Thank you once again for all reviews; I do welcome feedback and would be delighted to read where some of you think this may be heading. I do want to improve my story-telling so all suggestions would be gratefully received. Events certainly begin to escalate from here on in.

This is a longer chapter as I have to apologise about the lack of an update tomorrow. Work commitments and a play rehearsal tonight won't allow for some fine tuning of the next chapter but I will defintiely be back before the week's end

CHAPTER 10

In the tavern, Aramis, d'Artagnan and Porthos had secured a table in a dimly lit corner and were already well into a second bottle of wine when the serving girl approached them, bringing their order of venison stew.

They ate in silence for a few minutes until Porthos slammed down his spoon and sighed in frustration.

"This ain't right," he objected.

Aramis and d'Artagnan looked at each other and waited for him to elucidate further although they had a strong idea as to what was to come. After all, they could not help but share his sentiments.

"We all know Athos is the natural leader an' Treville has looked on him as such for a long while. Came as no surprise to me that he put 'im in charge now; quite right too an' not before time but I'm tellin' you, I don't like it. It's splittin' us up. He should be here with us now, sharing a meal, having too much to drink. I wouldn't even mind if he just sat there, too far in his cups, not sayin' anything and being his usual moody self. That's what I'm used to and I ain't used to him not being 'ere. I'm not goin' to get used to it."

There was nothing the others could say to contradict Porthos' grievances for they were of a similar opinion. They were a close-bound quartet and they would follow Athos with undying loyalty but his absence from their group was keenly felt. Duty and responsibility kept him busy by day and late into the evening and, as with Treville, Athos was mindful not to show preferential treatment to his friends. They fully understood his motives but it did not make their sense of loss any more acceptable; if anything, he had isolated himself from them even more than was necessary. Whilst it was a temporary command, they saw an end to it and knew that a restoration of their familiar relationship would ensue but with each day passing that Treville was overdue, their unspoken fear that something untoward had happened to their Captain escalated and questions naturally began to rear their heads as to who would take over the permanent mantle as leader of the musketeers should the need arise.

Athos was more than capable, of that they were certain, and they would never deny him such a prestigious promotion; he had, after all, lost so much in the past and public recognition of his ability was long overdue but, on a purely selfish level, they were afraid that it would permanently shift the dynamic of the group and they shied away from the prospect of things never being the same again.

"I miss him," Porthos added simply, his dark eyes signalling his inner misery.

D'Artagnan pushed his food around the bowl. "There will be an obvious explanation to Treville's delay," he said softly, more in a vain attempt to convince himself than anything else. He paused until aware that the others were watching him and he raised his eyes to meet theirs. "There has to be."

"At least the responsibility is keeping Athos from the bottle," Aramis noted. "That has to be a good thing."

"I was afraid we were going to lose him after that show down with Milady when he banished her," Porthos admitted.

"He didn't drink as much as I expected," d'Artagnan added, "but I have often wondered whether or not he would follow through with his threat." The three fell silent, remembering all too clearly Athos' words when he had ordered his wife to go to Spain, England or anywhere, so long as it was not France and then he had gone on to make it clear what he would do were she ever to reappear in Paris.

"I hope she has the sense to stay away. I, for one, do not want to think of the repercussion should she ever return. As far as she is concerned, I think he is still far too fragile and I would not want to predict how he would react on seeing her again," Aramis said, his eyes sorrowful as he thought about recent incidents.

Subconsciously, d'Artagnan's hand went to his side to the place where Athos had deliberately shot him in the ruse to entrap Milady de Winter and, through her, Cardinal Richelieu in their intrigues against the French crown. "If his responsibilities stop him from dwelling on her, then I can put up with him being distracted for the present." He was suddenly uncomfortable, unsure how his words would be received by his friends but desperate to disclose what had been bothering him for some time. "I went back and retrieved his locket," he abruptly announced.

Porthos rounded on him. "You did what?"

"His locket ... the one he always wore, the one that was his constant reminder of her," he couldn't bring himself to utter the name of the woman who had come so close to destroying the man he idolised and himself in the process.

Aramis put a hand on Porthos' arm to stay his protest. "When?" he asked gently.

D'Artganan shrugged, "I don't remember exactly. It was after Constance said our relationship had to end because of her husband. I suddenly found I'd walked back to the place where we had that pitched battle and I walked to the archway where Milady was holding Constance hostage. In my mind, I was going over and over it again, each time with different outcomes; wondering what would have happened if Athos had run her through with his sword. Then I saw it lying there where he had thrown it down. I know, for him, doing that was a break from the past, an attempt to break from her and it was such a final gesture. I was worried, though, that he might regret it and I didn't want that. I will keep it safe and I hope he'll never find out that I've got it but it just seemed the right thing to do at the time."

There was a long pause as they were lost in their individual thoughts regarding recent events and the toll taken on the group, not least upon their fourth member.

"It was a good thing you did," Aramis reassured him, "and I know that you will keep it safe but I, too, hope there is never an occasion where he finds out. Perhaps, when we are convinced that he is strong enough and totally free of her in his mind, the three of us will share the responsibility of destroying it once and for all."

Porthos nodded his silent agreement and the two of them looked searchingly at d'Artagnan who opened his mouth to speak but before he could say anything, the door to the tavern burst open and a wild-eyed kitchen boy from the garrison rushed in, his head twisting as he sought the familiar faces. Spotting them in the corner, he was barely half way across the room when his thin, unbroken voice rose in a cry.

"You have to come quickly, Serge says. Somethin's happened. The men are fallin' sick."

The boy was gone with no more explanation. The three musketeers shared a look of total bemusement and then leapt to their feet. The inn had fallen quiet and those gathered watched the men's hurried departure, falling back to give them a clear passage across the large room, only to refill the space as they passed. As the door closed behind them, the silence erupted into a buzz of eager, speculative gossip.

Thankful that they had not strayed far for their evening meal, the three took off at an easy run, staying together as they headed for the guarded entrance where they worryingly found only one person on duty, leaving the garrison vulnerable. Porthos' rapid inquiry revealed that the second guard had gone to see if he could render any assistance. Furious, he went after the man and found a scene of utter chaos.

At first glance, some fifteen to twenty men were spread throughout the courtyard, most ailing and the few trying to help. Three sat hunched over on benches, heads in hands and buckets between their feet. Four more lay on the ground, two of them disarmingly still with colleagues crouched in concern beside them whilst the other two moaned loudly as they curled into foetal positions, arms wrapped round their bodies in pain. Another two had slumped down walls to sit dejectedly, foreheads resting on knees as Serge tried to persuade them to drink something from a cup. Another three were at different points in the yard, leaning against brickwork or wooden posts as they forcibly ejected their earlier meals.

Looking up, Serge caught sight of the new arrivals and, visibly relieved, he hurried over to them, desperately hoping that Aramis, at least, would take over some control from him.

"Serge, what's happening?" Aramis demanded, glancing round at the men sprawled on the ground.

"The stew was poisoned. Athos ordered me to make a mustard drink and dose the men so that's what I'm doin."

"Why are the men out here?" asked Porthos.

"Too many of 'em. The infirmary's full and others are in their quarters."

"Where's Athos?" d'Artagnan demanded.

Serge jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. "In his office." How quickly the office had ceased to be the domain of Treville. D'Artgagnan had already begun to take the stairs two at a time with Aramis close behind when they heard Porthos ask a question of the old man and they paused mid-step for the answer.

"Did he eat the stew?"

"Yep," Serge responded miserably, afraid that the three companions would hold him personally responsible for the poisoning of their brother. "But he ate later than the others an' he didn't eat it all. E's still taken the mustard drink though."

At Serge's words, the three ran up the rest of the stairs, concern etched on their faces and a little guilt in their hearts at having left Athos to dine alone. Together, they hurried to the closed door through which came the unmistakable sound of noisy, painful retching. Aramis and Porthos exchanged worried glances before the former pushed open the door and entered, crossing the room in quick, easy strides to drop to a crouch beside Athos and laying a comforting hand on his trembling shoulder. He sat, the bowl he had utilised clutched in his lap, with his head bowed and eyes closed as he struggled to steady his ragged breathing and control the waves of nausea that swept over him.

Aramis waited patiently until the green eyes opened and fixed on him.

"Done?" he asked simply, wondering if the mustard mixture had finished its work. Athos merely nodded, not trusting his voice as yet.

D'Artagnan, meanwhile, had gone to the small dresser beside the window and picked up the pitcher to pour fresh water into a goblet. The space left on the dresser top was the original place for the bowl. Treville had been in the habit of keeping a bowl and water at the ready for cooling his face on a hot summer's day and, more usually, for freshening up before heading to the palace or for removing the ink from his hand when he had been writing.

Curiously, Athos had initially refrained from touching anything used by the Captain unless it was directly necessary for the fulfilment of the job but when he caught Serge replacing the water in the pitcher one morning, he realised that it was a daily routine for the old soldier who did not want anyone to have the opportunity to say that he was failing in his duty to look after the garrison's temporary commander. Glad that Porthos was not around to witness the event and tease him mercilessly, Athos made sure that he drank several goblets of water during the course of a day and was happy one morning to note Serge's nod of approval at the half empty pitcher when he came to replenish the contents. The cook always checked the bowl to see if it had been used but it was always dry; neither of them could have foreseen the unfortunate use to which Athos had put it.

D'Artagnan moved silently to Athos' side and held out the goblet to him. Taking it with an appreciative dip of the head, Athos took a mouthful to rinse away the taste of burning stomach acids and spat it into the foul bowl.

"I'll get rid of that," Porthos offered quietly and relieved him of the bowl to remove it from the room. He was not gone long.

"Did I do the right thing?" Athos asked eventually, his voice a little shaky and rasping.

Aramis shrugged. "How quickly was it before the symptoms started manifesting themselves in the men?"

"According to Serge, some of the men were experiencing stomach cramps within thirty minutes of eating; others were a little longer and a few had started vomiting."

Porthos watched Aramis as he considered what Athos had told him. "Thirty minutes? That ain't long."

"It is actually the best news," Aramis began.

"I am not sure that I entirely agree with you," Athos interjected wryly. He looked up as d'Artagnan nudged his hand that held the goblet, urging him to take on some more fluid. Porthos snorted in amusement, assured by Athos' retort that he was feeling a little better.

"That's as maybe but the swift onset of symptoms suggest that the mushrooms were not seriously harmful. The longer the period before people fall ill, the more dangerous the mushrooms." Aramis suddenly became aware of three sets of eyes focused on him. He shrugged and added, "Apparently."

"I don't even want to know how you find out some of this stuff," Porthos quipped.

Aramis smiled innocently, "I must have read it somewhere or someone told me."

Porthos merely grunted. "Awful lot of 'some' in that answer."

"Nonetheless," Aramis continued, " it is reassuring that all of those stricken should make a full recovery and yes," he squeezed Athos' shoulder, never having removed his hand, "you did the right thing ordering the mustard water for those who had not yet fallen ill. Expelling the food before it was fully digested would avoid the worst of the symptoms. Tell me, how did you get the idea?"

Athos allowed a weak smile to lighten his features. "Contrary to what you think, I do listen to much of what you are saying. I confess that I do not recall the particulars but some weeks ago, you recounted an anecdote about a courtier to whom you had given the remedy."

Aramis gently struck his chest with a closed fist and assumed a pained expression. "You hurt me to the core, my friend. You claim to listen to much but not all. Ah me, at least I can be thankful that you listened to the pertinent details." He suddenly became serious. "How are you feeling? And answer me honestly."

"Sore," Athos admitted after giving the question some thought, "and tired."

"Perhaps you ought to get some rest," d'Artagnan suggested but Athos shook his head.

"There's too much to be done. I gave Serge several instructions but at least he managed to fulfil the most important two – finding all of you and preparing the mustard water. However, we have a very important visitor tomorrow and the guard detail needs to be strong. D'Artagnan, can you compile some lists for me?"

"Of course," replied the Gascon. "What do you need to know?"

"Which of the men are far too incapacitated to be on duty tomorrow? Who has taken the mustard water and who, like yourselves, did not partake of dinner here this evening? I need to adapt arrangements for tomorrow."

D'Artagnan headed towards the door, "I'll do it right away."

Athos turned to Porthos, "The mushrooms were prepared earlier today and left in the kitchen. I need you to go and ask some questions. Where were they left? Who was in and out of the kitchen during the day and was it ever left empty? Someone had the opportunity to access that area and substitute different mushrooms."

Porthos' eyes widened. "You sure about this? Couldn't ol'Serge have made a mistake? You're saying this was a deliberate act. Why?"

"Serge was adamant that he had gathered good mushrooms. As he said, he's been cook here for many years and he has never made such a potentially catastrophic error before. Why now on the eve of an important visit where the musketeers will need to be very much in evidence? This is nothing less than an act of sabotage and it is happening at a time when Treville is not here. Do you think it is coincidental that he has not yet returned?"

"When you put it like that, it certainly raises some questions," Porthos agreed. "Don't worry. I'll ask around and get back here as soon as I can."

When Porthos had gone, Athos shut his eyes and breathed slowly, deeply. A hand touched his forehead and then rested on his shoulder.

"How are you now?" The voice was calm, hushed and seemingly far away and seemed to lull him into a dreamlike, relaxed state. It would not take much for him to slip into much needed sleep.

"I will live," he responded and opened his eyes to find Aramis watching him closely.

Aramis gave a wry smile, "There is a certain unfortunate irony in your eventually eating something this evening."

Athos sighed, "It had not escaped my notice." He sat up straighter. "The physician has been sent for but so far has not arrived. I need you to look to the men and make sure they are recovering. It could well be a long night. Whatever they need, make sure it is provided." He ran a hand tiredly over his face.

"I will tend the men but first I am more concerned about what you need and that is rest. I understand that you have to review things for tomorrow but you can't do that until you have the updated information from d'Artagnan and I have checked on those who are ill. That is all going to take time, time enough for you to have some sleep. You've had little of that or food for days and now you've given yourself a very effective emetic. All of this will sap your strength. Rest." Aramis straightened up and went to help Athos but he objected.

"I won't leave the office," he insisted.

"I wasn't going to make you. Just lie down on the cot," Aramis suggested, trying to pull Athos to his feet but meeting with firm resistance.

"No," he said shortly, staring fixedly at the cot. "I shall be fine here."

Aramis followed his line of vision. "It's a cot. You will be much more comfortable there."

"I said no."

Aramis let go the breath he had been holding and guessed at the underlying problem. "Treville would not begrudge you using it, especially given the circumstances."

Athos shook his head vehemently, his face suddenly a picture of abject misery. "I will not use it; it is not mine." He paused and then whispered, "He will come back."

"Oh Athos," said Aramis gently, conscious that so much was going on in his friend's mind. He debated being realistic and opted for solace. "Of course he will but he needs to find both this place and you fully functional and neither will happen if you're asleep on your feet."

"I shall be fine here," he repeated and slumped forward with his arms on the desk and lowered his head to rest on his forearms.

Aramis pulled the thin coverlet from the cot and put it round Athos' shoulders before laying a hand on the tousled head. "Captain Treville will not mind you borrowing this, my friend. Get some sleep. I shall wake you when d'Artagnan and I have the information you need."

He headed for the door and nearly missed the mumbled comment. "You're welcome," he smiled and left.