CHAPTER EIGHT
Aubin had picked himself up and stepped aside to allow the Captain of the King's Musketeers to sweep past him and out of the door. Treville was everything Aubin expected from a Captain of an elite band of soldiers, and when he had gone, Aubin turned his attention back to the man still glowering at him across the room.
"You don't look or act like the average Musketeer, Bragarreur," he said, rubbing his jaw.
Porthos bristled and they stood glowering at each other once more.
Now they knew what was expected of them. Treville had been quiet clear.
"We all serve the King," Porthos growled, looking at the Red Guard; still angry at the man's comment about his fists being bigger than his brain.
Aubin continued to weigh the man up.
"What you say is true. I mean no disrespect," he finally replied, moving toward the door;
"And it appears we have to work together, so we must learn to get along, do you not think? So I offer my apologies," he added.
Porthos relaxed slightly. He had, after all, acted in exactly the way this man had intimated; with his fists.
He could almost see Aramis shaking his head, and Athos rolling his eyes.
"Nah, it's alright," he conceded. "I do get a bit touchy when people ask about how I got into the Musketeers."
Aubin smiled. Standing with his hand on the door catch, he turned to look at Porthos once more.
"Did you win your commission in a card game?" Aubin said quickly before making a hasty retreat through the door.
Porthos sighed heavily, watching his retreating back.
"That would probably have been easier," Porthos muttered.
Outside, they eyed each other for a few moments, before Porthos headed towards the Palace stables to retrieve his horse. Hearing footsteps behind him, he glanced over his shoulder, without breaking stride.
His skinny Red Guard was following along in his footsteps.
Porthos sighed, gritted his teeth, straightened his back and quickened his pace.
This was going to be an interesting few days, to say the least.
oOo
In the dim light of the Infirmary, Athos was floating again.
His fever had returned.
He had pushed the hands away that attempted to place a cold cloth on his forehead.
Aramis was resigned to being rebuffed. He knew what the problem was.
"It is not your fault, mon frère," Aramis murmured; "Treville was there too, as were Porthos and I - we do not blame ourselves!"
"Please, Athos," he had entreated when he received no response.
For Athos did not listen. He had been at the rear of the escort, he had not been alert.
Six dead.
And so, his body slowly healed, but his conscience would take longer.
And now, he only knew the desire for revenge.
oOo
Following their instructions from his Captain, Porthos and Aubin Fabron left the confines of the Palace as the city began to wake and eased their horses at walking pace towards the city gates; along the busy embankment, now becoming crowded with traders and merchants. Porthos was not sorry to be leaving the city after the last month, and the late summer weather was presently pleasant enough to allow them to sleep in the open air in the days to come.
The River Seine was a slow flowing river of some seven hundred and seventy kilometres long, rising thirty kilometres northwest of Dijon in north eastern France, flowing through Paris. Their route would roughly follow the left bank of the river, which meandered its way through the city westward toward Rouen, skirting the villages of Mantes, and Vernon and the surrounding terrain, before entering the Forest de Brotonne.
The Seine was wide in some places, twisting and turning and looping into the trees in others, often out of sight. Its main tributaries were the Rivers Aube, Oise, Marne and Eure, which may have to be negotiated, depending on their route, and any deviations they took.
But as they left the confines of Paris; the scenery gradually changing, Porthos was brooding and was feeling betrayed.
When Treville had outlined his mission, he had assumed he would be operating on his own. He had relished the challenge.
He wanted revenge on this band of English murderers who had attacked his brothers.
His family.
They had scattered to the four winds. He would need all his tracking skills to trail them.
After nearly three weeks of heartbreak as he and every spare person at the Garrison had pulled together and tried to recover from the tragedy, he had been beside himself with frustration and anger.
He had seen the best of people, and the worst during the past three weeks.
He had lined up in the small cemetery and paid his respects to his six brothers-in-arms who had lost their lives so close to home, his hands curled into tight fists. He had seethed as each was lowered into the ground; aware that inside the Infirmary, Athos still fought for his life.
Now, as he made his way along the river's edge, he needed a purpose.
Athos was recovering, and he regretted that he had not been able to speak to him before he left, but Athos was asleep, too deeply to stir when he had briefly touched his shoulder, and he doubted he would agree with what he had been tasked to do.
Aramis had watched him leave Treville's office and had followed him into the stables; he had got it out of him with his charm, of course. Porthos had made him promise not to tell Athos. He knew he would have a few days grace before Aramis crumbled under Athos's interrogation, once he realised he was gone.
Porthos had slept and then said his farewells to Aramis, who had embraced him fiercely, wordlessly; before Porthos had pushed him onto a vacant cot before he fell with exhaustion. Aramis had been asleep in moments.
Now Porthos turned in his saddle and looked at the man riding behind him; he thought of Treville and growled.
A Red Guard.
Yes, betrayal was the word.
oOo
And so, the big Musketeer and the skinny Red Guard continued to ride in silence into the valley; the Seine to their right.
Onward, beneath pale morning skies;
Through orchards, and fields of crops and lavender.
Porthos was aware of Aubin Fabron, the Red Guard, keeping pace behind him. Neither had spoken since leaving the city walls, equally wary of each other. After an hour, Porthos called a halt. He had considered his strategy and now he needed to make himself understood.
"I'm in charge," he told the young man, without preamble, as Aubin drew up his horse beside him.
"How so?" asked Aubin.
"Can you track?" Porthos asked, raising a doubtful eyebrow.
Impatient, not waiting for an answer, he continued,
"We don't know the enemy," he continued. "We know their motive, and what they are capable of, but not their tactics or habits. We don't know how many there are. We don't know if they have split up; although I guess they will have, otherwise they would draw too much attention to themselves."
"We know these men are English. They're not native to this country; may not speak the language; they will 'ave to engage with the locals; stop and eat, water and shoe their horses.
"So wherever we stop, we ask the villagers. I doubt they would be sympathetic to strangers over French soldiers on the service of the King, but you never know; so we have to be cautious."
Porthos had been looking ahead as he spoke. Now he turned and spoke to the man sitting patiently next to him;
"We should be able to tell how far ahead they are once we pick up their first spoor and start to follow 'em."
"Spoor?" Aubin interrupted.
"Tracks," Porthos said. "Footprints, trails, or other signs they leave behind. Didn't you do any trackin' when you were a boy?"
"My father was the village blacksmith. Not much call for it," Aubin answered ruefully.
"Didn't you have any woods to play in?"
"Yes, there were woods all around. I learned to hunt, but there was no-one to show me how to track properly, and I spent a lot of time helping my father and then bringing my two younger brothers up."
Porthos sniffed. He had only learnt his skills since being a soldier. The tracking he did in the streets of Paris as a child was of a different kind. He could track a mark, follow them from the rooftops, and disappear into the shadows when he was spotted. But that experience had served to hone his instincts and made him a natural when he turned his skills to the countryside. He was the best tracker Treville had.
Aramis said it could be under your nose, but it would be Porthos who smelled it first.
They both dismounted and stretched their muscles. Porthos hadn't ridden much since the ambush, his time taken with helping his brothers and around the Garrison. He pulled out his bandeau and tied it around his head, aware of the heat in the sun.
"Our advantage," he continued, "is that we are in good condition, physically. When you're trackin' you need to be alert, spot every detail."
"You don't think these assassins will be well trained as well?" Aubin ventured.
"They've got murder on their mind; gettin' paid to deliver. Probably living rough since the ambush. Might make 'em sloppy. Especially if we begin to foul up their plans. They will expect us, after what they did to us; but they won't see us comin'"
"But we stick together," he finished. "There are only two of us, we don't split up."
Aubin held up his hand, knowing when he was outclassed.
"Fine, Bragarreur, you're in charge," he smiled.
"Don't they teach you anythin'?" Porthos muttered.
An hour later, Porthos had slammed Aubin Fabron on his back, stepped over him, and strode back to his horse to pull out the water skin.
To be continued ...