Sorry this took so long – I'm on a sort of holiday at the moment and haven't really had time to write.

Treville, generally, liked his job. He was a soldier all the way to his bones, his loyalty to the Musketeers was second only to his loyalty to his country and he was a natural leader to boot. And so if you asked him if he was happy with his career, he would have been able to say with his whole heart that he was – until of course, he met Athos, Aramis and Porthos. He'd met them individually without incident when he'd recruited them but then something awful had happened: they'd become friends.

This event, seemingly so inconspicuous, had been the beginning of the end of Treville's clear cut, by-the-rules way of life. Some days he couldn't even convince himself that he missed it but then there were other days when he was perpetually moments away from just locking himself in his office until he could think clearly without wanting to punch someone.

Today was one of those days.

His four best soldiers had been out on a routine mission and had been due to return the previous morning – only none of them had turned up. It wasn't like them to be late unless there was very good reason (or a very bad one), and given their record over the last few months, Treville thought that he had good reason to panic.

The scouts he'd sent out had returned with the news that they'd found their campsite, complete with signs of a fight and of course, no sign of his missing men. They had found two dead men who bore the crest of an English noble who had land in the vicinity, which was about the best they could hope for in this situation.

Men had been gathered, informed and now their Captain was leading them through a freezing forest as night fell around them. Needless to say, he wasn't best pleased.

"You realise that Treville will probably be looking for us by now."

Athos glared at Aramis. "Yes, thank you."

"He's going to be furious."

"I am aware of this fact."

"He's going to blame me."

"We can only hope."

Aramis looked thoroughly scandalised and Porthos laughed aloud, clapping him on the shoulder. d'Artagnan glanced between them all, caught between humour and worry. "Are we going to even try getting out of here?"

"There's not much point," Athos pointed out sagely. "They have a whole garrison out there and we haven't got a single blade between us. We'd be slaughtered before we even made the courtyard."

"Actually," d'Artagnan said slowly, wriggling strangely around his bound hands. The other three watched him with some bemusement until they saw a glint of steel in his fist and he waved a knife at them triumphantly.

There was a moment of dead silence before Athos dropped his head into his hands, Porthos laughed and Aramis looked at the Gascon like he'd hung the moon. d'Artagnan just grinned at him.

"Where did you get that?"

"I always had it. I keep a knife hidden for situations like this – most people just take the weapons they can see." His eyes flicked back to Athos, silently looking for guidance in light of the revelation.

The elder man sighed heavily, weighing up their options and coming up short. "Keep it hidden for now. Even with it, there's no way we'll be able to fight our way out and if they realise you have it, they'll take it. It'll be useful later."

"So we wait?"

"We wait."

d'Artagnan's face had fallen slightly at the realisation that they really were going to have to stay there in the hopes of rescue and Aramis forced himself to brighten, intent on cheering the Gascon up. "It's not so bad in here," he observed. "At least this cell isn't too cold."

Three sets of eyebrows edged towards hairlines at that, glaring pointedly at him. He shrugged and sat back.

Aramis was a man who could sit with a rifle in his hands, in absolute stillness, for hours at a time, waiting until he could take a shot. He had patience in spades. What he did not have, however, was the kind of personality that took well to being confined in small spaces for any great length of time, and his usual method of dealing with this particular occupational hazard was to talk. The others knew this and accepted it without comment.

That didn't mean they couldn't find it infuriating.

"So whose turn is it to tell Treville what happened?"

There was a collective groan while Athos considered. "Well I've had more than my fair share, so I'm not doing it. d'Artagnan has been single-handedly responsible for getting us out twice now, even though it nearly killed him both times, so I feel he should be allowed a certain amount of immunity." The Gascon's face split into a wide grin.

"So it's either Porthos or me?"

"You could flip a coin."

"We don't have any coins. They took our purses."

Athos groaned. "Then decide between yourselves."

Aramis looked at Porthos imploringly, trying to utilise his natural charm to weasel out of the problem. Porthos looked thoroughly unimpressed. "That doesn't work on me."

He scowled before relaxing into an easy smile. "It was worth a shot." There was a long moment of silence before he had to break it again. "How long do you think it will take Treville to get here?"

"We're already late and we're not more than a day from Paris. If Treville sent scouts to our campsite then he'll know that there was a fight and hopefully there should be men here by tomorrow morning."

"Does anyone actually know why we're here?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Well you see, d'Artagnan," Aramis started, "we were ambushed by some men, who, through superior numbers, were able to disarm us and take us captive-"

d'Artagnan interrupted him. "Not that. Those men were specifically after us. Why?"

"Slept with any noble women recently?" Porthos asked Aramis casually.

He pulled on a faux scandalised expression, ignoring Athos' subtle glare – a continuous reminder of his misstep with the Queen. "You wound me."

"I'm considering it."

d'Artagnan snickered, covering Athos' faint groan. Aramis glared at them all. "As it happens, I haven't taken any English noblewomen to bed for some time. In this, I am blameless."

"Could be someone with a grudge against the Musketeers," Porthos commented. "God knows we meet enough people like that."

"But why would an Englishman care about us? We're not technically part of the army. Something doesn't add up." Athos was frowning at the wall, eyes distant as though his mind was buried under too many thoughts. "What news has there been from England in recent months?"

"They're starting more colonies in the New World," d'Artagnan pointed out. "Something to do with Bonnaire?"

"The English would have taken the same position as the Spanish," Athos pointed out. "They don't want us over there any more than King Felipe."

"Haven't England just found a new Secretary of State? Sir Francis something?" Aramis asked.

"Windebank," d'Artagnan supplied, ignoring the general surprise that followed.

"A man known to support the Spanish," Athos moaned. "He'd be in control of foreign affairs and the messages of the King. He'd easily be able to convince a noble that destroying the Musketeers would be serving his country."

"Someone should probably remind him that we currently have a treaty with England and I'm fairly sure there's a clause in there somewhere about not taking Frenchmen hostage," Aramis said, somewhat bitterly.

"I'll be sure to inform him on our way out," Athos said, lips twitching. "Unless of course, Treville gets there first."

The Nobleman hadn't been hard to find. He didn't own a large estate but he'd spent what must have been a fortune building a sprawling mansion, visible from some distance away. Treville spent some time sending out men to scout the surrounding area, trying to work out where he might have been holding their men. Assuming that he was holding them, and hadn't killed them already.

He shook the thought away. It might be inappropriate given his position, but he found himself very fond of his men, especially Athos, Aramis and Porthos. He felt almost like a parental figure and he was relatively sure that the feeling was mutual. If he found them dead, then there was no force in all France that would stop him dealing a swift retribution to those responsible.

When his men had all returned, Treville ordered all but a few to remain behind and marched up to the mansion himself, intent on having a word with the nobleman residing there. If they did not return in two hours, he left orders that the rest of the men should storm the place.

Servants greeted them at the door and they were ushered into a bright, extravagantly decorated waiting room. Another servant moved to take their weapons, but when none of them moved to unstrap their swords, he backed away uncertainly. The aura of fury rising off them was tangible and Treville could see the servants growing restless under his glare – it made him feel powerful.

An ornate wooden door at one end of the room was flung open and a tall man, wrapped in rich silks, strode through, face stern but not hostile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" His French was rusty but comprehensible.

"Several days ago, several of my men went missing," Treville told him, unwilling to spend time trading pleasantries. "We have reason to believe that you are involved in their disappearance."

He half expected the man to be scandalised or offended but he just blinked calmly and nodded. "Four men are currently being held in my house, on grounds of trespassing."

"The King's Musketeers are the highest military order in France. They are entitled to travel where they will provided they cause no damage to property not belonging to them. I trust this is not the case." He knew already that it wasn't the case – his men would never be so careless and Athos would never have allowed the others to do anything reckless enough to get them arrested.

"This is my land," the noble reiterated. "They did not have my permission to enter it and I have taken the action I deem appropriate."

"This may be your land but this is still France, and that is my jurisdiction," Treville told him with iron in his voice. He was not one to be bullied by fancy rooms and expensive clothing and he wouldn't allow this man to intimidate him when his men's lives could be in jeopardy.

"Your country does not respect the rights a man has over his own property?" The noble was starting to grow agitated, glancing at the sword at Treville's hip then quickly away, as though the sight burned him.

"As I have told you, the Musketeers have permission to travel through any estate in France, including those owned by non-French citizens. The permission comes from the highest order: the King." There was a shift in the room then in which subtle hands were placed on sword hilts and everyone's eyes darted about to reassure themselves of the layout of the room.

A long, tense moment passed before the noble seemed to rally himself. "I'm afraid that unless I receive orders from your King, I will not bow to your whims. Those men entered my land without my permission and I will see them punished accordingly. I must ask you to leave." He gestured with a long fingered hand to the door they had entered through.

Treville weighed him up, silently judging his next course of action. There were likely guards throughout the mansion and starting a fight, even under such circumstances, attacking an English noble could start a war.

It was as Treville turned to leave that he saw it. There was a glint in the corner of the noble's eye, a slight shift in the set of his mouth and he knew in that moment that if he left and returned to Paris to entreat the King, he'd never see his men again. He'd return to find their corpses already cold and the noble long gone back to his own country.

There was no way he was going to let that happen.

"Do you hear that?" Aramis had perked up suddenly from where he'd been idly conversing with Porthos. d'Artagnan and Athos had spent most of the time in silence, losing themselves in their own thoughts, waiting. Now, they all looked about, listening.

"Sounds like fighting," Porthos agreed, a smile working its way across his face.

"Treville?"

"Let's hope so. d'Artagnan," Athos ordered, "Cut the ropes." The Gascon busied himself with working the knife through the ropes around his own wrists before moving onto Aramis. Once they were all unbound, d'Artagnan offered Athos the knife; he took it, frowning.

"You're a better fighter than me," he explained simply, without any bitterness or jealousy. "It makes sense for you to have it."

"If it is Treville here for us, there's a chance the guards will try and kill us before we can be reached. Be ready."

They all nodded, tensing and readying themselves for a fight. It was for nothing. When the door swung open it was Treville that greeted them from the other side, not any would-be attacker. Seeing him filled Athos with a great sense of relief, lifting a weight that he hadn't noticed he'd been carrying.

"Captain," he greeted, as though this was a normal encounter. He offered a rueful smirk.

Treville's lips curved, taking in the sight of his men, uninjured. "You're late gentlemen. We thought we'd best find out what had become of you."

"We're grateful for the assistance. It would have been a terrible trial to fight our way out alone."

Treville looked about himself then sighed. "We'll discuss this later. For now, we must return to Paris and inform the King that we had good reason for raiding the home of an English noble and taking him prisoner." He ushered them out of the cell, still watching them carefully to ensure that they truly were unharmed.

"About that," Athos said, wincing slightly. "We might have some information that might help."

"Tell me about it on the way back. We have quite the march ahead of us."

They followed their captain out of the mansion, taking care to nod heartily and the restrained noble, Aramis tipping his hat in vague mockery. He had taken them prisoner after all.

"Does he seem angry to you?" d'Artagnan asked Aramis under his breath. The Musketeer observed their captain's relaxed shoulders and shook his head slightly.

"I think, my young friend, we might have gotten away with it."

It wasn't until they reached the rest of the men gathered on the edge of the estate that Treville turned back to face them, a smug grin curving his lips. "By the way, the four of you are on stable duties for the next two weeks."

The collective groan that caused was enough to double the captain over with laughter.

For the story, I bent historical accuracy a bit. Windebank did become SoS in June 1632 (I figure this could be some time after the beginning of the show, so '32 didn't seem impossible, though it's supposed to be winter in this chapter), and though he was an advocate for closer relations with Spain, he had nothing against France. In fact, when he was later accused of corruption, he fled to Paris and lived there until the end of his days perfectly happily.