Thank you to all who read and those who leave comments. I'm delighted that the story has gripped you so far. On a bit of a roll at present, with three chapters written in two days, but it's a definite challenge to me. First person point of view and present tense are taking me way out of my comfort zone! Apologies in advance for any errors that slip through!
35 DAYS EARLIER
PORTHOS
Athos an' Aramis have ridden ahead to the North Gate to ask some questions of the gate keepers there. We're not too far behind an' they're sittin' in their saddles waitin' for us when we arrive. I wonder if they've found out anythin' useful.
"We are correct," Athos says, without preamble. "Someone answering Bircann's description was here waiting for the gates to open."
"Was he alone?" Tréville wants to know.
Athos shakes his head. "There were two others with him."
"That's not many," Aramis adds, and he casts an eye over the men we have ridin' with us. We definitely 'ave the advantage of numbers.
"With only three of them, they can move faster, lose themselves in crowds if need be. Whatever, they will not be so obvious." Even as he's talkin', Athos is lookin' out through the gates at the countryside that opens up beyond the city.
"He and the King's mother would not make a move without an army at their backs. He will want them close, but they will not be camped anywhere near the city because he would not have wanted them to be seen before he was ready. He may well be heading for them now," Tréville says grimly, also lookin' in the same direction as Athos.
It's temptin' an' I find I'm starin' the same way. It's as if I expect to see Bircann an' his army just sittin' there outside the gates.
Aramis looks puzzled. "To attack? What would he hope to achieve? If the man was warned to leave Paris swiftly, he must realise that we know of his plan with Marie de Medici?"
"He would not have come without manpower for when the plan was put into action. Both know there would be opposition, not least from us. His men could well be waiting back on his estate. We know it's only two hours' from Paris. An easy distance to send a summons for men who are ready, and he would know how quickly they would come. If he reaches them now, he can make a stand where he chooses and on terrain that he knows well."
The Captain turns in his saddle and surveys the group of Musketeers waiting patiently and silently for his orders. "If that happens, we will not be sufficient in number to face them."
"Then we 'ave to make sure we catch up with 'im first," I say determinedly. "We'd better stop talkin' an' get on then. How far ahead is he?" I ask Athos.
"The gate keeper thinks some thirty minutes. We'll have to ride hard."
"Or we keep our fingers crossed that Bircann and his friends are taking a leisurely amble and enjoying the view," Aramis quips as he pulls at the cuff of a leather glove and adjusts his reins.
Athos just rolls 'is eyes at 'im as if to say 'not now', an' the Captain gives the order to move out. The horses trot until we're clear of the gates, the ground levels an' opens out, which is when we push the animals hard.
They won't be able to keep this up for too long and I'm thinkin' that even if Bircann is trying to move fast too, he will also have to ease up at some point, unless he wants 'is horse to drop beneath 'im.
As it 'appens', Lady Luck* is on our side an' we catch up with him in a village less than an hour from Paris. His horse hasn't dropped dead but it 'as thrown a shoe an' they've stopped to see the blacksmith to put it right. I could kiss 'im. He's not exactly old, but 'e takes pride in 'is work an' consequently, he's takin' his time, which is all to our advantage.
Bircann is none too pleased an' is standin' there, cursin' an' shoutin' at him, demandin' another mount when we see him at the same time 'is companions set eyes on us an' chaos erupts.
The other men draw their pistols but one is felled by a shot from Aramis and the second drops his weapon without discharging it as he faces a line of Musketeers with pistols aimed at him. He throws up 'is hands in surrender an' a couple of our men dismount, check him for anythin' else and secure his wrists behind 'im with a rope.
Meanwhile, Bircann has pulled out a dagger, grabbed the blacksmith from behind, swung him round to use as a body shield and is holdin' the blade against 'is throat. At the first suggestion of trouble, women start screaming, catching 'old of small children and dragging them into the safety of nearby cottages.
Suddenly, the street is empty except for a contingent of Musketeers, one man lying groanin' in the dust which is rapidly stainin' red with the blood he's losin' from 'is 'and, another bound and under guard, and a wide-eyed nobleman with a dagger at the throat of the village blacksmith.
"Tréville! I might have known," Bircann spits out as he recognises the Captain. "Hold still before I cut your throat," he barks distractedly at the blacksmith who is strugglin' in his grip.
"No-one is cutting anyone's throat today, Bircann." Tréville sounds disinterested. "Put down the dagger, man. What do you expect to gain from this? My men all have their weapons trained on you. One move and they will fire."
"And take the risk of hitting the good blacksmith first? I think not. I know you, Tréville. As much as you want me, you will not want to kill an innocent man in the process. I swear I'll kill him first."
As if to prove a point, 'e takes a couple of steps backwards, dragging his captive with him, almost unbalancing him. A bead of red appears at the blacksmith's throat. Tréville raises a hand, his face expressionless.
"Lower your weapons."
As the men react without hesitation, he dismounts. Athos immediately follows suit and steps up to stand a pace behind the Captain's right shoulder.
"How are we going to do this, Bircann? There is nowhere for you to go. You cannot escape us."
"You want to kill me; to get your revenge for what happened before," Bircann says mysteriously.
"Absolutely," the Captain agrees with him and Aramis and I exchange a shocked glance; we have no idea what's goin' on. "But my orders are to capture you alive, and that is what I intend to do: arrest you and take you back to Paris for a trial and due punishment." He shrugs and adds regretfully, "Of course, if you resist, that will not be possible."
Bircann gives a harsh laugh. "And you expect me to believe that? That you will escort me unharmed to the Chatelet or whatever place you have lined up for me? You, who have wanted to get your hands on me for so many years? What change has come over you? Are you a man?" and he gives a mockin' laugh that makes my blood boil. "Or are you the mouse that begged me to stop hurting you anymore?"
I see Tréville stiffen an' my anger erupts an' I'm off my horse before I know it, but so is Aramis an' he seizes me by the arm to stop me.
No-one stops Athos though as he steps past the Captain to stand before Bircann. I've seen that look on 'is face before: cold, hard, determined an' I wonder if Bircann realises the danger that he's in.
"Captain Tréville is a man of honour, unlike you with your planned treachery against the King and France. If the Captain gives you his word then there is no justification for you to question it."
The delivery of every word is clear and clipped. He doesn't raise his voice but everyone there hears him.
"Athos." Tréville speaks, his voice gruff, the tone a warning, or perhaps an unspoken order, something agreed upon that I know nothin' about.
I wonder who's keepin' who under control here.
"Athos?" Bircann is surprised. "So you're Tréville's lackey."**
Athos is no foot soldier, so Bircann means this as an insult.
"You've heard of me?" Athos' mouth twitches with a hint of a smile that does not reach his eyes.
"Tréville's loyal second-in-command? But of course; I've done my research. And what has the dear Captain told you about me?"
"Enough. Now let the blacksmith go."
"Or what, Athos of Tréville's musketeers? What will you do? Didn't you hear the good Captain? I am to be taken alive."
I shake my 'ead. This is not goin' to end well. 'E must 'ave a death wish, the way he's goadin' Athos.
"As much as it would please me to stop your arrogant mouth, Bircann, I also have my orders and I have no intention of killing you."
My fist tightens and I stop myself from punching the air with glee. Athos has delivered an even better insult, totally ignorin' Bircann's title an' status. It obviously rankles with the man an 'he must have shifted his 'old on his hostage, because the next thing, the blacksmith has elbowed him in the ribs, doublin' him over, an' he's broken free, run a few paces an' picked up a hammer as a weapon.
Bircann staggers, recovers himself and draws his sword. Athos' likewise draws his rapier and moves forward as, with a defiant roar, Bircann lunges at him.
Aramis and I are ready, but Tréville holds out a hand to keep us back. He knows that if Athos goes down, we'll be there.
The exchange is ruthless, brutal and brief, ending with Bircann lying on his back on the ground, his face puce from ill-disguised fury, left hand stemming the blood flow from his right shoulder and his weapon several feet away where Athos has disarmed him with a deft move.
Our brother stands unscathed, breathing deeply after his exertion and glaring down at the nobleman. Before Aramis and I can move to join him, Tréville is issuing commands. Two of the Musketeers bind Bircann's wrists before him and help him to his feet, mindful of his injury, and hold him fast as the Captain approaches.
"You should have done more research, Bircann. You may have discovered that Athos is the finest sword fighter in the regiment and is reputed to be the best in Paris and beyond. You could have saved yourself the humiliation."
If I didn't know 'im better, I'd be thinking that the Captain is enjoyin' this moment but the fight an' bluster hasn't gone out of Bircann yet even though he's our prisoner now.
"This isn't over, Tréville, not yet. You and your lacky there had better be careful. My reach is long."
Notes:
* Lady Luck - the earliest evidence of this expression is before 1535 in the writing of Sir Thomas More, Lord High Chancellor to Henry VIII. I use a bit of author's licence to have this expression cross the Channel in the next 90-94 years.
** Lackey - from 'laquais', the Medieval French for foot soldier, later footman and servant (and perhaps a little derogatory.)