This story was inspired by the various hints that have emerged about Season Three. It took hold of me and refused to let go.

Insurgency

Chapter One

It was a beautiful day in spring when the war came to Douai. Aramis was working in the vegetable garden, his hair tied back to keep it out of his eyes. He had taken to wearing it longer now that he was a lay brother instead of a soldier. He wielded the hoe with the same intensity he'd once brought to sword craft, the emerging weeds dying before they ever had a chance to flourish.

"Soldiers!" Brother Bertrand called from the gate.

Aramis' head shot up. He threw down the hoe and strode to join the young novice. Bertrand had just turned eighteen and had only been in the monastery for a few weeks. He'd taken a liking to Aramis, following him around like a lost puppy. In some ways he was a reminder of d'Artagnan and that thought tugged at Aramis' heart and conscience.

For four years his brothers had been fighting a war while he stayed safe inside the monastery walls. He could still vividly recall the day they came for him. The day he had turned them away because his vow to God was stronger than his allegiance to King and country. He hadn't seen them since, didn't even know if they still lived.

He raised a hand to shield his eyes against the bright sunlight and stared down the road. He estimated that a dozen men were galloping in their direction, the horses' hooves stirring up the dust to form a cloud around them. His first thought was that they were French then, with surprise he realised that he was wrong.

"Spanish," he hissed.

"Here?" Bertrand looked at him, his guileless blue eyes wide.

"Take word to the Abbot," Aramis said.

Several of the monks had wandered over, curious about their unexpected visitors. Aramis drew back from the gate, his thoughts in turmoil. When had the Spanish reached this far to the North? Had Paris fallen? Where was the French army? His hand strayed to his hip but there was no sword there now. Even after all this time he missed its comforting weight.

The riders thundered into the monastery yard, pulling their horses to an abrupt halt. Their leader had an aristocratic bearing and he gestured imperiously to one of the monks.

"Take my horse," he instructed in heavily accented French. He swung out of the saddle, pulled off his gloves and looked around.

Aramis retreated further into the shadows. He didn't understand why but felt it was important not to come to the attention of this man. The other soldiers were dismounting now and he could see how tired their horses were. They had ridden hard and fast to reach the monastery. He wondered if they were being pursued but saw no evidence that they were preparing for a siege. Perhaps they were just passing through and would be gone in the morning.

"I am Colonel Garcia Marquez and I demand to see your Abbot."

Four of the soldiers took the reins of the horses and began to lead them towards the stables. The others looked at the curious monks with varying degrees of disdain. Aramis hunched his shoulders and bowed his head, hoping that he presented a picture of innocuous servility. In reality his fingers itched to hold his sword and allow it to drink Spanish blood.

"I am Father Guillaume, Abbot of this monastery. How may I be of service?"

The Abbot was tall and thin with grey hair and shrewd grey eyes. He and Aramis did not do well together. The previous Abbot had been a kindly man who had welcomed Aramis with open arms. His premature death had been a tragedy for all the inhabitants. Father Guillaume had no patience with the fact that Aramis had still not decided to take his vows and seemed to delight in giving him the most menial of tasks to undertake. Obedience, which he had found difficult even under the best of circumstances, had become a daily trial.

"My men and I require accommodation and food," Colonel Marquez said.

"Of course. All are welcome here. We can provide shelter for the night…"

"You don't understand, Father. We are not intending to leave tomorrow. This is my new command post."

A shiver of fear ran down Aramis' spine. It was accompanied by a surge of hatred so strong that it caught him by surprise. He immediately whispered a plea for forgiveness even while his thoughts were racing. This was no ordinary troop of soldiers. They were here to spy and search out every weakness of their enemy. He had been such a soldier once, operating deep behind the lines, sowing misinformation and panic among the populace.

The Abbot looked nonplussed by the Colonel's statement but bowed and raised no objection to the intrusion. "I hope you will dine with me this evening," he said. "Brother Rene?" His gaze ranged around the assembled monks and brothers until he spotted Aramis. "You will tend to the horses."

Aramis' mouth tightened mutinously before he nodded his acceptance of the order. He moved around the outside of the crowd, keeping well clear of the Colonel. When he walked into the stables the soldiers ignored him.

"If it pleases you, I will look after your horses," he said with a humility he didn't feel.

"Take good care of them," one of the soldiers said, looking him up and down with contempt. "See that they are fed and watered."

"Of course."

They had left their saddlebags and, once they had gone, Aramis unsaddled the horses and then settled down to rifle through the soldiers' belongings in hopes of finding some clue as to their true intentions.

TMTMTM

Athos slumped tiredly in his camp chair, contemplating without enthusiasm the paperwork awaiting him. His first task was to write the daily dispatches to be sent to Paris. Then he would need to take inventory of their stores, which were quickly dwindling to the point where he would have to send out foraging parties. Then there were the reports from their scouts to be perused and orders written for the next day. In four years such tasks had become second nature to him although he didn't think he would ever come to enjoy them.

He poured a glass of wine and pulled pen and parchment toward him. They were embroiled in a campaign of attrition in dangerous mountainous terrain. Pitched battles were rare but ambushes on both sides were a common occurrence. The last few days had been quieter, allowing those of his men who had been injured or suffering from sheer exhaustion a brief respite. He began to write and then stopped, wondering if Porthos and d'Artagnan were back from their patrol. They had been gone since early morning and he had been expecting them back long before now.

With a heavy sigh he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and continued his report. The light dimmed inside the tent as the sun dipped toward the horizon. He stopped to light a candle, read through what he had written, and signed it. He sealed the missive and stood, rotating his shoulders to alleviate the stiffness that seemed to be a constant source of discomfort. Even when asleep he could never entirely relax. He drained his glass and stood up.

He left the tent just as raised voices heralded the return of the patrol. He quickly counted the men, his heart rate steadying when he saw that all had returned safely. Then he realised that there was an extra man with them. He walked forward to greet Porthos, one eyebrow raised in a silent question.

"Caught ourselves a Spanish courier," Porthos told him. "He's carryin' dispatches but none of us can read them." He tossed a package of letters to Athos.

"Bring him," Athos instructed, leading the way back to his tent.

One look at the Spaniard convinced Athos that the man wouldn't talk. He was clearly a seasoned soldier, who had seen his fair share of combat.

"Where were you taking these?" he asked.

The Spaniard stared at him with a slightly mocking smile and said nothing.

"No matter." Athos broke the seal on the first letter and scanned it quickly. Over the last four years, in the absence of their brother, he had familiarised himself with the language. The tidings were innocuous, telling him nothing he didn't already know. He turned his attention to the second one, a frown deepening on his forehead as he read it for the second time. He looked up to meet the concerned stares of Porthos and d'Artagnan. "Secure him and then return," he ordered.

"You alright?" Porthos asked.

"Hurry."

Porthos pushed the Spaniard out of the tent and Athos heard him give instructions to have the man put under guard. D'Artagnan looked at him curiously but said nothing until Porthos returned.

"Bad news?" d'Artagnan asked.

Athos swallowed to try and return moisture to his dry mouth. "They have sent small troops of soldiers to the north. Their instructions are to cause as much chaos as they can. They seek to force us to divide our army, to weaken our assault on the border."

"Bastards," Porthos muttered.

"There is more," d'Artagnan said. "I can see it on your face. What else is wrong?"

"Do you remember Colonel Marquez?"

"How could we forget him," Porthos said. "He trapped a dozen of our men and slaughtered them like animals."

"He leads one of the incursions. He is to be headquartered at the monastery in Douai."

"Douai?" d'Artagnan said, his voice rough.

"Aramis!" Porthos gasped.

"Yes and I somehow don't think our brother will sit back and allow Marquez to complete his task without trying to stop him."

Tbc