Secrets and Lies

Chapter 1

"I bet Porthos is having a fit not being able to partake in all this." D'Artagnan craned his neck to get a look at the big Musketeer, stationed along with Aramis further down the ballroom, near the King. They were on guard duty at Louis' request, although the young Gascon believed they were there more for show than anything else. The King liked to show off, and what better way to impress the Lords and Ladies of the court than to have trained Musketeers standing guard over the festivities? It was a way for him to demonstrate his power to his subjects, giving them a show of muscle and a feeling of security at the same time.

After all, this wasn't just another ball. The King had decided to open his gambling tables to the members of the court. Livres were flowing freely, the ballroom lined with gaming tables where the rich nobility of Paris were currently throwing their excess money away on games of chance. Even if Porthos had been able to join in, the stakes these people were nonchalantly tossing onto the tables would have been decidedly out of his league.

"It's good for him." Athos said dryly. "Perhaps Porthos will learn something."

D'Artagnan laughed, glancing at the older Musketeer. "Like how to lose gracefully? Or how to win without cheating?"

"Either would suffice."

He and Athos were stationed nearer to the main doors, observing the people entering the grand ballroom. Although they were not in charge of security – Cardinal Mazarin's Red Guard claiming that honor – they were nonetheless running a practiced eye over every guest, making sure none had slipped a weapon or any other type of threat past the guards.

D'Artagnan scanned the crowd when he felt a slight change in Athos' stance, noting the sigh of frustration and a sudden tensing of the man's shoulders. His gaze shifted to a guest approaching them with fair hair, close-set eyes and a scar across his cheek. His richly brocaded cloak was fastened with a red-jeweled clasp, his lips turned up in a sardonic grin, his eyes locked on Athos.

He stopped directly in front of them, his lips pursed, looking a tense Athos up and down.

"La Fere," the man finally said, his voice holding more than a touch of disdain. "I wondered if I would see you again at one of these some day." His eyes moved to the pauldron on the Musketeer's shoulder. "Although I hardly expected to see you like this."

"Rochefort," Athos acknowledged in a cool tone. He didn't elaborate, but held the man's gaze, no emotion showing on his face.

"I heard you had joined the Musketeers," the man continued, unfazed. "I must say I was surprised, someone of your stature lowering yourself to be a mere soldier." He looked around the ballroom, noting the rest of the company decked out in their blue cloaks and fine leathers. "Of course, it would seem you are more ornamentation than anything."

Athos merely tilted his head and smiled tolerantly. "We serve the King, as do you."

"Yes, yes. That is true." Rochefort returned the smile, but d'Artagnan noticed it did not reach his eyes. The blond man let his eyes shift to d'Artagnan for a moment, quickly dismissing him as unimportant, and act nobility must learn from birth. D'Artagnan bristled at the rebuff, wondering how someone shorter was able to look down his nose at him. It was as mystifying as it was annoying. Rochefort returned back to Athos, whose blank expression held firm. "I'm sure we will have an opportunity to speak later, catch up on old times."

"Perhaps."

Rochefort grinned sardonically, then stepped away, making his way to the gaming tables.

"Old friend?" d'Artagnan asked as soon as the blond man was out of hearing range.

"Hardly," Athos responded. "The Compte de Rocheforf and I are distant cousins. We were thrust together on occasion. We even shared the same fencing instructor when we were children."

D'Artagnan's brows rose at the unexpected revelation, having learned the hard way why Athos kept his past buried under bottles of wine and layers of guilt. To have the older man give up information about his life so easily surprised the young Gascon and he found himself eager to hear more.

"Is he any good?"

"He's… adequate. He wasn't the first born son, so he didn't receive the same attention to his training."

"He doesn't seem to like you much."

Athos raised a brow. "The feeling is mutual, I assure you."

"If he isn't first born," d'Artagnan observed, "how did he become Comte?"

Athos sighed. With little else to occupy their time, he had scant opportunity to escape d'Artagnan's curiosity. "A few months after his father died, his older brother mysteriously disappeared. After a respectful amount of time, Rochefort had his brother declared dead and assumed the title."

D'Artagnan frowned. "That sounds suspicious."

Athos nodded, his eyes tracking the Comte as he worked his way to the far side of the room. "It was quite the scandal, but with no proof of foul play, law was on his side."

"You don't believe him innocent?"

"I always suspected he had something to do with the disappearance. His brother was a good man, as was his father. But Rochefort… there was very little he desired that he could not find a way to obtain. Removing his own brother simply because he stood in his way, is not beyond his capacity."

D'Artagnan nodded and watched as Rochefort placed a bet, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for someone. When his gaze fell upon the Queen and the Cardinal, who stood near one of the tables, a scowl crossed his face and d'Artagnan stiffened instinctively.

"If he is here," Athos continued. "I assure you, it is not for mere entertainment."

D'Artagnan nodded, silently vowing to keep the man under surveillance.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos sighed for the hundredth time in the last ten minutes, shifting on his feet as he tried in vain to ease the ache in his back. One of the worst duties of a Musketeer was to be a show dog for the royal court when they decided to have a lavish affair and invite all the nobility from nearby provinces. As it was, a ball or soiree was usually excruciatingly dull, yet tolerable, especially since they were always able to sneak a bottle of fine wine or two from the proceedings, not to mention being able to ogle all the noble women trussed up in their finest.

Aramis usually enjoyed the latter more than the former, but who was Porthos to judge? If the marksman wanted to smile and bow and flirt with the ladies of the court – away from their husbands' notice, of course – far be it for him to begrudge his friend a little fun. Of course, Aramis' brand of fun had often come back to bite them in the ass, so it had fallen to him to keep his over-amorous friend in line as much as possible.

But tonight Aramis' attention had been focused on one woman alone – and that worried Porthos even more than his friend's usual roving eye. Ever since Aramis had confessed his liaison with the Queen, Porthos and Athos had done whatever they could to keep him busy, to keep his mind off her and the son she had given birth to a short time ago. Aramis was convinced the child was his son, and Athos and Porthos had given up trying to dissuade him from his belief. Whether it was true or not, it would be suicide if anyone else should suspect. Aramis would be hanged for treason, they would be shot for abetting and the Queen and the Dauphin would be exiled or put to death. So despite their friend's overwhelming desire to be near the child, they had done everything within their power to thwart him – for his own good, of course.

Athos had seen to it that Aramis had not been assigned duty at the palace, and Porthos had kept his attention diverted from his desires by insisting on training, drinking and fighting. Porthos was convinced Aramis knew exactly what they were doing, but, so far, he hadn't fought them or called them on their subterfuge. He took that as a sign they were doing the right thing. He just hoped they could keep it up. Their plan had worked well, until this event had been announced and Treville had stated that all available Musketeers would be called upon to attend at the King's insistence.

If he'd only had to watch out for Aramis it wouldn't have been quite so bad, but this evening's entertainment was one that hit Porthos right where it hurt. The gaming tables had been set up across the expansive ballroom, and the clinking of coin was setting his gut afire with the need to join in. Currently, he was watching three older men tossing enough coin to buy a week's worth of bread onto a table, laughing casually - as only the rich can do - when they lost the money. Porthos growled under his breath at the audacity of the men, knowing he could beat them – albeit with a few cards up his sleeve – if given the chance.

"Easy, Porthos," Aramis' voice was pitched low, just loud enough to carry across the din of the ballroom. "You've neither the coin nor the station to join this game."

"Still doesn't make it any easier to watch."

The Spaniard chuckled, the first sign of amusement he'd been able to garner all evening. "Be thankful all you're able to do is watch, my friend. These people would take everything you owned and laugh while doing it."

Oi," Porthos agreed. "Money is wasted on the rich."

He glanced at his friend, disheartened to see his eyes tracking Queen Anne as she made her way across the room, stopping to address the many men and women who bowed down in deference of her position. She was decked out in an elaborate gown made of a golden material that shimmered when she moved. Porthos had to admit it was quite a striking effect, worthy of his companion's attention, though he doubted Aramis had even noticed what she was wearing. She smiled graciously at each courtier, her eyes drifting to the Musketeer at the edge of the crowd every few moments.

Porthos sighed again.

"Will you please stop that?"

Porthos frowned at the Spaniard. "I would if you would stop that."

Tearing his eyes away from his objective, Aramis grinned at him innocently. "Why Porthos, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

Porthos growled again. "You know exactly what I'm talkin' about. Quit smiling at her."

"She's the Queen, Porthos. If she smiles at me, it's only good manners to return the gesture."

"Except when that gesture could get us hanged."

"We cannot be hanged for smiling."

Porthos caught himself before he sighed again. "Well, just… stop."

"If it will make you stop sighing," Aramis chuckled. "I will gladly stop smiling."

Porthos turned his head to see his friend smile once again in the direction of the Queen.

"Then what the hell was that?"

"That, my friend, was more of a rakish grin."

Before he could respond, he noticed Aramis tense, his grin disappearing suddenly as his eyes locked on one of the tables only a few over from where they stood. Following his line of sight, Porthos watched as the Queen stopped by a bessett table, congratulating Cardinal Mazarin on his win.

Mazarin had recently replaced Cardinal Richelieu after his death as France's First Minister. The man had already tried to frame Aramis for Richelieu's murder and they suspected he was in league with their nemesis – and Athos' wife – Milady de Winter. It had become apparent very quickly that Mazarin was no friend to the Musketeers, and even Captain Treville had cautioned them in their dealings with him. They had not been able to prove Mazarin's involvement in his predecessor's death, but it wouldn't be the first time someone has killed to advance, and they had no doubt Mazarin had plenty more tricks up his red velvet sleeve.

With a dramatic flair, the Cardinal kissed the Queen's hand and then pushed all of his winnings to the center of the table, instructing the dealer to pass out the cards for another round. A small crowd had gathered at the table, intrigued by the size of the Cardinal's bet. As the hands were dealt and played, a small cheer went up alongside a smattering of applause as the Cardinal's cards triumphed and the dealer pushed an even larger pile of coins in his direction.

In a loud voice, Mazarin claimed it was the Queen's presence that endowed him with such luck and insisted on sharing his winnings with her. Anne blushed, declining the offer graciously, but the Cardinal, who had apparently been drinking some of the King's fine wine throughout the evening, stubbornly insisted, causing the onlookers to applaud his generosity.

Aramis narrowed his eyes and Porthos placed a hand on his friend's arm, effectively pinning the smaller man in place.

"Let 'er handle it," he whispered. "She's the Queen. She can deal with the likes of Mazarin."

Aramis nodded tightly and Porthos could feel the coiled muscle of his arm relax. He returned his gaze to the table and was met with the sight of the Cardinal wrapping one arm around the Queen and leading her toward another table. The young woman seemed to be enjoying the attention and Porthos wasn't sure if his Aramis' harsh breathing was due to jealousy or heartache.

"Easy, Aramis," he said in an echo of the younger man's earlier words, his tone soft, not scolding. "It ain't yours to defend."

"I know." The whispered sentiment held such a sadness that Porthos' own throat tightened in sympathy.

They knew it was going to be difficult – Aramis being in close proximity to the Queen, knowing the child he considered his own was asleep somewhere within the walls of the palace, so close and yet so far out of his reach he may as well have been across the sea. Aramis had been dealing with it as best he could, but was it an impossible undertaking? Was it an attainable goal to expect him to simply watch them from afar? Porthos knew he had to keep his friend in check, but he couldn't help reaching out and squeezing the man's arm in support.

"I'm all right," Aramis looked at him with a poignant smile. "Thank you, my friend. Without you and Athos –"

Before Aramis could finish professing his gratitude, a loud explosion rent the air, the large ornate doors at the far end of the ballroom suddenly blew in off their hinges and Porthos felt a waft of scorching air blow by him. Glass shattered, wood splintered and the screams of the courtiers were muffled as the concussion of the explosion momentarily dulled his senses. He was aware of the royal guests moving in confusion, and noticed Aramis charging through the sudden chaos toward the Queen.

"Get the King!" Aramis yelled, his voice muted in Porthos' ears.

As he quickly located Louis at a table directly to the left of his position, Porthos turned his attention back to the doorway in time to see a group of men, cloth tied around their faces, enter the ballroom, harquebus raised at the ready. Drawing his own pistol, he yelled for everyone to get down, aimed toward the nearest bandit and fired, moving simultaneously toward the table the King was now ducking behind.

The bandits let lose a volley of gunfire and Porthos heard a sharp cry of pain beyond him followed by a scream, the muffle in his ears having cleared, allowing the full cacophony of the attack to register in his brain. Barreling around the other nobles cowering beneath the tables, Porthos threw himself bodily over the King, silently praying the rest of his friends were safe and still able to fight.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As the first bandit entered the room, Athos pulled his sword and engaged, killing the man with a thrust through his chest with little resistance. The attackers were not well trained, but they had numbers, and it was apparent they didn't care who they hurt, giving them an advantage the Musketeers did not have. As Captian Treville began ushering the closest patrons toward the doors at the far side of the ballroom, Athos began to assess the situation, deciding on a tactical plan to defend the King. He knew Aramis and Porthos were somewhere near Louis and trusted his comrades to protect both the King and Queen with their lives. With that knowledge, he felt free to concentrate on the bandits who were still spilling in through the door, quickly ordering d'Artagnan to assemble the soldiers into a line, effectively becoming a human barricade between the attackers and the fleeing nobility behind them. A few of the bandits had been armed with harquebus, getting off some shots before dropping them and advancing with swords. Athos had heard screams as the pistols were fired and expected some casualties. He only hoped the blood that had been spilled was not royal.

Though outnumbered, the greater skill of the Musketeers quickly became apparent and the bandits dropped one by one leaving a final attacker standing. Athos quickly subdued him, twisting a wrist to relieve the man of his sword, forcing him down onto his knees. As Captain Treville returned from steering the courtiers to safety, Athos turned to report, and the bandit, seeing an opportunity, lunged for a dagger that had been discarded on the floor.

"Athos!"

At d'Artagnan's warning, he spun back toward the bandit, sword raised in warning, but before he could advise the man of his folly, a shot was fired from behind him, the ball nearly grazing his ear. The bandit stopped, hand only inches from the dagger, his eyes looking up in surprise before his entire body dropped like a marionette with severed strings.

Athos slowly pivoted, eyes wide in surprise, to find the Compte de Rochefort standing a short distance behind him, arm still extended, smoke rising from the barrel of the pistol he held in his hand.

Athos glared at the man. "Your aim has improved, I see."

Rochefort smiled. "As you will find, a great many things have changed La Fere. Or shall I address you as Athos?"

Athos took a deep breath in through his nose and lowered his sword, stepping forward into Rochefort's space. "You've overstepped your bounds, Rochefort. We needed him alive."

Rochefort dropped the harquebus and raised one brow in challenge. "A pity. Though it would appear I have just saved your life. I would expect a bit more gratitude on your part."

Treville stepped forward, placing a restraining hand on Athos' arm. "Compte de Rochefort, I'm sure you have someplace to be? While we appreciate your intervention, you will please allow my Musketeers to handle this situation."

Rochefort snorted derisively. "Seems to me, your Musketeers have handled things brilliantly so far. I would hate to interfere in such a delicate operation." He bowed his head, but it was obvious he meant no respect. "If you will excuse me."

With a snide smile at Athos, he turned on his heel and made his way to follow the retreating backs of the rest of the courtiers.

"Athos…" d'Artagnan's voice shook and Athos immediately turned to the young man, noting the alarm on the Gascon's face. Following d'Artagnan's line of sight, Athos' breath caught in his throat as he noticed Porthos and a small group gathered around a figure lying on the floor near the side windows – near the tables the King had been situated at before the attack.

"No," he whispered, his eyes closing momentarily, steadying himself before he could force his feet to move in the direction of the gathering. As he neared, he was relieved to see Louis sitting beside Mazarin, his face pale but very much alive. The Cardinal had one hand on Louis' shoulder, the other gripped the ornate crucifix he wore around his neck. He was whispering words of comfort to the King who nodded his head slowly, as if by rote. Next to Louis sat the Queen, her hand clasped tightly in her husband's, her frightened eyes watching Porthos who was leaning over a wounded man lying on the floor. He was speaking in a soft, comforting tone that made Athos' heart leap into his throat.

"Easy, take it easy. Try not to move" Porthos said soothingly. "Look at me, Aramis. Stay with me."

Athos dropped to his knees and looked around the big man's shoulders. Aramis lay in a pool of blood, his eyes unfocused, his mouth pinched tight in pain. Athos couldn't tell if he was aware of Porthos words or not, but he knew from experience the sound of a familiar voice could ground you when there was nothing but pain surrounding you.

"Porthos?"

The big man nodded absently, understanding Athos' question even though he could not bring himself to ask it. Porthos' large hand gently pressed against a bloody wound low on Aramis left side, causing a grunt of incoherent mumbling from the normally loquacious Spaniard.

"The ball didn't go deep, but he's bleedin' bad. He needs a surgeon." Porthos lifted his hand briefly to show the wound still leaking blood, the red liquid dripping down the leather doublet to join the growing pool beneath their friend. D'Artagnan immediately dropped to his knees beside their fallen comrade and pulled off his sash. Folding it into an effective bandage, he replaced Porthos hand, pressing it against the bloody wound in Aramis' side.

Aramis reacted to the increased pressure, muttering a few words in Spanish that Athos fervently hoped weren't curses in deference to the Queen. Aramis' eyes seemed to search the air around him, finally coming to rest on Anne's frightened face. He gave her a pained smile before he let out a huff of breath and suddenly went limp, his head lolling to the side. Anne gasped in fear, putting a hand to her mouth and Porthos placed his own bloody hand on Aramis' chest, relieved to feel the steady beat of his friend's heart. He brushed back a few errant curls from Aramis forehead, before glancing up at Anne.

"It's all right, your Majesty. He's just passed out. He's probably better off this way for now." He turned concerned eyes to Athos. "We're gonna have to move 'im."

Athos nodded, naturally taking charge of the situation. He didn't like how pale his friend had become, and he knew he needed medical attention as soon as possible. "We'll take him back to the garrison –"

"No."

All eyes raised in surprise to Louis.

"No," The King repeated, his hand gripping Anne's. He swallowed hard, his eyes wide and frightened, but his voice steadied as he returned Athos' stare. "You will take him to a room in the east wing. He'll be more comfortable there. I will send for my personal physician at once."

"Your Majesty–" Cardinal Mazarin began, but silenced at Louis' raised hand.

"This man just saved the Queen's life, Cardinal. We will do whatever we can to see to it he gets the best care possible." He looked to Anne who was still staring at Aramis' motionless form, her eyes filled with fear and compassion. "Do not worry yourself, my dear. We will make sure he survives."

Anne sniffed and clutched at her husband's hand, her eyes never leaving Aramis' slack face.

"There is a room just down the hall that he will be comfortable in."

"I will show you the way," Anne offered, rising with Louis. She turned to him, holding both of his hands between hers, smiling tremulously at his expression of uncertainty. "I assure you, I am fine. I will join you shortly, Sire. I wish to see this brave soldier taken care of."

Louis smiled fondly at her and nodded. "Very well, if you're sure?"

Athos saw her nod and take a deep, quivering breath before stepping away to allow Porthos to lift Aramis in his strong arms. The big Musketeer shifted his friend carefully until his head lay comfortably against the pauldron on Porthos' shoulder.

"We shall await news in the King's chambers," Mazarin declared, his eyes narrowed, his gaze locked onto Anne's obviously distressed face. The Queen's trepidation for the man who had saved her could in no way be construed as anything but innocent concern, but Athos didn't like the hint of suspicion he detected in the Cardinal's eyes.

He stepped up, moving to Anne's side, and she turned her head to him, cutting off the Cardinal's view. "Thank you, your Majesty. If you would lead the way?" He bowed and sweeping a hand before them in invitation. With a final glance at her husband, Anne picked up the hem of her bustling skirt and led them from the ballroom.

TBC