Evening, all. Many thanks for reading and leaving comments. Apologies if I have let through any errors.
The search for Gondy continues and the rains come.
28 DAYS EARLIER
ARAMIS
Porthos and I walk through the archway past the men on guard as they stand, miserable and cold, heads down so the wide brims of their hats catch the rainwater and funnel it onto the ground before their feet. The yard is empty unsurprisingly. No-one is training; they can't. The dirt has been transformed into ankle deep, cloying mud with the torrential rain.
It began yesterday as Porthos and I left Gondy's place. It was a light rain to start with as we wandered through the market talking to people, asking more questions about the gaoler but as we repeatedly failed to learn anything new about the man or if anyone had seen him in recent days, so the rainfall increased, and our mood plummeted.
We stopped at the morgue on our way back to speak with Poupart.
"Your friend is not here," he announced the moment he saw us. Normally bullish and short-tempered in his speech, he was strangely more considerate. Perhaps our daily visits had made him more sympathetic to the worry that eats away at us. "I did tell you that I would send to the garrison the moment I received a body that might be him," he reminded us.
"I know," I said, "but we're not here about Athos. It's someone else who might have come in here in the past three days." I described Gondy to him but none of the corpses delivered recently was the man we sought.
"I'll send you word if someone answering to that description arrives here," he assured us, "and it goes without saying that I'll continue to look out for your friend. But every day that he does not turn up here is good, right?"
My heart was too heavy to answer and my body too weary, but Porthos managed a grunt of non-committal, and we made our way back out into the rain which appeared to have worsened, if that were at all possible.
The rain continued overnight and into the early morning, so the usual daily muster was cancelled. The Captain came into the room where some of us were breaking our fast and grimly announced that no-one would be heading out to the country estates of Bircann and some of the other council members today because of the unforgiving weather. The preparations for our departure – I assumed that Porthos and I would be included in the number - were completed the day before so we would be ready to move out as soon as the weather improved. Tréville was looking directly at us as he said it, as if he were daring us to object, but we both knew that his pronouncement, as well as being final, was the sensible decision given the circumstances. It did nothing to reduce our sense of helplessness though.
Athos might well be in dire straits but knowing him as I do, he would not thank us if retrieving him meant that another man was injured or worse. It would be something else to add to the guilt that already consumes him. I dread to think what it would do to him in that event. As desperate as I am to find him, I would do anything to spare him that.
Instead, Porthos and I resumed our search for Gondy. We were quickly soaked to the skin, our wet weather capes failing to keep us dry, making our leathers uncomfortable and chilling us to the bone. There was no argument from either of us about heading back to the garrison after four hours to get dry and decide our next move.
We did the best we could in our respective quarters to dry off and warm up, but our uniforms are still damp when we finally seek out Serge for some ale and hot food.
"Sit by the fire an' I'll get you boys somethin'," he orders and we don't need telling twice. There are only three other Musketeers in the room and they acknowledge us with a nod before continuing their quiet conversation.
"The Captain in his office?" Porthos asks as Serge returns with bowls of steaming pottage and mugs of ale.
"Nope," he replies. "A messenger came from the Palace a couple of hours ago an' he left for there shortly after. He's not come back yet."
I look across the table at Porthos. "Perhaps there's news from Bircann."
"Another clue from the traitor?" Porthos says, spooning up the pottage as if he can't remember his last meal. "It's possible, I suppose, but if this rain doesn't give up any time soon, the Captain is not goin' to let us head anywhere."
Serge sniffs, picks up his tray and turns to go back to preparing vegetables for the evening meal. "If this rain doesn't stop, the Seine will burst its banks again and flood the lower parts of the city."
I look up at him, a full spoon halted between the bowl and my mouth. "Is that likely?"
"Been a while since it last happened an' that was with less rain than this. Depends what's happening further up river with the ones feedin' into the Seine," he replies and disappears into the kitchen area.
"You'd better start prayin' that the rain stops soon," Porthos instructs me, his face serious. "That river bursts its banks an' none of us will be goin' anywhere for a while. We'll be pulled in to help the city."
I drop the spoon and lean across the table, my voice low and urgent. "Tréville will let us go; he has to. We have to find Athos."
"You an' I know that, an' so does the Captain, but if an emergency hits the city, then his hands are goin' to be tied. The King an' Cardinal are goin' to be the ones pullin' all the strings."
Anger at his words - which I know are right - instantly dulls my hunger and I push the bowl away from me, disinterested by food.
Porthos looks from the bowl to me and back again.
"You leavin' that?"
When I nod, he reaches out and pulls the bowl towards him, his own already empty.
"We'd better head on out to the market and carry on with our questions, although I'm not holding out much hope. There won't be many people out in this. Unlike us, anyone with any sense will be somewhere in the dry," I say, the prospect of more failure looming.
The door opens and Mellin, one of the guards at the garrison entrance looks into the room. When he sees us, he walks over, his face unreadable.
"Aramis, Porthos," he says. "Message just come for you. Poupart wants you at the morgue."
At his words, the chatter at the other table dies away and Serge reappears, wiping his hands on a cloth.
My stomach sinks and I feel sick.
"Did he say anythin' else?" Porthos asks.
Mellin shakes his head. "Just that you were to come now."
Porthos takes a deep breath. "We'd best go."
Is this it? Is this the message we have been dreading? Has Bircann been lying and feeding us false hope as part of his sick plan? Has Athos been dead all the time and now his body has been found in the rain? I don't want to know, but I also realise that I must have an answer, once and for all.
We go out into the rain and stride purposefully through the near-empty streets to the morgue. Neither of us says a word, each lost in our own thoughts. Thoughts of the good times all together; memories of when Athos has driven us nearly to distraction with his self-destructive guilt and drinking; his acerbic wit; the sheer beauty of watching him with a sword in his hand. Is this all about to end?
Poupart is waiting for us, his face wearing its usual morose expression.
"A body was brought in an hour ago. The moment I saw it, I sent for you two."
He leads us through the main chamber into a smaller room beyond and stops by a table which bears a figure covered by a stained sheet and I feel a stab of irrational anger.
Doesn't Athos warrant a clean sheet?
I hesitate, my feet turn to lead, and I don't want to go any further. A hand comes to rest on my shoulder and I glance at Porthos.
"Let's do this," he says gruffly, tears of unwanted anticipation filling his eyes.
I nod as I don't trust my voice and we move forward to where Poupart waits for us. He pulls back the sheet and I cannot suppress my gasp.
The face is contorted in indescribable terror, the throat slashed in a mocking grin as Nature has washed the wound clean. The skin is an unnatural white, not just the result of death but from blood loss.
"How long has he been dead?" Porthos asks, his voice strangely calm again.
"There's no smell," answers Poupart. "No more than a couple of days. Does that help at all?"
"Not really as we know when 'e was last seen alive."
I do not trust myself to say anything as I struggle with conflicting emotions. Should a man feel like crying and laughing at the same time?
The three of us stand and look down upon the body of Gondy.
Whatever he knew died with him but right now, I do not care.
The only thing that matters is that it is not Athos lying there on the table.