessed the memory was not pleasant.

'One of the workers he somehow mixed the lime with water, it burned him. The burns were the same as on the body that was left… I remember his cries. And he was only splashed with the lime and water mixture. That man, whoever he was, appeared to have been doused in it.'

'And the same fate might await d'Artagnan and Constance,' said Treville grimly. 'Let's make a start on the taverns.'

MMMM

Stepping into the healer's small house was like stepping into Lemay's office, but with much more rudimentary implements scattered around. Aramis recognised medical tools that would have been used decades before by the battlefield surgeons of the time. Aramis guessed Old Jean used whatever he could get his hands on.

The elderly medic shuffled to the corner of the room and sat in a chair by a small table, he indicated another chair set at an angle to the table. Aramis sat, he waited for Old Jean to indicate he was listening before explaining what had happened as succinctly as he could. When he mentioned that Porthos believed he had something that would help with burns the old man raised his hand to stop Aramis.

'I can tell you understand the difficulties that come with treating such injuries,' he said, 'you mentioned that you did not think the balms you have made much difference.'

Aramis nodded, 'I don't think they help at all. I've not had much experience treating bad burns but the odd ones the cadets pick up never improve with the ointments.'

Old Jean nodded and leaned forward, Aramis leaned forward as well, he got the impression he was about to learn something the old man wanted to keep between them.

'They think I know some miracle cure. Porthos brought a younger lad to me, years ago when he was still a lad himself, he thinks I did something magic with a lotion or a potion…'

Old Jean sighed. Aramis wondered what the man was going to say.

'The lad that needed help, he was in too much pain to watch what I did. Aramis,' said Old Jean with a hint of amusement in his eyes, 'I use water. Cold water and lots of it. Pour it on if you can. Keep the wound cooled for several minutes…'

Aramis stared at the man. He knew that methods changed frequently. Since he had known the Palace physician, Lemay, he had learned several new techniques. But Old Jean must have been using his water trick for decades. The old man seemed to be reading his thoughts.

'My mother was branded a witch, young man, she had to abandon me to save both our lives, but she taught me well in those few years. A woman ahead of her time you might say, although she was taught by her grandmother.'

'It's so simple, so obvious,' said Aramis. 'But what about the pain, what we might be dealing with… I saw the remains of a man with burns over his body… he must have been in immense pain.'

The man looked at Aramis for a few seconds before nodding.

'I can see you take your work as a medic seriously… I have something that will help – '

'Porthos said you had some strong painkillers; stronger than the ones I make up.'

'Quite possibly.'

'I'll need the ingredients – '

Old Jean shook his head, 'no. The only person who will be taught my secrets is that boy out there. My great-grandson, Little Jean. He already knows more about medicine than you do, young man.'

Aramis remembered seeing the small boy sat on the dusty ground outside Old Jean's house.

'I have several bottles of the painkiller, you can take them, it does not take much time to make up more. You do not have to give the sufferer much, it will likely make them sleep, but the pain will be significantly reduced.'

Old Jean pushed himself up from his chair and crossed to a chest laying on a sturdy looking side table. He fished a key from a string around his neck and opened the dark brown chest. Aramis caught a glimpse of many bottles and vials. He spotted a tatty handmade notebook and wondered if it contained the secrets to the old man's medicines. Old Jean pulled three small bottles from the chest and handed them to Aramis, clutching at the Musketeers' hand.

'Use them wisely, young man,' he said before releasing Aramis.

'Thank you, Monsieur,' said Aramis.

The old man nodded with a smile before moving back to his chair in the corner of the room. Knowing he was not going to get anything further from the elderly medic Aramis tipped his hat in thanks before venturing back out onto the street. He found Porthos talking to Little Jean who was looking up at the tall Musketeer with an expression of awe. Aramis wondered if the little boy knew he was probably in line to be one of the most useful citizens of the Court.

Porthos ruffled the boy's hair before turning away. They walked back the way they had come, Flea's bodyguard a constant presence a few feet in front of them.

'Little Jean there was saying he's going to take over from his great grandfather.'

Aramis nodded, 'that's what Old Jean told me. He wouldn't let me have the ingredients for the painkillers, but he gave me plenty. I just hope we don't have to use it.'

'What about the burns?'

Aramis smiled, 'he told me what to do,' he said.

Porthos managed a nod before going back to watching their surroundings carefully, the streets had become busy in the time Aramis had been with the old man. The tattily dressed poorer residents were moving out of the way for them as they passed, a few looked fearful at seeing the Musketeers on their streets. But some of the fit young men who probably made up the workforce and Courts own army were appearing from doorways and side streets in numbers. Aramis could sense that Porthos was getting tense.

'I know you don't need protecting,' said his friend quietly, 'but please do not make eye contact with them. Flea's bodyguard said that the feelings against you are actually worse than perhaps she knows.'

Aramis nodded and went from watching his surroundings to looking at the ground, something he would never normally do. But they were on a mission to save d'Artagnan and Constance and could not be delayed with an unnecessary fight. They increased their pace slightly. Even with his now limited vision, Aramis could still see the younger men appearing around them.

When he was barged forcefully by someone, causing him to be spun around slightly, he instinctively reached for his gun only to find a hand on his wrist holding him back. He looked up to find Porthos glaring at him, the tight grip on his wrist remained as his friend forced him to walk faster towards the invisible border marking the edge of the Court's land.

'Just keep walking,' said Porthos quietly, 'that man was armed, he wanted you to react so that he could say he was defending himself when he stabbed you.'

It took Aramis a few seconds to understand what Porthos was saying, he nodded, but Porthos did not release him, instead, he urged Aramis on with a hand on his back. They did not quite break into a run but were marching at speed by the time they left the Court of Miracles behind.

MMMM