BBC Musketeers - The Greater Good
Chapter 3
Porthos slammed his fist on the table and snarled at Athos. “I still don’t see why we don’t just go in there and get Aramis out!”
Athos regarded Porthos coolly, returning his glare. “Because we have no way of knowing exactly how many Spanish soldiers are inside,” he responded, his voice level, calm. “It would most likely be suicide. You know this.”
D’Artagnan nodded. “It truly isn’t much of a rescue, Porthos, if we all die or get captured.”
Porthos slumped in his chair. “So we what? Just sit here while Aramis is surrounded by-”
Mindful of their surroundings and the volume of Porthos’ comments, Athos held up a hand to silence him when another voice cut in.
“Gentlemen! Fresh ale, compliments of the house.”
The barkeep lowered full tankards to the table and Athos twisted in his seat to meet the man’s strained, nervous smile. The portly man leaned in to speak in hushed, French tones. “A word to the wise, my friends, y’should perhaps keep your voices down a bit. There are those around loyal to King Philip and ‘ave been celebratin’ the comin’ of his troops.”
Athos nodded his understanding and took up the newly proffered tankard, lifting it in salute. “Your generosity speaks kindly of your establishment, good sir.” He took a large swallow, pleased to see d’Artagnan and Porthos, though begrudgingly at first, follow suit. “Does this establishment have rooms for rent?”
The barkeep nodded. “I have three rooms remainin’. Just come see me when you are ready for a bit more privacy.”
When the barkeep was out of range, Athos leaned across the table, pinning Porthos with his gaze. “While I understand that you have been friends with Aramis longest, do not presume to think for one moment that we do not share in the concern you feel for his safety.”
Porthos leaned in as well. “Well then act like it,” he gritted out. “If memory serves, you supported his leaving.”
Athos sighed, knowing his friend’s anger was born of concern, not resentment. “Because he wanted it.”
Porthos scoffed. “He didn’t know what he wanted.” He shook his head as he lowered the tankard to the table. “You didn’t even try to convince him to stay.”
“And do you honestly think any of us could have?”
D’Artagnan clasped Porthos on the shoulder, softening his tone. “None of us tried to talk him out of leaving because we knew none of us could. Aramis isn’t one easily dissuaded - especially when it comes to his beliefs.”
“Maybe.” Porthos looked down at his hands. “But now he’s alone in there. Surrounded by men who’d kill him outright if they knew his identity.”
Athos sat back in his chair. “We don’t even know if he is in there. The abbé -“
“The abbé was protectin’ him. That much was obvious.”
Athos dipped his head in agreement. “Possibly…” At Porthos snort of derision he amended, “Probably.”
d’Artagnan shrugged and grinned at the darker musketeer. “Surely he’s capable of handling a few Spanish soldiers.”
“He could at that,” Porthos chuckled reluctantly, running a hand across his eyes. He studied the younger musketeer a moment. “You know, whelp,” he began, his face losing some of its tension, “you’ve a good sense for your friends.”
D’Artagnan smiled, his cheeks coloring at the praise. “It’s easy when you’ve got good friends.” He swiveled his head to look at Athos, “But Porthos is right. We have to let him know he’s not alone.”
“Right,” Porthos sat up straighter, his gaze locked on their leader, more focused than he’d been earlier. “So how do we do that?”
Athos leaned across the table, ready to get to work. “First, we find out what we’re up against. In the short time the gate was open, I counted at least a dozen men but horses enough for far more.”
“The abbé seemed more than cautious,” Porthos pointed out, recalling their earlier encounter.
“The whole village is on edge,” d’Artagnan scanned the tavern occupants. “Given we are on Spanish soil, however, we can’t exactly ask just anyone.”
“Actually,” Porthos cut in, his eyes locked on someone across the room, “that’s exactly what we do.” His companions followed his gaze.
“The barkeep,” d’Artagnan supplied.
From his place behind the bar, the keep stood smiling at a patron, pouring him a drink. He nodded his head good naturedly at the man, the conversation animated and friendly.
Athos twisted in his seat and grinned. “Well, gentlemen, perhaps it’s time we asked our host for those rooms.” He stood and placed his hat on his head.
The others stood with him and wove their way across the room, hailing the barkeep. He gave them a nod, and after disengaging from his conversation with the other patron, walked over to the Musketeers.
“You ready for those rooms?” he asked, wiping his hands on his apron. “I think I have the keys right here.” He bent and pulled a large metal box from behind the bar and opened it to dig around in the contents.
“How much?” Athos pulled his coin bag from his pocket.
“How long will you be staying?”
Athos laid a gold coin on the bar, setting it next to the metal box and out of sight from the other customers in the room. The barkeep froze, his gaze shifting to stare at it. It was obviously more money than he’d seen in some time.
“That should cover our room and perhaps a little private conversation.”
The barkeeper stared at Athos. “Who-” his gaze shifted to Porthos then to d’Artagnan, “who are you?”
“That’s part of that ‘private’ conversation my friend mentioned,” Porthos smiled.
The barkeep looked from the big man to the coin again. “That’s a lot of money for conversation.” The man swallowed and chewed on his lip. Quivering fingers hovered over the coin but did not dare touch it. He licked his lips, leaning in with a shaky whisper. “Are you French?”
Porthos nodded. “Perceptive.” He gave the man a wink and a grin. “I like that in a man.” His brows rose as he leaned across the bar and tilted his head. “Means he knows exactly what the word ‘private’ means.”
The man swallowed. “Right,” he cleared his throat and added loudly. “I’ll show you men to your rooms.” Slamming the metal box closed, he deftly palmed the coin as he scooped up the box and put it back under the bar. “This way, gents.”
Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan followed, single file, as they made their way up the stairs at the back of the tavern. Around the first corner, the barkeep opened the door, stepped inside the small room, and ushered them quickly through before closing the door and fairly collapsing against it.
“What do you want to know,” the man breathed out and turned to face his guests. “You’ve the look of soldiers… or assassins.”
“Assassins?” d’Artagnan chuckled as he turned to his friends. “We’ve been promoted!”
Laying a hand on the guard of his schianova, Porthos shrugged. “Probably pays about the same.”
Athos noticed their host had gone deathly pale. If they weren’t careful, the man would collapse and die of fright here in front of them. They definitely did not need that kind of attention.
“Pardon my companions, monsieur,” he bowed slightly. “It has been a very long journey and to arrive only to find the residents of Douai scattering about like frightened rabbits has been, well, a bit disconcerting.”
d’Artagnan pressed his left hand over his heart and bowed in turn. “Apologies. To whom do we have the pleasure of addressing?”
The barkeep seemed to relax a little at that. “I am Nicolas.” He looked back at Athos. “What do you want to know?” His wedged his hand into his pocket, no doubt fingering the gold coin he’d been paid.
“First I would like assurance that what you hear will go no further. Do we have your word?”
Nicolas nodded and lifted his chin as if insulted. “I am a Frenchman, monsieur.”
“On Spanish soil,” Porthos noted.
The barkeep looked at the dark skinned man. “Through no fault of our own. Flanders has not always been under Spanish rule. We live in peace here, Spanish, French and Dutch alike. We want only to survive.”
“Yes,” d’Artagnan added, “and you all seem to be behaving as if your survival is in question.”
Athos nodded. “Now, what has everyone here, the monks in particular, frightened of their own shadows?”
“Yesterday, a large regiment of Spanish soldiers arrived and took over the monastery.”
The Musketeers shared a quick glance before Athos pressed. “Any idea how many?”
“Don’t rightly know, but it was dozens,” Nicolas shrugged. “Never saw ‘em myself, just know what I’ve heard.” He leaned, his face suddenly tight and angry. “Someone said the commander of the group nearly killed the abbé, those… animals,” he spat. “He’s a man of God. They cannot do that!”
d’Artagnan patted him on the shoulder in an attempt to calm him. “Might be best to keep your voice down. I don’t imagine these walls to be overly thick…”
Nicolas nodded, face coloring in embarrassment. “I know, which is why I gave you three the only rooms on this side of the building. They’re isolated from the others.”
Porthos grinned. “Told you I liked this man.”
Athos paced the room, deep in thought, any mutual admiration for the man buried under the weight of his newly ordained command. His silence persisted longer than Porthos could stand.
“So when do we go in and get Aramis out of there?”
Nicolas arched a brow, confused. “Aramis?”
d’Artagnan answered. “A friend of ours, one of us. He arrived at the monastery a few weeks ago to stay with the monks.”
The barkeep paused, his eyes wandering the ceiling. “I recall seeing a new man among them as of late. Didn’t think he was a monk, though. Wore all the right clothes and all but didn’t carry himself like them.”
Porthos nodded. “That would be Aramis.”
“And what exactly are you,” Nicolas added, “if you don’t mind my asking?” His gaze traveled over each of the men in the room. “You’re soldiers, I can tell as much, but I know little about the military--”
“I’m d’Artagnan, this is Porthos and our captain, Athos. We are of the King’s Musketeers,” the young Gascon provided the introductions.
Nicolas’ mouth gaped. “Musketeers…” Closing his mouth, he swallowed clearly in awe. “Them I’ve heard of. And you mean to tell me there’s one of you, in there, around all of them?” He thumbed over his shoulder. “In there?” He crossed himself. “God help him. It’d be like living in a hornet’s nest.”
Athos rushed in to break up their conversation. “Monsieur, thank you for your forthright honesty, but it is time for you to go back to your patrons and for me and my friends to talk privately.” He placed a hand on Nicolas’ shoulder and guided him to the door.
Caught off guard, the barkeep stuttered. “I… oh, okay.”
Opening the door, Athos pushed the man gently through the threshold. “I trust the reminder I gave you was sufficient, and that you’ll keep what was said here to yourself?”
Nicolas patted his pocket happily. “Oh yes, quite so. I am French after all.”
Athos’ lips curved into a patient smile. “Then I could think of no one more deserving. Good night, monsieur.” The Musketeer closed the door behind him, walked over to the bed and scooped up his hat. He nodded at d’Artagnan. “Come, you and I are heading back to Paris.”
It was the Gascon’s turn to sputter. “Wh-why? But I thought we---”
“Are leaving. Yes. Get your cloak.” He turned to Porthos and sighed, resigned. “I won’t even bother to ask you to leave. Stay here, keep an eye on the monastery, and if you can find a way to get word to or from Aramis, see what information you can gather.”
Porthos widened his stance as if ready for a fight. “If I see a chance to get him out of there, I’m taking it,” he said with a hint of warning.
Athos nodded solemnly. Leaving Porthos behind wasn’t just the right call - it was the only call. The man would not leave Aramis knowing the danger he faced. That the marksman was behind those walls alone only made it worse. While Athos trusted Porthos not to behave irrationally, he knew how difficult it was for him not to know what was transpiring behind those walls. If anything should happen to Aramis and Porthos got wind of it…
“Just remember,” Athos cautioned, placing a hand on Porthos’ shoulder. “Aramis is quite capable. He’ll be fine so long as the Spanish remain unaware of his true identity.”
Porthos nodded, his grim face full of unspoken words. He knew the risks, risks they all took willingly
“I don’t get it,” d’Artagnan flapped an arm out to his side, clutching his cloak in his other hand. “Why are we leaving?”
Athos sighed. He took a breath. The boy’s inquisitive nature was part of what made him so promising, but it tended to rear its head at inopportune times.
“The monastery has military significance,” he explained patiently. “Built for war before it was given to God. If the Spanish create a stronghold in the north, they can establish a depot, outfit troops, run supplies. And if Spain decides to send troops to attack from the north…”
“They’ll have us on two fronts,” d’Artagnan concluded, his voice tense but understanding.
“Exactly. It would leave Paris vulnerable. You and I will return, alert Treville and the King of this development. When they understand the significance of the monastery, they will allow us to return with a full regiment to counter this strategy.”
Athos had little doubt Treville would understand the threat. He only hoped they could convince the King of the importance of confronting this danger before committing the bulk of their military forces to the south.
~*~
Porthos leaned against the side of the stable, arms crossed on his chest as he watched his friends disappear around a bend in the road. He felt a twinge of guilt, knowing he should return to Paris with them, but unable to abandon Aramis now that they understood the danger he was in.
Alone with his thoughts, he made his way back to the tavern, ready to spend a miserable day waiting and worrying. Despite Athos’ reminder that Aramis was more than capable of taking care of himself, Porthos couldn’t help but feel anxious for his friend. The marksman was clever, adroit and downright lethal when necessary, but he was vastly outnumbered, and if the Spanish troops discovered his true identity… he wasn’t ashamed to admit it; he was terrified for his friend.
“Monsieur?”
Porthos turned toward the timid voice, his eyes falling on one of the villagers as he tentatively approached from the road. The gaunt man gripped a narrow tether attached to the harness of a mule. “Are you called Porthos?” he asked in a thick, Dutch accent.
“I am,” the Musketeer answered, hands on his hips, ready for trouble though he doubted that if it came, this man would not be the deliverer.
A trembling hand reached forward, a piece of parchment held out for him to take. “I do this for the monks.”
Porthos took the parchment and unrolled it, smiling instantly as he recognized the familiar, flowery scrawl. The sight of Aramis’ handwriting alone filled him with relief and joy… he could practically hear his friend's voice in each word.
My brother, I cannot tell you how good it feels to know you are near.
As you may have surmised, the monastery has been taken by Spanish troops.
There are over two dozen men at my count. I must remain here in order
to ascertain their true purpose and protect the monks as much as I am able.
I know you will understand. If you have not already done so, send word to Paris.
I fear there are more troops to come. I will convey any information
through Pietro. You can trust him.
Your humble friend -A
Smiling for the first time in weeks, he looked over the paper at the man - Pietro - standing patiently nearby. “Will you be here for a while?”
The man nodded, smiling knowingly. “I need to rest my mule.” He stroked the animal’s head gently. “She is weary.”
“I’ll be right back.” Porthos vaulted up the stairs to the tavern to borrow quill and ink from the barkeep - or coal if need be - to send a reply to Aramis.
A musketeer in a hornet’s nest, indeed. It was still to be seen who would be the one stung.
Back to Chapter 2
Porthos slammed his fist on the table and snarled at Athos. “I still don’t see why we don’t just go in there and get Aramis out!”
Athos regarded Porthos coolly, returning his glare. “Because we have no way of knowing exactly how many Spanish soldiers are inside,” he responded, his voice level, calm. “It would most likely be suicide. You know this.”
D’Artagnan nodded. “It truly isn’t much of a rescue, Porthos, if we all die or get captured.”
Porthos slumped in his chair. “So we what? Just sit here while Aramis is surrounded by-”
Mindful of their surroundings and the volume of Porthos’ comments, Athos held up a hand to silence him when another voice cut in.
“Gentlemen! Fresh ale, compliments of the house.”
The barkeep lowered full tankards to the table and Athos twisted in his seat to meet the man’s strained, nervous smile. The portly man leaned in to speak in hushed, French tones. “A word to the wise, my friends, y’should perhaps keep your voices down a bit. There are those around loyal to King Philip and ‘ave been celebratin’ the comin’ of his troops.”
Athos nodded his understanding and took up the newly proffered tankard, lifting it in salute. “Your generosity speaks kindly of your establishment, good sir.” He took a large swallow, pleased to see d’Artagnan and Porthos, though begrudgingly at first, follow suit. “Does this establishment have rooms for rent?”
The barkeep nodded. “I have three rooms remainin’. Just come see me when you are ready for a bit more privacy.”
When the barkeep was out of range, Athos leaned across the table, pinning Porthos with his gaze. “While I understand that you have been friends with Aramis longest, do not presume to think for one moment that we do not share in the concern you feel for his safety.”
Porthos leaned in as well. “Well then act like it,” he gritted out. “If memory serves, you supported his leaving.”
Athos sighed, knowing his friend’s anger was born of concern, not resentment. “Because he wanted it.”
Porthos scoffed. “He didn’t know what he wanted.” He shook his head as he lowered the tankard to the table. “You didn’t even try to convince him to stay.”
“And do you honestly think any of us could have?”
D’Artagnan clasped Porthos on the shoulder, softening his tone. “None of us tried to talk him out of leaving because we knew none of us could. Aramis isn’t one easily dissuaded - especially when it comes to his beliefs.”
“Maybe.” Porthos looked down at his hands. “But now he’s alone in there. Surrounded by men who’d kill him outright if they knew his identity.”
Athos sat back in his chair. “We don’t even know if he is in there. The abbé -“
“The abbé was protectin’ him. That much was obvious.”
Athos dipped his head in agreement. “Possibly…” At Porthos snort of derision he amended, “Probably.”
d’Artagnan shrugged and grinned at the darker musketeer. “Surely he’s capable of handling a few Spanish soldiers.”
“He could at that,” Porthos chuckled reluctantly, running a hand across his eyes. He studied the younger musketeer a moment. “You know, whelp,” he began, his face losing some of its tension, “you’ve a good sense for your friends.”
D’Artagnan smiled, his cheeks coloring at the praise. “It’s easy when you’ve got good friends.” He swiveled his head to look at Athos, “But Porthos is right. We have to let him know he’s not alone.”
“Right,” Porthos sat up straighter, his gaze locked on their leader, more focused than he’d been earlier. “So how do we do that?”
Athos leaned across the table, ready to get to work. “First, we find out what we’re up against. In the short time the gate was open, I counted at least a dozen men but horses enough for far more.”
“The abbé seemed more than cautious,” Porthos pointed out, recalling their earlier encounter.
“The whole village is on edge,” d’Artagnan scanned the tavern occupants. “Given we are on Spanish soil, however, we can’t exactly ask just anyone.”
“Actually,” Porthos cut in, his eyes locked on someone across the room, “that’s exactly what we do.” His companions followed his gaze.
“The barkeep,” d’Artagnan supplied.
From his place behind the bar, the keep stood smiling at a patron, pouring him a drink. He nodded his head good naturedly at the man, the conversation animated and friendly.
Athos twisted in his seat and grinned. “Well, gentlemen, perhaps it’s time we asked our host for those rooms.” He stood and placed his hat on his head.
The others stood with him and wove their way across the room, hailing the barkeep. He gave them a nod, and after disengaging from his conversation with the other patron, walked over to the Musketeers.
“You ready for those rooms?” he asked, wiping his hands on his apron. “I think I have the keys right here.” He bent and pulled a large metal box from behind the bar and opened it to dig around in the contents.
“How much?” Athos pulled his coin bag from his pocket.
“How long will you be staying?”
Athos laid a gold coin on the bar, setting it next to the metal box and out of sight from the other customers in the room. The barkeep froze, his gaze shifting to stare at it. It was obviously more money than he’d seen in some time.
“That should cover our room and perhaps a little private conversation.”
The barkeeper stared at Athos. “Who-” his gaze shifted to Porthos then to d’Artagnan, “who are you?”
“That’s part of that ‘private’ conversation my friend mentioned,” Porthos smiled.
The barkeep looked from the big man to the coin again. “That’s a lot of money for conversation.” The man swallowed and chewed on his lip. Quivering fingers hovered over the coin but did not dare touch it. He licked his lips, leaning in with a shaky whisper. “Are you French?”
Porthos nodded. “Perceptive.” He gave the man a wink and a grin. “I like that in a man.” His brows rose as he leaned across the bar and tilted his head. “Means he knows exactly what the word ‘private’ means.”
The man swallowed. “Right,” he cleared his throat and added loudly. “I’ll show you men to your rooms.” Slamming the metal box closed, he deftly palmed the coin as he scooped up the box and put it back under the bar. “This way, gents.”
Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan followed, single file, as they made their way up the stairs at the back of the tavern. Around the first corner, the barkeep opened the door, stepped inside the small room, and ushered them quickly through before closing the door and fairly collapsing against it.
“What do you want to know,” the man breathed out and turned to face his guests. “You’ve the look of soldiers… or assassins.”
“Assassins?” d’Artagnan chuckled as he turned to his friends. “We’ve been promoted!”
Laying a hand on the guard of his schianova, Porthos shrugged. “Probably pays about the same.”
Athos noticed their host had gone deathly pale. If they weren’t careful, the man would collapse and die of fright here in front of them. They definitely did not need that kind of attention.
“Pardon my companions, monsieur,” he bowed slightly. “It has been a very long journey and to arrive only to find the residents of Douai scattering about like frightened rabbits has been, well, a bit disconcerting.”
d’Artagnan pressed his left hand over his heart and bowed in turn. “Apologies. To whom do we have the pleasure of addressing?”
The barkeep seemed to relax a little at that. “I am Nicolas.” He looked back at Athos. “What do you want to know?” His wedged his hand into his pocket, no doubt fingering the gold coin he’d been paid.
“First I would like assurance that what you hear will go no further. Do we have your word?”
Nicolas nodded and lifted his chin as if insulted. “I am a Frenchman, monsieur.”
“On Spanish soil,” Porthos noted.
The barkeep looked at the dark skinned man. “Through no fault of our own. Flanders has not always been under Spanish rule. We live in peace here, Spanish, French and Dutch alike. We want only to survive.”
“Yes,” d’Artagnan added, “and you all seem to be behaving as if your survival is in question.”
Athos nodded. “Now, what has everyone here, the monks in particular, frightened of their own shadows?”
“Yesterday, a large regiment of Spanish soldiers arrived and took over the monastery.”
The Musketeers shared a quick glance before Athos pressed. “Any idea how many?”
“Don’t rightly know, but it was dozens,” Nicolas shrugged. “Never saw ‘em myself, just know what I’ve heard.” He leaned, his face suddenly tight and angry. “Someone said the commander of the group nearly killed the abbé, those… animals,” he spat. “He’s a man of God. They cannot do that!”
d’Artagnan patted him on the shoulder in an attempt to calm him. “Might be best to keep your voice down. I don’t imagine these walls to be overly thick…”
Nicolas nodded, face coloring in embarrassment. “I know, which is why I gave you three the only rooms on this side of the building. They’re isolated from the others.”
Porthos grinned. “Told you I liked this man.”
Athos paced the room, deep in thought, any mutual admiration for the man buried under the weight of his newly ordained command. His silence persisted longer than Porthos could stand.
“So when do we go in and get Aramis out of there?”
Nicolas arched a brow, confused. “Aramis?”
d’Artagnan answered. “A friend of ours, one of us. He arrived at the monastery a few weeks ago to stay with the monks.”
The barkeep paused, his eyes wandering the ceiling. “I recall seeing a new man among them as of late. Didn’t think he was a monk, though. Wore all the right clothes and all but didn’t carry himself like them.”
Porthos nodded. “That would be Aramis.”
“And what exactly are you,” Nicolas added, “if you don’t mind my asking?” His gaze traveled over each of the men in the room. “You’re soldiers, I can tell as much, but I know little about the military--”
“I’m d’Artagnan, this is Porthos and our captain, Athos. We are of the King’s Musketeers,” the young Gascon provided the introductions.
Nicolas’ mouth gaped. “Musketeers…” Closing his mouth, he swallowed clearly in awe. “Them I’ve heard of. And you mean to tell me there’s one of you, in there, around all of them?” He thumbed over his shoulder. “In there?” He crossed himself. “God help him. It’d be like living in a hornet’s nest.”
Athos rushed in to break up their conversation. “Monsieur, thank you for your forthright honesty, but it is time for you to go back to your patrons and for me and my friends to talk privately.” He placed a hand on Nicolas’ shoulder and guided him to the door.
Caught off guard, the barkeep stuttered. “I… oh, okay.”
Opening the door, Athos pushed the man gently through the threshold. “I trust the reminder I gave you was sufficient, and that you’ll keep what was said here to yourself?”
Nicolas patted his pocket happily. “Oh yes, quite so. I am French after all.”
Athos’ lips curved into a patient smile. “Then I could think of no one more deserving. Good night, monsieur.” The Musketeer closed the door behind him, walked over to the bed and scooped up his hat. He nodded at d’Artagnan. “Come, you and I are heading back to Paris.”
It was the Gascon’s turn to sputter. “Wh-why? But I thought we---”
“Are leaving. Yes. Get your cloak.” He turned to Porthos and sighed, resigned. “I won’t even bother to ask you to leave. Stay here, keep an eye on the monastery, and if you can find a way to get word to or from Aramis, see what information you can gather.”
Porthos widened his stance as if ready for a fight. “If I see a chance to get him out of there, I’m taking it,” he said with a hint of warning.
Athos nodded solemnly. Leaving Porthos behind wasn’t just the right call - it was the only call. The man would not leave Aramis knowing the danger he faced. That the marksman was behind those walls alone only made it worse. While Athos trusted Porthos not to behave irrationally, he knew how difficult it was for him not to know what was transpiring behind those walls. If anything should happen to Aramis and Porthos got wind of it…
“Just remember,” Athos cautioned, placing a hand on Porthos’ shoulder. “Aramis is quite capable. He’ll be fine so long as the Spanish remain unaware of his true identity.”
Porthos nodded, his grim face full of unspoken words. He knew the risks, risks they all took willingly
“I don’t get it,” d’Artagnan flapped an arm out to his side, clutching his cloak in his other hand. “Why are we leaving?”
Athos sighed. He took a breath. The boy’s inquisitive nature was part of what made him so promising, but it tended to rear its head at inopportune times.
“The monastery has military significance,” he explained patiently. “Built for war before it was given to God. If the Spanish create a stronghold in the north, they can establish a depot, outfit troops, run supplies. And if Spain decides to send troops to attack from the north…”
“They’ll have us on two fronts,” d’Artagnan concluded, his voice tense but understanding.
“Exactly. It would leave Paris vulnerable. You and I will return, alert Treville and the King of this development. When they understand the significance of the monastery, they will allow us to return with a full regiment to counter this strategy.”
Athos had little doubt Treville would understand the threat. He only hoped they could convince the King of the importance of confronting this danger before committing the bulk of their military forces to the south.
~*~
Porthos leaned against the side of the stable, arms crossed on his chest as he watched his friends disappear around a bend in the road. He felt a twinge of guilt, knowing he should return to Paris with them, but unable to abandon Aramis now that they understood the danger he was in.
Alone with his thoughts, he made his way back to the tavern, ready to spend a miserable day waiting and worrying. Despite Athos’ reminder that Aramis was more than capable of taking care of himself, Porthos couldn’t help but feel anxious for his friend. The marksman was clever, adroit and downright lethal when necessary, but he was vastly outnumbered, and if the Spanish troops discovered his true identity… he wasn’t ashamed to admit it; he was terrified for his friend.
“Monsieur?”
Porthos turned toward the timid voice, his eyes falling on one of the villagers as he tentatively approached from the road. The gaunt man gripped a narrow tether attached to the harness of a mule. “Are you called Porthos?” he asked in a thick, Dutch accent.
“I am,” the Musketeer answered, hands on his hips, ready for trouble though he doubted that if it came, this man would not be the deliverer.
A trembling hand reached forward, a piece of parchment held out for him to take. “I do this for the monks.”
Porthos took the parchment and unrolled it, smiling instantly as he recognized the familiar, flowery scrawl. The sight of Aramis’ handwriting alone filled him with relief and joy… he could practically hear his friend's voice in each word.
My brother, I cannot tell you how good it feels to know you are near.
As you may have surmised, the monastery has been taken by Spanish troops.
There are over two dozen men at my count. I must remain here in order
to ascertain their true purpose and protect the monks as much as I am able.
I know you will understand. If you have not already done so, send word to Paris.
I fear there are more troops to come. I will convey any information
through Pietro. You can trust him.
Your humble friend -A
Smiling for the first time in weeks, he looked over the paper at the man - Pietro - standing patiently nearby. “Will you be here for a while?”
The man nodded, smiling knowingly. “I need to rest my mule.” He stroked the animal’s head gently. “She is weary.”
“I’ll be right back.” Porthos vaulted up the stairs to the tavern to borrow quill and ink from the barkeep - or coal if need be - to send a reply to Aramis.
A musketeer in a hornet’s nest, indeed. It was still to be seen who would be the one stung.
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