The world was beginning to crumble for Bertrand Giroux. He was captain of the Red Guard, a position he enjoyed in every way; for the power it gave him over both his men, and the populace the welcome extra coin for turning the other cheek, and the ability to dish out his own form of justice – whenever he had the opportunity. But somehow, it was all going wrong, and it was all Athos' fault – his and the Cardinal's whore of an assassin.
Did he not try and do whatever the First Minister asked of him, no matter how dubious? Yet whenever he attempted to anticipate Richelieu's needs, he was ridiculed and admonished for his initiative. He had thought for once he had done the right thing by informing the Cardinal of the events in Pinot, especially the presence of Milady de Winter; even Rochefort had been taken by surprise – arrogant pig. However, since the events at the palace her presence was somehow perceived as his fault, his mistake for allowing her to roam free. Now he was searching all over Paris for the damned woman, and when he found her he was going to make her pay.
Still, at least Athos was where no one would find him, and if Giroux needed to off-load some anger, he had the perfect punch bag at his disposal.
Out of the blue, he had been given an address – where it had come from, he had no inkling. He had no way of knowing it had been dropped in his lap by none other than Rochefort, who obviously did not wish his connection to Milady de Winter to become known. It had been the instructions regarding her capture that had worried him the most; Richelieu wanted the woman alive, but the person who had written the note most definitely wanted her dead. Now he had to decide which of those options would suit him best.
The guard captain had taken only those men whom he could trust, ones who did not mind if the work became somewhat indistinct between right or wrong. The apartments had no lights showing and after forcing the door and searching inside it was obvious the bird, if she had ever been there, had flown; only the lingering scent of jasmine in the air suggested a woman had recently been present.
Giroux was considering his options when a boy limped up to him and thrust a note into his hand. The captain noted the vacant smiling expression on the lad's face and realised it was the simpleton who attended the horses in the barracks stables.
'What are you doing here?'
'A man gave me this. He said he would give me two sous if I found you quickly.' The boy was obviously delighted by his luck, proudly holding out the note.
'What man?' Giroux was wary, he had enough to deal with as it was.
The boy screwed up his face. 'Ugly man,' was all he said, but the look in his eyes was enough for Giroux to suspect he knew whom the description fitted.
'Why are you still here? You won't be getting coin from me.'
The boy gave a sly smirk. 'Musketeers at the barracks, they want to speak to you.' He paused for a second before adding, 'Me too.'
'You? Why would Musketeers want to speak to you? What have you done?' This frightened the boy, and he backed away a little, his face confused.
'Nothin', Joseph done nothin'.'
'You must have done something, they would not want to waste their time on an idiot like you otherwise. What have you been saying?' He caught the boy by the shoulder and held him tight.
'Ow, that hurts,' the boy whimpered.
'It will hurt a whole lot more if you don't tell me what you have done that would interest a Musketeer.'
Joseph searched the area for someone who might help him. He did not like the bullying captain of the guard; Giroux treated his horses badly and those he considered beneath him even worse. He tried to wriggle out of the man's grip, but the captain held him too tightly. Steam plumed between the two figures as the frigidity in the air increased. No saviour in sight, only the twinkling lights mirrored in the dark water of the Seine bore testament to the existence of living souls, safely tucked up in the warmth of their homes – unlike Joseph.
Giroux shook the boy hard. 'I won't ask you again. What – have – you – done?'
Joseph was now terrified; he could not think of anything he had done that would warrant two Musketeers wanting to talk with him. He had been secretly proud of their interest, but now he wished he had said nothing and just handed over the note and run. 'I really ain't done anythin'. Joseph just looks after the horses,' the boy pleaded. Even as he said the words, the pretty knife and the lovely sword he had found in the waggon sprang unbidden into his mind and he swallowed hard.
Giroux knew what to look for when interrogating a suspect, and he knew the boy had remembered something. 'What? You know something, I know you do. Spill it boy, or it will be your guts that get spilled.' The threat was enough to undo the boy.
'I didn't think anyone wanted 'em, I really didn't. They were pretty and shiny, they had bin there for days and no one had touched 'em. It was me dad's birthday, I thought he would like it…' the boy gulped beneath the furious glare of the man towering over him.
'What did you take?' Giroux felt an icy surge of dread flow through his veins; he knew that whatever the boy was about to admit to, it was not going to be good.
'They was just sitting there, I didn't think anyone would care.'
Giroux lost his patience and backhanded the boy across the face.
'What did you take?' The growl and the physical pain made the boy's words tumble out of his abused mouth in the rush to confess and return to the safety of home.
'I gave the knife to my dad, the sword is in the hay, where I sleep, all wrapped up safe.'
Giroux closed his eyes and groaned. Athos' sword and dagger, they must have been left in the covered waggon.
Idiots.
His panicked mind raced to find a solution.
The Musketeers were asking for the boy in particular – they must have come across the knife. Maybe the man had tried to sell it on for the coin, not impossible. Whoever had the knife would have explained about the gift from the boy and it would not take the men long to work out how the boy had found the weapons. Damn. There was only one course of action now.
'You three, wait at the entrance of the alley by St Benedictus. I need to follow a lead the boy has given me.' The three men were only too happy to return to warmth, shelter and their evening meal, and without a glance at the boy they left the captain to his own devices and disappeared into the night.
'What you going to do?' the boy croaked. 'I've told you the truth, Joseph doesn't lie.'
Giroux narrowed his eyes. 'Yes, you have, and for that I'll make it quick.' The knife sank into the soft flesh of the boy's abdomen with ease, and he hardly had time to cry out as it was cruelly twisted in his gut. Joseph felt himself rise up into the air like a bird before falling and floating like a cloud, and death was not so quick that he did not feel the icy water engulf him as he plunged into the river. As he sank beneath the unquestioning flow of the Seine, his last thought was how bright the stars were.
Giroux wiped his knife clean. Getting rid of the boy was one thing, but now there were witnesses to him having been the last one to see him alive. He could easily spin some tale about how dangerous it was for an imbecile like Joseph to be out in the dark alone, but the Musketeers were already suspicious enough. He needed time to think.
He caught up with his men near the old church. 'Jacob, go and relieve Dansome at the Châtelet. The rest of you, there is news there may have been a sighting of the woman down by the river, near the Pont Royale. You should all get something to eat on the way. Report back to me later. I have to see the Cardinal.' The men were not happy at the news, but they intended to make their meal last a good while before carrying out their captain's orders, a fact Giroux was relying upon.
The tavern near the barracks was not regularly used by the guard; it was filthy and the low life that frequented the establishment were the lowest of the low, just what he needed.
He sat in a corner, the hood of his cloak pulled up. He peered into the smoky gloom, seeking out the man he needed – a man who would cut his mother's throat for the right amount of coin if he had not already sent her to an early grave some years before. Finally he found the shadowy figure sitting by the fire, smoking a pipe. Giroux thrust a note into the serving woman's hand and indicated the man by the fireplace. With little grace or subtlety, she gave the man the note and pointed to Giroux. The man drank down his tankard and made his way over to the captain's table.
'Nice to see you again, Captain.' The man spat on the floor and revealed a mouth of rotting teeth as he grinned at Giroux. 'What can I do for you?'
'There are three guards making their way down to the apartments by the river, near the Pont Royale, they will be leaving The Blackhorse some time in the next hour. A single guard will leave them and make his way to the Châtelet; I want the three dead and the single one almost, I do not want him to come around. Make it look like a falling out. Do you understand?'
The man appraised him with a sneer. 'Cards I reckon. Dangerous thing drinkin' and cheatin'.' He held out a filthy hand and Giroux dropped a purse into his palm – a job like that wasn't cheap.'
Running his hands through his hair, Giroux remembered the note the boy had given him. He retrieved it from his pocket and read it again.
If you want the Cardinal kept in ignorance concerning your
two friends back in Pinot, you need to meet me.
Under the arches of the Bastille courtyard at dawn.
There was no indication as to whom the note was from, but the boy's explanation of 'an ugly man' was enough. Beau had survived the fight at the monastery and now he was once again in Paris, and Peloir and Jobin had talked.
ooOoo
Porthos and Aramis had descended upon the Red Guard barracks like avenging angels. They brooked no argument and insisted upon speaking to the boy Joseph. When he could not be found Porthos was all for tearing the place apart, but Aramis held him back.
'Is there a place where the boy sleeps, somewhere he might have left his possessions?' Aramis asked, though the glint in his eye clearly stated his polite tone was not to be relied upon.
'Nowhere in particular, he usually beds down with the horses, in the loft above.' The soldier was uncomfortable complying with the two Musketeers, it was clear they were angry, and with the captain gone, he was unsure how to proceed.
'Show us!' The soldier could hardly ignore the implied danger in the demand from the big Musketeer and if he complied, they might leave without any major upset. He nodded for another younger soldier to show them the way.
'What are you looking for?' the young soldier asked, somewhat curious.
'This!' Aramis pulled the weapon from the straw and discarded the filthy wrapping. The sword glinted in the low light as if imbued with its own power. The soldier, sensing this was not good, hurried from the loft to find his superior and warn him of the discovery.
'Athos' sword. The bastards were responsible all along,' Porthos growled.
'Then let us see what they have to say for themselves.'
The two Musketeers strode into the central courtyard, where there was now quite an audience. Brandishing the distinctive sword, Aramis addressed the startled soldier in charge.
'This is Athos' sword, and his knife was given to Joseph's father as a birthday gift by the boy. Just how do you think he came by them?' There was no denying the edge in the Musketeer's voice now – gone were the charming smile and the polite requests – this was a man who wanted answers and would do whatever he needed to obtain them. However, the puzzled soldier was at a loss how to answer the question, and glancing around at the growing number of observers, he decided his best option was to speak the truth.
'Honestly, I have no idea. The boy is simple, he helps out with the horses, doing odd jobs, and taking messages. How he came by Athos' weapons is a complete mystery.' He held up his hands. 'I know how it looks, and I know the swordsman is missing, but I genuinely know nothing about it. You need to speak to the captain, though where he is I also have no clue.' By the fraught look upon the soldier's face, it was quite clear he was telling the truth. Still wanting to appear helpful, he tried one last avenue.
'Does anyone here know how Joseph may have come across Athos' weapons within the barracks?' To be fair to the Guard, he spoke with authority and clearly expected an honest answer. Most of the observers shook their heads with equal denial, but one soldier stepped forward.
'It may be nothing, but about a week ago, maybe less, I found the lad trying to sneak off when I had given him a job to do. It wasn't like him. He looked guilty and mumbled something about having to go home to give his dad a present, or something like that.'
Aramis frowned. 'What was the job?'
The soldier thought for a moment. 'Waggon needed cleaning out, it had been out all night and come back filthy. Full of straw too, for some reason.'
The two Musketeers exchanged a glance. It was evident who had been in the waggon.
Without asking permission Aramis addressed the soldiers present. 'If anyone knows anything about that waggon, or where it had been, now is the time to speak, before we report all we know to the King.' This had the desired affect and a murmur of concern spread throughout the yard.
The guard in charge spoke again. 'Like I said, you need to speak to the captain, it was he who took the waggon out the day before. He took four men with him but said nothing about his destination.'
'Where are they, the four men?' Porthos stepped forward, towering over the guard.
'With Giroux, wherever that may be.' He muttered the final words, as though the captain and his men were not popular with him right now.
'Then they shouldn't be too 'ard to find, we'll just follow the stink of corruption.' With that Porthos turned and strode toward the city. Aramis nodded his thanks and with a final scan of the fascinated observers, followed his friend.
ooOoo
Athos shifted his weight to try and make himself more comfortable. He had stretched and attempted to do what he could in the confined space to prevent his muscles becoming stiff and useless. Despite his battered and abused body he still needed to be on the alert for any opportunity to escape, should it arise. Since he had been incarcerated in this fetid hell, the guards had only opened the door to throw his food and drink at him – sometimes it survived, but often it did not. That was no loss, but what he wouldn't give for a tankard of ale right now.
Nobody had conversed with him, though they enjoyed giving him a regular kick or punch, and any attempt at retaliation or defensive actions only resulted in more of the same.
Athos had patiently watched and waited. The guards only changed twice a day, and so far, he had only noticed four men share the duty. He could only surmise that Giroux's supply of trusted cronies was fairly small, a fact worth celebrating. Within the confines of the Bastille, it was impossible to tell if it was night or day, but he had counted the times the guards had changed and he suspected outside it was turning from day to night, almost time for his evening meal.
Hardly a minute had passed since the thought occurred to him, when Athos heard the jangle of keys and the sound of the stiff lock turn with a painful grind. The door flung open, but he had now positioned himself in such a way that the heavy door did not strike a blow on his unsuspecting form, something which was an all too obvious disappointment to his jailers by the sour expression upon their faces.
'Time to dine, my lord.' They had begun to address him so after they reviled him for his haughty demeanour, and if the circumstances had been different, it would almost have been amusing.
Much to Athos' surprise, the soldier placed the bowl down upon the floor, normally they simply threw it at him. The cup of water was passed to him, but as he raised his brows in askance the guard pretended to trip and threw most of the water over him. Athos grabbed at the cup and drank the remaining liquid before the chuckling guard could take it off him. As the man left the cell his foot caught the bowl of fowl smelling stew and kicked it across the floor.
'Oh, ain't I the clumsy one tonight.' Athos heard him cackling as he turned the key once more and returned to whatever hole he inhabited when he wasn't tormenting Athos. The sound of scurrying feet heralded the arrival of the only inhabitants in the entire jail who appeared to enjoy the disgusting fare. The water had barely wetted his parched throat and he knew he could not remain confined and denied sustenance for very much longer.
Athos rested his head back against the damp, cold bricks. His very bones had long ago given up any expectation of warmth, and the shivering was minimal, as though his body no longer noticed or cared it was so cold. He stood slowly, as moving too quickly caused his head to swim. Gently he went through the motions of warming up, as he did every morning; he had no sword to practise with, but he could still attempt to keep himself warm and sane with some form of goal.
It did not last long, he was getting weaker and the length of time he could move for was growing considerably less each day. He slumped back upon the cobbles, causing a flurry of movement from his cell mates, who squeaked in protest at being prevented from finishing their evening meal.
Athos had not heard the arrival of the new guard, which was unusual, normally it occurred just after he had been given his food. Any change in the routine was important – any variation could provide the chance he had been waiting for. He considered how this might work to his advantage, but despite running a variety of scenarios through his tired mind, could think of no obvious way to escape his cell. He wasted no time contemplating the option of fighting his way to freedom – time was running out and he knew it.
As he sat in the cold, dank cell, concentrating on every creak and cry, he could not help but wonder what Aramis and Porthos were doing, whilst he faded into the darkness around him. If he could have seen them storming out of the Red Guard barracks leaving a sea of astounded faces behind them, he may even have risked a smile. However, the Aramis and Porthos he envisaged in his mind's eye, were working as normal, bearing the disappointment of thinking their brother could have fled without pausing to ask for their help.
Into this bleak reverie, broke the distinctive sound of approaching footsteps, though these sounded somewhat tentative, not the strident thud of determination the other men had made. The sound of voices came clear in the unnerving silence.
'Who the hell are you?'
'Gerald sent me, there had been an… event… Bedwin is dead, or probably is now. They found him down an alley with his head bashed in. Looks like there was a falling out, he had cards and money scattered around him and… Laroche, Michel and Farouge were all dead too, shot, stabbed – with his weapon. They stank of drink. No one can find the captain, and we knew Bedwin was on his way to relieve you, so they sent me.' All of this came out in a garbled rush, and Athos could tell by the disturbed voice, the owner was little more than a green boy. Now Athos was not one to play games, but that did not mean he did not understand the rules, and boys were unproven, easily manipulated and impressed. Look at Dubois, the sudden memory caused a stab of pain in the swordsman's chest, but that sorrow had to be locked away with the others for a more appropriate time – hopefully never.
Whilst his mind had wandered, the sounds of stomping feet echoed into the distance. There was silence for a moment then the sound of a key in the lock. A variation.
The door opened and the flicker of candlelight illuminated the tiny space. Athos blinked. The other guards had never bought in a light, not really worried where the food would fall, or where there boots would strike. The sudden glare almost blinded him.
'I am sorry.' The boy moved the candle lower and peered at the criminal he was supposed to be guarding.
Athos looked up at the boy expectantly, his face was fresh, and he looked as though he had arrived only that morning from the country. Perfect.
'Could I have some water, please,' he croaked, not needing to overact as his throat was parched. The boy frowned and instantly left the cell with the door standing open. Athos smiled, this was going to be easier than he had hoped.
ooOoo
Milady looked out across the snowy landscape. The house was high on a hill overlooking the city, and a thick dusting of snow had settled over night. She sighed in disgust and turned to stand by the blazing fire. The staff had been somewhat surprised at her arrival, but on production of the letter from their master had been stupidly attentive and welcoming. Still, despite her luck, she could not settle. She haunted the corridors day and night, sleep illusive and filled with dreams of Pinot and Athos when she did finally succumb. It was easier to stay awake.
As though suddenly struck with the solution, she pulled on her cloak and gloves and sturdy boots and secured her dagger to her thigh. Paris no longer just called to her, it was practically screaming her name. She could no longer sit here and wait. What she waited for she did not know, but somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind she suspected it was her fate.
Taking a horse from the stables she took off at a brisk pace, the wind instantly tearing the hood from her head, her dark curls coming loose from their pins, one by one. She did not care, there was something in this act of freedom that made her spirits soar and her senses felt alive and vibrant. The journey seemed over too quickly, and she reined her mount in to deliberate exactly what she meant to do. Her feet apparently needed little instruction; she stabled her horse and headed for the tavern nearest the garrison. If she had been asked why she would not have known, it was as if instinct had taken over, and she acted as though the events that would follow were no longer under her control.
She sat in her favourite spot, at the rear, in the smoke and away from prying eyes. Here she could watch and listen and no one ever bothered her. She watched Musketeers come and go, recognising one or two, but every time one entered her heart hitched then plummeted. None of them were him. As she sat gazing at the flames from the fire, she went back to the last time they had spoken with any feeling. Athos had been weak and battered, having just been dragged half drowned and traumatised from the tunnel he had crawled through beneath the ruined château. His defences had been demolished, and he knew she had saved his life.
'Thank you!'
'What for, saving your life, or not ending it?'
Athos' lips had twitched, the usual sign of a smile, and her heart had soared. She was stroking the hair from his forehead before she had even realised, but she did not falter.
'Do you think they would have pulled me out if you had not been with me?'
Another twitch. 'Probably not.'
They had sat in silence, not even realising their hands were clasped together. Night had fallen and Porthos, Aramis and the Captain were at the neighbouring château, attempting to locate Gaston. They had not wanted to leave Athos in her hands, but with little choice they had agreed, but only after Porthos had issued one of his usual threats.
'If he is not hale and well when we return, I will hunt you down and gut you myself.' She did not want to admit his hatred had hurt. Though she cared not one whit for his respect or opinion, she did feel she had earned his trust regarding her intentions toward Athos. She had been presented with more opportunities to kill the man than she could ever have dreamed of, even considered it once or twice, but not now.
She had not bothered to respond to the insult, merely turned on her heel and headed into Athos' room.
Now it was late, she rested her head upon the pillow, his soft hair brushing her cheek. She could feel his gentle breathing as he slept. When he spoke it surprised her.
'Do you sleep?' There was pain in his voice, and she did not need any explanation to understand the question.
'No, not if I can avoid it.'
'You never left me. Not one single night, neither you nor Thomas.'
'I know, neither did you.' Her voice was soft, no sign of recrimination, only resignation.
'I hate the darkness.'
After a brief pause, she replied. 'It is filled with what was, and everything I have ever loved, and hated.'
Athos turned his head. 'Yet I cannot say sorry.' His voice broke.
'I know, neither can I, and that is our curse.' She moved closer and kissed him. It was not hard and filled with passion, but soft and gentle and filled with everything that was and could never be. 'Sleep, you are safe now.' She stood and turned to leave. Pausing, she stooped and lit a candle. 'No darkness tonight.' She gave him a sad smile and left the room. The next day they had said their goodbyes and she had ridden away, understanding something had changed. That if there had ever been a chance for them, it was gone, and no amount of wishing or regret on either part would alter that. That she loved him still – would not change a thing.
It was with this painful realisation that she drained her goblet and rose. It was late now, the day had faded and there had been no sign of Aramis or Porthos. She had learnt that Athos was missing, had been since she had shot the guard at the palace and escaped. The dread that filled her heart was a heavy burden, yet she knew he still lived – how, she did not know – but she always did.
She stood in the quiet street and watched the odd flake of snow drift down from the sky; the air was bitter and already frost had begun to glitter upon the ground. The sky was filled with twinkling stars, a night for romance and love, yet for her there was nothing but a cold hollow ache, an empty void that would never be filled. Running feet approached and instinctively she moved back into the darkness of a doorway and waited.
Giroux! She was surprised, not just by his appearance, but by the look of wild panic upon his face. When nobody followed in pursuit, she moved out into the shadows and hurried after him. Something was afoot, and she had a very bad feeling.