9. HOSTAGES
Athos and Porthos:
It was strange, looking down and seeing a knife buried in your chest.
It was surprisingly painless, Athos thought.
When he lifted his eyes, the man was still in front of him; staring.
He looked horrified.
And then, he was gone; lost in the crowds.
Athos was aware that things had slowed around him. People had stopped to stare, of course they had. But it seemed his thinking had slowed down as well, and he had no plan. Soon, his legs would buckle and he would lie untended on the cobblestones, people stepping over him. This was Paris, there was rarely time to help a stranger; even a King's Musketeer.
Especially a King's Musketeer, now that the King had raised taxes again.
He left the knife alone. He knew that much.
Anyway, the blood thumping loudly in his ears was distraction enough and sure enough, his legs appeared to be failing him now.
He had resigned himself to collapse when a hand landed on the back of his neck.
"Come on, Musketeer, move along. You're 'olding everyone up!"
Porthos.
If he could just stay on his feet until Porthos realised what had happened ...
There! He was suddenly spun around, and he saw Porthos's smiling face come into his view.
He watched Porthos's face twist and felt his hands grab his arms, and then ... then he could follow his legs and fall.
But Porthos did not let him fall.
Or, more correctly, he went down with him.
The world twisted and fell away and he was staring up at the sky then.
He didn't pay attention to the sky nearly as much as he should, he thought.
It was such a shade of blue this morning.
He must thank Porthos, he thought, and looked for him.
Somewhere above him, he caught the glint of the earring in Porthos's ear. He was looking away, shouting. He wanted to tell Porthos not to move so much. It was painful now. But his mouth was full of ...
Oh.
He looked down at the knife still protruding from his chest.
He hoped no-one tried to remove it until Aramis told them to.
oOo
The young man watched as the dark-skinned Musketeer took control. He saw how he lowered his comrade to the ground; how he grabbed a boy and told him – ordered him – to run to the Garrison for help.
He had killed a Musketeer. His debt would be cancelled now.
So, why didn't he feel elated?
He had not asked questions when he had been given the ultimatum to kill one of the King's own guards. Too defeated by his own stupidity. But he had not intended to kill anyone. He had been in turmoil all morning about how to extricate himself from this awful predicament. But he knew the men would be watching him, and he held his knife close to him as his thoughts fell into turmoil.
He had seen the blue-cloaks on patrol, earlier. Only two of them.
Twice, he had moved toward them, only to fall back again.
The third time, he turned his back and walked away.
Stopping to put the knife back inside his jacket, he felt the sweat drip down his neck. Unsure of what to do now; how to get out of the city, away from his debtors; his mind worked furiously.
Then, everything changed in an instant.
The Musketeer had come up behind him and put his hand on him, and he had reacted, thinking it was one of them. In the end, he had done as they wanted anyway, despite his misgivings.
He had looked into the Musketeer's eyes.
And he had run.
oOo
Later, as he hung around and watched, he discovered the soldier was not dead.
He needed to be dead!
He would need to finish the job. Perhaps he could salvage this.
The Musketeer had seen him and he could identify him. He had looked at him for long enough.
Why had he looked at him like that?!
With such sadness.
oOo
"Clear that table!"
"Careful! Steady now, don't drop 'im."
"Athos? ... Can you hear me?"
"How long has he been like this?"
"Not that long. He wouldn't let go. Just hung on. Just lay there, all quiet."
"Porthos ...he will be alright, mon ami,"
"Will 'e?"
Aramis was staring at the knife.
"You gonna take that out?"
"Aramis?"
"I dare not; Lemay's on his way."
oOo
That seemed a long time ago.
They had been right not to attempt to remove the knife. For when they did, all hell broke loose.
The moment Lemay's hand took hold of the knife, Athos had come alive.
Lemay had stepped back, involuntarily; fearful of the raging man.
Porthos and Aramis struggled to hold him, until there was a mutual look between them and Porthos had executed a controlled fist into his jaw; and they could continue.
The knife wound was deep. The blade had acted as a plug, but once removed, it took a lot of compression for the resultant torrent of blood to ease.
He was still unconscious as the wound was cleaned and packed. Porthos worried that he had hit him too hard, but Aramis stilled him with a kind hand on his chest and Lemay nodded his assurances.
Settled in the infirmary, it was now a waiting game.
oOo
At some point later, Porthos would wonder why he had left Athos alone.
He wasn't long, just a quick run to the laundry for fresh sheets.
Athos had been as still as he had been since Lemay had finished. Porthos had urged Aramis to his room to sleep. They had forgotten to bring extra sheets for the night ahead, and Porthos had made a decision; checking all was well before he left the room.
That was all it took.
No-one had seen the man slip in, the regiment too busy on the training ground. He had waited until the dark-skinned one had left the room and then took his chance. Once this Musketeer was dead, he would be free of his debts and his family would be safe.
Holding his breath, the man pulled the pillow out from under the Musketeer's head.
He did not wake.
Standing over him, he held the pillow in both hands.
They said suffocation was quick, but now he had the means in his hands, he hesitated.
What if he struggled?
Although he didn't look like he had much fight in him.
"This is your fault," he muttered, angry at the still man in front of him.
"This is your own damn fault," he repeated as he stepped forward to drop the pillow on the man's face.
Suddenly, the door was thrown open and he spun around, hands still holding on to the pillow, now held tightly against his chest; before he dropped it to the floor at his feet and drew out his pistol.
Arms full of linen, Porthos took the scene in and turned blazing eyes on the man.
"Who the 'ell are you?!" he growled.
"Shut the door."
The pistol pointed at Athos's head was incentive enough.
"Move over there."
He waved the gun to the other side of the room and Porthos reluctantly did as he was bid; laying the sheets on the table; aware he was bereft of weapons and inwardly cursing himself.
The man dragged a chair across and rammed it under the handle of the door, before turning around.
Porthos took in Athos's still form.
"You did this?" Porthos ventured, aware of movement outside now, as his fellow Musketeers returned from their training.
"He came up behind me."
"An' you've come to finish the job," Porthos snarled.
"He saw me."
"An' now I've seen you too. You won't get out of 'ere alive,"
"I've got you now though, haven't I?"
"I'm not important enough for them to let you go."
"We'll see."
The man seemed to hesitate, before crossing to the window; seeing returning Musketeers now milling around in the yard outside. They hadn't realised yet that something was happening.
"You ain't thinkin' straight," Porthos said quietly; watching him.
In response the man moved back across the room; gun still held tightly in his hand.
Suddenly the door opened, and Aramis stood there.
Porthos was blocking his view, but he saw a stranger pointing a gun at Athos, and he stilled.
"Porthos?"
The man stepped toward Athos and put the barrel of his gun to his temple.
Porthos stepped aside, giving Aramis a full view and carefully looked over his shoulder at his friend.
"S'alright, Aramis. Hold your peace. Got a situation 'ere."
"Athos?" Aramis whispered; the stranger forgotten until he had an answer.
Porthos's eyes flicked to Athos.
"Still out," he replied. "Don't worry; I won't let anythin' 'appen to 'im."
"Out!" the man shouted at Aramis.
Aramis stood his ground, until Porthos nodded his head.
"And shut the door!" the man yelled.
Still, Aramis hesitated.
"SHUT THE DAMNED DOOR!" he yelled again, and Aramis turned, sharing a look with Porthos;
We are near.
Aramis backed out and closed the door.
Outside, he put his forehead to the door, breathing heavily.
Be safe.
oOo
Inside, the man motioned Porthos to sit.
"What's yer name?" Porthos tried, sinking onto the wooden chair.
Silence.
The man stood with his back against the wall. He looked out the window, seeing Musketeers scrambling now, some coming close to the building and standing stationary, waiting.
The alarm had obviously gone up.
He was sweating and Porthos knew he had to be careful; the man was unstable at best.
"They won't do anythin'" Porthos said calmly. "Not til we talk."
"They'll kill me," he replied, wildly, before turning and staring at Porthos. "You can get me out."
"Yeah. I could. Ain't gonna though."
"What?"
"I ain't going anywhere til I know he's alright."
The man looked uncomprehending at him.
"He's my brother."
oOo
Later:
"His name's Athos," Porthos said. "If you're interested."
The man stared at him, before breaking eye contact and staring at the floor; gun still swinging loosely in his hand.
"Best man I know," Porthos added, quietly.
oOo
Porthos was watching Athos.
"Let me check 'im," he said. "Please." He was relieved when the man nodded.
Porthos picked up the discarded pillow and placed it back under his friend's head, before gently turning his head to rest comfortably. He checked the bandages on his chest and his heart hitched when he thought how close he had come. Just an inch to the right; or an inch lower ...
Lifting his limp hand, he gave it a squeeze before moving back.
All the time, the man watched him.
Porthos looked across at the stranger, meeting his gaze defiantly. The man looked away.
There was a gentle knock on the door and Aramis called out once more;
"There is food and wine here."
"Leave it," the man called. He moved to the door, opening it slightly and watching as Aramis retreated. He shut the door without collecting the tray that had been left on the floor in the corridor.
"You got family?" Porthos asked, as the man returned to his position against the wall.
The man did not reply, but he straightened and looked away.
"Ah. You got someone, I can tell."
"What do you know?!" the man sneered, but there was no fire in it.
He could hear footsteps outside in the corridor; he could see men stationed outside the window. The Musketeer who was talking to him looked like a coiled spring; no matter how gently he was speaking to him.
"If you hadn't, you'd 'ave just said so."
Just as he thought the man would remain silent, he spoke.
"Wife," he said, hardly audible.
Porthos hummed and nodded.
"They threaten 'er? Whoever you're workin' for ?"
"Shut up!" the man cried suddenly, and Porthos raised his hands in supplication.
Porthos nodded toward the door.
"Don't know about you, but I'm 'ungry. It's been a long day."
Porthos kept his hands up and stood carefully.
"You can keep me covered; just let me slide it in."
Surprisingly, the man agreed, standing back so that he could guard the space.
The door was carefully opened and Porthos crouched and took hold of the tray. Looking to the side, he could see Aramis at the end of the short corridor, and held out a hand for him to stay.
Aramis turned and hit the wall with his fist.
Porthos wanted this man compliant. He suspected he was as hungry as he was and he needed to talk to him. And to calm him.
"We can help," Porthos said, gently laying the tray on the table, keeping his hands in clear view all the time. The man was becoming more agitated as time wore on.
The man gave a hollow laugh and looked at Athos.
"After I did this?" he said, waving his gun toward Athos. "If you hadn't have come back, I would have smothered him and gone."
"No, I don't think so," Porthos said quietly.
"Why else would I be here!" the man shouted, uncomprehending.
"Porthos?" Aramis called through the door.
"Just talkin' Aramis," Porthos called back.
Once quiet had descended, Porthos turned back to the man.
"Oh, I don't doubt your intention," Porthos replied, pursing his lips, "Just your heart ain't in it. Is it, hmmm?"
The man's eyes suddenly filled up and he wiped his hand across them furiously.
Porthos broke a loaf of bread and held it out. When he saw the man was not going to take it, he put it on the small table close by.
"He'd let you go," Porthos added, nodding at Athos.
"What?!" the man said, his face screwing up in confusion.
"He'd understand."
"How do you know that?" the man said, staring at Porthos in confusion.
"Because I know 'im. Told ya."
The man reached out and took the bread. Looking down at it, he laughed bitterly.
"You're giving me bread. That's how it started."
Porthos understood then.
"You couldn't feed ya family, so you fell in people who promised you money."
"How did you know?" the man asked, taking a small bite, before guiltily putting it back on the table.
"That's 'ow it always starts. Before you know it, they've got ya."
The man looked at him.
"An' then the threats start and you'd do anythin' to protect what's yours."
"I thought he was one of them," the man said then, nodding at Athos. "They told me to kill a Musketeer, but I couldn't. I saw you patrolling, and I had my knife ready. I just couldn't do it."
"So what 'appened?"
"He came up behind me; I thought he was one of them, come to kill me."
"So, Athos was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
The realisation of what Porthos said seemed to jolt the man.
"Enough! I have to get out of here!" he said; raising his pistol once more.
The man turned to look down at Athos, and Porthos took an urgent step forward; fearful now.
"He's my brother," he said quietly, heart in his mouth.
"And she's my wife!" he man growled.
"She wouldn't want this," Porthos said fiercely, needing to get the man's attention away from Athos.
For Porthos had seen his eyes open.
Athos had been staring at him for the past few minutes.
And Porthos had seen his hand move.
Porthos shifted, drawing the man's attention to him once more, so that they were facing each other.
Very carefully, he looked past the man toward Athos.
He saw Athos raise his hand weakly; behind the man's back.
Athos counted to three on his fingers, slowly and deliberately holding Porthos's gaze with unfocussed eyes. But that had never stopped Athos before and realising his intention, Porthos gave him a slight nod and took a step forward.
The man stepped back in response, his body now close to Athos's shoulder.
"You don't 'ave to do this," Porthos pleaded, urgently; throwing the man with his sudden change of tone.
"It's too late now," the man said, recovering.
Athos raised one finger, barely moving his hand from the mattress.
1 ...
The man raised his gun, pointing it at Porthos now.
"It's not too late; we can help you,"
A second finger;
2 ...
"I'm dead already, you don't know them!"
3 ...
Athos's hand reached up on the count of three and he grabbed the man's belt, pulling him off balance.
The gun went off, the noise echoing through the room.
Porthos launched himself and drove the man backwards toward the window.
On impact, the window gave, and the man fell through; straight into the arms of the two musketeers stationed there. Porthos stopped himself from falling through by bracing his hands on either side of the shattered window frame; breathing hard.
"I do know them. Known that sort of my life," Porthos said, as the man was led away.
He had seen a chink in the man's armour and he and Athos had worked together to exploit it.
He turned to Athos, and saw his arm hanging over the side of the cot, blood seeping through the bandage. Eyes closed.
"I'd call you a damned fool, but I reckon you saved our lives," he whispered to the now-unconscious man.
Just then, the door burst open and Aramis was there; taking in Porthos and skidding to Athos's side in one urgent movement.
oOo
Athos's wound was recleaned and repacked. This time, he didn't fight them; secure in the knowledge of who they were and where he was. This time, he was not left alone as he slept.
Two days later Aramis was able to put stitches in and his recovery began.
Only Porthos had seen what the stranger had intended to do.
Only he had seen him hold the pillow above Athos's face.
Only he had seen him hesitate; and had heard his story, urged from him by Porthos's quiet questions.
The man had not pleaded with him. He had not used his failures as an excuse. He had simply been driven by circumstance and desperation and the need to protect his wife. In the end, overwhelmed by what he had done and the odds that were stacked against him, he had lost hope.
Porthos did not discuss it with anyone; waiting to speak to Athos, who had his own tale to tell.
Perhaps, between them, they could determine if the man was worthy of compassion.
It took a man who understood compassion to grant it to others.
Porthos understood it and he knew that Athos did too.
Athos also understood despair.
Perhaps that's what Athos saw that morning in the market, when they had looked into each other's eyes.
oOo
Thanks for reading! More Infirmary Talks soon.
