Blood From Stone

The Accusations

-/-

"What!?" d'Artagnan repeated. He drew upright, causing the chair to jolt and rebalance. Insensate fury surged through his limbs, and he bent forward rigidly, fire in his lungs. "I killed LaBarge—in a duel before the king himself. My farm was amongst those pillaged and destroyed. Who would possibly even think—"

"I know. I know." The man held up a hand in a calming gesture. A hand he then pressed to his own chest, over his heart. "Charles, you must understand, I don't doubt you. It is, and forever will be, to my great regret that I wasn't here to stop you from being… detained—"

"I was not detained," d'Artagnan hissed. "I was attacked."

"—but you haven't been seen in Gascony since your father's death. And there have been… rumors about your conduct… in Paris."

His eyebrows rose. He gritted his teeth. "My conduct in Paris?"

"Baseless rumors, I'm sure. Gossip passed by the idle minor courtiers returning south after a season in the city. You know how they are. Anxious to spread tales meant to confirm how the reputation of King Louis's court is proving well-founded, evidenced by the lascivious detail that it has managed to corrupt the conduct of one of Gascony's own. The people here love stories. Parisian affairs and court intrigue are amongst their favorites."

"I don't understand."

"Baseless rumors, Charles. As I said." The man waved his hand. "Tales of you and a… married woman, recently taken into the service of the queen." He laughed as though it was ridiculous.

D'Artagnan swallowed. Warm indignation began to spread through his blood.

"Tasteless as it may be," the man continued, "gossip is entertainment, even this far from Paris, as I'm sure you remember. And regardless of the veracity, it's created some questions. As such, there are those who feel your interests and loyalties may have been… compromised… while you've been away. And that perhaps your honor—"

That was the tipping point.

A haze of color washed over d'Artagnan's vision and he bolted to his feet, knocking into the table and causing the water in the cup to slosh over onto the wood. The running liquid spread the glaring reflection of the bouncing torch flame, making it zip like fire across the table as the rising buzz of aggravation erupted in his head.

"My honor!" he shouted. "I'm a Musketeer! A commissioned soldier of the king's own personal guard! My friends and I came here to ensure that the new regional superintendent wasn't carrying on LaBarge's legacy and to bring aid from the court in reparation for the destroyed properties. Aid which took us months of appeal and supplication to secure from the king."

"Charles—"

"No!" D'Artagnan shoved away from the table and its slick surface all at once, slamming the chair into the wall behind him, then he surged back, slapping his palm down. "Holding me here like this is an affront to the crown, an affront to the Musketeers, and an affront to the honor of Gascony! You have no right!"

Having shifted deliberately beyond the sluice of water, the man rose carefully to his feet, his full stature taller than Porthos's.

Imposing as he was, his expression showed as earnest and his voice emerged calmly. "I understand, Charles. I do. Your anger is justified. I would never say otherwise. If it were up to me, you would not have been accorded a single moment of doubt, nor would you have suffered a moment of the indignity caused by these… ridiculous accusations. But, there are others here who…"

D'Artagnan shoved away from the table anew, causing the cup to spin across the damp surface. "Who? Who are these people? These accusers? I demand to meet them."

The man sighed, glancing warily at the closed door. "My hope was that by gaining permission to speak with you before they did, you and I would be able to work together to solve this situation before it grew out of hand. Though I fear that's already happened."

"It grew out of hand the moment my fellow Musketeers and I were ambushed—were accosted and had bags placed over our heads while our limbs were tied like criminals."

"That may be, Charles, but you must understand. Gascony is populated with a far more cautious people than you remember. As you well know, the people here have little reason of late to trust those who have been set apart by the king's authority. LaBarge's abuse of position illustrates that well enough. And he is only one example amongst many I could name."

"Gascony has seen its share of conflict. The people here have always been cautious, just never this stupid."

"Nevertheless." The man sighed. "In the wake of LaBarge's actions, their caution is amplified. Therefore, when it comes to you… and your," the man paused, looking down and away, "and your friends… the people of Gascony have little reason to believe you to be on their side."

Leaning forward on his fists, d'Artagnan glared, the muscles in his neck coiled and throbbing. "LaBarge killed two Musketeers before we stopped him," he growled softly. "I'm a Musketeer. My friends are Musketeers. Any of LaBarge's associates are as much our enemies as they are Gascony's. To treat us in this fashion is folly by any measure." He pointed a finger as he straightened and though he persisted, was discomfited when his dry voice abruptly failed him and came out in a rasp. "Let me speak to those who would dare to accuse us and I will stop this madness. If you are even half as honorable as my father would have been in your position, you'll make that happen."

"I assure you, I'm striving to. My fear is that those responsible for taking you into custody are not in a proper frame of mind to be reasoned with. That's just it, Charles—"

"D'Artagnan! My name is d'Artagnan."

"D'Artagnan, then," the man conceded readily, but straightened. "It may not seem like it, but your having been brought here—it was the best I could do for you at the time. However, your friends—"

"What about my friends?"

Before the man could answer, a loud knock bore its way towards them from the direction of the door. There was an echoing clang behind it, as though steel was beating against steel down a distant, unseen, hallway.

A fight?

Doors closing?

Mere echoes of the continuing storm?

Suddenly, the door was open and the same demure girl who'd brought in the carafe stepped through it. The dark gap of hallway behind her wavered under a dull flare from the flame-light. And though the man was blocking the door, d'Artagnan stared, seeking the profiles of the guards beyond her, and catching only a glimpse before the door swung back near the frame and cut off his vision.

Ignoring d'Artagnan completely, the girl stepped directly over to the man and, standing on her toes, whispered something muffled in his ear as he bent down to hear her.

She glanced at d'Artagnan once while she spoke—a careful look from the corner of her eye that made his stomach curl with the certainty that she was saying something he should hear.

"What's going on?" he said, unwilling to play the game of polite prisoner.

The girl dropped back to the flat of her feet when she finished whispering, looked up at the man and waited.

Glancing at d'Artagnan, but not answering him, the man gave the girl a grim nod, and was already collecting his doublet as she plucked up the carafe and went back out the door.

"What's going on?" d'Artagnan repeated, starting to move.

"I'm afraid I have to go," the man said. "But I'll be back. As soon as I have… I… I'll be back."

"Wait. Tell me what's going on. You wanted my help to keep this from getting out of hand—then tell me what's going on!"

The man hesitated, holding his doublet and glancing between d'Artagnan and the door. "You were correct. It already is out of hand—one of your friends has attacked his guards. I'm sorry, d'Artagnan, I've got to go."

"Wait!" demanded d'Artagnan, surging toward the opening as the man moved through it. He got to the door just as it closed, and pounded his fist into the frame. "Wait!"

"Wait!"

From the other side, there was no answer.

No sound.

Above him, the wind howled and the high lamplight changed direction, flooding light over his head, then leaving him in shadow.

Ignoring the bruises on his knuckles, he slammed his palm to the door, beating hard with his frustration.

Wait.

-/-

tbc

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Notes: Just a quick, whatever, but the reviews on site seem to be a bit wonky at the moment. I was attempting to respond to your kind comments on the last chapter, but kept getting the message "no such review found" so, I'll reply when they get all that fixed, and though I can be lousy at replying in a timely fashion, please don't think I'm ignoring you.