I go on vacation in the middle of next week so that next chapter won't be posted for at least two weeks. Thanks for continuing to read and for the lovely reviews.
To Kill a Musketeer
Chapter Nine
Porthos rode through the night. As the sun began to rise he shook off his weariness in the hope that he would soon see his brothers. More time passed and he began to grow concerned. He'd expected them to be on the road yet there was no sign of them. Different scenarios flew through his mind as he spurred his tired horse onwards. Had the condition of Athos or d'Artagnan deteriorated? What if they had been attacked again? Were they all dead? His stomach knotted painfully as he approached their camp. He couldn't see any movement although the fire still burned brightly.
Then Athos stepped out from between the trees. He was pale and shaking but held determinedly onto his sword. Their eyes met and Porthos saw undisguised relief. That worried him even more because it was rare for their leader to be so open with his feelings. He slid from his horse and strode across the clearing to catch Athos as his strength evaporated. Looking around he saw d'Artagnan leaning heavily against the trunk of a tree also holding his sword.
"Where's Aramis?" he asked.
"Over there." Athos pointed to a mound of blankets.
"What happened?"
"He was wounded in the fight and now he has a fever," d'Artagnan replied.
"He didn't say anything." Porthos ascertained that Athos could stand unaided before relinquishing his grip. He walked over to Aramis who was shivering violently despite the coverings. Fever bright eyes regarded him warily.
"Porthos."
"When this is over we're goin' to have a talk," Porthos threatened. "How could you let me leave knowin' you were sick?"
"Did you get it?"
"Don't change the subject."
Aramis sat up slowly. "It's nothing. The fever will break soon."
"Or it'll kill you."
"Either way it won't be long," Aramis said resignedly.
"We need to get all of you to a physician."
Athos sank gratefully to the ground cradling his injured arm. "We've decided to head for Bordeaux."
Porthos nodded. "That makes sense. Can you ride?"
"Yes," Athos said without any hesitation.
"D'Artagnan?"
"I'll manage."
"Right. You two take a drink of this while I see to Aramis and saddle the horses." He handed the small bottle to d'Artagnan. "Not too much or it'll send you to sleep."
"Did you bring wine?" Athos asked, looking at the bottle distastefully.
"No, and with all of you sick I don't want to hear any stupid arguments. Either you drink it or I'll sit on you and pour it down your damn throat. As for you." Porthos rapidly switched his attention to Aramis. "Let me see."
One look at Porthos' face convinced Aramis to cooperate. He held out his arm and kept his eyes lowered while Porthos removed the bandage. Muttered imprecations were the only sounds Porthos made as he examined the cut.
"Wait here."
Porthos fetched water and heated it over the fire. He took a moment to glare at Athos who held the bottle of laudanum but had made no effort to drink. With a mutinous look Athos raised the bottle to his lips and tipped the vile tasting liquid into his mouth.
"Happy now?" Athos asked, his features twisted into an expression of disgust.
"Yes." Porthos dunked some bandages in the hot water and returned to Aramis. "This is goin' to hurt."
By the time he'd cleaned the wound, applied salve and bandaged it Aramis was deathly pale and only barely hanging on to consciousness.
"It's too late to stitch it," Aramis said feebly. "We must leave it open so that the poison can drain."
"Never was any good at needlework," Porthos said gruffly. "Rest while I get everythin' ready."
It was mid-morning by the time Porthos had tidied up the camp, doused the fire and readied the horses. He could see the laudanum taking hold. Athos and d'Artagnan were no longer as tense and the lines of pain on their faces had eased.
"You first." He grasped d'Artagnan's hand and helped him to stand. "How's the leg?"
"Easier than it was." D'Artagnan put his foot in the stirrup and Porthos boosted him up. He groaned and swayed but managed to settle in the saddle.
Athos was next. Once on his horse he gripped the reins tightly in his right hand and stared stoically ahead. Aramis made his way to his horse unaided although he made no effort to mount. Porthos waited for him to acknowledge his weakness.
With a resigned sigh Aramis turned to him. "Can you help me?"
"Damn fool," Porthos said but there was no censure in his tone. He knew why Aramis had risked his own life and would have expected nothing less. It didn't make it any easier to bear though. Any one of the three could still succumb to their injuries although the most likely casualty was the one person Porthos hadn't expected. They were as close as brothers, called the inseparables by their fellow Musketeers, but Porthos had always been drawn more toward Aramis. Their marksman had a joy for life that was infectious. He loved and fought with his whole heart and allowed nothing to drag him down. Except recently, Porthos mused, wondering again what it was that Aramis was keeping from him. He exhaled softly and put that thought away for another time.
Their pace was slow and steady. Porthos rode at the back where he could watch over them. When he saw Athos starting to lean forward over his horse's neck he called a halt. "We'll rest for a couple of hours," he said.
After settling his companions he brought out two cooked chickens and carved slices with his dagger. None of the three looked enthusiastic about eating but all made some effort. Aramis' shaking had increased and Porthos could feel the heat when he touched Aramis' forehead. He shook his head and went to check on Athos.
"The bandage is clean which means that the stitches are holdin'. How do you feel?"
"Like I've been trampled by a herd of horses," Athos replied tartly. "Can I remove the sling? My arm feels like it's in a constant state of cramping."
"That's not a good idea."
"I should try to move my arm."
"No," Aramis interrupted weakly. "It is too soon. Give the wound a chance to heal. It will be a slow road to recovery and trying to hurry it will only cause more damage."
Porthos held out the bottle of laudanum. "More," he ordered.
"I'm fine, Porthos. The last dose is still doing its work."
"You're a terrible liar. Give me your word that you will tell me when it becomes too bad."
"You have it."
The concession was too rapid for Porthos' liking but he wouldn't impugn Athos' honour by questioning him further.
D'Artagnan's bandages were lightly stained with blood. Porthos removed them and checked the wound. "It looks clean but what do I know." He cast an irritated glare at Aramis.
"Let me see." Their medic got unsteadily to his feet and moved to d'Artagnan's side. He smiled at the younger man. "It is healing well. Do you have full feeling in your leg?"
"Yes." The rest had done d'Artagnan good. He had recovered his colour and his face was no longer filled with the signs of pain.
"That's good. It means the ball did no lasting damage."
"Now you," Porthos said.
Aramis' wound continued to be inflamed with green pus seeping from the edges. Porthos cleaned it again and applied a clean bandage with worry hammering in his chest. "Can you ride?"
"For a while," Aramis replied honestly.
By Porthos' reckoning they had covered no more than five miles before it became clear Athos and Aramis couldn't continue. He insisted that they stop despite their protestations. D'Artagnan asserted that he was well enough to help set up the camp and Porthos didn't have the heart or the energy to refuse. After finding a sturdy branch to use as a crutch d'Artagnan's movements grew easier although he was exhausted by the time they sat down for their evening meal.
Aramis stayed tucked up in his blankets claiming a lack of appetite. Athos ate sparingly and Porthos didn't force the issue. He did, as a gesture of apology for his earlier bad temper, offer a flask of wine. Athos' mood improved immediately.
When they lay down to sleep Porthos found his eyes staying stubbornly open while he waited for the inevitable deterioration in Aramis' condition. It wasn't long before Aramis began to toss and turn, talking nonsense to himself. Porthos rose, waved to the other two to indicate that he had everything in hand, and fetched a pot of water from a nearby stream. He wet a cloth and bathed Aramis' face and neck. The uncoordinated movements and the volume of Aramis' voice increased. Porthos recognized that they had come to the critical juncture where either the fever would break or Aramis' heart would fail.
Tbc
