For Whom The Bells Toll – Chapter 3
D'Artagnan kept pace with his friend as they headed silently toward the garrison. He knew Athos was upset, blaming himself for allowing Milady to escape after they had thwarted her plan to kill her former husband by holding Constance hostage. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he remembered the fear he felt as he saw the woman he loved held hostage among the throng of cutthroats partaking in Sarazin's ill-fated attempt at an ambush. They had made it out alive and unscathed – save for a few cuts and bruises. And, more importantly, Constance had been saved.
It was a credit to her instinct to fight that Constance had been able to push Milady's blade away and escape, leaving the dark-haired temptress on her knees and at Athos' mercy. He had never believed Athos in the wrong for allowing Milady to live. She had once been his wife, and he had loved her. He had already condemned her to death once and nearly been destroyed by the weight of that decision. It was no surprise to any of them when he spared her life, warning her to leave Paris and never return.
A warning, it would seem, she had neglected to heed.
D'Artagnan doubted Athos would be as forgiving again.
As they approached the garrison, his breath froze in his throat as his gaze fell upon a familiar figure, pacing nervously in front of the archway. He slowed his stride as they approached, aware of Athos keeping pace with him, realizing that Constance's anxious form had caught his mentor's attention as well.
"Madame Bonacieux," Athos stopped just before the archway and bowed, his hand on his hat as he smiled at the young woman standing before them. "It's lovely to see you again."
Constance returned his smile, looking him in the eyes. "And you, also, Monsieur. It has been quite… dreary without you and your friends' constant interruptions into my life."
"We shall strive to do better."
She gave him a warm grin. "I'd like that." She shifted her gaze to the side and dropped her head a touch, looking through her lashes at the younger man standing beside Athos. "D'Artagnan, it is good to see you."
D'Artagnan stared for a moment, all the feelings he'd managed to lock down deep in his heart, swelling the moment he gazed into her eyes. A sharp cough from Athos brought him back to the matter at hand.
"Um, yes, Madame Bonacieux. The pleasure is mine."
Constance blushed and ducked her head, shifting from one foot to the other, trying unsuccessfully to breathe normally.
After an awkward moment, Athos sighed. "Was there something we could do for you, Madame?"
D'Artagnan silently thanked his friend for breaking the uncomfortable silence, not knowing what course would be appropriate to take under the circumstances. He had accepted Constance's decision to stay with her husband even though they had both pledged their love to one another after the encounter with Sarazin and his gang of ruffians. At the time, he had thought he'd gotten everything he'd ever wanted in the world. He'd finally received his commission and could proudly wear the pauldron of a Musketeer, he'd found three brothers who cared for him as much as he cared for them, and the woman he loved more than life itself had chosen to return that love. It was all he could've asked for, until her husband had played upon her sense of honor and duty – ironically the two things a Musketeer held dear. When she had told him of her decision to remain with her husband, d'Artagnan had been devastated, the support of his brothers the only thing that had kept him going all these months. He'd finally accepted that it was not to be, but his heart had loathed to move on.
And now she was here, standing before him, and he found his emotions in turmoil once again.
"Madame?" Athos repeated, drawing Constance's attention from the younger Musketeer.
"Oh," she exclaimed, blushing once more. "This was delivered to my home for you." She held up a small parcel expertly wrapped in linen and twine. "I thought it might be something important, so…" She glanced at d'Artagnan as she let the explanation drift off.
Athos reached out and accepted the parcel, bowing again in appreciation. "Thank you, Madame. But why would a package be delivered to you instead of here to the garrison?"
Constance shook her head and shrugged her ivory skinned shoulders. "I have no idea. It's not like you've been a constant visitor to my home these last few months."
"Again, an oversight I will endeavor to change," Athos assured her. "If you both will excuse me, I must report to Captain Tréville." With a nod of his head, he took his leave and disappeared beneath the archway, leaving d'Artagnan and Constance together on the street outside the garrison.
"How are you…" d'Artagnan began just as Constance found her own voice.
"I hope you've been…"
They both laughed at the clumsy attempt at communication, Constance's laugh ending in an embarrassing snort that had her eyes widening in mortified surprise. D'Artagnan merely smiled in shameless endearment.
"How have you been?" He asked, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips, kissing it softly. "I have missed you."
Constance eyes softened and her lip quivered as she attempted to return his smile. "I have missed you, too. I had no idea how much excitement you brought to my life until it was suddenly gone."
"It was your decision," d'Artagnan reminded her. "And I have done my best to honor it."
"I know," she nodded, dropping her eyes. "I just had no idea how… empty… my world was before you literally fell into it." She took a deep breath and raised her eyes, gazing into his with all the love he'd hoped to see in them. "I… I know it was my choice, d'Artagnan, but… I'm…." She shook her head and placed one of her hands across her eyes. "What am I saying? I can't…." She dropped her hand and looked up at him again, and d'Artagnan was shaken to see tears pooling in her eyes. "I'm sorry," Constance said, her voice quivering with emotion. "I had no right…." She gathered up the hem of her dress and quickly brushed by him, quietly apologizing again as she fled down the street.
D'artagnan stumbled forward a few steps, his heart desperately wanting to follow her, but knowing he must not. It wasn't his place. She was a married woman, and he… he had no idea what he was to her. Despite his ache for her, he knew that Constance must make her own choice, and he could not allow himself to attempt to sway her to dishonor her vows. He was a Musketeer and he would have to act with honor himself.
No matter how impossible it may seem.
With a last glance down the street, he reminded himself of his duty to the King and to his friend, and forced himself to progress through the archway into the garrison.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Leaving d'Artagnan and Constance on the street to speak privately, Athos made his way to the stairway leading to Tréville's office, only to be informed that the Captain was currently unavailable but was expected to return shortly. Without the need to report, Athos attention shifted to the small package he held in his hand.
Why would something for him be delivered to the Bonacieux household? Who knew enough about him to know that his acquaintance with Madame Bonacieux was close enough to be assured she would deliver the package to him? Why not just have it delivered to the garrison?
Deciding there was no way to answer the questions floating through his head until he discerned what was in the parcel, he made his way to the table across the deserted courtyard and took a seat on one of the benches by its side. Slowly he untied the twine and pulled the edges of the fine linen cloth from the item underneath.
It was a box.
An intricately made box of metal with a small, delicate flower carved into the top.
It was a box made to hold a memento.
With shaking hands he slowly lifted the lid of the container. He swallowed around the sudden thickness in his throat as the lid slid back and he gazed at the parchment rolled inside. Clearing his throat with a cough, he reached in and ever so carefully pulled the parchment from the box, unrolling it with trembling fingers.
My Dear Husband,
Your weakness allowed me to live, a mistake for which you
and all whom you love will pay handsomely.
Now you know what I am capable of.
It will not be over until we are both dead.
Your Loving Wife
Athos closed his eyes, a tightness in his chest beginning to ache in earnest, the painful irony of the valediction not lost on him. Realizing he'd been holding his breath, he forced the air from his lungs, taking in another ragged breath as he tightened his grip, crushing the parchment within his grasp. He tasted bile in the back of his throat and swallowed hard, burying his anger and disappointment deep inside where he could channel it into something more useful.
It will not be over until we are both dead.
The very words his 'loving wife' had spat at him when he permitted her to live. A mistake he already regretted.
Opening his eyes, a glint from inside the box caught his attention and he tipped it over, a familiar gold locket falling into his open palm.
He snorted a laugh through his nose. Damn her. She knew exactly where to strike, how to cause the most damage.
He had underestimated her once, allowed his feelings for what they once had to cloud his judgment. Now she was toying with the lives of the people closest to him. She couldn't have known about Aramis' secret, but the damage she could have caused was inexcusable. He doubted she intended to stop with trying to frame Aramis for the Cardinal's murder. Porthos, d'Artagnan, even Constance and Tréville were at risk. She would stop at nothing to get her revenge. Anyone he cared about would be vulnerable and that was something he could not endure.
"So it is her."
He'd been so lost in his own thoughts, he'd failed to notice d'Artangan stepping up behind him. The young Gascon had obviously seen the locket he held in his hand, recognizing it as the same one he'd dropped into the street so long ago. At the time it had meant a clean break for him, a symbol of letting go of his past.
It would seem the past wasn't quite so ready to let go of him.
Without a word, he handed d'Artagnan the parchment. The younger man read the words, placing a hand on his mentor's shoulder and squeezing in sympathy.
"I should never have allowed her to live." Athos stated.
"You loved her once."
The older man nodded slowly. "Sometimes love is a weakness that can fell the strongest of men."
D'Artagnan couldn't find it in himself to disagree.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Captain Tréville rode into the garrison courtyard, his eyes connecting with Athos' as he dismounted and handed his reigns off to the stable boy. As he strode to the stairway leading to his office, he sensed his lieutenant following. He knew it was likely d'Artagnan would accompany Athos, and Tréville had no qualms about the newest member of the regiment hearing what he was about to say. The information he held would affect them all.
He removed his weapons belt as well as his doublet, dropping them onto a narrow table situated to the side of his desk. It was only moments before he heard the footsteps on the walkway outside his office and he turned to find Athos and d'Artagnan entering the room.
"Close the door," he instructed, circling the desk and dropping down onto the chair behind it. D'Artagnan complied, then came abreast of Athos , both standing at attention, waiting for their superior to speak.
"You have been instructed to report to the new First Minister and turn over everything you have found concerning the investigation into the Cardinal's murder."
"A new First Minister?" d'Artagnan mumbled. "That was swift."
Athos frowned. "Are we being relieved of duty, sir?"
"Apparently," Tréville sighed. He rubbed a hand over his face and sat forward, leaning his forearms on the desk. "You are to report to Cardinal Mazarin. Give him everything you have."
D'Artagnan shifted nervously, while Athos sighed.
"Perhaps we should report our findings to you first."
Tréville's eyes narrowed, not liking the wariness of the soldier's voice.
"Very well," he leaned back, one elbow on the arm of his chair and gestured with the other. "What have you found?"
"When we were called to the palace earlier, both Porthos and I recognized the dagger used to kill the Cardinal. It belonged to Aramis."
Tréville's eyes widened, his expression one of reprimand for withholding that information from him, but he said nothing, waiting patiently for Athos to continue.
"When confronted, Aramis informed me that the dagger had been traded to a merchant on Rue Saint-Germaine, who in turn sold it to a woman whose description sounds remarkably close to Milady de Winter's."
"Do you believe it was her?"
Athos took a deep breath then nodded. He held up the metal box, opening the lid and retrieving the crumpled parchment he'd replaced inside. "This was delivered to Madame Bonacieux' home. The Madame was gracious enough to bring it to me here at the garrison just moments ago."
Tréville took the paper he held out and perused the note quickly. His face betrayed no emotion as he handed the parchment back across the desktop.
"And this makes you believe Milady was responsible for the Cardinal's death?"
Athos nodded. "This box was made by the same craftsman from whom she purchased the dagger. The cutler was kind enough to make her aware of the dagger's previous owner. We believe she saw an opportunity to not only get revenge against a man whom she believes betrayed her, but a chance to use Aramis as a means of reprisal against me."
Tréville pursed his lips for a moment then turned his eyes to the younger Musketeer standing before him. "And do you concur with this theory?"
D'Artagnan cleared his throat, obviously a bit surprised that his opinion was desired. "Yes, sir. In my dealings with Milady, this is a deception she would be most capable of."
Tréville sat back, considering the information his two Musketeers had presented. Knowing the lengths Athos' wife had gone to exact her revenge before only lent credence to their conclusion.
"Very well," he said finally. "Present your findings to Cardinal Mazarin, but –" He held up a finger, his voice sharp with warning. "Do not offer Aramis' name as the previous owner of the dagger. We do not need to throw suspicion where none is needed. Simply state what the merchant told you."
"And what of Milady de Winter's name?"
"I'll leave that to your discretion," Tréville said carefully. "You must present the description the cutler gave you as testimony, but whether or not you reveal your supposition of Milady's involvement is entirely your decision."
Athos nodded, grateful for the Captain's leniency concerning what he considered a private affair. He had never wanted his past to interfere with his life here as a Musketeer – a task he had failed miserably. Not only had his actions haunted him at every turn, now, it would seem, they would bring further menace to those he considered family. It was a circumstance he could not – and would not – tolerate.
As they turned to leave, Tréville called Athos back, waiting until d'Artagnan had stepped through the doorway, leaving them alone in the office. He stood and stepped around the desk, lowering his voice to address his second-in-command.
"Be careful of Mazarin," he cautioned. "He was once a soldier and he understands the art of strategy almost as well as Richelieu. He will come across as a modest, well-meaning man, but do not trust him. I have had dealings with him before. Perhaps it's just an old soldier's suspicions, but I do not believe he has any more love for the Musketeers than his predecessor."
"And here I thought the Cardinal's death, would make our lives easier." Athos lifted one side of his lips in a wry grin. "I would trust your intuition as much as my own, Captain. And I will heed your warning."
Tréville nodded once, which Athos took as a dismissal. As he strode out of the office, Tréville sighed, his eyes remaining on the door.
"Easier, indeed," he whispered.
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Leaving the captain's office, Athos was relieved to see d'Artagnan down in the courtyard conversing with Porthos and Aramis, no doubt explaining about the box and their confirmation of Milady's involvement. As he descended the stairs, he frowned, noting the way Porthos hovered close to Aramis who stood slightly hunched over, one arm around his torso and one holding a piece of cloth to his head. A closer inspection of the marksman revealed a dark stain of dried blood smeared down the side of his face.
"I see you found Porthos," he stated the obvious as the other three men turned their attention to his approach.
"More like he found me," Aramis responded easily. He straightened a bit under Athos scrutiny, unable to hide a wince behind his feigned smile.
"A fortuitous occurrence, indeed."
Aramis tilted his head in acceptance. "I would have preferred a bit more eagerness on his part, but…"
"You're just lucky I didn't let them kick your backside all the way back to the garrison." Porthos cut in amicably.
Aramis bowed, "Point taken. My sincere gratitude for your timely intervention."
"Are you alright?" Athos reached a hand up and moved the cloth pressing against the Spaniard's head. He craned his neck as Aramis titlted so he could see the gash still beading with blood amongst the dark curls. "Do you need a surgeon?"
"I can deal with 'im," Porthos declared. Athos noted that the big man's hand was still firmly attached to Aramis' arm and he was relieved to see whatever anger the man had held earlier had obviously dissipated and been replaced with a more familiar sense of concern for their friend.
Although Athos wasn't entirely sure that forgiveness extended to himself as of yet.
"Tréville has ordered us to report to the new First Minister and turn over our findings to him."
"New First Minsiter?" Porthos growled. "The body's barely even cold as yet."
Athos shrugged as he placed a hand on Aramis' back and began guiding the man toward the infirmary. "Be that as it may, the politics of government must go on. It was prudent to appoint a new Minister and fortunate there was someone qualified available."
"And is this new individual friend or foe?"
Athos shrugged. "Cardinal Mazarin is at yet an unknown commodity – although Captain Tréville is wary and bids us caution in our dealings with him."
They entered the small medical room and Athos led Aramis to one of the cots, pushing him gently down onto the mattress.
"So we've gained nothing?" Porthos sighed. He moved across the wooden floor to the cabinet that held the medical supplies, searching through the provisions for the items needed to close the gash on Aramis' head. Although the marksman was the unofficial medic of the group, it fell upon one of them to sew him up when the occasion warranted. Both he and Athos had been called to service at one time or another, although neither claimed to be quite as adept as Aramis.
"There's something to be said for the devil you know," Aramis offered, nodding approvingly at Porthos as he returned with a needle, thread and small bottle of brandy.
"Except that devil has been dispatched to Hell," Porthos sighed.
"So what do we tell this new Cardinal?"
Athos considered d'Artagnan's question for a moment before answering, his eyes following Porthos' movements as he doused the gash with brandy then raised the needle to commence the arduous task of sewing the wound on Aramis' head closed. Before he could begin, Aramis seized the bottle and tipped it back, swallowing a large gulp of the brandy, then nodded for Porthos to begin.
"We are instructed to stick to the facts." Athos explained. "We need not reveal who the dagger previously belonged to, only that we were able to trace it to the cutler on Rue Saint-Germaine and that it was sold to a woman with dark hair and green eyes."
"What about the box?" Aramis asked, confirming Athos' assumption that d'Artagnan had filled them in when they'd returned. Athos shifted his gaze to Aramis face to find the dark eyes squeezed tightly, a grimace of pain on the handsome features.
He reached out a hand and grasped the wounded man's in silent support. Aramis took it gratefully, squeezing firmly as Porthos applied another stitch.
"The box is of no consequence."
"It confirms it was Milady who purchased the dagger," d'Artagnan argued gently.
"Perhaps. I will relay the description, but leave the Cardinal to draw his own conclusions. My wife is a problem I will see to personally."
Having tied off the final stitch, Porthos stepped back and looked at Athos pointedly. "You couldn't dispatch the problem before."
Aramis slapped his friend on the leg in reproach. "Porthos! Athos acted as a gentleman should." He shifted his dark eyes to the older Musketeer, giving the man a sad smile. "You loved her once. It should never have fallen on you to condemn her. Not then and not now."
Athos squeezed the hand he still held before releasing it and rising to his feet. "I appreciate the sentiment, my friend, and will consider your words. Milady cannot be allowed to continue to inflict her brand of justice upon those she deems to have wronged her. I feel it is my betrayal that spawned her hatred, and it must be my hand that stays it."
"Aramis is right," d'Artagnan argued. "You did not force her into this life of treachery. Let this new Cardinal deal with her. Do not allow her to tighten her hold on you once more."
Although he was hesitant to allow his past to surface yet again, he had to consider that his friends were right. Milady had taken much from him. He had let go of the anger and the burden when he'd dropped the locket in the street all those months ago, and he'd felt lighter for it. Since then he'd been able to focus on his life here, in the King's service, rather than dwelling on the past. He'd even curbed his drinking – much to the delight of his brothers – no longer needing the solace of wine to dull his memories, simply to blur what remained of them.
He had let himself believe he could be free of the sins of his past, a belief that was perhaps too hastily accepted. He could see the looks of disquiet upon the faces of the three men in the room and loathed to see the weight of his burdens once again stoop their shoulders.
"You are, of course, right," he said finally, quietly. "Despite any feelings I may still harbor, Milady is a criminal and should be dealt with accordingly. Having been ordered to pass the investigation to the new First Minister, I shall explain to him our findings and allow him to determine her fate." He looked at all three in turn, his eyes conveying his gratitude for their unwavering support. "Thank you. I do not feel deserving of your friendship, but I will always be humbled by it and cherish it above all others."
"As you should," Porthos grinned, lightening the mood. He turned his attention back to Aramis who was tenderly prodding the area around the stitches. "You good? Or do we need to check your ribs?"
The marksman still held an arm around his torso, but shook his head as he carefully maneuvered himself from the cot. "No. I believe they are simply bruised. Nothing time won't heal."
The other three watched as he stood, each assessing the condition of their friend for themselves, relieved to find him truthful in his account.
"Well then, I suppose we should report to the new Cardinal and wash our hands of this mess." Athos offered.
The other three Musketeers heartily agreed.
TBC
