And So It Begins Musketeers Pre Season 1

Chapter One

The rider sat astride his horse, weariness emanating from his very being. The early winter chill had seeped into his bones; his limbs felt heavy and his head hung on his chest, as if it were too difficult for him to look upward. How long had he been riding? He no longer remembered, and he no longer cared. He had left, that was all that mattered.

The black stallion tossed his head and snorted, alerting his master who, for all intents and purposes, appeared to have fallen sleep. The man sat up straighter and glanced around, as though surprised to find himself riding his horse through frigid woodland; in his mind, he was somewhere else. He was somewhere warm, full of light and love, laughter and joy. Then the darkness crowded in. Blood and tears – so much blood and, oh, so many tears.

The breath from both horse and rider billowed in the crisp air, a stillness surrounding them both. There was not a sound from the forest, other than a steady drip, drip, drip from the damp canopy above – rotting leaves, the remains of a damp and grey autumn. It seemed that everything around him had turned grey, and he hadn't even noticed. Once again, the horse stamped his foot and snorted. The man leaned forward and stroked the stallion's mane as he spoke quietly in his ear.

'I know, it's time you had some food and warmth. I have been remiss in my care.' With that, he spurred his horse onward and cantered further into the gloom, toward the grey light ahead filtering through the black trees. Not exactly welcoming, but at least it was lighter.

As horse and rider broke through the tree line, they pulled up, the view in the distance revealing their destination – Paris. However, destination implied intent, and the rider had no particular intent at all; perhaps it had been his fine horse that had made the decision for his master. Perhaps the animal was tired of meandering from tavern to tavern, from one ramshackle village to another, just so his master could vent his frustration through drink and violence. Not that violence had ever been the man's goal, he had simply sought anonymity and isolation.

It appeared, though, that violence managed to find him, or perhaps it was the type of establishment he patronised. There his upbringing and his self-loathing parted company. He was more than happy to drink himself insensible, but apparently, he could not sit by and watch others reap a reward they had not deserved. He had not even tried to keep count of the number of unfortunate travellers or serving wenches whose lives or honour he had conserved. He hadn't really cared. The blood was simply wiped from his sword, coin left to pay for his fare, and then he would leave to find the next bleak village. As long as nobody knew him, as long as nobody tried to converse with him, he was fine...

Horse and rider headed toward the city. Urged to a gallop, the stallion lifted his head. As the mass of humanity loomed toward them, the sound of hooves upon the frozen ground was the only noise to be heard, other than the thumping of a rising heartbeat which emanated from the man. Surely it would be easier to be lost in a crowd, at least here his horse could be comfortable; he could manage that at least.

The big man yawned and sat heavily upon the bench in the garrison courtyard. Legs astride the bench, the jollity on his face seemed at odds with the pounding he had been handing out to his comrades. He had spent the last hour throwing raw recruits from hay bale to stony floor, only to pull them to their feet, dust them down and, with an apologetic smile, begin all over again. It was only a shout from the smiling man, amused by the spectacle, that pulled him up short, just long enough for his victims to scurry away in seek of sustenance or bandages, whichever was needed most.

'Were you really enjoying that?' queried the spectator, as he lovingly cleaned his pistol.

'Nah, not really,' replied the smiling giant. 'To be honest, the novelty wore off afta the first one.'