Milady rolled her eyes in frustration. Not now, not again. She was torn between revealing what was happening mere feet away or wasting their time. It was testament to her anger over these men's constant condescension that she chose the latter.
Raising her hands slowly in the air she spoke. 'May I turn around? At least then Porthos will not be troubled by the thought of shooting me in the back.' She felt the pressure of the weapon ease upon her skin and took it for an affirmative.
Turning slowly, she stared down the barrel of Aramis' pistol.
'Where is Athos?' the marksman demanded.
Milady glared back with equal passion. 'What makes you think I should know?'
'Don't play games, 'e's the one 'oldin' the gun, and I am perfectly 'appy shootin' you in the back,' Porthos growled.
'As always, Porthos, I am gratified to see you expect the worst of me, no matter how many times I have saved your friend from his own ridiculous actions.'
'Well to be fair, a missing Athos, a gunshot and you, does make the perfect disaster combination,' Aramis pointed out.
'Oh do not worry, if or when I decide to kill my… Athos, I doubt I will shoot him.' The implication hung in the air, as did her obvious awareness that the two Musketeers were not alone. 'What is Richelieu's gun dog doing here?' Before they could answer, Giroux stepped forward and gave her a back-handed slap across the mouth – not for the insult, but for fear she may reveal something of his involvement. Milady fell to the floor stunned, when suddenly a pained cry emanated from the stone walls beyond the mist.
'They're bloody well 'ere,' Porthos bellowed. The three men thundered across the grass, as a wild-eyed Peloir flew from the gaping doorway.
When he saw the approaching men he stopped, but upon recognising Giroux, his eyes flew wide in surprise. As Peloir's mouth opened to greet the guard, his body was surrounded by a red mist mingling with the dancing fog, as his head blew apart.
The Musketeers had little time to react, as Athos, and a moment later Treville, emerged from the structure in time to watch the man die.
It took a moment to register the existence of the three men standing before them, but as they watched Peloir fall to the floor, it was the sight of his wife lying upon the ground which made Athos' breath hitch.
With the immediate threat dispatched, Aramis was instantly fussing over his friend, noting the blood that covered Athos' face. Treville acknowledged he himself was not injured, though he was more than a little intrigued at the Red Guard Captain's presence.
'Giroux, you are rather a long way from Paris.'
'As are you, Captain, and your absence has been noted.' The Guard had a long history with his counterpart in the Musketeers, resenting the oft bandied implication that the Musketeer regiment was superior to his own.
Athos brushed Aramis aside and was relieved to see Anne staggering to her feet.
'You have not harmed her?' he whispered to Aramis. 'She was not a part of this, she came to help.' Once again, Aramis felt the twinge of sorrow that accompanied his friend's ongoing defence of the woman.
'We found her trying to escape following the sound of a pistol shot. Plus she was not exactly forthcoming as to your whereabouts.'
'She was following the man with the scarred face. Treville and I were not at risk.' He moved past Aramis and the others and strode over to his wife.
'You are hurt.' He reached out to wipe the blood from her mouth but stilled his hand before he touched her. She wiped her sleeve across her split lip and snarled.
'A split lip is better than being shot in the back, which is your friend Porthos' preference. I have done what I could. Remember what I said, Giroux was in the meeting in Paris, he was in the tavern with the young Musketeer and again outside the garrison with Scarface. He is not on your side Athos.' With that she swung herself up into the saddle and hurtled off into the mist.
'Wait!' Treville and Porthos yelled.
Athos stilled, braced for their inevitable outrage. Not in the mood for complex recriminations, he held up his hand. 'She is not part of the problem, she put herself in harm's way to aid our escape.' He halted Porthos as he attempted to voice his complaint. 'Not this time, Porthos.'
Treville sighed. 'He is telling the truth, Porthos. She came to our aid.' Porthos muttered something unpleasant under his breath but said no more. Finally it was Athos' turn to note the presence of Giroux.
He arched a brow. 'How did you know to shoot the man?' It was a simple question, but one no one else had considered.
Giroux thought fast. 'He was running.'
'He may have been running with us, not away from us,' Athos stated calmly.
'He was familiar, and not in a good way.' It was a poor explanation, but he could not trust what information Peloir and Jobin may have given Athos before he had managed to escape, and why he had been aided by the Cardinal's whore, was another mystery. Perhaps she was still working for the First Minister, that was most likely. An interesting fact to store away.
'Really, how fortunate. It is a pity you did not allow us to interrogate him first. After all he was unarmed.'
Giroux remained silent on the matter, instead quickly changing the topic of conversation. 'I have been sent by the First Minister to bring you back to Paris for an audience with the King.' He imbued as much pomposity as he could into the statement, in the hope it would distract the swordsman from his current train of thought. Though his declaration bought an end to the subject for now, the expression on Athos' face told Giroux his curiosity was far from sated.
Athos turned to Aramis. 'Dubois?'
The medic shook his head. 'The fever has broken. God help me but I wish it had seen him off, it would have been kinder. All we can do is keep him comfortable. Perhaps we could leave him here and arrange for his care. He will not cope with the ride back to Paris and a cart would be excruciating.' Athos scowled at the prospect of prolonging the contact with his old home, but made no comment.
'I sent Roger home,' was his only statement.
Aramis put his arm around Athos' shoulders. 'Indeed you did. We came across your black beast thundering down the road, but we managed to persuade him to come with us.' Athos gave a lopsided smile and, with a nod of his head to Treville and Giroux, stated, 'Then we will check on Dubois and return to Paris. This is not over, but I doubt we will find more answers in Pinot.' With that he followed Aramis and Porthos toward the horses, whilst Treville rescued his own mount from amongst those belatedly belonging to Peloir and Jobin. The animals were blameless of their owners' actions so, not wanting to leave them to their fate, Treville took hold of their reins.
Roger pawed at the ground, snorting at the familiar scent of his owner. Athos stroked the horse's nose affectionately and whispered something into the animal's ears. The stallion was obviously pleased for he nuzzled his master's neck in return.
'Perhaps 'e should 'ave married 'is 'orse instead,' Porthos whispered to Aramis, who snorted with laughter. The side glance Athos gave Porthos as he mounted indicated he, too, had heard the remark.
'You didn't greet us like that,' Porthos whined.
'I am sorry, next time I am captured I will make sure to stroke your nose and whisper my thanks in your ear.'
Even Giroux chuckled at the remark, a fact that caused Porthos to scowl even more.
'However, Athos was not done yet. 'And if you are lucky, I may even give you an apple.'
This time all the men laughed out loud, and even Porthos smiled, though more for the fact that Athos had made a joke than anything else. Whenever he encountered his wife, they could never tell how he would react afterwards. This time, however, the swordsman appeared to have emerged unscathed. But had Treville revealed the exact circumstances of their escape they would surely have been far more concerned.
Giroux hung back, leading one of the riderless horses and hoping there would be no more questions. Athos rode ahead with Treville and the other spare mount, leaving Aramis and Porthos side-by-side in the middle.'
'Would you really 'ave let me shoot 'er?'
'Of course not.'
'Why not?'
'You would have regretted it afterwards, and Athos would not have been pleased.'
Porthos mulled over the statement. ''E'd be better off without 'er.'
Aramis sighed. 'That may well be, but you cannot simply shoot her for that.'
'Because it's not 'onourable.'
'Exactly.' Aramis smiled at his large friend, though Porthos' frown indicated he was far from being in agreement.
'It still does not explain what she is doing here, or even why she has returned to Paris,' Aramis mused.
'To cause trouble.' Porthos remained emphatic in his distrust of the woman, no matter what Athos said. He understood the physical attraction a woman like that could hold over a man, and Athos was a man just like any other, and even he could not remain unaffected by her continued interfering presence.
Unfortunately, Athos was not as unaffected as his friends hoped; just as Treville suspected, the encounter had exacted a cost. The swordsman could not forget the feeling of her soft skin as he had searched for the knife. He told himself he had merely been being careful, but he had to admit he could have retrieved the weapon so much quicker – had he wanted to. As they rode through the freezing night his head ached, he was shivering uncontrollably, and his clothing felt as though it was freezing to his very body. The first snowflake fell upon his cheek and even in his frigid state, it felt cool upon his heated skin. If only he had been running a fever, but the only fever raging inside him was desire for his inconsistent wife.
Aramis became aware of his friend's shivering. 'Athos wait, what is wrong?'
All the riders came to a halt. 'Nothing, I am simply cold.'
Treville cursed. 'I am sorry, I forgot you were wet.'
'Wet, how did you get wet?' Aramis moaned. He pulled his cloak from his side bag and hurried to drape it around the damp Musketeer.
'Good God, your clothing is literally freezing, we need to get you warm and dry quickly. I know what the cold can do.' His voice trailed off and his friends knew he was thinking of Savoy – and the falling snow would not help. The medic reached inside Athos' saddle bag and pulled out a bottle of brandy. 'Here, medicinal of course.'
Athos smirked. 'Of course.' He swigged generously before allowing Aramis to pass it around the company. When the medic was finished, Athos held out his hand indicating its return. 'For medicinal purposes.' Aramis laughed and passed the bottle up to his friend. Athos took another swig, the warming burn helping to control his shivers.
It was the first time in a very long time that Athos admitted he was glad to see his home draw close. Like everything else it emerged and vanished in the fading mist but increasingly dense snow. They galloped the last mile and were more than glad to reach the shelter of the stables. As they thundered along the drive, Athos suddenly urged Roger faster, ensuring he reached his staff first.
'When the others arrive, no my lord, it is imperative you do not use my title.' If the stable hands were surprised, they said nothing, simply nodding in obedience. The last few days had been nothing like they were used to, so what was one more startling request.
The rest of the party arrived, and the horses were led away for a good brushing down.
'Look after them, they deserve a treat,' Athos urged as he gave Roger a last pat on the flank.
'Yes, M…sir,' The lad stuttered, but he relaxed when he saw his liege lord wink.
They hurried to the entrance, where they were astonished to find four horses being held by a single man. He was obviously struggling, as the uncomfortable beasts were not happy with the rapidly falling snow. However, it was the sound of raised voices inside that took precedence over his problem as they hurried to confront the source of the conflict.
The sight that greeted them was pandemonium. Madame Renard was standing in the hallway waving her hands in anger, and two men held Dubois suspended between them whilst an older man shouted orders.
'What is going on here?' demanded Athos with the air of a man in charge. Giroux's eyes widened. He was already fascinated to know where they were and why, let alone wondering at Athos' haughty tone as he addressed those inside, whilst Treville remained silent.
Aramis was torn. He could see the situation was intolerable, but he was also aware of Giroux's presence and the man's tangible curiosity on arrival at the château, exacerbated now by Athos' authority. What he would tell Richelieu upon their return did not bear consideration.
'Porthos, Giroux, go and help the man with the horses.' Porthos growled and was about to argue when he noted Aramis jerk his head toward Giroux, who was soaking up the sight before him with barely concealed zeal.
Though not happy, he understood what Aramis was doing, and taking a firm hold of the guard captain's arm, Porthos pulled him out into the snow, ignoring his torrent of abuse.
The timing was perfect. The sight of Athos had caused the older man to cease shouting – now his voice was cold and calm, his face contorted in fury. 'So I was right, it is you! Olivier d'Athos, the Comte de la Fère. A member of the French nobility, now a common soldier. How dare you behave so? How dare you disgrace such an old and reputable title? You are not fit to live within these walls!'
'I do not ,' was Athos' only response.
Ignoring the statement, the man forged ahead. 'I will dispute your right to hold the title, I will demand it be passed to me. The King will hear of this abomination.' The older man nodded to his party, and they continued to move Dubois toward the door.
'Where do you think you are taking him?' Aramis demanded, moving to block their way.
'He is my son, and I can take him anywhere I choose.' Aramis suddenly realised who the newcomer was. Amidst all the drama, he had completely forgotten to relay to Athos the story they had been told by the cadet. Then, to everyone's surprise the younger Dubois spoke.
'Athos, I am sorry.'
'Sorry!' his father exploded. 'What are you sorry about? Do not apologise to this sad excuse of a nobleman, he is beneath you.'
Athos was perplexed. He had begun to put the pieces together for himself, but even now they did not quite ring true.
'He is your cousin, Athos,' said Aramis. 'Dubois admitted as much. He made him join the regiment to get close to you and discredit you, but the boy changed his mind and refused to co-operate.'
'Brousard!' With a host of distant memories assaulting his senses, Athos' hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his sword, a gesture that was second nature to the man. However, the Baron noted the movement, and deciding to act first, raised the pistol which had been hanging hidden at his side and pointed it at Athos' chest. There was a flurry of motion amidst the loud retort of a pistol and the heavy tang of gunpowder. But Athos did not fall. At the last moment, Dubois had pushed himself away from the two men and moved between Athos and the bullet.
Athos caught the young man and gently guided him to the floor. Baron Brousard gaped in horror at what he had done, but instead of comforting his son, he called to his men and ran for the door. Porthos raced inside, abandoning Giroux to deal with the wayward horses and a gaggle of fleeing men. The big man pulled up short when he saw Athos sat upon the stone floor cradling the fallen cadet, his own discomfort forgotten. The swordsman pulled the Musketeer cloak around both him and the fallen boy who now lay dying in his lap.
'Easy, Reynard. Why?' He stroked the hair away from the young man's eyes, which gazed with devotion upon the man he had saved.
'My father… was wrong… you are a good… man. I would have… liked to know you… more… sir. I would… have… been… proud.' The boy coughed and blood welled from his mouth. He shivered and Athos pulled him closer, and though he knew he was holding the cadet, in his mind he was holding Thomas.
'You are wrong, and your father was right, I am not fit to hold the title. I never even wanted it. Perhaps your father should have had it, all he had to do was ask.' He looked down at the boy, but the eyes that stared back indicated they had never heard the Musketeer's words.
Athos closed his eyes. Not again. How could he have failed, again?
Treville and Porthos watched horrified as Athos sat with the dead boy in his arms. Aramis squatted by his side and laid a hand upon his friend's shoulder. Athos instinctively pulled away, but he registered Aramis' quiet words and tried to focus on the medic's face. Past and future merged; he could hear her screaming, feel the warmth of his brother's blood running through his fingers, as his skin began to cool. Porthos lifted the lifeless form from his lap, as Treville and Aramis pulled Athos to his feet, Giroux finally making an appearance.
'They have fled. I shot one of them, but I could not see in the snow, and they appeared to know the land better than I.' The Captain took in the lifeless form in Porthos' arms and stilled.
Treville nodded his thanks. 'Thank you, Captain. Please give Porthos some assistance, then if you could stay with the boy and send Porthos back to me.' The tone of the remark and the use of his rank for a change, was not lost on the Guard, and without complaint he did as he was asked and followed the Musketeer into the parlour.
'Madame Renard, could a warm bath be fetched? Treville requested, finally glad to take some form of control. 'Porthos will do the heavy work. It need not be above stairs, just place it before a warm fire. Athos needs to be warmed, and quickly.'
'Not too warm, to begin with, Madame, we will warm it gradually,' Aramis interrupted.
'Take him to the Rose parlour next door, the fire is already lit,' she stated as she hurried away with Porthos.
Athos had not spoken but was once again shivering violently. He stood staring at the blood upon his hands, his face filled with such horror and desolation, Aramis could have wept. He foresaw trouble ahead, but for now there were practicalities to be dealt with.
Gently he steered Athos into the room next to the parlour where there was already a good fire burning. Athos appeared oblivious whilst Aramis and Treville peeled the half-frozen clothing from his shivering form. A cold blast of air entered the room along with a huffing Porthos and a wooden tub.
He dropped the object upon the floor and shrugged his large shoulders. 'His nibs' bath is upstairs and far too 'eavy to carry down, apart from which, there ain't enough staff to fill it. This'll be quicker.'
Treville and Aramis frowned but acknowledged the statement, stepping aside as a footman and a rather uncomfortable looking stable lad began to bring in water.
Athos, wrapped in a large blanket, dipped his feet in the tepid water and winced. 'That's it Athos, just a little at a time.' The medic rubbed his freezing hands in his own whilst Treville rubbed some warmth back in to his arms. Still Athos did not speak.
The whole process took some time, and little by little Athos' body was warmed – not too quickly, not too slowly. It spoke of Athos' state of mind that once dressed warmly for bed he allowed Porthos to pick him up like a babe and carry him to a bedroom to sleep… or so they hoped.
'We must return to Paris tomorrow,' Treville stated. Aramis was about to say something, but Treville prevented him. 'Athos will be fit enough to travel. He has travelled drunk, and shot, before now, he will be fine. The boy will stay here, and we will send for him when we return, he will be buried with full honours alongside the other fallen Musketeers.' Aramis nodded his approval. 'Now I must go and tell Giroux a pack of lies, whilst you take care of Athos, I do not suppose for a moment he will rest well.' With that he turned and strode from the room, trying to conjure up something to satisfy the Red Guard's raging curiosity.
Porthos re-entered the room. 'He's asleep for now, but 'e'll need to be watched. I'll go first.'
'Very well, I will brew some willow bark, it may help him sleep, but then again he may throw it at you,' Aramis smiled.
''E'll drink it, don't you worry.'
Aramis disappeared into the bowels of the château chuckling. His humour did not last long, however, as on entering the warm kitchen, he found Madame Renard sniffling into a large square of linen.
'Madame, whatever is the matter?'
'Oh the poor boy.' With that she began to cry once more.
Aramis put a large kettle on to boil and let the older woman cry out her sorrow. When it had boiled, he made her a cup of herbal tea and urged her to drink.
She sniffed her thanks, attempting to apologise.
'Do not apologise. No one likes to see a young man like that die in his prime of life, but the truth is the boy would not have lasted many more days, and they would not have been pleasant ones.'
The housekeeper gave Aramis as slightly perplexed look before speaking. 'Yes of course, but I am sorry for the young master. Such a life as he has led. And the look upon his face, it was just like before… just like the day young master Thomas was killed. It brought it all back.' The tears flowed again, and Aramis considered her words, realising it was Athos she was crying for, not Dubois.
It was just what he had suspected when he had witnessed the awful expression upon Athos' features, her words merely confirming his expectations.
Aramis spoke softly. 'Was Thomas dead when Athos arrived home?'
'Oh yes, sir, there was nothing he could have done. But it had not been more than a few minutes, the blood you know… it still ran. Young Master Athos, he was covered in it, would not let us take the boy away. And her, she screamed and screamed for him, but he didn't seem to hear her. Just rocked the boy and told him it would be alright, he would make it right. That's all he kept saying.
'It was awful, sir, such a night. Finally the doctor managed to get him to let his brother go, let us lay him out proper like. She was still screaming for him to go to her, begging him to listen, but he just sat there in his study drinking. Then when the boy was ready, he stayed with him all night, holding his hand, crying, talking – two bottles of brandy he drank. The next day he looked like a ghoul from hell, he was angry, so very angry – but not with her, with himself. He rode from the house like the hounds of hell were after him. She tried to shout, but she no longer had the strength, she'd continued yelling for him throughout the night, until her voice simply wore out. Then the silence was worse.
'He arrived back sometime in the night, left me money and a note and then next morning just after dawn René came for her… the rest I suspect you know. I have not seen him from that day until you all turned up here.
'Truth, sir, I don't rightly know what happened that day. I know Master Thomas and her did not get along. Husband and wife were so wrapped up in each other see, whereas the boys had always been there for each other – now Thomas was mostly alone. The old master and mistress being what they were, the brothers had grown up close. The master never asked her what happened, I'm not sure he even gave it much thought. There she was standing over the body with a knife, apologising. She never denied doing it, just said she had no choice. They loved each other so, too much folk said, it was bound to end badly.' At that she sat quietly, lost in the past.
'Thank you, Madame. If you could just prepare something cold for this evening, tomorrow we will be on our way and you can go back to leading a quiet life.' Aramis squeezed her hand and the woman blushed.
'Well I won't miss the comings and goings and all the carrying on, but I will be sad to see the master go. When he returned, I had hoped…' She let her words trail off, for she knew the Château le Fère would never again be what it once was. It had never been a happy home, only briefly was there light, and even that had burnt too bright to last.
Aramis left the warmth of the kitchen with the willow tea and ascended to the upper floors, the corridors cold and draughty in the flickering candlelight. Luckily the snow had stopped, and though it may freeze, it would not be severe enough to prevent travel on the morrow.
Athos' room was warm. Porthos was standing by the bed, running his hands through his hair. 'Where the 'ell 'ave you been, and where's that bloody tea?'
Immediately Aramis was contrite. 'I am sorry, my friend, I was distracted by Madame Renard, she was telling me of the day Thomas died. She said he had the same look on his face then as he did today.'
'Really? Now there's a surprise. ''E's practically torn my arm off, whilst I've been trying to stop 'im doing 'imself 'arm. Don't know if 'e's got a fever, or just tormented.'
Athos moaned. 'Thomas… sorry… my fault… oh please stop, Anne… I cannot help you… I cannot help either of you...' His hands moved to cover his ears and he struggled to sit, crying out as he did so. 'Please, Anne… I cannot…'
Aramis sat on the bed and placed a hand upon Athos' shoulder. 'Athos, Athos, can you hear me?'
The mumbling ceased and Athos stilled. Slowly his eyes opened, and he looked at Porthos.
'Sacre bleau,' the big man wiped a hand over his eyes.
'Athos, it is Aramis, drink this tea, you will feel better in the morning. We can leave this place behind and return home, to the garrison.'
Athos closed his eyes, then opening them once again he nodded. Aramis let his forehead drop to rest against Athos, as if somehow he could pass some of his own strength to his friend. He sensed Athos' hand upon his arm and pulled away. The medic passed the cup and for once the Musketeer drank without comment. 'Thank you.' He gave both men what was a poor attempt at a smile, even for him, then closed his eyes and sank against the pillow.
'Did you see that look? I've never seen nothin' like it,' Porthos whispered. ''Ow can a man contain so much pain?'
'Apparently, Thomas was dead only minutes before Athos arrived. He sat with him all night, whilst she screamed and screamed for him to listen until she could shout no more, but he would not go to her. He never spoke to her again, unless he addressed her on the way to…' He ran his hands through his hair, horrified by events of that night and the horror they had both lived through, almost feeling a semblance of sympathy for the woman.
'She didn't deny it though?' Porthos stated firmly.
'No, she did not.'
'Then 'e 'ad no choice.'
Aramis gazed at his sleeping friend then up at Porthos. 'As a grieving brother and the upholder of justice upon his lands, no. As a loving husband, that will be for God to decide. There lies his dilemma, and for that I fear he will never find peace.
ooOoo
Athos sat by his brother's bed; sometimes it was the face of Thomas, sometimes it was the face of Dubois. It mattered not. They both lay still, quiet and cold, their essence no longer present. Her voice echoed through the walls and halls, inside his head, unceasing, begging him to listen … Athos come to me, please let me explain, it was not my fault… Athos, I love you, please, will you not come to me… Then there was only silence, and that cried far louder than her anguished voice ever could. The silence held all the resentment, pain and betrayal, a living entity screaming in vain within the darkness and the shadows. The memory invaded his sleep, his dreams, and his sanity. There was no solution, no end, only guilt and heartbreak.
ooOoo
When Athos awoke, he was alone. Porthos had hurried to fetch breakfast whilst his friend appeared peaceful. Feigning sleep, the swordsman had heard him leave and had risen as soon as the door was closed. The fire still burnt in the grate, but no sign of light seeped through the gap in the curtains, indicating dawn had yet to break.
A rummage in the large wardrobe revealed clothing that was suitable, if a little grand, but it could be replaced easily enough in Paris, and even Athos was not obtuse enough not to enjoy the feel of fine linen upon his skin. Why spend good money when there were plenty of shirts here? It took mere moments to grab and push all he needed into his bags. He hoped this time his jacket at least had survived; too often had it been destroyed when he had been immured in some injury or other.
The cold memory of Dubois' death had hit him like a stab to the chest when he had first awoken. The boy had been a fool to act as he did, yet there was no denying that death by bullet had been far kinder than bleeding out slowly from within. The knowledge should have provided him with some solace, and yet his soul felt heavy with the burden of the boy's passing – yet more responsibility of death to weigh upon his shoulders. By the time Porthos returned to the room, Athos was standing at the window staring out into the darkness.
'I didn't think you'd sleep much longer, so I fetched food, not that you'll eat. Still, the fancy clothing suits you.' Athos turned around and gave his friend a stony glare.
The big man chuckled. 'I thought that'd get you.' Porthos was already tucking into his food even as he spoke.
'And my own clothes?' Athos asked. Sitting down, he took a welcome sip of ale before Porthos scowled and moved the cup away.
'Oh no, orders from Aramis, no food, no ale.' The grin of satisfaction made Athos scowl all the more. 'Madame Renard did a light stew, as we would be travellin' most of the day, and your clothes are very damp, but they'll survive.'
'Where are they?' came the terse response, Athos reluctantly dipping his bread into the tempting stew.
'Packed and not to be worn. Not unless you fancy freezing again, and I know you don't care for your own skin, but I do after the performance we had unfreezin' you yesterday.' Porthos could have kicked himself, knowing his words would take Athos back to the previous day's events. 'It wasn't your fault, I know what you're thinkin', but you couldn't 'ave stopped 'im. And anyway 'e was better off goin' like that.'
The sentiment may have been harsh, but there was no denying the truth of the matter.
With perfect timing, the door opened and Aramis entered. 'Good, you are eating.' He smiled in delight at the sight of Athos spooning up the stew.
'Did I have any choice?' Athos drawled.
'Of course.' Though the comment was attended with an expression clearly stating the unspoken truth, if you wanted to drink your ale.
Athos just harrumphed and put down his spoon. Grasping his cup, he dared Aramis to comment. When no objection was forthcoming, he downed the ale before it could be snatched away.
Porthos could not help but poke the bear. 'I've told 'im 'e'll blend in nicely at the garrison in them clothes.' He snickered as the comment elicited another icy stare.
'Mm, well they are fairly understated, if not of rather fine cloth. I am sure with his cloak no one will notice.' Porthos guffawed as Athos scowled even harder.
'If you will not allow me to wear my own clothes, then I really have little choice. My old life was ill-suited to the daily life of a Musketeer. I rather think that clothing elicited from the gardener or stable boy would draw even more humorous remarks.' He raised a brow and awaited further comment.
Porthos stood up and slapped Athos on the back, nearly knocking him from his chair.
'You look fine, just your face that's still broodin' and miserable. Still, perhaps the ladies will overlook your surliness dressed like that.' With that parting remark, the Musketeer headed for the doorway. 'Off to Paris, it'll be good to be 'ome.'
Athos and Aramis exchanged looks, Athos rolling his eyes, while Aramis attempted to hide his amusement.
They passed the room where Dubois had been lain.
Athos paused. 'Leave it be my friend. The boy is at rest. He will lay in the icehouse until we can send for him. Treville has promised he will be buried as a Musketeer with full honours.' Athos appeared surprised by the Captain's decision, but he accepted the sense in leaving him behind for now, and after a brief pause, turned away from the door.
As early dawn broke over the frozen white landscape the party mounted for home. A clean new day, but an age-old problem. Who was behind the machinations and what exactly was going on? Were Beau and the Baron scheming as one, or was there more at play? Only time would tell. Then there was the problem of the King, let alone what mischief Giroux would set in motion. Again, only time would tell. For now, Paris and the garrison awaited.