The Musketeer The Spy and The Privateer

By Elle Westoby

The year is 1632, five years after the Siege of La Rochelle where Louis XIII's forces, led by Cardinal Richelieu, triumphed over the Huguenot Rebellion.

After they surrendered, the Huguenot survivors were forced to swear allegiance to the French King. There were some, however, who would remain true to their cause and would always be rebels. Athos of the King's Musketeers, formerly the Comte de la Fere, makes the decision to infiltrate a group of rebels who have risen once again and appear to be led by The Wolf, a mysterious, though notorious antagonist from that time. Reluctantly aided by devil-may-care Privateer, Jacques Luc Foubier, a former comte himself, the two have just three days to foil the plot, but first, they must solve a riddle. Despite a similar noble upbringing, they are now very different men and must work together to save France. Meanwhile, a very different brotherhood threatens their success.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elle Westoby
• Release date: Apr 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201259761

Book preview

PROLOGUE:

The Huguenots of sixteenth and seventeenth century France were Protestants who deferred to the Calvinist strain of Protestantism which was expanding throughout Europe during that time. Their beliefs removed much of the Catholic traditionalism that the majority of France adhered to. Thus, they were soon labelled as heretics and France slipped toward civil war as they gained influence.

Retribution had come in 1562, when five hundred Huguenots were attacked while worshipping in a barn near the village of Vassy. Fifty were killed and many wounded. The first event in the French Wars of Religion, it was the beginning of a crusade against all Protestants.

A fragile peace did not hold and the purges continued under Catherine de Medici, which left seventy thousand dead, slaughtered like animals. This was done in the name of the Catholic Church, which believed itself the only true upholders of the Christian faith. The Huguenots were forced to either convert to the teachings of the Catholic Church or flee the country.

During this tumultuous history, two young people met and fell in love. One, Marie, was a Huguenot and the other, Antoine, a Catholic.

They practised their religions indoors and never spoke about it for fear of retribution, for it was a rare, almost unknown thing. When the Third Huguenot Rebellion inevitably threatened France in 1627, their lives were shattered. They tried to flee but were caught. Trapped in their small house with their two young boys by a baying mob, they knew they could not escape.

Unaware as to whether their persecutors were Catholic or Huguenot, they drew their sons toward them. Antoine pressed his rosary into his elder son’s hands and implored him to swear to protect his nine year old brother and they sent them out into the night in the clothes they wore and the food Marie was able to hastily put into a sack. She told them to flee and not look back, their parents intention to give them time to escape.

In terror though, the boys turned back in time to witness their parents brutal death at the hands of the mob within the dark confines of their cottage, before the flames took hold and it was destroyed.

Running for their lives, they accepted help from a man who took them to an old couple, the Du-champs. They, in turn, got them away and into the countryside, telling them once more never to speak of their beliefs to anyone, for there was a dichotomy. The youngest child was his mother’s son in looks and temperament and the elder, his father’s. Their beliefs, though not strong, were in accordance with their favoured parent. They had watched their mother worship in her own way and their father with his more formal Catholic style, little understanding the huge difference but knowing they were never to speak of it and so they had accepted the Du-Champ's entreaty.

Marie and Antoine were tragic figures who died because of their beliefs and because they fell in love.

The mob had searched for the boys, spurred on by the pack of men who initiated the search and the ultimate punishment, but to no avail. The old couple and the boys had disappeared.

Ten years went by. The boys eventually went their own ways, keeping in touch loosely, aware as they grew older how little they had in common, apart from an oath given to their father.

Neither could escape the turmoil that religion and war wrought on France. Each emerged from boyhood damaged, one with the potential to bring down the country. There was one person, however, known as The Wolf, who had known where they were from the beginning and who had bided his time.

CHAPTER ONE

The Present – 1632

The three Musketeers and their trainee stood on the floor of the dusty, derelict warehouse. Looking up through the ruined floor above, they could see a ring of men staring down, their weapons trained on them.

You are outnumbered, Musketeers. Go now, their leader shouted down through the hole. Then, he paused; Though one of you stays.

No! Aramis shouted, taking a step closer.

A shot rang out and a musket ball hit the floor to the right of his foot.

Then you will all die here, the man said calmly, as several more men appeared behind him.

Lower your weapons, Athos said quietly, turning to look at his brothers – an unblinking stare they all recognised.

Athos was their de facto leader, a man of aristocratic bearing who spoke little, though when he did it was with an authority that few challenged, least of all his Musketeer brothers. Athos could hold a room still with a single word. Tall, lean and well muscled, his blue-green eyes were expressive. A raised eyebrow spoke volumes and, over their years together, they had all learned to read him. They knew little of his background, except that he was formerly the Comte de la Fere. His bouts of melancholy led to sessions of solitary drinking, leaving them in no doubt that his past lay heavily upon him.

After a few very tense moments, they complied. Aramis replaced his pistol as Porthos and d’Artagnan re sheathed their swords.

At the same time, four men appeared in front of them on their ground floor level.

Athos began to unbuckle his weapons belt.

Athos, no! Porthos said, his deep voice urgent.

Of the four, Porthos was the one more ready to use his fists first in any encounter. He had grown up in poor circumstances and had served in the infantry before receiving his commission into the Musketeers, the King’s personal elite guard. A large man, brawn was his weapon of choice more often than not, occasionally tempered by the reasoning offered by his comrades-in-arms.

Athos raised his eyes to them once more, holding them still.

You know what to do, he said quietly. He slowly removed his hat and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. Aramis recognised the signal, giving him a reluctant tilt of his head in response;

Stay alive, was his unspoken message. Find the threat and dismantle it, the meaning.

They did not like it of course, but they would obey Athos for there was no alternative. They were outnumbered and Athos was buying them time. He was offering himself up before they could, because if they did, he would then have to overrule them. He knew they would protest, but that they would accept it.

Come the day, Athos said softly. He handed his hat to Aramis and then he turned and walked toward the four men who stood before them.

Don’t think about following us, their leader, a scarred, heavy set man, snarled. Or we will return him in pieces.

Hurt him and we will hunt you down, Aramis hissed, every muscle in his body tense.

Porthos reached up and squeezed his shoulder, his other hand firmly holding d’Artagnan by the arm, the impetuous young man coiled like a new spring.

All for one, Aramis whispered, softly.

With a glance upward to the circle of armed men above them, Athos nodded before turning back briefly to look Aramis in the eye;

Tell Rochelle not to wait for me.

With that, the four men surrounded him and they left. After a few tense moments, half the men above lowered their weapons and stepped back, disappearing into the shadows of the upper floor before melting away. The rest kept their weapons trained on the Musketeers below, until they too stepped back and were gone.

Damn! Porthos cursed, as they were left standing, shocked and dismayed; three, were once there were four.

Who’s Rochelle? d’Artagnan asked, staring at the door through which Athos had been led.

Not here, Aramis replied, tersely, his voice low with frustration and anger.

So, what do we do now? d’Artagnan persisted, though deferring to the two older men as they walked cautiously outside.

d’Artagnan was still finding his feet with them, having burst into their lives a short while ago. Impetuous and new to Paris, his first day in the city had gone from bad to worse and he had found himself challenging each of these men to a duel. He had soon realised that, no matter how good he was with a sword, he was no match of these men. Recognising the skill and determination in the raw farm boy from Gascony though, they had been drawn to him and had made the decision to train him. Life had changed completely from that first day, for him and for them. d’Artagnan would be their fourth and they would ensure he would become the best of them.

Aramis continued to walk, deep in thought as the others followed him. The gang had left, taking Athos with them. There was no use trying to follow or their brother’s life would be forfeit and anyway, Athos did not appear to want that. He had seen something, Aramis knew. Something that made him make the dangerous decision that he had.

We do what Athos told us to do, Aramis replied, as they reached their horses, tied up outside a tavern two streets away.

We continue the search that brought up all here, he continued, as he pulled on his gloves. Athos will be gathering information on the inside. We need to report back to the Captain. But first, he said, making a decision, We need a drink.

A drink! d’Artagnan said, coming to an abrupt halt and staring at them.

Porthos reached out and placed a heavy hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. This is now more than reconnaissance, he said. This is a mission.

Yes, to rescue Athos! d’Artagnan insisted, urgently.

And protect their Majesties. Porthos corrected. Those men are part of a network.

Athos said all that? d’Artagnan added, as they walked into the tavern.

You bet, Porthos said, looking around cautiously. He said, ‘Come the day.’ That’s our confirmation.

He said more, Aramis said, dropping Athos’s hat on the table and staring at it.

What?

That is the problem, Aramis replied. I don’t know.

Is the hat a signal? d’Artagnan asked, staring at it.

Porthos huffed; No, it’s just a hat.

d’Artagnan grinned sheepishly, but Aramis was frowning.

Hats mean business, Aramis said. "I believe he’s telling us he’ll fight his way out if necessary.

CHAPTER TWO

In the tavern Aramis dropped his head into his hands, his elbows on the table.

Their most flamboyant brother Musketeer, he expressed himself through his emotions. Aramis lived for soldiering, the Church and beautiful women, though the order wavered depending on circumstances.

Aramis, Porthos said, lowering his voice and grasping his friend’s arm to stop him tugging at his hair, an action he did when exasperated. That wasn’t our fault.

Aramis lifted his head and stared at him, his eyes betraying his frustration;

Of course it was! he hissed. How could we let ourselves be overwhelmed like that!

Porthos looked around; the tavern was getting busy. He kept hold of Aramis’s arm and pulled him closer. It happens, he said carefully, not wishing to provoke Aramis into an angry retort which would attract attention. They were not familiar with this particular tavern and needed to be cautious. They could be being watched.

"What did just happen? d’Artagnan asked, raising his eyes to Porthos from the bench he had sunk down onto. Who’s Rochelle?" he asked again.

Keep your voice down, Aramis cautioned tersely, as Porthos ordered wine from the young pock-marked girl who had appeared at their table.

The tavern was unremarkable, merely a tap room with a wooden counter at one end, supported on three barrels. It smelled of ale and sweat, the walls stained by smoke from the clay pipes of the patrons and from the open fire burning in the hearth. Porthos watched the girl weave her way back to the bar through the tables crammed haphazardly in the room and past the one grimy window.

I don’t understand, d’Artagnan said, as he held onto his temper. Why didn’t we fight?

Aramis looked at Porthos, who shrugged, leaving it to him to explain. It was Aramis who had challenged the men and he who had subsequently escaped the musket ball by a couple of inches.

Because, Aramis conceded, glaring at Porthos, We were outnumbered. And because Athos did not want us to.

He gave us the codewords, Porthos said quietly, as his eyes roamed around the room.

What codewords? I didn’t hear anything, d’Artagnan said, looking confused.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged another look, before Aramis sat back with a sigh.

You’ve not been with us long enough to witness it in action. It is a sentence we use when one of us is seeking intelligence that we otherwise are struggling to obtain.

D’Artagnan leant forward now and looking intently at them. These men were still an enigma to him. He knew they weren’t sharing everything with him but what they were sharing was welcomed, if a little disconcerting. What, so you’ve done this before?

A number of times, Aramis replied. It’s sometimes easier to gather information from within the groups we seek.

The barmaid returned with their order, dropping the bottle and three cups on the table, before quickly taking her leave, aware by their manner that they were not in the mood for conversation.

So you just, offer yourselves up? d’Artagnan said, in astonishment, once the girl was out of earshot.

Well, we try not to, Porthos grunted, as he poured the wine. But in this case, they wanted one of us as a hostage and Athos got in first. We usually draw straws.

d’Artagnan thought for a few moments in silence, staring at the table.

So, he eventually asked, "What are the code words? Just so I know in future?"

"Come the day," Aramis replied, quietly.

So, Athos went with them so he can find out who they are and what they are planning? d’Artagnan stated. If he lives.

They won’t want to kill a Musketeer, Porthos replied, taking a mouthful of wine as his eyes continued to roam around the room, his ears alert to any nearby gossip. Too much attention. They need him. They’re plannin’ something.

I agree, Aramis said. They could have killed us where we stood. We were useful to them. At least, one of us was. Which must mean they are planning something against the Monarchy, Aramis added, wearily as he rubbed his forehead;

They want to keep us at arm’s length and what better way than to take one of us hostage? We don’t know how dangerous they are. This is all speculation at the moment, based on some activity that Richelieu’s spies uncovered. Again, hearsay. We don’t even know they were anything to do with the man we seek.

Well, that’s good to know, d’Artagnan muttered, taking his first drink. Though they did say they’d send Athos back in pieces if ...

It could be an idle threat, Aramis interrupted, though he did not seem convinced. He and Porthos both knew how attached the young man had become to Athos, his mentor.

You both seem to be taking this remarkably calmly! d’Artagnan, hissed, his temper finally fraying.

They don’t know Athos, Aramis huffed out a smile.

I got the feelin’ Athos had made a connection back there, Porthos said. But he didn’t ‘ave time to tell us what.

They fell into an uncomfortable silence, all three ruminating on what had happened.

d’Artagnan rubbed at his forehead.

I don’t know you at all, do I? he muttered.

Porthos clapped him on the back;

You will, he said warmly. You’ll soon be speakin’ our language.

So, d’Artagnan said, raising his head to glare at them, his fingers now rubbing at the table. For the third time. Who’s Rochelle?

Aramis looked at Porthos, but neither replied.

We need to report back, Aramis replied, suddenly, making to rise.

d’Artagnan though, was not moving. Aramis looked at Porthos and after a few moments, they seemed to reach an unspoken agreement. Porthos nodded. Aramis sat back down and looked around the room, before leaning in toward d’Artagnan.

Rochelle is our codename for a spy we once knew, Aramis began. In view of the recent incidents, Athos and I met him a few days ago when the recent trouble started and at that time, we arranged a second meeting. Athos is telling us to go ahead with the meeting, without him."

Do you not think it is suspicious then that we were targetted after you met with him? d’Artagnan asked, looking from one to the other.

Porthos pursed his lips. Lad has a point, he shrugged.

How long have you known this man? d’Artagnan asked, keeping his voice low.

Since the Siege of La Rochelle in ‘27. He was a Royalist spy, Aramis explained. And a good one, he added, looking to Porthos for confirmation. Porthos nodded in agreement and picked up his ale, indicating for Aramis to continue.

He had worked along the whole of the north coast during the Huguenot uprisings and as such, he was able to come and go in the city, Aramis continued. We had word a year or two ago that he had settled in Paris. Perhaps he is from around here, we don’t know. We knew him by one name, Simeon. We never found out his full name. But he did bring us intelligence back then, prior to and during the Siege. If we want any information about that time, he is the one to ask.

So you trust him? d’Artagnan persisted, looking from one to the other.

Enough to have another meetin’ Porthos replied, quietly.

And he and Athos had an acquaintance of sorts, Aramis added. During the Siege, Athos was his link back to Cardinal Richelieu, who employed Simeon as part of his spy network. All I can say is, back then, yes, we trusted him.

And all I can say is, d’Artagnan said, bitterly, I hope you are right.

Some men moved behind them to another table. They ordered food and began to talk loudly about something inconsequential, but it was time to go. Porthos tilted his head toward the door and they all rose.

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

The Office of Monsieur de Treville, Musketeer Headquarters on Rue de Vieux-Columbier:

There have been some attacks in recent days, Jean Treville said brusquely, as soon as Athos walked into his office, followed by Aramis, and Porthos with d’Artagnan bringing up the rear.

Treville, an ex soldier of many years standing and the Captain and Commander of the Musketeers, was standing behind his desk scanning a sheaf of papers. He had called his men to his office on the first floor landing after morning muster and prior to breakfast, much to Porthos’s disgruntlement. They had climbed the stairs in order of seniority as they always did and now stood in line before his desk.

Nothing major, just fire damage and a few beatings, he added with a frown, before passing Athos the papers. But worrisome.

Any witnesses? Porthos asked from his place in the line-up, both hands tucked in his belt.

No-one who wanted to speak, no, Treville replied gruffly.

Are there any connections that can be made? Athos said, looking up, before passing the papers to Aramis, who stood on his right.

Not really, Treville sighed, taking his seat and reaching behind him for a roll of thick parchment from one of his shelves.

Aramis scanned the papers. A meeting room and a school, he said, softly.

Where? Athos asked Treville, as Aramis passed the papers on to Porthos who, in turn, studied them closely.

Treville unrolled the paper he had retrieved and laid a map on the table as they all crowded around.

Here, he said, pointing at the first location, before moving on to the next; And here.

Mainly around rue Saint-Honore, Athos stated, before looking up.

And here, Treville, added curtly, pointing once more.

A chapel. They are all Catholic, Aramis mused. The school used to be a seminary and the meeting room was used by the novitiate priests from the seminary.

Treville huffed. Why didn’t Richelieu make that connection? he muttered. He is aware of his spies turning up this activity.

Perhaps because apart from the chapel, the other establishments have fallen into disuse? Aramis offered.

Have they? Treville said, looking up. Are we sure of that?

I believe the Cardinal had a hand in relocating them to make way for his building projects. Perhaps we need to check that, Aramis conceded.

Do so, Treville said, curtly. "At the moment, it is only we who are taking this threat seriously."

What damage was done to the chapel? d’Artagnan asked.

The destruction of several icons and damaged door.

And the rest? Athos asked.

The people who were using the seminary were beaten and the meeting room had some internal damage to a door and window.

If it is a Catholic connection, whoever did this may not know these two buildings are no longer used by Catholics, Athos considered.

Someone flexin’ their muscles? Porthos replied.

Or, perhaps someone who has been away? Aramis ventured.

Perhaps, Treville said. Let us hope it comes to nothing.

Two days later though, there was more. Posters had been nailed to some establishments, warning people to forgo their idolatry or suffer the consequences. Treville had been handed one that morning and now he stomped down his stairs from his office and dropped one onto the table where his four men were breaking their fast.

That’s brave, Porthos grunted, as he scanned it.

In a Catholic country, I tend to agree, Aramis frowned.

This needs nipping in the bud, Gentlemen, Treville said. The days of the Religious Wars are over and were hard won. At the moment, The King is merely exasperated by this nonsense, but if this goes on, he will want a public show of force and arrests made. I can imagine Richelieu will compound his disquiet if this continues.

And then, when they were beginning to think it may be an idle threat that would be short-lived, the pictures began. Images of a wild animal, tacked onto buildings, promising worse to come.

Clear incitement, Gentlemen, Treville said curtly, as he spoke in quiet tones. This has gone too far.

This is how it started last time, Porthos said, ominously. "Slow at first and then, organised rebellions.

CHAPTER THREE

Aramis was tasked with investigating the initial incident in the small chapel.

A priest was sweeping the floor as he entered. Crossing himself, Aramis made his way toward him. At the sound of Aramis’s boots on the flagstone floor, the priest looked up and took a step back, his sweeping forgotten.

Forgive me, Aramis said, raising his hands. I am Aramis, of the King’s Musketeers. I believe you had an incident a few days ago? May I ask you a few questions?

The priest put his broom aside and wearily waved Aramis to a nearby pew.

Of course. There is damage to the door, the man said, And what you see before you.

He nodded toward a long cupboard set against the stone wall. Arrayed on the top were two small statues  of the Virgin Mary; one small, the other a little larger and both in pieces. An ancient triptych of the Holy Birth was laid flat next to the broken statues, one of the panels torn from its hinges. The image looked somewhat dulled and cracked through time, though the gold paint still shone through.

The altarpiece, the man sighed. Though it can be repaired, he added, stoically. As can the door.

He was a thin man, with what Aramis could only describe as sad eyes, though that may be on account of the priest’s current circumstances, he conceded.

Do you have any idea who would do this? Aramis asked, as he stood to examine the damaged pieces. The priest rose and followed him.

There is also damage along the street, the priest shrugged. Ruffians? Drunks? Who can say? he murmured, crossing himself and taking a cloth from the cupboard. He threw it gently over the damaged pieces and turned to face Aramis;

The Huguenots have had their day, he said quietly. At least in France, he added. But there will always be an undercurrent of tension. They believe they follow the right path.

You think this is the work of Huguenots? Aramis pressed.

The priest looked around the chapel before looking back at Aramis and sighing heavily.

Huguenots. Heretics. It is all the same. So many souls lost in pointless wars, he added, tempering his tone slightly and dropping his gaze to the floor.

On both sides, Aramis reminded him. People fear the loss of what they are familiar with, he added, aware he was walking a fine line with this man.

The priest looked up sharply, observing Aramis carefully but apparently seeing no criticism. He waved a thin hand over the cloth; The loss of our icons, our art, our practises, he said. Catholics will not allow it.

Aramis could see he would not get far with this man, who had no doubt given his life to the Catholic faith after all.

Did you, or anyone, see anything?

They came in the night, the priest said, bitterly. Like wild animals.

The priest then lapsed into silence, which Aramis respected. After a few moments, he stepped away;

If you have any more information, you know where we are, he said, gently.

"You need