Chapter 7
"It's about time you two got back here," Porthos grumbled as he stepped out from behind a tree. He'd been splitting his time between the road and the village, keeping an eye on the comings and goings of the soldiers, hoping to spot Aramis in the courtyard of the monastery. "What took you so long?"
Athos shared a meaningful look with d'Artagnan and dismounted. "Outfitting and organizing nearly one-third of the company took some time."
"That's what… almost fifty men?" Porthos gasped in surprise.
d'Artagnan grinned. "We rode ahead to let you know."
"That's better than I'd hoped for."
"Given what we assumed the Spanish have in mind, it took little convincing for the King to see the necessity of such a force." Athos squinted questioningly at the dark skinned man. Porthos was obviously pleased with their success, but something was gnawing at him, and Athos had little trouble discerning what it was.
d'Artagnan caught it too. "They're setting up at the encampment we scouted on our way back. Athos figures we'll attack at pre-dawn."
"No." Porthos shook his head, his eyes staring of into the distance. "That'll be too late." He huffed a breath through his nose, and shook his head, agitated. "I've got a bad feelin'." He stomped off a few paces, turning back when Athos shot a hand out to stop him, resting it on his chest.
Athos canted his head to one side. "About Aramis?"
"Of course about Aramis."
Athos looked again at d'Artagnan then back to the larger musketeer. "What of Aramis?"
"You were right," Porthos growled. "They plan to use the monastery as a fortress, a means to supply troops to attack Paris."
D'Artagnan let out a low whistle. "That was Treville's assessment, too. You're sure?"
Porthos nodded but it was Athos who put it together. "You got word from Aramis."
"More than that, I talked to him."
"How?" the Gascon asked excitedly. He looked around. "Where is he?"
"Still inside the monastery. Won't come out until after the fighting; after he knows the monks are safe. He's remaining inside to protect them."
Athos brow furrowed. "How long ago was this?"
"Two nights," Porthos forced himself to remain calm, "and I've not heard a word from him since." He shook his head, face grim. Something under his skin had been itching ever since he'd watched Aramis walk out of the stable. It'd only gotten worse when he'd received no word from the marksman the last couple days. "He told me of his plans to find where the Spanish were keeping the powder and muskets, to sneak in and foul up the lot."
Despite himself, Athos grinned. "That sounds like Aramis."
Porthos sighed. "Something's wrong, Athos. I can feel it. He would have sent word, if not on his own, then some other way. He's been using a local farmer, Pietro, but even he's had no word from the monastery in days. Aramis would've found a way – if only to let me know he was all right." He swore under his breath. "I told him not to do anything stupid."
Athos patted him consolingly on the shoulder and sighed, his own concern ratcheting up. "Aramis is capable of taking care of himself. I know no one better at finding a way out of trouble."
"Besides," d'Artagnan added. "We have no way of knowing where they'd keep him if he was in trouble in order to mount any kind of rescue."
"Perhaps I can help."
In one smooth motion, the three Musketeers turned, weapons drawn.
The young monk standing before them froze, eyes wide, a tremulous smile on his face. He held up both hands, showing he was unarmed. "I am a friend of Aramis'!" he said quickly, his voice cracking as he shifted his gaze from one to the other. "You're his friends, yes? Pl-please. Please don't shoot me."
Athos glanced at Porthos, the larger man only shrugging. They hooked their weapons back on their belts, and Athos approached the young man. He couldn't have been much more than a boy – perhaps a few years younger than d'Artagnan – clad in a brown cassock, his blue eyes filled with enthusiasm. It wasn't exactly the type of help they'd hoped for, but if he'd ventured out on his own for the sake of one of their brothers, he was a welcome sight nonetheless.
"We will not shoot you," Athos assured him. The lad relaxed, lowering his hands, his smile brightening. "Who are you and what do you know of Aramis?"
"My name is Aaron. I was helping Brother- I mean Aramis to locate the weapons. They were stored in one of the underground catacombs that run underneath the monastery." The monk's eyes widened and he took a hesitant step back as Porthos approached.
d'Artagnan cleared his throat, gaining his comrade's attention and tilted his head toward the monk, wordlessly pointing out the boy's nervousness toward the larger man. Porthos stopped and took a breath, letting the anxiousness fall from his face. "What 'appened to him?" he asked. "Aramis? Why hasn't he contacted us?"
Aaron shifted, his expression turning to one of apology. "He- he sent me and the others away while he doused the powder, but I did not fully leave. I waited in one of the corridors, thinking I could keep watch. Bu-but there were too many of them. And the Spanish Commander… he hurt him. I-" he shrugged helplessly at Athos. "I wanted to help but-"
Athos nodded in understanding. "How badly? You said they hurt him, do you think he'd be able to walk out if set free?"
Aaron's mouth opened and closed as he thought about the former Musketeer. "I- I don't know. There- there was a lot of blood –"
"I knew it," Porthos growled, not bothering to hide his frustration. "I'll carry him out if I have to. We've got to go in there now!"
Athos glanced at Porthos, a silent plea for patience, knowing it was a lot to ask of his friend. Porthos breathed in, holding the air in his lungs for a moment before letting it out, some of the tension draining out with the air. When the big man nodded, Athos turned back to Aaron. "Can you take us to where he's being kept?"
Aaron's face brightened triumphantly. "Of course. That's why I've come. I know the tunnels beneath the monastery like I know my own name." His face took on a seriousness that made him look far older than his years. "The abbé has tried to plead for him but to no avail. He's been locked away with no food or water these last two days."
Porthos cursed and paced in earnest. Ignoring him for the moment, Athos gazed at the village, his mind working furiously. From their vantage point, he could see the bell tower of the monastery, the tallest structure and on the highest ground, it rose above the other buildings in the village. They had the men – and the element of surprise. But the monastery would be difficult to breach, the fortress still daunting after all these years.
"In an hour, it will be prayer time," Aaron offered. He shifted nervously as all eyes swung back to him.
"So?"
"W-well," the novice cleared his throat, trying to ignore Porthos' scowl, "it's a few hours before evening meal, and those soldiers allowed to leave are usually back by then, taking a siesta before evening repast. You'd be able to catch most of them asleep."
A slow grin creased Athos' face. "Gentlemen," he walked back into their midst. "It appears we have a brother to rescue and a monastery to liberate."
Porthos nodded, the motion short and choppy. "Finally," he huffed.
"Porthos, you and d'Artagnan go back with Aaron. Find Aramis. Do what you can to get him out of there. I'll ride back to the regiment and muster the men." He raised a brow to the boy. "An hour you say?"
Aaron nodded his affirmation, and Athos shifted his gaze to Porthos. "I suggest you hurry."
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
The Musketeers and their monk-escort made it through the village without attracting attention, coming across no soldiers along their route. It wasn't until they arrived at the tunnel entrance near the lake that d'Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief.
"Well," he whispered watching, Aaron disappear alone into the tunnel, "so far so good."
Porthos, however, was not so enthused. "What's good about us being here and him being in there where we should be?"
"I suppose you'd rather just wade in, swords swinging?" He rolled his eyes at Porthos' shrug. "We'll get him out. There's really no other option."
The larger man merely grunted and returned to staring into the dark recesses of the tunnel. d'Artagnan returned his focus there too, sighing. He didn't know how to reassure his friend. He understood – even shared – his frustration.
Recalling what Athos and Porthos had told him on their journey to Douai of how Porthos and Aramis met, all they'd been through not long after Savoy and since, it was natural that he'd become rather protective of the marksman. There was a bond there, stronger than blood, stronger than what most people hope to find.
It was that kind of friendship that d'Artagnan had come to rely on since losing his father, his farm and everything he'd ever known. These men meant as much to him as his own family had, he'd come to realize that very early on, and if he were to suffer a loss of even one of them, a part of himself would surely die too.
Porthos shifted anxiously beside him. The Gascon studied him from the corner of his eye, noting how he looked ready to bolt, and understood that only through sheer force of will, did he remain where he was. For all his power and gruffness, there was much more to him besides the ability to physically intimidate. Porthos possessed a strength of character and keen intelligence, a rarity in someone who, from childhood, had been brought up in a life as harsh as the one he'd lead in the Court of Miracles. He'd suffered much physical and emotional abuse but held no ill will for it. D'Artagnan could not be so sure he'd have turned out as well were it not for his father and mother.
Porthos sighed, frustration seeping into his voice. "How much longer do you think we have before Athos and the men are in position?"
d'Artagnan peered up at the sky, gauging the time. "Maybe half an hour." He took that moment to grab his water skin, uncork it and swallow a cool drink. "If we're lucky."
"Hey," Porthos tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. Aaron walked toward them from the dark tunnel, a bundle clutched to his chest.
Once outside and under the cover of the trees, he dropped the bundle and knelt down, handing a brown wad of cloth to d'Artagnan. The Musketeer unrolled it and held it up to his chest, looking down at the cassock with a sigh.
"Brown is your color, Whelp."
D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and tugged the robe over his head, letting it fall to his boots.
"Good fit," Aaron observed. He stood and held a second robe out to Porthos, shrugging apologetically. "Um…" Aaron stammered, shifting from one foot to the other. "We don't usually get many monks your size."
"What are you talking about?" Porthos growled, snatching the material from his hand.
D'Artagnan only grinned and patted the younger man on the back. "Don't worry." He gazed over Aaron's shoulder to watch Porthos maneuver the garment over his head and tug it down over his bulky leather doublet. "He's all bark – unless you're trying to kill him."
The monk nodded in awe. "I'll be sure not to do that, then."
They watched Porthos yank on the coarse brown material, and after a few moments d'Artagnan grinned, moving his hand to his face to hide his amusement at the other Musketeer's predicament. Blissfully unaware of his audience, Porthos went about busily tying the rope around the waist of his borrowed cassock.
d'Artagnan chortled a laugh before biting his lips to stifle the rest.
Porthos looked up sharply. "What?"
Lips pinched together, quirking at the sides, the younger musketeer lifted his chin toward the man's feet. "Feeling a draft, Porthos?"
Stone faced, Porthos raised his arms, looking down at himself. His boots and part of his breeches were clearly visible, the robe of his cassock stopping just past his knees.
Slapping his arms to his sides, Porthos glared at Aaron. "You telling me all monks are short?"
Aaron shook his head, hovering between apologetic and amused. "No?" Truly the novice had no idea how to answer the man's question.
Porthos' gaze snapped back to the Gascon. "Not a word," he ordered, wagging a threatening finger at the younger musketeer.
Hands shoulder high, palms out d'Artagnan shook his head. "Oh no," he assured, eyes twinkling, "I know better than to poke a bear."
It was as if the air went out of the moment as Porthos face fell, the very portrait of misery. "That's the second time this week I've been called a bear…" he murmured.
Sensing his friend's sudden change in mood, but uncertain as to the cause, d'Artagnan canted his head to the side. "Who else?"
"Aramis…" the dark skinned man met the lad's eyes and swallowed audibly. "Two days ago."
d'Artagnan straightened and gave a jerky nod. "Well then," he nodded his head toward the dark tunnel before them. "We should quit wasting time here and see about getting him out of there, yes?"
The fight and determination returning to his eyes, Porthos nodded curtly and looked at Aaron. "Lead the way, boy."
Aaron looked down at Porthos feet then heavenward, mumbling what d'Artagnan was sure was a quick prayer. "Right," he said stepping closer to give weight to his next words. "Once we emerge from the tunnel, you must keep your hands in your sleeves, heads down, hidden beneath your hoods at all times. Do you understand?" Lifting his hood up to cover his head he seemed pleased that the Musketeers merely nodded in response and mimicked his actions. "Follow me but keep your steps small and measured. Nothing hurried."
Before moving in, the novice looked back and eyed Porthos. "It's a very tight fit in places. If it becomes too narrow, turn and head back."
Porthos huffed. "If it's too narrow," he whispered, "I'll bloody well widen it myself. No way I'm not getting in there."
D'Artagnan patted him on the back and looked at the monk. "Don't worry. We'll be fine." He motioned to the tunnel entrance. "Lead on."
They pressed through the opening one at a time, Porthos, as the monk had feared, having the most trouble. But also as promised, Porthos did not falter. Determined to widen the damn thing with his fists if need be, he did not shy from the close, suffocating feel of the stone walls closing in around them. He grunted and contorted his body in ways d'Artagnan had not thought possible of so large a man, sucking in breath to squeeze through where it appeared too narrow to accommodate him.
The journey seemed to take forever, but at last they squeezed through to a main part of the underground catacomb and came to a stop behind stacks of boxes and barrels that hid it from view.
Sweating as much from exertion as from relief, they remained hidden behind the stacks while the novice peered out from behind them to make certain the way was clear, d'Artagnan following suit on the opposite side. The young musketeer nodded, deeming the way clear and stepped out, Porthos followed a pace or two behind him.
The novice however, did not budge.
d'Artagnan looked at the boy. "What's the matter," he called quietly. He felt Porthos crowd in behind him, also curious.
"I'm…" the boy looked nervously at d'Artagnan. "He's down here, I know that for sure. I just don't quite know where. Exactly."
"What?" Porthos choked in a strangled whisper. Pushing passed the younger Musketeer, he grabbed the monk by the collar of his cassock and would have lifted the lad off the ground except for d'Artagnan's staying hand.
"Porthos!" he whispered in as authoritative tone as he could manage against the need for stealth. Getting in the larger man's face, he shook him to get his attention. "Hey, he got us this far and that is more than we would have been able to do on our own."
A tense heartbeat passed and Porthos reluctantly released the monk, brushing his hands across the novice's shoulders in apology. Aaron stood staunch, unaffected by Porthos' anger, sorrow and repent coloring his face.
Turning back to the monk, d'Artagnan gathered himself. "Think, Aaron. Surely you have some idea where we might begin to search."
The novice glanced around them, his bottom lip between his teeth in thought. "Well, there are some cells that were used for punishment and incarceration before the monastery was given to the order. They are difficult to get to if one doesn't know where to go."
"But you can get us there?"
Aaron nodded.
"Good," d'Artagnan encouraged. "We'll start there."
The novice nodded and the three set off at fast walk down the left corridor. The hallway turned and twisted, with offshoots of corridors and intersections that went every which way. D'Artagnan marveled at them and moreover, the novice's ability to keep his sense of direction. If they'd attempted this without him, they'd have been hopelessly lost. For all the young man's uncertainty earlier, Aaron led them at a controlled, but ground eating, pace. Thankfully, the dirt floor beneath them muffled their hurried steps.
They rounded a bend and a dark cloaked figure stepped out in front of them. The three halted, Porthos and d'Artagnan's hands at the ready, immediately wrestling the fabric of their cassocks out of the way to get to their swords.
"What is this?" the man pulled his hood back revealing himself. "Who are you men?"
"Abbé Fouquet!" Aaron rushed forward and knelt before his mentor. "They are Aramis' fellow Musketeers. They've come to help him. Forgive me, Abbé, but I could not just stand by and let the soldiers hurt him anymore. I had to get help. Guzman's intentions are clear, and I could not let it happen."
Porthos approached the abbé and nodded. "I'm Porthos. Aramis has told me much about you," he held out a hand in friendship and waited. "He 'olds you in high regard. Any friend to Aramis is a friend of mine."
The abbé eyed the proffered greeting a moment before one side of his mouth quirked in a smile. "I would have known you even without the introduction. You match the description René so often wrote in his letters. But please," he gazed past d'Artagnan to peer down the hall, "we cannot remain here. I know where they've taken him but I warn you, he is heavily guarded."
"How many?" d'Artagnan approached, anxious.
"Three or four soldiers," the abbé declared, his voice ominous.
Porthos chuckled. "Four…" he grinned at d'Artagnan. "Is that all?"
d'Artagnan lay a comforting hand on the abbé's shoulder. "We've faced greater odds."
The abbé looked sharply at the Gascon. "Do as you must, but I will not tolerate killing," he warned.
Porthos huffed a breath. "Well, now there's a challenge." He thought a moment then leaned into Fouquet. "What say you to a little violence then?" he shrugged a shoulder. "Worse they'll have is a headache when they wake up, but at least they will wake up."
Fouquet considered the Musketeers offer. "Under the circumstances, I believe God would approve," he bowed slightly in agreement. He quirked his head toward the darkened hallway behind him. "This way."
After another series of tunnels, the abbé motioned them to one side. They moved swiftly and pressed their backs to the stones, an open entrance to a larger room just ahead, the light from several torches flickering against the walls.
Placing a finger to his lips, the abbé pointed at the entrance and held up four fingers. d'Artagnan and Porthos nodded their understanding and crept along the shadows, past the monks and to the entrance before stopping once more.
Sharing a look, they raised their hoods up and over their heads, pulled their daggers from beneath their robes and tucked them safely into the sleeves of their cassocks. D'Artagnan raised his head, nodded his readiness and they stepped quietly into the room.
The guards eyed them curiously, one of them speaking quickly in Spanish, presumably to ask what they were doing there. When one of the men caught sight of Porthos boots, he shouted an alarm but it was too late. Porthos smashed the hilt of his dagger into the man's face, his nose exploding in a hail of blood and broken bone. d'Artagnan had one of his two by the head, and shoved him into the stone wall. The guard dropped unconscious as the other turned to attack.
It was over before it started; four Spanish guards, bleeding and unconscious on the dirt floor, two Musketeers barely breathing hard as they shared a grin. Porthos stood, letting his eyes rake the large room. There were three heavy wood doors, one on each side of the room, Aramis locked behind one of them.
Fouquet swept quickly into the room and knelt next to one of the guards. He extracted a key and marched to the door on the opposite wall, slid the key into the lock and twisted the metal. The lock clicked audibly. Grabbing the handle, the abbé put a shoulder to the door and shoved.
Porthos burst into the room and came to an abrupt halt. Aramis lay unmoving, face down on the floor, bloody and beaten. He was clad in nothing but his braies, dark bruises blooming on his pale skin.
"Aramis…" Porthos rushed forward and knelt by his friend, hands hovering, uncertain where to touch him that would not cause more harm.
The abbé moved quietly past d'Artagnan and took a knee on the other side of the unconscious man. He laid a hand on the side of Aramis' neck and gazed up at Porthos. "His heart still beats."
Porthos released a small keen of relief. With care, he slowly turned his friend onto his back, frowning at the dark purple bruising along Aramis' ribs.
"Aramis," he called softly. "Hey, time to wake up." He tapped him on his cheek, wiping at the dried blood that had flowed from a shallow cut near his eye. "Hey," he tried with more force this time. "Not joking about," he watched the marksman's head sway listlessly from side to side. "Aramis! We've got to go-"
It happened without warning. One moment the marksman lay unconscious and barely moving, the next he was awake and flailing. Porthos took the brunt of it, the Abbe' moving back in time to narrowly miss being kicked.
"What's wrong with him?" Aaron worried, crossing himself.
"He is delirious," Fouquet offered, face pinched in concern as they all looked on.
Hands clutching at nothing and everything, Aramis struggled against some unseen foe. Porthos remained at his side, steadfast and unmoving, talking in soothing tones, trying to reach his friend. Muttering curses in Spanish, the marksman drew back a fist and swung. The effort was weak, however, and Porthos caught the fist easily and grabbed his other hand, just in case.
"Aramis!" Porthos shouted, casting gentleness aside. "Enough!" He held him until the last of his strength fled and the marksman stilled, back arched and curled into himself. "It's me, Aramis. You with me now?"
Sweating and breathing hard, Aramis pulled back enough to gaze at his friend. Head and eyes clearing, he blinked. "Porthos?" He squinted up at the bigger man, his voice rough and dry, still uncertain.
"Yeah." Porthos soothed, ducking down so his friend could see him. "It's me." The dark skinned musketeer released one clenched fist and reached around to support his friend's back as his strength waned. "That's it, 'Mis. You're all right. I've got ya."
Aramis slumped as recognition set in. Eyes blinking away the fog of whatever horror his mind had concocted… be it dream or memory, Aramis' senses returned slowly. His gaze snapped from Porthos to d'Artagnan, Aaron and then Fouquet before coming back to Porthos, brow pinched, his face tight with pain.
"Madre de dios," Aramis breathed and folded forward, head down. Porthos met him halfway, leaning in to take his weight as the marksman rested his head against his shoulder.
"Easy," Porthos soothed, releasing Aramis' hands completely as he began rubbing circles on his back. A water skin appeared over his shoulder. He nodded his thanks to d'Artagnan, and held it up to Aramis' mouth, encouraging him to take a drink.
After the marksman had taken a few healthy sips, Porthos handed the skin back to d'Artagnan.
Aramis groaned, wiping a shaking hand across his lips. "Mon ami, I'm sorry. Sorry. Sorry…" he muttered to his friend.
"Hey now," Porthos interrupted, pulling back to catch the Spaniard's eye. "The day I can't take a punch from you, is the day you can take my pauldron as well. Besides," he sat back and grinned, wincing as he took in his friend's battered face. "In your condition, I could probably outshoot you too."
Aramis attempted to return the grin. "That'll be the day-" He grimaced and clutched at this side, sucking in a breath between his teeth. "The day you may take my pauldron from me." When the pain lessened, he shifted back, resting his head against the stone, eyes slitted as he looked up at his friends. "What'd I miss?"
"Oh, not much," d'Artagnan shrugged. The young Musketeer crouched down by Aramis' feet, his eyes raking over his battered body. "Just the start of a war with Spain. Athos will be breaking through the front gates soon and you..." he grinned ruefully at the marksman, "you look as if a light breeze would take you down."
Porthos rubbed his beard, his gaze again sweeping his friend, though more closely. "Maybe you should sit this one out," he advised. "Stay back with the monks until it's over."
Aramis shook his head, swallowing hard as the movement aggravated the pounding in his head. "I will crawl out of here if I have to." He placed a hand behind him to press against the wall, using it to get his feet under him, reaching out blindly before Porthos moved in to take it.
"Of course you will," Porthos drolled, sounding less than convinced as he helped him stand.
The journey cost the marksman and his eyes quickly slammed shut. "Oh dios...," he ground out against the pain. Doubling over, he clutched again at his chest, the other hand grasping the arm Porthos never quite withdrew.
"Perhaps you should take your friend's advice, my son," Fouquet interjected.
"No." The dark head shook adamantly. He cautiously straightened, leveling his eyes at his friends, "I have a certain Lieutenant Guzman to thank for breaking my ribs. I rather wish to return the favor."
"Well, you did ruin his powder and munitions" Porthos reminded him.
Aramis grinned at his friend. "He was rather upset about that." He moved away from the wall on wobbly legs, stopped suddenly and looked down at himself. "Um… I would like some clothes, however. If it's not too much trouble."
"How about these?" Aaron held out a loosely wrapped bundle.
One corner of the cloth was pulled back and Aramis easily recognized the sight of his shirt, breeches and doublet. He grinned at the novice and Aaron shrugged. "Abbé Fouquet had me get them from your room."
The abbé nodded. "We needed to get your things out before they searched your room. If they had found your weapons…" He shrugged, the ramifications obvious.
"It would have put you and all the monks at great peril and on my behalf." he patted his mentor on the shoulder. "You did the right thing, Abbé."
The abbé looked at him calmly. "I had no intention of letting them kill you René. I was on my way back here with your clothing, intending to get you out myself. I was going to drug their wine." Aramis raised his brows in surprise, and Fouquet produced a small vial from under his belt. He shrugged. "Just enough to make them sleep."
"Of course." Aramis nodded gratefully. "Thank you, dear friend." he gritted his teeth as he reached out to take the bundle, smiling gratefully as the monks moved in to assist him.
Porthos took a step back but did not go far. From the door, d'Artagnan watched as Fouquet and Aaron spoke soft, encouraging words to Aramis, his face tightening in pain as he pulled his shirt down across his chest. Grasping his blue sash, he waved away the doublet, no doubt anticipating the discomfort donning the garment would cause.
The monks attended the wounded man with such care and familiarity, d'Artagnan wondered of Aramis' intentions after this was over. Would Aramis be coming with them, or staying with his old mentor and friend and new brothers? Porthos witnessed the exchange, too, and the Gascon saw the same concern reflected in his countenance.
A muffled explosion thumped overhead and trickles of dirt fell from the ceiling. They all ducked as the debris began to fall, the ceiling above them cracking under the blast. Aramis stumbled and Porthos reached out quickly, pulling him to his chest, his other hand shielding the wounded man's head until the rumble faded and the dust settled.
"Gentlemen," d'Artagnan surveyed the crumbling ceiling, then grinned at Porthos and Aramis. "I believe Athos has arrived. You ready to join this fight?"
TBC
