Chapter Sixteen

Before heading to The Chatelet, for he owed Athos this further investigation, Treville stopped at the Red Guard's barracks to speak to a sergeant who was sometimes amenable to collaboration. However, the man knew nothing and, after searching his rotas, he reported that the Guards in question on the day were now on a mission in the northern territories and would not return to Paris for several days.

There was some good news, however;

"There is a Musketeer horse in our stables, Captain," the sergeant continued. "It bears your brand. Might be your man's. Raymond Vachon was using him as his own; thereby adding horse theft to his many crimes. Cantankerous beast, he is. The stable hands will be glad to be rid of him," he smiled.

Treville thanked the man and went straight to the stables.

Sure enough, the black devil occupied the end stall and Treville, feeling a sense of relief at the sight of him, approached quietly. Running his hands over the horse's back, he looked around for Athos's saddle and saw it had been set on a low stool in the next stall. A stable boy helped him saddle the horse and fit the tack. There were no saddlebags and, sadly, no sign of Athos's uniform. He had little doubt that it had met an untimely end at the hands of the three assailants who so hated the King's Musketeers.

If the horse recognised Treville, he could not tell, but he allowed him to lead him from the stable and was quiet as Treville mounted his own horse and took up the spare reins. As Treville was about to leave, the sergeant approached him. Held in his hand, was what was obviously a sword, wrapped in a cloth.

"Vachon had this, too," he said, pulling the cloth aside. "Do you recognise it?"

"It belongs to Athos," Treville confirmed, relief evident in his voice.

"Thought so. It didn't suit Raymond Vachon," the sergeant smiled, as he rewrapped the sword and passed it up.

"No sign of the weapon belt?" Treville asked.

At the shake of the sergeant's head, Treville nodded. "It's a consolation to have the sword. I believe it is dear to him. My thanks to you," Treville said, as he took the sword and slotted it into his saddle. Athos would be glad of it, but, so far, he had no other news for him.

Thus, Treville rode to The Chatelet, his expression grim and his heart heavy, with Athos's horse in tow.

oOo

The Garrison

It was nearing dusk when the sound of horses alerted them.

Treville came thundering through the archway, scattering any inattentive soul in his wake. In tow a few beats to his left, was a lone horse, easily recognisable to the men now safe at the boundaries of the yard, as Athos's imposing stallion. Some of them began to applaud, pleased to see the horse returned, for although he was only really subdued under Athos's control, he was a horse of the King's Musketeer Regiment - highly trained and prized. It was therefore gratifying to see that he had been returned to his rightful place, where he belonged. The applause died quickly at the sight of their Captain, who dismounted quickly and handed his horse's reins to Jacques, whilst maintaining responsibility for the jittery black stallion.

As the boy led his horse into the stables, Treville cast a look at the scattering of men watching him.

"As you were," he barked, as he led the black stallion into the stables behind Jacques.

The men began to mutter amongst themselves, before dispersing; some to the mess, some to their quarters and those who sought a tavern for a few hours, through the archway.

At the sight of Roger, Aramis smiled in relief as he watched from the infirmary window, before making a decision and heading outside, with a nod to d'Artagnan who was currently on watch. Making his way to the stables, Aramis watched from the doorway as Treville threw a saddle over the side panel of one of the stalls. Both horses were steaming. Treville had ridden hard, it seemed. Catching Jacques's eye, Aramis gave him a quick nod, and the lad slipped away.

"Eager to get home?" Aramis asked cautiously, as he approached softly, not wishing to spook either of the horses, or his Captain.

Treville ran his hand over the saddle, before he turned around.

Whatever he had been doing, Aramis could feel the anger rolling off him.

"You've seen His Eminence," Aramis said quietly, leaning back and folding his arms.

Treville's shoulders dropped and he ran a hand roughly over his eyes and down his face.

"I swear, the man's heart is made of granite," he snapped.

"Well," Aramis smiled, picking up a piece of straw and chewing on it. "We all know that."

He waited, and Treville eventually sighed.

"He is "grateful" for Athos's contribution," he ground out.

"He said that?" Aramis feigned surprise.

Treville huffed a smile.

"He acknowledged Athos had saved him a considerable amount of money."

"Ah," Aramis replied. "There is the Man of God we all admire."

Treville raised his eyes and gave a short laugh. He could always rely on Aramis to lighten the mood.

Treville picked up the wrapped sword from a bale of hay where he had laid it and unwrapped it, tossing the cloth back onto the bale.

Aramis smiled.

"Athos will be glad to have that back," he said. "The horse too," he added, as an afterthought.

"How is he?" Treville enquired.

"Bathed, re-bandaged and safe in his bed. And completely oblivious to it all. In other words, drugged."

"Who's with him?" Treville asked.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis replied, trying to read his Captain's expression. "Porthos is in the mess."

"Get them," Treville said. "Meet me in my office. There is something you should know."

oOo

When they regrouped in Treville's office, he asked them to sit.

Athos's sword now lay on his desk, undamaged, they all noted to themselves, as they waited for their Captain to speak.

"The Vachons are in custody," Treville began, running his fingers over the blade, before picking it up and putting it on his shelf. "They were too drunk to resist," he continued, sitting down wearily in his chair and rubbing a hand over his face. "And, as you all know by now, Athos's horse is back in the stable," he added. "Unsettled, but unharmed.

"The trial is imminent, once the evidence is gathered. I have hopes there will be some who will come forward to testify against them, now they are behind bars."

"Athos will be relieved to hear that," d'Artagnan said.

He allowed his three men to exchange relieved smiles.

The Captain though, remained dour, and the three exchanged uneasy glances. This should be a cause for celebration, despite the Red Guard having the honour of arresting the notorious family.

"What else?" Aramis ventured.

"Silas was not in The Chatelet," Treville replied.

oOo

Aramis was lighting candles when Athos opened his eyes.

He had slept the day away, judging by the candlelight casting shadows on the walls. Feeling woolly, he suspected that the last drink Aramis had given him was more than watered ale, but he also felt rested, and so he decided not to challenge his friend on it. But he couldn't resist letting him know he was aware of what he had done.

"The days slip by so quickly," he murmured. "One moment it is morning, and the next, it is dusk."

Aramis straightened, and turned toward him.

Athos's smile faded at the look on his friend's face.

"What is it?" he asked, warily.

Aramis reached out and grasped the back of a chair, bringing it across and sitting down heavily by Athos's side. Athos began to fiddle with the bandage on his fingers, as Aramis stilled.

"Athos," Aramis said, quietly. "Silas died."

Athos slowly raised his head and stared at Aramis.

"What?" he managed.

Aramis sighed as a look of confusion and then utter sadness passed over Athos's face.

"His heart gave out on the way to The Chatelet."

"The Chatelet?" Athos said, so softly that Aramis almost didn't catch it.

"He wasn't under arrest, Athos. As they said, they took him to The Chatelet to identify the Vachons and make a statement. He went willingly, once he knew you would be saved."

"How?" Athos asked, his voice almost inaudible.

"The Red Guard had put him in a wagon to transport him there, but he was taken ill on the journey. Apparently, his heart gave out."

He reached into his jacket.

"He didn't die immediately. He sent you this," he added, holding out his hand.

Athos looked down at Aramis's unfolding fingers.

A red felt hat with a pheasant feather tucked in the band.

Silas had briefly told Athos about the feather. He had tracked that bird for long enough, finally getting him in his sights. But, hungry as he was, he couldn't pull the trigger. The bird was only trying to survive, just like him. So he had shooed it off. It left a single flight feather as it rose ungainly into the air. Silas threaded it through the band on his old, red felt hat.

"Tomorrow," he had said to the bird, "You may not be so lucky, bird. I may be old, but I am not a fool. So, don't be here tomorrow, if you know what's good for you."

He had laughed then and shook his white head as he finished his tale. Athos could almost see him relating the tale. It had made him smile at the time, but now ...

"Oh," Athos groaned softly, letting Aramis place the hat into his hand. "Silas, my dear man."

He looked up at Aramis with shining eyes.

"He gave his arm for France and his life for his friends," he whispered. "And, it seems, for me."

"Oh, I think you can include yourself among his friends, Athos," Aramis replied, fondly. "You gave him the strength for his final battle."

Athos ran his fingers reverently over the feather as he closed his eyes.

To be continued ...