~§~
Delivering the forged letter had been the easy part. The master of the house, a pompous cloth merchant to whom Treville sometimes commissioned clothing for the garrison, had been less than pleased by the simple task of holding onto a piece of parchment, finding it beneath him. He was not, after all, Treville's personal messenger.
The purse, heavy with coin, that Treville had sent along to help persuade him, had gone a long way to make the man see reason.
Athos had doubted Treville's common sense at first. It seemed unnecessarily risky to put such an important part of the plan in the hands of unaware civilians. However, as soon as they entered the house and he found himself in the presence of Monsieur Bonacieux, it was easy to see the ingenuity and cunning of Treville's plan.
The merchant was, in short, a buffoon of a man. It would be impossible for anyone to think him anything else but an unsuspicious keeper of an important letter, with absolutely no idea of what he was holding in his hands. Which, incidentally, he was.
The wife was his complete opposite. Her face seemed familiar to the older Musketeer, but only when she smiled at him did recognition hit him. "Madame Bonacieux," Athos greeted her, remembering the brave young woman he had rescued the morning before he had joined the Musketeers, almost half a year before. "At your service."
"It seems, Monsieur Athos," she had said with a knowing wink, "that the ones being of service will be us, this time around. About time, that too!"
Everyone chose to ignore the oblivious, pointed look Monsieur Bonacieux gave the two of them. Apparently, Madame Bonacieux hadn't seen fit to tell her husband of her 'adventures' at the market.
Finding Aramis was proving to be much more troublesome. Paris had more than twenty official prisons and about as many unofficial ones. Even if they were granted access to all of them, it would take them weeks to determine in which one the Cardinal had hidden Aramis.
Treville, however, had supplied them with one name. The Comte de Rochefort.
"Ya ever heard of this fella?" Porthos asked. His face still reflected the fury he was feeling towards the whole situation. The large Musketeer, Athos had gathered earlier on, was not particularly fond of any type of subterfuge.
Athos closed his eyes, his expression hidden from view by the shadows in which they had taken shelter. It was not his intention to lie to Porthos, but neither did he possessed any desire to divulge his past to anyone, even a good friend.
He had met Rochefort once, a number of years before, on the day Athos had become a Comte himself. The man had struck him as simply wrong. It was not something that he could name or define, just a sense of hair raising at the back of his neck that came over him whenever Rochefort was nearby.
Of course, if one was to believe the hushed whispers about Rochefort and his particularly unsavory 'appetites', the feeling was more than natural. "My family held a faint acquaintance with him," Athos admitted finally. "Enough to learn about the rumors."
"Yer family had 'faint acquaintances' with a Comte, eh?" Porthos parroted, looking more amused than surprised. Athos suspected that there was, at some point, some sort of bet going on about his past around the garrison. "Fancy that."
The older Musketeer glared at him. "Rochefort is a Comte only in name," he explained. "His family fell out of grace with the King when they decided to support Marie de Medici instead of Louis. They lost everything in their possession."
"Serves 'em right," the large man growled. Rochefort's association with the Cardinal and his quite possibly involvement in Aramis' disappearance, were more than enough reasons for Porthos to hate the man with all of his heart. "Wanna explain t' me why we're standin' outside this...place and not turnin' Paris upside down 'til we find Aramis?"
Athos could understand Porthos' dislike of their current location. La Rue Trace-Putain was, very much like the name suggested, where one could find all sorts of fine establishments dedicated to the pleasures of the flesh. One particular establishment however, the one whose entrance they had been watching for some hours, catered to a specific type of cravings that both men found utterly revolting.
The Araigneé was well known for turning a blind eye to the age of its workers, even encouraging the placement of girls of fourteen and younger under their patronage. The younger, the better for the Spider's clientele.
While not exactly illegal, it was something frowned upon by decent and honorable people. And it was exactly the kind of place Rochefort seemed to favor.
"According to the Captain, Rochefort has been known to frequent the place," Athos reminded his companion. "Since he wasn't in his rooms..."
Porthos growled again. Stillness and patience were not the man's most valued qualities. "Wha' do ya make of Treville's tale?" he asked after a while, taking off his hat and rubbing his reddened eyes. He looked as Athos felt, beyond exhausted.
The sun would be coming up in a few hours and neither of them had seen a bed that night. But if Rochefort wasn't in his, odds were he was meddling in something vile.
"I think Treville is a man of honor, committed to his duty," Athos finally answered Porthos' question. Strangely, the fact that the Captain had chosen Aramis for this particular task and that his decision had placed the marksman was in such a dangerous situation, made Athos empathize with the commander of the Musketeers rather than forsake him. After all, Athos knew all too well what it felt like to uphold honor and duty above love.
Despite the recent events, with Aramis' actions at the King's hunt being answered with that whole charade of a punishment that both of them had fabricated, it was easy for all to see that Treville and Aramis had a unique kind of relationship. It was one that, at times, seemed to blur the lines between commander and soldier and become something more familiar and... affectionate.
After all, the Captain had allowed Aramis to forgo his usual Musketeer duties and seclude himself in the sickroom for months, for reasons that neither had ever deemed fit to share with anyone. Much as he tried to minimize it through his actions, there was no denying the fact that the Captain cared for Aramis perhaps a bit more than he did for the rest of his men.
But soldiers went where and did as they were told, and even if the decision to put Aramis in harm's way could not have been one made lightly by Treville, it was one he must have felt he needed to make. To Athos, it felt too much like placing a noose around the neck of someone you loved. "I also think that there is something he's not telling us," Athos added.
Porthos attention veered away from the Araigneé . "Like what?"
Athos shrugged, ignoring Porthos' pointed look. It was merely a feeling, an impression left by something unfamiliar in Treville's eyes. The man had been scared.
The Captain would not have entrusted such a delicate mission to Aramis if he didn't believe the other man capable of handling it with the efficiency and flexibility required for such task. Spying and infiltration would always be a part of a world that was propelled by intrigue and conspiracy; it was naive to assume that the Musketeers would never take part in unmasking such plots by all means necessary, dishonorable as they might seem.
Tasked with finding proof of the Cardinal's involvement in the attack on the garrison, Aramis had to be aware of the risks he was taking, as was Treville. Worrisome as it was to know that their fellow Musketeer was now in the Cardinal's hands, one would assume that the proximity would aid in achieving that goal. So, why would a military man like Treville, more than experienced in sending his men into life-endangering risk, be so scared about such a predictable turn of events? "I cannot be sure," Athos finally said, closing his eyes in frustration. "But whatever it is, the best we can do is to find Aramis as quickly as possible."
When the sun rose in the sky and Rochefort had not put in an appearance, Athos started to wonder what it had cost his friend for them to waste the whole night in such a pointless manner.
~§~
Aramis' legs felt numb. Although he had never been inside a cavern, the Musketeer believed the feeling would be much similar to what he was experiencing now. There was the same iciness, dampness and deep sense of void that he imagined to permeate such places. It was an emptiness that took hold from within and threatened to freeze his very soul.
Hours had passed. At least, Aramis assumed it had been hours, for his sense of time was as lost as his sense of direction and with nothing around him but darkness and silence, there was little hope of finding either.
The strange man had left at some point after taking his fill of twisting Aramis' broken arm, but not before taking the time to strap him into a parting gift and snuffing out the light from all the candles. Aramis had been left alone, in the cold darkness, with nothing but pain and his ghosts to keep him company.
He swallowed carefully, as even the slightest movement seemed to disturb the vile thing around his neck. A Heretic's Fork, the other man had informed him with grand detail and panache, even if the Musketeer had been in too much pain at the time to fully register his words.
Not that the words mattered much. To Aramis, it was nothing but a double-edged fork strapped to his neck, one set of prongs pushed underneath his jaw and the other pressed against his breastbone, the long length of metal in between forcing him to keep his neck extended and still unless he wished to impale himself.
It was not a contraption made for killing, merely to prevent any possibility of rest. Whoever that man was, he wanted Aramis on the edge, senses stretched thin with tiredness and fear. And to the marksman' anger, the stranger was succeeding.
Exhaustion had forced him to test the sharpness of the instrument some time before. Sleep had called to him and, despite his best efforts, Aramis had lost control over his consciousness and nodded off. His rest lasted a whole of two seconds, as the prongs pushed against his skin without hesitation, thin, twin lines of blood dripping down his neck and chest. The Musketeer came to hissing and cursing, words dripping from the side of his mouth for even working his tongue proved to be a challenge.
After that, the fear of succumbing to tiredness a second time and impaling himself on those sharp prongs had kept him alert, his heart racing at the possibilities. He needed something to keep him conscious, something to occupy his mind. His hands, as it was, were busy.
Before the last candle had gone out, Aramis had managed to take a good look at the iron rings to which the chains on his arms were attached. The whole structure was old, and the iron rings, bolted to the stone columns, didn't look like a recent addition. If he were able to pull even one loose...
Knowing that he could hardly count his broken right arm, Aramis had decided to focus on the left bolt. So far, it had hardly budged, but he wasn't ready to give up yet. After all, he had nothing better to do before his new 'acquaintance' returned.
The man had failed to introduce himself before leaving, but given that the Red Guards had apparently delivered Aramis to him, it was safe to assume that he worked for the Cardinal as well.
He hadn't been dressed in the red and black leathers of the Cardinal's men, but he hadn't looked or sounded like a street thug either. There was a degree of fine education in his speech and the way he handled himself, a way of looking down on his prisoner - even though lacking the height to do so properly - that Aramis had come to associate with royalty and high-borns.
As the man had placed the contraption on Aramis' neck, he had glimpsed a ring on the stranger's finger, a golden pompous thing with a shiny black stone that identified the vile man as a Comte.
So, the question was, which high-born lord was on the Cardinal's payroll?
Aramis prevented himself from laughing at the utter stupidity of his own question, lest he paid for his misplaced humor with more pain. Armand was the First Minister, second only to the King Himself. It would be a hard task indeed to find any sort of courtier and Lord in the whole of France not willing to bend himself at the waist for a chance of favor with the King through his right hand man.
The real question then became which high-born Lord would not mind to do the Cardinal's dirty work for him?
Aramis closed his eyes for a moment, willing the back of his neck to relax in such uncomfortable position. He was still fooling himself with non-important questions. He had no care about the man's name, only for what he had been sent there to do. Dirty work indeed. The most foul possible, if his accommodations were of any indication.
It was obvious from the isolation of the place and the state he'd been left in, that the Cardinal's man was there to extract something from him. As Aramis wasn't currently in possession of any information of relevance, his nemesis was either there to persuade him to confess to something he hadn't done or the Cardinal mistakenly thought that Aramis knew more than he actually did about some matter he had no clue about. He disliked either option with all his heart.
In his mind, Aramis was trying to devise a way to make such a situation work to his advantage. Despite the circumstances, the Musketeer still had a few cards up his sleeve and he was now in a position to finally put into play the plan he and Treville had devised. Even if the circumstances were not exactly what he would call favorable, he was a soldier above all else and would make circumstances work to fit his assignment.
The solution was so obvious that Aramis could only blame his exhausted mind for not having seen it before. After all, it was only a matter of knowing what the Cardinal feared the most and using his own man to play upon those fears. It would all depend on the Cardinal's man believing his sincerity.
But what if this had nothing to do with the explosion and Treville's quest to successfully accuse the Cardinal?
Once the thought assaulted him, Aramis found it impossible to escape the possibility. For months now, he had been trying to cope and make himself deal with the events that had taken place on the failed mission of Savoy.
The deployment had been Treville's idea, the planning of which exercises the troop would be performing his as well. But the presence of that many dead soldiers on the border of a sovereign country and the implication of a rogue band of Spanish mercenaries had nearly provoked a diplomatic incident with the Duke of Savoy.
The Cardinal had become deeply involved in the matter, demanding to find those responsible for such a tragedy with almost the same fervor as the Captain had displayed.
What if, despite Treville's assurances and care, the Cardinal had discovered Aramis involvement in the tragedy? What if, like Treville feared, this was the time when fingers would point in to Aramis' direction and name him responsible for the deaths of his brothers?
Darkness lingered and Aramis' breath hitched inside his chest. Every single sound echoed in that place, magnified by the emptiness of the vast room. The slightest shift in the stones sounded like thunder, the light steps of rats like hooves, the far-away sound of water drops plunging as if in an ocean.
Even his own shallow breathing was sonorous. Aramis could hear it bouncing from pillar to pillar, returning to him as the dying moans of twenty-two men.
The Musketeer closed his eyes. He had a mission, Treville was counting on him to bring justice to those who had died in the garrison the day of the explosion; he could not lose himself in his memories and fears.
Silently, Aramis prayed, words that had not been uttered in years coming freely and effortlessly to his mind. While his youth had been dedicated to God, the monks near his home teaching him as much about Latin and healing as they had taught him about God and His teachings, Aramis had turned his back on God when he found himself robbed of the promise of a new life and the opportunity to become a husband and father.
Years of living by sword and violence as his guides followed and, by the time Aramis had found himself the only man alive in a field of dead Musketeers, he lacked any other choice but to believe that God had finally turned His back on him as well.
But now...now Aramis prayed for the first time since a life-time of silence and, to his surprise, feeling comfort in the familiar words. He prayed for an opportunity to bring justice to those who'd died; he begged for his mind to remain his own, at least until he could make his play on the Cardinal. His mouth moved wordlessly as he went through the prayers of his youth, his mind filling the void of sound with the voices from the monastery near the village where he grew up.
The words started echoing before Aramis realized that he was voicing them. Passage after passage from the Bible floated around him, familiar and comforting words keeping him company as the hours trickled away, until he lost track of which ones he had whispered and which ones were answering him back.
~§~
Treville told himself that he would not lose his temper in front of the King and Queen, that he had a part to play and that he had no choice but to play if flawlessly... but seeing the Cardinal whispering into the monarch's ear like he was free from guilt had ill effects on the Captain's composure. "Where have you taken my man?"
Richelieu straightened, but even in his rigid posture he looked slightly amused. "And what man would that be, Captain?" he asked, feigning a boredom that no one truly believed to be more than theatricality. "The disgraced Musketeer who you flogged like a commoner, the murderer...or the insane one who dared to attack his King?"
"What is he talking about, Armand? Who dared to attack me?"
Treville bit his tongue, stopping himself from rising to the bait, choosing instead to store away the information that the First Minister was supplying him for free, like the fact that he was much too well informed about what happened inside the Musketeers' garrison.
The Cardinal was all too proficient in bending the meaning of words and already he looked like a man who had won.
"One of your own, Your Majesty. A Musketeer," the Cardinal supplied, ever the voice of counsel and illumination, even when every word out of his mouth was a lie. "Surely you remember him, Sire, from the hunt? The one who gave you a faulty weapon and assaulted that poor, injured man?"
The King's eyes lit in recognition, grasping his wife's hand as if seeking comfort. "I do remember...what a most ghastly event," he said, making no effort to amend the Cardinal's version from a faulty weapon to his lack of attention to where he chose to aim. Fortunately for Poitier, the King was truly a lousy shot. "What ever became of him?"
"He killed a man, Your Majesty," the Cardinal hurried to announce, before Treville could say anything. "Executed him, really, after facilitating his escape from prison."
"The matter is still under investigation," Treville pointed out. "And that man, poorly as he may have behaved, is still a Musketeer and, therefor, under my custody."
"And he no longer is?" the King asked, sounding less bored by the conversation after hearing such news. After a few seconds, a look of pure fright overcame his eyes. "Did he escape? What if he is to come here?"
Treville closed his eyes and took a breath. He needed to remind himself that the previous King had been a just and intelligent man. Surely his son would have inherited some degree of those qualities. Even if he was presently scared by the idea of an attack –a fictitious one at that- repeating itself.
"He was transferred, at the Cardinal's orders, from the Musketeers' brig to parts unknown, in the middle of the night, without my consent or knowledge, Your Majesty," Treville said, waiting to see if the Cardinal would go as far as denying that he had the Musketeer in his possession. If he did, then Aramis life could be lost already.
"The man has a point, Cardinal," Louis pointed out, looking slightly miffed at the implication that Treville's command, and therefore His, had been scorned. The Musketeers had been his creation and, fortunately for Treville, the King didn't do well when others played with his toys. "Give the murderer back to Treville, I'm sure he will deal with the matter appropriately."
The Cardinal's curtsy was somewhat stiff, a sure sign that the First Minister was ferociously enraged inside.
For one brief moment, Treville wondered if he had gone too far in his demands. He wished to know where Aramis was being held, but if he was returned before their plan could come into fruition, then the whole charade would have been for naught. When the Cardinal's mouth started making noise again, the Captain could barely contain his relief.
"I will, of course, do whatever Your Majesty commands," the older man said, his eyes still cast low. "However, what would the people think about the fairness of Your Majesty's justice if a murderer is allowed special treatment just because he is one of the King's Musketeers? Should they be afforded more than the rest of France, just because of whose colors they wear?"
The blush that spread across the King's pale complexion was all too evident to any looking. Becoming the ruler of France at such a young age certainly had its drawbacks, one of which being that the King was all too prone to see criticism and comparisons with his father in all comments to his person and decisions.
The battle was over as soon as the Cardinal, more than familiar with the King's weakness, decided to draw attention to the 'people's' opinion. Treville closed his eyes, feigning defeat. "Your Majesty..."
"No, Treville," the King cut in. He had his nose held high, his eyes fixed on the Cardinal's bent head. "The Cardinal is right. The Red Guards are responsible for the safe keeping of King's law and order inside the city. This matter falls to them, not the Musketeers. Your man will have a fair trial and, God willing, a swift death. See that it gets done, Armand."
The Captain bowed low, to hide the conflicting emotions on his face, hoping that he hadn't just condemned Aramis to a lonely and painful death at the hands of the Cardinal's people.
His part, however, was done. For now.
~§~
"How much longer?"
"I was not aware that we were pressed for time, your Eminence. These things... cannot be rushed."
The Cardinal paused his scribbling mid-sentence, the missive he was writing suddenly losing interest as he gauged the other man's tone. Rochefort had been a valuable asset for a number of years now, someone close to the Crown ever since he had tutored Queen Anne in the French language and customs, prior to her marriage to King Louis. It was convenient to have someone at his service with such low standards of honor and value, even if the man himself caused the First Minister a certain...repugnance.
The landless Comte had certainly proved his usefulness in recent times, by taking full advantage of the Musketeers 'distraction' to single handedly secure and escort Cluzet, the Spanish spy in Savoy, into captivity.
"A man in my position cannot afford to have doubts and whispers of foul deeds dangling in the wind for anyone who wishes to catch them and give them unnecessary importance," the Cardinal said very quietly, setting his writing feather down.
While the King had been made aware that certain unsavory measures had been taken to assure the protection of his sister in Savoy, he had not been told that the lives of twenty-two Musketeers had been sacrificed to achieve such. As far as Louis was concerned, the death of that troop of Musketeers had been nothing but a sad misunderstanding and over reaction of the Duke of Savoy's part.
In retrospect, the same results could have easily been obtained without the loss of that many lives, but power, as it was, did not come without its perks. It was certainly worth the effort, just to see the sour look in Treville's face when he was forced to make a report to His Majesty.
Loose threads, however, were not the making of a fine robe or, incidentally, a long term seat at the King's right side.
For months he had believed the matter of Savoy dealt with and dusted under the carpet. The Duchess remained safely at her clueless husband' side, Cluzet was happily rotting in an unnamed Paris prison and Treville was so consumed by his own guilt and blemished honor that he was hardly a worthy opponent these days. A most profitable endeavor indeed.
And then, a chance encountered in some God forsaken tavern had forced the Cardinal to rethink his whole strategy. When Rocheford had informed him of the existence of one survivor still amongst the ranks of Musketeers, Richelieu had lost his temper and slapped the man, accusing him of wasting the First Minister's precious time with foolish tavern talks.
Aramis, he had been informed, was the name of the soldier who had witnessed the massacre and, like a coward, returned. The name meant nothing to the First Minister, but the idea, however, had been planted in his mind. He could not rest until he knew for certain that no one had returned, that no one could cast any doubt about the purpose of that troop of Musketeers in the woods of Savoy.
Killing a single Musketeer should have been easy enough, but as far as his spies could inform him, there was no one in Treville's garrison going by the name of Aramis. So, how to kill a ghost...or better yet, how did the Cardinal killed an idea?
Taking advantage of Treville's open door tryouts for new Musketeers, the Cardinal had sent Rochefort and three of his best men to infiltrate the garrison and bring to him all documents pertaining to the Musketeers' incursion in Savoy.
Rochefort had returned with the documents he needed, but in his lust for violence, had escalated things by blowing up Treville's men and almost killing his own in the process. And the documents had been useless.
The name he had been whispered was not a part of any official report on the mission. As far as Treville's records went, this Aramis had never been a part of the Savoy troop. A haunted spirit in the making, never there and, therefor, never to return.
Such validation alone should have brought him some peace of mind and effectively closed the matter, but the Cardinal was not a man to believe in either luck or coincidence. The more his men failed to prove the existence of the Musketeer Aramis, the more the Cardinal was convinced of the man's existence. The fact that the name was absent from the list of the dead only encouraged his belief that the Captain of the Musketeers was, somehow, covering for this man, perhaps even keeping him as insurance for a later time when he chose to confront the Cardinal.
Loyalty would always remain the one valor impossible to segment. Treville would never speak against the King on the matters of Savoy, but the fact that he had kept such important facts hidden, hinted upon the fact that his loyalty was perhaps more divided than it should and that was a matter of some...concern. Eliminating the one man who reminded the Captain of his decisions and their consequences seemed like the benevolent thing to do.
It had fallen onto fate that the Cardinal should be the one to find for himself what Rochefort had failed to confirm. Anyone present at the King's hunt had heard the name Aramis, and the Cardinal could finally place a face upon the name that had haunted him for months. As for the man himself...it was clear from his actions then, in front of the whole court, that man carried the devil inside of him.
That Aramis person was clearly touched in the head, perhaps for his whole life, perhaps due to the events in Savoy. Whichever it was, the Cardinal had little interest in the cause, only the consequences. The peculiar display he had witnessed at the hunt, had left no doubts in the Cardinal's mind about what he had to do. It was all so utterly easy that the matter was hardly worth his time.
The whole sordid event at the King's hunt had been useful, indeed. In one fell swoop, the Cardinal had ascertained that this Aramis fellow not only existed, but was also someone pathetically easy to discredit.
"The King did not found it amusing at all that someone had the gal to blow up half of the quarters of His personal regiment," the Cardinal informed. "Each week, he asks me who is going to hang for such an affront to his Royal persona. It is long past due for a neck to be supplied."
All they needed was a signed confession from the Musketeer, telling of his involvement in the garrison's attack and admitting to killing his accomplice, Gerard. After that, if he chose to open his mouth about Savoy on his way to the gallows, no one would believe a word he said and the Cardinal could make quick work of casting him as a coward and a traitor who had clearly sold out his comrades in order to survive. The Musketeer's words would be as lasting as, ironically, snow melting under spilled blood.
"I want to see this matter resolved as quickly as possible," Richelieu reminded his man. "Your job is to get me what I want, if I remember correctly. So," the Cardinal paused, looking squarely into Rochefort's cold eyes, "get me that confession...lest you find that noose around your neck."
~§~