CHAPTER 10
When they reached Lillers, the Inseparables, finally complete again, stopped at the first inn they came across to ask for a room. They dismounted in the yard, Porthos handing down his wounded friend to Athos and d'Artagnan, when the door opened, a man stepping out.
"Bonsoir," the man greeted, holding the lantern in his hand a little higher to get a better look at the new arrivals. He eyed the men suspiciously, especially once he became aware of the limp form of Aramis hanging between d'Artagnan and Athos.
"Bonsoir," Porthos replied, sliding down his horse, a thud sounding through the yard when his feet connected with the ground. He took a step towards the man at the door. "We need a room. Are you the innkeeper?" It was not yet growled, but the threatening stature of Porthos did the rest.
As soon as the innkeeper saw the pauldrons and realized he was dealing with the King's Musketeers, he hurriedly invited them in.
"Please, Messieurs, come in, I'll show you a room." Holding the door open for the Musketeers, he let them enter, the soldiers half dragging, half carrying the wounded man between them. "Up the stairs," the innkeeper declared, already brushing past them to lead the way.
It was not easy to get Aramis up the stairs, the stairway was too narrow for more than two men side by side, but finally Porthos carried the marksman alone and they reached the room.
The small commotion attracted the innkeeper's wife. She hurried up the stairs behind the Musketeers and tried to get a glimpse of what was going on in the room but couldn't see past the men who momentarily blocked the doorway.
"Lay him down here, it's our biggest room. Ninette, stoke the fire," the innkeeper ordered, spotting his wife in the hallway. To the Musketeers, he added, "What else do you need?"
"Send for a doctor, our comrade is badly wounded. And if you could bring us bottles of wine and some hard liquor and bandages or towels," Athos answered. "And tell the boy to bring up our saddlebags." They had left the horses to their own devices and Athos wondered now if there was a stable boy at all, he hadn't seen, or at least not noticed, one. It doesn't matter, the innkeeper can look after the horses himself, he thought. He had more important things to see to now.
If the innkeeper wondered about a request for wine and liquor so short after their arrival, he didn't let it show; if the Musketeers craved alcohol, he would not be the one to deny them. And he wisely chose not to comment. Had he asked, Porthos would very likely have snarled at him that if he knew of something better suited to disinfect wounds and soothe a man's pain than liquor and wine, he was welcome to speak up.
"Coming up, monsieur," the innkeeper replied, handing another log from the basket with firewood to his wife who had busied herself at the fireplace.
When the fire burned brightly, Athos shooed the innkeeper and his wife out of the room, closing the door behind them. Now they could start caring for Aramis.
Porthos was already kneeling beside the bed, his hand reaching for the cloth that lay beside the washing basin on the nightstand. He wet the cloth with cold water, gently dabbing at Aramis' shirt to soak the fabric stuck to the chest caked with blood. "I hope the madame brings hot water, it would make this easier," he mumbled, more to himself. "Though the cold water might not be the worst of ideas, given how you burn with fever."
Athos stepped up to the other side of the bed, bending down to help peel the shirt from the skin where Porthos had managed to soak the fabric. The comte's eyes strayed from his hand's tasks every so often, looking over his brother's body for more injuries, obvious or hidden, eager to eventually strip down the marksman to get an unobstructed view of all the wounds and damage that had been inflicted on him. "D'Artagnan," Athos addressed the young man who stood at the foot of the bed.
D'Artagnan did not react, staring wide-eyed at the man on the bed, seemingly lost in observation.
"D'Artagnan," the captain tried once again, "can you help me with the shirt? I would like to get these rags off of him sooner rather than later."
The Gascon's eyes moved until they found his mentor's gaze. "Of course," d'Artagnan finally answered after a moment's silence, roused from his stupor at last, and stepped around the bed to help his companions.
Before long they were able to pull the shirt free from Aramis' body, the sight causing gasps as nausea rose instantly. Aramis' whole upper torso was covered in dark, large bruises, and ugly, infected gashes stretched from his shoulders down to the stomach.
A knock at the door interrupted them in their physical examination. The innkeeper brought the saddlebags, and his wife a tray with various bottles of liquor, warm water and towels. "Our son is on his way to fetch the medic," the innkeeper declared, placing the saddlebags on the table.
D'Artagnan relieved the woman of the tray and dismissed both with a brusque, "Thank you," lingering behind them until they were finally out of the door. The young Gascon hadn't meant to be rude, but with Aramis' beaten body lying on the bed he couldn't stand to have the couple in the room, trying to get a glimpse of his wounded brother.
As soon as the door closed, Athos and Porthos made short process of pulling off the boots and cutting away the breeches and braies, throwing everything in a heap beside the fire place. D'Artagnan returned to the bed after he had placed the tray on the table. All the men stilled for a moment, taking in the state of their friend's body. With a kind of macabre relief they observed that most of the wounds had been inflicted only for the purpose of hurting. And causing tremendous pain, not to injure mortally. Yet, they all knew that often it was not the wound itself but the infection that killed in the end.
Porthos, still kneeling beside the bed, moved his hands over Aramis' legs with a gentleness no one would expect from a man of Porthos' stature. "I can feel no broken bones, the bullet wound seems to be the worst lesion here. Some of the cuts are infected, though."
Yet, they all saw that the ankles were swollen and the skin grazed where ropes had cut into the flesh and bruises covered a good part of both legs.
"Here are at least two ribs broken," Athos stated, prodding at Aramis' ribcage on the right side. Moving his hands back to the left side, he added, "Here's one either broken or cracked."
The comte continued his examination, his hands sweeping both extremities, which showed mottled bruising in every shade of color and a few cuts, but he detected no more broken bones. Apart from Aramis' left hand, which they already knew of.
"His hands must have been bound for a long time. Look how deeply grazed the skin is, swollen and infected." D'Artagnan had wet a cloth and was trying to soften the bloody crusts on both wrist to see how serious the incisions were. The water did not have the immediate intended effect, nor was this the most urgent action to see to, but it gave the young man the chance to busy his hands and keep his thoughts from wandering. With a task at hand he had something to concentrate on, other than the frightening condition they had found their brother in.
While doffing the unconscious man's shirt, Athos had seen that Aramis' back looked very much the same as his whole body did, covered in a colorful array of bruises, but thankfully no open wounds. Aramis' shoulders, however, were strangely swollen, bigger than they would be normally, and the shoulder blades bulging on the back. "I'm not sure if lying on his back is less painful than any other position, but due to lack of better alternatives he will have to bear it."
Porthos nodded without looking up from the bullet wound he gently palpated. "He'll understand, don't worry." It was an excuse and absolution not only for Athos, but also for himself; neither of them wished to add more torment to their friend and loathed being helpless against this right now. Porthos had heard the tightness in the other man's voice, and realized that this was more than a simple statement from their captain; he knew what the older man needed to hear.
Finished with this first physical inventory, Athos unpacked the saddlebags, handing off the things he thought they would need for treatment to either Porthos or d'Artagnan as he assigned duties. "Porthos, see to the bullet wound. D'Artagnan, you'll help me. Bring the water and grab some of the towels."
There was far more to clean up than just the pus-filled wounds on Aramis' bare chest; Athos took a cloth and began to wash away layer after layer of grit and grime and dried blood. D'Artagnan, standing beside the comte with towels, cautiously patted the skin and wounds dry, careful in his ministrations. Every now and then, when the water became too filthy with blood and grime to use it any longer, d'Artagnan exchanged it for a clean bowl.
Porthos busied himself with the leg, cleaning it with warm water he had poured into the washing basin on the nightstand and disinfecting the wound before he spread out the sewing kit. Studying the lesion for a while he considered how best to sew the frayed skin.
They worked in silence, everyone concentrating on what he was doing and dwelling on his own thoughts. What worried them most was the high fever and the fact that Aramis had lost too much blood and not gained consciousness again since when they had first found him. The fact of this circumstance hung heavily between them in the quiet room. Another knock on the door interrupted the stillness and after a nod from Athos, d'Artagnan walked over to open the door.
A fragile, old woman, bowed down by age, with a shriveled face and white hair tied up in a chignon, stood stooped on the threshold, a big basket hanging from her arm. "You have sent for medical aid, messieurs?" she asked, already stepping into the room.
Both men working over Aramis looked up and, upon catching sight of the woman, suddenly became aware of the fact that their companion on the bed was, effectively, nude.
Before any of them could even move to cover at least Aramis' private parts or say anything at all, the old woman chuckled. "Don't look so embarrassed, messieurs, this is not the first nude man I have seen. My husband, God rest his soul, served with King Henry and I have four sons. There are no parts of a man's body I have not seen. Or treated." While speaking she had moved into the room, stopping beside the bed. Taking in the state of the body in front of her she said nothing for quite some time.
Porthos had stopped with his doings but had not shifted one inch away from Aramis, hovering over his wounded friend. His message was clear. He would fight tooth and nails against whatever or whomever came too close to Aramis without his permission. Athos had moved to the side to give the woman access to the patient, clenching his hand unconsciously to keep it from grabbing the pommel of his rapier. D'Artagnan stepped behind Athos after he had closed the door, watching the woman narrowly.
"Who are you, Madame, if I may ask," Athos questioned in a neutral tone, suspicion tinging his voice too lightly to be heard by anyone other than his brothers.
"My name is Bertrande. The innkeeper's son came to fetch me, said you needed someone experienced in treating an injured man. That poor boy has suffered a lot, I see." She looked up to Porthos, then turned her eyes on Athos. "I'm no doctor or barber surgeon, but I have treated a lot of wounds in my life, childhood ailments and work accidents as well as battle wounds. I think I can help your friend, as long as you trust me." She glanced over to Porthos again, aware of the protectiveness all the men radiated. "I see you serve the son, Louis. King's Musketeers they are called nowadays, right? Always lots of trouble and pain for those close to the crowned heads," she muttered, shaking her head slightly.
Athos quickly looked over to Porthos to size up the other man's reaction; they would need every bit of help they could get to treat Aramis. Neither of them had much experience with infected wounds and the consequent fever, the extent of their medical knowledge narrowed down to sewing wounds, stopping blood flow and setting bones. With Aramis at their side, they had never had to learn more. They had always relied on their designated healer and marksman to take care of such things. Not once had it occurred to any of them that Aramis might not always be at their side to instruct them.
"We very much appreciate your help." Athos stated, Porthos emphasizing it with a nod, and just now the comte realized that they had not introduced themselves. "My name is Athos, this is Porthos and d'Artagnan. Our friend here is called Aramis."
"What can we do?" d'Artagnan asked, shuffling impatiently behind the woman, eager to continue with their care for Aramis. To look at the battered body on the bed was hard for the young man, he could hardly stand how very still Aramis lay there, bathed in a feverish sweat and bruises and wounds.
"I need boiled water and cups for a concoction against the fever and the infection, and something for a mixture to ease the pain. Bring a bucket with cold water from the well, too. And towels. We have to clean the wounds and sew the worst of them, then we can apply a healing ointment and bandage them. But foremost, the fever needs to come down." The herb-wife touched Aramis' forehead and frowned, then ran her wrinkled hand down the side of his face tenderly. "Wrap his legs in towels drenched in cold water. Do the same with his arms and the forehead." She paused for a moment. "And maybe you should cover his private parts. I think despite being unconscious now he will be thankful for it later." Chuckling, she shuffled over to the table where she began unpacking things from her basket.
D'Artagnan hurriedly grabbed one of the dry towels and threw it over Aramis' lower body parts, his eye shifting to Porthos. The big man smirked upon seeing the look on the Gascon's face. D'Artagnan huffed and left the room to fetch water.
Athos had followed Bertrande with his eyes, a little stunned by the straightforwardness of the woman. She seemed to be a practical lady with a no-nonsense attitude. He thought he liked her.
"Have you checked for internal injuries? How long has he been unconscious?" While speaking, the old woman took out several small containers, a few bottles with liquids, and also a kit that contained most likely surgical instruments, which she placed on the table. "Was he able to tell you anything about his injuries? Has he complained about inner aches? Nausea?"
"We found him unconscious and he was awake only for a few minutes, unable to tell us anything," Athos answered. "We don't know about internal injuries, but he has broken and cracked ribs, a broken wrist and the bullet wound in the leg." He paused for a moment. "The rest you can see."
"Mhmm, I see," the herb-wife mumbled, busying herself with her bottles and containers, checking to see if she had the right ingredients for salves, enough powder for a concoction, and herbs and tinctures to start with the injured man's treatment.
When d'Artagnan was back with a bucket of cold water, heaving it up on the small table beside Aramis' bed, he informed the others, "I asked the innkeeper's wife to bring bowls and boiled water. I think it won't be long, she already had a kettle over the fire." While speaking, the young man's eyes sought the marksman's form on the bed as if gravitating there without his volition.
Athos, who had been studying his young protégé more closely over the last hours, instructed d'Artagnan to help him with covering Aramis' legs and arms with soaked towels, starting their task after the herb-wife had added finely chopped chickweed to the water.
Porthos had remained sitting in front of Aramis' leg, needle and thread still in his hands. Now he looked expectantly to the old woman when she came over to the bed again, waiting for a sign that he should continue with his task or if she was going to suggest something else.
The woman bent over the leg to inspect the wound. "Did you retrieve the bullet or was it a straight-through wound?" She stabbed a little at the ragged wound.
"There is a clean exit wound on the back, so we think the bullet is not stuck in there. No idea why the edges are so frayed, though."
"It seems the hole was ripped open by something else after the shot. Maybe he stumbled and scratched it open with a branch. You have already disinfected it?"
Porthos nodded, "Aye, I did."
"Then you can sew it, I'll give you an ointment to apply before you bandage it."
After the maid had brought boiled water and bowls, Athos and d'Artagnan cleansed the wounds thoroughly. The old woman added sitherwood, columbine and archangel to the water and explained that it would help to disinfect the wounds. While the Musketeers worked, she prepared brews and concoctions, and the ointment she eventually handed over to Porthos once he had finished with closing the bullet wound.
"Young man," the woman addressed d'Artagnan, "change the damp towels, I doubt they are cooling any longer."
D'Artagnan did so, and then hurried out of the room to fetch fresh, cool water from the well.
Porthos finished with the leg wound, only now vacating his place to wash his hands and stow away the sewing kit. Then he moved back to sit beside the bed, just as the herb-wife came over again.
The old woman examined Aramis' body more thoroughly now, from head to toe, prodding here and there and also lifting Aramis' eyelids to inspect the eyes. When she was content with her examination she straightened herself with a soft groan, pressing one hand to her back. "I would recommend the fractured wrist be reduced again, it's not set properly. I can do this, but whoever of you did it the first time, can do it again. It's not difficult, I'll show you, you just have to make sure the fingers are bent slightly before you wrap it again." She glanced at both men, before continuing, "Then you can apply ointment to every cut and gash. Put a great deal of it on every wound, I can always make more. And then you can bind the broken ribs, I'm sure Musketeers are experienced at doing this." She smiled, and even more so when she saw the confirmation on the men's faces that she had hit home with her remark.
"Some o' those cuts are deep and should be sewed," Porthos tossed in, waving vaguely to the cuts on Aramis' chest.
"Before we can close them we have to extract the infection, and the pus has to drain off. The ointment will help."
Porthos nodded his understanding, watching the herb-wife bend over Aramis again.
"I'll prepare another salve for the shoulders. I don't like the way they look, wonder what he has done to them. The swelling needs to go down before I can check if there is anything broken or torn," the old woman stated when she had finished her examination of Aramis' shoulders.
Just then the door opened and d'Artagnan came back with another bucket and the innkeeper in tow.
"Messieurs, is there anything else you need? I can send up a stew and bread if you want to eat here rather than downstairs in the taproom." The innkeeper glanced over to the bed where Aramis lay, small and frail, displaying ugly wounds on a sweat-soaked body. "Ah, err, of course after you are finished with patching up your friend," the innkeeper added hurriedly, withdrawing to the door.
"We'll let you know when we need anything else, monsieur," Athos said, dismissing the man without looking up, continuing with putting salve on Aramis' wounds, joined by d'Artagnan again.
"Very well," the proprietor muttered and closed the door.
When every wound had been treated thoroughly and Aramis was covered in bandages, Bertrande explained to them how and when they should dose Aramis with her concoctions.
"It's vital to bring down the fever and get the infection out of him. You must give him this one every two hours." She displayed a bowl, then held up another. "This here is for the pain, it should be sufficient if he drinks a little of it about every third or fourth hour. If he wakes up or is clearly in pain, give him a little more. Besides this, he needs to drink. Water or a broth if you can manage to get it into him, but you have to try. He needs to drink. Continue with the cold cloths, but pause when he starts to shiver, add this to the water." The woman had handed over the respective bowls to Athos and now beheld Aramis once more. "I can't see into him, but I have not detected any signs for internal bleeding or injuries. If he has a concussion or something worse we'll only see when he wakes. If you do as instructed, the fever should be down by tomorrow and he will hopefully wake up. I'll come in the morning to check on him." She turned to the table and started to pack her things into the basket. With her back to the men standing around the bed, she added, "You all should eat and sleep. À demain, messieurs."
D'Artagnan rushed to the door to open it for her. "Thank you, madame. Thank you very much for your help." The smile he offered her was a pale imitation of his usual beaming smile.
"De rien," she replied, briefly patting his cheek. Then she was through the door, shuffling down the hallway as was old women's wont.
Turning around after he had closed the door, d'Artagnan found himself confronted with both Porthos and Athos looking at him.
"You look tired, d'Artagnan," Athos stated. "Eat something and then get some sleep. Porthos and I will take the first round."
"Aye," Porthos said, "I will get something to eat and drink for all." Motioning to Athos with one hand, he added, "Get some of that stuff into him."
Athos nodded and lifted Aramis' head, prodding softly at the unconscious man's lips with the bowl, trying to make him swallow some of the liquid.
D'Artagnan came over, rounding the other side of the bed. Together they managed to get some of the concoction of both bowls into their friend, gently lowering the marksman's head down onto the pillow afterwards.
Athos covered Aramis with a light blanket, leaving arms and legs unprotected for an easy handling of the towels they had to change every so often. Pretending to feel for temperature, Athos gently stroked the sweaty brow, lingering a short moment to behold the battered face of his brother. Regaining the composure he had lost for a moment, he straightened, rose, and moved to the table.
Porthos came back with bread, cheese and dried meat, and two bottles of wine, putting it on the table. After a quick glance towards Aramis to make sure he had an unobstructed view of the bed, he grabbed a chair and sat down. Athos filled a cup with wine and gulped down most of its content, fully intending to still his non-existent hunger with liquid rather than something more nutritious. He had, however, reckoned without Porthos, who shoved a plate with bread and meat in front of Athos, accompanying his gesture with an unyielding frown. Exhaling a deep sigh, Athos grabbed the bread, biting off a big chunk.
A smile ghosted the corners of his mouth as d'Artagnan chewed on a piece of meat, washing it down with a sip of his wine. When they had finished eating, d'Artagnan made use of the chamber pot, heading out of the room to empty it and bring back another fresh bucket of cold water. He put the bucket down beside the bed and grabbed for the dried cloths on Aramis legs, but his arm was stopped by his captain.
"Go get some sleep," Athos commanded, "I'll see to it."
The young man hesitated for a moment, looking down at Aramis, then nodded and retired to the empty bed, kicking off his boots on the way. He slumped onto the mattress and closed his eyes, but it was a long time before he finally fell asleep.
Athos followed the motions of their youngest with his eyes until the Gascon curled up on the bed. Then he turned his attention back to Aramis, replacing the dried cloths with fresh, cold towels.
Porthos settled himself at the foodboard of Aramis' bed, a sorrowful look on his face. "He will make it, right?" he asked the older man, but didn't wait for an answer. "Who did this to him, and why?"
"I have no idea," Athos replied, "We'll have to wait until he wakes. I cannot think of any reason for such torture. Or anyone who would order it. This is beyond the doing of a cuckold, and Rochefort is dead."
"Why him?"
Yes, why him, Athos wondered. Had Aramis been an incidental victim to some madmen or had he been picked specifically? But why? Resentful Red Guards? Something from his past? But these men obviously were Flamands, what had Aramis to do with them? He looked down at the marksman's bruised face and softly stroked a curl of hair back from the sweaty, feverish face.
Both men fell quiet again, silently musing over the questions of what and why this had happened to their brother. With the changing of towels and feeding the injured man water and medicine, the hours ticked away.
Finally, Athos submitted to Porthos' continued glaring at him and subtle remarks that it didn't require both of them to keep watch and that Athos was on the brink of looking like a walking corpse. The comte walked over to the other bed to lie down beside d'Artagnan, but only after leaving instructions to wake either d'Artagnan or himself in a couple of hours to relieve the bigger man from his watch, even though he knew the probability of Porthos doing so was about nil.
D'Artagnan came round with the feeling of something warm pressed against his back and needed a second or two to remembered where he was. He lifted his head cautiously to look around the room, noticing Porthos beside Aramis' bed and, with another twist of the head, their sleeping captain wedged in the bed beside him. The Gascon carefully untangled himself from the blanket, avoiding disturbing Athos, and padded over to Porthos.
"I'll take over, you need rest as well. Go before Athos realizes he's alone in the bed and wakes up."
Porthos opened his mouth to protest, but was overwhelmed in that instant by the tiredness and exhaustion and knew he was fighting a losing battle with the young man. He nodded. "Here. Continue with the cold water as often as necessary. Wake me, if you need help." He rose to let d'Artagnan sit down and shuffled over to the bed where Athos now occupied more than half of it due to movement in his sleep. Nonetheless, Porthos managed to squeeze himself in beside his captain and was asleep even before d'Artagnan changed a cloth for the first time.
Taking his instructions very seriously, d'Artagnan rewet the cool cloth Porthos had handed him, dunked it in the basin of water and carefully draped it over the hot forehead.
He changed the damp towels on the left side, working his way around one of the knife slashes, when Aramis began to toss and turn as though trying to escape the simple ministrations. Alarmed, d'Artagnan glanced over his shoulder, wondering if he should wake one of the Musketeers.
His patient moaned and then began to mutter under his breath in a mix of languages d'Artagnan could not distinguish.
Porthos sat bolt right up in bed, glanced toward d'Artagnan and Aramis and was up and across the width of the room in three longs strides. "Move," he commanded, kneeing d'Artagnan to move quickly. The tossing and turning had escalated to thrashing. "He'll pull out all those stitches I just put in 'em!"
Athos sat up too. "What's wrong?"
"He may be comin' around, I dunno." Porthos sat himself down so he could ease the unconscious man up against his chest and wrap his long, powerful arms around his friend. "He's burnin' up though. Maybe the fever's makin' 'em crazy."
Despite Porthos' careful tending through the rest of the night, by morning Aramis was no better and had, in fact, reopened some of the wounds on his chest. And he remained unconscious.
Athos was helping change the bloody bandages when a knock sounded on the door. Bertrande entered without waiting for an invitation.
She put her big basket on the table and came over to the bed, frowning. "His condition hasn't improved?"
"No," Athos answered, "I think the fever is higher than before."
Betrande felt Aramis' damp, hot skin and then checked his wounds. The shoulders seemed to have regressed and looked less swollen and most of the cuts displayed less signs of infection. The gunshot wound was infection-free as well and the broken hand and broken ribs showed no signs of dislocation.
"Monsieur-, Porthos it is, right? I think you can close the cuts now, they seem infection-free and dry," the herb-wife stated, adding, as she turned to Athos, "and you can apply more ointment to the wounds. When you are finished and your friend has sewn up the cuts, you can re-wrap everything. And rub in some more of the salve on the shoulder blades and shoulders. They look good but are still swollen. I'll brew something else for the fever and you should change the towels more often. Keep them as cold as possible."
She busied herself again with her bottles and sachets while the Musketeers carried out the tasks she had assigned them. Finished with mixing various herbs, liquids and ingredients she came over to the bed, examining Porthos' fine stitches and the wounds Athos had covered with salve. When everything was bandaged again, she handed the concoction to Athos and instructed him to give it every half hour, helping to get the first sips into Aramis. Then she packed her things together and came over to the bed once more, looking Aramis up and down again. When her eyes fell on Athos' crestfallen face, she stroked his cheek gently, the same way she had done the day before with Aramis.
Athos looked up in surprise
"Don't fret. He is young and he is strong. I found that soldiers in the service of kings are always a little sturdier and more invincible than others. Soldiers are designated to die on battlefields for their kings, not in bed."
Athos, embarrassed at having been caught worrying over a fellow Musketeer more than a grown man probably should, as well as by the gentle, comforting gesture from the woman, drew back. The last time someone had done so had been his mother, and it was longer ago than he could remember. But it soothed his mind and, thinking about her words, he had to admit they bore some truth. Aramis in particular, had risen out of situation after situation where any other would have been doomed to die. Savoy had been only one of many such situations.
"Je vous remercie beaucoup, Madame," Athos answered, inclining his head slightly, meaning it from the bottom of his heart.
"I'll come back in the evening. Send for me if his condition worsens."
The repetitious tasks of trying to cool down Aramis' hot body and getting enough concoction and water into him occupied the men throughout the day. Most of the time Aramis lay still as if in deep slumber, only his labored breathing assured the Musketeers that he was still alive. When the sun set late in the afternoon, Aramis' behavior shifted and the marksman grew more restless.
D'Artagnan put a fresh cold cloth on Aramis brow just as he started to twist his head from side to side, causing the cloth to slip down immediately. The young man tried to sooth his friend, putting a hand calmingly on his forehead, and with a touch of surprise d'Artagnan realized that it was not hot anymore, barely warmer than the Gascon's hand. "Athos!" he hollered.
Alarmed by the shout, the older man hastened to his protégé's side, face strained with anxiety.
"He has cooled down!"
Athos blinked at his young companion as if not comprehending what he had just heard, but then the older man stirred from his stupor and removed the towels covering Aramis' legs. They felt almost cool to his touch. Athos yanked more towels from Aramis' body, touched the arms, the chest, the forehead. Though it still felt warm – and yes, warm was much better than dead cold, Athos' mind whispered to him – he knew immediately the fever had broken.
Porthos, who had gone to fetch fresh water, entered the room, seeing Athos frantically touching Aramis' body, d'Artagnan beside their captain with wide eyes and an inscrutable look on his face. The bucket the big man carried clattered to the floor, sloshing water everywhere. In three long strides he was beside the bed. "What is it?" he asked, voice threatening to fail.
Athos looked to Porthos with a slight smile on his face. "The fever has broken."