Chapter Six

'I'm starved.' Porthos announced, effectively breaking the atmosphere not so much with his words, but by the noise his stomach chose at that moment to elicit.

Aramis looked over in mock shock at the sound. 'It's not been that long!'

'Not that long?' Porthos asked in astonishment. 'It's been hours! Missed lunch standing guard di'n't we?'

'Anyone would think you hadn't eaten for a week.' Aramis said, staring in astonishment as Porthos's stomach repeated the noise. 'Better get you fed before your stomach eats you.' He added with a mock shudder.

Walking into the garrison they almost as one glanced over at the table, expecting to see d'Artagnan but finding a crowd of other musketeers sitting there. The garrison held two dozen or more musketeers, finished with lunch and sitting or standing around, only a few of the more enthusiastic recruits taking the opportunity to train. Athos looked around at the group, expecting to see d'Artagnan, who always seemed to have energy, in the middle of the fighting. He frowned unconsciously when there was no sign of him, searching more closely the men sat around, the sense of foreboding that had been plaguing him all weekend growing with the more frantic looking.

'Perhaps he's in his room?' Aramis suggested. Part of Athos's brain registered that it was Aramis making the logical suggestions, as they led their horses towards the stables. Athos forced himself to concentrate, searching the large stables for sign of d'Artagnan's gelding, relieved when he located it, standing docile, eating the hay on offer as the stable boy groomed the mare next to him.

The young stable boy looked up at him, and as always, tried to hide behind the bulk of the horse rather than be seen by the musketeers. He had been there over half a year and still shied away from all of them. 'Did you see d'Artagnan?' Athos asked, making an effort to keep any hint of command or abruptness from his tone.

'Earlier.' The boy's voice was quiet, but carried easily over the soft whinnying of the horses. 'Ordered me to take his horse.'

Athos frowned slightly at that. D'Artagnan rarely missed any opportunity to be with the horses, taking the time whenever possible to ensure the comfort of his own animal rather than leave it to the stable boys. It was nothing against the stable boys, as some had assumed at first. D'Artagnan had always got on well with them, and enjoyed working at their side, but he was driven to be around the horses and never missed an opportunity if there was time.

Miss-reading the frown, the stable boy stepped further backward into the shadows of the stables. 'Weren't a problem, I didn't mind, I didn't mean that I didn't want to take the horse.'

Athos looked over at the babbling, taking a moment to comprehend the words. He waved away the worry immediately, though somewhat impatiently. 'What was he doing?' He asked, his voice rather sharp and he hid the sigh as he watched the boy cower. 'I mean what kept d'Artagnan from taking care of his horse?' He asked more gently.

'I… that is, he was outside the gates. Think someone was waiting to speak to him. Dressed all fancy like.'

'Describe him.' Athos said, deliberately fighting to keep worry from sharpening his tone.

'I don't know more. Barely saw him. He had a guard. Massive guy.' The guy gestured with his hands. 'Big as Porthos.'

Aramis stepped forward, gentle hand landing on the boy's shoulder. 'Its fine, Stan. You're not in any trouble. Can you think what the man looked like?'

But the boy shook his head, only able to stutter out more about the large guard. Aramis reassured him again before releasing him back to the horse with obvious relief, following Athos and Porthos to the door. 'I don't like it.' Athos announced, in case any of them were in doubt.

'The Duke?' Porthos asked.

Athos shrugged.

'He is at the palace.' Aramis reminded him.

'A convenient alibi.' Athos commented.

'Only one way to find out.' Porthos said, shaking his head at another stable boy who had appeared to help with their horses. They remounted and left the way they had just entered, heading back to the palace, even Porthos forgetting his hunger.

The Duke was surprisingly easy to find, sitting in his suite of rooms, the door answered by one of his household staff. He didn't even seem surprised to see them, looking older and almost frail as they walked in. The staff melted into the background, looking fearful though Athos didn't care if it was of them or the Duke at that moment.

'Where's d'Artagnan?' Athos asked.

'I don't know.'

'I don't believe you.' Athos countered, his voice quiet and cold as steel.

'I don't know…' The duke had no problems meeting his eye. 'I…I haven't seen him since yesterday at the ball.'

'You threatened him.' Athos said, looming over the man. 'Saturday night, you cornered him in the stables. Worried he would tell the king about you?'

Some of the natural power that seemed to emanate from all nobility radiated out as the Duke straightened, drawing himself up gracefully to stand, his height giving him a couple of inches to look down on Athos. 'I have done nothing wrong.' He stated, 'I have not threatened anyone. I simply wished to speak to the musketeer about security arrangements.'

Aramis snorted ineloquently. 'You expect us to believe that you didn't recognise your own son? Must have been quite a surprise to see him alive and well after all this time.' Aramis voice dropped, the tone as deadly as his aim as he stepped forward, crowding the man's space with Athos. 'Quite a shock to realise he was one of the king's trusted musketeer.'

Athos could almost feel the barely controlled anger rolling off Aramis, felt it resonating through Porthos and himself as they looked at the man who was responsible for d'Artagnan's being, and the man who had tried to end him as well.

'Where's your younger son?' Porthos asked, the question taking Athos, and clearly Aramis too, by surprise.

'That's none of your concern.' The Duke snapped back.

'What does he think of his brother?' Athos asked.

'He has no brother. I only have one son.' The Duke bristled, speaking a line that had clearly been repeated many times down the years.

'Would have been so much easier, I suppose.' Aramis tone was ice. 'pretending for so many years.' He paused, staring at the duke. 'Pretending you never had another son.'

Athos was growing impatient. Anger, fear and hate for a man that could do something so cruel and then stand and deny it to their face rolling together, making him almost shake with rage. He grabbed the man's collar, forcing him back in the chair, leaning menacingly over him. 'Tell us where your son is.'

'I don't know.' The duke admitted, his tone suddenly oddly…fearful.

'I suggest you talk. Otherwise my colleague is going to grow bored and beat the truth out of you instead.' Athos's cultured tone made the words all the more threatening.

'I don't know.' The Duke repeated, the sound of Porthos's knuckles cracking making him flinch. 'I…I woke up late this morning, and he was already gone. He was upset…he…one of my household staff is with him, Pierre.'

'Why was he upset?'

'I…I told him. Yesterday. Everything. He was complaining about the musketeer d'Artagnan, about some slight on the hunt, and…I didn't mean to say anything, but to hear that name again.'

'And he wasn't pleased.' Aramis guessed.

'He was so angry.'

'He thinks he has competition to his inheritance.'

'I told him that Henri was nothing.' That was the wrong thing to say. The duke shrank back as Athos towered over him, angry beyond words. He carried on in a hasty stutter. 'He wouldn't calm down, though, he was… he wouldn't stop. He demanded to know how Henri had survived the fire. I didn't know how to calm him down. He kept going on and on that Henri must hold some power to walk away from the fire unscathed.'

'What did he mean by power?' Aramis said, his voice still deadly quiet but knowing they needed all the information they could get.

'That Henri's mother's powers must have protected him, that it was unnatural that he is alive.'

'You brainwashed him.' Athos spat.

'No, no. But…my son has always had a great faith, a belief in the Church. He is… passionate. He always has been. He…spent time in a monastery.' Athos could see there was a whole story behind that they didn't have time to explore. But boys Edwin's age were only sent to monaterys for punishment. The "incident" perhaps, that Gilbert spoke of?

Aramis hid a sigh as he realised the implications. A zealous religious catholic, who believed in the burning of witches. Though the practice was dying out, it still existed, and in some Churches was still preached along with flagellation and the punishment of sin through various tortures. Within the bigger cities and towns, the practice was very rare, but out in the countryside, especially within the large, closed monasteries, it certainly wasn't unheard of. It didn't help that the pope still refused to denounce such practices.

'Did he wish to cleanse d'Artagnan?' He asked quietly. That could be bad. Whipping. Being half drowned in water. All were popular practices.

But the Duke shook his head, refusing to meet Aramis's eye as he said quietly 'he spoke of the need to burn the power to stop it spreading.'

Aramis felt his heart clench with fear. 'Where would he take d'Artagnan for such an act?' he asked, feeling desperation well up inside of him at the thought of d'Artagnan being burnt alive.

'A church.'

'No shortage of them in Paris.' Porthos scoffed at the unhelpful answer.

'Catholic. High Catholic.' Aramis corrected himself, before the duke could reply. 'And with space. not in the city proper, not enough room to make a pyre. A belief in burning.' Aramis's suddenly animated face caught Athos's awareness.

'Where?' Athos asked, with absolute certainty that Aramis knew.

Aramis didn't answer, instead waving a hand at the Duke. 'Deal with him and quickly, we have no time to waste.' He instructed.

Athos followed the order, turning and smartly punching the Duke in the face. Porthos huffed in disappointment that he hadn't got to do that. All Athos could think was how much more he wanted to do to the man, to the duke. To inflict on him as much pain as he had inflicted on d'Artagnan. But all he wanted to do in vengeance to the man sat bleeding in front of him would take time, precious time that they didn't have.

He walked out, stopping to haul the servant out from where he was cowering behind the door. 'Don't touch him.' He said, the man nodding shakily. They had barely gone a few steps though before they saw a Red Guard, Athos instructing him to keep the Duke under guard.

'But he's meant to be leaving.' The Guard commented in confusion, mostly to their backs.

'He goes nowhere.' Athos threatened, not even bothering to look back as he strode away after Aramis and Porthos, leaving the Guard to find the Duke and understand his meaning. Further explanations would have to wait.

xxx

D'Artagnan's day had started far earlier than he had planned. The early morning garrison had been blissfully cool and quiet after a night of half remembered dreams and haunting figures. He had escaped to the stables, forgetting himself in the routine of grooming the horses, checking their feet and legs for any cuts or stiff muscles, mending tack, oiling leather. The activities he had learnt at his dad's knee had always calmed him, no matter how troubled his thoughts. Soothed and grounded, he had even been hungry by the time he smelt breakfast, breaking his fast with a bowl of warm oats.

By the time he had been joined at the table by Aramis and Porthos, he was even up to talking, greeting them chirpily, knowing how easy it was to wind them up being too damn cheerful first thing in the morning. It had been wholly unsatisfying that he had simply been greeted back, both men having benefitted from sleep in their own rooms for once and not nursing hangovers for once.

The easy comradery had been broken by a shadow appearing at their table. Not Athos, as they had been expecting, but Treville, returning from an early visit to the palace, a rolled scroll in his hand. Being the only one to have finished eating, d'Artagnan didn't even mind accepting the easy delivery to some Governor in the east of the city. Being out on a delivery meant he couldn't be sent to the Palace. He had got through last night, but didn't know if he had it in him to do it again. 'Wait for the reply, it is expected at the palace this morning.' Treville had added, turning to Aramis before d'Artagnan could quite process that his plan hadn't turned out quite as he had wanted. Though he knew better than to argue with orders from Treville. 'Training for the rest of you. A guard will be needed this afternoon at the palace, report there after the midday bell.'

D'Artagnan heaved himself to his feet and tucked the letter safely into his jerkin, letting a smirk quirk his lips as he faced the others. 'Have fun training.' He said, disappearing towards the stable before either could ask the questions clear on their faces.

The governor lived out in Amadiers, and the road had been busy but moving. As he hadn't been told to rush d'Artagnan was happy to move with the crowd rather than force his way around them. The staff at the governor's large country house had been more welcoming than some, allowing d'Artagnan food and drink in the large kitchen as he waited for the reply. He had just been starting to grow restless, finding himself wishing he were training with the others instead of cooling his heels, when the head servant brought back the reply, the cook allowing him a final slice of bread and butter before he departed.

The trip back had been quicker, and d'Artagnan headed dutifully, if reluctantly, towards the palace. He knew who was there, and the complicated feelings and emotions that were roused whenever he thought of the duke hadn't made stepping into the place comfortable. At least with a missive delivery, he hadn't had to venture further than the first important looking person he had seen, handing off the letter and escaping as quickly as possible.

He wished that the duke was gone already. He was due to leave that day along with most of the nobility who had descended on Paris for the King's birthday, but it didn't seem quick enough. Paris was his home, had been for over a year. It was the first place he had settled with no lingering memories of his dad, or, until recently anyway, any connection to the duke. It left him feeling off kilter, and he wanted his home back. He knew, though, even with the duke gone, that Paris was never going to feel quite the same again.

He had spent longer talking to Lons than he had in the palace, listening to the excited gossip of who had been found with whom in the gardens though it held little interest. He eventually managed to excuse himself, hungry and wanting to return to the garrison for lunch, detouring on the way home through the busy market to pick up fresh apples.

He had wondered, as he had slowly followed the crowds, how naive he had been to not consider that the duke might well turn up in Paris. But as much as the dreams would always be a part of his life, as much as the scars would stay with him forever, he honesty had never spent much time thinking about his "real" father. His dad had never let him for a start.

The years growing up had not been easy. Alexandre d'Artagnan had taken them to neighbouring Gascony, where they had started from scratch. His dad had begged jobs, working all hours and showing off his vast skill set, until he had gained the trust to work as an estate manager for a land owner. From there he had built up to a farm, by the time they had left for the fateful trip to London he was a well respected member of the small village of Lupiac, no one having any idea of their beginnings.

Through it all, Alexandre d'Artagnan had taught the young Charles, as he had been known then, about hard work. From the day he had rescued him, d'Artagnan had referred to the man as dad. In truth, the man had pretty much lived in their house, and d'Artagnan had known more of him than his actual dad. It had seemed natural to call him father, further cementing their spun story.

His father had never let him have much time to dwell on the past, anyway. Once the burns on his legs had healed, he had worked alongside his father, had learned everything he possibly could about anything his father had to teach him. And had had fun. He'd learnt to mend broken fences, or care for livestock. He'd been taught the seasons, and arable farming, when to plant and when to harvest. When to leave alone and when to interfere. He had been taught other things as well. His father had taught him to duel, perhaps the only positive outlet he had found for the anger during adolescence. He had learned to read and write. When they had started breeding horses, he had learnt everything there was to know about tending the herd. There had never been time to sit and wonder at all that might have been. Apart from angry teenage rants, his mouth moving faster than his brain could keep up, words that were regretted as soon as they were said, he honestly never doubted his new father.

He had mourned his mother, but he had been five years old when it had happened. The memories of her had faded as he had grown. His blood father took on mythical portions in his dreams, but barely ventured into his waking thoughts. It had been him and his dad throughout his childhood, until the fateful night his dad had been shot. And he hadn't been lying the other night; it had been a high cost, but even his father's death had brought him to a new family in Paris. He thought of the nightmare if he had been in Lupiac without his father.

He had been distracted enough by the thoughts that when he finally drew close to the Garrison he had almost been surprised to see the entrance way. He had dismounted in the crowds around the market, and had been leading his horse in through the gates when he thought he heard his name being called over the noise of the crowd.

The second call had made him look up, searching the crowd properly in response. He frowned as he recognised the young man from the hunt, the one the king had been ready to punish for taking a shot before him. D'Artagnan had kept his face deliberately blank, even as he had wondered what on earth the young man was doing here, in the busy and crowded city rather than back in the palatial settings of the Louvre, or heading back to wherever he was from. Dressed in smart navy jerkin and breeches, the boy had stood out sharply amongst the common people of Paris. A servant, taller and certainly packing far more muscle than the young man stood protectively at his side, looking impassively out at the crowds. For all intents and purposes he had been ignoring d'Artagnan, so d'Artagnan had ignored him. Stupid in hindsight, he knew now.

Seeing one of the young boys from the stables attempting to sneak out of the garrison unnoticed, d'Artagnan instructed him to take the horse back inside and turned to the young noble, curiosity propelling his steps forward to find out why he was being sought out in the middle of Paris by a young man he didn't know except for the embarrassment from the hunt.

'Can I help you?' He had asked as he stepped closer, watching as the young man pulled the crucifix he wore around his neck free from the jacket, kissing it before letting it fall, the gold glinting dully in the overcast day. D'Artagnan had been reminded of Aramis by the act and remembered almost smiling. Brown eyes met his, and closer to him, within a metre, d'Artagnan didn't realise he had come to an abrupt stop, recognition warring with confusion as he stared into such familiar eyes.

It was his last coherent thought, taken completely by surprise as he had come face to face with the heir that had taken his place, d'Artagnan hadn't seen the metal knuckle duster on the servant's fist, barely felt it connect to his temple as he slipped headlong into unconsciousness, long before his body hit the dirt.

He wished he could stay now in the comforting darkness of the unconsciousness that held him, but he could feel the peace being firmly stripped away, the tacky warm covering over his forehead and pounding head reminding him of the hit.

He could feel the intense heat against his lower legs. He could hear the crackle of the flames as they caught whatever they were burning, the smell of smoking wood filling his nostrils. The taste of smoke coated his tongue, his nostrils, making him want to gag, the apples sitting heavy in his gut. His mind reeled in fear at the memories invoked of a fire long ago, his mother's screams as loud and as real in his mind as they had been 20 years ago. He could feel the flames and knew a terror that he hadn't felt since then. He was going to be burnt alive, his brother finishing off what his father, what the duke hadn't managed to do all those years ago. Burned simply because his very existence was viewed as a threat.

He managed to get his eyes open, squinting as his head pounded in the sudden light. He struggled, trying to focus on the young man now, who stood with the crucifix held clenched in his fist, watching his servant fan the flames that were quickly eating through the pile of woods. 'Why are you doing this?' D'Artagnan forced the words out past his hammering heart. His head pounded harshly with the noise.

The young man started at the words, clearly not expecting him to wake up. He answered quickly enough though. 'Because you lived when you should have died.'

'What?' D'Artagnan watched the flames coming ever closer, struggled more against the ropes that bound him to a central stake.

'You were meant to burn for your mother's sin.' The young man claimed, rosary beads clutched tight in his hand.

'My mother wasn't a witch.' D'Artagnan shouted, his awareness growing as adrenaline and fear fought off the effects of the head injury. He struggled ever more desperately against the ropes that held him so tightly.

'Your mother was a witch and she had to burn.' The young man's voice sounded old, brimming with confidence as it twisted in religious fervour. 'you should never have been allowed to live.'

Desperation leant strength to his movements but it was useless, the ropes were too tight, binding him fast against the post allowing him no leverage to even attempt to break free. 'You don't care about my mother! You're worried I'll try and claim your inheritance.'

The young man's eyes sparked with righteous fury. 'Your mother was a harlot! She bewitched my father.'

'I don't want anything from him. I will never speak of it ever. I never have.' D'Artagnan yelled then coughed as the smoke caught in his throat. He could feel the heat against his legs, his chest, his face.

'I'm a musketeer- kill me and you will hang!' D'Artagnan yelled when the coughing stopped, only to make it start again.

'You're a bastard!' the young man flung back at him, his tone seething. 'you don't deserve to live!'

'Your father committed sin too!' D'Artagnan pointed out.

'My father was duped by a witch.'

'Your father was desperate for a son.'

'You were never his son! You were born in unnatural circumstances. I am the one true son!'

'I don't care! Did you think I ever want to be seen as the duke's son? After he burnt my mother alive. After he tried to kill me?'

But d'Artagnan could see that the words weren't getting through, that the fervour that burned in the young man's eyes, as brightly as the fire mere feet away now, was not going to be distinguished so easily. D'Artagnan was going to be burned, and he fought like a man possessed to get free as the flames crept closer, licking at his boots now, the heat intense against his skin. His mother's screams surrounded him. The eyes of a monster watched it all. And he shouted in desperation for his dad to save him.

xxx

Thank you as ever for reading, comments, etc.

There's a couple more chapters to go, however, I'm off to the land of no wifi (I can feel the shakes starting now) and won't be able to update for a couple of weeks. I had hoped to post it before I go, but haven't managed to edit the draft to my satisfaction yet. Anyway, hopefully the wait is worth it, and you'll forgive me for leaving you with a cliff hanger…