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Chapter 14: The Longest Night

"Aargh!"

Athos lifted his head from his saddle and peered through the darkness. Beside him, he could hear Aramis' steady breathing, and knew he, too, was awake. He sighed. "Anything you want to share, Porthos?"

Silence, then another exasperated groan ripped through the copse where they camped. "I can't sleep!" Porthos growled.

There was a small pause, while Athos rolled his eyes. "Neither, now, can we," he commented, wryly.

His sarcasm was sadly lost on Porthos who simply rolled over to face him, his eyes flashing white in the gloom. "There has to be a better plan than just tramping around this bloody moor for another day hoping we catch a glimpse of 'em. Come on, tell me you've got a better plan!"

Athos raised an eyebrow, a movement the other two could sense, if not see just now. "This is down to me, now?" he queried, casually.

"Oh, come on! You're the planner, you're the brains of this team, you're the... the Lieutenant!" Porthos wheedled.

There was a muffled exclamation from beside Athos. It sounded suspiciously Spanish in flavour, and definitely grumpy. Athos looked to his left. "You have something to contribute?"

Aramis shot upright as if on springs and jumped right into the conversation. "He's right, Athos, and you should know that! This is hopeless! We need help, we need more men and we need to find them, fast. They could be anywhere! They could be on their way to a Spanish ship, or lying dead in a ditch or they could have been injured crossing that bloody river..."

Athos blinked. It was the most Aramis had said in hours. No prizes for guessing the direction his thoughts had been travelling all day... although to be fair, they were all sheltering similar fears. Giving up on sleep, Athos levered himself upright as well. "We should split up," he announced, without preamble.

Porthos gaped at him. "Nah, 'ang on that wasn't what I meant."

Aramis cut him off. "No, he's right. If we split up we can cover more ground."

Athos intervened. "Actually, I was thinking about one of us going back to the Pheasant."

There was another silence, this one distinctly disbelieving. Eventually Porthos broke it. "That's half a day in the wrong direction! Why would you...?"

"Because I've been thinking. If this area is so over-run with Spanish mercenaries, what are the chances the inn-keeper's nephew got through to the Paris road yesterday morning, when we ran into a dozen of them barely an hour before he set off?"

A pause, then a curse from Porthos. Aramis was silent but Athos could feel the tension coming off him in waves. Athos went on, quietly: "If he succeeded, Tréville could have made it partway back here yesterday, but there's no moon so they'll have had to camp, so the earliest they could be at the Pheasant will be this morning. However, if he was intercepted..."

"If he was intercepted, they might have news of him at the Pheasant."

Athos nodded at Aramis. "If no one is there by early evening we'll know the message didn't get through. We can arrange to meet, with or without reinforcements, in an agreed location along the search route, assuming d'Artagnan and the others are still heading roughly for Paris."

"But if there are no reinforcements one of us will have wasted an entire day waiting at the Inn." Aramis sounded despairing.

"And if they arrive in the morning as I ... hope... then our search party will be augmented by lunchtime. Or, if we discover sooner that the nephew failed, we can head fast for Paris and get help by the following morning. With luck."

Aramis snorted. "Luck hasn't been smiling on us recently."

Porthos harrumphed in agreement, propping his head up on his elbow. "So who's going back? I assume the other two will keep on searching?"

"Yes, so my thoughts are..."

"No!" interrupted Aramis forcefully.

Athos looked at him.

"I am not going back to the Inn. If we find them, they could need my skills; it would be crazy to have me kicking my heels at the Pheasant when they could be injured."

"Yeah, what 'e said. And you'll need me to track, won't you?" Porthos sounded hopeful. "So..."

"So," interrupted Athos, his pale eyes regarding Aramis with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, "I will be going back to the Pheasant at first light."

"Yes but... oh. Right." Aramis, clearly expecting a disagreement, caught up belatedly and had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "Good. Good..." He started pacing around the clearing. "Porthos, I think you and I should split up. We could..."

"We should get some sleep." Porthos' tone brooked no argument as he settled himself back down. "Talk about it in the morning." And with a yawn, his breathing settled within seconds into a steady, soft snore.

Aramis carried on pacing for a few minutes, peering through the trees as if willing the dawn to have broken whilst he wasn't looking. Athos watched him, adding a few twigs to the embers and stirring them to get a small flame. Eventually the medic sighed and came back to sit next to Athos. There was a silence for a few moments, then Aramis blew a noisy breath through his lips and nudged Athos gently with his shoulder. "Sorry, my friend. I've not been... helpful, or... "

"Or calm." Athos prompted him.

"...or ca – " Aramis stopped and glared at him. Then shook his head. "No, not calm. Not calm at all. Athos... this is torture!"

Athos nodded, staring at the nascent flames. "It's hard for you."

"For all of us," Aramis allowed.

"d'Artagnan is with her. He'll keep her safe."

"He was injured! And if they were safe, they would have holed up somewhere and waited for us."

Athos was silent. Aramis had a point; this thought had niggled his own mind countless times during the day. Even so... "d'Artagnan will keep them safe," he repeated. "I am sure of that. And when it's light... We'll find them."

"Yeah." Aramis leaned his shoulder against Athos and the two men sat companionably to rest and while away the endless hours until dawn.

Anne had seen several executions as part of her royal duties, including one in the king's chamber very recently, when Rochefort so ruthlessly carried out the king's instruction to execute Bruno. She had visited prisons and slums, and listened to reports of battles and raids, often given in person by Generals or Ambassadors and sometimes by battered-looking Musketeers. She had lived through the convent siege with Athos and Aramis and seen men killed by Musketeers and nuns. In short, she was less of a stranger to violence than many might suppose.

But never had she been forced to witness anything like this deliberate, cruel and brutal violence perpetrated on a defenceless man. Let alone on someone she respected and now knew well. Someone who had risked his life for hers, and was now paying the price. She had seen the results of violence before, had shown compassion for those who suffered it. But never had she understood just how unspeakable was the act of inflicting deliberate pain on another human being.

She could not watch, yet she could not turn her back on him, this young Gascon who had fought so hard to be the King's champion and win his commission, and who now looked like he might be the unluckiest new Musketeer in the regiment's history.

She couldn't believe anybody could survive such a beating. Sanchez was clearly determined to get the answers his boss sought and was relentless. She found herself shrinking back as far as she could get, curled up tight with her hands wrapped tightly around her knees and her head buried in her arms, trying to drown out the sounds of fists hitting bare flesh.

For the most part the Gascon was silent but sometimes she caught the sound of a gasping breath or a deep grunt of pain. She risked a glance when Sanchez paused for breath and saw him take a sip of water, taunting d'Artagnan by holding the cup under his nose then spitefully up-ending it so it spilled on the ground in front of him. She tried to catch d'Artagnan's eye, to give him her silent support, but his head hung low on his shoulders and his hair covered his eyes so she couldn't even tell if they were open or not. Blood dripped from his nose, mouth, and jaw. His chest was bare, the ripped shirt hanging uselessly to the sides. His skin was dark with bruises and deep grazes. His body hung limply from his over-stretched arms, and swung slightly from side to side as a result of the last blows.

Her stomach churned. She hoped for his sake that he was unconscious, but at the same time, selfishly, she hoped he wasn't: she didn't want to be left on her own in this ghastly situation.

Sanchez stepped up to the Musketeer again and grabbed his hair, wrenching his head back to glare into his face. In that moment she caught a glimpse of such emotion from the Gascon that she flinched: his eyes blazed with scorn, determination and a hatred that needed no words. The Spaniard recoiled and let go as if his hand was on fire, then he seemed to go mad. He pummelled d'Artagnan's ribs, stomach and face, screaming abuse at him in Spanish until he was gasping for breath himself.

Anne had promised not to watch but she couldn't take her eyes off d'Artagnan who, even as his body was jerking and twisting under the onslaught, kept his chin high and never dropped his blazing glare.

After what seemed like hours Sanchez stopped. There was blood on his knuckles and she didn't know if it was d'Artagnan's or his, but he shook his hands as if they hurt him and he looked wildly around for a weapon to give his fists a rest. She shut her eyes as he spied a horse whip hanging from a wall and strode over to snatch it.

She looked again at d'Artagnan and saw a bleak look cross his features. He swallowed convulsively as Sanchez approached him again, then slowly and deliberately shut his eyes. Anne buried her head again as Sanchez let loose another volley of curses, but nothing could stop her from hearing the swish as the whip whisked through the air, and the wet crack as it bit into d'Artagnan's flesh.

Finally Sanchez ran out of steam and the frenzied attack ceased. The onslaught of gruesome sound-effects died away and she could now hear a fast, rasping breath that she thought came from Sanchez, and the rustle of straw as he paced around. She strained her ears but couldn't hear anything from d'Artagnan. She knew she had to look but her muscles wouldn't obey and she stayed, curled into a tight ball, head buried between her knees, tears streaming unheeded down her face.

After an eternity she heard a rapid exchange of Spanish, and then – blessed relief! – the sound of the barn door being opened, then slammed shut again. There was a heavy thud of wood on wood, which she knew was the bar being dropped into place to lock the door from the outside, then silence.

Slowly she raised her head and looked across at d'Artagnan.

He looked dead. His head lolled to the side and every inch of flesh seemed to be painted in blood. "Díos mío!" she whispered to herself, then flinched as she realised she had voiced her plea in Spanish. Forcing herself to look away from the Musketeer she saw a guard had been left on duty but far enough away that he surely couldn't have heard her. She breathed again, then immediately felt guilty for worrying about her own skin, and returned her gaze to d'Artagnan, watching desperately to see if he still breathed.

She couldn't tell. All she could do was wait. And pray.

Díos mío: My God!