Chapter Two
Just over two hours later, the four were packed and mounted.
Individual missions were not unusual, but it was an unspoken rule that there was safety in numbers, and they much preferred each other's company. They rode out of the city gates together and then with a wave, they went their separate ways with the promise to meet back in the yard in due course for a date at the The Wren.
For his part, Athos had ridden to the estate of Baron Michel de Bouvier to discuss payment for a parcel of his estate near Rouen. The land in question gave a clear panoramic view to the south. Cardinal Richelieu wanted control of that land and offered a price that would need to be negotiated. Athos had been chosen to do the negotiating and bring the signed document back to Paris forthwith.
Richelieu had been establishing a network of watchtowers that overlooked strategic lands close to the border, as well as rivers and estuaries that criss crossed the land, should there be a future war with Spain.
The Baron had turned out to be a personable man, who had enjoyed an evening with Athos, discussing warfare in general and enjoying of the fine wines from the estate's cellars. He also enjoyed catching up with affairs of court, as he had been unable to attend court himself for some time, due to a hip injury which had ended his horse riding days but also any lengthy carriage travel. The Baron's son had not yet reached his majority but he was also an intelligent and clear-headed young man, who shared his father's willingness to assist France in preparations for any future skirmishes with Spain. In view of the Baron's incapacity, Athos had felt it expedient to form a good impression with the boy for the future, should anything befall his father. War may be years away, but the Cardinal was a strategic thinker, with France's best interests at heart, as he so often liked to remind those who criticised him.
After much good-humoured negotiation, the Baron duly agreed a price and the required document was signed.
"I am sure his Eminence will be very grateful," Athos said, as he rolled the parchment tightly and packed it into his leather despatch wallet along with some letters the Baron asked Athos if he would be good enough to take to court.
"Well," the Baron mused, amiably. "The Cardinal is not a man to get on the wrong side of, Athos, but I am more than happy to sign that parcel of land over. I have too much land anyway and my ancestors would turn in their graves if I did not do my duty."
"Ancestors can be a fearsome pack," Athos agreed, as the Baron waved him into the next room for dinner.
The following day dawned bright and sunny. Athos dropped the leather wallet into his saddlebag and took his leave of the Baron and his son and set off back to Paris.
He made good headway that day and on the following day was almost within reasonable galloping distance of the city limits, when his horse shed a shoe. Seeing that he could not press on without getting it dealt with, Athos deviated from the track a little further on, hoping to find a hamlet of sorts which may have a blacksmith in residence.
The light filtered through the trees, dappling the lane with shades of light and dark. In the near distance, he could see a large barn and made his way toward it, slowly and steadily. Guiding the horse from the lane, he dismounted and removed the leather wallet from his saddlebag, fitting it under his shirt at his back, before making his way across the field to the barn. Looking around, he was surprised to see the withered crops in the fields surrounding the barn, as it had been a good summer. There was no reason why the crops should have failed. It could only be because of disease or bad management.
He was just about to turn back, when an old man emerged from the barn. A distinctive red hat with a long feather was perched on his head and it was evident that the man was missing his left arm above the elbow, though he carried a sack easily on his other shoulder.
As Athos approached, the old man stopped and dropped the sack on the dry earth.
"Greetings, stranger," the old man called amiably, removing his hat and transferring it under the stump of his arm, before he reached for a cloth and wiped his face. Kicking the sack with his foot, he looked up at Athos and gave him a rueful look.
"Last of the turnips," he said, tucking the cloth back in his pocket. "For what they are worth."
Athos inclined his head.
"What happened here?" he asked, looking across the field.
He had not introduced himself and, in fact, he was not wearing his uniform, which was strapped, along with his pauldron to the back of his saddle. Dressed in plain doublet and breeches, on a hot day, he could be any traveller passing through. Sometimes it did not pay to advertise he was one of the King's Musketeers. He was officially off duty anyway, having completed his mission and on his return to the Garrison to make his report.
"We have not been blessed this year, Monsieur," the old man replied, dropping his voice, a frown now crossing his brow, while looking about him.
"Blight?" Athos replied, curious as to the reason. He was not ignorant of husbandry, there having been tenants on la Fere lands for as long as he could remember. He remained convinced that this did not look like disease to him. If anything, it looked like neglect. There was an established healthy stream nearby, which he had crossed earlier, so there would have been plenty of water for irrigation.
"You could say that," the old man answered carefully.
Athos detected a sudden change in the man's manner and noticed he continued to cast furtive glances to the edge of the field.
"Forgive me," the man brightened, "Where are my manners? Silas Marchant," he said, holding up his hand to Athos, who had continued to remain seated on his horse.
"Athos," his visitor replied, leaning down to take the man's hand.
It was a workman's firm hand, the fingers calloused and bent with age.
"Would you like water, Monsieur Athos?" Silas asked then, turning and indicating a water barrel at the entrance to the barn.
"Thank you, yes," Athos replied.
Athos had, in fact, refilled his water skin in the nearby stream, but he was curious about the fields and the old man's demeanour and wanted to tarry a little longer with Silas Marchant. He therefore dismounted and followed the old man to the barrel.
"My own supply is depleted," he added, "And it looks like it will remain hot into the evening."
Silas did not suggest that rain would be welcome and Athos's suspicions about the fields' neglect deepened. He had passed through fields of healthy crops in abundance over the last few days, so to come across such neglect was odd, to say the least.
The man filled a bowl and held it out to Athos for his horse, followed by a smaller bowl for Athos himself. Seeing Athos looking at what remained of his arm, Silas followed his gaze.
"Arques in '89," he said, by way of explanation. "Before you were born, I'll wager."
"Eight years before," Athos replied, his interest piqued. "You were a soldier?"
"For some years," Silas replied. "Looking to get out when this happened."
"My apologies, it is none of my business," Athos said, looking away.
"I have had one arm longer than I have had two, Monsieur. I am well used to it by now."
Athos was not prone to small talk, but he was just about to enquire about the condition of the fields, when the sound of horses pulled his attention toward the area of the field that Silas had been watching. Three riders were slowly making their way across the field toward them. Pulling up a little way from them, they remained on their horses, looking at Athos.
"Hold your peace, Monsieur, I beg you," the old man whispered, not turning his head but straightening his back and meeting the gaze of the three men.
One of the men broke away and walked his horse forward.
"What have we here, Silas?" the man said, cold eyes on the old man.
"Nothing, Raymond," Silas replied, gruffly. "Just a stranger passing through. Is that not right, Monsieur?" he added, turning to Athos.
Athos's eyes flicked to the old man, while he stored the new man's name away.
Athos did not reply. He merely met the man, Raymond's, cold gaze with one of his own. The man's eyes raked down Athos, taking in his appearance, and that of his horse.
"Where are you heading to, stranger?" he finally said.
"Paris," Athos intoned. "Once I have replaced my horse's shoe."
"Well," Raymond replied, flatly. "You don't have to worry about that."
"And why is that?" Athos replied, carefully weighing up the three men.
"You won't be needing him," the man replied, pulling out a pistol and aiming it at Athos's chest. "We'll take him off your hands, don't you worry."
"I think not," Athos replied, flatly, hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Raymond," Silas said, sounding a warning note, and, at the break in attention, Athos dropped and rolled away, unsheathing his sword as he rose to his feet.
Raymond fired his primed weapon, hitting the water barrel as Athos pushed it over and disappeared into the barn. The door swung back on its hinges, and silence descended.
To be continued ...