by Ian Shimwell
Deep inside the secret and ancient catacombs that ran way below the Royal Palace, even underneath the lower-levels – two robed men were talking. One was the High Priest; the other was the hooded, mysterious and somehow sinister figure of The Rector. The eerie shadows of the torch flames added to the forbidding atmosphere.
The High Priest stared into The Rector’s hood but even his wily eyes could not penetrate the darkness. “I do like involving one such as you Rector but these are desperate times.”
The Rector laughed. “The High Priest of the Jesuits, even you succumb to superstition and prejudice.”
“Come now Rector, we are too old to play games. You are well aware that your reputation of darkness precedes you.”
“I believe in my God, that’s all.”
The High Priest sighed as he knew there was no choice. He drew the blood red curtains aside.
The Rector rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Let the dog see the rabbit then.” He entered the room of the Rock.
“One more thing,” said the High Priest. “Do not touch the Knight’s Rock. It is said to destroy unbelievers.”
The cautious Musketeers eventually stopped by a familiar door.
“Aramis’ Study,” declared Athos.
“I thought you said our learned friend would be sleeping,” challenged Porthos.
“I did, Aramis is so fond of books, he often sleeps with them.” They drew their swords. Athos gave the signal. The two men rushed into the Study.
Aramis was relaxing but awake. He had his hands behind his head and his feet on the table. “Ah hah, fellow Musketeers. I was wondering when you two would come blundering in.”
Porthos looked hard at Aramis, hardly recognising his mentor’s attitude. “Is what Athos has said really true?”
“That depends my dear friend on what the predictable Athos has said.”
“Unlike you traitor, I only speak the truth,” stated Athos as his sword moved threateningly towards Aramis.
“Have you spoken of D’Artagnan’s Legacy? I know it’s difficult old timer but you must have faith in D’Artagnan. Porthos, have faith in me.”
Porthos felt himself weakening but Athos responded fiercely, “Enough. We are here to take you away from your King, and then we will learn the truth.”
Aramis laughed, “I think not.” He nodded to encourage the two Musketeers to look behind them.
King Louis himself looked smugly at them. Crope behind him shrugged his shoulders almost guiltily. Dozens of the King’s Black Guards swarmed into the Study. They immediately disarmed the startled Musketeers.
Coolly, Louis faced them. “The murder of my Black Guard and the attempted kidnapping of the King’s Musketeer, Lord Aramis have only one fitting punishment – summary execution. Do you not agree, my Lord?”
Aramis stared at his fellow Musketeers unrepentantly. “Because of my loyalty to the King of France, it is my duty to concur with the order, Your Majesty. They must be executed!”
Louis smiled, he clicked his fingers. The surrounding Black Guards withdrew slightly their swords from around Porthos and Athos’ necks.
Disbelievingly, Athos looked into Aramis’ mocking expression. A small secret part of him had still refused to believe that the Holy Musketeer was really a traitor. Now he and Porthos would die knowing that awful truth.
Kill them,” shrieked the King. “Now!”
The Black Guard’s swords were thrust mercilessly towards the two, helpless Musketeers.
FOUR
D’Artagnan
“Wait,” Aramis suddenly said. The King nodded. The guards hesitated, and then halted their fatal approach. “They are, after all, Musketeers your Majesty. I believe a formal execution would be more appropriate.”
Louis considered for a moment. “I agree. Arrange a complete assembly of the King’s Council and the Black Guards in the Council Chamber. At first light tomorrow, my Court will witness how I deal with traitors. Take them away and lock them up,” he said dismissively.
The Black Guards threw Athos and Porthos inside the Jail de Execution, adjoining the servant’s quarters.
After he had picked himself up, Porthos looked through the tiny grill in the door, his nose almost jamming against the bars. “They’ve only left one guard. It shouldn’t be too difficult to escape.”
“I don’t want to escape,” was Athos’ surprise response.
“Oh no,” cried Porthos, “you haven’t turned all traitorous too, have you?”
A suspicion of realisation swept across Athos’ lined features. “There is more going on here than we realise. The only way to find out is to go along with it.”
“What, our execution?”
“Yes, certainly,” Athos said curiously.
The High Priest rushed through the catacombs of darkness, coming to a halt when he saw The Rector by the blood red drapes. “It is near the appointed time, Rector – have you succeeded?”
The voice from the dark replied, “I have.” He took the red curtains down and the High Priest’s mysterious prey was revealed.
The Rector walked into the now empty chamber and saw the Knight’s Rock – a long slab of ragged and solid stone. He had wanted to touch this sacred artefact for many years – now was his chance. He edged nearer tentatively. Summoning up all his courage, The Rector smiled as he touched the Rock. His smile was swept away by a sea of pain. The Rector screamed with all-consuming agony.
The majestic scene of King Louis XIV’s grand Council Chamber was set in all its regal glory. The King was sat expectantly on his throne; Lord Aramis by his side; the whole of the King’s Council were also present as was the sinister presence of a full troop of Black Guards. Anticipation and atmosphere were one.
The sumptuous double-doors opened and Athos and Porthos were marched in.
“Make the traitors kneel before me,” a wide-eyed Louis ordered. The Black Guards roughly threw the Musketeers before the King. Louis drew his ornate but lethally effective sword. “I have decided to execute the traitors myself.” He looked at the bound figures before him and said, “Is there anything you wish to say before your execution?”
Porthos thought about asking for one last drink but thought better of it. “Get on with it,” he snapped.
“And you, disgraced father of Raoul.”
“Louis, you will die for this,” spat Athos.
“Hear how the traitor openly speaks against me,” stormed Louis. “He will be the first to be executed.”
From the doorway, the High Priest caught Aramis’ eye and nodded.
The King drew his sword back, ready to end the life of a Musketeer.
“Wait,” cried Aramis. “I beg Your Majesty’s indulgence. Before this execution is carried out, I believe that one other person should be present.”
Amongst a hushed silence Louis’ twin, a mask-less Philippe walked calmly into the room.
“Him, how did he escape?” Louis fumed.
“Not him.” Aramis pointed to the doorway. “Him!”
A figure covered by a blood-red drape entered. Swiftly, he threw the red cover aside. No one in the whole of the Council Chamber could believe what they were seeing. No one except Aramis.
“D’Artagnan,” Athos cried disbelievingly as he stood up. “Alive?”
“Musketeers join me,” D’Artagnan instructed.
Without hesitation Aramis, Athos and Porthos left the petrified Louis. They could see a cache of weapons behind D’Artagnan.
Athos still stared at D’Artagnan. He looked weak, but it was really him.
Snapping out of his trance-like state Louis shrieked, “Council dismissed!” His many advisors and council needed no second bidding. They scurried out faster than was dignified led, of course, by Crope.
Louis then allowed himself a smile as he surveyed the scene. Himself and virtually a room full of his Black Guards faced only five figures.
After being unbounded, Athos and Porthos quickly armed themselves. Porthos smiled at Aramis. “I never belie
ved you were a traitor.” Aramis nodded gratefully. Athos eyed Porthos sceptically.
“We don’t stand a chance D’Artagnan,” Athos said. “There are almost a hundred guards.”
“I know. For if we are to die, let it be like this,” said D’Artagnan knowingly. “Musketeers, one last time.” One by one, their swords joined together.
“Well guards, what are you waiting for? Kill them – kill them all!” Shock had finally sunk Louis into madness.
Facing a black army of swords and guns, the three Musketeers and D’Artagnan roared, “All for one – and one for all!” They charged, with Philippe behind them, impossibly into a barrage of firing muskets. Amazingly, the legends continued. Their swords reaching the enemy.
With an astonishing half-turn, D’Artagnan dispatched three guards with one movement.
Two guards were being retreated by Aramis’ one sword. A guard behind him, though, was about to slice him. The guard choked and fell. Porthos withdrew his sword. Aramis nodded his thanks before finishing off the two guards facing him.
A Black Guard with a surprising level of skill of swordsmanship was driving Athos back – his sword flew from his hand. Sensing victory, the guard was about to drive his sword home. “Ah well,” said Athos, “needs must.” His gloved hand smacked the startled guard in the mouth rendering him unconscious.
Four guards suddenly charged D’Artagnan at once. He shot the first one down with his musket; his sword stopped the second. The remaining two carried on their charge towards him. He stepped aside, they ran past him. D’Artagnan turned round to see that Porthos had grabbed both their heads. He slammed them together with an unnerving crack.
Through their superior swordsmanship; quick thinking; outrageous manoeuvres and simple good luck, the Musketeers drove the Black Guards back. Even Philippe joined in and felled a few guards. The remaining guards began to panic. Their increasingly desperate counter-measures became even less effective. Some of their numbers fled.
Louis knew his Black Guards were almost defeated. His sword held tight in his hand. He could at least have his revenge.
D’Artagnan’s sword finished the last of the Black Guards off. He saw the three Musketeers, rubbing their bruises and cuts – but he could tell that they’d never felt better – and, after two long years, smiled.
Louis had silently edged nearer to Philippe. Hatred gripped him as he shouted, “Die false King!” His sword spearheading his attack, Louis went for his brother.
“No,” cried D’Artagnan. Instinctively, his sword swung round to protect Philippe.
The Musketeers turned to look and the scene seemed to unfold in slow-motion. Philippe couldn’t move. D’Artagnan was unable to withdraw his sword. Louis could not halt his charge. D’Artagnan’s sword penetrated deep into his son’s, Louis’ chest.
D’Artagnan held his dying son in his arms, saw the High Priest and said, “Quick, help me take him to the Knight’s Rock. They may still be time.”
“I am afraid not,” stated the High Priest. “The Rector has been found dead. The Knight’s Rock has disintegrated.”
“An unbeliever,” Aramis realised.
King Louis died in his father’s arms. D’Artagnan tenderly put his son to rest. For once there was silence, no one dared to speak.
Queen Anne suddenly came running into the chamber. D’Artagnan then collapsed. She rushed to him and held her love. “D’Artagnan, my beloved – you’re alive.”
“Alas not for long, my Queen. I knew there was but a short time for me. Louis… I’m sorry.” Weakening by the second, he looked at his three Musketeers and son, Philippe. “I have achieved my goals though. Louis has been finally disposed – although not in the way I intended. Philippe, my son – you are now free to reign.”
Philippe touched his father compassionately.
“Aramis, you played the game so well – bringing together – for one last time, the three Musketeers and myself. And being in the arms of my love, I can finally pass away.”
The Queen and Aramis briefly looked at each other – an understanding passing between them. Aramis knew she had been making love to D’Artagnan, in spirit at least. It was the nearest thing that his dying friend could have given her.
D’Artagnan’s eyes gradually closed for the last time.
Despite or because of the tragedy that had just unfolded – Athos, Porthos, Philippe and Anne looked at Aramis, wanting more answers.
Sensing this, Aramis spoke out. “I had recently discovered that Louis and his Black Guards, who were growing stronger each day, were about to attempt a coup anyway. Then I, as surprised as you all was, learnt that D’Artagnan was still alive.
“When, two years ago, Louis had stabbed him – the High Priest has secretly taken D’Artagnan and laid his body on the Knight’s Rock in the unspoken catacombs that are under this very palace. Legend speaks of the Rock’s miraculous healing powers. The High Priest tended to him night and day with restorative herbs. He feared that the weakening D’Artagnan would not last. The funeral was of course faked with nothing other than stones in the coffin.”
“I thought it was heavy,” grumbled Porthos.
“Eventually, two years later – D’Artagnan’s recovery was almost complete. That was when I was informed.
“To entice Louis into the open, we devised a plan where I would appear a traitor to the Musketeers, gaining Louis’ trust but pulling the strings from behind the scenes. Then D’Artagnan’s condition suddenly worsened and The Rector had to be brought in.”
“The resur-Rector?” suggested Porthos.
“Quite,” Aramis continued, “also known as The Dark Rector. His questionable abilities reversed and completed D’Artagnan’s recovery. We always knew it would be for a very short time.”
“I… I…,” Athos stammered, trying to apologise for doubting Aramis but realising that it was not necessary.
“D’Artagnan,” shouted Aramis.
“D’Artagnan,” chorused the others.
The storm was clearing. Aramis was still stood there – his sword resting on D’Artagnan’s gravestone – the legend really resting beneath.
Two more swords joined Aramis’. He smiled at his fellow Musketeers, Athos and Porthos.
Aramis decided to speak. “D’Artagnan’s legacy was often spoken of – but I wonder what truly will be the legacy of the Musketeers?”
A sliver on sunshine broke free from the clouds. It illuminated the final message inscribed on D’Artagnan’s headstone.
The Three Musketeers lifted their swords as one and cried the message with a glorious passion that only they could truly understand:
“All For One and One For All!”
EPILOGUE
The Legacy
The forgotten and dead fire was now just a few wisps of smoke. Aramis considered his parchment. There was still nothing in it, apart from a few droplets of dark ink. For, he had put away his quill a while ago. Scribing that forbidden knowledge to paper was simply far too dangerous. If anyone read it, it could cause a revolution – and France wasn’t ready for a revolution, at least not just yet.
The time of the Musketeers was finally over. Aramis smiled sadly as he remembered, once more, their last adventure together. Himself, Athos and Porthos – the Three Musketeers and D’Artagnan. He thought about their struggles and sacrifices with immense pride, because through it all, they had remained true to their spirit and done everything for one, and one thing only – for the sake of their beloved France. The true Sun King had finally eclipsed his darker brother. And that would be the lasting legacy of the Musketeers.
All for one…
THE END
NEXT IN THE NOVELLA RANGE:
Führerbunker
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Read Musings of the Musketeers, a ‘sideways glance’ which is intended to accompany and compliment this novella in an original and thought-provoking way.
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