BBC Musketeers - The Greater Good
Chapter 4
Aramis was restless. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, wondering about his friends, trying not to worry for their safety. He knew the people of the village would welcome them - there were plenty of French citizens as well as Spanish and Dutch, but few were Musketeers and few were sworn enemies of Spain. He had no doubt they would keep a low profile, knowing they had been wise enough to remove their pauldrons and anything else that would identify them as King Louis’ personal guard before they arrived at the monastery. He knew his comrades were seasoned soldiers, but time and distance had made him uneasy and he longed to see them again, if only to know they were all right.
Unable to sleep, he had made his way to the stables, feeding and grooming the horses, trying not to notice the array of weapons attached to the harnesses hanging on the walls. The soldiers had kept their swords and pistols with them despite Fouquet’s protests, but they’d left behind muskets and daggers, unable to carry so much armament on their persons. As the sun peaked above the horizon, sending soft rays of light through the open doorway of the stable, Aramis became aware of the stirring of activity in the courtyard. Stepping out into the red dawn, he smiled as he recognized Aaron scurrying toward him. The lad looked around as if guilty of some crime, and Aramis shook his head, reminding himself to teach the young monk how to be a bit more inconspicuous in his cunning.
He waited in the doorway, carefully hidden from direct view of the monastery. He didn’t believe he was in any more danger than any of the other monks, but he’d learned the hard way never to underestimate an enemy. He’d made the mistake of underestimating Rochefort, and it had nearly been the end for them all.
“Brother Aaron,” he greeted warmly as the young novice hurried into the stable. “I assume you have word?”
Aaron smiled, nodding vigorously. “Your message was delivered,” he said. “Pietro was given a missive to return to you.” He dug a wrinkled parchment from his Cossack and handed it to Aramis, a proud glint shining in his eyes.
“Well done, my friend,” Aramis praised, accepting the note, holding it reverently in his hand. “Did Pietro speak to my friends?”
“He spoke to the one named Porthos.” Aaron grinned. “He said your description made him impossible to mistake.”
Aramis laughed. “Porthos is quite distinguishable,” he admitted fondly. “For more than his size alone.”
He took a quick glance toward the monastery and, deeming it safe, unfolded the parchment, holding it up to the emerging light.
It is good to hear from you, my brother. A day has not gone by that you are not missed. We understand the situation and have taken steps. I will remain in the village if you have need of me. Try not to do anything stupid. - P
Aramis chuckled. Porthos knew him far too well.
“Your friends will help?”
“Of course,” Aramis grinned. “They are my brothers. They would not abandon me even though I have made it quite difficult for them to keep me in line.”
“What are we going to do?”
Aramis folded the parchment and tucked it away into his belt. He wrapped his arm around Aaron’s shoulders and began to steer the young man back toward the monastery. “For now, we will wait. We will listen and gain all the information we can. My friends have gone for help and when they return, we must be prepared.”
“For what?” Aaron asked innocently, although the excitement of the unknown shone clearly in his voice.
“For anything and everything, my young friend. Let us see to our Spanish guests. I’m sure they would enjoy a hearty breakfast, don’t you think?”
~*~
The refectory was bustling with loud voices and the clanging of plates and bowls when Aramis and Aaron entered. It was a far cry from the normal quietness of the staid monks, who ate without raising their voices above a murmur on most occasions. Aramis found the vociferousness of the soldiers in contrast quite unsettling, having grown used to the tranquility and peacefulness with which the monks approached their day-to-day customs and responsibilities. Even the Musketeers at the garrison had been more subdued and refined than this lot, a fact Aramis was more than thankful for.
Fouquet was busy assigning tasks and motioned the new arrivals over, his face a mask of calm but his eyes flashing displeasure.
“Aaron, could you make sure the Lieutenant’s table has enough wine?”
When the young novice had moved to carry out the request, Fouquet latched on to Aramis’ arm and pulled the younger man into the far corner of the room. “You should not be here,” he chided. “We should not tempt fate.”
Aramis smiled. “Would it not be more suspicious for me to hide away?” At his mentor’s nod of acceptance, Aramis placed his hand on Fouquet’s arm and squeezed. “Do not worry. As far as they are concerned, I’m simply another monk at their service.”
A clang of metal on stone echoed through the chamber and all eyes moved to the main table where Guzman stood, glowering at Aaron. The young novice was staring at the floor where the pitcher of wine lay on its side, its contents spilling across the flagstones like blood.
“You imbecile!” Guzman exploded, kicking the pitcher and sending it clattering across the floor. He pointed to the small red stain on the front of his formerly immaculate uniform. “How dare you! You have ruined it! I will have you punished for your insolence!”
The Spanish officer raised his hand to strike and before Fouquet could intervene, Aramis stepped forward, catching Guzman’s arm, staying his swing.
“It was merely an accident, monsieur.”
“Unhand me you French dog!” Guzman yanked his arm from Aramis’ grip and the Musketeer stepped back, bowing his head deferentially.
“My apologies. I sought only to restore peace. I intended no disrespect.”
Guzman glared at him, but Aramis held his gaze, unflinching.
The man before him showed no sign of fear, and Guzman’s eyes narrowed, moving in so close they breathed the same air. Aramis did not yield.
“You are no monk,” Guzman accused.
The entire room hushed as the two men faced off. They stood chest-to-chest, shoulders rigid, fists clenched. Finally Aramis lowered his gaze and stepped back.
“I am but a weary soul seeking enlightenment in the house of God,” Aramis stepped in front of Aaron, picked up another pitcher from the table and poured the wine into the Lieutenant’s goblet. “I have not yet mastered the ways of peaceful existence, but I am striving to do so.”
Guzman chuckled, but his eyes still held suspicion. “I believe you have much work to do.” The tension continued to radiate from the man as he reclaimed his seat, leaning an arm on the table.
Aramis dipped his head in acknowledgement and backed away, aware of Guzman’s eyes tracking him as he moved back toward Fouquet.
“Simply another monk at their service?” Fouquet intoned, his brows arched.
Aramis tilted his head as he shrugged in response. “I was cautioned against stupidity,” he admitted. “Unfortunately, I have never been much good at doing what I was bade.”
“So you truly haven’t changed much since Seminary.”
Aramis handed the empty pitcher to the abbé. “Perhaps I would be more useful tending the horses.”
“Perhaps,” Fouquet didn’t bother to hide his sigh of relief. “Perhaps it is a task that can take quite some time.”
~*~
The stables were a wonderful place to listen to gossip. As soldiers moved in and out, saddling their mounts and talking among themselves, Aramis was able to glean quite a bit of information about the true intent of the troops’ visit to the monastery. They were merely a forward company, here to secure the fortress, awaiting the real soldiers who would lead an attack on French soil when and if the opportunity presented. It was apparent the soldiers either didn’t consider Aramis a threat - his cassock identifying him as nothing more than a peaceful man of God - or they didn’t realize he could speak Spanish. A few had given him the once over before returning to their duties, ignoring him and going about their business as if he wasn’t there.
If they presumed he could not understand their conversations, all the better. The more he learned about their strategy without drawing suspicion, the safer his friends - and his country - would be.
“Guzman is all talk,” one of the soldiers scoffed as he tightened the cinch on his saddle. “As soon as the rest of the army arrives, he will be nothing more than an errand boy for the real officers. As if they would allow him to actually command this post.”
His companion snorted a laugh. “From what I heard, he’s only an officer because his family paid for his commission. He’s never even seen a battle before let alone fought in one.”
The first soldier led his horse toward the doorway. “Let’s hope the other regiments arrive before the French get wind of our plans. If we are to establish a supply depot here, we will need to keep the roads to the bay open.”
So that was their plan. To bring the troops and supplies in through the Black Sea to ports near Brugges or perhaps even Antwerp in order to ready a force to attack France from the north. Having finally signed a treaty with England, Spain already had its formidable navy positioned off the coast, ready and waiting for the word to set sail for France. Without warning, Paris would be vulnerable, its walls breached, its people conquered.
Aramis could not let that happen. He knew his comrades had an inkling of the threat - Porthos’ message had indicated they were already taking steps to counter the troops’ presence - but they needed to know the specifics. If the ships carrying the Spanish forces arrived before they could mount a defense… he needed to warn his friends.
Since Porthos had remained behind, he assumed Athos had returned to Paris to gather reinforcements, but they had no idea of the scope of Spain’s campaign in the north. If they allowed the Spanish to establish their stronghold, it would be nearly impossible to hold them back. They would march on Paris and if caught unaware, the city would fall. He could not trust this kind of information to a missive, he would have to deliver it in person.
The idea of seeing Porthos again made him anxious. He knew the man had been upset and caught unaware by his abrupt departure and he wanted - needed - to explain his decision. He never wanted his friend to think he was not valued, and not taking a moment to assure him they would always be brothers no matter the distance or circumstances was something he’d regretted since his arrival. It had weighed heavy on his mind and in his heart. Perhaps that regret was part of what Fouquet could sense in him.
After all that had happened, would they still be able to trust in him? It was his mistakes, his failings that had nearly gotten them all killed. Rochefort may have been responsible for twisting everything to his advantage, but it was Aramis’ weakness that had given him the opportunity and means. He remembered Porthos’ reaction when he’d confessed to sleeping with the Queen. The big man had been quick to anger, but that heat had quickly cooled to comfort. He hadn’t hidden his disappointment, and that alone had shown Aramis how far he had strained their friendship. The time apart had not quelled the guilt that burned in his stomach. Perhaps his friend’s disappointment had not abated either.
Despite their conflicts, Aramis was confident Porthos would do what needed to be done - he was too good of a soldier not to notice the potential threat the Spanish army posed - but he couldn’t help but be apprehensive as to his reception. After everything that had happened, would Porthos still trust him enough to fight beside him? Would any of them?
It wasn’t Porthos’ character he was calling into question, it was his own judgment that had to be examined. Would Porthos find him unworthy of his continued loyalty? Aramis could hardly blame him if he did. His unfortunate acts had not only threatened the Queen, the Dauphin, the entire stability of France, but had forced a wedged between them, causing them to examine their own loyalties to those they had sworn to serve.
It would be quite easy to blame everything that had happened on Rochefort and his insane belief in the Queen’s affections, but Aramis had to admit to his own culpability in the whole royal mess. If he had stopped to consider the consequences that night in the convent…
But then, nothing had seemed to matter other than desperately trying to feel… something. That something had grown into love, and it was that love that had nearly destroyed them all. Perhaps his brothers had found it in their hearts to forgive him, but he would not make that assumption, knowing how difficult he had made these last few months for them all.
Shaking himself from his thoughts, he realized he was once again alone inside the stables. He quickly finished brushing the horses and replaced the tools in their proper places. He would find Aaron and have him send a message to Porthos asking him to meet. Where and when he had no idea - but he suspected his young friend could help with that.
~*~
“There are tunnels beneath the monastery?” It amused Aramis the young novice would know more about the old fortress than the older monks.
Aaron shrugged, embarrassed. “I did a lot of exploring when I first came here,” he admitted. “I was… lonely, and I found it difficult to sleep. Besides, the monastery is quite mysterious in the dark of night.”
“I can only imagine,” Aramis responded. “These tunnels, would they allow me access to the village?”
“It is a bit of a walk, but yes. The tunnel comes out on the bluff near the lake. It is about half an hour’s journey from there, perhaps more if you don’t know your way in the dark.”
Aramis nodded. “The moon should be full enough to guide me. Would Pietro be able to get a message to Porthos?”
“Of course,” Aaron agreed. “Would you like company?”
“I believe it would be safer for you to remain inside the monastery,” Aramis told him, his tone apologetic as Aaron’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. “Do not fret, my young friend. I have an assignment of the utmost importance for you.”
Aaron’s face lit up immediately. “Anything! What would you have me do?”
Aramis stepped closer and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It is imperative we discover where Guzman is storing his munitions. I witnessed them unloading some barrels of gunpowder earlier. There were some muskets in the stables but they have been moved. If we can find them, we can render them useless and make it that much easier for the French soldiers to remove the Spanish threat.”
Aaron nodded eagerly. “I understand. I will find where they are being kept and -“
“And you will do nothing but come to me with the location,” Aramis interrupted. “Promise me you will not try to handle this on your own.”
“I promise.” Aaron frowned. “What about Abbé Fouquet?”
“I’ll handled Fouquet, you just stay out of sight and listen. Do you understand?”
When Aaron nodded, Aramis thumped him once on the shoulder, satisfied. He hated to involve the young novice, but they were running out of time and he had no other option. “Good. Have Pietro make the arrangements. It’s time we took the situation into our own hands.”
Back to Chapter 3
Aramis was restless. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, wondering about his friends, trying not to worry for their safety. He knew the people of the village would welcome them - there were plenty of French citizens as well as Spanish and Dutch, but few were Musketeers and few were sworn enemies of Spain. He had no doubt they would keep a low profile, knowing they had been wise enough to remove their pauldrons and anything else that would identify them as King Louis’ personal guard before they arrived at the monastery. He knew his comrades were seasoned soldiers, but time and distance had made him uneasy and he longed to see them again, if only to know they were all right.
Unable to sleep, he had made his way to the stables, feeding and grooming the horses, trying not to notice the array of weapons attached to the harnesses hanging on the walls. The soldiers had kept their swords and pistols with them despite Fouquet’s protests, but they’d left behind muskets and daggers, unable to carry so much armament on their persons. As the sun peaked above the horizon, sending soft rays of light through the open doorway of the stable, Aramis became aware of the stirring of activity in the courtyard. Stepping out into the red dawn, he smiled as he recognized Aaron scurrying toward him. The lad looked around as if guilty of some crime, and Aramis shook his head, reminding himself to teach the young monk how to be a bit more inconspicuous in his cunning.
He waited in the doorway, carefully hidden from direct view of the monastery. He didn’t believe he was in any more danger than any of the other monks, but he’d learned the hard way never to underestimate an enemy. He’d made the mistake of underestimating Rochefort, and it had nearly been the end for them all.
“Brother Aaron,” he greeted warmly as the young novice hurried into the stable. “I assume you have word?”
Aaron smiled, nodding vigorously. “Your message was delivered,” he said. “Pietro was given a missive to return to you.” He dug a wrinkled parchment from his Cossack and handed it to Aramis, a proud glint shining in his eyes.
“Well done, my friend,” Aramis praised, accepting the note, holding it reverently in his hand. “Did Pietro speak to my friends?”
“He spoke to the one named Porthos.” Aaron grinned. “He said your description made him impossible to mistake.”
Aramis laughed. “Porthos is quite distinguishable,” he admitted fondly. “For more than his size alone.”
He took a quick glance toward the monastery and, deeming it safe, unfolded the parchment, holding it up to the emerging light.
It is good to hear from you, my brother. A day has not gone by that you are not missed. We understand the situation and have taken steps. I will remain in the village if you have need of me. Try not to do anything stupid. - P
Aramis chuckled. Porthos knew him far too well.
“Your friends will help?”
“Of course,” Aramis grinned. “They are my brothers. They would not abandon me even though I have made it quite difficult for them to keep me in line.”
“What are we going to do?”
Aramis folded the parchment and tucked it away into his belt. He wrapped his arm around Aaron’s shoulders and began to steer the young man back toward the monastery. “For now, we will wait. We will listen and gain all the information we can. My friends have gone for help and when they return, we must be prepared.”
“For what?” Aaron asked innocently, although the excitement of the unknown shone clearly in his voice.
“For anything and everything, my young friend. Let us see to our Spanish guests. I’m sure they would enjoy a hearty breakfast, don’t you think?”
~*~
The refectory was bustling with loud voices and the clanging of plates and bowls when Aramis and Aaron entered. It was a far cry from the normal quietness of the staid monks, who ate without raising their voices above a murmur on most occasions. Aramis found the vociferousness of the soldiers in contrast quite unsettling, having grown used to the tranquility and peacefulness with which the monks approached their day-to-day customs and responsibilities. Even the Musketeers at the garrison had been more subdued and refined than this lot, a fact Aramis was more than thankful for.
Fouquet was busy assigning tasks and motioned the new arrivals over, his face a mask of calm but his eyes flashing displeasure.
“Aaron, could you make sure the Lieutenant’s table has enough wine?”
When the young novice had moved to carry out the request, Fouquet latched on to Aramis’ arm and pulled the younger man into the far corner of the room. “You should not be here,” he chided. “We should not tempt fate.”
Aramis smiled. “Would it not be more suspicious for me to hide away?” At his mentor’s nod of acceptance, Aramis placed his hand on Fouquet’s arm and squeezed. “Do not worry. As far as they are concerned, I’m simply another monk at their service.”
A clang of metal on stone echoed through the chamber and all eyes moved to the main table where Guzman stood, glowering at Aaron. The young novice was staring at the floor where the pitcher of wine lay on its side, its contents spilling across the flagstones like blood.
“You imbecile!” Guzman exploded, kicking the pitcher and sending it clattering across the floor. He pointed to the small red stain on the front of his formerly immaculate uniform. “How dare you! You have ruined it! I will have you punished for your insolence!”
The Spanish officer raised his hand to strike and before Fouquet could intervene, Aramis stepped forward, catching Guzman’s arm, staying his swing.
“It was merely an accident, monsieur.”
“Unhand me you French dog!” Guzman yanked his arm from Aramis’ grip and the Musketeer stepped back, bowing his head deferentially.
“My apologies. I sought only to restore peace. I intended no disrespect.”
Guzman glared at him, but Aramis held his gaze, unflinching.
The man before him showed no sign of fear, and Guzman’s eyes narrowed, moving in so close they breathed the same air. Aramis did not yield.
“You are no monk,” Guzman accused.
The entire room hushed as the two men faced off. They stood chest-to-chest, shoulders rigid, fists clenched. Finally Aramis lowered his gaze and stepped back.
“I am but a weary soul seeking enlightenment in the house of God,” Aramis stepped in front of Aaron, picked up another pitcher from the table and poured the wine into the Lieutenant’s goblet. “I have not yet mastered the ways of peaceful existence, but I am striving to do so.”
Guzman chuckled, but his eyes still held suspicion. “I believe you have much work to do.” The tension continued to radiate from the man as he reclaimed his seat, leaning an arm on the table.
Aramis dipped his head in acknowledgement and backed away, aware of Guzman’s eyes tracking him as he moved back toward Fouquet.
“Simply another monk at their service?” Fouquet intoned, his brows arched.
Aramis tilted his head as he shrugged in response. “I was cautioned against stupidity,” he admitted. “Unfortunately, I have never been much good at doing what I was bade.”
“So you truly haven’t changed much since Seminary.”
Aramis handed the empty pitcher to the abbé. “Perhaps I would be more useful tending the horses.”
“Perhaps,” Fouquet didn’t bother to hide his sigh of relief. “Perhaps it is a task that can take quite some time.”
~*~
The stables were a wonderful place to listen to gossip. As soldiers moved in and out, saddling their mounts and talking among themselves, Aramis was able to glean quite a bit of information about the true intent of the troops’ visit to the monastery. They were merely a forward company, here to secure the fortress, awaiting the real soldiers who would lead an attack on French soil when and if the opportunity presented. It was apparent the soldiers either didn’t consider Aramis a threat - his cassock identifying him as nothing more than a peaceful man of God - or they didn’t realize he could speak Spanish. A few had given him the once over before returning to their duties, ignoring him and going about their business as if he wasn’t there.
If they presumed he could not understand their conversations, all the better. The more he learned about their strategy without drawing suspicion, the safer his friends - and his country - would be.
“Guzman is all talk,” one of the soldiers scoffed as he tightened the cinch on his saddle. “As soon as the rest of the army arrives, he will be nothing more than an errand boy for the real officers. As if they would allow him to actually command this post.”
His companion snorted a laugh. “From what I heard, he’s only an officer because his family paid for his commission. He’s never even seen a battle before let alone fought in one.”
The first soldier led his horse toward the doorway. “Let’s hope the other regiments arrive before the French get wind of our plans. If we are to establish a supply depot here, we will need to keep the roads to the bay open.”
So that was their plan. To bring the troops and supplies in through the Black Sea to ports near Brugges or perhaps even Antwerp in order to ready a force to attack France from the north. Having finally signed a treaty with England, Spain already had its formidable navy positioned off the coast, ready and waiting for the word to set sail for France. Without warning, Paris would be vulnerable, its walls breached, its people conquered.
Aramis could not let that happen. He knew his comrades had an inkling of the threat - Porthos’ message had indicated they were already taking steps to counter the troops’ presence - but they needed to know the specifics. If the ships carrying the Spanish forces arrived before they could mount a defense… he needed to warn his friends.
Since Porthos had remained behind, he assumed Athos had returned to Paris to gather reinforcements, but they had no idea of the scope of Spain’s campaign in the north. If they allowed the Spanish to establish their stronghold, it would be nearly impossible to hold them back. They would march on Paris and if caught unaware, the city would fall. He could not trust this kind of information to a missive, he would have to deliver it in person.
The idea of seeing Porthos again made him anxious. He knew the man had been upset and caught unaware by his abrupt departure and he wanted - needed - to explain his decision. He never wanted his friend to think he was not valued, and not taking a moment to assure him they would always be brothers no matter the distance or circumstances was something he’d regretted since his arrival. It had weighed heavy on his mind and in his heart. Perhaps that regret was part of what Fouquet could sense in him.
After all that had happened, would they still be able to trust in him? It was his mistakes, his failings that had nearly gotten them all killed. Rochefort may have been responsible for twisting everything to his advantage, but it was Aramis’ weakness that had given him the opportunity and means. He remembered Porthos’ reaction when he’d confessed to sleeping with the Queen. The big man had been quick to anger, but that heat had quickly cooled to comfort. He hadn’t hidden his disappointment, and that alone had shown Aramis how far he had strained their friendship. The time apart had not quelled the guilt that burned in his stomach. Perhaps his friend’s disappointment had not abated either.
Despite their conflicts, Aramis was confident Porthos would do what needed to be done - he was too good of a soldier not to notice the potential threat the Spanish army posed - but he couldn’t help but be apprehensive as to his reception. After everything that had happened, would Porthos still trust him enough to fight beside him? Would any of them?
It wasn’t Porthos’ character he was calling into question, it was his own judgment that had to be examined. Would Porthos find him unworthy of his continued loyalty? Aramis could hardly blame him if he did. His unfortunate acts had not only threatened the Queen, the Dauphin, the entire stability of France, but had forced a wedged between them, causing them to examine their own loyalties to those they had sworn to serve.
It would be quite easy to blame everything that had happened on Rochefort and his insane belief in the Queen’s affections, but Aramis had to admit to his own culpability in the whole royal mess. If he had stopped to consider the consequences that night in the convent…
But then, nothing had seemed to matter other than desperately trying to feel… something. That something had grown into love, and it was that love that had nearly destroyed them all. Perhaps his brothers had found it in their hearts to forgive him, but he would not make that assumption, knowing how difficult he had made these last few months for them all.
Shaking himself from his thoughts, he realized he was once again alone inside the stables. He quickly finished brushing the horses and replaced the tools in their proper places. He would find Aaron and have him send a message to Porthos asking him to meet. Where and when he had no idea - but he suspected his young friend could help with that.
~*~
“There are tunnels beneath the monastery?” It amused Aramis the young novice would know more about the old fortress than the older monks.
Aaron shrugged, embarrassed. “I did a lot of exploring when I first came here,” he admitted. “I was… lonely, and I found it difficult to sleep. Besides, the monastery is quite mysterious in the dark of night.”
“I can only imagine,” Aramis responded. “These tunnels, would they allow me access to the village?”
“It is a bit of a walk, but yes. The tunnel comes out on the bluff near the lake. It is about half an hour’s journey from there, perhaps more if you don’t know your way in the dark.”
Aramis nodded. “The moon should be full enough to guide me. Would Pietro be able to get a message to Porthos?”
“Of course,” Aaron agreed. “Would you like company?”
“I believe it would be safer for you to remain inside the monastery,” Aramis told him, his tone apologetic as Aaron’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. “Do not fret, my young friend. I have an assignment of the utmost importance for you.”
Aaron’s face lit up immediately. “Anything! What would you have me do?”
Aramis stepped closer and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It is imperative we discover where Guzman is storing his munitions. I witnessed them unloading some barrels of gunpowder earlier. There were some muskets in the stables but they have been moved. If we can find them, we can render them useless and make it that much easier for the French soldiers to remove the Spanish threat.”
Aaron nodded eagerly. “I understand. I will find where they are being kept and -“
“And you will do nothing but come to me with the location,” Aramis interrupted. “Promise me you will not try to handle this on your own.”
“I promise.” Aaron frowned. “What about Abbé Fouquet?”
“I’ll handled Fouquet, you just stay out of sight and listen. Do you understand?”
When Aaron nodded, Aramis thumped him once on the shoulder, satisfied. He hated to involve the young novice, but they were running out of time and he had no other option. “Good. Have Pietro make the arrangements. It’s time we took the situation into our own hands.”
Back to Chapter 3