The dispute was accomplished in hushed voices, each vehemently arguing the rightness of their points until Tréville ended it with a barked command. At least he thought he'd ended it, turning away to climb aboard the second wagonload of dead men. Settling himself, he flicked the reins and without looking back, expertly maneuvered the horses and high-sided wagon out from between the trees.
Except he heard no sound of a wagon following. Cursing, out loud this time, he pulled back on the lines, stopped the horses and wrapped the reins around the brake. He could not afford to put his head in his hands, but he wanted to. He wanted to sit and bawl his eyes out. To grieve for the young men they had harvested from the frozen campsite like broken sheaves. To feed the rage growing in him with every name and all the accomplishments they would nevermore attempt. He wanted to scream and beat upon the gates of heaven, demand answers from a god who could let twenty innocent young men die because of the machinations of a spider spinning silken plots far beyond its Parisian lair.
He did not have time to do any of these things. He had twenty, cold, dead bodies to return to Paris and a proper burial. There would be no time to grieve in Paris either. Jean-Armand du Peyrer, usually known as Captain Tréville, knew without a doubt he would be busy misplacing blame, laying false trails and covering the cardinal's tracks. For what crime against humanity - besides the deaths of twenty good men - he could only guess. But he was certain he'd be finding out far sooner than he wished.
Right now he had an obstinate Musketeer to cajole. Porthos was feeling guilty from the top of his kerchiefed head right down to his booted toes. He'd appointed himself Aramis' protector almost from the moment the two had met, they'd been nearly inseparable, until another had shoehorned his way between the pair.
Marsac had been a little older, a little better even than Aramis, with guns, and open in his admiration of the younger Musketeer's skills. The one thing Porthos had never given the youthful marksman, respect for his abilities, Marsac had provided in spades, taking Aramis off to target shoot, usurping Porthos' place in the routine fleecing of the Red Guard with their blindfolded shooting exhibitions, teaching Aramis the tricks and shortcuts age and experience had gifted to Marsac. How to load quicker, how to swiftly adjust gun sites for greater accuracy, where the hand naturally reached for lead and powder. Little things practice and familiarity would have eventually taught Aramis, too. Each small enhancement, though, had sharpened Aramis' skills until the student had far outstripped the teacher. Even then, Marsac had had only admiration for his pupil. Aramis had accepted it as his due.
Porthos, never one for useless flummery, had shrugged off his melancholy and turned his back on the occasional flourishes Aramis had made back into his territory.
The only other time Porthos had disobeyed a direct order had been just under a fortnight ago, when Tréville, drawing a line in the sand between the surly Musketeers, had ordered Porthos to accompany the troop on the training mission and Porthos had flatly refused to go. He'd spent the intervening week mucking out the stables. Tréville had watched him appear in the courtyard at every arrival, seen him sag with disappointment and return to the stables where he'd first begun his career among the Musketeers.
The captain climbed carefully down from the wagon. His chest, at least, was finally cooperating, though he felt like a wrung out rag thrown over the laundry line. "Porthos, we don't have time for this."
Moonlight filtered sparsely through the trees, silvering a patch of bark, a twist of shrub, the blanket-covered bodies behind Porthos who sat on the seat of the wagon, Aramis' blanket-wrapped form wedged in so his head and shoulders lay across Porthos' thighs with the bundled feet wedged against the side of the seat.
"You know I'd follow you into hell ... sir." Porthos held the reins loosely in one hand, the other was wrapped protectively around his brother's shoulder, anchoring Aramis in place. "But I'm not just gonna let 'em die." Aramis' god was too complicated for Porthos, but he knew one thing - if that god had meant for the marksman to be dead, he would be. And that meant God had put Porthos in charge of bringing the battered and broken Musketeer back to life. He was of one mind with God on this.
Tréville sighed. "Fine, we'll find an inn over the border and I'll get another driver. You can stay with him until ... until he's well enough to travel."
An obscure, out-of-the-way inn where no one would accidentally stumble over a couple of Musketeers. Though perhaps Savoy didn't realize he'd missed two. Which turned his mind to Marsac and where the missing Musketeer could be. Was he injured as well? Had he tried to reach Paris and fallen along the way? He'd found the tracks leading away into the woods, as well as the ones leading back out to the road. It was a simple matter of deduction; Aramis had been found, Marsac had gone into woods.
"Can we go now?"
Porthos, having won the battle of wills, gave a curt nod, lifting the reins.
He could smell death; hear it creaking toward him. Had he not been wrapped like a mummy, hands pressed to his sides, feet immobilized and without vision, he might have run toward it. He could not even thrash though, so snug were the bindings that swathed him head to toe.
A hand settled on his chest; not the old woman from the attic, too weighty. A familiar hand, he knew, though he could not think how he knew. It just was.
A familiar comforting weight that turned his thoughts to warmth and safety accompanied by a huge laugh. Smiling eyes above a grin that belonged on a jungle cat so stealthy was its nature. It crept up on a man and took him by surprise. If only he could remember who that grin belonged to...
He thought his head rested on flesh and wondered if he lay, again, among his dead brothers, the stink reminded him of cadaver classes at the Sorbonne. He tried to shift inside his cocoon and felt the hand press harder.
His head no longer splintered with each jolt - of wagon wheels - he realized, at the same time recognizing he was able to follow a line of reasoning. And the reason he could not see was because it was dark and there was a loosely flapping blanket over his face.
"Just a bit more and I'll get ya fixed up with a real bed and your maman's medicines. You'll be right as rain in not time, I promise."
The grating voice rumbled on and Aramis grasped that this was what had drawn him irresistibly to consciousness. It was familiar, too. Those big hands and this comforting voice had grasped the gaping maw of death and wrestled it closed. He would have to live with this on his conscience for the rest of his life.
The wagon drew to a halt before Aramis could get his mind around the concept. His choice had been taken away, Porthos would drag him back to life with or without his consent. Which meant he would have to sort out and tend to the voices in his head.
Damn. He just wanted to be a voice in someone else's head.
"I've found a driver." The cardinal would have to pony up for the costs involved. After all, what was a little blackmail compared to the treacle-like treason the man was in up to his neck. Tréville had put the last few pieces together in the hour it had taken them to cross the border and find this secluded inn. "Here let me take him while you -" He reached up expectantly, ignoring the ache in his arm.
"I got 'em," Porthos grunted, hefting Aramis in his arms. "You ought to at least get an hour or two of sleep 'fore you head off again."
"The innkeeper doesn't want the bodies smelling up his place. Can't blame him." Tréville stumbled as he stepped back to make room. He knew Richelieu had been planning to secure Savoy for France, why he'd naively supposed that meant further negotiations he could not quite fathom now. With French backing, the duchess could easily hold Savoy for her son, should her husband suddenly and conveniently predecease her. It was no stretch to imagine the cardinal throwing the Musketeer regiment to the wolves in an attempt to placate Savoy's wrath. Which likely meant Savoy believed Tréville had planned the assassination attempt.
He was a little surprised the duke had not been home to offer the same greeting Little Red Riding Hood had received.
"You okay?" Porthos lurched down from the wagon, trying not to jostle Aramis more than necessary. He peered at the captain, who wiped a hand over his drawn face and once more squared his shoulders.
"Doesn't matter." Tréville was beginning to suspect he was far from okay, but there was job yet to be done and he would see it to its conclusion. "Get him inside. I'll bring the packs."
"Surely he'll allow you time to eat before you start off again?" Porthos was feeling slightly guilty, now that he'd gotten his way. Tréville had been insistent they take Aramis and head immediately back to France, whatever the consequences. A risk Porthos had been unwilling to take. He'd give up his commission before he'd risk Aramis' life further.
The captain made no reply, merely shouldered the pack Porthos had brought from the infirmary, gathered up the split rucksack scavenged from the ruined tents and followed his Musketeers into the inn.
TBC