Chapter 4
Life on the northern front is nothing like Athos had expected.
Daybreak, muster, what passes for breakfast, feeding the horses, sword training, weapons checks, something that looks like stew for lunch, more sword training, grooming the horses, checking the tack, a lumpy, unidentifiable bowl of dinner, changing of the watch, sleep for those who can manage it and then the sun comes up all too quickly and it begins again.
This is a typical day on the frontlines, in the snow-covered, barren fields and forests of northern France, where a war is supposedly being fought. It's more like ballroom dancing, Athos thinks, moving around each other gracefully, coming into brief contact with another participant, a light touch, maybe a stumble, some flirtation to be sure, a few steps forward and the always one back.
Athos is surely not anxious to see his regiment on the battlefield, where he knows that half will be slaughtered, but this game of cat and mouse that is keeping them here, cold, sick, undernourished and under-equipped will exhaust his men at some point, like the dancers of the cotillion who are quite breathless by the time the music ends, droplets of sweat on their flustered faces, hearts beating quickly as they wait in anticipation to see what the orchestra will choose to play next.
It's been some time since his injury but his movements are still stiff and there's an ache in his chest that he can no longer be sure is purely physical; watching boys and men die from insignificant wounds that quickly become infected and from common battlefield illnesses like dysentery is wearing Athos down much quicker than he had expected. He'd been a Musketeer for nearly eight years before leaving Paris for the front and he's certainly not old enough to call himself battle-weary but this waiting and dancing around each other, raiding each other's camps, killing and kidnapping patrols it not moving them any closer to victory and certainly not towards peace.
"Permission to enter sir!" Athos hears from the other side of the flimsy walls of his canvas tent and he rises stiffly from his chair.
"Permission granted," he replies, his tone sharp and steady, because that is what he must be if he has any chance of keeping these men alive.
Lacroix enters his tent and salutes, standing at attention until Athos will inform him otherwise. This young man has become a fine soldier, worthy of his commission and his status as coordinator of patrols, his horsemanship second only to that of young Henri, who is the son of a horse breeder, so his superiority in the saddle is to be expected. Lacroix however, no matter how good a soldier he might be, has one small problem, one that makes Athos truly ache for him, since his unrequited affection will never be reciprocated. But it can also be a liability so the Captain has had to employ creative manipulation to keep Lacroix as far away from the object of his devotion as possible, in order to ensure that lives are not lost by any impulsive or heroic gestures.
"At ease, lad. What's the news from our patrols, more Spanish playing hide-and-seek outside our perimeter or have they proven too delicate to venture out from their tents on this brutally cold morning?" Athos inquires.
Lacroix struggles not to smile. "I'm happy to report that there haven't been any sightings for the past twenty four hours. We shall see what today will bring, sir!" he replies formally.
Athos nods and puts one hand on his desk, leaning some of his weight on the scarred wooden surface, a gift from their wayward youngest, his entire body suddenly feeling heavy and exhausted. "And any news from Porthos? I'm expecting at least one of the scouts to be sent to report any progress to us, have any of them returned to camp?"
Lacroix's smile fades instantly and Athos knows he's hit his weak spot; if the young man doesn't learn to hide his feelings better, Athos will have no choice but to speak to him and that is not a conversation that he is looking forward to. "No sir, none of the scouts have returned and there is still no news regarding the whereabouts of Aramis and d'Artagnan," he answers stiffly but his voice breaks ever so slightly as he says the name of the regiment's youngest member.
Lacroix shifts nervously from one foot to the other and clears his throat. "Permission to speak freely sir?"
Athos stiffens. "Of course, Musketeers are always encouraged to be honest and forthcoming; you may speak your mind without any fear of censure, Lacroix."
Lacroix nods. "Sir, it's about the scouts…" he begins tentatively.
"What about them? I know they're not exactly well-liked, but has something come to your attention, lad? If so, you must tell me, hundreds of lives could be at risk."
"Yes of course, I am aware of that, but I've been raised to be a gentleman and gossiping and fear-mongering is something I am loath to participate in. But with our brothers missing, and two more possibly in danger, I thought it prudent to speak my mind now that I have something in particular to share," the young man explains carefully.
"Oh for the love of God, lad, just spit it out!" Athos tells him angrily. "Do you think that the scouts are in any way disloyal to the French army?"
Lacroix nods slowly. "Yes sir that is what I think. And not just me, many other men in our regiment have questioned their loyalty," he says finally, continuing to fidget anxiously.
"Does anyone have proof of this?" Athos demands, fear flooding his veins.
"No," the younger man admits, "nothing solid or tangible. However, Pierre overheard them discussing the risks they're taking, their fear for the safety of their families…" he explains apprehensively. "But one of them actually said, apparently jokingly, that it would be more worth the danger if they were being paid double, from both sides," the young man tells him cautiously.
"Which man was this? Could Pierre discern who'd been speaking? And how did the others react to this comment!" Athos asks, questions flooding his brain. Could there be a traitor in their midst? The thought leaves him breathless.
Lacroix shakes his head. "He couldn't be sure who made that statement, but he did say that Nicolas reacted quite angrily, he was quite sure of that, which leaves the other three as our possible culprits."
Athos lets out a long frustrated breath. "I want eight men sent after Porthos and Henri immediately, one of them should be Pierre, so that he can report to Porthos directly without the need to share this information with anyone else at this time. Tell the men to equip themselves thoroughly as they will remain with Porthos under his command on his mission to find our missing brothers, understood?"
"Permission to assign myself to this patrol, sir."
Athos feels his heart clench at the look on the young man's face. "Permission denied, lad, I need you here, by my side, you are one of the few people I can truly count on," he says honestly, but that's not his only reason for keeping him behind.
Lacroix baulks. "But sir, I'm the fastest rider in the regiment, aside from Henri, I can be useful and …"
"One more reason I need you here, in case I need to send you to the General. Now go, speak to Pierre, tell him I expect his complete discretion on this matter and make sure to reiterate the need for complete secrecy. No one aside from Porthos should know of this. Do you know if he's already shared this information with anyone else?"
"No, only me, sir, since he knows I have your ear," Lacroix replies, his manner having turned sullen, but Athos disregards it.
"Excellent. You have your orders, soldier, I am confident that you will choose the best men for the task. You're a good lad, Lacroix, and I'm grateful for your dedication and your abilities, you have the qualities to make a fine officer one day soon, I expect you won't do anything to spoil your chances, understood?"
There's a fleeting moment where Athos sees Lacroix's eyes widen a fraction, and Athos almost regrets what he's said, but this is the military and it's his duty to keep his men alive, their feelings must come second. Lacroix swiftly recovers, as a nobleman's son he is very good at keeping his composure, a trait that Athos himself has had instilled in him by his own noble family, possibly the only trait from his old life that Athos thinks is of any use to him.
"I understand fully, sir," Lacroix responds formally, and the double entendre of his reply does not go unnoticed by the wily captain.
"Good, I am happy to hear that. Now go, and hurry, I want the patrol outfitted and riding out within the hour. Have some of the others assist them with their gear and their horses, every minute that passes is a minute that Porthos and Henri could possibly be in danger," Athos tells him firmly.
"And Aramis and d'Artagnan," the young man adds softly and he salutes Athos and hurries out of the tent.
Yes, there's no mistaking the fact that the poor lad is smitten with d'Artagnan. It troubles Athos solely for the young man's well being and safety, his proclivities are none of his business, nor does it shock or offend him in any way, but he's confident that he's doing the right thing by keeping the two lads as far away from each other as possible.
Athos sighs and sinks back into his chair, Aramis and d'Artagnan's fate once more at the forefront of his thoughts. He's done his absolute best to keep his worry at bay, he holds the safety of dozens of men in his hands, any error in judgment or any special deference to his missing brothers in arms could cost lives and Athos considers himself a fair and honourable man, it simply would not be acceptable to be more concerned for the lives of the three men who have become so dear to him, than the lives of all the men in the regiment as a whole.
Head over heart, a motto he's done his best to instil in his men. Why then is he having such a hard time instilling it in himself?
There are moments when a man wonders how another, made up of the same flesh and blood components as every other human being in existence, can be so outrageously ruthless and cruel, so fundamentally different from the majority of the people that God has created, especially when they are taught that God created man in his own image.
These thoughts are running through d'Artagnan's head as he hangs from a wooden beam, wearing only his breeches and his boots, his wrists bound together and tied to a sturdy rope wrapped around the rotting wood. His feet barely touch the ground so most of his weight is hanging by his shredding wrists and his injured shoulder is once again out of its socket.
He wants to scream, and to his shame, weep, but he does neither, nor does he pray again, surely God has forsaken him, he thinks morbidly, but it pains him greatly to think so. Instead, he focuses on the bastard General, imagining all the ways that he can kill him, slowly, painfully and creatively, and through these thoughts he accepts that he is no better than the loathsome, heartless man himself, but d'Artagnan no longer cares.
Hauled barely conscious from his filthy pallet of straw he'd been stripped from the waist up and half-dragged, half carried from his cell to a large open storeroom just a few feet away. Miguel's pain draught had been particularly potent and it had still held d'Artagnan firmly in its grip in the early morning when he'd been shocked to awareness by loud, angry voices and rough hands but he'd been too groggy to resist, his body uncooperative and his brain processing everything as if he were underwater, slow and murky.
D'Artagnan has no idea how long he's been hanging there, he's lost all perception of time and space, the pain sometimes stealing his senses completely, other times it's the catalyst that forces him back into awareness. At some point he thinks he might have wet himself, he doesn't know and he honestly doesn't care, his dignity barely concerns him, nothing does aside from getting his revenge on the maggot who'd strung him up like a slaughtered animal, without the slightest inkling of remorse or shred of humanity.
He hears a door open, heavy and creaking, like the one on his cell and some soldiers appear, holding someone between them, and to his shock he sees it's Aramis. Terrified for his brother's safety and horrified that he might end up dangling beside him d'Artagnan futilely tires to kick one of the soldiers, all manner of foul curses tumbling hoarsely from his dry and cracked lips, and he's rewarded by a first to his face.
The blow effectively halts his angry diatribe and then Aramis cries out his name.
It come out like a wail, a horrible, wounded sound and he watches dazed, as his brother sinks to his knees, two soldiers kneeling beside him, keeping him from falling forward. Aramis is in shirtsleeves and breeches, no boots on his stockinged feet and even in the dim light of this cellar, d'Artagnan sees glazed eyes, pale skin streaked with tears and two distinctive red blotches on his cheeks, and he knows at once that Aramis must fevered.
"This, my dearest Senor Aramis, is what happens when you are uncooperative," the General tells Aramis, who is still being held up by the two silent soldiers, his body trembling, probably from the cold and from the fever.
"Have mercy on him, Senor, I beg of you," Aramis slurs, his words slipping and sliding into each other, his expression horrified, and d'Artagnan now sees what had provoked Aramis' outburst; the whip in the hateful man's right hand.
"You are in control of his fate, my dear young man, so if you would like mercy shown, do something to stop this," he says coldly.
It finally dawns on d'Artagnan exactly what is happening, what Miguel had been hiding from him; Aramis is being asked to provide information to keep d'Artagnan from being mistreated.
The weight of that knowledge is like a blow to his stomach. Aramis is obviously physically unwell but he doesn't appear mistreated. But mentally, he has probably been tortured far worse than anything that d'Artagnan has suffered. Aramis is the kindest and most caring man he knows, d'Artagnan feels utterly devastated that such a good person is facing such an unspeakable choice; the choice between betraying his regiment and his country and betraying d'Artagnan. The General, he recalls, had made some offhand comment about 'Aramis failing him' the night he'd flogged him, but it had barely registered; now he understands what he'd meant.
"Aramis, look at me," d'Artagnan says, the words like a harsh croak. "Don't despair, brother, one for all, Aramis, one for all," he repeats firmly, hoping that Aramis understands that d'Artagnan knew exactly what that motto meant before he'd even had the pauldron on his shoulder. One for all...his life for all the others...it's what would be expected of any of them under the same circumstances.
Aramis meets his gaze, eyes red and over bright and he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out and abruptly, his eyes roll back and he collapses limply, grabbed at the very last moment by the two men beside him.
"He's a man of God!" d'Artagnan cries hoarsely. "You're surely securing your place in hell with your treatment of him!"
The General doesn't reply but he instructs his men to return Aramis to his bed and have the physician tend to him immediately. This is all said in Spanish, but d'Artagnan knows enough to understand what is being said and he feels nearly lightheaded with relief.
Once Aramis has been taken away, the General turns to d'Artagnan, whip in hand.
"You truly are an insolent wretch, but a resilient one, still defiant and brazen. Let us see what five more lashes to that already bloodied back of yours does to your impudence."
Nothing could have prepared d'Artagnan for the pain, not even his previous experience with the lash, for this time the sleek leather slashes across the healing lacerations on his back, crisscrossing the already-torn skin, he can't help it, he cries out, one, breathless agonised cry punched from his throat and then not a sound.
Dignity in tatters, he is cut down, dragged back to his cell and thrown onto the cold stone floor. His clothes are a few feet away but d'Artagnan is too weak to crawl the short distance, so he remains there, chest flat against the frozen ground, breath coming is short gasps, the pain in his back and his abused arms unequal to anything he's ever experienced before.
The door does not open that day or that night. There is no Miguel, no clean water and bandages and no draught for the pain. A some point d'Artagnan had dragged himself those few feet to where his clothes had been discarded beside the pile of straw and he somehow managed to lay on top of his shirt and doublet but he lacks the strength to pull his cloak over his shivering body.
Aramis' fate is torturing his muddled brain. He'd appeared fevered and if his brother's wound is infected and not treated properly he will surely die in this God-forsaken hellhole. And if the General continues to torture him mentally, dangling d'Artagnan as the metaphoric carrot, bloody and beaten, Aramis will surely go mad from horror and guilt. They need to get out of there, neither of them will survive their respective treatment for much longer and their only hope, aside from Athos and Porthos miraculously finding them in time, is possibly Miguel. But with his shoulder once more out of place, his back shredded and on fire, his wrists a bloody mess, d'Artagnan knows that there's nothing that Miguel could do for them at the moment anyway, not with d'Artagnan himself barely able to crawl, and Aramis possibly delirious with fever.
The hours pass slowly and torturously, with d'Artagnan fading in and out of consciousness, his arms numb, his shoulder throbbing and his back an inferno. He'd give anything to be in the same cell with Aramis, he thinks despondently, even if the older man could do nothing to treat his wounds, just his presence would have been enough to soothe his agony, if only just a little. Aramis, with his faith and his kind soul, makes a man feel like they can survive even the worst pain, even if they are beyond all worldly help.
To his shame, d'Artagnan feels one tear fall, then another, more from the heartache and the loneliness than the pain. If he is to die in this place, he would prefer not to be on his own, to be able to feel the comfort of Aramis' soothing touch and listen to his familiar voice whisper words of solace would make his passing all the more bearable. If his wounds become infected and the torture takes his battered body to the point of no return, he will implore Miguel to bring Aramis to him, the Spaniard has proved to be a good and honourable man, and d'Artagnan will beg him to bring Aramis for the last rites; not that he cares about that anymore, he no longer believes that he is in God's good graces, he simply would like to die in the comfort of his brother's strong arms.
Porthos du Vallon is the kind of man who doesn't pass up the chance to be a bit smug when the occasion calls for it. He's not often wrong, because he's learned the hard way not to be impulsive, but when he is, he admits it with grace…unless the Red Guard are involved, they have no honour, so why bother?
When he's right though, he can be the most arrogant and smug bastard – his words, no one else would dare impugn his heritage - you'd ever chance to meet. Whether it's his trademark grin and hearty laugh or his plain spoken 'I told you so' Porthos usually takes the opportunity to revel in his righteousness.
Today, however, is not one of those occasions. There's no smug retort or witty banter, just his smouldering anger that he'd been right when they'd found the old mill empty, with absolutely no sign that anyone had been in or around it in months.
Denis had managed to persuade the scouts that the old mill must be checked first; it was closest to their temporary camp and he'd made a big fuss over the weather turning on them and the other men, afraid to be caught in a freak blizzard had also insisted they try the mill first and use it as a shelter if they'd find it empty.
Porthos' feelings of uneasiness have morphed into full-blown mistrust. The four men had been instructed by Athos to follow Porthos' lead and not the other way around and they'd blatantly disregarded Athos' directive. No snow came, not even one drop of rain and they are camped within the small courtyard of the mill, tired, cold and no closer to finding their missing brothers.
Henri has gone from wary to frightened, something that Porthos had not expected from the usually dependable and steady young man. Most of that fear though, Porthos, knows is for Aramis and d'Artagnan, who's fate could very well be resting solely in the hands of these masked men who they've put their trust in. Porthos is considering sending Henri back to camp with a message for Athos, expressing his concerns. One of them was supposed to report in either way within the next twenty four hours, Porthos will weigh his options and make a decision first thing in the morning. If things go sour, he knows he can handle himself, with or without the young man at his side, and he's leaning towards sending Henri to bring more men from their camp in order to widen the search.
At the moment, the young Musketeer is sleeping and Porthos, bundled up in his cloak, is sitting on his bedroll, his mind going over all the details of the past two days, trying to recall anything that might positively confirm his suspicions. It is entirely possible that Porthos is overreacting; these men know this area like they know their own faces, so maybe Denis truly did think the mill was the most likely place to hide, but on the other hand, Porthos' gut feelings and instincts are rarely wrong. If it's proven that one or more of the scouts are working against them, Porthos will deal with them personally and if any further treachery on their part will have caused a delay in finding Aramis and d'Artagnan, Porthos will show the guilty party or parties no mercy.
Unfortunately this isn't Porthos' only concern. From the very first minute Porthos' biggest fear was Aramis and d'Artagnan being recognised and that their role in the duel that had killed the Spanish captain this past November would worsen their treatment as prisoners of war. Aramis had been the catalyst, d'Aragnan's the hand that had ended the bastard's life, he hadn't said a word of this to Athos but their captain was no fool, Athos is the most intelligent and educated man amoung them, very little, if anything, gets past him, and Porthos is sure that this is just one more burden on the very heavy load that their brother carries.
There are moments, like this, that Porthos wonders why he remains a soldier. The closest he'd come to renouncing this life had been when he'd met the lovely and kind Alice, a woman he knows could have made him very happy. She'd seen past his mixed race and lack of status and had seen Porthos for who he is and what he's achieved, but although she'd been truly taken with him as a man and as a possible companion, the fact that he was a soldier had been the one thing she couldn't bear. The violence had shocked her, the fact that she might lose him in battle unthinkable and it had ended before it had really begun. In those moments, when he'd held her in his arms, dozing peacefully on his shoulder in her warm and comfortable bed, Porthos had imagined that he could get used to this; domestication, monogamy, quiet contentment. But not as a kept man, of course, so he'd never be able to give up his commission, earning his own way was imperative and sadly that was the one thing that Alice would not compromise on.
Later, when they'd ridden off to war, he'd realised that even if he had decided to give up his commission, he would never have been able to stay behind, not while Athos and d'Artagnan were being sent to the front, the idea of the two of them going to war without him would have been inconceivable. It was enough that they'd been temporarily abandoned by Aramis; Porthos could not have watched his brothers ride off alone to face the enemy, for so many reasons, more reasons than he could even list, but the biggest being that he was a soldier at heart and he would be till the day he died.
Heart heavy, Porthos waits patiently for the sun to rise, and he hopes that this new day will be the one when they find their missing brothers, alive and well.
In the next part; we find out all is not as it seems with Aramis, Miguel admits to making a grave error in judgement, the metaphoric 'cavalry' is on their way to assist Porthos and Henri and Athos is afraid for the entire regiment and the army in general if there truly are spies working against them.