Many thanks, as always, to those of you who have taken the time to read and comment.
35 DAYS EARLIER
ATHOS
Thirty of the men of the garrison have been roused before first light to break their fast with the simple fare hastily prepared by Serge and his kitchen boy. They now crowd into the small mess room to eat, some standing and others squashing together on the low benches that flank the tables as they await the arrival of the Captain to furnish them with their orders. I have already taken the opportunity to brief Porthos and Aramis, but they knew as soon as the Captain summoned me to accompany him yesterday to the Palace to meet with Richelieu that something was afoot.
The Captain and I have carefully selected the men to accompany us and as I look around at them in the confined space, it is reassuring to see that all vestiges of sleep have gone, such is the heightened anticipation of what is needed of them.
When the door opens, a respectful hush immediately descends as Captain Treville enters and throws his hat, cloak and weapon onto the nearest table so that the men seated at it scrabble to move the detritus of their meal.
He issues his instructions with an impressive brevity and when he asks the men if they have any questions, they either shake their heads or remain silent. There is no need for him to repeat or clarify anything.
"Ten minutes, gentlemen, and then we ride," he concludes, gathering up his belongings once more and briskly exiting, the door left wide in his wake.
There is no hesitation. The Captain's departure prompts a general exodus. Serge bids us farewell, urging us to take care as we go about our business. Cook he might be, but he has seen much action himself and I know that he will not rest easily until he has seen us all return safe and sound from our task.
Catching his eye, I nod what I hope will be some reassurance in his direction and head for the doorway. Men stand back to let me precede them in deference to my rank as Treville's second-in-command. It's still something that does not sit well with me, but Aramis and Porthos constantly remind me that it is justified and well-deserved and that the men willingly follow me. Well, most of them do, but now is neither the time nor the place to dwell upon that.
Out in the yard, the stable boy and other Musketeers have also been woken to saddle horses in readiness and the animals stand patiently waiting for their riders, who mount easily, some still with a fist clutching the last of their bread and cheese. Porthos, I notice, holds the remains of his food between clenched teeth, freeing his hands to swing himself up and into the saddle and adjusting the reins.
Seeing me watching him, he grabs at the bread, takes a large bite, and gives a low, throaty chuckle.
"A man can't go to work on an empty stomach," he says by way of justification.
I take a deep breath and urge my horse forward to come alongside that of the Captain. I might feign frustration, but I can never begrudge Porthos his persistence in finishing a meal. A big man, he has a formidable appetite to match and spent too many of his early years wondering where his next meal was coming from, so he abhors food wastage.
Treville twists in his saddle, sees the men are ready and raises a hand to gesture that we are to move out. From the moment we pass under the garrison archway and out into the Paris streets, there is to be no talking.
Some market traders and shop owners are also up and about, preparing their wares by displaying them to best advantage in the hope of tempting potential customers, but even they halt in their work and stand back quietly as they watch our solemn passing. They are only too aware that the movement of such a contingent of Musketeers early in the morning and in grim silence heralds something of significance. They will probably never know that we ride to prevent an insurrection instigated yet again by the King's own mother.
Our progress is eerie, the only sounds being the many hooves and the jangling of harness. There is no tension, only a determination to complete our mission with swift precision and success.
I glance sideways at the Captain, whose eyes are fixed on the road ahead, his mouth set in a grim line, his features unchanged from the previous evening and I wonder if he has managed any sleep. My thoughts return to what he told me and what I presume is a mere fraction of that which he could have shared.
As Bircann's prisoner, he endured torture in a relentless, agonising pursual of information regarding the King's strategy and strengths, but he revealed nothing. The scars, he admitted, still marked his body and his mind. Bircann had derived a sadistic pleasure in watching the physical abuse, issuing orders and seeing them carried out. He knew what to do to cause maximum pain, stopping abruptly just before the victim lost consciousness, and changing methods. Food and water were scant but sufficient to keep the body functioning. There was to be no starving to death: on that, Bircann was insistent. Another tactic had been to deprive his prisoner of much needed sleep, an additional means of further weakening Tréville physically and mentally, so that he lost track of time and place for much of the duration of his captivity.
I suspect that there was more to the Captain's account, more details of the lasting effect this has obviously had upon him, but he would not be drawn and I must respect his reticence. Equally brief had been the account of his release, when he thought all was lost and that death would be the only escape. The Cardinal may have persuaded the King to stand firm and not to give in to his mother's demands, but the First Minister of France still had plans of his own.
The place that Bircann had established as his centre of operations had been stormed by the Cardinal's men and Richelieu himself had unlocked cells where key prisoners were being held. I can see him in my mind's eye. God's avenging angel, haloed in sunbeams as he stood in the open doorway, saving both the day and the Captain. He did oversee the transfer of the badly injured man to safety and gave instruction as to his care. No doubt even today, he relishes the role of saviour and takes it upon himself to remind Tréville of this fact wherever possible and without subtlety.
What was also omitted from Tréville's account the previous evening had been any mention of the extent of his hurts and how long it had taken him to recover. My own interpretation is that the harm was extensive and the road to recovery not short.
As I look at him now, I see the determination, but wonder what else is going on in his head. His order is for Bircann to be taken alive to face appropriate punishment for his crimes.
Tréville is the most honourable man I know, but when the time comes and he confronts the miscreant, will his past experiences at the hands of this brutal man rush to the fore and overwhelm his desire for justice by the more conventional route?