Thanks for your reviews and comments; it is reassuring to know that people are reading and enjoying it so far. Hopefully I've replied to you all individually apart from guests, so to Debbie, your description reminds me of a story I read not long ago - is it posted on FF? Who wrote it? It sounds good!
Okay, here we go! We start to learn more about their war as d'Artagnan begins to talk. I am really excited to post this chapter as it has a couple of my favourite scenes so far, so please let me know what you think. But be warned: it contains some possibly distressing images of the aftermath of battle – oh, and some gory medical stuff. I don't want to give spoilers here so please be cautious if you are likely to find either of these triggers upsetting.
Chapter Four: Living Life in the Shadow of a Goodbye Part I
Espelette – late summer 1633
The road was little more than a dusty track, overgrown with grass and weeds, rimmed with drainage ditches on either side which, at this end of the summer, were filled only with wizened, rustling reeds.
Beside him rode Porthos, sitting tall in the saddle, his presence as sturdy and comforting as always. d'Artagnan had lost count of the number of times in battle that he'd looked to his right or left, hoping for a glimpse of his stalwart friend, then felt his heart gladden and his spirits lift at the sight of Porthos' black curls flying as he swung his blade and roared his defiance.
It wasn't just in the heat of battle that he turned to Porthos. Many times in camp he'd needed the big musketeer's steadying presence, to calm a rush of anger at the stupidity of some of their orders, or settle him after a particularly bad fight.
A bad fight, these days, meant they'd been hammered.
The war was not going well for the French soldiers, as they faced superior numbers and weaponry and extremely well organised forces. They often faced overwhelming odds but were still ordered to raise a full-frontal assault on a well guarded field cannon or an impregnable Spanish fortress. Racing across open ground, feeling the ground shudder under their feet, ears ringing, dust in their eyes, unable to see or hear their officers, d'Artagnan found himself lost, more than once, and had only orientated himself by finding Porthos' dark head in the midst of the carnage.
Being hammered meant they were losing more men than the replacements they periodically received, and the new men were usually inexperienced, often shit-scared, sometimes cocky and over-confident, but all needing patient nurture and supervision, something the exhausted veterans sometimes couldn't raise the energy to achieve.
Having a bad fight, these days, meant stumbling as a cannon ball whistles towards you, pumping your legs desperately in an effort to lunge away from its path in the last second before it smashes into the ground, knocking you to your feet, earth and turf thudding all around you as you blink, fumbling for your lost sword and trying to remember which way is forward when all you want to do is curl into a ball and shut your eyes to the chaos around you.
Having a bad day meant forcing yourself to stand on wobbly legs, gathering a breath and wiping a sweaty hand across your eyes to clear them of the sweat or blood dripping from your forehead, then setting off again to find your unit, following the sound of men hacking at each other with blades, the sound of men groaning and sobbing as the pain of a wound overwhelms them, the sound of men cursing as they die. Because that place, full of the sounds that haunt you every night, that place is where you have to be. Day after day.
Today was a good day. Today they were moving camp, following this dusty track to join with a new regiment of soldiers in the regular army after the unit they'd been with for several weeks had taken heavy losses a few days earlier. They'd had to retreat from that battle line, dragging their wounded and leaving their dead to be collected later after the Spanish had picked over their bodies and stripped them of anything valuable. D'Artagnan had been amongst those detailed to retrieve the dead, and he would never forget the strange silence as they'd ridden back into that valley under a white flag, accompanied by three empty wagons, passing between the new Spanish camps. He couldn't wait to leave those memories behind.
Six days earlier, Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port
The battlefield had been cleared of Spanish bodies, so as they approached he found it heart-rending to know that every dark shape, every flap of cloth, every lock of hair stirred by the faint breeze, belonged to a Frenchman. Someone with whom he had eaten, argued, shared guard duty, stood with in countless brutal battles.
The smell of death hung thick in the air, sweet and cloying and foul.
They worked in silence, straightening limbs, closing eyelids, turning men onto their backs ready to be lifted into the wagons.
Each time he'd stooped to a new body he had braced himself, knowing that some of the faces would be those of good friends. Several were recognizable only by their boots or some feature of their uniform, their features mangled forever by the cannon's blast.
He'd been hanging on to the last shreds of his composure all day. His head ached from the blow to his head he'd taken early in the battle, compounded by the energy-sapping heat, the roar of the battle, and the complete exhaustion that comes with hours of living what you believe could be the last second of your life. But he'd been okay, distancing himself mentally from what he was seeing and smelling and doing with his hands. Until he'd turned one body over and seen the face of Jambert, a regular army man with whom d'Artagnan had hit it off the very first time they'd been paired on guard duty.
Jambert was Parisian, well-educated, a ladies' man, and proud of his looks. He kept his uniform scrupulously clean and polished his boots and his beloved silver belt buckle religiously after every battle. They'd known each other for all of three months but here in this world gone mad, this inferno, seconds could last for hours and three months was a lifetime.
d'Artagnan knew the initial warmth he felt towards Jambert was directly attributable to the way the man reminded him, superficially at least, of Aramis; but their growing friendship owed everything to Jambert's own character and the way he always managed to cheer d'Artagnan up even on the bleakest of days.
And now he was dead, his strong jaw smashed by a direct hit, bone showing through the mangled flesh. Dead eyes staring up at d'Artagnan for the last time.
Even then d'Artagnan held it together. He had known that Jambert must be out here, amongst the dead, as soon as they'd stumbled wearily back to their own camp after the order to retreat and he'd realised the Parisian was not amongst the wounded they carried with them.
He closed his own eyes for a second, then reached down with gentle fingers that trembled only slightly, to close Jambert's eyelids. He brushed his hand softly down the man's cheek, feeling regret that he hadn't had time to get to know him properly; couldn't remember if he had two sisters or three; didn't know which was his favourite inn in Paris.
Then he pushed himself resolutely up, knowing he couldn't even now give him the time he deserved: that more friends awaited his attention. And as he'd straightened, starting to look around for someone to help him carry Jambert to the death wagon, he had noticed Jambert's belt, ending in a ragged cut where the silver buckle should be.
The bastards had ripped the buckle off!
For a second he just stared in blank incomprehension, then felt a surge of such strong emotion that he actually staggered. Rage and grief battled for supremacy and he literally could not breathe for a moment. Black spots danced in front of his eyes and even the deathly hush of the battlefield faded, leaving only the roaring in his ears as he tried to get his frozen solar plexus to work. Finally the message got through and his head lifted as he heaved in a raw, sobbing breath then released it explosively.
His surroundings returned slowly. He was sitting on the ground now, several feet from Jambert, arms wrapped around his body, rocking slightly. He knew he was doing it, but somehow couldn't stop himself. He also couldn't take his eyes off Jambert, even though there were others around him talking, and hands touching him.
He knew he needed to move. To reassure; to resume his role as d'Artagnan, the Gascon, the light-hearted, stubborn, impulsive fighter who always survived. That was the character he played here, in the war zone.
They all had roles, and relied on them. There was a joker, a prankster, a carer, a leader. There was always a man who quietly rallied everyone and a man who could fight ten men at once and still laugh. There was a marksman, an ingrate, a tale-spinner. They needed each of these men and when one man died someone else would somehow, sooner or later, step into a new role to fill the gap. They all forgot how many times the face of the comedian or the story-teller had changed, and it didn't matter so long as they could turn around on the battlefield or around the campfire and still find a man to play that role when they needed it.
So d'Artagnan knew he needed to pull the tattered shreds of himself together and resume his part, but somehow he couldn't remember his lines. He couldn't make his lips move, still less smile. Jambert was dead and the bastards had stolen his buckle. All he could feel was grief. And rage. They'd ripped the thing that most said "Jambert" from him.
Grief won out. Maybe he was just too damned tired to feel angry any more, or maybe he knew, deep down, that there was no point. He blinked, becoming aware that his eyes were full of sweat. He raised a hand filthy with other men's blood and swiped angrily at his eyes. Maybe he could still feel anger. Was he crying? Jesus, what was happening to him? He had to stop rocking, and his eyes were wet again. He couldn't see... couldn't hear anything above a low keening noise that was getting on his nerves. Who the hell was it? He had to get out of here, couldn't do this anymore. Just needed some peace, somewhere away from all of ... this. He waved a hand vaguely at the carnage in front of him, unable to express, even to himself, exactly what "this" was.
He tried to stand up and found he couldn't seem to move. He lifted his head, wondering what was happening. Had he been shot? Was he still in the battle? No, they'd retreated, then come back to collect their dead, hadn't they? So why...
"Steady." A quiet voice in his ear accompanied by a rumble he felt through his back. Porthos.
A wave of relief flooded his body. Porthos was with him. He would know what was happening; he would sort everything out.
He sagged back down again, realising that it was Porthos behind him, and Porthos' hands on his shoulders that were stopping him from rising.
He cleared his throat. The hands moved from his shoulders and he felt a momentary pang of loss, then Porthos was kneeling in front of him, looking at him with that gentle expression, the one that says "I know, you don't have to explain," and then he smiled, the smile that says "You're going to be alright," and suddenly d'Artagnan did feel alright again.
"I lost it," he admitted. His voice sounded strange to his ears, like it didn't quite belong to him, but the words were right, and Porthos smiled again and nodded.
"I know," he said.
"They took his belt buckle."
"I know."
"It ... it got to me a bit."
A longer pause, then another soft "I know," and then d'Artagnan found himself being pulled in for a hug, and then he didn't think anything or say anything for quite a long time. He just leaned his aching head against Porthos' leathers, and breathed.
Porthos didn't let him go until his breathing steadied and his heart stopped hammering. He seemed to know when d'Artagnan had control of himself again, and patted him on the shoulder before rising to his feet and holding out a hand to the Gascon. Accepting gratefully, d'Artagnan looked around and realised all the bodies had gone except for Jambert. Porthos's glance said clearly 'is it okay for me to help?' and d'Artagnan nodded resolutely. Together they stooped and gathered the broken body up, carried him to the wagon and laid him carefully alongside the other fallen soldiers from today's battle.
Walking behind the wagon, d'Artagnan was grateful for the distance to the French camp. He had seen no censure on any French faces as they moved off. He wasn't sure if anyone had seen his meltdown other than Porthos. Surely they must have done, but no one was saying anything. It was hardly the first time someone had been overwhelmed when faced with the death of a comrade, after all. But it was the first time d'Artagnan had broken down, however briefly, and it had shaken him to the core. He was a Gascon, and Gascons didn't do defeat, or despair. Gascons shouted defiance and took on the world, chins up and eyes blazing.
He tried to remember how he should feel, how to hold himself. It felt like he was trying to be someone else.
Someone tripped in front of him, and someone else laughed as they picked the fallen man up, teasing about big feet. "You know what they say about big feet," the first man rejoined, and the tension was broken. d'Artagnan stretched his lips into a smile and wondered how he'd ever managed to laugh about anything, here on the battle front.
By the time they'd reached camp d'Artagnan thought he'd got it – got the old d'Artagnan back, the one who could always find a bright side to everything, and cheer up his fellow guardsmen even in a downpour or on the third day of bread-only rations. Porthos was back in front of their party, no longer keeping pace beside him, and he was walking amongst three of his newer friends, all speculating idly about the culinary delights that might be served to them tonight.
They found Athos waiting on horseback at the entrance, flanked by rows of silent men, soldiers and Musketeers side by side. At Athos' quiet command, the men filed forward and bowed their heads as the wagons slowed to a halt, then began the slow process of unloading the bodies. They had already dug a large grave and prepared the wooden crosses.
Those who had gathered them up from the battlefield stood back and let the rest of the camp take over. Porthos quietly told his men to wash, change and eat. d'Artagnan headed first for the horse lines, having not had time earlier to check Nuit, and that's where Athos found him after he'd conducted the burial service.
Athos stood watching him for a moment, as the young Musketeer finished washing the sweat from his mare's flanks and dried her with a twist of long grass. Suddenly sensing the watchful eyes, d'Artagnan turned and raised a smile for his Captain.
"Did you want me?"
Athos contemplated. He'd seen immediately, as the retrieval party returned to camp, that d'Artagnan was not right: his eyes were glittering, his smile too tight. A nod from Porthos had confirmed his observation and he'd resolved to find the Gascon at the earliest opportunity. But now, watching him work with the horses, he seemed more relaxed, more normal, and Athos was loath to drag him out of it and back to whatever had spooked him earlier.
"Just checking you're okay. It was a tough day."
d'Artagnan tensed and his eyes searched his Captain's face, as if checking for hidden meanings, but Athos kept his expression bland, so d'Artagnan relaxed again.
"It was pretty grim. How are the wounded?"
They began to walk towards the centre of camp together and Athos answered mechanically but his mind was nagging at him: something was definitely wrong with the young Musketeer. Finally he had it.
"You're limping."
It was a statement, not an accusation but definitely not a question, so d'Artagnan found himself nodding in agreement before he could stop himself.
Athos grinned at the expression that flashed across the Gascon's face after that telling nod. Fury, embarrassment, doubt – could he bluff? No, too late for that, all in a split second.
"Were you hurt today? Porthos said not." This was more accusatory; there were few things that annoyed Athos more than men denying injuries which needed treatment.
"No, not today," the Gascon hastened to assure him. There was an expectant pause on Athos' part. d'Artagnan huffed and gave in. "My hip's been sore for a bit, but it seems to have got worse recently. I thought it was just a muscle strain."
Another silence. d'Artagnan felt irritation rising. He was telling the truth, he had thought it a strain and if everyone mentioned every bruise or stiff muscle, none of them would make it out of the medical tent for any battle. He turned to say this to Athos, but found his Captain regarding him with a soft smile, and his angry protestation died on his lips.
"Go and see Etienne."
"Athos, it's nothing, I really don't..."
"If it were nothing, you would not be limping. Go and see him – now."
There was no mistaking the command in the soft voice and d'Artagnan sighed again, but changed course for the medical tent.
"I'll make sure they save supper for you," Athos called after him. d'Artagnan paused in the doorway of the medical tent, and waved his thanks although he had no appetite at all, tonight. Taking a breath he pushed the tent flap aside, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible.
Inside he found an air of calm had descended over the tent, its occupants mostly sleeping. It was in sharp contrast to the last time he'd been in here, several hours earlier, as he helped another wounded comrade in to be assessed and patched up by Etienne and his team. Then all ten beds had been occupied, with several men sitting on chairs and some on the ground, waiting to be seen. Now only seven beds were taken. d'Artagnan hoped the others had been discharged as walking wounded, to recuperate in their own tents, and not carried to the burial ground with the bodies he'd helped to retrieve.
Etienne was checking the bandage on a sleeping soldier but looked up as soon as d'Artagnan stepped inside.
"What's up?" he barked immediately. Etienne was a Breton and a man of few words.
"Athos sent me. My hip's been hurting and he thought you should take a look."
Etienne frowned, but d'Artagnan couldn't tell whether it was at the thought of another injury or the way d'Artagnan had crafted his sentence to make it clear that it was Athos who was fussing, not him. Etienne resettled the bandage and waved at an empty cot. "Strip," he instructed tersely, moving to wash his hands before coming over to stand in front of d'Artagnan, waiting impatiently for him to remove his leathers and braes.
D'Artagnan complied meekly. There was no privacy in camp and none of them thought twice about stripping off in front of their fellow soldiers. With his lower body stripped bare Etienne made him stand, then walk several paces to and fro. D'Artagnan automatically tried to compensate for his limp until Etienne glared at him, well aware of what he was doing, and waved him back to the cot. He started prodding d'Artagnan's flank, digging strong fingers in towards the hip bone, manipulating the flesh back and forth until d'Artagnan felt he would prefer the pain from his hip to this onslaught. But suddenly Etienne's probing fingers found the correct spot and d'Artagnan hissed in pain, instinctively flinching away from the brutal examination before he could stop himself.
"Hmm" was all Etienne said. He straightened up, his eyes raking over every inch of d'Artagnan's body, or so it seemed.
"It's just a pulled muscle. I tried to tell Athos but you know what he's – "
"No, it's not." Etienne's voice brooked no argument and d'Artagnan's protest died on his lips.
"What is it then?" For the first time d'Artagnan wondered if it was something more serious. But he'd have known, wouldn't he? He hadn't had any injuries there, not since Etienne had dug a musket ball out near that hip, the night he and Athos had rescued Porthos from deep in the Spanish mountains.* But that had been weeks ago – months, even.
It seemed Etienne's thoughts were travelling the same path and he bent again to peer at the small scar on d'Artagnan's flank, just below the hip. "Remind me, when did this happen?"
d'Artagnan worked it out as best he could, reckoning it was eight or nine weeks.
"Have you had any fevers since then?"
d'Artagnan shook his head.
"Confusion? Sweating? Racing heart?"
Etienne's intensity was beginning to rattle d'Artagnan.
"No... Etienne, what is it?"
Instead of answering, Etienne straightened with a grunt and strode to the entrance, whistling to a passing man and instructing him to find Athos immediately.
d'Artagnan's heart was beginning to race now, but he put it down to intense irritation at the way Etienne was ignoring him. He was damned if he was going to sit here waiting for Athos to arrive! He stood up, ignoring the flash of pain that shot up from his hip at the sudden movement, and grabbed his braes to start dressing.
"Don't bother," came the dry comment from Etienne.
d'Artagnan paused, wobbling awkwardly on one leg, foot already halfway in, and glared. "Why not? Am I not allowed to leave, now? Because unless you can bring yourself to explain what's going on, I am..."
He stopped as Athos appeared in the entrance behind Etienne, his calm eyes scanning the tent interior quickly, pausing on d'Artagnan briefly (who flushed, feeling stupid as he hopped to keep his balance, his fury quickly subsiding), then resting inquiringly on Etienne who had turned as soon as he sensed Athos behind him.
"What is it?" he asked, economically.
Etienne walked towards d'Artagnan without answering (which d'Artagnan noticed, with a small rush of satisfaction that he was not the only person being ignored around here). Athos followed and they both came to a halt in front of d'Artagnan, who gave up on the idea of getting dressed and sank back to perch on the side of the cot.
"He has a deep infection in the site of the musket wound from a couple of months ago."
For a moment d'Artagnan felt relieved. Infection didn't sound too bad; they'd all experienced it after a wound at some time or other, and unless you were seriously wounded or run-down, most men recovered after a few days of high fever. He frowned then, realising that he hadn't been feverish. Etienne's questions began to make sense – but not his answers. If he had no symptoms of infection, how did Etienne even know that was the problem?
He looked up and caught a fleeting expression on Athos' face that he thought looked like – fear? It vanished as soon as Athos saw d'Artagnan look up, and his voice, when he spoke, sounded calm.
"Are you sure?"
"No!" Etienne answered irritably. "I can't be sure... but I can't think how else to explain it."
"Have you come across this before?"
"Yes." Etienne sounded reluctant.
"Can you treat it?"
Not 'what's the treatment', d'Artagnan realised, with a lurch of alarm. He couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Etienne, what – "
"I think when I dug the musket ball out, I didn't clean it properly." Athos stirred as if to protest but Etienne carried on, face grim. "Or there was a thread from your clothes left in the wound. Doesn't really matter what. You've been feeling pain for how long?"
"Um..." d'Artagnan's throat was suddenly dry. "Not long. It ached for a while afterwards it happened, but I expected that." Etienne nodded, impatiently. "I noticed it felt worse a week or so ago, that's all." Another nod. "Why is that so bad?"
"Because it's deep. If left untreated your body can't cope with the poison from the infection. If it gets into the bone, or into the rest of your body through your blood, you will most likely die quite quickly."
Die? d'Artagnan blinked, unable to take it in. He was feeling fine, how could he be at risk of dying? He looked from Etienne to Athos, blankly. "So what can we do? There is something you can do, isn't there?" He hoped that didn't sound as desperate as it did to his own ears.
Athos looked at Etienne. Etienne pursed his lips, then sighed. "Yes. Probably."
Athos cocked an eyebrow and held up a hand to d'Artagnan who looked ready to erupt.
"Etienne." Athos' voice was gentle but his tone unmistakeably urgent. "Explain before the lad explodes."
Etienne looked at d'Artagnan's expression and his own softened, just for a second.
"I've heard of it being done, but haven't done the procedure myself. I know what to do but it's – it's dangerous." He paused, but carried on when d'Artagnan made a muffled sound of exasperation. "It won't get better on its own, not without being drained of the infection. I have to open up the wound, find the source and clean it out properly. The procedure itself can cause the infection to spread."
Damned if I do, damned if I don't, thought d'Artagnan. They were both looking at him expectantly. He sighed, and stood up, reaching for his braes again. "I'll think about it. Thanks Etienne – "
Athos' hand covered his and took the braes away. d'Artagnan looked at him questioningly. "You don't have a choice, d'Artagnan. If it needs doing, do it now." His eyes never left d'Artagnan's but Etienne took it as permission and moved off instantly, calling through the tent flap for someone to find Julien straight away, someone else to heat water.
"Athos, this is ridiculous. I feel fine, I don't want..."
"Don't force me to make it an order, d'Artagnan." Athos' eyes were sympathetic but his tone was firm and d'Artagnan sank back down.
"You think... I really have to...?"
There was a pause as the two looked at each other, oblivious to the sounds of men entering the tent and quiet instructions from Etienne. Eventually Athos said quietly: "I'll fetch Porthos," and he spun on his heel and strode out.
Ten minutes later everything was ready, and d'Artagnan found himself lying on his back, arguing about taking a draught of laudanum and wishing he'd just walked a bit straighter, an hour earlier. He'd been fine! It was a fuss over nothing...
"He'll drink the damned pain draught!" Porthos snapped, taking it from Julien and shoving it into d'Artagnan's hands.
"It makes me sick!" protested d'Artagnan. "Etienne, it's wasted on me, you know it is."
Etienne paused from the act of washing his hands. It was true that the last time he'd given it to d'Artagnan, the lad had thrown everything back up two minutes later. "What do you usually have for pain, then?" he asked.
d'Artagnan shrugged and it was Porthos who answered. "Aramis used to make something up from herbs – I think it varied depending on what he had to hand."
Etienne sighed, and looked at Julien. "I'll get something ready," the young medic said, moving off promptly to rummage in his stocks of herbs.
"I'll be fine, Etienne, just do what you have to do."
A wry smile teased the man's lips. "This won't be pleasant, d'Artagnan. It's not like having a wound cleaned and stitched. You're already in pain then, and don't care what happens so long as someone makes it better. This is different. I'm going to be cutting into flesh that has healed." He paused, searching d'Artagnan's face.
"It'll be fine." d'Artagnan spoke with an assurance he didn't feel. Etienne was still scrutinising him, so he added, flippantly: "I promise not to wake any of your other patients".
Etienne pursed his lips then nodded. "Julien, over here with the bowl. Porthos?"
Porthos moved into position behind d'Artagnan's head, placing his hands on his shoulders. "Just keep your eyes on me," he advised, cheerfully.
d'Artagnan meant to, he really did; but when another aide, Lucien, took a firm hold on his legs he couldn't help but glance down, and so he was watching with a kind of horrified fascination when Etienne put the blade to his flesh and drew it firmly across, leaving a line of scarlet blood welling up in its wake. He was just noticing how the flesh was bursting open a bit like a ripe peach when you cut into it, when the pain kicked in and he gasped and jerked, unable to help himself.
He felt Porthos' hands tighten on his shoulders and his breath warm on his cheek as the burly Musketeer leaned close and whispered to him to "be still, d'Artagnan, be still now."
Jesus! He didn't normally blaspheme, even in his own mind, but he couldn't help it. Looking down again he saw Julien mopping up the blood as Etienne's knife went back across the first cut, slicing through his flesh again to create a cross, then he picked up a pair of blunt tweezers and started to pull open his skin, deftly cutting deeper as he opened up the cross.
Etienne had been right, d'Artagnan realised as he swallowed desperately against the bile flooding his mouth. It wasn't the same as surgery on an existing wound. This pain was sudden and intense, and indescribable. It felt as if Etienne was digging with a bloody shovel not a knife. The rest of him was fit enough to want to struggle, to escape, to shout for it to stop, and he couldn't believe he'd agreed to this, he couldn't catch his breath, he couldn't do it, he couldn't bear it ... He gritted his teeth, wrapped his fingers around the sides of the bed in a vice-like grip, and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Breathe," instructed Porthos in a soft whisper.
There was a roaring in his ears and black spots dancing around his vision as d'Artagnan opened his eyes and tried to comply. Porthos' deep brown eyes were hovering anxiously upside down above his head. d'Artagnan could see sweat on his brow and a look of barely suppressed panic in his eyes. He unclenched his jaw enough to whisper "You okay?", then snapped his mouth shut again as Etienne dug deeper and fresh bile rose in his throat.
Porthos laughed, weakly. "Course I'm alright, you stubborn idiot! Now stop wriggling and focus on me. It'll soon be over."
It wasn't. It took Etienne ten minutes of probing, enlarging the wound steadily and constant cursing, before he finally exclaimed and leapt backwards as a gush of pungent yellow pus erupted from d'Artagnan's flesh.
Julien was quick to hold up the bowl in which he'd been collecting blood and swabs, and under Etienne's instruction began to clean the wound carefully, using fresh cloth for each sweep. Once, when he forgot and went to mop up a fresh welling of pus with the cloth he'd already used, Etienne snapped at him and he jumped, quickly dropping the bloodied cloth into the bowl with a muttered apology.
"What's going on?" d'Artagnan managed to whisper to Porthos.
"Cleaning the wound. Apparently it's really important not to spread the pus so it's ... tricky." Porthos winced as he chose his words carefully. Etienne had a fierce glare when he felt under pressure, and this was certainly one of those times.
Eventually the wound was cleaned to his satisfaction. d'Artagnan's whole hip and upper leg felt as if it were on fire and even though the digging around had stopped, fresh stabs of pain shot up periodically as his nerve-endings responded to the injury. Risking opening his eyes, d'Artagnan expected to see Etienne or Julien preparing to stitch the wound closed, but instead found himself watching as Etienne approached him with clean hands, holding a short glass tube. "What is that for?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded fearful.
Etienne looked surprised to be addressed by his patient and d'Artagnan wondered if he'd forgotten he was still conscious. He would be far more used to cutting men who were unconscious from pain or laudanum, he realised.
Etienne looked down at the tube then back to d'Artagnan. "The infection was very deep – close to the bone. I don't want to stitch the wound closed until I'm sure it's all clear. This will help the pus to drain." Without further ado he inserted the tube into the wound, making d'Artagnan's back arch in response to the new onslaught of pain.
"A little warning would've been nice," Porthos told him fiercely, struggling to keep d'Artagnan still.
Etienne flicked him a glance but didn't bother replying. Holding the tube in place, with the last inch or so still protruding from the wound, he jerked his chin at Julien who hastened forward with needle and thread ready to stitch the tube in place.
"You're leaving that in there?" Porthos asked, aghast.
"It's temporary. When it drains clear, we'll remove it and close the wound."
"How long will that take?"
d'Artagnan was glad Porthos was asking these questions; he feared if he opened his mouth to speak only a whimper of pain would come out.
"Depends."
"On what?" Porthos was definitely sounding testy now.
"On whether I've got to the deepest pocket of infection, whether we can keep it clean, whether he heals fast, how run down he is ..." Etienne disappeared out of d'Artagnan's view then reappeared carrying a small bowl with mashed up herbs in it, which he proceeded to pack around the tube and over the wound. He laid a pad of fine gauze over the herb paste and covered it with a bandage, wrapping deftly either side of the tube to hold it in place without covering it. Then, for the first time since he'd started, he looked directly at d'Artagnan. "How are you doing?"
d'Artagnan managed a creditable "I'm fine," drawing a predictable "hmph" from Porthos and a "Get some rest" from Etienne as he moved off.
"Wait! How long do I have to stay here?"
Porthos chuckled. "Like he said, till the infection's cleared. Just a day or two." He patted d'Artagnan on the shoulder and headed out of the tent.
d'Artagnan suddenly felt very alone. Everything had happened so quickly – one minute he was grooming Nuit, the next he was stuck here, in awful pain and surrounded by injured and possibly dying soldiers. Where had Porthos gone? Didn't he realise how terrible d'Artagnan was feeling? He tried to sit up, and gulped, instantly feeling both dizzy and sick at the same time.
"Lie down!" snapped Etienne from somewhere behind him. Muttering, he came over to push d'Artagnan back down on the cot.
"I feel sick," protested d'Artagnan, choosing not to explain that he felt sick because of sitting up rather than the other way around.
Before Etienne could respond, the tent flap opened and Athos strode in. He looked tired but smiled when he saw d'Artagnan, a smile that turned quickly to a frown. Looking around, he scooped up a bowl and brought it swiftly to d'Artagnan's side, threading an arm under his shoulders and helping him to sit up enough to throw up into the bowl.
When he could bring nothing else up, d'Artagnan sank obediently back down into the pillow. "How did you know I needed...?" he whispered, feeling ridiculously weak.
Athos chuckled. "I know that look," he answered, hooking a chair with his foot and dragging it close enough to sit by d'Artagnan's cot.
"Didn't you have a meeting?" d'Artagnan was struggling to stay awake all of a sudden.
"Yes, a short one. Now I'm here, and you can rest. Sleep!" Athos instructed firmly. And d'Artagnan slept.
Etienne removed the tube after 24 hours, delighted (as far as anyone could guess – there was no actual smile, but he didn't look quite as grumpy as normal) that the wound was draining clear. The following morning, sick of d'Artagnan begging to be allowed to leave the tent, Etienne had him carried to his own tent on a stretcher, much to d'Artagnan's disgust.
That was when he discovered half the regiment had already packed up and left the camp, heading for Espelette to join with the General's forces on a new battle front. d'Artagnan was annoyed that no-one had told him, cross with Athos for waiting for him, and embarrassed that he was the reason the Musketeers were now split up.
It was another four days – fraught with ill-temper on d'Artagnan's part as he argued his fitness with Athos, and tried to hide his pain and stiffness from both him and Porthos – before Athos gave the order to the rest of them to break camp and head out to rejoin their brothers.
* See part one of this Battlescars story arc, Luck Will Travel
A/N I hope you like this first foray back into the war. More to come next chapter! I'm aiming to post on Tuesdays and Fridays, just in case anyone is wondering.
