A/N Many thanks for reading and reviewing, as always.
CHAPTER TEN
At Athos's sudden yell of surprise, Porthos grabbed the heavy post that held the remainder of the railing to the roof, and threw his arm out.
Athos caught his hand just as his feet slipped off the floor and into space.
Porthos grunted and braced himself with his body against the post and tightened his grip of Athos's hand, as his brother spun slowly over the black chasm below.
"You hold tight, now," Porthos hissed through gritted teeth.
"That's my line," Athos grunted as he swung dangerously to and fro.
Aramis was still outside, unaware of the drama unfolding and with no idea what was below them on the floor of the barn, Porthos growled and braced his foot against the post he was now leaning heavily into.
"Undo your weapon belt, it's weighing you down!" he grunted as Athos became very still, aware of the weight Porthos was holding.
"If I do that, and I fall, I may skewer myself on my own sword!" Athos said, through gritted teeth, painfully aware of his shoulder joint being slowly wrenched.
"You ain't gonna fall!" Porthos all but shouted. His pride was at stake here.
But Porthos had no leverage and could not pull him up, as his body was braced against the post with an arm on either side. To move one in order to grasp Athos's hand in both of his, he would lose his balance and they would both go over. The post was the only thing keeping Porthos upright but was digging painfully into his chest.
Athos looked down into pitch black. He had a rough idea of how high they were, but no idea of what lay on the floor beneath them. It could be bare wood, or machinery of some sort. The light from the loose tile above no longer gave any illumination; the moon having disappeared behind dark cloud.
Porthos growled, and tried to tighten his grip.
They both became aware at the same moment that Athos's hand was slowly slipping from his glove.
"Porthos ..."
"I know," Porthos said quietly. "You would be wearin' gloves, wouldn't ya?!" he said, attempting to make light of an increasingly desperate situation.
Before Athos could think of a suitable cutting reply, he felt his fingers slip from his glove, leaving Porthos holding onto the tips of his gloves.
With one last look between them, and hoping he would not land on his own sword, Athos's fingers slipped from his glove, and he fell.
For a moment, he became weightless, the only sound, Porthos's roar which echoed through the barn.
Bracing himself was probably not the wisest thing to do, but it wasn't the painful landing he expected. However, the air left his lungs as his back hit something hard but which gave slightly, at the same time serving to break his fall. His diaphragm spasmed painfully at the same time and for a moment, he could not breathe.
The barn was flooded with light then, as Aramis came forward at some speed, holding the lamp aloft.
Oblivious to what had just happened, but having heard Porthos's yell, he looked at Athos, lying now on what appeared to be a mound of old hay, struggling for breath; his eyes watering.
Looking up, he realised what had happened and quickly put the lamp down, and crossed the floor to straighten Athos's legs and pull him into a better position.
Slowly, Athos managed to drag in his first breath, as Aramis grounded him with a firm hand on his chest. He nodded up at Porthos, who sat down heavily in relief that he had not killed his brother.
"Anything hurt?" Aramis asked, innocently.
"Only my pride," Athos gasped, after a few worrying moments.
"Don't burn the place down until mornin'" Porthos shouted at Aramis from above. "I don't fancy sleeping outdoors tonight."
Aramis duly collected the lamp and placed it safely out of the way of the hay.
In the loft, Porthos sat quietly for a while. In his palm lay Aubin's small carved horseshoe he had pulled from his pocket.
"Luck of the Devil," he murmured, shaking his head.
"Who are you talking to, my friend?" Aramis called, looking up toward the loft.
Porthos straightened and walked to the edge of the floor, looking down at them both.
"No-one," he said, starting down the steps.
Athos lay still for a while, catching his breath, before shifting position to push himself up. His hand fell upon something, and he scooped it up.
It was a leather ammunition pouch. Opening it up by the drawstring, Athos tipped a dozen musket balls into his hand.
"It is Treville's" he murmured, recognising the distinctive design embossed in the black leather.
"Look at this," Porthos called, coming down the steps to join them, pausing on the last step, his hand stopping on the railing.
Aramis stepped across and looked at the stain on the wood.
"Blood," he said quietly.
"One, or both of them, is hurt," Aramis said.
"This is not just a matter of delivering Richelieu's letter," Athos replied, "It's about keeping them alive."
oOo
Two days prior, Elizabeth had levelled the pistol at the door. Treville had pressed it on her when he had left to trudge across the field to the abandoned farmhouse. She heard uneven footsteps approaching and readied herself. The barn door suddenly opened and Treville almost fell through the doors.
Laying the pistol carefully aside, she took his weight as he steadied himself. They both moved off toward the mound of hay under the loft and Elizabeth helped him off with his weapon belt and laid it all on the straw at their feet.
"What happened?" she gasped, looking around, fearful of being attacked.
"It's alright, he is dead," Treville grunted.
"Who? Who is dead?!"
"I have no idea," he gritted his teeth and pulled himself toward a post, leaning his shoulder against it, before sinking down.
"Perhaps we should have left Paris sooner; this man had time to catch us up."
He handed her the thin blade he had taken from the man who had attacked him.
"Take this; it may serve you well," he murmured, adding "Please, don't argue," when he saw the look she gave him.
She slipped it inside her jacket.
"Are you sure he was not a highway robber?" she asked, helping him off with his jacket, laying it next to his weapon belt.
"He was too pleased to see me to be a mere robber," Treville replied, through still gritted teeth. "But he was on his own; I saw no-one else."
"I am sorry," he said then, looking up as she stood over him.
She looked surprised.
"For what?"
"For not bringing you a chicken," he smiled.
She started to laugh, and it was a wonderful sound. He slumped to his side, propping himself on his elbow, and watched her as she composed herself.
For the next half hour, Elizabeth was a flurry of activity. She fetched the water skin, and tore the hem of her cadet shirt. Soaking it, she cleaned the wound as best she could. The cut was a slice some eight inches long, quite deep at one end. It cut across his lower back and would need stitches, but they had no medical equipment. They would need to seek help.
Through it all, he was still, accepting her help, even though he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles were white. She finished by pressing a wad of material against the wound and tying a strip of material around his midsection to hold it in place. Afterwards, he thanked her gruffly, and looked around.
There was a loft above them, but he did not want to use his remaining energy by climbing the ladder. He obviously abhorred their present situation, and squaring his shoulders, he commenced drawing some straw aside to add to the mound they had been resting on, occasionally holding on to the railing to steady himself.
She knew better than to try and stop him.
Something had bred loyalty and honour in this man, she thought, as she sat watching him move tentatively to their saddle bags and pull out his cloak, setting it down upon the straw. There was steel forged in the heart of him that spoke of something long broken and she was sorry for it.
For his part, he had never spoken of it; the day he turned his heart to stone. Perhaps he never would. Perhaps he was afraid of the cracks that were appearing against his will, brought on by a motley crew of equally damaged men, like himself, who he was proud to call his men; his brothers. And a young woman, who had added to the fissures of late.
He would have to shore it up again, or he was lost.
He insisted she sleep, while he kept watch.
At first light, Elizabeth checked his wound. The sight of it made her catch her breath, but she did not allow a sound to escape her. She merely washed it once more and folded a fresh piece of linen to press over the cut, securing it with a strip now torn from Treville's shirt.
She refused to move on until he had slept a little, promising she would stand watch now. Seeing how she had wielded the pistol she now held in her hand, he agreed.
Later:
Treville's wound slowed them down, each fall of his horses's hooves a painful reminder. It was not a mortal wound, but it would soon need stitching, if he was to avoid infection. Heading north-east now, there were a few more buildings scattered along the roadway. They passed a few traders on the way, before seeing what appeared to be a small chapel ahead of them at the side of the road. No doubt, further on, there would be a village to which it was affiliated, but he did not wish to enter a village and so they stopped.
It looked deserted, although its roof looked sound. Alighting painfully from his horse, Treville led Elizabeth to the door, taking hold of the large iron ring and turning it. The heavy wooden door slowly creaked open on noisy hinges, announcing their arrival.
Inside, an old priest was wielding a broom with a strength he did not look capable of.
Seeing them silhouetted in the doorway, he stopped; the dust settling around him.
"I am Father Pascal," he called in a strong voice which belayed his obvious age.
Treville and Elizabeth pushed inside and looked around at the small inner sanctum.
"As you can see," the priest continued, "My congregation has somewhat diminished." He waved his hand towards the back of the room, where two equally old women sat, eyeing them warily.
"Father," Treville said, "I am in need of a needle and thread."
The old priest had put aside his broom and now looked at them steadily.
Treville collapsed heavily onto the nearest pew and the two old women fled.
As Elizabeth tried to hold him upright her hat slipped from her head and her long blonde hair unfurled around her shoulders.
"Oh," the old man said, but his rheumy eyes twinkled. "Here is a tale I shall be interested to hear!"
To be continued ...