Coup de main
It could have been worse.
It could have been summer, the sun beating down mercilessly, his already pressing thirst augmented by the oppressive heat. Summer in Gascony had been decidedly different from Paris. At home, the heat had been intense, but was managed by shade, cool cloths at the neck, and a swim in the river. Paris had simply been hot. Oppressive, suffocating, unrelenting. He would never have lasted against the post in the summer.
Paris in the autumn was wet. And the chill from the night air had not quite burned off by midday. If he were moving around, and with his jacket, he wouldn't have been troubled by it. But the post was situated in a shaded area of the garrison courtyard and he was forced into immobility. Each brief gust of breeze had him suppressing a shiver, stamping his feet, drawing his bound arms close to his body.
As it was, he was struggling to simply not use the key Grisier had slipped him and get the hell out of there. He'd transferred the key from his cheek to his hand, curling it safely into a fist. After a couple hours of standing he'd begun to lean on the post, regretting having not grabbed breakfast before searching for his friends. His long night and little sleep, coupled with nothing to eat or drink since the previous evening, had him flagging more quickly than he knew he should have been.
The men of the regiment moved about their duties, training or cleaning weapons. When lunch was served, several of them glanced his way, almost apologetically. d'Artagnan eventually dropped to a crouch, trying to alleviate the ache in his calves and lower back.
He watched as Arnaud and Mathieu sparred, each man calling instructions to some of the new recruits. At one point, Arnaud caught his eye and d'Artagnan braced himself, wondering if a challenge would be made. But the man simply nodded at him, flicking his dagger in a brief salute.
By the time the evening meal was served, several of the men were petitioning Belloq to provide d'Artagnan with at least a skin of water. Belloq ignored their demands, retrieving his food and returning to Treville's office with barely a glance spared in d'Artagnan's direction. d'Artagnan was sure to stare directly at the man, defiance in every rigid line of his tired body.
It had been hours since he'd heard from Athos and he was beyond anxious, but knew that his friends would keep their promise. If it was in their power, they would not leave him behind. Eventually, he had given in and sat against the post, his arms suspended above his head. The blood flow was restricted and he felt his hands beginning to go numb. He was desperate to not drop that key. But he'd been standing all day….
When Grisier appeared before him, it startled d'Artagnan out of his reverie.
"Water," Grisier whispered, holding a water skin down to him, helping him drink.
Some of it trickled down d'Artagnan's chin due to the awkward angle, but he was able to get enough to finally calm the dragon of thirst inside him. He nodded his thanks as Grisier stepped back.
"Why?" d'Artagnan asked, surprised to hear how his voice rasped.
"Because you're one of us," Grisier smiled down at him. "And because I believe your brothers will be coming to fetch you soon and you'll need your strength."
d'Artagnan looked up at Grisier in the fading light. "Are you not my brother?"
Grisier's smile slipped a bit crooked. "Ah, lad," he sighed. "We are all brothers here. But those three…," he looked around the garrison quickly, checking to see if anyone else was watching, "…those three are different. They are…inseparable." He looked down at d'Artagnan. "And you are one of them now."
"Thank you for helping me," d'Artagnan said, sincerely. "Aside from them, I don't…I don't have any other friends."
Grisier nodded. "You'll find, I think, that if offered the chance, many here would gladly stand by your side and be your friend."
d'Artagnan smiled again and watched as Grisier dropped a bundled cloth in his lap.
"For later," he whispered, then moved away.
d'Artagnan could smell bread in the cloth and his mouth instantly watered. He just needed to hang in there a bit longer. Once it reached twilight, he realized that his friends were waiting for the cover of night. They had to be. Unless the Cardinal had them. Unless they'd been captured, imprisoned based on the knowledge the Cardinal had about Treville and Villers-Cotterêts. Unless….
"Oi! d'Artagnan!"
His head jerked up, a pain shooting down his neck from where the muscles had been stretched, and he looked wildly around. He hadn't realized that he'd fallen asleep, but it was dark as pitch in the courtyard. He couldn't find where Porthos' voice had come from and held his breath, listening once more.
"On your left."
He looked over. Porthos was still enough in the shadows that he could not make out his friend's face, but he could detect his shape.
"Can you get the chains loose?"
d'Artagnan could no longer feel his hands. With a soft grunt of effort, he managed to make it to his knees, the bundle of cloth rolling from his lap to the ground. He hissed as what felt like thin lightning bolts began to shoot up his arms. The extreme discomfort of blood once more flowing back to his limbs had him biting the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning aloud. The primary thing he focused on was not losing his grip on the key: his hand was still curled into a fist, though his fingers were numb.
"C'mon, lad."
"Can't feel my arms," d'Artagnan whispered back.
"Why did you sit down?"
"Why did you take all day to return?" d'Artagnan retorted.
And like that, as if his thought conjured him, Porthos was beside him. After so long out in the cool air and elements, the warmth of a body near him was reassuring. He could smell the sweat and leather that was purely Porthos, and under it a tang of horse that said the man had been riding hard to get here.
"Right hand," d'Artagnan breathed.
He felt Porthos pry his fingers open and retrieve the key. In moments, the chains were loose and Porthos was catching them before the clattered to the ground, lowering them slowly as d'Artagnan shook out his arms, desperately rubbing feeling back into his hands.
"Bread," d'Artagnan whispered, nudging the cloth at his feet.
Saying nothing, Porthos scooped up the bundle, then grabbed him by the shirtfront and pulled him back into the shadows where d'Artagnan saw Aramis waiting with his jacket, pauldron, cloak, and weapons. Not bothering to feel ashamed, he allowed Aramis to help him with his clothes and weapons while he worked to get the ache from his joints and sensation back into his limbs. Once he was fully assembled, Porthos thrust the cloth bundle into his arms and they departed, d'Artagnan following closely behind while shoving the bread into his mouth.
Outside the garrison, d'Artagnan saw Athos waiting, holding three black horses – his having been saddled and prepped for him.
"How-?"
"Not now," Athos said cryptically. "Let's go."
Finally able to use his hands properly again, d'Artagnan grasped the edge of his saddle and swung atop his mount without using the stirrups, gripping the horse's flank with his legs as he followed his friends through the Paris streets at a trot. Night time in Paris was different depending on where one traveled. Some streets were utterly devoid of life, lights out in the windows, doors closed and latched, while others came to life with the moon and died with the sun.
Athos kept them to the former, and d'Artagnan kept his eyes pinned to the three men riding before him, their hats distinguishable in the dark, their shoulders square and straight. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs in anxious anticipation of the unknown. He tried to calm his breathing, to mirror the cool exterior his friends always seemed to exude, but he was rattled and no amount of controlled breathing was going to ease that. He needed to know what was happening.
At least they'd kept their promise, he thought. At least they didn't leave me behind.
They rode for nearly half of an hour, the city behind them and a full moon high in a cold night sky, before Athos stopped, dismounting near a small thicket of trees. Aramis and Porthos followed suit. Sliding free from his horse, d'Artagnan found he had to grip the saddle for a few moments to grab his balance; the day in at the post with little water and no food after a night of scarce rest was catching up to him.
"d'Artagnan," Athos called.
The young man gravitated to the voice, needing the reassurance of his brothers' company. He nearly swayed when he saw that Athos had a hunk of bread, cold meat, and cheese wrapped loosely in another cloth bundle held out to him. Porthos took his horse's reins and d'Artagnan wordlessly accepted the food, sinking to the ground next to the nearest tree and devouring it. Aramis held out a skin of water and d'Artagnan accepted it without looking up.
"We have news," Athos said.
"I should hope so," d'Artagnan said around a mouthful of bread. "You were gone long enough."
He saw Porthos grin at that, but waited for more from Athos.
"Treville's letter to the Cardinal apparently informed him what you'd feared: he has gone to Villers-Cotterêts to fulfill the Cardinal's wishes."
"Which were…what, exactly?" d'Artagnan asked. "Kill people?"
"Essentially, yes," Athos replied, moving over to lean against the tree that d'Artagnan sat beneath.
Aramis and Porthos crouched down, the reins of their mounts in their hands. Porthos held d'Artagnan's. They both looked up at Athos, the moonlight catching on the plains and curves of their faces giving them an ethereal appearance. d'Artagnan forced himself to pay attention as he ate.
"Treville hails from Villers-Cotterêts," Athos said. "When he was there, an uprising against the King – Louis' father – began. People were hungry, over-taxed, and no one felt the aristocracy had any idea what they were going through."
"You don't have to justify an uprising to me," d'Artagnan informed him. "The whole reason I'm in Paris is because my father wanted to petition the King to consider lowering taxes on Gascony. There's never enough."
Porthos looked down, perhaps the only one of the three who could closely relate to d'Artagnan's tale.
"Treville was a young man then," Athos continued. "No older than you. He joined a brigade of soldiers with his brother and they participated in a skirmish against the King's guard."
d'Artagnan nearly choked on his bread. "What? But then how—"
"His brother changed their names, kept Treville's participation secret," Aramis broke in. "Most of the men from Villers-Cotterêts were killed or wounded. Those who were caught were hung. It was considered a peasant revolt, little more than a nick on the blade of the Monarchy."
"But if that's the case," d'Artagnan frowned, "why is the Cardinal—"
"A survivors came forward," Athos said. "He found the Cardinal, told his story, looking for recompense for years of suffering while Treville flourished as the Captain of the new King's Musketeers."
"And after what we did to him," d'Artagnan realized, canting his head back against the tree behind him, "the Cardinal is willing to grant it. Especially if it gets Treville booted as our Captain."
"I don't care what the Cap'n was up to when he was a boy," Porthos declared. "Man's been nothing but honorable since I've known him. Saved my life."
"Mine as well," Aramis asserted. "Were it not for him seeing promise in me, I would have been a priest."
"You'd make a terrible priest," Porthos grumbled.
Aramis looked over at him, brow furrowed slightly.
"Don't get me wrong," Porthos lifted a hand. "There's none 'at match your faith, my friend. But when it comes to keeping yourself to yourself, well…."
Aramis glanced at d'Artagnan, who shrugged in helpless agreement.
"Not to mention there's no one I've seen better at dispatching those who are in clear need of having a word or two with God," d'Artagnan offered.
"True 'nough," Porthos agreed.
"There you have it," Aramis said, opening his hand in a flourish to encompass both Porthos and d'Artagnan. "Treville saved me from a lifetime of priestly failure."
"I owe the man my sanity," Athos said quietly. "As the Comte de le Fére, my life was over when Thomas died. I would have happily joined him, but the Musketeers accept noblemen rather easily, it seems, and the little skill I had with a sword flourished under Treville." He glanced over at his friends. "He saved my life as well."
"We cannot let him suffer because of a choice made twenty years ago," Aramis asserted. "For all we know, his only mistake was following his brother into the battle. It was the brother who altered their names after all."
"There something I don't understand," d'Artagnan broke in. "Why does the Cardinal want Treville to kill the men at Villers-Cotterêts?"
"He has trapped the man in an impossible choice," Athos declared. "If he is willing to silence the survivors to protect his position, the Cardinal can hold it over him forever. If he does not, the Cardinal can use his participation in the uprising to have him court martialed."
d'Artagnan nodded, understanding. "So it isn't simply about finding him," he said. "It's about stopping him from following through."
"Exactly."
d'Artagnan looked up at Athos, then over at where Porthos and Aramis were crouched. "What are we waiting for?"
"You do not have to join us," Athos said. "You have a choice."
d'Artagnan scrambled to his feet, feeling much more balanced after his meal and some water. "What? Of course I'm joining you!"
"I'm not saying you wouldn't be welcome." Athos turned his shoulder on the tree and held up a placating hand. "Just that you do not always have to throw your coin in the same pot as ours simply because we are doing it. You don't owe the man as we do."
d'Artagnan gave Athos a double take. "What are you talking about?"
"d'Artagnan—" Aramis began, trying, as ever, to play peacemaker.
"No!" d'Artagnan snapped, holding out a finger to silence Aramis.
Clouds shifted over the moon, slipping them all into shadow for a moment, then moved across with the growing wind, inadvertently illuminating d'Artagnan with a brilliant beam of light as he stepped back, his words taking them all in. His heart beat hard once more; he could feel it rattle the bones in his chest and choke his voice until it was thin and breathless, his words no less powerful. He saw their eyes upon him, but was too wrapped up in what he was saying to register their expressions.
"I owe him everything," d'Artagnan declared. "If it weren't for Treville, nothing Athos or you, or Porthos would have said or done in my defense of my worth would have mattered. I would be nothing but an orphaned farm boy from Gascony. No home, no family, nothing to my name save a sword my father fashioned for me and a horse that had always been more comfortable behind a plow." He swallowed, feeling the pounding of his heart stutter until he was shivering a bit inside.
"When I came to Paris a year ago, I had nothing. Not even hope." He looked at Athos, needing him to believe what he said, deathly afraid they would leave him behind. "I fully expected you to kill me in our duel. I…I wanted you to."
He looked away at this confession, toward the darkness of the thicket of trees. He heard their feet shift, their breath draw in, but could not face them. He'd never admitted this truth before – not even to himself.
"I failed my father," he said quietly. "And I wanted to die avenging his death, but then it…," he caught his breath and forced his voice out through the invisible grip around his throat, "wasn't Athos. And all I could think about was killing the man who'd killed my father."
"d'Artagnan—" Aramis started again, his voice soft, but Athos put a hand on his arm and the three were quiet once more.
"Once Gaudet was dead and Athos was saved…I had nowhere to go. I couldn't return home…not without him. There was no one waiting for me, and I never…," he looked down at his hands, the moonlight dancing over the olive skin, the creases in his palms, the callouses built up from hours and hours of sword practice. "I never belonged there. Not sure I've really belonged anywhere."
He took a breath and looked once more at his three friends. "Treville allowed me to stay. With you. To train and learn and…I had nothing and he didn't let that matter. He gave me a chance – a chance at life. When truly my only other recourse was to find a path to the end of the sword."
After a moment where the only sound were the calls of the night animals, Athos reached out and laid a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, squeezing it.
"We are glad to have you," he said quietly.
"Jus' so long as you do the jobs we don't like so much," Porthos interjected.
"And completely avoid getting yourself hurt," Aramis added.
d'Artagnan gave them a relieved smile. "I'll do my best."
Athos nodded, then outlined the plan, which involved, unfortunately, riding through the night to Villers-Cotterêts before the real fun started. d'Artagnan listened closely, forcing himself to memorize Athos' words, believing that even if the plan failed completely, a memory of the original intention of each step could save his life.
"What was it the Cardinal wanted you to do?" d'Artagnan asked as they mounted up once more.
Athos looked over at him, then looked away, kicking his horse into a canter. d'Artagnan looked at Aramis, who shook his head.
"What? What was in the letter?" d'Artagnan pressed.
Aramis sighed. "I don't know what the letter stated, exactly, but however it was worded, the Cardinal ordered us to kill Treville."
"What?"
Aramis kicked his horse forward, followed closely by Porthos. Not to be left behind, d'Artagnan followed in quick succession, wondering how they could possibly come out of this one on top. If they saved Treville and the men of Villers-Cotterêts, the Cardinal would know they'd disregarded his order. But honor offered no quarter and their mission was extremely clear. It was the outcome he was still a bit murky on.
They rode into the night, shifting their horses from a walk to a canter to keep them from wearing out. The silence among his comrades made it difficult for d'Artagnan to stay alert as they rested their horses and on more than one occasion found himself jerking to wakefulness just before he slid from his horse. After the third such occasion, he dismounted when they walked the horses and walked alongside him.
"What are doing?" Aramis questioned.
"Avoiding embarrassment," d'Artagnan replied. "Better this than go to sleep and fall off."
"No more nights in the livery," Athos ordered.
d'Artagnan was quiet. There was no way he could explain to someone like Athos how out of control the loneliness and fear that hit him during the nights when the rains came made him feel. Athos, for all his moroseness and melancholy, for all his love of wine, was always completely in control. And he would not empathize.
"Porthos," d'Artagnan said, in need of noise to distract him from exhaustion. "You said Treville saved your life."
"'at he did."
"How?"
Porthos shifted in his saddle, tilting his head just right so that the moonlight hit the scar that ran from his hairline to below his eye, miraculously missing the orb itself.
"I ever tell you how I got this?"
d'Artagnan shook his head.
"You knew I grew up in the Court," Porthos asserted. Off of d'Artagnan's nod he continued. "I survived 'bout twenty or so years on the streets. Not real sure. No idea when I was born, so I'm just guessing how old I really am. Could be I'm as old as our Athos 'ere."
"Careful," Athos cautioned, his amusement evident even in that one word.
"Anyway, I knew I needed more than what I'd be able to get from that life. If I didn't get out, I was going to suffocate or find myself on the wrong end of a dagger sooner rather than later."
d'Artagnan didn't miss the way Aramis frowned, looking over at Porthos as the big man continued his story.
"I was making a living as a card shark – not a very good one, I'll grant ya – and a man came into the tavern announcing openings for recruits. The Musketeers had taken a big hit in ranks and they needed more able-bodied men."
"Savoy?" d'Artagnan guessed.
"No," Porthos shook his head. "I was commissioned by that time. Could've been at the camp with Aramis if I'd got the orders."
d'Artagnan nodded, realizing belatedly that Aramis' dependency on his brothers would have stemmed from having already placed his trust in them prior to the massacre.
"Recruiting had just hit a low," Porthos explained. "Happens. Noblemen don't always want their sons playin' soldier."
"Was the man Treville?" d'Artagnan asked. "The one who came into the tavern?"
"'e was," Porthos nodded. "I followed 'im out of the tavern, thinking I would see what was all involved, and I saw two men approaching him."
"Thieves?"
Porthos shrugged. "Never found out. They attacked, I got in the middle, an' this happened," he pointed to his eye. "Treville took me back to the garrison, fixed up my face, then put a sword in my hand."
"Sounds more like you saved him," d'Artagnan pointed out.
"That's just it," Porthos clarified. "He could've fixed my wound and sent me on my way, but he listened to me, my story. He knew I wasn't going to be able to bring the same to the table as some others, an' he gave me a purpose. A reason."
d'Artagnan nodded, thinking. "When did you meet these two?"
Aramis grinned. "We met the same day."
"That he was wounded?"
"Who do you think stitched him up?"
d'Artagnan smiled. "Did you have to punch him?"
"That was prior to having learned that little trick," Aramis said. "We both met Athos a few weeks before Savoy."
"Mount up," Athos said. "We need to be moving."
The ride took the rest of the night and through the early morning hours. d'Artagnan wasn't able to keep his eyes open and found himself slumping forward in his saddle, weaving dangerously at different moments. To his great surprise, each time he forced himself back to wakefulness, one of his friends was riding beside him, a hand fisted in his jacket sleeve, keeping him astride his horse.
The morning light cresting the sky at their backs brought a new level of wakefulness and when the sun breached the horizon, bringing with it a warmth that seeped deliciously into his bones, d'Artagnan felt a surge of energy, his heavy eyes and weariness falling to the wayside.
"How do we know where Treville is?" he asked as they entered the small village of Villers-Cotterêts.
"That's the tricky part," Aramis confessed. "We actually…don't."
"Oh, that's fantastic."
"But we do know the name of someone who might know where he is," Porthos offered.
"Our luck it's probably the traitor who contacted the Cardinal," d'Artagnan mumbled. He caught the look passed between Aramis and Porthos. "Hang on, you can't be serious."
"We don't know the name of the traitor, either," Aramis confessed. "So…there's always that chance."
"Let me do the talking," Athos interjected.
"That makes me feel much better," d'Artagnan grumbled. "The man who is practically a functioning mute will do our talking for us."
Porthos chuckled and Athos arched an eyebrow in d'Artagnan's direction.
"Why don't you go find us some food?" Athos suggested, the warning in his tone softened by the small smile that tipped the corner of his mouth.
"I'll join him," Aramis volunteered.
"Meet at the square in an hour?" Porthos asked, earning a nod of assessment from Aramis.
They separated and Aramis and d'Artagnan soon found an open tavern. Dismounting, their legs and buttocks sore from so many hours of riding, they stretched for a moment before heading inside. There were several empty tables and once they secured one, Aramis immediately smiled at the matronly hostess, asking if they could have a basket prepared with food to take back to their friends.
As Aramis charmed his way to their food, d'Artagnan's attention was grabbed by the conversation at a table just down from theirs. One about a man named Bellamy who was looking after someone called Jean-Armand.
"Aramis," he whispered urgently, his tone pitched almost too low for his friend to hear. When Aramis leaned close, d'Artagnan continued. "Isn't Treville's given name Jean-Armand?"
Aramis lifted his chin in agreement and moved to tune in to the conversation as well. d'Artagnan was able to determine only that Jean-Armand was wounded, and that Bellamy was keeping three others with him, prisoner. The men conversing were planning their approach to rescue the imprisoned men. So focused was he on trying to find out the location of their attack, d'Artagnan didn't notice when their basket of food arrived and nearly fell from his chair, startled.
"Bit on edge, that one," the hostess commented. "Might want to add some wine to the mix wi' 'im."
Aramis smiled in agreement and kissed the back of her hand before leading d'Artagnan from the tavern.
"We must find Athos," Aramis said urgently.
"And tell him what? We don't even know where they are holding Treville!" d'Artagnan bemoaned.
"Not true," Aramis corrected. "Did you not hear them speak of the Château de Beynac?"
d'Artagnan shook his head. "Guess I missed that part."
"It's an old castle, set up on a hill, well-fortified. It used to be a fort for the King, years ago…now it's practically in ruins as no one has seen fit to care for it once the former owners were all killed off in different uprisings."
"This place is rich with rebellion," d'Artagnan grunted as he swung up on his horse, wheeling his mount around and following Aramis to the square.
They had only a few moments to wait before Athos and Porthos joined them.
"We have news," all four said at once.
Aramis drew back. "You first."
"Treville has been wounded," Athos informed them. "He was discovered almost immediately upon his arrival – by his brother, no less – and taken prisoner."
"We know," d'Artagnan smiled, feeling slightly smug that he was able to add something to the intrigue. "He's at the Château de Beynac."
"North of the village," Aramis supplied off of Athos' questioning look.
"Wait, did you say his brother still lives?" d'Artagnan asked.
"He's going by the name of Armistead," Athos replied. "He's a well-respected figure in the village after his attempt at, as they put it, usurping the King."
d'Artagnan looked at Aramis. "You think Armistead is one of the men being held prisoner?"
"Stands to reason," Aramis agreed.
"Hang on, prisoner?" Porthos questioned.
Aramis filled them in about what had been overheard in the tavern.
"We must get to that Château," Athos asserted. "If these villagers get there first, this Bellamy fellow will not be able to protect Treville, let alone himself."
"We are going to need more weapons," Porthos grumbled.
"I...uh." d'Artagnan felt suddenly insecure. "I believe I know where we might be able to get some."
Three pairs of eyes turned to stare at him questioningly.
"In Lupiac," he began, "the blacksmith also fashioned weapons. He used to have a storeroom full of them."
Aramis' eyebrows bounced to his hairline. "I cannot believe the thought never occurred to me before."
"Well done, d'Artagnan," Porthos complemented him.
"Don't throw me a parade just yet," d'Artagnan said. "Gascony is not, unfortunately, Picardy."
"Aramis," Athos ordered, his voice clipped with purpose. "You stay here and mind the horses. You two," he looked at Porthos and d'Artagnan, "come with me."
They dismounted and followed Athos down the narrow side streets of the small village until they came across the blacksmith shop. Athos turned to d'Artagnan, asking him to approach the man and find a way to explain what was needed. d'Artagnan looked at his friend incredulously for a moment, then took a breath, bracing himself. It was simply another role to play, that was all.
"You have a dependable, earnest face," Athos informed him. "You appear trustworthy."
"If that's your way of saying I look too young to yet grow a beard, you could have just said that."
"I was merely attempting to be encouraging," Athos said, tilting his head in acquiescence. "But know this," he continued, taking d'Artagnan by the arm, his blue eyes serious. "Without these weapons, we have very little chance of saving Treville."
Charles, you must listen closely.
d'Artagnan suppressed a shiver, nodding and turning toward the entrance of the blacksmith shop. As he walked away, he heard Porthos mutter.
"You really know how to apply the pressure."
"Some people are spurred to action when under pressure," Athos replied. "d'Artagnan, if you haven't yet noticed, is one of those."
Feeling strangely buoyed by the fact that Athos had been watching him closely enough to make such an assessment, d'Artagnan entered the blacksmith shop. He was surprised to find it manned only by a young man around his age, soot staining his cheeks and finger tips, angry red welts on his arms, a heavy leather apron weighing him down. He was clearly an apprentice, but d'Artagnan addressed him as if he owned the business.
d'Artagnan took a chance and introduced himself as a Musketeer, his cloak pushed back to expose his pauldron. He said they were on a mission from the King and had been set upon by bandits, their spare weapons stolen.
"Pro'ly Armistead's men," the apprentice guessed. "'eard they was at it again."
"It?"
"Every few years they think they're going to go kill the King or some such," the apprentice shrugged, compressing air into the glowing coals in the kiln next to d'Artagnan with a pump of his arm. "All I know is, they make life 'ell for the rest of us."
"I see," d'Artagnan nodded. "I don't suppose they left you with many spare weapons after their last…raid?"
The apprentice smiled and d'Artagnan noticed a few missing teeth. "I has me a stash, no one knows 'bout."
"We would pay you for what we took," d'Artagnan further enticed.
"You take out Armistead, that's payment plenty," the young man replied, then paused, tilting his head. "'Course, I won't say no to coin."
d'Artagnan whistled shrilly and in moments Athos and Porthos stepped through the door. The apprentice's eyes widened at the sight of them, lingering overly long on Porthos in a mixture of trepidation and admiration. After handing him a bag of 20 sous, d'Artagnan encouraged the apprentice to lead them to his stash of weapons.
"Two muskets," Porthos muttered, taking mental stock. "Four more daggers and harquebuses. Ah, what's this? Bombs?"
"No bombs," Athos snapped.
"Sure could be useful when trying to create a distraction," Porthos interjected.
"We are attempting stealth, Porthos," Athos pointed out. "Bombs are the exact opposite of stealth."
Porthos lifted his hands in surrender. "Just saying bombs might be nice."
As the other men loaded up on additional weaponry, d'Artagnan spoke with the apprentice about the Château's location and any weaknesses he knew of, which weren't many. Once properly equipped, Athos and Porthos thanked the lad and headed out to the street.
"I must ask you not to say anything. Not to anyone," d'Artagnan implored. "My friend's lives depend on absolute secrecy."
"They'll not get a word out o' me."
"I am most appreciative of your help," d'Artagnan told the lad earnestly. "You will be remembered."
The apprentice gave d'Artagnan a lopsided smile. "If 'at's the truth of it, I'd rather be remembered a legend than a nightmare."
Lifting his chin at the turn of phrase, d'Artagnan turned to follow Athos and Porthos through the streets of the village and back to where Aramis waited in the shadows of the tavern with the horses.
"It looks like we're preparing for a war, not a rescue mission," Aramis commented, helping to load the acquired weapons to their saddles.
"It may very well become that," Athos replied, turning to face them, his blue eyes utterly serious. "My friends, we have been through battles, and against insurmountable odds," he said, his voice pitched low and serious, "but never has it been so vital that we succeed. We all accept that our Captain's life depends on us, but I fear our very way of life – the way of the Musketeers – is caught in the balance of this."
"Lose Treville, we lose the Musketeers," Aramis agreed. "I don't believe I want to live with that reality."
"Me neither," Porthos chimed in.
d'Artagnan merely nodded, unable to order his voice to cooperate.
"We are agreed, then," Athos stated.
Porthos was the first to place his hand toward the center of their inadvertent circle, creating the spoke of the wheel that united them. Once all four hands were placed, they looked up, silently regarding each other.
"All for one; one for all," d'Artagnan whispered the pledge that had resonated in his heart from the moment the other men had uttered it.
Lowering their hands, they led their horses out of the confines of the village toward the Château, not wanting to draw attention by riding out. Once free of the buildings, they mounted up and continued until they reached the edge of the property, outlined by a rough river bed and outcropping of rock, framed by thickets of trees. Tying the horses to the trees and removing their weapons and saddle bags, they made a make-shift camp, sans fire.
"We must wait until the cover of dark," Athos declare, his tone betraying how much he hated knowing his Captain was mere yards from him, wounded, and he wasn't charging in there after him. "d'Artagnan," he said suddenly, surprising the young man. "Why are you rubbing at your hands like that?"
Caught unaware, d'Artagnan looked down at his clasped hands, just then realizing that he was practically wringing them to try to rid them of the still-present ache from his bonds.
"I…didn't realize—"
"From the chains, yeah?" Porthos guessed. "Had my hands trussed up above my 'ead once," he explained. "Took near three days for them to feel right again."
"It's not your hands," Aramis interjected, tugging on d'Artagnan's sleeve, pulling him down to sit cross-legged on the ground next to him. "It's your shoulders. That's where the blood flow was interrupted."
To d'Artagnan's utter amazement, Porthos and Athos began to set up camp, bringing out food and water from the saddlebags and caring for their mounts, while Aramis helped him remove his pauldron and jacket. He sat in front of his friend as Aramis placed one hand inside d'Artagnan's loose shirt, against his clavicle, and the other on the outside of his shirt, against the backside of his shoulder.
"This may…pinch a little," Aramis warned.
Before d'Artagnan could reply that he could handle it, Aramis twisted his hands, cracking the joint and pressing against the muscle to the point d'Artagnan gasp sharply in retaliation of the liquid fire that immediately spread from this shoulder to his fingertips, then promptly abated.
"OW!."
"I did warn you."
"That was more than a pinch!"
"I may have underestimated the pain level a tad."
"What did you do?"
Aramis shifted behind him to the opposite shoulder. "I simply manipulated your muscles back into their intended position – one that your captivity shifted them from. It's a technique, incidentally, I learned from – are you ready?"
d'Artagnan had little more than registered that Aramis' hands were once more on his skin before the twist was applied to his other shoulder, pain blossoming hot and then dying just as quickly. He barely had time to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out.
"—I learned from the Baroness de le Roche," Aramis continued without missing a beat. "The same woman who nearly got me disowned."
"You were disowned?" d'Artagnan asked in a strangled voice, helplessly clenching and unclenching his hands, relishing the feel of being able to do so without pins and needles.
"Nearly," Aramis corrected. "It's an important distinction."
Porthos dropped down next to d'Artagnan, handing him a bit of food and water, then leaned back on his elbow. Athos positioned himself as look-out, the lowering sun turning his profile into a grayish shadow. d'Artagnan looked back at Aramis, waiting for him to continue.
"The Baroness had quite the amorous appetite," Aramis said, his lips twisting into an amused smirk. "I thought myself experienced prior to meeting her, but I was a fool."
"Surely she can't be the one who broke your heart." d'Artagnan spoke without thinking.
Aramis covered his surprise with a bite of bread. "I don't take your meaning."
"Nothing. Never mind," d'Artagnan waved his hand. "Continue."
"She enjoyed being bound," Aramis revealed, earning him a side-long glance from Athos. "And binding her lovers in turn."
"She…tied you up?" d'Artagnan asked, incredulous. "And you let her?"
"She was a very beautiful woman," Aramis said in his own defense. "At any rate, my father discovered our…tryst, and threatened to disown me if I did not join the priesthood. As we've already covered," he nodded at Porthos, who lifted his cup in salute, "I would have made a terrible priest."
"How did you get out of that one?" d'Artagnan asked.
"I bought a sword," Aramis replied.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I bought a sword, with the full intent to challenge my father to a duel, the result of which would either be my death of my freedom."
d'Artagnan sat forward. "You were prepared to…duel your…your father?"
Aramis offered him a sad smile. "My father was a decent man. Made an amazing honey wine, but he had very specific ideas about right and wrong." He shrugged. "I did not fit into his vision of right." He spread his hands. "I was young, impulsive, angry…."
"Horny," Porthos added helpfully.
Aramis nodded his head in his friend's direction. "I don't believe I ever would have actually challenged my father, but we'll never know because Treville saw me buy that sword, told me I had an excellent eye for metal work. I told him he should see me shoot." Aramis smiled at the memory. "He took me up on it and I hit the center point of every target he set up. I'd always been an excellent shot. He offered me the chance that day to train to become a Musketeer and my salvation was found."
d'Artagnan leaned back against the tree, his shoulder touching Porthos'. "So you learned the trick with the shoulder from the Baroness, then?"
"Indeed," Aramis nodded. "Came in handy after—"
"I believe we get the general idea," Athos interjected.
Aramis grinned and continue to eat.
"Get some rest, gentlemen," Athos ordered. "Especially you, d'Artagnan. We have a long night ahead of us."
d'Artagnan slouched a bit against the tree, feeling his body tick down from the daylight rush of adrenaline.
"Aramis?" he called.
"Mmm?"
"Does your father still live?"
Aramis sighed. "No, I am sorry to say. He passed the year after I received my commission."
"Was he pleased with your choice?"
"Pleased? No. But he did accept it in the end. When we last parted, it was with mutual respect."
d'Artagnan nodded, thinking that Porthos had never known his father, and Athos' father remained a complete mystery to him.
"The wonder of it is," Aramis said, a small, sad smile on his face. "I miss him. I honestly never thought I'd say that after all our years of struggles, but I do. I miss him."
With those words, d'Artagnan closed his eyes, trying to follow Athos' orders and rest while he could, but he felt too wired. They hadn't yet even found Treville and he was already overloaded with information and possibilities and it was more than just a plot to trap the Cardinal and Milady. It was more than just fooling a few people into thinking he'd been abandoned by his brothers. It was more than being shot by a man he considered one of his best friends.
It was the chance to save his father all over again. To hear the shots and turn and run toward the Inn, rather than fight the men in the barn. To not take so long stabling the horses. To not have lingered, wanting to stay warm just another moment. To not have been too distracted with the fight to even notice the blood on his father's chest. To not be left kneeling in the rain, blood pooling around him, holding onto the man who had first held him, who had carried him, protected him, taught him, shielded him.
"d'Artagnan!"
The voice was urgent, but wrong. The name was wrong. His father called him Charles. Charles, you must listen.
"Wake up, lad!"
At that, his eyes opened to darkness and confusion and it wasn't until a hand gripped his that he realized his breath was hammering from his lips as though he'd run for miles. Blinking, he registered the darkness was not quite complete: it was broken by moonlight once more filtering through the trees and illuminating the profile of the man hovering over him.
"Porthos?"
"You with me?" Porthos' breath hovered between them in a visible cloud.
d'Artagnan pushed himself upright, slowly, registering that someone had covered him with his cloak and he'd been lying on the ground next to Porthos, Aramis and Athos across the way, both looking in their direction.
"I am sorry," he muttered, forcing himself to disengage his hand from Porthos' tight grip. "I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep."
"You were exhausted," Athos stated. "You needed it."
"Probably could have done without the nightmare, though," Aramis offered with a shrug.
It had been a nightmare. And he could still see it clearly if he closed his eyes. His father falling to his knees, collapsing in d'Artagnan's arms, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, starving for air. d'Artagnan dragged his hand down his face, forcing himself to banish the memory.
"Is it time?"
"Very nearly," Athos replied.
d'Artagnan pushed to his feet, stepping away several yards to relieve himself, then returning to the group. They had planned to arm up, leave the horses where they'd camped in the trees, and enter the Château at the servant's quarter entrance toward the back. Without any idea where Treville was being kept, it seemed as good a plan as any.
"What are we waiting for?" d'Artagnan asked, strapping on his weapons.
His three companions were staring toward their target, expressions grim in the moonlight. He could see a muscle along Aramis' jaw flexing as if the man were gritting his teeth.
"A miracle," Aramis replied, his eyes trained on the Château.
Frowning, d'Artagnan looked toward stone structure, blinking in surprise to see roughly a dozen men milling about the entrance, torches in hand.
"Where did they come from?"
"Best guess? Our friend the blacksmith," Porthos replied.
"No," d'Artagnan breathed. "He swore secrecy! He had such a good parting line about it, too."
"From what we've been able to hear, it appears as though they have come to rescue Armistead," Athos stated, his eyes pinned to the crowd.
Aramis glanced at d'Artagnan. "The men in the tavern."
"And as far as we know, Bellamy has Armistead and two others imprisoned while simultaneously protecting Treville," d'Artagnan remembered.
"Indeed," Athos replied. "I'm open to ideas."
"I'm leaning toward blind panic myself," Aramis replied, glancing back at Porthos and d'Artagnan. "You?"
"Too bad we don't have any bombs we could use to scatter the crowd," Porthos remarked with forced casualness.
Athos shot him a glare. "Should we make it out of here alive, I will purchase your weight in bombs."
"'m holdin' ya to that." Porthos growled as he looked back at the crowd.
"Why can we not stick to the original plan?" d'Artagnan inquired. "They're at the front; we had always planned on heading to the back entrance."
"Lad makes a good point," Porthos muttered.
"How do we get to the back without being seen?" Aramis inquired. "The moonlight is not our ally."
d'Artagnan frowned, thinking. "Distraction."
"What was that?" Athos looked at him.
"What was that?" Aramis and Porthos echoed in unison.
"We create a distraction!" d'Artagnan repeated. "We send one of the horses running toward the front and while they are trying to figure out where it is going and where it came from, we cut through the trees to the back entrance."
"That just might work," Athos muttered, studying their horses.
"Always the tone of surprise," d'Artagnan sighed, earning a grin from Aramis.
"How do you suggest we keep 'im running straight at danger?" Porthos asked.
d'Artagnan joined Athos in studying their horses. "We use Aramis' mount. He's the most skittish. And we fashion a flash from the powder for the muskets to scare him into scattering."
Aramis tilted his head as he studied d'Artagnan. "And when we rescue Treville? How do we escape on just three horses?"
"I don't know," d'Artagnan huffed. "I'm making this up as I go!"
Aramis grinned. "I just wanted to hear you say it. Helps my ego."
"We go with d'Artagnan's plan," Athos said decisively. "Get the horse ready."
It didn't take them long to put the horse into position and secure the other three. Fashioning the flash in such a way to scare one horse and not blow themselves up required a bit of guesswork, but Porthos was able to finally complete the preparation. They each took a moment to ensure the weapons they'd purchased were loaded and strapped within arm's reach. d'Artagnan opted for an extra harquebus and dagger rather than the awkwardly heavy musket.
He couldn't fire the larger weapon accurately anyway. Aramis carried both; they all knew that the moment he was able to get into firing range and prop up the barrel, he would be deadly. Porthos and Athos each carried extra powder horns and shots, and all were armed with their own weapons.
Athos looked silently at each man in turn, his eyes offering them the encouragement each needed. He nodded one last time and then lit the flash, creating a quick, loud popping sound that effectively scattered Aramis' horse in the direction of the Château's entrance.
As the horse ran one way, the Musketeers ran the other. In moments, and without the added weight of a musket, d'Artagnan found himself well ahead of his friends, reaching the servant's entrance several seconds before Aramis, then Athos, then Porthos. He pushed his way inside and they paused for a moment catching their breath.
"You are insanely fast," Porthos panted. "Remind me never to race you to dinner."
"Everyone has to have a skill," d'Artagnan replied, readying both his rapier and his harquebus as Athos led the way from the servant's kitchen up into the depths of the abandoned Château.