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On with the story...

Chapter 10

The fire blazed.

Surrounded by rounded stones, the flames danced aggressively around the remains of the dried log. Sparks flew upward and disappeared within the overhanging branches of the sycamore tree. Its lower leaves waved as the cool air collided with the heat from the fire. A flat stone sizzled while several rabbits cooked along with the wild garlic and mushrooms Porthos had found by the spring. With even and methodical strokes, Porthos spooned the seasoned wine over the meat and watched it cook. He sat with his left forearm across his knee near the fire and tended their meal.

Aramis tossed out his bedroll and took a seat with a much-needed exhale and he finally relaxed beneath the stars. He lay back, folded his fingers behind his head, and watched the puffy white clouds shift and bend the light of the moon that cast long rays along the grasses that swayed beneath the gentle breeze, and along the subtle ripples of water that moved over smoothed stones. He could hear the birds that only sang at night, crickets, frogs, and the rustling of bushes in the distance as the nocturnal creatures ventured from their dens to hunt.

D'Artagnan sat with his back against the underside of his upright saddle. With his knees raised and feet spread, he watched the flames and glanced from Porthos, who was leagues away, focused only on their meal, but contemplating the challenges of late. D'Artagnan picked up a twig, twisted it between his fingers, and then finally broke it in half. He tossed it into the fire and watched the bark ignite and the flames engulf it. He looked to his right when Athos rested his saddle and bedroll next to him and then took a seat on the boulder.

The horses were hobbled and eating grass near the stream.

Athos looked at Porthos and then at the others before he leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and hung his head. He rubbed his face and looked at Porthos once more. Neither had said a word to one another since the outburst, and the uncomfortable silence grew intense.

"I'm not denying what you saw…" Athos said. Tiredly, he reached for a sprig of grass that had grown between the crack of the boulder and yanked it free. He wrapped it around the tip of his index finger and said, "Nor can I deny the fear I felt while looking down the barrel of Rochefort's pistol." He looked up and met Porthos' eyes. Athos ignored the sudden intake of breath from Aramis, who sat up, or d'Artagnan, who looked concernedly at him. "And while I agree with your sentiment about Rochefort, that does not negate our responsibility to the king," he looked at Aramis and then at d'Artagnan, "and a part of that responsibility is protecting him… even from those he blindly trusts."

Porthos swallowed, lowered his right leg as the heat grew too intense, and looked Athos in the eyes. "You believe me then?"

Sadly, Athos pulled his brows together in concern and said, "I never doubted you, Porthos. But we are the King's Musketeers and we must put our personal feelings aside… even at the risk of our own lives."

"If he had you in his sights, Athos," Aramis said with a wince. "How long before he strikes…" he looked at the others, "and hits his mark?"

"He could have killed me," Athos said. "But he didn't… Rochefort spent the last five years of his life in the hands of the Spanish… you all heard him speak of his experience — you saw the scars." He looked at those around him. "He is eager to please the king and reestablish his title —"

Porthos huffed. "Obviously."

Athos flashed worried green eyes toward the fire as the flames shifted, the log crumbled, and sparks flew upward. With his elbows still on his knees, he rubbed his face with his hands and then ran his fingers through his hair. He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, while trying to think of what he could say to put their minds at ease. He had no doubt Rochefort's actions were questionable. The real issue was why. Treville and the musketeers were standing between him and the king, and what Rochefort wanted more than anything else was to stand beside him. His performances had left little doubt of that as he stood before Louis and lied about his involvement, and as he walked shoulder-to-shoulder exiting the grand hall. Lies of omission were still lies, and Rochefort had mastered them. Slowly, Athos looked up and said, "It's no different now than it was when Richelieu was in command." He paused. "We watch each other's backs and tread carefully around Rochefort. Watch him, learn who he works with, who he speaks to, and…" he took a deep breath and quieted his voice, "watch the king's behavior."

"He'll change," Aramis said. He rested his forearm atop a raised knee. "The king always changes in the presence of those who influence him." He tiredly rubbed his temples with the curve of his hand that hid his eyes. He thought about the queen, their secret, and the secret he shared with Athos.

None of them were safe.

"The king is different when he meets with Treville." Aramis said and smoothed his mustache. "He listens and is much less… trivial."

"Treville," Porthos said as he turned the meat on the flat stone. "When King Louis meets with Treville 'e's more composed, less," he waved his hand toward his temple, "childish." He huffed. He grabbed the tin plates and quickly topped them with the meat, garlic, and mushrooms.

D'Artagnan stood, handed a plate to Athos and then one to Aramis before taking one for himself and retaking his seat. They were quiet as they ate. The tapping of utensils on pewter, the sizzling of cleaned rabbit bones that were tossed into the fire, and the sighs of relief when bellies were filled.

Athos stood first and walked to the stream to clean his plate. As he squatted near the bank and listened to the rippling of water while it flowed steadily over the stones, he could see the trees in the distance sway as the breeze caused their branches to shift. Even the dried grasses waved gently like the waves on the ocean as the cool night air met the warmth of the sun-warmed earth. Peacefully serene, the blackness of night was not as severe as the moon's light outlining the puffed clouds in a bright halo and dancing casually off the water. Athos turned to look at the horses as they pulled grass from the ground. He dipped his plate, washed away the remains of his meal, then waved it several times to allow droplets to fly. He looked suddenly to his right when Porthos lowered himself to his haunches beside him.

"I don't like change," Porthos admitted as he dipped his plate into the stream and allowed the force of the water to do his work. "I don't like thinkin' I'm crazy because of what I saw." He looked Athos in the eyes and then quickly looked away and wiped his dish with a rag. "Rochefort reminds me of a man I once knew… 'e made the 'airs on the back of my neck rise up."

Porthos' voice was so quiet it was nearly lost over the sounds of the stream and Athos focused on Porthos' mouth as he spoke.

"He befriended the weak," Porthos said with a painful wince. "The vulnerable an' then they'd do things for 'im — all kinds of things." He rested his elbows on his thighs and clutched the plate between his thumb and forefinger. "Some would steal…" he paused, "some would gratify 'im in other ways." He scratched his stubbled jaw and glanced up at the sky as the clouds moved past the moon. "An' then, 'e'd kill anyone who got in 'is way." He looked at Athos. "I know what I saw… an' if I'm right about Rochefort, 'e'll kill anyone who stands between 'im an' the king, an' we all know King Louis isn't a strong man… 'e's vulnerable since Richelieu's death.

"The biggest mistake Treville made was not takin' that position to stand beside the king." Porthos pursed his lips and looked away. "Treville might 'ave been able to keep Rochefort away from 'im — or at least kept 'im from influencin' the king."

"What makes you think King Louis is being influenced?" Athos asked and watched Porthos huff and look over his shoulder as an owl fluttered its wings and flew from the top branch of a tree.

"Since when do musketeers become errand boys?"

Athos turned his head and rubbed his jaw on his shoulder and quirked a half smile. "We've always been errand boys. Whether it's tax intendants or men like Rochefort or Emile Bonnaire, we do as the king requests. We do it with honor, and we do it with dignity." He stood and watched Porthos stand. "You're not crazy, Porthos." Athos looked him in the eyes. "I saw it too… and because of it, Rochefort has shown his hand and we must tread carefully. It's the art of war, Porthos. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer." He clapped Porthos' upper arm. "The musketeers are not in favor with the king since Treville's refusal and Rochefort will become a more divisive wedge if we allow it."

"How do we stop 'im…? If 'e wanted you dead, Athos. He'll try again. Men like 'im don't stop."

Athos took a deep breath and looked across the stream and to the trees in the distance. "We watch, we wait, and act when the time comes." He exhaled slowly. "The man you spoke of." He waited for Porthos to look at him. "Did he try to befriend you… or kill you?" Athos looked at him carefully, watched the subtle clench of Porthos' jaw, and the downward cast of his eyes. "You don't have to ans—"

"He was the first man I killed," Porthos answered abruptly. He looked Athos in the eyes. "Maybe one day… when there's more wine to drink, I'll tell you 'ow it 'appened."

Athos nodded and said, "I hope you do." He took a step toward the camp but paused when Porthos pulled him back.

"Why didn't you say anythin' about Rochefort? Why didn't you say anythin' to any of us about lookin' down the barrel of that gun before now?"

Athos bit the inside of his cheek, looked toward the camp and the glowing flames that reflected off Aramis and d'Artagnan as they talked quietly around the fire. "You're not the only one who feels crazy at times," he said. "And for the king's sake, I must put what I saw aside to protect him…" he walked toward the camp, "Although, I did consider tossing him off the ledge of that rock face."

Porthos chuckled and said, "I wish you would 'ave."