I'm hoping you can 'catch' the latest chapters occasionally. Over four weeks now and I check daily but the number of times I can access all posted chapters can be counted on one hand with fingers left over. It has an aversion to anything beyond chapter 58 for some reason and last week, it hated chapter 61 for some reason.

Anyway, Aramis' version of events continues as the Captain's plan unfolds.

CHAPTER 67

ARAMIS

Late evening and the gate to the Chatelet is opened to enable Ferel and me to exit together. He has washed and groomed himself and changed into the clothes that we brought for him, which fit him reasonably well. He no longer looks the prisoner but is restored to something resembling a gaoler, even if he is devoid of the confidence such a role should demand. I have divested myself of all that marks me out as a Musketeer and adopted more casual clothing. Gone are the familiar long coat, sash, pauldron, hat and the all-important weapons belt. I feel quite naked without my sword at my side, but I still have a pistol tucked inside my doublet and three daggers of various lengths secreted about my person. Porthos left some fifteen minutes before us to take up his position outside the tavern whilst Tréville intends upon leaving several minutes after us. He is also carrying my sword under his cloak and I can only hope that, should the need for it arise, he will have the opportunity to pass it to me.

"Behave normally," I hiss to Ferel as the gate bangs shut behind us, "and stop looking around so much. You look suspicious just standing there."

"It's easy for you to say when you are used to facing danger every day," he whines, his tone definitely higher than usual.

I shrug nonchalantly and correct him. "I wouldn't say it's every day. Besides, this will not be dangerous if you do your part as agreed. You meet your contact as usual in a crowded tavern and hand him the message. It couldn't be simpler. As agreed, you will be arrested with the messenger by those Musketeers who are concealed around the exterior of the place and the handful of them clad in ordinary clothes who are already settled inside. Once captured, you'll be taken separately back to the Chatelet. In the morning, you will be quietly released and escorted home to your family."

"And the payment?" He looks at me wide-eyed and I study him, but there is no hint of greed, that his prime reason for doing this is the money. It is a means to an end, to pay for him, his wife and sick child to leave Paris, begin somewhere anew and beyond the reach of Bircann or anyone associated with him. He will also be able to pay for the child's much-needed treatment.

"Tomorrow, upon your release," I reassure him.

"How can I be sure?" That annoying whine re-enters his voice.

"Because my Captain promised you and Captain Tréville does not break a promise."

He huffs and I am unsure as to whether he believes me or not but right now, I do not care.

"We must part company," I remind him, and his face immediately betrays his burgeoning panic. "Breathe," I order sharply and he obeys, trying to regulate his breathing. "You know what to do; we have gone over this so many times."

His head nods jerkily and I silently remind myself that this will work and that we will capture our man. I hold out my hand and he takes it, his palm disgustingly sweaty with fear so that I have to discipline myself not to release him too soon and wipe my hand down my breeches. Having shaken hands, we bid each other goodnight and I set off down the street to the left as he crosses it to head towards the tavern.

Aware that it has started to rain, I surreptitiously glance back and as soon as he is out of sight, I break into a sprint, although I know that he is not alone, that my comrades are positioned in hiding along his route. He will not see his watchers, but they are there, ready to protect him should it become necessary. I turn down a narrow alley that lies parallel to the one he has taken and then turn right again at the first opportunity – three sides of a square. At the end, I flatten myself against the wall and peer around it.

He has just gone past, his cloak and gait unmistakable, and is not too far ahead of me, his pace slow and unhurried, as if desperately trying to delay his meeting. I move out into the street and go after him, maintaining a reasonable distance as I keep to the shadows. Passing by two of my hidden colleagues at intervals along the way, I give a cursory nod of acknowledgement, knowing exactly where they are and yet pleased that I do not actually see them. One of them responds with a muted grunt, the other with a low whistle, just a short, single note that signals all is well.

Ferel reaches the tavern and opens the door, light and drunken noise spilling out into the street. The rain is heavier now, and without my hat, my hair is plastered about my face, but I wait a few moments to follow him inside, my nose immediately assaulted by the smell of dirty bodies, stale beer and some unidentifiable food. As I make my way to the bar – a grandiose term for an old door supported by two barrels - I recognise two more Musketeers sitting separately and then spy Porthos alone at a corner table, nursing a mug of ale. A serving girl approaches him, jug in hand and a quick word from him has her refilling his drink and moving on. Just as well as she temporarily blocks his view of the remainder of the room. I put two coins down and the tavern keeper sets a beer heavily in front of me.

Casually, I lean one elbow on the bar and twist so that I can also survey the side of the busy room where Ferel has headed. I sip at the beer and try to suppress a grimace at the taste. It is warm, weak and not very nice so I make a mental note not to frequent this establishment again unless I discover that it is under new management.

Ferel slides onto a bench at a table that already has an occupant. Fortune is on our side as it is the table next to the one where Porthos is seated, and I wonder if he can hear anything that passes between them. For some unfathomable reason – for it cannot be the lure of the beer - the place is popular, and people are constantly on the move in the space between Feral and where I am standing, so that I have to constantly adjust my position in order to keep him in my line of vision.

There is little discernible of the other man who has positioned himself in the shadows, his dark cloak wrapped around him, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low and head down so that little can be seen of his face, and I am minded of Athos. When the melancholy is about him, this is often what he does when he wishes an excess of wine to be the solace he seeks in driving away the ghosts of his past. Oddly enough, he desires solitude in a crowded room and to be as inconspicuous as possible, except on the few occasions when a devil grabs him and fuels him with an unpredictable belligerence.

I wonder how long his current, worrying tendency will last, that of curling into a ball on his side, knees drawn up and hands fisted in front of his face. Some might regard it as an antagonistic pose; to me, it smacks of the defensive, striving to ward off whatever haunted him at the bottom of that pit and which has since accompanied him to the surface.

Ferel's conversation with the messenger is brief and I see him retrieve the note from under his cloak, lay it down and push it across the worn wood. A gloved hand reaches out to pick it up. Despite the closeness of the evening and the stuffiness of the tavern, the unknown man is taking no chances at being recognised.

Suddenly Ferel stands, his eyes darting towards me and I abruptly turn away. I hear his footsteps on the wooden floor as he passes me on the way to the door and it is only when I hear it open that I turn slightly and see the other two Musketeers rise from their respective tables and nonchalantly follow in Ferel's wake. I know they will affect an arrest once outside. In both instances, their abandoned drinks are snatched up by those nearby and downed in one. I shudder, repulsed by their enthusiasm for the dreadful stuff.

The messenger is on his feet too and sweeps the room with wary eyes which light upon me, but even as I hold my breath, the look passes on. Pulling his cloak tightly about him, he heads towards a back entrance and both Porthos and I are on the move.

Out in the night air, he moves swiftly, head down against the cold rain that is now torrential, but we keep him in sight, whilst still maintaining a reasonable distance. When he disappears down an alley ahead to the left, we speed up and turn into it as well. He is standing at the far end watching for us. We have been so careful but has he been aware of our presence all the time, or is this simply a habitual precautionary measure on his part?

Whatever, when he sees us, he runs.

"Now why did he have to do that?" Porthos grumbles as he starts off after him with me at his heels.

As we burst onto the main street, boots slipping on the wet cobbles, we see him in front of us, struggling to maintain his footing in the worsening conditions. It does not help that we are in a street frequented by market stall holders, and they have not been particular about sweeping up the detritus at the conclusion of that day's trading. Sodden vegetable leaves and other unrecognisable messes make the street treacherous.

"Musketeers to us!" we both shout at intervals and are relieved as they emerge from their places of concealment and join the chase.

Some of our comrades responding to our call are ahead of the man and block his way. Surely, we have him now!

But he sees them and veers to the left and out of sight. Shouting, the Musketeers in front of us likewise disappear. We are mere seconds behind them but there is no-one about when we come upon the archway between two buildings. We can hear them though and go through the arch to discover several of the men standing about a courtyard and seemingly shouting up at the roof.

For a fleeting moment, we see a figure up there, silhouetted against the night sky whilst another is rapidly climbing a set of rickety stairs attached to the outside of the building.

"He's there!" yells a Musketeer on the ground, gesticulating wildly to the comrade who has just reached the roof.

But the silhouetted figure has disappeared.

"He's gone back through to the front of the building," calls another.

"I'll go up after 'im," Porthos says, already up the first three steps of the stairs which creak alarmingly under his weight and the unprecedented usage it's had in a matter of minutes. "You go back along the front. See if you can see 'im an' intercept 'im if he finds another way down."

As he climbs higher, I experience a definite feeling of disquiet and grab the man nearest me. "Which Musketeer is on the roof?"

He looks about him to identify who is not of their number.

"Delacroix."