Chapter 3

"Who on Earth has time to write a 1000 word essay?" I wonder as I write a 2000 word chapter. Right. People who are good at prioritising. So… not me.

This work is unbeta'd, and was written rather quickly. Let me know if there are mistakes I didn't see (I'm sure there are quite a few). Also, all places and people mentioned in this chapter are absolutely fictional, except for those that can clearly be recognised as historical.

Time seems to come to a halt. The woman freezes when she sees the musket and the rapier pointed her way. The three musketeers merely stand as if nailed to the ground, dumbstruck by the unexpected unfolding of the situation. In the moment or two that it takes the musketeers to unfreeze themselves, the woman has composed herself. There is no sign of the frantic look she had in her eyes when the door swung open. Instead, there is a grim determination as she grips the candelabra (which is, d'Artagnan notes with a little worry, still raised above her head) tighter.

"You should know that if you attempt to shoot me, I will not hesitate to dent your head with this candelabra." The woman states calmly.

Her words are greeted by silence, as the musketeers try to regroup. It is plain to see that this woman has little to do with the men that plundered this place. Her dress looks expensive enough to make Constance blush, and she is obviously intimate with the workings of the house or she would not have known there was a door behind the tapestry. Which means, d'Artagnan realises, that she is no on their side. Petit, apparently, comes to the same conclusion and lowers his rapier.

Head throbbing slightly from the sudden move it just made, d'Artagnan moves back slightly, as he says, "No need to worry, Madame. We have no intention to hurt you."

The woman remains as still as a statue, staring at something over d'Artagnan's shoulder. When he turns around he realises that Vasser still has his musket raised and pointed in the general direction of the door. Petit rolls his eyes and pushes Vasser's musket down slowly so it's pointing at the ground. He then the states cordially, "As I am sure Vasser here," his large hand waved in the direction of the shocked Briton, "will assure you when he regains his ability to speak, we truly wish you no harm."

"He does seem a bit shocked." Comes the woman's tense reply.

"Well, in his defence madame, you did look like a wrathful angel when you came out the door like that." Petit replies easily. The man really does know the workings of the court, d'Artagnan realises with some amusement.

"You flatter me," she states, but she does not smile, "You must forgive me, however, if I do not take your word for it. Trust is not something I give away easily." the unspoken 'anymore' hangs in the air, heavy and unstirring.

"We are here by order of the King," d'Artagnan decides to cut in. In his mind, that really is the only proof of loyalty necessary. To everyone's relief, the woman seems to agree to some extent. Though her hands have not dropped yet, they're shaking with exertion, and she seems at interested in what they have to say. Or at least, she seems less interested in bashing in d'Artagnan's head.

Vasser, who has finally wrapped his mind around what is happening, unclips his pauldron and hands it to d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan, in turn, holds it up to the woman and adds to his previous statement, "We're musketeers, see?"

It takes another second or two for relief to wash over the woman's face, as she lowers her hands. The candelabra falls to the ground with a loud clatter. Hesitantly, d'Artagnan reaches out to her, in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.

"What's your name?" Petit asks, surprisingly gently for a man of his size.

"Marie-Claire de Boirgeaux." Her voice is still stable, though she seems to be looking through all of them.

d'Artagnan finally reaches her shoulder with his hand, gripping it softly to let her know he is there. God only knows what Marie-Claire has gone through. He shares a look with Petit, who nods and adds in that same gentle voice he used before, "Madame de Boirgeaux, are you alright?"

It's quiet for a minute or so, silence filling the hall with tension. Then something between a sob and a gasp for air pierces the silence. For the briefest of moments de Boirgeaux hides her face behind her hand. She leans forward slightly, bowed over.

"No." She states, her voice breaking. d'Artagnan leans closer, his grip strengthening slightly, asking silently what happened. When she replies her tone is dead, void of any of the emotion that just sounded in the brief crack of her voice when she just spoke, "No. Everyone is dead."

The musketeers share shocked expressions. Everyone dead. That is… brutal. Petit opens his mouth as if to say something, but it seems as though even his charm has no words for this. d'Artagnan just tightens his grip even further.

It is Vasser who finally breaks the silence. "If it helps… We killed those who did this.

The woman's head whips up quickly, eyes teary but full of fury. She looks Vasser in the eyes with such ferocity, that the man almost feels the need to take a step back.

"Good." She spits. "I hope it hurt."

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By the time all five musketeers are grouped back in the kitchen with a furious Marie-Claire de Boirgeaux, it is clear that she truly is the only survivor. As to what happened in the manor, Madame de Boirgeaux can barely stay still long enough to tell the story. Every time a particularly nasty part comes up she stands up and gestures wildly, as if she hopes she can turn back time by simply waving her arms.

The story itself is a terrible. Sadly, it is not much different from what anyone expected. Two nights ago a group of about six men attacked the manor. They started by setting fire to the vineyards, and then proceeded to blowing out the door with gunpowder. The fortress, though usually heavily guarded had been lulled into a feeling of safety by the amount of guards that were protecting them. It came as a large shock therefore that almost half the guard turned against them, and helped the attackers gain entrance. Once inside, everything went to hell. The manor, at the moment of the outbreak of violence had been almost solely inhabited by men who had tried to hold their ground. It was sheer luck that the lord's wife and children had all left to visit his brother in the South of France. The men were less lucky. They were all killed.

The only reason Marie-Claire is still alive is because her uncle pushed her towards the safety of the trap door. She was the only woman in the place, and she hadn't dared to come out in fear of what the men would do to her. What exactly that was is not specified but it hangs in the air like the sword of Damocles.

d'Artagnan swallows at the implication. He may let his heart rule his head, but he is by no means stupid. Or naïve. He knows what the consequences could have been for a young woman among some rowdy, homesick men. And it made d'Artagnan's blood boil. All he can see when he thinks of that is Constance in a similar situation. That thought alone is enough to make bile rise up in his throat.

The four other men wear looks of similar disgust, which only deepen when Marie-Claire tells the rest of the story. She tells them how Monsieur Jean de Boirgeaux-Parcet, Marie-Claire's uncle and his men were lined up in the hallway adjacent to her hiding spot. They were asked in no uncertain terms to join the attackers in a coup against the King. Monsieur de Boirgeaux-Parcet was to bring more men into the palace without a problem, he was part of the royal family after all. He refused. His men, loyal as ever, never left his side. They were all killed, then rolled in the tapestries and dumped out among the vineyards. d'Artagnan remembered seeing strange lumps among the vines, but he would never have guessed what they were.

"He man, the one in charge," Marie-Claire continues, "He kept talking about the coup. And I wanted to go out. I wanted to stop them, to help them, but I was too scared. I'm a coward."

The last part is said in a self-depreciating whisper. d'Artagnan, who is truly enraptured by the story, and impressed by the noble woman's composure, shakes his head immediately.

"I do not know you well Madame, nor do I presume to, but I am pretty sure that you are not a coward. You did the only sensible thing in waiting out in the secret chamber." d'Artagnan tells her.

DuPont nods in assent, "You would certainly have been killed had you gone out Madame. Now you are alive to warn us, and King Louis of an attempt to his throne."

Madame de Boirgeaux presses her lips together in obvious disagreement, but she does not mention her presumed cowardice again.

It is decided quickly that the most prudent thing to do is be to get back to Paris, where Madame de Boirgeaux can personally tell her cousin – the King – what she has overheard. Everyone is eager to leave the carnage of death and decay behind them, and no one more that Marie-Claire. She and Petit, who she has taken a liking to ride out to wait just beyond the vineyards as the musketeers bury the dead. The attackers and the residents of the house are both buried separately, so as not to waste any fertile soil on bad men. And maybe one or to globs of spit find themselves on the graves of the traitors, but no one seems to mind.

It is with a heavy heart that they group of six leave behind the destruction on the hill.

CBB SREETEKSUM EHT

A warm sun rises above Paris as the band of musketeers and the noble woman near it. It's autumn, and the sun is rare, especially in Paris. d'Artagnan, summer child that he is usually relishes any warmth he can get. Today, his thoughts are not on the sun. He's riding next to Marie-Claire who, he notices only now, is still wearing her dirty dress. Her hair is still in disarray, and there are dark circles under her eyes. Still, she sits straight in her saddle, with her head held high. Watching her, he can't help but think of Constance. Not that the two women look very similar, but they have that same look of pride over them. Yes, she's like Constance. Constance who also has that determined look. Constance who can always make him smile. Constance who is perfect for him in every single way.

Constance… who is married.

Right. d'Artagnan sighs, and looks back at the ever approaching city in front of him. He needs to get his head on straight. The group is going straight for the palace to inform the King as soon as possible, and the chance that he is going to see Constance there is very high. He can't let that distract him. Head over heart, like Athos always says.

Athos. Well, that is another name that d'Artagnan might want to ignore for the time being, if the does not want to get distracted.

Marie-Claire casts him a strange look when he let out yet another sigh. He smiles at her sheepishly and murmurs something that is meant to be an apology but probably came out sounding as a sigh. It seems he can't stop sighing. Or thinking.

Or feeling.

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King Louis is bored. He desperately wants to go on a hunt but Rochefort has strongly advised against it. Apparently he needs to welcome his far away family from Sweden today. He's met them a few times. They're friendly. They like hunting, too, which would really provide a good reason to go hunting, but Louis trusts Rochefort. If he says it is better to have a banquet tonight instead of a hunt this afternoon, the king will listen. Or, in truth, will grace Rochefort by listening to him. After all, Louis decides in the end. He is the king.

Just when the king is speaking with his economic advisor about the price of Chinese silk (a very expensive commodity), the doors to the palace hall open loudly. In stalks haggard woman, followed by five rather awkward looking men. Behind them is the doorkeeper, begging them to come back and wait until he as announced them. The men, he sees, are musketeers, the fleur-de-lis prominent on their shoulders. Among them is d'Artagnan, he notices with some satisfaction. He is always glad to see that man.

It is only when his eyes pass over the woman that his mouth drops. Because that bedraggled, tired looking woman in a dirty coat and a dress stained with blood is none other than…

"Marie-Claire! You look terrible, niece!" Louis exclaims.

"Thank you." His cousin replies dryly, though she does grace her cousin with a smile.

"As always I'm happy to see you, but you could have cleaned yourself up for your king!" Louis is teasing. Sort of.

Marie-Claire's face instantly goes hard. She moves forward with a frown to stand in front of him. On her face he can see lines of sorrow now. They etch into her face around her eyes and in her forehead. Reluctantly the King realises that he is not going to like what his niece has to hell him.

"Jean is dead." De Boirgeaux cuts to the chase, like she usually does, "They wanted him to help with a coup of the throne. He refused."

For a moment the words do not land. He is tempted to ask her to repeat them, but he knows what he heard. Jean, his uncle – many times removed, but close to the family – is dead. Even worse, someone is coming for his throne. His mouth gapes a second or two, then it moves, to yell the only name that he wants to hear right now.

"ROCHEFORT!"

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The five musketeers ride to the garrison. They're tired, aching, and they know that in a day or two they will be sent out again. This time to deliver not a letter, but a woman to the South of France. After some careful deliberation it was decided that it was unsafe in the palace for Marie-Claire, she is to be escorted to her other uncle, to stay with him. Also, as Moreau points out needlessly, to bring the sad news to her cousins and aunt who are staying there at the moment. d'Artagnan feels a pang of second hand pain from that. Bad news is never pleasant to pass on.

Not that the Gascon necessarily cares at the moment. He mostly just wants to sleep.

Of course, that idea flies right off the table when the rides into the garrison and sees Aramis and Porthos leaning against the stable walls. The two of them smile brightly and wave him over the moment they see him. d'Artagnan just knows that their conversation will not be an easy one. There is no way that his two friends are going to avoid the subject 'Athos', especially because he denied their offers to come along on the mission.

It turns out, the conversation does avoid the subject of Athos, because what d'Artagnan forgets, as the walks out of the stables, is that he has an enormous bruise on his forehead from his opponents punch a few days ago. And a bloodstained sleeve. And two very overprotective friends.

Porthos frowns the moment he sees the bruise, with a brisk 'what did you do to yourself this time?' the allows Aramis to pass him and fumble at d'Artagnan's shoulder, trying to assess the damage. It takes about two seconds for the Gascon to get annoyed, and he pulls away just as quickly.

"Get off, Aramis. It's fine." He grumbles.

"Sure. Fine like that time you were almost blown to bits by Vadim?" Aramis asks sarcastically. Porthos tilts his head with a smirk.

With a sigh – is that number 10 today? – d'Artagnan lets the medic raid his shoulder, and his head. It's only when he sees Athos, who appeared seemingly out of nowhere, that he pulls away completely. He Compte de la Fère's look is a mix of guilt, trepidation, and a strange sort of resignation that makes d'Artagnan's stomach turn. When the older man averts his eyes, d'Artagnan quickly takes his leave.

"I'm tired. Just going to head up to a bed." The Gascon mutters quickly, practically running (though stumbling is more likely, giving the weariness in his legs) to his chambers.

Athos carefully looks anywhere but into his friends eyes as he marches to a yet unknown location. Aramis and Porthos share a look. Athos is drinking himself to death. d'Artagnan is coming back from missions wounded.

This has got to stop.

CBB SREETEKSUM EHT

Friends in a fight are annoying. Friends who are not necessarily in a fight, but are not really talking to each other either are even more annoying. Especially if whatever caused the fight is unknown. At least, that is Porthos' humble opinion. And yes. He is annoyed.

So, naturally he and Aramis have come up with a devious and irrefutably clever plan. They are going to lock the two troublemakers in the infirmary, which they have determined as the place in the garrison with the least weapons. Also, if the two errant musketeers decided to attack their well doers, medical supplies are close at hand.

As Porthos enters the garrison a day after their youngest friend's return, his pockets are weighed down by his winnings from last night. d'Artagnan is descending the steps that lead to Treville's office. The young man stomps down the stairs impatiently, looking like the world had wronged him in the most fundamental way. His face holds the petulant look of a five-year-old who has just been told that he is not allowed any more sweets. Perfect. Time for their newest mission.

"What has you looking so grumpy this morning?" Porthos asks, swinging his arm over d'Artagnan's shoulders, steering him towards the infirmary. If all has gone according to plan, Athos is already inside, seething and probably attempting to murder Aramis.

"I'm not allowed to do anything today. I have to 'rest up', according to Treville." The disgusted tone in the Gascon's voice amuses Porthos to no end, and his boisterous laugh is enough to distract the boy long enough to get him right in front of the infirmary without him asking any questions.

Just when the boy frowns and starts protesting (something about 'definitely not hurt enough to be here'), an exhasperated voice sounds from behind the door.

"For the last time, Aramis." Athos intones, "I am thoroughly uninterested in your supposed 'love potion'."

d'Artagnan's eyes are suddenly comically wide, and he's turning away from the door. It's a good thing Porthos is strong, or he wouldn't have gotten the wriggling Gascon through the door. Aramis, who is right inside the chamber shoots them all a cheeky grin. There's a split second of surprise from Athos, and a disgruntled sigh from d'Artagnan. Then Aramis and Porthos are out the door. They barricade it setting two chairs before it, and sitting down on them.

Inside d'Artagnan is punching the door.

"I am going to kill you when I get out." The shouts angrily.

"Get in line." Athos adds, just loud enough for them to hear.

After a few fruitless minutes of banging the door, it quiets down in the room. Neither of the two stubborn men say anything for at least half an hour. Then Athos clears his throat.

"So." He drawls, "I think what our two soon-to-be-dead friends are trying to tell us, is that we have to talk."

d'Artagnan sighs.