CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Some way behind Porthos and Aubin:
The food at the Lion d'Or tavern had been good, surprisingly. The appearance of the place itself, and the fact that Porthos had left the owner somewhat disgruntled by his recent visit had not given them confidence that service would be satisfactory. Following the meal, where Aramis was pleased to see his tired companion manage most of it, he had disappeared to speak to the landlord, before coming back and hauling Athos to his feet. Neither had drunk much, aware that an early start was needed in the morning; so it was not drink but exhaustion that was now claiming him.
For that reason, Aramis had decided to take a room at the tavern for the evening. Getting Athos up the stairs took the last of his friend's strength.
It was a simple room, with two cots. A small table between held a plate upon which two pewter cups and a pitcher of water had been placed. A fat tallow candle stood to the side of the plate, half melted down by the use of a previous occupant. A wooden chest and two wooden chairs were the rooms only other furniture. Thin curtains hung at the single window.
Steering him to the nearest bed, Aramis lowered a compliant Athos into a sitting position and began to remove his sword belt, receiving only a baleful stare as his reward.
Next came his jacket. Again, no resistance came.
"Why are we stopping here?" Athos mumbled, his eyes closing, as Aramis kept him upright with a firm hand on his chest.
"Because you are exhausted, mon cher," Aramis whispered kindly, before piling pillows at the head of the bed and swinging his legs up.
Sighing, Athos lay back and allowed Aramis to remove his boots.
Happily unscathed by this settling process, Aramis took a pillow from his own bed and placed it gently under his brother's left knee, hoping to relieve the unspoken-of ache in his hip; evident to Aramis by the limp that became more pronounced as the day wore on, and the reluctance to then put pressure on the leg if standing for too long.
Unspoken of; but not unnoticed.
Aramis lit the remains of the candle.
"I will not be long," he said fondly, making his way to the door.
When he returned, he carried with him a bottle of wine. Gently opening the door, he stood for a moment in the doorway looking at Athos.
His brother had not moved; he lay back against the pillows, fighting sleep. Aramis stepped quietly into the room and closed the door behind him.
Turning back, he saw Athos had lifted his head and was watching him, his hand raised.
In it, he was holding one of the pewter cups; the other lay on the bed, ready for Aramis.
"I am glad I pressed you to stay," Athos said, looking at the bottle, a smile on his lips.
Aramis laughed and pulled a chair up to the bed. Flopping down, he placed his booted feet on the bed and pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth, spitting it to the floor. Aramis could make even a disagreeable action such as that look elegant, Athos thought as he watched it bounce across the scarred wooden floorboards.
Athos then held both cups out and Aramis poured.
"I am glad too, brother," he replied, raising his cup in silent appreciation of his friend.
Athos drained the cup, but appeared too tired to raise it once more, and so Aramis leant forward and refilled the cup without comment.
Like Athos, Aramis also believed in the restorative powers of the grape and tonight, he was willing to overlook its less attractive properties.
Soon, talk ceased and Athos was asleep. Aramis replaced the cups gently on the plate and pulled the thin blanket over his brother.
Standing, he looked down at him for a few moments, before taking himself to bed.
Tonight, he had done all he could to ensure that, in the morning, his brother would sit a little taller in his saddle.
oOo
They had left the tavern as the sun rose, and Aramis and Athos had trailed Porthos as far as the base of the ridge. Finding the red twine had lightened their hearts and they both looked up toward the top before they spurred their horses and made their way up the incline. Dismounting, they looked around but could see no further signs. No further twine was found. The top of the ridge was flat rock that told them nothing. It led to a further chasm over which a waterfall fell.
And thus, they lost all contact.
It was as if Porthos and his companion had slipped off the edge of the earth. There was nothing they could do but continue toward the Hunting Lodge, in the hope that further signs may be visible along the way, to indicate that Porthos had found his way back to his original route.
But after the joy of finding his mark at the base of the ridge, they were each beginning to feel a sense of foreboding.
Up until now, they had been confident and had felt that their brother was with them in spirit. Every time they found evidence of his progression, they were buoyed, but Porthos had suddenly disappeared.
Aramis began to contemplate dark thoughts as to the intentions of the Red Guard who accompanied Porthos, but he pushed such images to the back of his mind as he continued to look for any signs that may tell them where they had gone.
It was while Athos was scanning the valley below that he had seen movement under a range of trees in the near distance, to the west of their location. Whistling to Aramis and waving him over, it was from this height that he had indicated the group of men, just visible in a clearing below them.
They had both now taken up position behind an outcrop of rocks so they could better observe them. They counted eight men in total, two on the outskirts of the group keeping watch, the rest in various stages of tasks. A group of four were looking at what was obviously a map. They were dressed in plain black garb and were well armed. They also had a fine group of horses, tethered at the edge of their enclave, with equally fine saddles.
They watched as two of the group seemed to become embroiled in an altercation, which ended with one of them taking a particularly vicious swing at the other, which left him sprawled on the ground. There he stayed until he gathered himself and staggered off into the undergrowth. No-one had helped him.
Aramis exchanged a look between surprise and worry with Athos.
It was early morning, and the birds were particularly active, their song masking the men's voices, but something was not right. Leaving their horses at the top of the ridge, they both made their way down to another outcrop of rock below them in order to observe more closely.
Aramis took a small spy-glass from his belt and settled down to watch the men. Straining to listen, he silently cursed the songbirds that, on other occasions, he waxed lyrical over.
"Athos, these men are not English," Aramis finally murmured, lowering the spy-glass and turning to look at him.
"What do you mean?" Athos replied, drawing closer and peering between two rocks.
"They are not English," he repeated patiently. "Look at that sentry. That is no Englishman."
He handed the spy-glass to Athos, who followed his line of vision, looking at the man on the edge of the group, who had removed his hat and was running his hand through his dark hair.
"I agree, his complexion is not pale and insipid, but that does not mean they are not our quarry." Athos replied, looking at Aramis, before handing the spy-glass back.
He shrugged his shoulders in response to the disdainful stare that Aramis returned.
The birds eventually quietened down and voices began to filter through.
"Spanish," Aramis confirmed, when two of the men began to argue loudly over the map.
"But we know the group we seek are English," Athos whispered, "I heard them," he murmured, his mind momentarily back to the ambush, grasping Loubert's hand.
"There is something else afoot here, mon ami," Aramis replied.
Athos did not reply, still lost in thought, but when he spoke, his words were not encouraging.
"We cannot carry on looking for Porthos. We cannot afford to let this group out of our sight."
They sat and watched them for some time, Aramis straining to catch the conversations, but to no avail.
Eventually, they both quietly withdrew and moved back up the incline, before being confident enough to speak.
"I believe they are "Tercios," Aramis said, taking up the reins of their horses and moving them over to a group of trees. "Spanish infantry; they comprise small fighting units, made up of volunteers. These are Catalan. Probably criminals; it's common practise. And this way, if they are caught, it will be assumed they are mercenaries, not trained soldiers. It would not do for King Phillip to be incriminated in the assassination of the English Queen."
"For that must surely be what brings them this close to the route she takes," Athos sighed, settling down with his back against a tree.
"It is too much of a coincidence, my friend," Aramis agreed.
"Treville was right," Athos murmured. "He said the Spanish had a grudge against Richelieu because he turned down Rochefort's release. He spoke of his fears. The Spanish have spies everywhere. They would know of the Queen Consort's visit."
"Everyone in Paris now knows," Aramis replied quietly.
Athos sat lost in thought for a moment before turning to Aramis.
"I believe Treville wants his Musketeers to foil both plans."
"To rise from the ashes, and singe Richelieu's beard." Aramis said, smiling.
Athos rolled his eyes.
"He is asking a lot," Athos continued, but a renewed respect for Treville was beginning to burn once more.
They knew that Porthos and his Red Guard companion had engaged and killed four of the English assassins, but their whereabouts were now unknown.
The Hunting Lodge was not far, but these men were too close for comfort, and Henrietta Maria would now be on the road and heading into unknown danger.
Things had just got very complicated.
To be continued ...