Casualty of War
Chapter Four
"Are you sure?" Athos clung to the bridle of Aramis' horse as if by sheer force of will he could keep his ailing brother in the relative safety of their camp.
"Yes." Aramis adjusted the plain leather jerkin he was wearing in place of his uniform. "D'Artagnan is in mortal danger. How can we abandon him?"
"We will come up with another plan."
"This is the only way. You know that." He smiled as Porthos rode up to join them. The large man just looked grim.
"I wish I could go with you," Athos said, the weight of his responsibilities suddenly feeling too heavy to bear.
"You have larger responsibilities now. Just make sure the men are ready when the gates open."
"Be careful," Athos begged
Aramis' smile faded. He had every confidence in his plan but not in his ability to survive it. However, admitting that to Athos would only result in the Captain withdrawing his reluctant permission. "Porthos will look after me."
"Damn right I will." Porthos was no happier than Athos. He was armed to the teeth, that being his standard response to dangerous uncertainty. In addition to his sword and main gauche he carried another knife and two pistols.
"It's time to go." Aramis leaned down to clasp Athos' hand. "We will see you soon."
Athos nodded and stood back. Although their plan was simple, the execution of it was extremely dangerous. Merely riding up to the gate and requesting permission to enter wasn't an option. So, they'd had to be creative.
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Aramis spurred his horse into a gallop just before rounding the curve in the road that would bring them within sight of the fortress. He heard the pounding of hooves behind him and then the sound of pistols being discharged. He ducked even though he knew the guns were not loaded. Porthos kept pace with him as they drew ever closer to their destination.
By now the guards would see two men fleeing from a troop of soldiers. It would be unexpected and confusing and they could choose to shoot rather than stop to find out what was going on. Their rescue attempt could be over before it had truly begun.
"Open the gates," Aramis yelled in Spanish. The Musketeers had orders to stop outside the range of the Spanish rifles which would leave him and Porthos stranded before the fortress. "Help us," he shouted. They were almost at the drawbridge which spanned a small moat.
More shots were fired by their pursuers and the gates started to open. There wasn't even time for a feeling of relief before they were plunging to a halt in the courtyard, the gate closing firmly behind them. Shots sounded from the battlements before there was a ragged cheer. Aramis assumed the Musketeers had retreated leaving the Spanish with the illusion of victory. When he looked around he found they were surrounded by armed soldiers, all of whom looked decidedly twitchy. He raised his hands trusting Porthos to follow his lead.
"My name is Gabriel Ramirez. I come from the Ministry of War in Madrid with news for your commanding officer. But first, gentlemen, I must thank you for the rescue." There was a miniscule lessening of the tension in the face of his heartfelt gratitude.
"You have proof?" one of the soldiers asked.
"I do not have to answer to you," Aramis said haughtily. "My words are for your commander's ears alone." As he expected the soldier backed down in the face of his obvious authority. It would be a brave man who would question orders from the Minister.
"You will dismount and surrender your weapons." The man turned to one of his younger colleagues. "Send word to Major Huerta."
Aramis did as instructed, shaking his head when Porthos looked mutinous. They were detained in the courtyard until the soldier returned.
"I am to escort you to the Major. This way, Sir."
They were taken to the building Aramis had seen during his vigil. It was a substantial stone-built construction, the interior of which was pleasantly cool. Aramis closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness assailed him. It was no-where near as bad as it had been but he was still less than fighting fit. He caught Porthos glaring at him, frustrated by his enforced silence. Aramis had no doubt that was all that was saving him from a stern lecture about taking more care of his health.
The Major's office was simply furnished with a sturdy wooden desk and chair. However there was a crucifix hanging on the wall behind him and Aramis automatically bowed his head and made the sign of the cross. His fingers sought out his crucifix before he dropped his hand to his side.
Major Huerta looked to be in his forties and, to Aramis' experienced eye, he did not look like a career soldier. He was impeccably dressed with his greying hair tied back from his face.
"Senor Ramirez, your arrival here was somewhat unorthodox."
Aramis stepped forward with Porthos a few steps behind. "Captain Ramirez," he said. "I am an attaché to the Minister for War."
"You have despatches from Madrid?"
"Verbal only."
Huerta frowned at him. "Then how do I know you are who you claim to be?"
"Your men will tell you that we arrived ahead of a troop of French soldiers who sought to take us captive. It was precisely because of that danger that the Minister did not want to commit anything to writing."
"Very well, Captain. What is your message?"
"The Minister sends his regards and says to tell you that troops are marching to fortify this position. Already the French seek to find a way through these mountains and this is a crucial location which must be defended at all costs."
Huerta nodded thoughtfully. "We have already engaged with a small force of French soldiers. They were no match for my men."
Aramis stiffened his back to avoid swaying. Prolonged standing was proving to be problematic. He saw the Major watching him thoughtfully.
"You look a little unwell, Captain."
"It is nothing. Merely tiredness from a trying ride."
"Then you should rest. I will have you shown to a room and provided with refreshments. Your man can bunk down in the dormitory."
"He remains with me," Aramis said hurriedly. He couldn't risk Porthos being alone amongst the Spanish with no knowledge of their language.
The Major looked surprised but didn't press the issue. "As you wish. You will join me for dinner."
Aramis bowed. "It will be my pleasure." He wanted to ask about d'Artagnan but this was not the opportune moment. Huerta hadn't said anything about a prisoner and he would only raise suspicions by asking questions.
One of the soldiers showed them to a small room containing a narrow bed, a straight backed chair and a small table. Porthos waited until the man had gone before groaning and sitting on the edge of the bed.
"What was all that about?" he asked.
"We seem to have been accepted without too many questions. I have been invited to dinner."
"What about me?"
"You, my dear Porthos, will guard my back."
"Did he say anything about d'Artagnan?" Porthos looked less than impressed by the fact that he would have to stand and watch while Aramis ate.
"He mentioned running into some French soldiers but said nothing about taking a captive."
"We can't go openin' the gates until we know where d'Artagnan is bein' held."
"Assuming he is here," Aramis said somberly. They were still working on hope and supposition. There was no proof that their brother still lived.
"He's here."
"Well, I will find out what I can over dinner." He sank down onto the uncomfortable chair. "For now we should take the opportunity to rest."
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The shivering was becoming more intense as the cold seeped into his bones. He wrapped his arms around his body, trying to conserve what little body heat he had left. He would have welcomed unconsciousness. Unfortunately his body had other ideas. His agony kept him anchored to an awareness of his surroundings. A small whimper escaped his lips, the only sound of distress he would allow himself. He wondered what his brothers were doing and if they prematurely mourned his death. He could imagine Athos being frantic with worry and with the knowledge that nothing could be done to help him. Aramis would try to console the older man even though his own heart would be breaking. Porthos would be the quiet strength, someone the other two could rely upon for support. But in the end all three of them would break apart with grief at the very time when they needed to be focussed on their mission. Once again he cursed his carelessness. Not only had it resulted in his capture, it had also sealed a death sentence for six of his comrades.
When the door opened he barely had the strength to lift his head. A guard entered and threw a dish and a flask on the ground. The dish contained a small loaf of bread and a slab of cheese that had gone mouldy around the edges. His stomach roiled at the thought of food although he knew he had to eat to maintain his strength.
"Your hospitality is somewhat lacking," he said. He didn't know if the man understood him but his words earned him a quick kick to the shin.
Once he was left alone he crawled over to the flask and pulled out the stopper. He drank deeply of the sweet water, groaning with pleasure as it slid down his parched throat. With reluctance he sealed the flask again. It would be foolish to drink it all now when it could be many hours before he was given any more. The bread was surprisingly fresh, although it settled in his stomach like a stone. He removed the mould from the cheese which was strong tasting and barely palatable to him in his unsettled state.
Once he had finished he returned to his corner and lay down. The sky outside the small window had turned dark and he hoped that would mean he would be left alone until the morning. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
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They had been joined for dinner by Captain Ochoa and Aramis had taken an immediate dislike to him. The meaning of the Captain's surname was wolf and he had the gait and demeanour of a predator. Aramis had the feeling that he was the real source of power in the fortress. If d'Artagnan had been left in his charge there was every chance that the young man was badly hurt.
The first course was a thick vegetable soup. As soon as the dish was laid in front of him Aramis realised how hungry he was. In fact, he couldn't remember when he had last eaten. He could practically hear Porthos' stomach rumbling as the large man was forced to stand to attention against the wall. The soup was accompanied by fresh bread and Aramis ate heartily. The wine, however, was a medium bodied white vintage which didn't suit him at all. He sipped at it sparingly and hoped for something better to accompany the main course.
A large joint of pork, potatoes and vegetables arrived next. While they ate they spoke of inconsequential things such as the scorching weather and the difficulty of growing crops in the fortress's vegetable garden given the arid conditions. Supplies from Madrid where slow to arrive and Aramis promised to speak to the Minister about that problem. The wine in his opinion continued to be poor but it was better than nothing. During their march they had made do with water.
Cheese and biscuits was accompanied by a fine brandy and Aramis lounged back in his chair, sated and more relaxed than he had expected. He was aware of the Captain looking at him with suspicion and chose to ignore it.
"How are things in Madrid?" Ochoa asked as the meal ended.
"There is much unrest," Aramis said, hoping that the citizens of Madrid were reacting to the war the same way as those in Paris. It was unlikely that Ochoa or Huerta had spent any time in the capital recently but he had to tread warily. "The treasury is drained by the war effort and food is scarce."
"Yet the people must know that our cause is just," Huerta said naively. "It was the French King who declared war without reason."
"That isn't entirely true," Aramis said, his thoughts flying back to those horrendous days when Rochefort took control of the King and court. He still had nightmares about his time in prison and how close the madman had come to murdering the Queen. "There was a Spanish spy in the King's household who very nearly brought down the monarchy."
"You seem to know a great deal about the goings on in another country," Ochoa said, his brown eyes boring into Aramis.
"Before I went to work for the Minister I was in the employ of spymaster Vargas," Aramis said smoothly. "He had high hopes for the Comte de Rochefort. Then, of course, Vargas disappeared. Rumour has it that he is a prisoner of the French. He was a great loss and our sources of information have been greatly affected by his absence." That at least was true. Vargas was languishing in a French prison and would be lucky to ever taste freedom again.
"We might be able to help with that," Huerta said. "When we encountered the French recently we captured one of their number."
He took a sip of his brandy before speaking. "Has he talked?"
"Not yet." Ochoa gave a cold smile. "But, he will. He is injured and my men dealt out a great deal of punishment today. Tomorrow the questioning will start."
"I would be interested in seeing this man for myself," Aramis said. He was amazed that he managed to keep his hatred from his voice. Ochoa had tortured his brother and clearly enjoyed doing it. "Any information that he can give would be useful to the war effort." The thought of standing idly by and watching d'Artagnan be interrogated made him feel sick and he knew he had to get out of there before he gave himself away. "Thank you for a splendid dinner," he said to the Major. "If you will excuse me, I will retire for the night. Perhaps some food could be sent to my room so that my man can eat?"
"He is welcome to join the others in the refectory," Huerta said.
Aramis kept his expression neutral as he nodded. "Thank you, Major." It would have aroused too much suspicion to insist yet now Porthos would be alone and adrift in a sea of enemies without any way to communicate. This was exactly what he had feared when Athos insisted on Porthos accompanying him. He stood, bowed to the Major, and led the way from the room.
Tbc