Hey there,

it's really hot here in Europe perfect weather to greet the longest day of the year.

To our guest: Thank you so much, Liz, for your review. I am glad that your dinner didn't get burned this time. I hope you will enjoy the next chapter as well.

Perhaps after this you can figure out what's wrong with Athos.

If you still decide to read and follow our story, please let us know what you think. xx C

Here's ch 11. Enjoy and keep on guessing ;-)


Chapter 11

A little bit earlier at the palace

Could this day become even worse? Tréville wondered as he stood guard next to the King, the Duke of Savoy and a peacock called Rochefort.

D'Artagnan had earlier appeared in the King's gardens and had informed him quietly about Athos' state of health and that Lemay was on his way to the garrison to check on him a second time. He could see the concern in the eyes of his young soldier. How could he comfort the young Gascon when he himself was now concerned too? He had hoped that the fever would have left his Lieutenant by now.

Why can't he fight this flu? Why does it still have him in his grip?

He noticed that a figure was looking out of one of the windows of the palace. As he checked for a possible threat he looked up and to his surprise he spotted Milady.

So the court gossip seems to be true, Milady is the King's latest mistress. Does Athos know? Is that the reason why he can't fight this flu as he probably could? Is she the reason why he is so severely ill this time?

Tréville became angry. This woman was around and his brave and tough soldier became weak and acted like a complete fool or a hurt dog and most of the time he ended up drinking and he needed the strength of his friends to bring him back. Tréville lost himself in his thoughts.

In the meantime the King had a great deal of fun, shooting at bottles a servant had prepared at a short distance. His shooting skills were not bad but he missed several targets and the Duke of Savoy, standing next to him, wasn't sure if he really wanted to participate in the game. He was the better shooter and he knew it but he also knew how complicated his brother-in-law and host could be. Winning against him here and now with all the hopes he had put into this trade summit would probably lose him quite a fortune.

So he agreed to shoot some rounds too but ensured that the King was the better shot. When the Captain of the Red Guards also joined him, he was an even worse shot or so it appeared when shooting against the King.

Oh this Rochefort is good at manipulating Louis, he realised. It's better not to trust him.

Savoy looked at Captain Tréville standing a few paces away from them, doing his job and guarding the area. The last time they had met, he had fought against one of his Musketeers who had beaten him in a sword fight.

And what a fight!

King Louis seemed to become bored and looked around, seeing Tréville who looked a bit confused and sad this morning. So in order to cheer him up he had a brilliant idea.

"Come on Tréville. You are so serious, lately. Please, join us in shooting! I am curious who is the better shooter the Captain of my Musketeers or the Captain of the Red Guards!"

Louis' loud laughter brought Tréville back into the here and now.

A competition against Rochefort. Please, don't ask me to do this!

But too late, the King had already asked him.

"Tréville what is it? You are looking a bit concerned this morning?"

"Please, your Majesty, I think my duty is to observe the area to prevent any possible threats. I am sure the Duke of Savoy will do another shooting round with you!"

"Tréville this is a lame excuse, besides, I am getting bored. I am better than Rochefort and the Duke!"

Tréville sighed out loud. He could not say "no" to the King again, not this time. So he prepared himself to beat Rochefort as the Captain of the Red Guards stepped in.

"The reason why the Captain looks so worried today is that one of his officers has fallen ill!"

Angrily Tréville looked at Rochefort. Couldn't this man for once keep his mouth shut?

"Really, Tréville? Who is it? And what does he have?"

All alarm bells chimed in Tréville's head. What should he say to the King? He couldn't lie to him.

"It is Athos your Majesty. He seems to have been infected by the flu."

Tréville expected an answer like "oh", "but this is harmless" or some other nonsense, but the King surprised him instead.

"That's not good, my son had that horrible cold! Wish him a speedy recovery from me!"

He could say no more, because he was interrupted by the Duke of Savoy.

"You are saying your officer Athos has fallen ill?"

"Yes, My Lord!"

"Is this the soldier who fought with me last year?"

"Yes, it is him! Why?"

"Oh, I was just curious. Wish him a speedy recovery from me too, he is a fine soldier, I hope he gets better soon."

"Come Tréville. We've had enough exercise for the morning, we have to discuss some more important details for our trade summit. If you'll excuse us!" The King told his brother-in-law.

Without waiting for an answer he lead the way and Tréville, d'Artagnan and Rochefort followed their King. Rochefort hadn't said a word about Athos' condition, but Tréville was sure it would come. Something like, "I truly hope that your other soldiers will be fit for duty" or something like that. He was simply waiting for the right moment, he was always like that.

Tréville sensed another headache coming on and he was glad as he heard d'Artagnan whisper to him:

"Well, that was an interesting move from the King. At least we don't have to fear now that he wants to see Athos this afternoon at the palace."

XXXXX

Athos' room

While Athos was sleeping, Doctor Lemay talked to Aramis and Porthos.

"I agree with you, we have to get his fever down or I am afraid he will not survive the night!" Doctor Lemay said to a shocked Porthos and Aramis.

"How can we do this?"

Porthos looked frightened, as he tried to blink some unshed tears away.

"First, could you again name the symptoms he has had since the beginning of his illness?"

Aramis started slowly:

"Headache, sickness, swollen throat, feeling dizzy, high fever, hallucinations, chest pain …"

"He hasn't had any coughing yet?" Lemay interrupted Aramis.

"No not that I am aware of … Porthos?"

"No, no coughing, only breathing much too heavily, catching his breath and he is very emotional. Much too exhausted, confused and very tired most of the time …"

And terrifyingly talkative. Porthos thought bitterly.

"Constance has told me that a warm bath can help to reduce a high fever, but I'm not sure if his heart will be strong enough to survive this." Dr. Lemay added cautiously, while listening to the heart of his patient once again. "It's still beating much too fast for my liking. The way he is complaining about his chest pains tells me that he's in a great deal of pain, caused by his racing heartbeat." Lemay sighed out loud.

"Try it with cold compresses first on his face, his wrists and ankles and try to give him more tea and water to drink. If this doesn't help, try the bath, but ..." He became silent and Aramis was well aware what he didn't want to tell them.

"How shall we bathe him, doctor?" Porthos asked, while Aramis tried to fight with his emotions.

Lemay gave them some quick instructions, while Aramis and Porthos stared at the doctor feeling more and more uneasy.

"So this is all we can do for him right now?" Aramis asked obviously shaken.

"I am afraid yes and now I need to leave you. I have several other flu patients at the palace who also need my help. " Lemay excused himself.

Lemay left the three men behind, not sure if it wasn't already too late for Athos and instead of a bath his friends should consider calling a priest.

XXXXX

A few minutes later, still in Athos' room

"So, what do we do, now?" Porthos asked after Lemay's departure. "We have to try the bath, Aramis. I doubt that bathing his face, which we've been doing all day long, will help to reduce his fever, we have to bathe him! Now! We cannot waste precious time sitting next to him and doing nothing. He's asleep so helping him to drink more tea, won't work. It's his last chance. I know the doctor hasn't said it out loud, but he fears that Athos will … Aramis? … Aramis!"

Aramis was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his right hip against Athos' trembling arm, looking at his friend's drawn features. His right hand curled around Athos' wrist on the man's chest, not breaking contact with his pulse. His left hand clutched at his rosary so tightly that the beads must have embedded themselves into his skin. His head was bowed and his black curls fell like a thick curtain on his face. Porthos, sitting at the table, had been staring at him for long minutes. The unusual silence of his friend made him feel uneasy … His thigh still throbbed intermittently and he cursed the day he had received this bolt. Bad timing. He so wanted to be strong!

They would have to take Athos to the garrison's bathroom, Porthos thought. This room at the back of the building was a small room heated by a huge fireplace whose hearth occupied a third of one of the four walls. There were no windows in order to keep both the privacy of the users and the heat. The thick door had two big rusty bolts. Three wooden bathtubs had been settled in the dim room separated by screens made of canvas stretched over wooden frames. The orange light of the roaring fire played with the translucent fabric of the screens and the white linens laying in the bathtubs in order to protect the user's skin from splinters.

Porthos remembered the smell of the room, a mix of smoke, sweat, herbs and sometimes soap made of olive oil and lavender -for the wealthiest of them who also used musky perfumes from Oriental countries-.

In the silence, only broken by Athos' ragged breath, Porthos tried to figure out how they could take Athos to that -so far away- room.

"We have to take him to the bathroom. We can't bring a tub in here, it's too heavy and none of us is strong enough. And it's too cold here." He began, breaking the thick silence.

Aramis startled and raised his head. His eyes shone with an unmistakable wetness and they widened as Porthos talked.

"Sorry, Wh … what?" He stammered.

"We have to take him to the bathroom." Porthos repeated. "We are not strong enough to bring a bathtub and one hundred liters of warm water in here."

Aramis looked at him with wide eyes, as if Porthos had spoken to him in a foreign language.

"Aramis, pull yourself together, dammit!" He shouted.

And he immediately regretted his outburst as Aramis lowered his head once more. Slowly standing up, Porthos approached his friend and laid a hand on the thick silky hair.

"Hey … Sorry, Aramis, I am so sorry, but we …"

"You are right!" Aramis interrupted him in a firm voice. "If we don't do anything, this fever will kill him … and us." He added in a barely audible voice.

Porthos briefly scratched his friend's scalp and removed his hand. Aramis looked up and a small smile wavered on his lips. He let go of his rosary, tucking it again in his collar and used Porthos' right hand to stand up … and take comfort at the same time. They stood together, shoulder-to-shoulder, for a few seconds, their eyes unable to leave the shivering shape of their friend's body.

The door softly creaked open. They didn't turn around, not even caring who the newcomer was.

"Er ... ahem … Is he … tell me he isn't …" Pleaded a hushed young voice.

Realising how their behaviour could be misleading, Porthos turned abruptly with the brightest smile he could manage.

"Hey you! Look Aramis, here is our saviour!"

D'Artagnan literally slumped from relief. Seeing the two of them standing side by side head bowed over the bed, had scared him. Now he could feel his heartbeat slow down and he slowly breathed out, his mouth forming a funny "o".

Porthos smiled fondly.

"Sorry, d'Artagnan. We scared you."

"No … no … not at all ..." He stammered shakingly. "I … just … wanted …"

"To help us take that human source of heat to the bathroom." Porthos finished his sentence trying to alleviate the tense atmosphere.

"But … I thought … I heard someone say that it … it could …"

"It could kill him, you are right." Aramis whispered. "But this fever will kill him anyway."

D'Artagnan staggered and had to sit down on the nearest chair.

"Hey … not the time for you to faint. Let's find a solution!" Pothos told him.

D'Artagnan stayed quiet, staring at his sick friend. He sucked in a few deep breaths.

"The problem is that our friend is surely a lot thinner than Porthos … ouch!" Aramis cried as Porthos' hand landed on the back of his head. "But, he is heavy." He continued, instinctively rearranging his tousled hair.

A silence, then:

"Stretcher!" D'Artagnan's firm voice startled the two older men.

"How a farm boy can be so clever?" Porthos laughed clapping a heavy hand on the young man's shoulder. "Of course, we need a stretcher!"

"I'll go to the infirmary right now, to fetch one, wait for me!" D'Artagnan cried eagerly and he left.

"Don't worry, we're not going anywhere." Porthos said with a snort to the uneven planks of the now closed door.

During d'Artagnan's absence, they discussed the terms of the trip they were about to undertake and how they would protect and keep their precious cargo warm.

Cargo? Did they say "cargo"? Are they kidding? I wish I could send them one of my glares that often make them lower their eyes … However, they said "precious"... My dear friends, I am so sorry to be such a burden. Not a precious cargo, a burden. An insane and weak and drunk burden. Why am I so weak and dependent …? I want it over… One way or another, I want it over, please … make it stop …

A short discussion and d'Artagnan was already back, his trousers covered in mud and a large stretcher in his arms. He dropped it onto the floor, panting.

"That heavy?" Porthos laughed.

"No, but I wanted to be quick so I ran … er … and …"

"And?" Aramis asked frowning.

"And I fell in the courtyard." D'Artagnan added sheepishly.

"My God!" Aramis laughed. "Now, how are we going to use that thing?"

"Er … like everyone uses a stretcher. We lay Athos on it and we carry him into the bathroom. What else?" Porthos asked.

"We need to protect him from the looks of the other men and from the cold and the rain." D'Artagnan said quietly, staring at his sick brother with a worried look. "Oh, and I asked Roch to fill a tub with warm water."

"Ah! At least there is one grown up Musketeer in this room besides me." Aramis said before adding. "You are right d'Artagnan, give me that hideous blue blanket. We will cover him with it as soon as he is laid on that thing. I would prefer him awake, but he seems reluctant to enjoy the trip. I just hope he won't wake up during our walk."

All these little jokes seemed misplaced, but they helped them to tame their sorrow and their fears. When Aramis laid a hand on Athos' shoulder, the man shivered so violently that he was startled and removed it.

"D'Artagnan, come here," Aramis said gesturing towards the headboard. "Talk to him, talk to him like you did when he had this … you know … I don't know what you said, but it helped him. Can you do that? In the meantime, Porthos and I will lift him. Both of you, warm your hands if they are cold. We need to stress him as little as possible."

The voice … the words … please, don't stop … don't stop … don't leave me ... My God … it hurts … keep talking to me, please … don't leave me … talk to me ...

And so they did. While d'Artagnan poured in Athos' ear a stream of -maybe Gascon- words, holding his right hand and careful not to be in the others' way, Porthos and Aramis lifted their comrade. The whole process went surprisingly well, but as they laid Athos on the stretcher, his body suddenly arched, he screamed and collapsed, unconscious. At least it was what Aramis hoped as he leaned, frightened, over his friend's body frantically trying to find a pulse.

To be continued …