All for One (2 page)

“It did exactly what it was supposed to,” Perrin retorted, stroking Léandre’s hair lightly. “And exactly
where
it was supposed to.” He yawned broadly and shifted around on the bed so that they were all lying with their heads on the pillows. “You’ve worn me out.”

“I hope you’ve saved enough energy to get an early start tomorrow,” Aristide countered, using a corner of the sheet to clean himself before settling between his two lovers. “I want to get on the road before
M.
de Tréville thinks of a reason to keep us here.”

“After all the extra training time we’ve spent with the new recruits, we deserve a few days’ rest,” Léandre protested. “And I can’t think of a better way to spend them than tasting the newest vintage at Clos Vougeot.”

“He’s granted us leave,” Perrin reminded them. “He won’t recall it unless he has no other choice. He knows how hard we’ve worked and that we’ll work as hard or harder when we get back because we’ve had a break. Now stop jabbering and let me get some sleep, or I won’t be responsible for my actions in the morning.”

“You wake up the same way every morning, Perrin—hard,” Aristide observed, stifling a yawn. He shifted until he was comfortably spooned between his two partners’ warm bodies, his eyes drifting shut. “Now, both of you, sleep—we ride at dawn.”

T
HE
sun was barely above the horizon, a scant six hours after it had set, when the three musketeers strode into the stable at
l’hôtel particulier
de
M.
de Tréville. Aristide went immediately to the box where Orphée, his stallion, whickered impatiently. Behind him, he could hear Léandre and Perrin arguing over which horses they would ride today. He just shook his head and began saddling his impatient brute. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much,” he told the steed as he brushed him. “We’ll go for a long run today and show those pretenders what a real horse can do.”

“Riding that old nag again?” Perrin asked, coming to stand at the stall door and admire the big bay animal—and its owner.

“I don’t ever have to worry about having a mount,” Aristide pointed out laconically. Keeping his own steed, rather than having to make do with whatever horse was available in their company’s common stables, was the one luxury he retained from his privileged life before joining the musketeers.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Léandre added, joining the other two men. “I’d get bored with only one ride.”

Perrin snorted. “That’s why we can’t find him some nights. He’s gone in search of a new mount.”

Aristide just shook his head at the younger men’s antics. “Variety is no replacement for quality,” he informed them. “No amount of adventure can make up for knowing I can always rely on this ‘old nag’, as you call him.”

Léandre and Perrin looked at each other and laughed. “Boring,” they teased, going to finish preparing the horses they’d selected for the week’s adventure.

“Horses are like lovers,” Aristide mused to Orphée as he saddled the animal. “When you find the perfect match, you hold on to it. There isn’t a horse in this stable that’s your equal, old boy, so as long as you’re game, we’ll keep on together. What do you say?”

The horse butted its owner’s chest affectionately, eliciting a light-hearted laugh. “Let’s go show those two children what real men can do.”

Aristide led the bay out into the courtyard, swinging onto its back. “Perrin, Léandre!” he shouted. “We’re wasting daylight. The vineyards await!”

Perrin and Léandre clattered out of the stable atop two of the company’s horses. Aristide shook his head again at their foolery and led the way toward the Porte d’Italie and south toward Nuits-St-Georges. They thundered through the countryside, enjoying the cool morning air on their faces as they rode. Perrin was sure it would be a hot day by the time the sun reached its zenith, but this early the dew still moistened the air and settled the dust, leaving them to ride unhampered toward their destination. They passed through Nemours at lunchtime and arrived in Auxerre as the sun was setting. The innkeeper was happy to provide a room, food, and drinks for three of the King’s musketeers and equally happy to see his boisterous guests on their way the next morning.

It had rained lightly during the night, settling the dust and leaving the air crisp and fresh. Despite the run the day before, the horses were frisky, so the three men gave them their heads and let them gallop on southward, toward Époisses where they intended to stop for lunch.

The sun was almost overhead and breakfast was but a distant memory when they pulled abruptly to a halt, dismounting swiftly to come to the aid of an injured man lying on the side of the road.

“Was he thrown from his horse?” Perrin asked as Aristide knelt at the man’s side.

“Possibly,” Aristide allowed, glancing up from the pool of red spreading over the dampened ground. “Too much blood for that alone, though,” he observed, gently rolling the body from where it lay crumpled, face-down. His breath caught as he saw the source of the blood. A dark hole marred the tunic and shoulder of the man in the dirt. “He’s been shot.”

Léandre and Perrin exchanged somber glances, hands going to the pistols they carried in their belts. “He’s still wearing his satchel,” Léandre observed. “There may be something in there.”

“Check and see,” Aristide nodded, tearing a strip of linen from the hem of the man's shirt to staunch the bleeding. “Perrin, see if you can find his horse.”

Perrin nodded and searched for any hoof prints not left by their own mounts. Finding a print too deep for their animals, he swung back onto his horse and started off in the direction of the tracks.

Léandre, meanwhile, had dumped the contents of the rucksack onto the road. For the most part, it contained the usual accoutrements of a traveler, but a letter drew his attention. Picking it up, he saw that the seal was broken and the parchment torn. He started to put it back down when
M.
de Tréville’s name caught his eye. Wondering what business the stranger could have with the leader of the musketeers, he opened the missive and read its contents. “I’m not sure you should work so hard to save him, Aristide,” he said gravely, his expression hardening. “This letter accuses
M.
de Tréville of treason.”

Chapter 2

A
RISTIDE
looked sharply at Léandre, then glanced down at the man lying on the ground before him. He looked young, his face pale but finely chiseled beneath a light moustache and beard, his dark hair long enough to reach the shoulders of his dusty jacket. He was thin, his collarbone readily apparent beneath Aristide’s hand, which still pressed down the pad of cloth with which he’d bound the wound. From long habit, Aristide tamped down the flush of warmth that stirred inside him at his attraction to the unexpectedly handsome man, his answer to Léandre curt. “I’ll condemn no man without giving him the chance to speak in his own defense,” he countered. “Let’s get him to the nearest inn and hear what he has to say for himself before we decide what action to take.”

Léandre nodded, tucking the letter into his belt before returning the traveler’s few belongings to his pack. “As you say, but if he is plotting against
M.
de Tréville, I have first claim on skewering him.”

“You may not need to skewer him if we can’t get this bleeding to stop,” Aristide answered. Whistling for his mount, he pulled the wounded man gently to his feet. “Hand him up to me,” he directed his fellow swordsman, mounting swiftly and taking the limp body from Léandre’s arms to settle before him on the saddle. Wrapping his arms around the slender form—too slender, surely, for a man of nearly Aristide’s own height—he nudged Orphée forward. “You and Perrin follow me once he’s found the fellow’s horse,” Aristide called over his shoulder.

Having located the missing animal, a large draft horse more suited to farm work than traveling the countryside, Perrin led the nag back to where he had left his friends. Only Léandre remained. “Where’s Aristide?” he asked. “And this fellow’s owner?”

“Rode ahead to find an inn,” Léandre replied gloomily. “He wants us to meet him there.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Perrin asked heartily. “An inn, some wine, good food…. That is why we left Paris. We’re not quite to Nuits-St-Georges, but surely the innkeeper has something palatable we can enjoy. And perhaps even a spare bed where we can enjoy a
sieste
before riding on.” A lascivious wink accompanied this last.

Not even the prospect of an afternoon tryst—for Léandre knew while they might well end up in bed, Perrin’s plans had nothing to do with sleep—could win an answering smile from the blond musketeer. “Look at his,” he growled, pulling the letter from his belt and slapping it into Perrin’s hand. “That
salaud
threatens
M.
de Tréville himself.”

“What kind of
connerie
is this?!” Perrin exclaimed, taking the letter and skimming it quickly. “
M.
de Tréville is loyal to the King and none other. Everyone knows that! This must be some plot of the Cardinal’s to discredit him.”

“Were it up to me, I’d run the
crétin
through and be done with him, but you know Aristide’s soft heart. He must be sure the traitor’s healed first before we spit him on our swords.” Swinging into the saddle, Léandre eyed the droplets of blood that left a clear trail for them to follow. “Maybe he’ll be lucky enough to expire on his own before then. In any case, our peaceful trip to the countryside is ruined.”

“Let’s go find them, then, and see what Aristide wants to do now,” Perrin sighed in agreement. Their companion claimed no higher rank than any other musketeer, but his ingrained nobility made him a natural leader of men. Perrin had recognized it the first time he met Aristide, though it took far longer to learn the story behind the sometimes bitter façade. The older man did not trust easily after all that had occurred before he joined the musketeers, leaving all else behind. “If the man’s dead, maybe we can get this news back to
M.
de Tréville and still salvage some of our time off.” He stopped and considered what he had just said. “Forget that. Aristide won’t leave Paris again until he’s foiled the entire plot single-handedly, will he?”

“Would you?” Léandre answered as he watched the younger man fasten the bridle of the stranger’s horse to his saddle before mounting. Perrin might give the impression he lived for nothing but wine and as much cock as he could get, but Léandre knew he was as passionate in his loyalty to their leader as either of his two older companions. He tucked the letter back in his belt and spurred his mount forward.

Perrin had to admit he would not, though he was sure Léandre had not heard him, his horse springing forward along the trail of blood. They rode into Époisses and found the inn at the center of town. Orphée stood tethered outside, sure sign of how worried Aristide was about the messenger. Otherwise, he would never have left his horse untended. “I’ll see to this nag as well as my own if you’ll take care of Orphée,” he suggested to Léandre, swinging down from his mount. Stable boys came running immediately, warning them of foul ends if they bothered the big stallion.

“Never fear,” Perrin told them. “His owner is a friend of ours. He’ll let us get him settled.”

The boys looked skeptical, but stood back to watch as the blond approached the horse that had already kicked two unsuspecting men who’d walked too close for his comfort.

Luckily, Orphée was familiar enough with his master’s friends to allow Léandre to untie his reins and lead him into the stables. Some minutes later, all four horses had been secured in stalls, their tack removed and stern instructions given to the stable boys to treat them well. Awed by the big men, the lads promised to see to their mounts immediately, though privately neither one planned to get any nearer the big bay than they were at that moment.

Entering the inn from the stable yard, Léandre gave a longing look to the taproom before enquiring of the innkeeper where their friend might be found. The man nodded unhappily up the staircase to the bedchambers. “Upstairs, bleeding all over my best mattress. This is a decent inn, I’ll have you know, and if you’ve been dueling or some such thing, I’ll tell you now, you’re not welcome here!”

“We’re Royal Musketeers,” Perrin interjected smoothly, not above using their rank to ease their way. His family had no rank of their own, but he had learned enough from living with Léandre and Aristide that he could pull out his own cloak of nobility when the situation demanded. It demanded now. “Our friend had ridden ahead and was set upon by bandits. Aristide brought him here while Léandre and I went in search of his horse. Now, whatever orders Aristide gave you, follow them with all haste. We will send down for food and wine when we ascertain the severity of our friend’s injury.”

Leaving Perrin to treat with the landlord, who had apparently dealt with Royal Musketeers before and continued to mutter about the dire consequences if their “friend” died in his best bedchamber, Léandre took the stairs two at a time to the upper story. He found Aristide with the sleeves of his doublet rolled back, wringing out a cloth from a ewer of pink-tinged water. The stranger lay on the bed, stripped to his waist, revealing a smooth chest thin enough that his ribs showed plainly. The makeshift bandage had been removed and the worst of the blood and dirt cleaned away, though the wound continued to seep blood slowly. “How is he?” Léandre asked, suspecting from the man’s pale face that he might yet be robbed of the chance of running him through.

“The ball’s still in him,” Aristide answered, rubbing the back of his neck and leaving a streak of red. “We’ll have to cut it out or he’ll bleed to death.”

Léandre was fairly sure that might happen in any case, but knowing better than to argue with Aristide, he nodded and pushed up his own sleeves. “You cut; I’ll hold him still,” the blond offered, moving around the bed to grasp the wounded man by the shoulders, pinning him to the mattress. Even if he was unconscious, an involuntary movement could cause the knife to cut deeper than Aristide intended, rendering even more damage than the ball itself.

“Oh, are we fucking him before we cut his heart out?” Perrin asked as he walked into the room to find Léandre on the bed straddling the wounded man and Aristide with a knife in his hand.

“Shut up, Perrin,” Aristide growled, easing his belt knife carefully under the musket ball until he could work it free. The wounded man breathed heavily but made no other sound, worrying Aristide even more than the loss of blood. Staunching the bleeding with a clean cloth, he ran a hand through his hair, hoping now that the ball was gone the wound could begin to close. Nodding his thanks as Léandre handed him another length of the bed sheet he’d torn up for wrappings, he tied off the bandage and examined the stranger’s face more closely than he’d had the opportunity to do until now. Long, dark lashes brushed the man’s olive cheekbones beneath a broad, smooth forehead; a light beard surrounded thin, well-shaped lips. Aristide would put him at roughly a score and five years, older than he had originally seemed. His slim build in part had lent that impression, though Aristide suspected that was due to illness or hunger rather than immaturity; his arms and chest revealed firm muscle for all their thinness. Aristide found it hard to imagine what reason this stranger would have to plot treachery against the captain of the musketeers.

Perrin examined the injured man as well, seeing the poor quality of fabric the stranger wore, the threadbare breeches worn nearly white at the knees, the cracked and broken leather that proclaimed the age of his boots as well as the general lack of care. “He doesn’t look like much. What motive could he possibly have for carrying such lies?”

“We won’t know until he’s well enough to question—then we’ll have it out of him, one way or another,” Léandre promised. Perrin’s earlier remark having put sex, never far from his mind, back in the forefront of his thoughts, he ran a critical eye over the stranger, adding in fairness, “He wouldn’t be half bad if he wasn’t so thin. I wager he’d clean up well enough.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Perrin contradicted. “Look at his clothes. He’s a peasant, or the next thing to it. What would he know of the kind of political intrigue implied in the letter?”

“I wouldn’t wager he even knows how to write—certainly not in as cultured a hand as that,” Léandre considered. “He must be working with, or for, someone. Don’t you agree, Aristide?”

“Hmmn?” Aristide started at hearing his name, lost in his consideration of the stranger. Shaking his head to refocus his thoughts, he frowned. “You’re right about one thing—we won’t know until he’s well enough to talk. It doesn’t appear that will be any time soon, though, and in the meantime,
M.
de Tréville needs to know someone is plotting to discredit him.” Pulling the bed sheet up to cover the young man’s torso, he turned to his two companions. “He needs to see the letter as soon as possible. Léandre, you and Perrin ride back to Paris with all speed—and don’t speak to anyone of this but
M.
de Tréville himself. I’ll stay here until our new friend is well enough to travel, then bring him to Paris with me.”

The image Perrin had planted of a leisurely afternoon spent in bed vanished like a soap bubble, though Léandre had to agree they needed to start for Paris without delay. They should be able to make it as far as the inn in Auxerre before nightfall, after all. Keeping that thought in mind, Léandre nodded, rising and clapping Aristide on the shoulder. He and Perrin had the better part of the bargain—Aristide would be sleeping alone. “We’ll see you in Paris, then.”

“Watch your backs,” Aristide added as he rose to clasp each of his friends’ shoulders. “Unless it was a random brigand who shot him, someone else may be looking for that letter.”

“If they’re not wearing the uniform of the Royal Musketeers, they’re an enemy until the letter is in
M.
de Tréville’s hands,” Perrin agreed, all joking aside now that the matter of their captain’s reputation, perhaps even his life, rested in his hands. “We got Orphée settled in the stables and this fellow’s horse as well. A big draft animal, not an aristocrat’s steed. Shall we have the innkeeper send up lunch for you while you watch over this one?”

“And a bottle of wine, if you would,” Aristide agreed thankfully. He supposed he could have walked down to the taproom himself, but he felt a strange reluctance to leave the stranger’s side, even for such a simple errand. Of course, it was critical for the man to recover so they could learn who was behind the plot to discredit
M.
de Tréville. “Ride swiftly and arrive safely,” he added.

“A safe journey to you as well,” Léandre replied. “Let’s hope you’re not long behind us.”

“The message will get through or we’ll be dead in the attempt,” Perrin finished, hand on his sword in promise. “All for one….”

“And one for all,” they finished in unison.

“Let’s ride,” Perrin declared, striding out the door, calling for his and Léandre’s horses.

Léandre paused long enough to ask for a luncheon and a pitcher of wine to be brought to the room where Aristide sat with the stranger before heading to the stables. Perrin had saddled both their mounts and was stepping into the stirrup when Léandre joined him in the courtyard. He spent a moment enjoying the long, hard lines of Perrin’s body as he settled onto his horse before crossing quickly to his own mount. With a swirl of dust, the two rode out of the inn yard and turned onto the road back to Paris.