As promised, next chapter was ready and I thought it might be a good one for a Sunday, so here it is. A bit of much needed respite and comfort coming up in the peace of Douai!
Chapter Eleven: Song for the Heartsick Part II
Aramis led d'Artagnan towards a quiet corridor which housed the guest rooms of the Abbey. He had already lodged d'Artagnan's weapons with the gatekeeper, as they had no place in this holy sanctuary. d'Artagnan was left carrying his saddlebags which, when they arrived at the appointed room, he stood holding uselessly in his hands until Aramis took them from him and placed them on the only chair in the room.
Tréville had taken Aramis to one side before leaving, having secured the Abbé's cautious permission for Aramis to spend time with d'Artagnan and away from his normal duties. He quickly briefed the former marksman on what he knew of d'Artagnan's situation, and explained the advice given by both Athos and the physician on how to handle him, particularly on how to coax him to speak by giving him choices and making him feel in control. Aramis' naturally cheerful expression had faded, to be replaced with shock at the news of d'Artagnan's prolonged captivity by the Spanish, and then anger at the implication of his poor treatment and subsequent difficulties.
Now he stood looking at the young Gascon who seemed almost a stranger at this moment, and began to realise the enormity of his task. d'Artagnan had not spoken at all since their arrival, and showed no signs of doing so now. Gone was his natural ebullience, the sunny disposition that had gladdened Aramis' heart so many times when in difficult situations. In his place was a parody of his former self; a hollow, fragile, expressionless man.
What did they do to you, he wondered... and how would he help d'Artagnan to heal?
A starting point would be to check any physical injuries. Tréville had said it was nine or ten days since Porthos and Athos had rescued him, and presumably any injuries had been treated, but apparently he'd been in a battle since then, although it was hard to imagine how he would lift a sword at the moment let alone wield one in anger. He'd been shocked at how thin the Gascon's frame was, when they'd hugged in the courtyard.
Step by step, he told himself sternly.
"The first thing, d'Artagnan, is for you to wash the travel dust off. I will organise a bath and be back in a few minutes. Why don't you unpack your things while I'm gone?"
He was relieved to see d'Artagnan nod at this suggestion.
Hurrying to the washroom at the end of the guest corridor, he found Brother Michel, the monk in charge of visitors to the Abbey, who had been appraised of their guest's arrival and was already busy filling the tin bath from pails of steaming water brought by a couple of younger novitiates. Smiling his thanks, Aramis returned to d'Artagnan to find him staring into his saddlebag. Eyebrows creasing, Aramis moved to his side to see what he was looking at. He saw nothing unusual – in fact there was almost nothing in there: just his travel blanket, a water bottle, a pouch containing his flint and steel, a whetstone, and a small bag which Aramis recognised as the one he'd given d'Artagnan several years ago, containing basic medical supplies – needles, thread, bandages and a healing cream, although that was no doubt long used up.
Looking at d'Artagnan, he saw the Gascon was twisting something in his hands. Cautiously, as if approaching a wild animal that might startle at any moment, he reached out a hand in invitation. After a moment, d'Artagnan sighed and placed the item into his palm. It was a roughly carved wooden cross.
"This is good work," Aramis said, examining it. "Did you make it?" d'Artagnan's face creased with some emotion and he shook his head.
Aramis went to return the cross to d'Artagnan but he pushed Aramis' hand away. Raising a brow, Aramis waited. And was rewarded, eventually, by a soft whisper. "He made it for you. We told him about you."
When nothing more seemed forthcoming, Aramis asked carefully: "Who, d'Artagnan? Who made it?"
But d'Artagnan shook his head, moving suddenly to the bed and sitting down as if exhausted by speaking. Aramis hesitated, looking from him to the cross, but then smiled, and put it carefully into the pocket of his gown. "Then I am grateful, and will treasure it."
It seemed to be the right thing to say, and d'Artagnan nodded. Aramis decided now was not the right time to explain that, under the Benedictine rule, monks were not allowed to accept gifts without the Abbot's permission. He would speak to the Abbé later. Right now he did not want to do anything to jeopardise the Abbé's agreement to place their guest under Aramis' care.*
Aramis led d'Artagnan to the wash room and held the door open as d'Artagnan went slowly in then looked around as if he had no idea what to do there. Sighing, Aramis followed him in and walked to a shelf on the wall, picked out a new block of soap and held it out. d'Artagnan took it without comment, but then stood holding it helplessly.
"Shall I help you?" Aramis offered, quietly. Then watched, horrified, as a tear trickled down d'Artagnan's cheek. Feeling close to tears himself, Aramis took a deep breath. It would not help d'Artagnan if he let his emotions run away with him.
"Right, let's get this doublet off first," he told d'Artagnan, matching actions to words and beginning a running commentary on what he was doing.
He helped him into the bath, struggling to keep his face calm as the extent of the Gascon's injuries was slowly revealed. The bandages on his wrists turned out to extend far up his forearms and looked so stained that he did not attempt to unwind them, simply telling d'Artagnan to let them soak off. There was a cleaner bandage around his upper chest which was also stained with blood in a narrow line across his back; that one came off easily in the water, revealing a sticky shallow cut, clearly fresh, that ran diagonally between his shoulder blades.
"When did this happen, d'Artagnan?" he asked, seeing that it had been stitched a little inexpertly, and was more recent than the other injuries he'd seen so far. d'Artagnan shook his head, either because he didn't know, or didn't want to answer. Perhaps both.
There was evidence of extensive bruising on his upper body, but most had started to fade, leaving ugly yellow stains under his skin. More surprising were the cuts criss-crossing his back and ribs, reminiscent of injuries from a sword, but so numerous and carefully spaced that they had to have been done by design. Most of these had started to heal but the deeper ones were still raw and oozing although they appeared to have been cleaned. When he eased the bandages from d'Artagnan's arms and wrists, he found more lacerations – some deep, some shallow – criss-crossing his forearms. They had clearly been done deliberately, and over a period of time. These too had been cleaned but not stitched and again many showed signs of infection, still oozing pus and blood. Aramis swore, softly, then hastily apologised to God and the Abbé, glad no one could hear him.
The water in the bath was already clouded with grime and a scum of dried blood and skin, so Aramis postponed any further inspection and offered d'Artagnan the soap. "Your hair needs a wash – shall I do it for you?" d'Artagnan was sitting upright in the bath, but his head was bowed and with his long hair covering his eyes Aramis couldn't see his expression. He gave no sign of having heard the question but Aramis could see the tension radiating from his taut muscles. He tried again. "I'm going to wash your hair d'Artagnan."
He thought back to Savoy and how Porthos had handled him. At the beginning Porthos had been the only one who could get through to him: how had he done it? His memories of the first few days back in the garrison were hazy but he had a suspicion that he'd not been very talkative, himself. He chuckled; Porthos would be poking him now for such an understatement.
Suddenly he noticed d'Artagnan had raised his head a little and was looking at him silently, a question in his eyes. "What?" he asked. "Why did I chuckle?" He watched carefully and thought the dark eyes flickered. "I was thinking of Porthos – and me, after Savoy." He hesitated, seeing d'Artagnan's head drop again. This was so hard! He had nothing to go on other than his knowledge of d'Artagnan before the war, which felt like a lifetime ago.
His hands hovered over the filthy hair, desperate to do something: to start washing, cleaning, stitching, soothing. Healing.
"I wasn't very talkative then, either. I was trying to remember if Porthos bothered asking me what I wanted, or just got on with it." d'Artagnan shifted slightly in the cooling water and began picking at one of the bandages around his fingers. "I seem to remember he just told me what he was going to do, and that I didn't have much say in it." d'Artagnan's hands stilled again and Aramis knew he was listening. He hesitated, wondering if he was rushing things. d'Artagnan was already naked and vulnerable. Was he, Aramis, simply steering him the way he wanted him to go? He remembered the physician's advice, imparted by Tréville, to allow d'Artagnan to make his own choices. "But you're not me, are you? And you were held captive, for a long time. So perhaps you need to be in control, now, to make your own decisions. Is that what you want?"
He forced himself to stop babbling and wait. What if d'Artagnan didn't answer? What would he do then – would he be able to respect d'Artagnan's choice to remain silent? With his desperate desire to help d'Artagnan, would he be able to stand back and let his injured friend climb out now, if that's what he wanted, with his hair still matted and stinking, his cuts unwashed and untended?
d'Artagnan finally raised his head again, and Aramis saw tears glistening in those expressive eyes. "I don't know ... what I want," he whispered. And Aramis saw the truth in his eyes. He was exhausted. Spent. He'd used all his energy surviving, not just in captivity but since then. He had nothing left. Nothing at all.
Nodding slowly, to himself as much as d'Artagnan, Aramis gave him a tender smile. "In that case, my friend, I think I'd better make some decisions for you, just for a day or two. And the first one is to wash your hair and get you out of this water, before it chills us both."
d'Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut tight for a moment and let out a shuddering breath. Aramis could not yet interpret this new, silent man with any confidence, but his instinct told him that the Gascon was relieved.
Understanding flooded through him, like golden sunlight showering into a room when you draw back the drapes. Maybe it wasn't the done thing to give advice to a victim about what he should do, or feel. But when you are hanging on by a thread, it's exhausting to be asked constantly what you want, and watched continually for your reactions. d'Artagnan needed someone to understand what he needed, even when he didn't know himself, and just do it, quietly and without fuss. With a silent prayer of thanks for his enlightenment, Aramis was beginning to understand why Tréville had sent d'Artagnan to him.
An hour later, d'Artagnan was lying face down on his bed, his nakedness covered by a towel, and his head turned to the wall. Aramis had washed the worst of the grime from his body and helped him to dry himself before leading him back to the room where, he discovered, Brother Michael had set the fire in the hearth and put a jug of water and goblets on the table.
Aramis had left d'Artagnan and hurried to collect medical supplies from the infirmary. When he'd first arrived at the monastery his offer to provide medical aid to the monks had been declined, firmly, by the Abbé who was determined that Aramis should leave all reminders of his former life behind. But after one of the novices had burned himself badly in the kitchens, Aramis had proven himself so useful in the lad's recovery that the Abbé had given him leave to assist Brother Claude, who ran the infirmary. Fortunately there was little need here for Aramis' field surgeon skills, but his knowledge of the healing herbs proved useful, and led to another outlet for his energy when he volunteered to work in the gardens. Brother Claude had been delighted to find another enthusiast and the two men spent many evenings together swopping recipes and replenishing their stocks of healing balms and ointments.
Now he was glad of their hard work, for d'Artagnan would need plenty. Looking at the Gascon's body was like looking at a complex tapestry woven from pain and suffering, and he hardly knew where to start. "One step..." he reminded himself again, and picked up a fine cloth to begin abrading the dead skin from the infected wounds.
It was a messy, unpleasant experience for both of them but it had to be done if his skin was to heal without ugly scarring. d'Artagnan's fists dug deep into the sheet with which Aramis had covered the bed to protect it, but he bore the treatment in silence, for the most part. If Aramis pushed too deeply into a cut, or worked in one place for too long, he could feel d'Artagnan's breathing hitch and the tension in his muscles climb to the point where he feared for the Gascon's palms, so tightly were they clenched; so he learned to vary his attentions and return, if necessary, to the most infected wounds after a rest.
He was particularly sickened by what he found when he unwound the bandages from d'Artagnan's fingers. The soaked cloth came away easily enough but revealed skin deeply gouged, the nails in many places missing or torn, the fingers misshapen by swelling or possibly hidden fractures. Aramis closed his eyes for a second, then set himself to clean the mangled skin with a calmness he didn't feel.
As each cut or welt was cleaned Aramis worked a healing ointment into d'Artagnan's skin, a distillation of calendula oil, yarrow, comfrey and juniper berries. As well as aiding healing and helping to prevent infection by sealing the wounds from the air, the ointment was also soothing and he could feel the Gascon's tension slowly fading under his hands as he worked it gently into his skin. Eventually, putting his cloth aside, he took a different ointment – one containing arnica root, which was useful in healing bruising of the skin and muscles – and massaged it gently into d'Artagnan's scarred forearms and back, moving to include his whole back, even the un-bruised areas. Eventually he was rewarded with the sound of slow, even breaths as the Gascon drifted into sleep.
That had not been his intention – he had hoped to get some food into him before he rested – but Aramis was loathe to disturb him so he rose and packed his supplies away quietly. Stretching, he realised it was already getting dark and must be well past the hour of Vespers.
He lit some candles and left d'Artagnan's door open, hurrying to the dormitory he shared with seven others. Sure enough it was empty. Washing his hands and smoothing his gown hastily, he raced down the night stairs that gave directly into the chapel, where soft lights and chanting indicated that Compline had already begun. It was not the first time Aramis had been late for a service so he knew the best route from stairwell to pew that would keep the maximum number of columns between him and the watchful eye of the Abbé, and he managed to take his place without obvious observation from any of those leading the prayers. Standing and kneeling automatically in the appointed places, he allowed the familiar Latin phrases to sooth his racing mind.
Compline had always been one of his favourite offices and he cherished the sense of peace it brought him now. Around him, the brothers began the words of Psalm 91 and Aramis joined them thinking, as he had every night since he'd arrived here, of his brothers far away at the front. The words seemed to perfectly express his hopes for their safety and, regardless of his brothers' personal beliefs, he was sure that God would hear his prayer, for these men were worthy of His protection.
He who lives under the protection of the Most High dwells under the shade of the Almighty.
He will say to the Lord: "You are my shelter and my strength, my God, in whom I trust."
For he will free you from the hunter's snare, from the voice of the slanderer.
He will shade you with his wings, you will hide underneath his wings.
His faithfulness will be your armour and your shield.
You will not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day;
nor the plague that walks in the shadows, nor the death that lays waste at noon.
As usual he could not say the next words without feeling first a surge of protectiveness towards his brothers on the battlefield, and then a wash of guilt at the idea that he would prefer any number of others to fall, rather than one of the three men most precious to him:
A thousand will fall at your side, at your right hand ten thousand will fall,
but you it will never come near.
You will look with your eyes and see the reward of sinners.
For the Lord is your shelter and refuge; you have made the Most High your dwelling-place.
At the start of the next verse he sighed, again as usual, and reminded himself that he was not qualified to reconcile the contradictions between faith and those that fought to protect that faith. His job was to carry out God's work and let the Almighty worry about judging who represents evil on this earth.
Evil will not reach you, harm cannot approach your tent;
for he has set his angels to guard you and keep you safe in all your ways.
They will carry you in their arms in case you hurt your foot on a stone...
He smiled at the image of an angel trying to carry Porthos over a field of stones, humour as always rescuing him from his deepest fears.
In particular tonight, the words spoken at the beginning and end of the psalm resonated with Aramis:
He will conceal you with his wings; you will not fear the terror of the night.
And then the Canticle: Save us, Lord, while we are awake; protect us while we sleep; that we may keep watch with Christ and rest with him in peace.
As the service drew to its familiar close ("God our Father, as we have celebrated today the mystery of the Lord's resurrection, grant our humble prayer: free us from all harm that we may sleep in peace and rise in joy to sing your praise. Through Christ our Lord, Amen")* he realised how appropriate those words were, too. How he hoped that d'Artagnan would be granted protection while he slept, and allowed to rest in peace here.
Before retiring, he returned to the guest quarters and found d'Artagnan still sleeping in the same position. He stoked the fire and retrieved a blanket from the adjoining cell, placing it gently over the bony shoulders to ward off the chill night air, and walked to his own bed full of optimism, the words at the end of the Psalm still ringing in his ears.
At midnight however, as he detoured again to the guest quarters before the office of Matins, Aramis' worries returned in force when he found the door to d'Artagnan's room wide open and no sign of its occupant. Scanning the sparse room quickly he could see nothing out of place and supposed that d'Artagnan had risen to relieve himself, but when he checked the wash room it was also empty. Frowning, he stepped back into the corridor and noticed immediately that the outer door at the end of the corridor was ajar. Following his instincts, he stepped through and followed the narrow path between the wall of the guest wing and the outer perimeter wall.
At the corner the path opened into the kitchen gardens which were bathed in moonlight. They looked deserted but as he hurried around the familiar paths, he noticed a shape huddled near the lavender bed, grown to sweeten the odours of some of the more unpleasant ointments in the infirmary. Slowing his steps, he approached cautiously, seeing to his relief that it was indeed the Gascon.
He sat with his back to a pear tree, his head resting on the arms that cradled his knees. He had pulled on his braes but was bare-chested and shivered in the cold night air.
As the chapel bell began to toll the midnight hour, d'Artagnan's head shot up in alarm and, seeing someone approaching, he stumbled quickly to his feet.
"Peace, brother. I found your bed empty and followed your path." Once again, he kept his words simple and was rewarded with a quiet "Aramis?" from the Gascon. When he nodded, d'Artagnan's body seemed to sag with relief as he exhaled.
Aramis hesitated, full of questions, but settled for a gentle touch on his arm to invite him to walk. It was light enough to see the plants and they could certainly smell their fragrance as they moved around the paths, so Aramis began to describe what they grew and how he used it in the infirmary.
When they reached the lavender beds again, d'Artagnan stopped and inhaled, then volunteered unexpectedly: "My mother used to grow it to scent our bedclothes."
Aramis nodded but d'Artagnan's mind was clearly far away as he ran his fingers lightly across the nodding purple flower heads. Aramis asked if he wanted to walk further, but stopped as he saw, with dismay, tears glistening on the Gascon's dark features. Wondering again how he could possibly help someone dealing with so much hurt and pain, he could only offer a touch on the arm as they turned back towards the abbey walls.
Inside, Aramis put more logs on the fire and poured d'Artagnan some water. Sitting beside him while he drank, he was content just to sit with his brother, hoping his presence would bring him some comfort, and for a while they sat in companionable silence.
"I couldn't remember where I was," confessed d'Artagnan suddenly.
Aramis held his peace. Along with the comment about the lavender, this was the first time d'Artagnan had initiated a conversation. d'Artagnan was staring at his fingers, which Aramis had smothered in the healing cream then wrapped tenderly in fresh bandages, strapping the misshapen third and fourth fingers of his left hand together to limit their movement while the bones healed.
"When I sleep, I see the walls of the hole they put us in," he said quietly. "I can smell the body; hear the rats ... feel them gnawing on my fingers."
Aramis thought for a moment he'd misheard, but the way d'Artagnan was staring at his fingers, and constantly fiddled with the bandages covering them, suddenly made dreadful sense. By all that was holy, no wonder they were in such a mess!
It took several hours for d'Artagnan to describe, haltingly and with frequent long pauses, the conditions in which Athos and Porthos had found him. Eventually d'Artagnan looked so exhausted that Aramis told him firmly to try to sleep some more, and he himself, having missed not just Matins but also the morning office of Lauds*, borrowed another blanket from an adjoining room, and settled in the chair by the fire to doze.
d'Artagnan fell asleep in moments, but after an hour or so Aramis heard him mumbling, then start to thrash around on the bed. Aramis was by his side in a flash, catching his flailing arms before he could hurt himself, and soothed him with his voice until the dark eyes finally blinked open and he started up at Aramis, looking dazed.
"You're alright, d'Artagnan. You're safe here."
d'Artagnan listened, dark eyes inscrutable, as Aramis spoke, his soft voice mesmerizing, then nodded, and pushed to his feet. He swayed for a moment but as Aramis reached for him, he shook his head and moved unsteadily towards the fire, sinking to settle by its warmth.
"That started a bit of a pattern, didn't it, d'Artagnan?" Aramis sought every opportunity to include d'Artagnan as he recounted that first day at the monastery. "You'd sleep a bit, then you would wake and we would talk, then sleep a bit more. But never for long, those first nights."
"That must have been exhausting for both of you," commented Porthos, reaching back to the bread on the table and breaking off a piece to chew, idly, as he listened.
Aramis smiled. "I was used to it by then. The offices are every three hours, so the most sleep we got in one stretch was a couple of hours. Although I often snoozed my way through Lauds, to be honest. I got very good at mouthing the words in my sleep."
Porthos smiled at the image this gave him, but they were all aware of the tension rising from d'Artagnan. It felt like he was gearing himself up for a new revelation; he was restless, and kept looking around as if assessing them all.
Eventually Athos leaned forwards, hoping a direct question might help him talk, if indeed he had more to say. He touched his hand tentatively. "d'Artagnan, I have long wanted to know but hesitated to ask. Will you tell us what happened to LeVente?"
To his surprise, d'Artagnan looked almost relieved, and nodded his agreement. "It's time I told you how he died. I should have talked to you properly at the time."
Athos leaned back, assessing the Gascon. "You weren't in any fit state when we first rescued you, and when you got back from Paris, things had turned a little... hectic. We were just glad to see you back, and took a lead from you, and you made it clear it was all dealt with."
d'Artagnan smiled, a little ruefully. "So I thought," he said, almost to himself. He took a sip of wine, and Constance saw that his hand was shaking.
She looked pleadingly at Aramis, who tipped his head then said gently to d'Artagnan: "Would you like me to start?"
"You know this part?" Porthos asked, this time without rancour.
"It took him a while to open up, after that first night. For the next few days I tried to let him be, tried to help him sleep and heal, physically. But eventually, it was the next thing he explained." He looked at d'Artagnan who nodded but seemed content to let Aramis speak, so he carried on.
After that first night, Aramis made up a bed on the floor of the guest room, and learned to wake d'Artagnan at the first sign of unrest. A light touch was all it took, and after a few early hiccups (d'Artagnan flinging himself off the bed and knocking Aramis to the ground was a particularly painful memory for Aramis) d'Artagnan seemed to relax enough that he would barely open his eyes to acknowledge Aramis before turning and resettling himself.
In spite of this pattern of interrupted sleep, after a few nights like this Aramis could already see the difference in him. The drawn, pinched look was smoothing out and he began to look less like a walking corpse. The haunted look in his eyes, however, seemed to burn more fiercely as his face and body healed.
They took meals with the brothers but, in the Benedictine tradition, guests were not to communicate with the rest of the community except by special permission so d'Artagnan, and Aramis as his appointed protector during his stay, sat at the end of the long refectory table, slightly separated from the others. The two daily mails were simple fare, mainly vegetable based with the addition of some chicken or fish at times.
At his first meal d'Artagnan ate only bread and wine. But at the second, after a day spent resting, having his wounds re-cleaned and redressed, and walking in the gardens, he was presented with a bowl of a rich-smelling meaty stew, by a proud-looking Brother Fournier who was in charge of the kitchens. Meat was normally absent from the table and only served to those who were sick: clearly Brother Fournier felt d'Artagnan needed feeding up. He placed it with a flourish in front of d'Artagnan, who simply stared at it without speaking, and it was left to Aramis to thank the red-faced brother with a smile and a small bow.
Talking at mealtimes was frowned upon as it distracted from the readings which the brothers took turn to intone. d'Artagnan had no trouble keeping silence at the moment, but now it was a frustration to Aramis who watched his hand hover over his spoon then return to his lap repeatedly. At the far end of the table he was aware of Brother Fournier watching, at first in anticipation and then with a frown, as the precious meat stew slowly cooled in the bowl. Eventually d'Artagnan did retrieve the spoon, which then hovered over the bowl for an equally long time before he finally took a tiny scoop of the liquid surrounding the meat and vegetables, and raised it to his lips. Aramis realised he was holding his breath without any notion why, other than the discomfort d'Artagnan clearly displayed about eating this meal.
He swallowed the spoon's contents. At the far end of the table Brother Fournier relaxed with a contented smile, which immediately turned to consternation and shock as d'Artagnan suddenly pushed himself away from the table with a clatter and ran full pelt from the room with one hand clamped to his mouth.
A hush fell on the refectory as the reader looked up from his bible with a puzzled frown, and all eyes turned to the end of the table. Aramis rose to his feet with studied calm, bowed an apology to the room and followed d'Artagnan with measured steps until he reached the door and ducked out of sight of the watchful eyes, at which point he hitched up his robes and broke into a run, heading for the open door leading into the main courtyard. Here, as he anticipated, he found d'Artagnan bent double, retching a thin dribble of bile into a dusty corner.
When d'Artagnan straightened, he turned and found Aramis waiting close beside him. Regarding him with a bleak expression he managed a quiet "sorry". Aramis shook his head, crossly. "Nothing to be sorry about, you daft Gascon. Come on, let's get you inside."
Back in his room, d'Artagnan resisted being steered to the bed again, heading instead for the fire. Crouching beside it, he piled some more logs on then accepted a cup of water from Aramis.
"What was that about?"
d'Artagnan just shook his head. He couldn't begin to explain how his body was reacting. But Aramis was adept at reading the signals and, remembering what d'Artagnan had told him about the conditions in which he had been left to die in the Spanish oubliette, he crouched beside the Gascon and touched him lightly on the shoulder.
"Was it the meat?"
A hesitant nod.
"The smell, or the thought of eating it?"
"Both, I think."
Aramis nodded then said calmly: "Good. Now we know we can avoid it: it's rare here anyway and was meant as a treat for you but I will explain to Brother Fournier. He will understand."
d'Artagnan suddenly shook his head, pushing himself to his feet violently. "I wish I understood! I don't know what's happening to me, Aramis, I feel..." He stopped as if by force of will, his face screwed up.
"What do you feel?" asked Aramis gently.
"I feel... I'm afraid that... I'll shatter into a million pieces if I talk about it!"
His confession, whispered as it was, sounded like a shout of despair to Aramis' ears. The words made perfect sense to him - d'Artagnan was indeed fragile, an empty vessel, or perhaps one under unimaginable pressure from everything inside of him. Aramis touched him reassuringly on the arm, but the Gascon had closed up again, and looked away, the muscle in his jaw working as he fought to regain control. After a moment he asked quietly if it was permitted for guests to leave the monastery.
Aramis froze. "Leave?" he managed to ask in a neutral tone of voice. "You wish to leave?"
"Yes."
"Where would you go?"
d'Artagnan shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled on the wounds across his back but seemingly oblivious. "Just ... outside. I need to walk. I need to..." He sighed, his hands rising as if in frustration at his inability to express himself.
Aramis closed his eyes in relief as he realised the Gascon had not meant leave permanently. "Of course. I will show you the environs and you may explore at will. Come."
They walked shoulder to shoulder through the gates and outside the monastery wall. Beyond, there was a vast meadow stretching down to a small lake, and fields tended by monks and some lay folk from the nearby village. There was a small huddle of farm buildings and an orchard where a flock of chickens pecked and scratched in the earth. It was a tranquil scene and d'Artagnan visibly relaxed as he took in every detail.
That first time they walked only as far as the lake before d'Artagnan seemed to tire, but after that he spent most of his time outside, walking slowly, or sitting in the sun watching the sky, or venturing into the lake for a swim. Aramis accompanied him once only, shocked at how cold the water was and how little it seemed to affect the Gascon. After that he waited on the meadow until d'Artagnan climbed out, icy cold and shivering, but always looking happier.
Aramis took to bringing his basket of potions with him, as the Gascon's scabs would be softened by immersion in the water and it was the ideal time to tend him. He would lay a blanket on the grass so to dry himself in the sun, and Aramis would sit beside him and rub the healing salves into the scars on his face, back and arms.
d'Artagnan would lie silently, face turned to one side, his eyes closed as Aramis worked. And one day, when Aramis had finished and helped him put his shirt on, d'Artagnan had wrapped his arms around his knees, watching a group of moorhens venture out from the reeds bordering the lake, and said:
"I described this to Captain LeVente, when he was dying. Not here, this lake, exactly, but somewhere like it. Somewhere peaceful. The sun on the back of your neck. The breeze rifling your hair and making the grasses dance. The twitter of the swallows as they swoop and dip for water from the lake. The scent of dog roses, and mown hay being stacked. Children's voices laughing in the distance. The silent clouds drifting overhead. The deep blue sky ..." Aramis listened, entranced, as d'Artagnan's soft words described perfectly what he could perceive with his own senses but did not always remember to notice.
d'Artagnan's voice had drifted off, and he sat silent for a long time, then heaved a deep sigh, turning to Aramis with unreadable eyes. "Can I tell you about it?"
Aramis tried not to let anything show other than calm acceptance and invitation, but inside he was celebrating. At last! Even as he nodded, he was saying a silent prayer of thankfulness to the Lord for helping this wounded soul get to the point where he could start to speak about his experience.
* A few notes here, if you are interested, since I had to do some Wiki research to find out what was plausible for this part of the story.
Douai was a Benedictine priory founded in 1615. The community was evicted from France in 1903 after the French Laws of Association (and moved to Berkshire in the UK where it still exists). Technically when Aramis was there I suppose the head would have been a Prior, not an Abbe, but I wasn't sure what the difference was without doing a lot more digging so kept it simple. Thanks, by the way, to FierGascon for putting me straight on how to address an Abbe - gladly noted!
The Rule of Saint Benedict is a book of precepts written by Benedict of Nursia (c. 480 – 550 AD) for monks living communally under the authority of an abbot. His Rule was written as a guide for individual, autonomous communities rather than to outline a religious order as such. His concerns were the needs of monks in a community environment: namely, to establish due order, to foster an understanding of the relational nature of human beings, and to provide a spiritual father to support and strengthen the individual's ascetic effort and spiritual growth. The Rule consists of 73 chapters outlining the organisation of the monastic community. Several were useful in helping me work out what rules Aramis might have had to follow in this situation. Chapter 33 forbids the private ownership of any possessions except with the permission of the Abbot, and Chapter 54 forbids monks to receive gifts without the Abbot's permission. Chapter 53 describes the obligation to offer hospitality to guests who would be under the special protection of an appointed monk. Guests would not associate with the rest of the community except by special permission. Meals could be taken with the community but guests would sit separately.
Compline: I quote from the Liturgy of the Hours as cited in the Universalis publishing website. I didn't mean to include so much and was simply looking to find out what kind of prayers would be said, but although I'm not a regular church-goer, I found myself fascinated by the rhythm of the words and the way they wielded God as both protector and judge, someone to be both feared and trusted. I also recognised the words Aramis used in the service in Episode 3.3, which I had found moving – the one about "a thousand will fall at your side, at your right ten thousand will fall, but you it will never come near" and I could imagine that these words would have comforted many a soldier across the centuries. Aramis certainly knew them inside out! So I included more than I expected, here, and hope that those who are bored by this will easily be able to skip over the italics!
The offices: traditionally, the daily life of the Benedictine revolved around the eight canonical hours. The monastic timetable began at midnight with the service, or "office", of Matins followed by the morning office of Lauds at 3am. Before the advent of wax candles in the 14th century, this office was said in the dark or with minimal lighting, and monks were expected to memorise everything. Afterwards the monks would retire for a few hours of sleep and then rise at 6am to wash and attend the office of Prime. They then gathered in Chapter to receive instructions for the day and to attend to any judicial business. Then came private Mass or spiritual reading or work until 9am when the office of Terce was said, and then High Mass. At noon came the office of Sext and the midday meal. After a brief period of communal recreation, the monk could retire to rest until the office of None at 3pm. This was followed by farming and housekeeping work until after twilight, the evening prayer of Vespers at 6pm, then the night prayer of Compline at 9pm, and off to blessed bed before beginning the cycle again.
I hope I haven't gone overboard by including these details, but they were part of Aramis' routine and I found it fascinating to explore his world. I have always loved the sound of monks chanting and had a happy visit to Tintern Abbey during the summer, which gave me some details like the night stairs leading straight from the dormitories to the chapel. I read all the Brother Cadfael novels many years ago and often wonder if I was a monk in a former life as I find that world intensely comforting (or at least our sanitised 21st century view of it!). When I first started writing this I had thought about breaking with canon entirely and sending Aramis back to the front with d'Artagnan, but once I reached this point in the story I realised I wanted him to stay in the peace of Douai until he had worked out for himself where his destiny lay.
That's all for now, folks; now I should get on with my Sunday!
