Dear all, thank you so much for your support and messages during what has been a very traumatic time. I am back at work now but still living with a friend. My kitchen is in a skip on the drive but the place has been dried out and things are now moving. Writing has been a real struggle for the Muse seems to have gone on holiday but here is the next chapter at last.
CHAPTER 9
"There you are," Tréville muttered to himself, tearing at the carefully piled rocks to reveal more of his stricken soldier. Claude dropped beside him to help and they worked in silence; the Captain had never been so relieved by the sense of the other man's presence. There had been no sound or movement from Athos, nothing to show that he was even remotely aware that he had been found, that they were with him and that he was safe. Tréville was uncomfortably conscious of a tightening in his stomach muscles in fear at what he might yet discover. He had located his three men, injured though they were – he damned well was not ready to lose one of them now.
"Porthos did 'is job well," Claude said quietly. "He didn't want any of that dangerous scum to find 'is brothers."
"Almost too well," Tréville answered, a catch in his voice for his mind had already been thinking about the big Musketeer's method and reason for hiding the two men. "Supposing we had not come along at that point to help them. Supposing he had been killed away from the cave. Aramis and Athos could have succumbed to their injuries and never …" his voice trailed off at the prospect of what might have happened, his emotions suddenly too raw.
A hand rested lightly on his shoulder and his troubled, ice-blue eyes turned to Claude.
"But we did come along an' we did find 'em. Now, are we goin' to waste time worryin' about what might've been or are we going' to get this boy out of 'is hidin' hole an' see what the damage is?" Claude advised.
Tréville managed a wry smile at the gentle rebuke. He nodded as Claude held a flaming torch whilst he eased Athos onto his back.
Neither of them could suppress their horrified gasps and Claude released a string of oaths.
"Dear God, they've given 'im a thorough beatin'!"
Tréville merely shook his head, unable to put his anger into words as he felt for a pulse in the young man's throat. Pale-faced, Tréville then leaned forward, a palm and ear against the chest of the fallen soldier. Claude held his breath, fearful as to what he might be told.
It seemed an age before Tréville gave a shuddering exhalation. "He's alive, very weak but alive."
He crouched over Athos, quickly assessing the horrifyingly visible injuries. A plethora of bruises on forehead and cheekbones were in stark contrast to Athos' usual pallor. Blood caked his nostrils and discoloured his moustache and beard; splits in both upper and lower lips showed where he had been viciously punched. Parting them gently and using a tentative finger, Tréville reassured himself that all the teeth were present and not loosened by the repeated blows. The left eye was swollen shut, the puffy lid a disfiguring and angry purple whilst a cut above his right eye had bled copiously.
Tréville shifted his attention to Athos' gloveless hands, lifting first one and then the other in his own as Claude lowered the torch to illuminate them better.
"No marks to suggest that he offered any resistance," he said bitterly.
"Swiftly outnumbered," was all Claude could offer.
Pushing wide the open front of the doublet, there was no further hiding of the large and ugly, dark red stain on the linen shirt above the waist of his breeches on the left-hand side. Pulling out the material, Tréville revealed the angry line that screamed a blade wound. In length, it would equal the span of Porthos' hand from thumbnail to little fingertip and, at first glance, it appeared deep. There was no question about the need for stitches and exposed as the wound was to the filthy environment, there was a worrying risk of infection. There was no way Athos could be treated and his injuries dressed under these conditions and with limited light.
"We have to get them both out of here quickly," the Captain declared, somewhat unnecessarily.
"You have any ideas?" Claude asked, twisting so that he could see the low tunnel and inhaling sharply as all sorts of problems reared their head.
Tréville thought for a moment. "We could use a blue cloak and start with Aramis. We lay him on it and pull him out, drag him through the tunnel and into the outer chamber. Then we come back for Athos."
It seemed a good plan – if only the two injured men would co-operate in some way.
Fever-ridden Aramis, trapped in a world of his mind's own making, could not be placated when they tried to move him and writhed upon the cloak brought through the tunnel by one of his confederates. In the end, what had seemed a straightforward plan degenerated into an arduous task with Tréville feeling every one of his years and more as he crawled backwards on his hands and knees, pausing after every move to grab the edge of the cloak and drag Aramis mere inches before repeating the process. At the other end of the cloak, Claude, also crawling awkwardly, spoke soothingly to the agitated young man, one hand supporting his head, lest he should hurt himself on the uneven ground in his restlessness.
Tréville had no idea how long it took to manoeuvre Aramis through the tunnel, but it seemed an age until, breathing hard, he sat back on his heels, relieved that he was able to straighten up and ease the screaming ache that had developed in his lower back with the effort. There was an even greater reprieve when several of his men materialised to render assistance. Another water skin was produced and held to the parched lips but more dribbled down Aramis' chin than went down his throat.
"We'll get Athos, Captain," one of the men offered.
Tréville did not know who had spoken as the voice emanated from the gloom. Whilst appreciating the offer, he stubbornly refused, determined that he would extricate both of his Musketeers from the place that so easily could have become their premature tomb.
"No thank you," he answered determinedly, his voice husky. "It is my job. You get Aramis out of here and down to level ground as carefully as you can and see what you can do to tend that wound in the first instance. Send two men back to the abbey; they must have a cart of some sort there that we can appropriate. We need it; we have three injured men to move. They are in no state to travel on horseback. Make sure that there are enough to help with getting Athos down from here." He grimaced. "I doubt that I will be able to be much good."
There was a smattering of chuckles at his admission.
"We'll see to things, Sir. Don't you worry," another voice reassured him, and the men were galvanised into immediate action.
Tréville puffed out his cheeks. "Ready to go back, Claude?"
"Of course," the older man answered. "We know what we're doin' now. It'll be easy," he asserted. "An' we've got the added advantage that Athos won't be wrigglin' like 'is friend." He was endeavouring to lighten the tension for they both knew that Athos was possibly the more seriously injured.
Unconscious he may have been, but he was a dead weight as they lifted him from amongst the small rocks and laid him gently on the second cape. There was the added concern that they did not know the full extent of his wounds. The vicious beating was evident on his face and the slash to his side could not be missed, but they feared that there could be internal damage which remained undetected and might be exacerbated by the move. There was no way that it could be avoided, and the toughest part would be dragging him through the tunnel.
Tréville could not determine which he had preferred – the restless, fever-ridden Aramis or Athos, whose stillness and silence were so disconcerting.
"Wait a minute!" he ordered and began to search through Athos' pockets in his breeches and doublet. When he found nothing, he opened the doublet and felt for the inner pocket.
"Never 'ad occasion to 'ave one of them in my doublet," Claude observed before adding, "but then you never got me to do the really dangerous cloak an' dagger stuff."
"Isn't being one of the King's Musketeers dangerous enough for you?" Tréville quipped, rearranging Athios' clothing and trying to hide his disappointment at not finding anything.
"More than enough," complained the older Musketeer, "when we 'ave to protect 'is Majesty from 'is hare-brained schemes!" He watched as Tréville pulled off Athos' boots, turned them upside down, shook them and then felt inside the boots. "Not found what you're lookin'for?"
Tréville shook his head.
"Maybe they've got it," Claude ventured, referring to the attackers.
"No. They haven't got their hands on it, otherwise they would not have been attacking our men when we arrived," Tréville went on.
"P'raps they wanted to get rid of the witnesses."
It was a bleak thought, but the Captain did not think it likely .
"Let's do this," he said to Claude, changing the subject as he took up the cloak and began to haul the unconscious soldier towards the tunnel entrance. Claude was correct, it did seem easier to get Athos into the outer chamber and certainly not so lengthy a struggle.
Another team of four men waited for them who carefully took Athos and prepared to carry him to the level ground. Tréville held his breath and watched as the group picked their precarious way down the rock-strewn slope with their precious load and set him beside Aramis. Porthos, having regained consciousness, was sitting propped against a tree, weakly trying to fend off two Musketeers who were vainly attempting to keep him in place, so eager was he to crawl across the ground to join his brothers. Tréville strode over to him, edged the men out of the way and crouched beside him.
"Easy, Porthos, we have them. You protected them well. Now we can help them, look after them and tend their wounds. You too, but I need you to stay here now. Rest. Leave them to us." With his hand, he lifted Porthos' chin so that he could look into the dark brown eyes and saw that they were still unfocussed. One of the men had wiped some of the blood from his face and bound his wound with a bandage; he looked marginally better than when they had first found him, but he was far from being his usual self.
He grunted some sort of acknowledgement and Tréville released him, letting his chin sink down onto his chest again. The Captain hurried back to where Claude was riffling through the bag of medical supplies, pulling out the contents randomly, but before he could do anything to help, he was distracted by raised voices.
Five men were approaching on foot and Treville saw that the two leading the way with wrists bound were the two attackers who had made a run for it. They had successfully been captured and were now stumbling to maintain their footing as they were pushed along by the Musketeers who followed, weapons trained on them. There was no doubt about them using their pistols to bring down a man should he think he could get away a second time. One of his men bellowed at them to halt and they were forced to sit on the ground, backs to an outcrop of rock.
He felt a stab of pride at his men's capabilities in ensuring that the attackers had not managed to escape but, ever protective of those who served him, it was quickly superseded by a surge of anger at what these aggressors had done to three of his regiment. He approached them, his face hard and stood, hands on hips, as he glared down at them. They tried to glower back in defiance but visibly withered under his cold, blue-eyed stare.
"I will deal with you two later. My priority is the men you have injured, then I will ask my questions and you will tell me what I want to know," he snarled.
Any refusal to co-operate or other taunt that they might have offered died on their lips as Tréville turned on his heels and was gone, leaving four expressionless Musketeers to stand guard over them.
"The cart will not be able to get to us. We need to move the three of them through the trees and undergrowth back to the main track to wait there," the Captain stated, standing behind Claude who cradled Aramis' head and dripped water past his lips.
"These boys have 'ad enough of manhandlin'," the older Musketeer commented.
"I know, but we don't have a choice. There are enough of us to carry them and we can take it slowly; others can go out in front trying to clear a path for us. Get them ready."
"And the wounded prisoners?" Claude indicated to where the four of them lay. A Musketeer was giving his attention to the two who were conscious and groaning with pain.
Tréville sighed. "I had momentarily forgotten that we had them as well. The cart may not be big enough to take seven of them at once and none of them look fit enough to sit a horse, let alone walk." He thought for a minute and then his features hardened. "If necessary, we will leave a couple of them here under guard and send the cart back from them. I hate the idea of transporting any of them with our men after what they've done, but I'm not callous enough to deny a man prompt medical attention."
"They've had some," Claude informed him, "but we're likely to lose one of 'em before the day's out, no matter what we do."
The Captain looked in their direction again. "I can't say I'm sorry but if their friends over there aren't willing to speak with us, these might be so appreciative of some care that they'll talk instead."
They fell silent .
"You think Athos might've passed that document to one of the others?" Claude suggested.
Tréville paused. "I very much doubt it; that is not the way the three of them work."
"You know 'em well."
"I've had plenty of experience!" Tréville gave a wry smile. "But I will search them anyway, just in case. I have nothing to lose."
"And everythin' to gain," Claude finished for him.
But the search was in vain for there was nothing on either Aramis or Porthos. Whilst two Musketeers led the way, hacking at undergrowth, the marksman and Athos were slowly carried through the trees and Porthos was helped by other colleagues to where the horses had been left. The walking prisoners followed and then the wounded ones were collected.
The entire group waited by the side of the main track and it seemed an age before the trundling of wheels through the forest announced the arrival of the cart. As it turned out, it was large enough to take all the wounded at once with a couple of the prisoners sitting on the edge, their legs dangling. The column moved slowly for the walking captives were tethered by long ropes to the saddles of two Musketeers and partly in deference to the injured for the track was uneven and the cart bounced uncomfortably. Tréville tried to blot out the moans of the prisoners but could not ignore the faces Porthos pulled as each jolt sent an excruciating pain knifing through his head. If at all possible, Aramis was more agitated than before whilst Athos had yet to show any response.
Tréville walked his horse beside the cart and looked down at the unconscious Musketeer, whose rolling head and occasional movements were merely incidental, caused by the juddering cart. His skin was white, the bruising livid and he had lost a lot of blood from the slash to his side.
"Come on, son. I need you to wake up and tell me what you have done with that treaty," Tréville muttered worriedly under his breath.
