I would never have believed that jumping from an upstairs window after being beaten half to death would have resulted in the best outcome. But it did.
I landed in a side alley and badly wrenched my ankle, which made me scream even as the monster from which I sought escape started yelling at me to get back into the house. Instead of listening to him I limped as fast as I could to the alley entrance, hoping to lose myself in the throngs of people. As I got to the street, the yells of my master echoing with promised violence, I was knocked down by two men and landed upon my ravaged back. My cry stopped them both in their tracks and the smaller of the two – the one with the pretty eyes and easy charm – rushed to help me up, giving what I could only guess were flowery apologies. However, whatever had got me back on my feet after my fall was drained away and I could not stand unsupported. His arm across my back almost had me weeping, but I was beyond both pain and fear.
My master had made the front step by now and was speaking rapidly in a language I did not understand, arguing with the taller man. Both were angry, but where my tormentor was shrill and loud, the other man's voice got quiet and low and more than a little menacing. I pressed against my supporter's side when I was pointed at and he shushed me, putting a hand on my arm and quelling my fears. He asked me a question but I didn't understand, so I shook my head. He tried again, and this time I caught a word I almost knew: "hurt". I nodded and replied in the language I had tried to learn in the few weeks I had been held on the boat. "Beaten" I replied, and he lifted his arm from my back to move my hair and inspect my skin. I already knew it was bad this time – I could feel the remnants of my tattered shirt stuck with my own blood. I heard him hiss softly before taking a firmer grip on my waist even as I became light-headed. Just before I passed out, I saw the tall man flick a small brassy coin at the still-arguing devil on the top step. Then all went black.
Aramis caught the young woman as she sagged in his arm. "Porthos", he called "some help would be nice". The dark man turned, anger still evident upon his face, and caught her up into his arms. "Be careful of her back, my friend. I'll have to stitch her. She's been freshly beaten and it looks like that excuse for a human being didn't spare the whip." Porthos' face paled with rage and he made as if to turn back to where the weasely little coward had slammed the door. "Later, Porthos. First we must take care of her. Your rooms are nearest, we'll take her there and then decide what we shall do."
It was pain that woke me; sharp and dragging, a slight tugging on my back flesh. I tried to move away but my arms and legs were made of lead. A hard and callused hand was laid on my shoulder to hold me still as the stabbing pain continued, and I managed to open my eyes.
I was laid on my stomach on a rough wooden table which smelt freshly scrubbed. The small part of the room which I could see was more functional than the rooms I had escaped. Instinct screamed at me to move, to get away from the pain but recent experience had taught me to stay still and get it over with faster. Tears ran from my eyes as my back burned and still I refused to make a sound. I heard the light voice of Pretty Eyes followed by the deeper rumble of the tall man. The man who now came into view and sat beside me, taking my hand in his large one and not even flinching when I dug my broken fingernails into the back of it as a particularly hard tug at my flesh caused a flash of agony to run through my body. He reached out slowly and gently ran the back of his fingers down my cheek just before I passed out again.
She takes her stitches better than you, Porthos." Aramis joked as he bent over his work. The other looked up from where he sat, and scowled.
"It's a classic slave reaction, Aramis: don't give the one hurting you reason to do it again, and harder." At the younger man's raised eyebrow, Porthos pointed to her ankles, visible below the ragged skirt. The fresh shackle scabs were almost black against her dark skin. "Not long off the boat, either. I'd say within the last two weeks."
"I'll wrap them to keep out infection, but she should stay off her feet as much as possible until those are more healed", the suave young man said. "Of course, I would not recommend she do much walking around anyway, seeing as she has no shoes and her clothing is shortly for the fire". The alarm was evident on Porthos' face at the realisation that he would be playing host to a grievously wounded, unconscious and above all soon-to-be-naked woman in his small apartments. Aramis gave him a grin. "I'll ensure that she is comfortable and you go and beg D'Artagnan's ladlady for her time and something suitable to wear. She is both adaptive and discrete – I doubt she would gossip about this matter". As Porthos left to fetch Mme Bonacieux, Aramis gathered the too-light form of the young woman into his arms.
I awoke once more, this time in a bed with soft pillows, proper sheets and a decidedly masculine scent. Not an unpleasant way to wake, but not my place to enjoy either. I slowly pushed myself to my knees and as the sheet fell away I realised that I was entirely naked. I wrapped the blanket from the end of the bed around myself, wincing as it hit my back, before looking around properly.
The bedchamber was as sparse and functional as the room I had been sewn in. Upon a wooden chair beside the fireplace were some clothes – the shirt in particular was of interest to me in my current state, so I slowly stood and crept to it, painfully pulling it on as my movements caused my stitches to tug. It hung to my knees and was thankfully soft and light against my skin. There was also a pair of black trousers but they were far too long for me and would never have stayed up on my emaciated frame.
I heard a door bang open and the deep rumbling voice of my tall rescuer followed shortly by the light tone of a woman. I panicked – surely I should not be in a man's bedchamber. I grabbed the blanket and wrapped it once more around my shoulders before scrambling to hide in the only place I could see.
Constance Bonacieux swept up the stairs as Aramis directed her to Porthos' bedroom. She glared at the man until he realised that he was intended to wait with Porthos, who had thrown himself into a chair after pulling a bottle of wine and two glasses from a cupboard; he poured them both and downed his in one gulp before re-filling it. "Slow down, my friend. It is barely mid-afternoon and if you carry on at this pace you will be good for nothing but snoring by dinner".
"My mother had scarring like that over her back. I don't remember much about her, but that's burned into my memory. If I let myself think about what that poor girl's been through… You'd probably be arresting me for the murder of that squeaky little shit we saved her from."
"If you think you've rescued anyone, your celebration drinks are a little premature, M. Porthos. There's no-one up here" came Constance's voice from the top of the stairs. Aramis stared at Porthos in surprise.
"She didn't get past me – I swear I was down here the whole time and I would have noticed if a naked woman had tried to leave." A moment more of looking at each other and they both ran for the stairs and burst through the doorway to the bedchamber. Aramis ran to the window, opening it to look out into the street. "I can't see her, she must be long gone." Porthos pinched the bridge of his nose at his friend's stupidity.
"Or she has gone nowhere, Aramis. If she truly had escaped she would not have both shut and latched the window behind her," the dark man looked around. "My clean shirt is missing, so we can safely assume that she is at least wearing something, but she has awoken in pain and unfamiliar surroundings, so I would say that she is…here." Porthos lifted his bed away from the wall and extended his hand, encouraging the frightened woman hiding there to take it and helping her from the floor.
I should have known that I would be found – hiding had never worked before – and now I expected to be beaten again. So I was rather surprised when the tall man – dark-skinned (but not as dark as me), stern faced but with an encouragingly mirthful twinkle in his eye – carefully helped me up before sitting me back on the end of the bed he had so easily lifted. He gestured for the woman to come over and she appraised me with kindness before asking me a question. I looked at Pretty Eyes, now leaning against the fireplace, who spoke in the language that I almost understood, but this time it made no sense to me. He sighed and said something to the man who stood beside me; he glared back but before they could argue the woman chased them both out and sat beside me, taking my hand in hers. I couldn't help but smile at her kindness and no-nonsense attitude, which she returned. A few minutes later there was a knock at the door and the darker man returned carrying a bowl of hot water, which the woman took from him before pointing him out the room. I couldn't help but smile at his meek obedience.
She washed me clean of the filth and blood which crusted my skin, working with care over my wounds but scrubbing vigorously everywhere else. Three times she called for more water before she was satisfied, and that included once just for scrubbing through my hair with stinging soap. She dried me and sat me on the bed again whilst she decided on which clothes would fit me from the bundle she had brought with her. I picked up the shirt which she had stripped from me, but she shook her head and showed me where the dirt from my body had marked the white fabric in the mere minutes I had worn it. I must have looked rather crestfallen because she patted my hand and found a clean shirt for me from her own bundle which she helped me into. I refused the skirts she help out to me – I hated the stupid things because they hindered my movement and, quite honestly, I didn't know whether I would need to try and run again. She tutted, but found some trousers which were only slightly too big so she tucked in my shirt and wedged my feet and wrapped ankles into some high boots, pushing the excess length into them as well as that I did not trip. She took a comb to my wet hair and pulled and teased out all the tangles until it lay soft and springy against my neck; I felt almost normal again just for that. Then she nodded and took my hand, leading me downstairs.
"Whoever would have thought that beneath all that grime she was quite pretty?" Aramis remarked as the young woman was seated at the table with them. Constance poured her a glass of water, removed the bottle of wine from Porthos' reach and reminded them to feed themselves and their new friend before leaving to oversee her own home. Porthos reached for his money pouch but she waved it away, muttering that they would no doubt make it up to her by involving her in some mad plan in the near future. Aramis left to get some food, returning twenty minutes later with three bowls of thick beef stew to an awkward silence. He set them down on the table whilst Porthos found some bread, and the woman grew more and more uncomfortable. Aramis noticed her fidgeting and asked what was wrong. In reply she pointed at Porthos' money pouch. "You want coin?" he queried and she shook her head before pointing to herself, then at the small leather bag and back to herself. He and Porthos looked confused before realisation spread over the younger man's face and he burst out laughing.
"Care to share the joke with the rest of us?" Porthos grumbled as Aramis gasped for breath.
"Oh Porthos my old friend, we did not rescue this pretty young thing from that man," he chuckled. His companion looked at him uncomprehendingly with his stew-laden spoon halfway to his lips. "She thinks that she should have been setting the table and fetching the food because you bought her."
Shock was evident on Porthos' face as his spoon fell back into his bowl with a clattering splash. "I did not! I threw barely a denier at the man because he wouldn't shut up about how much she had cost him…" Aramis simply chuckled and started to eat his own late lunch, tapping the bowl in front of the girl when he realised that she still hadn't started to eat.
The stew smelt amazing and I could scarcely believe that I had a full bowl of it – plus bread – to myself. When Pretty Eyes tapped it and broke the spell I snatched up my spoon and ate it as quickly as possible, gulping down the hot meal and tearing into the bread, stuffing as much as I could into my mouth before they decided to take it away. The dark man – the one who had bought me – was watching me with a very strange look on his face, and I was about to ask Pretty Eyes what was wrong when my shrunken stomach gave an almighty lurch in rebellion of the sudden rich food. I should have known this was going to happen, I should have eaten slower and allowed myself to adjust to the first food in almost three days.
But hindsight is a wonderful thing, and I hadn't done any of that. Instead, I did what came naturally in these circumstances.
I threw up in the fireplace.