The gardens des Tuileries were bright and pleasant for a stroll if one were of suitable noble birth or rank to enjoy them. D'Melliuor was both, of course, but Athos wondered darkly if every conspirator in this plot were as high ranked as their damnable captain. To have chosen the meeting point during the day suggested that this was so, given the openness of their location. Even here, in the orchard, with the young trees grown enough to provide a little shade from the unpleasantly close heat, there was a risk of being overseen. Both the conspirators and those watching them were in danger of spying one another at any moment.
Athos wondered also as to the choice of location. Did they wish to somehow implicate the kings exiled mother – the garden's patron – into the plot, or was it simply that d'Melliuor's duties had brought him here, providing him with an easy excuse if his motives were called into question?
Jussac too, had a similar alibi, and yet it seemed wantonly brazen of the conspirators to meet in such a place, with the king so close by. Only the commander was currently at their meeting place, with d'Melliuor required at his King's side, however; as was custom, the captain of the Musketeers would on occasion make a patrol of his outlying men to ensure all was well. It was for this time that Athos and d'Artagnan waited.
Athos gripped his sword hilt, barely wincing at the twinge to his hand. The pain of the wound focused him, cutting though the doubts and the rage.
He saw d'Artagnan to his left, hidden well behind a clustering of high-grown foxgloves and their companion apple trees. The boy was still, as focused as a hunting hound which had caught sight of its prey. His eyes never left Jussac's form, the commander standing relaxed and cocky as he surveyed the gardens with a bored air.
They waited, barely breathing.
A line of sweat ran down Athos back. His legs ached from where he crouched and he gripped his sword so tightly that blood began to ooze from his bandage, dripping from the hilt.
A great pity that both Aramis and Porthos has been assigned to guard the King and could not abandon their post in case it aroused suspicion, but they could at least be happy in the knowledge that they had played a crucial part in this impending victory.
A movement and a sharpening of attention from Jussac had Athos tensing. A gardener; come to tend to the plants. The flash of irritation on Jussac's face suggested that this was not one of the conspirators.
Athos cursed the man as he set down his basket and began fussing with the flowers. He was not two feet away from d'Artagnan's hiding place, growing closer with every passing moment. He saw D'Artagnan tense, ready to signal and hush the man should he be spotted. The last thing they needed was for an innocent bystander to get hurt in this, or worse: for the conspirators to be alerted and make their escape.
Jussac snapped an acerbic dismissal at the gardener, who ignored him completely. Incensed, the commander made toward the servant but halted by another voice.
"Leave him be," the newcomer said, stepping out onto the path. He was an unassuming gentleman, dressed as a palace guard. Athos thought he could remember seeing the apparent spy at court before.
"He's one of yours?" Jussac eyed the gardener with distaste.
"Your master is not the only one to require a guard dog," the newcomer said with an unpleasant smile. "Phillipe will not disturb us, unless you give him cause."
Jussac gave an inelegant grunt. "More damn Spaniards."
"Phillipe represents another interested party," the so-called guard said with a shrug. "There are more players in this game eager to see the fool-king dead than I and my countrymen."
"I don't like the idea of your Spanish bitch on the throne," Jussac said with a growl.
"Better a Catholic Spaniard, than a Huguenot puppet."
So there it was, enough evidence to damn the pair thrice over, Athos smiled grimly. But d'Melliuor had yet to make an appearance and tensions were running high. It would all be for naught if the conspirators killed each other before they could be brought to justice. Better that than nothing, however, and so as the pair made to draw blades, Athos prepared to intercept.
"All this squabbling over the same god," d'Melliuor's voice brought them all to a standstill. "Can you infants agree to a similar cause at the very least?"
The palace guard halted, shooting the captain a surly look.
"Any Christian God is preferable to your idolatry of gold, Marquis."
"Yes, yes, I am utterly despicable. Exceedingly, despicably wealthy," d'Melliuor waved his hand before him to dismiss such nonsense. "Can we get on with this, the king will not wait forever."
"He shall learn to do so in the pits of hell."
"Guerrero, do restrain yourself," d'Melliuor said, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
Athos glanced over to d'Artagnan. The boy was entirely still, despite the encroaching threat of the Spanish bodyguard, his hand on his pistol.
Then it happened, the gardener-spy looked up and met eyes with d'Artagnan.
Unperturbed by his discovery, d'Artagnan gave the man a businesslike nod, then, feigning disregard, he returned his gaze upon the gathered conspirators.
Disconcerted by this response, the bodyguard did not immediately raise the alarm. D'Artagnan was wearing a Musketeer's uniform, after all; it wasn't unreasonable to assume he was another guard to this meeting. By the time he had decided on his course of action and opened his mouth to shout a warning, however, he found himself at eye level with the unpleasant end of d'Artagnan's pistol. The boy gave him a cheeky grin, his eyes promising death should the man be foolish enough to speak.
Athos turned his attention back to the three conspirators, whose conversation had finally turned to the specifics of their attack. By the sounds of things, they were mere days away from a full-scale assault of the palace. Guerrero appeared to be supplying the brute power, whilst the implication seemed to be that d'Melliuor would supply the arms from the Musketeer's barracks itself.
Athos ground his teeth in rage. They would discover the specifics of the conspiracy during a hearty dose of interrogation, for now if was time to act, before d'Artagnan's new friend lost them the element of surprise.
He stepped forwards from his hiding place. The movement drew everyone's attention, allowing d'Artagnan the chance to step within the gardener's guard with his gauche and skewer the man's hand where it had been reaching into his basket, likely for a weapon. He followed with a blow to the temple with the butt if his pistol, knocking the man unconscious. Stepping over the prone form he levelled the pistol at the three conspirators, face a murderously grim mask.
Athos meanwhile had drawn his main blade, holding it low for now as the pair approached their marks.
"In the name of the King of France, I arrest you for conspiracy to commit treason," he said, his voice cold steel.
D'Melliuor rallied first, giving a high, barking laugh.
"Treason? What nonsense."
"We heard every word, Captain," Athos sneered, "Do not insult us with more of your lies."
"You?" D'Melliuor scoffed, "and who are you? A farm boy and a drunkard? Against a noble and a captain who do you think shall be believed?"
"Another noble, perhaps," said another voice behind them.
The conspirators whirled to see this new enemy, the colour draining from D'Melliuor's face at the sight.
"Or another Captain?" François D'Melliuor said coolly, his gaze not leaving his son's as he indicated his head toward his companion as they both stepped from their hiding place.
Athos let himself smile thinly. "Good to see you, sir."
Treville, sword and pistol levelled at the traitors, gave a nod to his second in command. "Good to be back, sir, it seems you kept yourself in plenty of trouble while I was gone."
Henri d'Melliuor's hand flew to his sword hilt, a desperate look in his eye. Pushing Guerrero toward Treville and his father, he made to rush through the opening to Athos's left. He was halted by Athos' blade, turning to face him with a hesitant, dangerous glare.
"Do not fight me," Athos ordered.
"I would have thought you eager for such a chance," d'Melliuor said feigning joviality.
"If you fight me, I shall kill you," Athos said, his voice and gaze unwavering steel, "and, upon my honour, I shall make it quick and painless. You deserve neither such mercy."
Henri looked for a moment as if he would surrender but then Jussac broke away, dashing toward the trees. At the same time Guerrero lunged at François, parrying Treville's thrust with a swiftly drawn blade of his own.
Henri struck at Athos. Despite all his pomp he was still Musketeer trained, thrusting with precision and skill. Athos parried the attack, but to his dismay his sword slipped, the slickness of his blood loosening his grip. Narrowly avoiding the man's blade, he made to draw his main gauche, but another attack came before he was ready, forcing him to party again with his main hand. The impact jarred the sword from his grip, Henri's rapier thrusting toward his unprotected heart. He saw the man's face, split into a mad grin of triumph and knew he had no time to block the impending attack.
A shot rang out, sending birds clattering into the sky. D'Melliuor's look of triumph melted into brief agony, a rose of blood blooming upon his chest before he crumpled up and fell to the ground, dead.
Athos looked over to D'Artagnan, the boy's pistol still smoking, then to Treville and François, who were wrestling Guerrero free of his weapons, the Spaniard bleeding from several deep and likely mortal wounds. There was no time to pause.
"After Jussac," he snapped, snatching up his sword and cursing his novice error.
The tore after the man, already disappeared down the path in the direction of the Royal party.
As they came out into the open lawn Athos spied the traitor ahead of them, running, pistol drawn toward the king and his retinue. He called a warning, useless as it was, seeing the Musketeers near the King close ranks against the attacker.
Jussac shouted, his words lost from such a distance, his pistol raised toward the King. Athos saw Aramis stand as a shield before him, as two other Musketeers leapt to do the same. Then Porthos was there, snatching the barrel of the pistol in one hand and raising it up to discharge uselessly over their heads. He snarled, rage and bloodlust clearly visible even from such a distance. His free hand wrapped around Jussac's throat, fingers digging in, crushing the windpipe for purchase as Porthos lifted Jussac bodily from the ground. The man kicked, blood spattering from his open mouth, dropping the pistol to paw feebly at Porthos' hands. But Porthos simply increased his strength and, with a crunching of cartilage that resounded over the shrieks of the King's noble entourage, Jussac was dead.