A/N:Wow, so...I'm sure it seems like I've abandoned this story, but I haven't. I was a bit disappointed in myself for not finishing it by the end of August (which would have been just over a year since I started writing the story). Then September hit, and fall is the busiest season for me when it comes to work. But the good news is that the word count for this story is over 50k in my Word document, and I have a good start on the next chapter...which sees the appearance of a different character...and more of Aramis getting hit in the head (I'm not sure if that counts as good news for everyone or not). So I'm not sure how many people are still interesting in seeing the end of this story, but...there is more to come. I'm just going to keep plugging away at it.
And a sincere thank you to everyone who has sent me messages or bugged me about this story (even if I failed to reply). Your interest continues to astound me.
By morning, Aramis decided he'd had enough. He hadn't slept. Neither had his comrades if their expressions were any indication, dark circles under everyone's eyes and complexions pale from lack of rest and adequate food.
He could feel the collective stress wearing on them, and it stirred something inside him, something restless and impulsive that he should suppress, even though he sorely wanted to embrace it. It was an impulse he was deeply familiar with, and listening to it usually resulted in some trouble or another. Still, trouble usually came with its own benefits.
Aramis supposed it came down to this: he was beginning to tire of playing prisoner.
After the confrontation with Cordero the night before, it was perhaps too soon to press for more, but he felt as though he was running out of time. They had only a few days at most until Athos's courier would return with new orders from Tréville—orders that would determine Aramis's fate. He needed to have some information by then, and right now, he had only suspicions—strong suspicions, yes, but some confirmation would not go amiss. And the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that the hunting lodge was the key.
Aramis couldn't even wait until they'd been fed the morning meal before he succumbed to the desire for action. He pushed himself up onto his knees, then pulled his feet under him. Crouching down so as not to draw anyone's attention, he made his way to Cordero's side.
Cordero heard him approaching.
"I don't want to hear it, Renato." Cordero laid on his side facing away, not even raising his head to look at Aramis. His voice was rough from lack of sleep.
"I just want to know why," Aramis said.
With a groan, Cordero pushed himself up, pulling his legs underneath him to face Aramis head on. "Why what? Why I put up with your insolence?" Cordero snorted. "Simple, I was ordered to bring you along and haven't found a way to rid myself of you yet."
Aramis laughed bitterly. "By which you mean you're threatened by me and afraid I'll usurp your position." The glare Cordero shot him was confirmation enough. "No, I want to know why you would betray our position to the French."
A quick glance ensured that their low voices had still managed to attract the attention that Aramis desired.
Cordero growled. "What?"
"You're the only one who knew precisely where we would be. The only one who could have given away our exact position. And the musketeers knew we would be here. You're the only one who could have given them that information and I want to know why." Aramis spoke low, voice tinged with growing anger until the last word came out as a harsh demand.
"Keep your voice down, you fool." Cordero glanced about nervously. The others were watching, straining to hear as much of the furiously whispered conversation as they could manage.
"Why should I? You're hiding things. You took Garza and left the camp, but you never told me about it. You really expect me to believe you're innocent after you've so clearly been lying and keeping secrets?"
"I don't answer to you."
That was true enough, but Aramis ignored it and pushed on. "There was no need to scout the terrain in that area, so what was it, then? A secret meeting? To pass information off to the French?"
Cordero swore. "You imbecile. If you were half the soldier you think you are, you would know better than to question a superior officer about matters that don't concern you."
"But they do concern me," Aramis said. "They brought me to this hell hole, didn't they? Because you've been supplying information to the French."
Cordero grabbed him and swung him about, as fast as a snake, nearly snarling in Aramis's face. "You listen to me, you bastard. I don't need to defend myself to a coward like you. But you're so far off the mark that I have to wonder if your brain has been replaced by horse shit. I'm not supplying the French with information. They're the ones who have been passing intelligence to me."
Aramis felt his eyes go wide in surprise that was mostly genuine. This was what he'd suspected, what Tréville had known was happening all along. But to hear Cordero admit it was still a little shocking.
"That's a pretty claim," Aramis said. "Too bad you have no proof."
Cordero scoffed. "Just like you prove that you're not a double-crossing opportunist who's willing to prostrate himself to whoever offers to pay him the most."
The flash of rage robed Aramis of all conscious thought as he lunged at Cordero, ready to take a shot at his face before he felt hands haul him backwards, away from the lieutenant. Another set of hands had seized Cordero, dragging him away.
"Can't leave you Spanish bastards alone for five minutes, can we?" Marcoux's voice echoed from behind him, his hands pulling Aramis backwards, restraining him tightly.
"Yeah, well, that's why we're fighting them, isn't it?" Porthos said. As the fury began to simmer down, Aramis saw that Porthos was holding Cordero as the lieutenant glared back at him. "Guess we should separate these two before they rip one another apart. I'm sure we can find better ways to occupy their time."
Marcoux laughed. "Good plan. You good with the lieutenant there, or would you like to switch? This one seems like quite the spitfire."
"Nah, I'm good. You take care of him."
"With pleasure, sir," Marcoux replied.
Both dragged their respective captives off to opposite ends of the camp. Aramis shot a look back at the other prisoners and saw six sets of shocked eyes staring after them.
Well, if he'd wanted to shake things up, he'd clearly accomplished his goal.
"What was that about?" Marcoux whispered in his ear.
Aramis growled, but made no reply. Marcoux didn't slow his pace, pushing Aramis along until they reached the captain's tent once again and Marcoux shoved him inside.
"Marcoux, it is still too early for this," Athos muttered, his back turned to them. "We can discuss the prisoners again once I've eaten."
"Sir…" Marcoux began, but before he got any further, Aramis wrenched himself free of Marcoux's grasp and marched over to the table, slamming his fists down on the map with enough force that he made the discarded dishes clatter on the table. Athos turned to face him, eyes wide.
"Two weeks ago, we camped here." Aramis indicated a location on the map, pointed as best he could with still bound hands.
"Yes?" Athos regarded him coolly, his initial surprise bleeding away as he saw the coiled tension and determination in Aramis's movements.
"And Cordero left camp for a few hours, but not before he made sure I wouldn't know about it. He took one of the others and headed east, about an hour on foot, until they stopped at what seemed to be an abandoned hunting lodge." Aramis jabbed the map again. "That has to be where he met his French informant. Find that hunting lodge, and you might just find your traitor."
Athos's eyes widened. "I'm impressed. Are you certain about this?"
"As certain as I can be unless you release me and let me go hunt this informant myself."
"I thought you wanted to maintain your cover."
"What I want…" Aramis broke off, growling in frustration. "What I want is to finish this. And this is the best chance we have to do that."
Athos nodded. "All right. I'll arrange to send a party to investigate. But Aramis…" Aramis looked up at him, breathing deeply to try to calm himself. "You know they might not find anything. Even if Cordero did meet someone there, they could be long gone by now."
Aramis sighed. "I know. I just…I need this to end."
"And it will," Athos assured him. "Marcoux, go get Porthos and d'Artagnan. They'll want to go themselves. Find four others to accompany them. They'll leave as soon as they've eaten and prepared their horses."
"Yes, captain." Marcoux slipped out of the tent.
Porthos, d'Artagnan, and the rest of their party left camp within the hour, armed with Aramis's information and orders to investigate the area thoroughly for any clues. Aramis could only hope they'd find something valuable. He was acutely aware that his life relied on whatever they might discover.
Athos kept Aramis with him for a few hours while Marcoux kept watch over Cordero. They didn't question the lieutenant, merely kept him tied and separated from the others, leaving him to assume that Aramis was receiving similar treatment elsewhere within the camp.
Early in the afternoon, they were both returned to their Spanish comrades with a warning that causing further trouble would result in harsher punishments for the entire group.
Among the prisoners, no one spoke.
Aramis wasn't sure how much they had heard of his accusations that morning, but it was clear that no one, not even Matías, knew who to trust anymore. With Cordero and Aramis at each other's throats, the others were at a loss. Mostly they kept to themselves, remaining silent and only glancing about nervously.
The general aura of despondency that settled over the camp was almost enough to make Aramis feel guilty, and despite his best efforts, he couldn't quite ignore the abject misery on his companions' faces.
No one had told him it would be this hard to disappoint everyone, both musketeers and Spanish soldiers alike. And there was nothing he could do to keep his mind off his situation.
It was, perhaps, the worst part of this whole endeavor—the waiting. Aramis wasn't good at waiting. Never had been, as Athos would easily attest. Aramis preferred action. He preferred to help those who were suffering, to confront his enemies where he found them, and to fight for what he believed in. But none of that was possible here. He'd hurt his friends by leaving, and there was little he could do to make amends—could only wait and hope their friendship would eventually regain its prior strength. Now he found himself, somewhat unwittingly, tormenting the Spanish soldiers, twisting the knife as he turned them against each other and played on their fears. He couldn't help them either. Nor could he find the traitor who'd been supplying them information. Nor could he end this god-forsaken war.
He could only wait—wait for Porthos and d'Artagnan to return, wait for Athos to obtain the necessary intelligence, wait for the seeds of suspicion he had planted to come to fruition. Aramis could play these head games, could spin lies and weave deception with the best of them. It was why Tréville had allowed the king to send him here.
So yes, Aramis could wait. But he wouldn't enjoy it.
He leaned back in the dirt, listening to the soft breathing and rustle of clothing from the men around him, the shifting of the musketeers at work throughout the camp, the birds whistling in the trees.
He whistled back absently, and he waited.
"What's going on?" Matías asked, his voice breaking through the fog of Aramis's impatience. He'd allowed his eyes to drift shut as he attempted to block out the world. Now, his eyes snapped open and he looked over at Matías, whose gaze was centered on the musketeers in camp. A horse neighed in the distance, hooves stamping.
"I don't know," Garza answered. "Some riders returning, perhaps?"
"What does that mean?"
Garza looked across the camp with a frown. "It could just be normal dispatch riders or suppliers."
Ramón grumbled. "Yes, since they captured us before we could stop their next supply carriers from arriving."
"Or it could be a scouting party?" Matías asked.
Garza shrugged. "Maybe. But if so, then what are they looking for?"
Aramis grimaced and glanced across the prisoners' little camp to see Cordero also studying their captors intently.
Garza was right. Something had happened to stir the musketeers. Guards whispered and exchanged positions. Several officers strode through the camp dispensing new orders. The guards who remained on duty kept glancing away, as if straining to catch a bit of camp gossip or any news from the newly returned riders—Porthos and d'Artagnan, Aramis assumed. It had to be them. They must be the source of this hum of activity, and Aramis was itching to know more, barely resisting the urge to sit up straighter and strain to see past the guards to the rest of the camp. It took a monumental effort of will to maintain the appearance of casual, weary disinterest.
"It doesn't matter what it is," Aramis told the others. "There's nothing we can do about it regardless."
"But what if they receive reinforcements or capture another group of our troops?" Matías glanced around worriedly, gaze flickering between his comrades.
"Then we'd be just as screwed as we are now," Garza said. "Renato's right. There's nothing we can do."
The sullen silence that followed offered no relief, either for their collective anxiety or for Aramis's impatience. He wanted to curse Porthos, Athos, d'Artagnan, and even Marcoux and the other guards for failing to inform him of what had occurred. Had Porthos and his men found Cordero's meeting place? Was the hunting lodge abandoned, as Garza had suspected, or… Damn it, couldn't they tell him something?
But no, of course they could tell him nothing. He wasn't Aramis the musketeer, a seasoned soldier and the best sharp-shooter in the regiment. He was Renato, the Spanish prisoner. The spy. And no one was coming to give him a report on recent events. The days when a young musketeer would snap to attention at a single word from Aramis were three years past, and those days might never return.
He'd just have to sit here, alone with his thoughts, and wait.
"You did not bring me new prisoners, I take it?" Athos asked dryly, not even turning to face his friends as Porthos and d'Artagnan entered the tent where Athos sat, reviewing reports.
"No prisoners, no," Porthos replied. "But I think Aramis was right. There's something going on there."
Athos finally looked up to examine them, both dusty from a long day, but seeming somehow lighter. The activity had done them both good. Sitting in camp waiting for new orders or further intelligence did not suit either man—particularly given Porthos's recent sense of restless frustration.
"So you found the location Aramis described?"
"Sure did. Just where he said."
"It looked abandoned at first," d'Artagnan added. "No one was inside the building. We checked the surrounding areas just to be sure. But there were maps laid out on a table in the main room, and supplies tucked in the cellar."
"What kind of supplies?"
"Rations, powder, musket balls… not enough to be suspicious really. It could just be provisions for a hunting excursion…or it could serve to help resupply a small band of soldiers."
"And we also found this." Porthos held up a single coin. The light caught it, glinting off the edge.
"Spanish?"
"Looks that way." Porthos laid it on the table for Athos to examine. "Stashed under the edge of a cabinet, which was empty by the way."
"It could have fallen and been kicked under the furniture by accident," d'Artagnan suggested. "Maybe someone was in a hurry to leave."
"You said there were maps. You brought them back with you?" Athos asked.
Porthos shook his head. "Nope."
Athos merely looked at him, eyebrow raised. "And why not?"
"Because we have a better plan." The cocky grin Porthos displayed would have irritated Athos on any other face, but Athos had to admit that Porthos's plans were usually worth listening to…and worth any cockiness he might display. Porthos's confidence was well-placed, most especially when that confidence lay in his own intuition.
"We want to go back there tomorrow," Porthos said.
"To what purpose?"
"If it is a meeting place," Porthos leaned forward, expression intent and voice firm, "then it's likely that someone is watching it. It's not like the Spanish would be able to predict when they are able to make contact with their informants. So meetings are either scheduled in advance, which seems risky, or made whenever possible…which means someone would have to keep tabs on the place and check in regularly."
"We think," d'Artagnan continued, "that someone must come daily, or weekly at least, probably at a specific time to check for drop-offs or new orders."
Athos looked from one to the other. "So you want to survey the area and wait for this unknown individual to return?"
"Precisely," Porthos said with a grin.
"Well," Athos sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Then I suppose we'd better get started on this plan of yours. I presume you'll want to leave by first light?"
"Before that actually." D'Artagnan glanced to Porthos, who nodded in confirmation. "We'd like to be there by dawn. It's possible that the informant arrives early in the morning to avoid detection."
"Or late," Porthos added. "They might wait until sundown, arrive under cover of nightfall. Either way, we'll need to arrive early to catch them, and we may have to stay until the following morning."
"And if no one appears?" Athos asked.
Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged glances. "Someone will," Porthos said. "Eventually, someone will show up. You didn't see this place, Athos. It's exactly what I'd use as a meeting place. Convenient cover, easy to explain away as a rarely-used hunting lodge stocked with supplies, out of the way enough to be discreet but not so hidden that it looks suspicious. It's perfect. Too perfect to be coincidence, especially with the amount of Spanish activity we've had in this region over the past six months."
Athos took a moment to consider, looking between them. D'Artagnan looked away under Athos's scrutiny, but Porthos held his gaze, steady and certain. Finally, Athos nodded.
"Very well. Then we have little time to prepare." He shoved aside the maps laid out before him. "Sit and make your case. I want every detail of this location and your plan before I approve anything."
Porthos grinned, taking up a chair. Athos couldn't fool him, of course. They both knew the decision had already been made. All that was left was to work out the particulars.
Aramis learned nothing that night. Nor the next morning. The camp had been active, but the prisoners were staunchly ignored. It grated on his nerves, tempting him to do something dramatic just to gain some attention. Athos would not approve, of course, but then he rarely did.
Cordero and Aramis hadn't even been taken away for questioning today. Oh, Marcoux had been by after breakfast, Bernard trailing along dutifully at his side. They'd asked the group some questions, delivered a few swift blows on occasion, but it had all seemed perfunctory at best. No one really had their heart in it.
Which left Aramis bored, anxious, and restless, faced with an entire day of monotony. He feared he might just go insane.
The musketeers and their Spanish prisoners continued their uneasy stalemate, and the Spaniards maintained a tenuously tense silence, as though collectively holding their breath and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Morale was at an all-time low.
The tension left Aramis feeling exhausted. He avoided Cordero, who glowered at him from a safe distance. He checked Matías's wound, which had begun to heal. His own wound was still tender, pulling at his side with any sudden or quick movements, but it hadn't reopened since Porthos last bandaged it. Aramis was thankful for small mercies.
"Why don't they do anything?" Ramón once asked.
"Maybe they've given up on us," Matías suggested.
"Doubtful," Garza said. "More likely they're just bored with us, waiting for their superiors to come and take us off their hands."
"You think so?" Matías looked at Aramis questioningly.
Aramis merely shrugged. "It's possible. I wouldn't worry about it, though. You lot will probably be transferred to a prison camp and then ransomed back in a prisoner exchange."
"What do you mean 'you lot'?"
Aramis gave him a bitter grin. "I don't think Cordero and I are heading anywhere but a French dungeon, not after the trouble we've caused." Matías paled, opened his mouth to reply and then quickly shut it again. Aramis's bitter grin twisted with a note of irony. "Be glad you're not an officer," he said. "It's not all honor and glory, as they'd have you believe. Most of it is the pain and sweat of duty. Keep that in mind if you get out of here," Aramis added, glancing at Garza pointedly as he spoke.
"There he is," Porthos said, pointing forward.
"Finally." D'Artagnan spoke on a breath, hushed and relieved. "I'd just about given up hope."
"Yeah, an' I've just about lost all feeling in my leg," Porthos grumbled.
Since their initial survey of the lodge, they'd spent two more days watching it from a distance, hidden just past the tree line. Four more musketeers were stationed at similar look out points, divided into two pairs so they could watch all main avenues of approach. But the past two days of waiting had been tedious at best, mind-numbing at worst. The lodge remained undisturbed, with no signs of recent activity. But they'd seen the rough country pathways on their first visit, and they knew that several of those paths had seen recent use, so someone was definitely visiting this supposedly abandoned clearing and its rustic little hunting lodge.
And that someone was finally making an appearance.
"Should we…"?"
"Not yet," Porthos said softly. "Wait until he's inside. An' let's make sure he's alone. You circle round to check in with the others. Quietly. Find out if they've seen anything. It's possible he brought friends and left them to stand guard. I wanna know that before we move forward."
With a quick nod, d'Artagnan slunk off into the brush, moving around the clearing to check in with their comrades. Porthos kept his eyes trained on the building. Their mysterious visitor looked around cautiously, one hand resting on the handle to the back door. After a few moments he must have been satisfied that it was safe, as he pulled the door open and entered.
"Got ya'," Porthos murmured, grinning.
He waited a few more minutes, eyes trained on the door, until d'Artagnan returned.
"So?"
"Nothing. No one has seen any other movement, and our mysterious visitor came alone from the north road."
"All right, then." Porthos grinned at d'Artagnan, picking himself up off the ground. "Let's go give him a surprise, shall we?"
He gestured for d'Artagnan to circle round to the other door and wait. Then, pistol drawn and ready, he opened the door and entered.
It took only a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light inside. Their target was standing with his back to Porthos, but at the sound of the door, he turned quickly. "I wondered if you'd show up this time after—" The words choked in his throat as he saw Porthos pointing a pistol at his head.
"Not who you were expecting?" Porthos asked lightly.
The man shifted his weight onto his back foot, then turned to make a break for the other door. He made it three steps before the door burst open to reveal d'Artagnan, his pistol drawn and ready.
"Going somewhere?" d'Artagnan asked.
"Who are you?" the man demanded.
Porthos stepped forward. "The real question is who were you expecting to meet here?"
"I don't see how my business if any concern of yours, monsieur."
"Really?" Porthos asked. "Because innocent men are always so hesitant to answer simple questions?"
The man scoffed. "You're not from around here, I take it. If you were, you'd know that suspicion is a necessity if you plan to survive long."
"And why is that?" d'Artagnan asked. The man looked at them warily, but said nothing. "You're French?" The man nodded. "And we're king's musketeers. So answer our questions."
The man looked them over, glancing between them both and taking in their uniforms. "My name's Aubertin. I own a small bit of land north of here, an' this cabin belongs to my brother. And I have nothing that would be of interest to musketeers." The word came out tinged with derision. "Now leave me be."
"Simple as that?" Porthos stared at him over the barrel of his pistol.
"Nothing's simple around these parts, not with you soldiers marching across our lands every few months. French then Spanish, now French again. It's all we locals can do to keep our heads down and hope we don't get caught in the crossfire."
"Is that what you're doin' here? Keeping your head down?" Porthos's voice dripped with skepticism.
"I told you, it's no business of yours," Aubertin said through clenched teeth.
"You were waiting for someone when we arrived," d'Artagana pressed. "Just tell us who it was."
"My brother. I told you, it's his place."
Porthos eyed their surroundings. The building was one large room. A ladder against the side wall led to a loft and a small door led to a cellar, but beyond that there were only a few chairs, a table, and a cabinet in the way of furnishings. "Doesn't look like he's been living here lately."
"He's away mostly," Aubertin added. "Tryin' to escape the war. I meet him here sometimes."
"Your brother wouldn't happen to be Spanish, would he?" d'Artagnan asked. Porthos shot him a glare at the lack of subtlety, but d'Artagnan merely shrugged.
Aubertin scowled and cursed. "You bastards. You're all alike."
"You didn't answer the question," d'Artagnan said.
"No." Aubertin spat onto the floor. "My brother's not Spanish. Nor am I. Born and bred Frenchmen, just happen to live near Spanish territory. And for it, we're treated with scorn and suspicion."
"Oh, I'm sure there's a better reason for that scorn than just where you live," d'Artagnan said.
Porthos looked the man over carefully, noting the dark hair and eyes. He could have Spanish blood and wish to hide it. But then, the same could be said of Aramis or d'Artagnan. It didn't prove anything.
"Look," Porthos said, softening his demeanor. "I get it." D'Artagnan shot him a surprised look, but Porthos ignored him and continued, letting d'Artganan adjust to the sudden change in tactics. "People look at you and jump to conclusions based on nothing but unfounded speculation. It's not your fault you live this close to the border, an' it's no crime to have a bit of a Spanish look about you…or even a few drops of Spanish blood. Must put you in a tough position, though."
Aubertin stared at him, eyed narrowed. "What would you know about it?"
Porthos exhaled a harsh, bitter laugh. "Oh, I think I know a thing or two about people jumpin' to conclusions based on nothin' but appearances."
That caused their suspect pause, as Aubertin looked him over and slowly nodded. "I suppose you would. But I've done nothin' wrong. I'm just making my living and trying to avoid any trouble."
Porthos nodded sympathetically. "Perfectly understandable."
"So you haven't seen any Spanish troops around the area, then?" d'Artaganan asked, leaning forward into Aubertin's space with just a hint of menace. "If you're as innocent as you say, then surely you'd want to report anything you've seen."
"I just told you," Aubertin snapped. "I'm trying to stay out of trouble."
"So you haven't seen anything?"
"No!" He glanced back at Porthos. "Now can you make him leave me alone?"
Porthos pursed his lips and nodded slowly, as if considering it carefully. "I suppose I could…" He shot a glance at d'Artagnan who, while Aubertin's back was turned, stepped up behind him and grabbed his arms, wrenching them behind his back to pin him in place. Aubertin struggled, but d'Artagnan's grip remained firm. "But I'm afraid I'll have to search you first," Porthos said. "Nothing personal, you'll understand. It's just that we have a job to do, and it involves finding any Spanish soldiers in the area…like the ones we've heard have been visiting your brother's place here."
Aubertin jerked forward, causing d'Artagnan to wince as the motion jarred his injured arm.
"Hey, ease now." Porthos held up one hand in warning, moving forward to crowd Aubertin's space, looming over him. "We wouldn't want to have to get rough with you."
Aubertin glared back as Porthos began to search him, methodically patting down his clothes and removing the dagger and pistol he kept on his belt. He relieved the man of a small purse, Aubertin objecting with a string of colorful insults, but it held only a few coins. Nothing suspicious.
But like the pickpockets he'd grown up with, Porthos knew that the best prizes were often well-hidden. While the purse was light and innocent enough, a smaller pouch was hidden beneath his belt and tucked inside his trousers. With a grin, Porthos extracted it, prompting an indignant yelp from their captive. He held the pouch up for d'Artagnan to see, then opened it carefully.
"You're not soldiers," Aubertin said. "You're nothing but thieves."
Porthos raised one eye brow as he looked inside and brought out a single golden coin. "And this? I suppose you earned this through honorable means?" The gold glinted in the light, exposing the Spanish mark on one side.
Aubertin blanched, but gave no ground. "There've been Spanish soldiers all over these lands for months. I found that on a corpse left behind after a battle. There's no shame in taking advantage of what you can in times like these."
Porthos nodded, but continued his search as he moved one hand down the man's leg. He felt Aubertin tense, and grinned in satisfaction. "So I suppose that's also where you found these?" He reached into his boot and extracted a thin parcel of paper. Porthos pulled the string that bound it to reveal a rough map and a few lines of tiny, scrawling Spanish words.
Aubertin swallowed heavily, and d'Artagnan shoved him forward with enough force that he stumbled into Porthos, who held him in place as d'Artagnan produced some rope and began to bind him.
"I suppose this is how you try to stay out of trouble?" Porthos said.
When Aubertin made no answer, d'Artagnan gave him another shove.
"This is treason, you know. If you think it was bad living this close to the war, you should see what it's like for traitors."
"I've only done what I must to survive."
D'Artagnan scoffed, and pushed him towards Porthos in disgust. "Come on. Let's take this scum back to camp."
Aubertin tensed for only a moment, then threw his head back into d'Artagnan's nose and stomped down on his foot with enough force to leave d'Artagnan reeling. Aubertin spun out of his grasp and made a break for it…
Only to be drawn up short by Porthos's fist connecting solidly with this face.
"Now, now," Porthos said patiently. "I thought you said you liked staying out of trouble?" Aubertin lay sprawled on the floor beneath him, hands covering his face as he cowered. Porthos spared a look for d'Artagnan who nodded, waving off Porthos's concern.
"I'm fine," he mumbled, pulling his hand away from his nose to check for bleeding. Luckily, there was none. "Just caught me off guard."
Porthos grunted. "All right, then." He reached down and pulled the man to his feet. "Up you go. And no more trouble, eh?" Aubertin ducked his head and hunched his shoulders as Porthos seized him by the arms and marched him outside, into the clearing, where they were greeted by the rest of their comrades. Aubertin cast a wild glance around, eyes eventually settling on the woods.
"Looks like all our waiting finally paid off," one of the musketeers commented.
"Yes," d'Artagnan said with a nod, following behind Porthos. "We have everything we need here."
As they marched their new captive towards the path that led back to the musketeers' camp, Aubertin stared at the forest, almost longingly. Porthos thought he saw him shake his head slightly in a strange way, but it was so subtle he couldn't be sure it was more than a flinch.
"Come on," he said. "You'd best get moving. And don't try anything else." Aubertin looked at each of his captors before he sighed, hung his head, and allowed the musketeers to lead him away.