It was just dark as they reached the monastery's doors. The brothers' chanting could be heard from the courtyard. Aramis crossed himself as he entered the threshold.

"We are sorry to disturb you Father," said Athos to the priest who greeted them. "We are members of the King's Musketeers. We are searching for a brother-in-arms who was attacked in the woods not far from here while in service to the King. His companion, another one of our brothers, was lost in that altercation," he said gesturing to Michel's body that was strapped to Aramis' horse.

"I am sorry for your loss," said the priest gravely. "Your brother found us yesterday morning. He was gravely wounded – barely conscious and slumped in his saddle next to his horse's neck. He nearly fell from it when we approached him. His wounds were grievous. We've been tending him but…"

"Please, father, may I see him," asked Aramis interrupting.

The old man nodded, ignoring the interruption at the look of despair on Aramis' face. Aramis raced off, flying at the hem of another monk's robes.

"We can lay your brother to rest here in the morning," the priest said.

"Thank you, Father…?" Athos asked.

"Father Ambrose," he replied.

"Father Ambrose," said D'Artagnan, "there are two men in a clearing not far from here. They were two of the men that attacked our brothers…"

"They too will be laid to rest," he said. "Whatever their battles were on earth, are now over. Their judgement is now in God's hands. Come. You look weary from your travels. I will take you to see your brother, then I will have food sent to you. I should warn you though, your brother has not awoken since he came to us. He may not be able to provide you with the answers you're looking for."

Porthos handed Michel's body to two monks who approached him with a stretcher. D'Artagnan helped a third guide the horses to a stable, grabbing Aramis' medical bag, just in case, before the father led the men to the infirmary where they found Aramis arguing with a grizzled older monk.

"Leeches!" the musketeer medic shouted.

"It is God's will – " the monk began, his voice raised.

"It is God's will to heal not hinder!" Aramis shouted back.

"Aramis!" called Athos startling the marksman.

It was rare to see Aramis lashing out at a religious man. Aramis was incredibly spiritual and his faith in God had been his source of comfort – and a comfort to his brothers, though they'd never admit it – through many dire misadventures. To see him red faced and glaring at a monk seemed quite absurd to the men who knew him best.

"This man wants to bleed him, Athos! With leeches!" Aramis hissed at Athos whose raised his eyebrows at the implication of what that word meant. He put his hand on the marksman and looked him in the eye in a silent assertion that he understood.

"Father Ambrose," said Athos, turning to the man who escorted them in. "Aramis is our medic. He has much experience in herbal craft and the treatment of battle wounds, something I'm sure you and your brothers do not see much of here. Perhaps you will allow Aramis to take over Girard's treatment…"

The priest nodded. "We are a scholarly brotherhood, yet not so experienced in practice. I'm sure Brother Jean's intentions were good, and I'm sure there is much we can learn from Monsieur Aramis," he said. Brother Jean and Aramis both bowed slightly to Father Ambrose before Aramis turned and began demanding that he be brought boiling water and cold compresses.

oOo

Girard's body lay pale and wan on a table. A sweaty sheen was visible on his body. There was a gash on his side that appeared to have been stitched nicely, but the gunshot wound on his shoulder did not seem to be doing as well. Aramis hissed when he took in the wound. It had been stitched closed but the infection present was obvious.

"I managed to get the ball out," stammered a young monk who brought Aramis the boiling water. Aramis divided it and dropped his dagger into one of the bowls.

"The wound grew infected after we closed it, which is why Brother Jean suggested the leeches, as St. Aquinas says," the young monk explained.

Aramis nodded distractedly. He rustled through his medical kit that D'Artagnan had handed him, and withdrawing several packets of dried herbs, threw a handful into the boiling water to steep.

"D'Artagnan," he said, calling to the young man. "I need these ground and combined with some of this to form a paste."

D'Artagnan smelled the jar that was handed to him. "Honey?" he questioned.

"It helps prevent infection. Hopefully it will help fight this one," was the response. "Porthos, Athos, I'm going to need you to brace him. I need to clean this wound before we can stitch it again." D'Artagnan set to work on the poultice as Athos and Porthos took their positions.

Taking the dagger from the boiling water Aramis deftly sliced through the monk's stitching; a putrid yellow pus poured from the wound. The young monk gagged at the smell and the substance. Aramis strained the herbs from the boiled water and began to flush the wound. As the hot water made contact with the inflamed flesh, Girard's body began to flail violently. Athos and Porthos leaned on the man to suppress him.

"It's ok brother, it's Aramis. You're safe. We're here to help you," he muttered to the man as he removed the stitches and continued to flush the wound until the blood began to run clear again. Girard had stilled, unconscious from the pain of the wound. Athos and Porthos made to relax their grips.

"Not quite yet," warned Aramis. "The wound is free of pus right now, but I need to check to make sure there are no fragments that may have been missed which could have caused this infection. You, bring that candle closer," he said to the young monk who had retreated to the corner as his stomach lost its own battle against the gruesome scene it had just witnessed.

"Thank you, Brother…" Aramis said softly noticing how the young monk trembled, fear written on his face.

"Fr…Francis. Brother Francis," he stammered. Aramis nodded. Picking up his dagger, which he bathed once more in the clean water, Aramis began to dig around in the wound as delicately as possible. Aramis sent a small prayer of thanks for Girard's unconscious state. The bullet had entered high on his torso where the shoulder met the armpit. It had avoided damaging anything too important but had shattered his collarbone on entry. Finally, Aramis withdrew a small fragment of lead – part of the ball that had splintered off on impact and was the likely cause of the putrid response. Taking the poultice from D'Artagnan, Aramis slathered the wound with it and then covered it lightly with a clean piece of linen.

"We should let this breathe a bit. The skin is too aggravated to stitch yet. Once the inflammation has receded I can stitch it closed and we can bind it," he said checking the man's other wound, whose stitches had miraculously held; Girard seemed to be resting comfortably. Aramis instructed the young monk to soothe the injured man with the cold compresses standing by and to provide him with fresh linens. He then turned to wash his hand free of his friend's blood. He raised his wooden crucifix to his lips and crossed himself coming face to face with Father Ambrose.

Wordlessly, the older man handed Aramis a clean towel for his hands.

"Thank you," said Aramis, as he dried his hands. He ran them through his dark curls worriedly as he looked back at the man still lying motionless on the table.

"You will probably want to be near your friend as he recovers. Food will be brought to you all here and beds prepared for you to rest," he said. "The chapel is also available for your use…should you need it," he said.

"Thank you Father," Aramis repeated blushing slightly. "And I apologize for my earlier outbursts. When a brother is injured –"

"I understand," said the old priest. "I can see that your medical knowledge is strong. As I suspect is your faith. I'm sure both have helped your brothers in many situations. Come now," he said, looking at the others and gesturing to the food that was being brought in by another group of monks. "Eat and rest. By God's graces, your brother will wake and provide you with the information you seek."

The four musketeers sat vigil by Girard's side throughout the night. It was nearly dawn when Girard awoke suddenly with a gasp.

Athos who was on watch was at his side instantly. Aramis also sprang from where his brothers insisted he rest at the sound of his patient's panicked breathing.

Girard's eyes were flashing in panic, roving the room; his breathing was erratic and he was attempting to fight Athos to rise.

"Girard! You're safe! You're safe! Just breathe!" Athos commanded, trying to make eye contact with the injured man.

Aramis circled and placing one hand on the non-injured shoulder and another on the flailing man's head to comfort him, he echoed Athos until Girard calmed.

"Athos! Aramis!" he gasped, eyes finally focusing.

"Easy brother, easy," said Aramis. "You are in a monastery."

D'Artagnan and Porthos approached the bed, D'Artagnan passing Aramis a cup of water for their injured friend, who accepted it gratefully.

Girard drank a few sips from the cup then turned away, gasping.

"Michel!" he cried, and again tried to rise from the bed. "I heard the shot! He must be injured!"

"Easy, please! Mind your stitches!" begged Aramis as he placed his hand on his friend's chest in an effort to calm his breathing.

"What can you remember?" asked Athos as the man struggled to control his panic. The exhaustion was evident on the injured man, but he fought for control and focused on the lieutenant.

"Michel and I picked up the package for the King from Le Havre. The rain had delayed the delivery so we were stuck waiting after I had sent word of our arrival to Treville. Once we got it we set off right away," gasped the man. Aramis handed him the cup of water again and he took another sip. "We were pursued almost immediately by a group dressed in black. We split up hoping to divide their forces. I was grazed by a bullet near the river. Our rendezvous was to be the monastery. Three men pursued me. I heard another shot ring out, but I don't know where it came from. I dismounted and battled two of the men on foot. I returned fire on the third. He must have hit me…" he said, his expression growing dark. "I saw him ride off. I guess I got him too? Must have collapsed after that, because I'm not sure what happened next. The next thing I know, is I'm waking up to you four…Michel, is he here? Did you find Michel?" he said, grabbing Aramis' sleeve and pleading.

Aramis locked eyes with the injured man, and covering the hand grasping his sleeve with his other hand, he gave it a squeeze. "We found Michel's body. He will be buried in the morning. I'm sorry," he said, his dark eyes full of sympathy as the injured man reacted to the news, his grief evident.

"Please, I need to see him…I need to say my farewell…" Girard whispered, fatigue and injury taking their toll.

"You will brother, you will. We will wait for your blessing before we lay him to rest," promised Athos from the man's other side. "But first, we need more details about the men who pursued you. Where did they come from? How many were there? Is there anything about them that might help us understand why they were pursuing you?"

Girard swallowed and once more tried to focus, fighting against the need to rest. "They…They knew to follow us. Someone had tipped them off that we were carrying something for the King. As soon as we left the city they took after us. Six men in total. One of the men I recognized from the inn. They must be scouting out the place…waiting for packages. Not sure what we carried…must have seen the royal seal…" he muttered as his eyes drifted closed.

"Well, that's a lead," said Porthos as Girard was overcome by his injuries.

Athos nodded. "We will need to assume that an attack may be coming this way. We should make our preparations. The bandits who pursued Girard and Michel will not be expecting to find armed musketeers within the monastery."

"You think it's likely that they'll attack here? At a church?" D'Artagnan asked incredulously.

"Times are hard," growled Porthos. "I doubt these men are the pious type."

"It's likely they will not expect to meet any resistance from the monks. They are aware that Girard is injured, though not to what extent. It would seem like easy pickings for a troop of armed men to take one man by force," said Athos. "We should prepare the brothers," he said, nodding to D'Artagnan, who left to assemble Father Ambrose and the rest of the holy men. "How is Girard?" he asked Aramis.

The medic placed his hand to the man's forehead. "He's warm," he said, "But I think that's more from exertion than infection. His stitches were pulled but are still intact. When he comes round again we'll need to get him to eat something…before he is brought to Michel."

"Hopefully, Michel will be the only casualty from all of this," said Porthos grimly, looking at the still man. There was no need for Athos and Aramis to voice their agreement.

oOo

A/N: Thanks for waiting! This was a long one after some time in the woods!

As always, I know nothing of the medical craft at the time and most of my references to such, dear readers, have been taken from better researched stories of your own, so we're all in this together! I do know that Thomas Aquinas had lengthy works on medical practices and honey is antibacterial, but that's about it!

Thank you for all the feedback, follows and favourites!