Author's Note: Thank you all so much for your reviews. I'm glad so many of you liked the last chapter. Here is chapter 8. I'm hard at work on chapter 9, but it may be a few days before I can post it. Please review!

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 8

Investigation and Execution

Aramis watched Porthos and Athos head into the hall to have a word with the Lambert brothers. He wondered, given the situation, which of the two would keep their heads in the face of what had just happened. He decided that if neither did, the Lamberts wouldn't suffer as much as they deserved.

He turned his attention to d'Artagnan. The injuries in themselves, save the bump on the head, weren't as bad as they might be, but d'Artagnan's overall condition was worrisome. The lad was trembling almost uncontrollably, and Aramis placed the threadbare blanket across his shoulders before moving to the fireplace and stoking it into as high and cheery a blaze as he could manage.

D'Artagnan was blinking and averting his eyes from the light when Aramis returned to his side. It was heart breaking to the would-be cleric to see the change in the young man. When they'd left him after his father's funeral, d'Artagnan had been grieving, but the events in the interim seemed to have left him broken. He had also noticed an odd look on Athos's face and wanted nothing more than to interrogate the man to discover what had happened before he and Porthos had arrived. From the injuries d'Artagnan now sported, he knew Marcel Lambert had indeed attacked, but judging from the condition in which he and Porthos had discovered Lambert—leaning against the wall in the hall outside the cell door, struggling to take in air and rubbing at his bruised throat—it seemed their young Gascon had given at least as much as he'd gotten.

Shaking his head, he resigned himself to his curiosity and centered his attention on his young friend. The head injury worried him, but a bump was a thing he was least able to treat, so he focused on the shallow cut across his friend's back. It was too shallow to need stitches, so he cleaned it as best he could and bandaged it with the fresh bandages he'd taken to keeping in his own saddlebags whenever he travelled. That done he looked the young man in the eye.

D'Artagnan's rage seemed spent and he sat almost motionless, and Aramis could almost believe he wasn't aware of his surrounding, but for the frown of concentration on his face. He kept his silence not wishing to distract the Gascon from his thoughts, which seemed terribly important somehow.

The younger man turned then, gasping at the pain the sudden movement caused and put out a still trembling hand to grasp Aramis's arm for support.

"What? D'Artagnan, what is it?" Aramis asked softly.

"My father…he'd worked it out. This is why he wanted to go to Paris. I'm sure he hoped for tax relief, but he knew it all! He discovered Lemieux's plots and he had somehow gotten proof of it…something he knew he could tell the King that would irrefutably convince him that Lemieux was breaking the law."

"D'Artagnan…if that's so then it's no wonder Lemieux wants you dead. Perhaps he thinks your father told you."

"Lemieux has tried to ask about it, but I never understood his questions. They seemed so vague to me."

The thought alarmed Aramis. Judging by d'Artagnan's condition upon the Musketeers arrival, Lemieux had not merely 'asked' about it. Aramis was not unfamiliar with interrogations and all of their pitfalls. A soldier could expect such treatment from an enemy if caught, but d'Artagnan was not a soldier. He was a Lupiac farmer. He shook his head, but knew there was little he could do about this unsavory turn of events.

He dismissed it from his mind as he spoke to d'Artagnan. "Likely he didn't want to say to much in case you didn't know what your father knew. He couldn't quite trust to that, so he kept you isolated and planned your death." Aramis looked the young man in the eye. "Do you have any idea what your father saw?"

D'Artagnan considered the question. "I know he met with Lemieux once. I'd thought it was a chance meeting, but now…they were having a drink together, but the atmosphere seemed tense. When I came to the table, I asked my father if everything was all right. He said it was, and …" d'Artagnan gasped in sudden realization.

"What do you remember?"

"He'd glanced pointedly at Lemieux's bag. Lemieux caught the look and told him if he ever caught him going through his things again, he'd have him arrested. I took offense…my father stood and led me away before I could demand an apology…" He turned to look Aramis in the eye. "I know what they need to find."

Aramis smiled and called out to their friends. "Athos! Porthos!"

The two Musketeers raced into the room, and Aramis had a moment of regret as he realized they'd assumed the worst when they'd heard his call. "He's remembered something," Aramis said gesturing to d'Artagnan.

"Lemieux has a saddlebag he never keeps far from reach." D'Artagnan said, excitement making him speak faster than usual. "He takes it with him everywhere. What you're looking for…the appointment papers…they'll likely be in there."

Betrand, who had followed the Musketeers at Aramis's cry agreed. "Don't know why I didn't think of that. He's careful with that thing. Touchy about it, too."

"Touchy how?" Porthos asked.

"Won't let anyone touch it. Gets jittery if anyone is anywhere near it."

"That's it." Athos said. "We need to get that bag." He gestured to d'Artagnan. "Aramis stay with him."

"I'm locked in a cell. I don't need watching." D'Artagnan's protests were not unexpected.

"You're injured. You need looking after." Athos insisted.

"You'll be faster at this if he's with you," d'Artagnan countered.

"Nonsense…" Athos began.

"And while you both argue, time is ticking away," Aramis said. "He's fine, Athos. We'll be what…across the square? Lemiuex will be at home. Perhaps you'll need me to create a distraction."

"I can do that," Porthos suggested.

"Your distractions usually involve destruction," Aramis said.

"That's very distracting," Porthos pointed out.

"Gentlemen, I fear Aramis is right. We don't have time for arguments." Athos looked at the brothers. "Bertrand, stay here and watch the cell. If anyone tries to get to d'Artagnan, find one of us." Bertrand nodded reluctantly.

Athos moved to d'Artagnan placing a hand fondly on the boy's head. "It won't be long now. We won't abandon you."

D'Artagnan nodded. Fear was still there in his eyes, but there was hope now. Athos was glad of that.

He turned to the others. "Let's go."

The Musketeers

Porthos, Aramis, and Athos moved to the home the Lamberts had indicated. It was dark in the early pre-dawn hours, but Porthos could just see smoke trickling up the chimney, though the amount indicated the fire was dying. Porthos intended for that to be all that died this day.

Approaching the door, Porthos bent down to inspect the lock. A smile spread across his face, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tool, tiny in his large hands. Inserting it into the lock it was just a few minutes work before the door swung open. He smiled at Athos and Aramis, who seemed impressed yet again by his talent with locks. He smirked. "See," he whispered. "I didn't destroy anything."

"Yet," argued Aramis softly. "And that was lock picking not distraction!"

Porthos offered only a grin and a shrug in response.

They opened the door carefully lest a squeak or rusty hinge alert the household. Moving carefully, they split up. Aramis, lightest on his feet, moved up the stairs while Porthos and Athos searched the first floor. Aramis was only upstairs for a few moments before he came racing down. Athos and Porthos met him at the bottom.

"What? You'll wake…" Porthos began only for Aramis to interrupt him.

"Not there. He's not there. He hasn't been in the room at all as near as I can tell. If he keeps the bag with him always, he and the bag have not been in this house in some time." Aramis whispered.

Porthos and Athos both cursed. "Where would 'e be?" Porthos ground out the words through teeth clenched in frustration.

Aramis looked through the window toward the Lamberts. "He could be with a mistress. Perhaps the Lamberts will know."

"You would think of mistresses first." Porthos clapped his friend on the shoulder.

"We must all draw on our own experiences," Aramis said as they raced from the house toward Gustave and Marcel.

The Musketeers

It was thirty minutes later that the trio of Musketeers finally saw Lemieux. The Musketeers had borrowed horses from a stable near the town center. Upon leaving the house, Marcel had raced towards them explaining that he'd just seen Lemieux leaving town. He had the bag with him, and had just parted ways with one of his men, a large, scary looking fellow whose name Marcel did not know. They found Lemieux standing in a clearing some distance from the town center near to a small, dark house. He seemed anxious. He checked his saddlebags and brought out several bottles. He moved across the small clearing towards the dark house and he hefted the two bottles he held in his hands as though judging their weight.

Aramis gestured toward the horse to be sure Athos and Porthos saw it, then he crept towards the animal. His eyes were on the saddlebag, and he couldn't help but be consumed by his desire to find the papers that would swap this man for d'Artagnan in the hangman's noose.

Aramis reached the bag and began pulling it from the horse's back. It was heavier than he expected, and he fumbled as he pulled it away. It was then he felt the touch of cold steel on his neck.

"I do not like men who try to take what belongs to me," Lemieux said. "Release the bag."

"I would love to comply," Aramis admitted, "but I cannot take orders from you, Monsieur, when I am compelled to take them from someone else."

"Who?" Lemieux asked.

"Me." Athos said. His own sword struck Lemieux's blade away from Aramis. Lemieux glanced around as though for help, but he was alone.

Lemieux backed away from Aramis and Athos, only to back into Porthos who grabbed hold of him across the chest. "Made that easy," the big Musketeer mumbled.

"Release me! I am appointed by the King…"

Athos laughed. "Aramis, go through the papers." Aramis did as he was told and in a few moments, he held the forged orders. He tutted in mock sympathy. "You didn't get this right at all, did you? The paper, the writing, the seals. All wrong. Good try, but complete failure." Aramis handed the papers to Athos.

Athos glanced at them and tucked them inside his doublet. "We are the King's Musketeers, and we arrest you in the King's name. The charges are too many to list now, but we will have them enumerated by the time we get you to Paris."

The man paled. "Surely, we can come to some sort of arrangement…" he trailed off as Porthos's grip tightened.

"Did he just try to bribe us?" Porthos asked Athos in utter disbelief.

"Feeble attempt," Athos admitted, "but yes. Secure him, Porthos. We have a hard ride ahead of us."

Porthos tied Lemiuex's hands behind his back and, for good measure, tied his feet as well. "Please…" he called to the men desperately. "I can share with you. I've made a lot of money here. I was about to increase it." He gestured to the dark home behind them. It was still too early for the farmer and his family to have risen, and the bottles and unlit torch the man had dropped in order to stop Aramis from taking his papers told all too clearly what he'd intended.

Athos leaned over the man, rage blazing in his eyes. "You would kill more people just to add to your wealth?"

"Our wealth! I'm willing to share…"

Athos punched the man more soundly than he'd ever punched anyone.

Athos sighed. "Porthos, throw him on the back of Aramis's horse."

"Why me? Why do I have to carry the man?" Aramis complained loudly.

Athos almost smiled. "You are the lightest and that man is quite big. Porthos's horse could not carry both him and Lemiuex."

"And yours?" Aramis asked.

Athos mounted his horse as Porthos, laughing, threw Lemiuex over the back of Aramis's horse. "Mine doesn't need to." Athos replies as he turned his horse toward's Lupiac's center. "Lemieux is already on yours."

The Musketeers

D'Artagnan spent the last few hours of his last night fading in and out of consciousness. His head ached and his ribs hurt with every movement, and yet he could not remain still. As he watched the sky begin to lighten, he tried to hold onto the belief that the Musketeers would return for him.

He heard arguing. Bertrand's voice drifted to him and he realized the man was trying to convince someone to leave d'Artagnan be for a time. He heard a muffled reply and then Monsieur Tremblay opened the door to his cell declaring it was time. If the man noticed that his prisoner was in worse shape than he had been when he'd been secured the night before, he made no mention of it.

Looking past Tremblay, d'Artagnan tried to see if Bertrand were still there, but Tremblay shouted at him. "He is gone. How you got the man to believe you didn't do it, and to stand here trying to tell me to give you more time, I don't know."

D'Artagnan couldn't reply. He opened his mouth to protest his innocence, but the words would not come. Instead, he stood waiting for the man to unlock him from the wall. The chains were not completely removed, but instead Tremblay used a length of it was to restrain his arms behind his back.

He looked Tremblay in the eyes and for a brief moment the man returned his gaze as though he could not look away. Monsieur Tremblay had known him all his life. He had been a good friend of his father. He had sat at his father's table sharing stories of the days when they'd been young and carefree. He'd sat in front of his father's hearth to comfort the senior d'Artagnan in the days following d'Artagnan's mother's death. He'd stood in his father's house and claimed that he would always be there to help Alexandre "look after the boy." More recently, he'd been one of the men to help d'Artagnan carry his father's coffin to his grave.

Now, he stood in a cell preparing d'Artagnan for the hangman. D'Artagnan had to ask. He had little time left if he wanted this to make sense. "Monsieur Tremblay, you know me. Tell me you don't think I killed Monsieur Lambert."

Tremblay looked away and guided d'Artagnan forward. Realizing this was his last walk anywhere, D'Artagnan struggled turning to face the man. "How can you think me capable of murder?"

"Why, Charles? Why did you confess? Why would you do it? I know your father's death was a shock to you, and I know he kept you from lashing out on many occasions, but why would you do this?"

"Confess?" D'Artagnan frowned, his brows furrowed. "I did not confess. I would not. I didn't do it. Is that why there was no trial? Did Lemieux tell you I'd confessed?"

Tremblay shoved d'Artagnan now, a bit harder, but still half-hearted.

"I didn't do it! I swear to you on my father's name, on his grave, and on his soul! I did not take the life of Monsieur Lambert!" D'Artagnan turned again and searched the man's eyes.

Tremblay looked away. "It is too late, Charles. Too late."

D'Artagnan followed Tremblay's gaze and found himself looking at the duo who had accompanied Lemieux to Lupiac. They were staring at Tremblay as though they would tear him apart.

In that instant, d'Artagnan understood. These men would enforce Lemieux's will as though his word were law. To them, Lemiuex was the final word. Tremblay's fearful glances in their direction, the way he kept d'Artagnan carefully between himself and the men, it told d'Artagnan enough. Lupiac was in the firm grasp of a tyrant who sought only to increase his own wealth whatever the cost.

In that instant of understanding, he felt his anxiety bleed away. He was numb. He had no fight left in him. His exhaustion was complete and he realized that, in dying, he was really being given a chance to see his parents again. What was there for him here without them? He let Tremblay lead him down the corridors and out into the chilly morning. The sun had barely begun to tinge the clouds a golden rosy color, but the courtyard was already crowded with people. People he'd known all his life had come to see him hang. He scanned the crowd, and it was the sight of Madame Boucher that made him stop.

Tremblay, expecting the boy to fight, pulled a bit harder than was strictly necessary, and, already dizzy from his injuries and lack of sleep and food, d'Artagnan fell to his knees. The jolt of it made him wince, but he simply let Tremblay help him up and he continued to the courtyard. He could not understand why he felt nothing, but he thanked the Lord that it was so. He had dreaded the idea of being dragged to the large tree in the center of the square, struggling and straining at every step, especially if Madame Boucher were present. As his arms were behind his back and bound with heavy chains, he did not notice that his hands were shaking.

Monsieur Tremblay led him to a wagon that stood by the tree limb and forced him to climb awkwardly onto it. Once he was standing on the wagon bed, Lemieux's two men came forward and bound his legs as well. There would be no chance to run if the rope broke.

Tremblay cleared his throat and made his announcement. "For the crime of murder, Charles d'Artagnan is hereby sentenced to hang."

He stepped aside then, and Lemieux's henchmen carefully placed the rope around d'Artagnan's neck and pulled it painfully tight. It was at this point that Madame Boucher let out a wail. D'Artagnan heard it, but somehow, he couldn't connect to it. He knew what emotions he should be feeling, and yet, he was still utterly devoid of them. In contrast to his internal calm, his entire body began trembling so violently that the wagon seemed a precarious perch at best.

A distant sound of horses was growing louder. D'Artagnan knew that meant something, but between his sudden trembling and Madame Boucher's wailing, he couldn't think what. One of Lemieux's henchmen gagged him, tying the rough cloth much tighter than required.

It was then that Monsieur Tremblay placed a hood over his head.

The darkness was his undoing.

His heart beat faster and the thought that he would die in darkness made him dizzier as his breath quickened. "I'm innocent!" he tried to shout, knowing they couldn't really hear him through the gag and the heavy sack over his head.

A moment later, and the noose tightened around his neck as the wagon's team of horses was startled into a run. Convulsively, d'Artagnan's legs kicked back and forth, tied though they were. His arms struggled against the chains in an instinctive, though useless, bid to move to the rope and save himself. He felt his lungs struggle for breath, and he felt his muscles strain and tear. Then, he felt nothing at all.