Chapter Eight
"Flagon Noir" Tavern:
"We don't want any trouble in here, Monsieur!" the landlord shouted, from his place behind the bar.
The three men had come in at midday and had been drinking heavily. Now, they were throwing their weight around and harassing anyone who dared to look at them. One of them swaggered over and slammed his hand on the bar. The man's face was bruised, his nose swollen. He looked like he had taken a recent pummelling. The landlord was not a nervous man, but he was outnumbered and he needed to keep his barmaid safe, as she was his niece.
"Then, give us more ale!" the man shouted at him, inches from his face.
The landlord sighed and went to his barrel, only to find it empty.
"I need to bring another barrel through," he grunted.
"Then be quick about it," another of the men, their leader by the look of him, called from across the room.
The landlord looked around and met the gaze of one of his regular customers, who rose from his seat and came forward to help. Together, the two men left the bar and went through the door at the back and into the small, enclosed yard.
"The Lord knows I am not a rich man," the landlord grunted, as he rolled the barrel off its base and picked up a wooden tap. "But I would forgo their coin if they left right now. In fact," he added as he hammered the tap into the barrel, "I wish I had never set eyes on them."
The other man grunted as they both took hold of the upper rim of the barrel and began turning it toward the door.
"I've been listening to them," the other man whispered, as they hauled the barrel over the back step.
"You should be careful," the landlord said, meeting his gaze with a frown.
"We've had a lot of trouble around here, Martin," his customer continued. "You know that. You know that lot might be responsible."
The landlord stopped in his tracks. It was true, there had been untold disruption over the summer, and at least two of his regulars had been murdered and left in the wood, stripped of their money and horses. These men were not strangers to him, but he had seen how their behaviour had become more erratic of late. They were drinking more and becoming much more openly aggressive, especially over the last few days.
"What makes you think so?" he whispered, cautiously; intent on keeping his voice as low as possible.
Inside the bar, there was a noise as if a chair had been smashed.
The customer wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before continuing.
"They're boasting about besting a soldier," he replied. "They're holdin' him somewhere."
"A soldier?" the landlord replied, frowning.
He knew many fine men who had become soldiers, out of necessity but also willing to take the old King's coin out of desperation. The majority were good, honest men.
"A soldier with a pauldron," the man hissed, urgently.
"A Musketeer?" the landlord replied, shocked at the revelation. "That's treason," he added. "Sure as assaulting the King himself!"
"Aye, well, they have him stashed somewhere," the man replied. "Not only that, but they're talking about burnin' down the village when they get back, and fleeing."
"What about the Musketeer?" the landlord said, sweat beginning to pour off his forehead, both at the revelation and the fact they were taking too long in satisfying the men currently smashing up his bar.
The customer ominously raked his thumb across his throat and grimaced.
"Where are they keeping this man?"
"I don't know, they never said. Just that they had bested him and that he had given himself up for an old man."
"Musketeers are men of honour," the landlord replied.
"Hurry up with that ale!" an angry voice came from the other room.
"Coming, Sirs," the landlord shouted instantly. "Just having a little trouble with the tap."
"Did they give the old man's name?"
"No, just that he was old, and only had one arm, so wouldn't be able to get the man free."
"One arm?" the landlord said, looking shocked. "That's old Silas. He's an honourable man. This tavern is here because of him. He came back from the war and got his village up and running again. Everyone in the area benefited. We need to help."
They could not tarry any longer and finally rolled the barrel of ale back into the tavern and behind the bar. The landlord wiped his hands on his apron and shook hands with his customer, his eyes darting to the three men who were lounging in an alcove and laughing insanely. The place was empty now, his other patrons having slunk away.
"Thank you for your help," the landlord said loudly, for the benefit of his three unwanted patrons. "My regards to your wife," he added, as the man fastened his jerkin and made for the door.
As he began to pull three jugs of ale from the new barrel, the landlord cast a quick glance through his side window, to see his customer mount his horse and ride away.
Not toward his homestead, but along the track to the next village.
As he carried the ale over to the table, he thought about what his customer had said. There had been patrols in the area, looking, he was now sure, for the three men sitting before him in his bar.
Word had got around that both the Cardinal's Red Guard and the King's Musketeers were searching for these men and that fact alone, may embolden those who may otherwise keep to themselves. The last thing anyone wanted though, was for trained soldiers to become established in the area, searching people and throwing their weight around. The sooner the gang could be caught, the better. Villagers had been forced from their homes and lives had been lost in order that those three could take what they wanted and control those who could not fight back.
He hoped his friend could reach the next village and find out the soldier's whereabouts so they could raise the alarm and help not only old Silas, but one of the King's elite.
oOo
Later that afternoon:
Silas took off his red hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
He had been walking for what seemed like hours. In happier times, he had ridden to the next village, but since his neighbours had fled, they had taken the animals, at Silas's insistence, and his own old horse had died a few weeks ago. He had felt confident at setting out, buoyed by the fact he was helping Athos. The sooner he could reach the village, the sooner he hoped he could get help. He flipped his hat back on his head and squared his shoulders as he increased his pace, his heart thumping in his chest.
As he walked, he tried not to think of what Athos might be enduring back in his barn. He pulled the water skin from his shoulder and took a deep gulp. Finally, after what seemed like an age, he saw the first building of the village up ahead. There was still a way to go, as he knew that house was at the edge of the village, but maybe there would be someone there, who could help.
Sadly, the cottage was empty and he paused for only a few moments, before pressing on. There was at least another half hour of walking before he came to other buildings in the hamlet. His own village used to be like this one, full of productive villagers, he thought, before Raymond had ridden in one morning and never left.
Ahead, he could hear raised voices and as he emerged from the wooded track, he saw four Red Guards, talking to a dismounted rider. The rider was speaking urgently to the Guards, and all five looked up as Silas came into view.
"Silas?" the man said, as he approached.
"Yes, I am he," Silas replied, looking at the man in confusion. "Do I know you, Monsieur?"
"I come from the Flagon Noir Tavern," the man explained. "I was telling the guards about three men who are causing a disturbance. They are boasting about holding a soldier captive."
"Yes!" Silas cried, reaching out and grabbing the man's jacket, before looking at the Red Guard, "He is in my barn. I fear for his life," Silas staggered a little then and the man caught his elbow.
"See?" the tavern patron said to the Red Guard who appeared to be their leader. "I told you. Here is your proof," he said, pointing at Silas.
The Red Guard had seemed reluctant to listen to the man, but in view of the old man's appearance, they could surely not ignore him now?
Suddenly the sound of incoming horses made them all turn;
"Musketeers," one of the Red Guard sneered. They had not been too keen on searching for their quarry but now it looked as if it could not be avoided.
"What's goin' on?" the large dark-skinned Musketeer called out as he and his two companions pulled their horses to a halt.
"This man is reporting that three men who have been terrorising the vicinity are in his tavern, causing chaos," the Red Guard leader reluctantly replied.
"And they have been holding a Musketeer prisoner in my barn," the old man wheezed, bending over and pulling in air.
"You wait here," the Red Guard said to the old man. "Guard him," he said to two of his remaining men. "We will be back with these brigands, and you," he said to Silas, "will accompany us back to Paris as a witness."
"Wait," Aramis shouted, in exasperation, "Where is this barn!"
The civilian had mounted and was preparing to head back to the tavern with the Red Guard. He pointed down the track that Silas had taken.
"The next village," he shouted, as he rode off with the Guard.
Porthos looked at the track, before shouting after them, "How far?" but they were gone.
d'Artagnan spurred his horse and took off down the track, closely followed by Aramis and Porthos.
Behind them, Silas straightened and made his way unsteadily to the remaining Red Guards, who had taken the opportunity of taking a seat in the shade.
It had all happened very quickly. He wished the Musketeers had waited, so that he could direct them properly. Looking up at the dust that hung in the air from their horses hooves, he silently wished them God Speed.
For they would need the Good Lord on their side and speed would be of the essence.
To be continued ...