Porthos and d'Artagnan rode side by side with Paris now behind them, traveling south to Blois. Outside of town, Porthos stopped his horse on the side of the road and dismounted.
"What are you doing?" d'Artagnan asked, still mounted.
"Remove your pauldron and bury it deep in your saddlebag, d'Artagnan," the large Musketeer instructed. "Do it now, the less conspicuous we appear on this mission the better. "With these on," Porthos held up his unbuckled pauldron, "we're automatically drawin' attention to ourselves—makin' us potential targets."
"I don't like this," the young Musketeer grumbled as he dismounted to unbuckle and remove his pauldron. "We shouldn't have to hide who, or what,we are, Porthos!"
"I agree, d'Artagnan." Porthos nodded as he buried his coveted pauldron identifying him as a Musketeer, deep underneath his extra clothing. "But this is no ordinary mission and we have to be careful."
"Where did you put that letter?" d'Artagnan asked as he buried his own pauldron under his fresh linens.
"Somewhere safe," Porthos answered succinctly.
"Yes, I understand it's somewhere safe, Porthos." The Gascon rolled his eyes, slightly irritated. "But where is it?"
"Nevermind, pup," Porthos skirted the question. "If we're captured and they torture you for answers, you won't have to lie."
"Are you serious?" D'Artagnan's voice raised about two octaves; he clenched his jaw muscles tightly. "I don't need to be protected, Porthos," he spat. "I need to be able to do my job. Besides, I can take care of myself."
"Let's get going and do our jobs then," Porthos growled.
The duo mounted their horses and rode along in silence until they reached the forest edge of Torfou. Despite all their experiences as Musketeers surviving fights, battles and attacks, this forest brought especially calamitous memories. They instantly recognized the scene where they had been attacked less than two months ago, and they both shuddered.
D'Artagnan's muscles tensed as he gripped the reins tighter and kicked his horse to a faster pace. The young Gascon darted his eyes around the vicinity, turning his head from the left to the right, scanning between the trees on both sides of the road.
"I know you're nervous, d'Artagnan, but try not to appear so obvious," Porthos cautioned. "Just relax and try to look natural, but stay vigilant."
"Aren't you at least a little nervous?" d'Artagnan whispered sideways.
"Of course I am," Porthos muttered. "I haven't forgotten about this godforsaken forest—or what happened here—I just try not to think about it."
"Sometimes I have dreams about this place," the young man admitted softly. "I don't remember anything in my dreams but pieces, more like broken images. . ." his voice trailed.
"Well, you were the first to go down; I doubt you would remember much." Porthos shook his head at the still-vivid memory.
"D'Artagnan!" Porthos tried to warn as two shots rang out. . . d'Artagnan jerked forward and fell face down to the ground. The memory that flashed through Porthos' mind sent cold chills down his spine.
Porthos avoided looking into the trees but kept his eyes fixated on the road ahead; otherwise the memories would have been too distracting. The large man knew he needed to keep his mind focused solely on the mission at hand—reflecting on the past could wait for another time—or else he would be putting the both of them at great risk.
Neither spoke again until they saw the village sign of Chamarande. "We could stop by and see Aramis, if we weren't so pressed for time." D'Artagnan joked as they rode past the village.
"No, I don't think he's here anyway," Porthos replied. "I overheard Cécile say somethin' about goin' to her home in Orléans; that's where she was born and raised, so she said."
"Oh, but aren't we going through Orléans too?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, we are," Porthos nodded. "It is where we turn west toward Blois. We will follow along the Loire River on the road all the way from Orléans to Blois."
"Where are we stopping for the night?" D'Artagnan yawned as his interest in conversation waned.
"We'll stop in Cercottes," Porthos answered. "I know the couple who run the inn there and they can be trusted."
"I've never stopped in Cercottes before—first time for everything, I guess."
~§~
The evening sky was colorfully painted with hues of pink and purple when the boys finally arrived in Cercottes. The Musketeers handed off their horses to a young stable boy as Porthos dropped a few coins in his little hand. "Merci, Monsieur!" The boy smiled as he led the two horses to the stable.
After getting a quick bite to eat, Porthos and d'Artagnan retired to their room, turning in early so they could get an early start in the morning. Sitting with his back to the young Gascon, Porthos pulled off his boots carefully. In the right boot, he could feel the outline of the letter folded underneath the insole's fabric, where it would remain safely hidden for the duration of the trip.
The next morning, the boys were already on their horses and riding toward Orléans as the birds began sweetly serenading and welcoming the rising sun, brightening a new day.
"Ah, it's a beautiful mornin', brother." Porthos smiled as he gazed at the eastern sky painted in lovely shades of red and orange. "Let's get this damn letter delivered so we can get back home."
"I hope Athos is doing alright," d'Artagnan remarked, his mind distant. "Without someone there to make sure he gets his rest, his cough will only worsen."
"Exactly why I want to get back to the garrison," Porthos muttered. "Athos is just stubborn enough to do somethin' foolish and there's no one there to stop 'im."
"But surely, the captain won't let Athos get back to duty unless he is fit and ready—which he is not. I keep telling you, Porthos, to stop worrying so much," d'Artagnan asserted.
"The cap'n is stretched thin on manpower; he doesn' ha' time to babysit," Porthos countered.
"Is that Orléans up ahead?" D'Artagnan motioned with his head toward the town.
"Yes," Porthos nodded warily. "Listen, Orléans is a busy river port town with some shady characters lookin' to make easy money off travelers. Keep your eyes open and watch for anyone following us or acting suspicious."
"Will do," d'Artagnan nodded with agreement. He sat up straighter in the saddle while taking notice of the people milling about in the streets. Along the river, transport boats sat moored by the docks as workers unloaded goods to be delivered to the nearby shops.
The town bustled with energy in the early morning sunlight as the town folk readied for another day of business. D'Artagnan soon found himself engrossed in watching the scurried activity of the people, many of whom smiled warmly at the Gascon as he rode past. The people here in Orléans seem quite friendly enough. What is Porthos talking about when referring to the "shady characters" of this town? I see no evidence of such behavior—it's certainly better than the ports in Le Havre.
The Musketeers reached the junction in the road turning them due west toward Blois, following parallel with the Loire River. D'Artagnan smiled as he watched the riverboats floating along in both directions. Some boats prepared to dock in Orléans; while others floated past them downriver toward Blois, or perhaps on toward the open seas.
Porthos couldn't shake the feeling that they were being followed, but as he turned in his saddle to look behind them, there was no one in sight. The large Musketeer continued checking in all directions for trackers as they traveled down the road. "I don't like 'is," Porthos complained as he scratched his head nervously.
"What's the matter?" d'Artagnan asked with alarm. "Do you see someone following us?" The young Gascon looked around cautiously but didn't see any followers.
"No, but I have a feelin' in my head that somethin's not right. Whenever my head starts itchin', like it is now, I know somethin's wrong." Porthos reached up and scratched his head again.
D'Artagnan looked around, using his eyes to scan around him rather than turning his head, but still did not see any evidence of being tracked.
They traveled without incident as they neared the county seat of Mairie; Porthos' suspicion that they were being trailed grew the longer they traveled. The two Musketeers instinctively held their hands near their pistols in case quick action was needed.
The duo rounded a bend in the road, taking them into a heavily wooded area with tall, thick trees acting as a canopy to the road; the road was well-hidden from the river. The Musketeers were startled, yet not caught off-guard, at the sudden sound of gunfire coming from behind them as they rode deeper into the trees.
The Musketeers immediately went for the weapons at their side but as d'Artagnan raised his pistol upward, he was knocked from his horse by the force of a musket ball hitting his shoulder. An assailant jumped from his horse then grabbed the Gascon and pulled him to his feet; his pistol was pressed hard into the wounded man's right temple.
"Throw your weapon down," the assailant laughed sadistically. "If you don't comply, I will blow a rather large hole in your friend's head."
Porthos had gotten off one shot at their attackers earlier, hitting one of them in the chest and killing him instantly. However, there were still three others who now had their weapons trained on him, as well as the gunman with his pistol directed at d'Artagnan's head.
The large Musketeer had no choice but to drop his weapon and raise his hands in surrender. "You'll get nothin' from me if you hurt the boy," Porthos threatened with a menacing growl.
"Oh, we'll get something from you, Musketeer," the man's voice dripped with evil pleasure. "Oh, and yes, you can count on us hurting the boy, as you call him." With a swift rush of his hand, the man whipped his pistol into d'Artagnan's temple, sending him falling to the ground, knocked out cold. "Give us what we want and we'll let you go."
"I don't know what you're talkin' about," Porthos feigned ignorance. Inside, his heart ached for the still form now lying on the ground in a heap. Blood dripped slowly from the cut on d'Artagnan's head; the first of blood spilled over nothing more than a piece of paper.
Suddenly, a swift punch to Porthos' sides knocked him from his horse. The unexpected attack forced the breath from his lungs with an involuntary gasp before he even hit the hard ground.
"Stop!" the man beside d'Artagnan held up his hands to his fellow attackers. "We can't do this out here, it's too dangerous. Let's get them back to the château where we will have all the privacy we'll need to beat this secret correspondence from its hiding place. We know what you are carrying with you, Musketeer," the man sneered. "We also know where it's going, so don't play innocent."
Porthos knew that he had to comply and cooperate with these attackers, simply for d'Artagnan's sake. "What about my friend?" The large Musketeer motioned toward the unconscious man on the ground. "He needs medical attention, dammit!"
The man laughed as he motioned his friends over to d'Artagnan's side. "Put him on my horse once I'm in the saddle," he ignored Porthos. "The young one rides with me; I will hold him as insurance, in case the big Musketeer gets any ideas about running off."
Two henchmen lifted a limp d'Artagnan up to the rider, positioning him in the front of the saddle; the rider wrapped an arm around the young Gascon's chest to hold him in place. "Try anything foolish," he said to Porthos, "I won't hesitate to slit his throat." He uncovered his dagger so the sunlight gleamed off the blade as it hung on the man's hip near his hand.
Resigned with defeat, Porthos mounted his horse in compliance to the man's violent threat. The Musketeer rode beside the henchmen but behind the leader, grasping a limp and bleeding d'Artagnan in his arms.
"While we ride to the château, I would suggest you think hard about what secrets you are hiding and whether they are worth the blood and suffering of your friend. If that's not motivation enough, I've got plenty of plans for you too, big man."
"You don't scare me," Porthos growled. "You are nothin' but two-bit hired goons. Who's payin' ya to do his dirty work, eh?"
"It matters not who hired us, but the money is great motivation. We will pull out all the stops, if necessary, to get what our employer wants. I would think someone else's secret would not important enough to be tormented for, especially when given the choice to stop it. Everyone has a breaking point, Musketeer."
"I don't," Porthos snarled defiantly.
"Well, I can see that it may take some working over on your friend here—as well as yourself—to get the information we need. But you will break eventually; you can count on it. Your life from here on out is going to be a living hell," the man spit through his teeth. "A living hell for both of you… that much I will promise."
A/N:
The Loire River is the longest river in France. It runs north and then west for 1,020 km (or 634 miles) and empties into the Atlantic Ocean.
The Loire Valley has been called the "Garden of France," with its picturesque river scenery dotted with a thousand châteaux, both in the valley and along the river. River traffic increased particularly in the medieval times for shipping merchandise. Toll bridges were put in use and today some of these bridges still remain, dating over 800 years old. River navigation was frequently stopped by flood or drought. In 1707, floods were said to have drowned around 50,000 people, with the water rising more than 3 m (9.8 ft) in two hours in Orléans, one of the river's largest and most important port cities.