Dear all, thank you so much for the wonderful response to Chapter 34. I had not planned to give Athos such a vicious beating; it sort of just happened! I was intrigued at all the speculation regarding the identity of the person who turned up at the end and I am giving nothing away at this moment! Thank you for all your encouragement and for those of you who 'follow' and join the number as we go along. I do find the number of people checking in to read the next instalment amazing and somewhat overwhelming. I do try to get back to all of you who leave a comment through the PM where possible.
I would like to answer the Guest who asked about whether my stories appear anywhere else. Thank you so much for your comment and the fact that you love both this and 'Renegade'. Unfortunately, they are not published elsewhere and I have not stopped to consider whether or not there is a download from this site. If not, perhaps it is to safeguard authorship, I really do not know. Most of these characters are not mine; I have just borrowed them and it is humbling to think you would want easier access to them. For that I thank you.
I have read and re-read this but if I have let errors slip through after an editing glitch and having the chapter on my portable hard drive twice, I do profusely apologise.
So, how is poor Athos?
CHAPTER 35
Tréville and Aramis were busy pouring over duty rosters in the office in an attempt to prepare several days in advance. They were quietly discussing the dilemma posed by a guard detail for the Captain. Aramis wanted to share the responsibility between himself, Porthos and Athos as they knew the reason behind the additional safety measure but Tréville had reservations, believing that if they were seen constantly in his company, it might arouse unwarranted suspicion of another kind; that of favouritism and, as the regiment's commander at a time of heightened tension and short tempers, he did not want to be seen to do anything that might fuel angst-ridden moods.
It was Aramis who responded to the rap on the door, opening it to reveal Porthos doffing his cloak and shaking it free of the worst of the water. Holding the sodden material at arm's length, he removed his hat and waved it, showering the corridor with a mockery of the rainfall that continued to fall outside.
"It's bad out there," he said unnecessarily, stepping into the room to make his report.
"At least the temperature is bearable now," Tréville countered, gesturing to the two of them to sit.
"Will Athos be much longer? He's going to be soaked because he left his cloak in our room," Aramis wondered, resuming his seat.
Porthos snorted as he sat beside his friend, "He'd be soaked with it."
"He normally reports back to me within the next hour but I would have thought the rain would curtail any waiting Savatier might be doing," Tréville explained. "I doubt that he will be much longer. In the meantime, Porthos, what have you got for me?"
"Everythin' is as you ordered. Some of the men started grumblin' about the increased duties, especially when they could see 'em from other regiments not pullin' the same responsibilities, so I told 'em straight that the you were none too pleased about their messin' about an' fightin' an' that you wanted 'em kept busy so they couldn't get into any more trouble." He grinned broadly at his creativity.
Even Tréville could not hide a smile. "Ingenious and not too far from the truth either. Hopefully, now that it is cooler, temperaments will likewise cool."
Aramis was only half listening to them as he rose again and went back to open the door. He looked both ways down the corridor before shutting it with a resigned sigh. Turning, he found the other two men watching him intently.
"I thought I heard something," he shrugged, his lie failing to conceal his unease.
"What troubles you?" Tréville asked quietly.
"Just a feeling," he answered, sinking back onto the chair. He looked at Porthos. "A bad one."
Porthos frowned. He had never had reason to doubt Aramis' gut reactions in the past and the concern felt by his brother was contagious. "He'll be here soon." His words, meant to be reassuring, instead sounded empty, hollow even, and he began to fidget.
Despite trying to turn his attention to the documents on his desk that were outlining duties for the next week and sharing them with the two men sitting in front of him, Tréville could not help but sense the nervousness radiating from the pair and began his own repeated glances towards the door, expecting to hear Athos approach at any moment. The rain that had been consistently falling for some time was now drumming harder against the window. Even if it were not the expected time for the tide to turn, Savatier must have abandoned his watch in the face of the elements and so the young musketeer, likewise, should have returned by now. His tardiness was becoming definite grounds for anxiety.
Suddenly someone was running down the corridor in their direction and they momentarily wondered if Athos was coming to raise an alarm. There was a brief rap on the woodwork but the newcomer did not wait for the invitation to enter, preferring instead to throw open the door. Breathless and excited, young Francois – a raw recruit - burst in to deliver his urgent message.
"Captain, you'd better come quickly. A musketeer has been attacked down on the quayside. The word is he's dead."
It was Tréville who leaped to his feet first, the violence of his movement toppling his chair and sending it crashing to the floor behind him.
"Mon dieu! That's where Athos was." He was halfway across the room before the other two could react, a cold fear gripping each of them.
The Captain moved with a speed that belied his age and the men with him broke into a loping run along the corridor, startling those colleagues casually returning to quarters into flattening themselves against the stone walls in order to stay out of the way. They ran out through the external doorway that led into the courtyard where, through the dim light afforded by lamps and candles at un-shuttered windows, they saw a group heading from the archway in the far corner in the direction of the infirmary and they moved to intercept them.
Two men carried an all-too familiar lifeless form between them; one held him under the arms, the other at the knees whilst his head lolled forward on his chest, obscuring his face. They were followed by a grim-faced Savatier.
"Athos!" gasped Aramis as he tried to trot alongside the two men bearing the limp figure.
"Is he alive?" There was an unmistakable desperation in Porthos' voice, fearing the worst as he recalled the bleak words of the messenger.
"I don't know; I can't tell," Aramis was sounding frantic himself. He swiped at the rain that ran down his face and beard and tried to peer more closely at the injured man.
Tréville pulled him back by the arm. "Let them get him out of this deluge and you will see more easily in the light."
Aramis nodded and reluctantly stepped back for just a moment to enable the men with their precious burden to enter out of the rain. They followed, quickly shedding soaked doublets as they went, for none had stopped to grab cloaks.
Aramis swept dripping curls from his forehead and unceremoniously pushed aside the carriers as soon as they had laid Athos on a long table. He could not suppress his gasp of horror at the prone form, his breath nervously ragged as he felt the side of the neck for a pulse. Unsure, he bent low, his ear turned to Athos' mouth, waiting for the soft tickle on his cheek or the muted sound of an exhalation even as he slid a hand under the sodden leather to lay a hand upon the heart of the stricken man.
"Aramis!" Porthos needed reassurance and stepped forward.
Tréville restrained him with a light grip upon the shoulder. "Give him time," but his own eyes were filled with worry as he waited for a response.
Eventually, Aramis straightened, trying to school his anguished features. "He lives but he is so cold and wet. Help me get him out of these clothes."
Both Porthos and Tréville assisted in rolling and then sitting Athos up as they peeled the clinging, sodden clothing from him to reveal the ever increasing and alarming range of bruises that were already discolouring the whiteness of his skin.
Even as they worked, Tréville issued a string of instructions over his shoulder to the soldiers who had drifted in through the open doorway when they heard the news of the assault. It was always a source of wonder to the officer as to how quickly news could spread through a garrison but then, it had always been that way, even when he had been in the ranks himself.
"If you're coming in, make yourselves useful; otherwise go. Shut that door, it already has the temperature of an ice house in here. There are injured men besides Athos; remember them and have a care. Light a fire in the nearest hearth to here. Warm blankets before it and find some stones to heat. We need water, hot and cold, and plenty of cloths. Bring bandages, ointments, brandy and anything that may be used as splints in case we need them."
He caught an appreciative smile from Aramis. "Did I think of everything?"
"Indeed," Aramis replied. "We'll make a medic of you yet."
"I think I may have missed my calling on that one," and he frowned as he gazed down upon the limp, damp hand that lay upon the table. Raising it gently, he studied the knuckles before turning his attention to the other hand. "No marks; he didn't even have the chance to try to defend himself."
Porthos merely let out a low, angry growl as he dropped soaked clothing on the floor and took up a cloth to begin rubbing down Athos' legs to dry him. Tréville followed suit and began working on the musketeer's arms and upper body, taking care in the vicinity of bruises and abrasions that were fast emerging.
Unwilling to wait for a blanket to be warmed, Aramis snatched one from a nearby, empty cot and wrapped it round the chilled, naked form of his unconscious friend. Biting his bottom lip, he began a systematic examination, exposing and then covering a portion of Athos' body at a time.
They worked together in silence and, all the while, Athos lay frighteningly still and unresponsive. They rotated the blankets, replacing the cooling ones with those heated before the now roaring fire and had packed a wrapped, warm stone by Athos' feet before they were, in some part, rewarded by a pale pink hue that gradually returned to his deathly white skin. Whilst the cold had temporarily stayed any bleeding, cuts and abrasions began to weep anew and Aramis cleaned them as quickly and efficiently as he could.
He ran his hands gently over the rib cage and sucked in an exasperated breath as he felt bone give. "I can feel one broken rib and there are possible other fractures. I need to bind them. I am surprised there aren't more given some of the clear boot-shaped bruises on his torso."
He did not need to say anything else. Tréville slid a hand beneath Athos' shoulders and raised him up, the young musketeer's head resting against him and wet hair rapidly dampening his own shirt. He held him steady as Aramis deftly bound the ribs and, between them, they settled the unconscious man down again.
Next, Aramis felt through the tangled, wet locks to feel for any further head injuries and was relieved when he did not detect any skull depressions or more blood. Direct kicks to the head could cause irreversible or potentially fatal brain damage, but he could no longer ignore dealing with the abrasion on Athos' temple, nor the extensive, obvious lump developing beneath it. Spreading puffiness and serious bruising convinced Aramis that Athos would be hard-pressed to open the eye at all for a while. He sighed for Athos still bore the scab on the other temple left from the wound inflicted during the arrow attack by the English.
He gently stroked tendrils of hair from the bruised forehead. "You will be needing this cutting before long, my friend, else you will not see things before you," he whispered softly, sad that his words inspired no response. He desperately wanted Athos to berate him for being so presumptuous, to roll his green eyes in mock exasperation at the fuss or let some dry witticism drip from his lips, swollen and cut as they were.
But there was nothing.
It was nearly another half hour before he felt that he had concluded his work, cleaning all open cuts and abrasions, first with water and then with the spirit in an attempt to stave off infection. Once Athos was washed free of the dirt of the quayside, ointment was applied to the massive bruising that mottled his body above and below the ribs that were safely bound and supported. His eyes remained resolutely closed, however; the long, dark lashes in stark contrast to his pallid skin, for the rush of colour with renewed warmth had been short-lived. Aramis wondered at the trauma and shock his friend's body had endured. He had done all he could in the absence of a qualified surgeon and, if there were any other injuries, he would have to hope that Athos regained consciousness sooner rather than later and might be in a position to tell him. The injured man was, thankfully, warmer to the touch now and Porthos had been dispatched to their quarters to rummage amongst his belongings to find clean braies and a voluminous soft shirt.
Dressing him in warm, dry clothes once they knew the extent of his injuries was somehow a faster process than when they had begun their work and, when done, Porthos gathered up Athos easily in his arms and carried him to the nearby cot. They swathed him in blankets drawn up to his chest and settled down to wait.
It was only then that Tréville remembered Savatier, who had accompanied the men carrying Athos back from the quayside. The lieutenant had followed them into the infirmary but he had stood well back, not involving himself in the care of the stricken man. That could be easily explained by the fact that there were more than enough willing hands to help but Tréville had not noticed when he slipped away for he no longer remained in the room. What had been the lieutenant's part in the incident? The Captain could not help but harbour troubled thoughts and, in his own way, he was anxious for Athos to awaken so that he could ascertain the truth.
He briefly toyed with the idea of seeking out the lieutenant but decided that his priority was with the injured musketeer, for he feared that it was through his orders Athos had been so grievously hurt. It was his firm belief that Savatier had to be involved somehow. He looked across to where Aramis sat closest to the cot head on Athos' right so that he could quickly tend his patient if needed whilst Porthos sat next to him. The worry for their fallen brother was plainly written on their faces and he wished that he could find the appropriate words to bring them some comfort but he had his own concerns.
Unable to dispel his feelings of culpability, he sat in the silence weighing up events and struggling to draw feasible conclusions. Had Athos been witness to a development this evening? Had Savatier discovered Athos following him? Why come back with the unconscious Musketeer then? Was it to deflect his involvement in the assault or was it to ascertain whether or not the young man would survive? Had Savatier successfully inflicted all this damage himself?
It was obviously a brutal, ruthless attack and it was a miracle that Athos had not been kicked and beaten to death. The young man was fit, strong, a fighter, and yet he had been overpowered with comparative ease, apparently failing to offer any defence. Had Savatier had accomplices then? If that were so, the implications were terrifying. Without identifying the perpetrators, how could they hope to stop Savatier in whatever it was that he was planning?
Watching the still form now, he saw the steady rise and fall of the chest where Aramis had struggled earlier to find signs of life and he offered up a quick thanks heavenward that the boy still lived. He could not afford to lose any more musketeers and certainly not one of Athos' calibre or integrity.
Aramis, too, fixedly watched his brother, repeatedly casting his eyes over the visible injuries and wondering if he had missed anything. He thought that the care he had taken would suffice to ward off any infection; nothing that had broken the skin was serious enough to warrant stitches but he had no idea as to how long Athos had lain in the cold and rain. With the shock resulting from the physical mistreatment he had received, any length of exposure to the inclement weather might instigate a chill at the very least. The last thing Athos needed now was to develop a fever or, even worse, pneumonia which, in his current weakened state, could yet prove fatal.
Meanwhile, Porthos sat tensely leaning forward in his seat, wrists resting on his knees, his hands clenched in tight fists. His angry scowl spoke volumes of his turbulent thoughts and retribution would be uppermost in his mind for he had no doubt that whoever had wrought this suffering upon his brother would pay. They were confined within the Citadel and the drawn out days left him plenty of time to pursue the search for those responsible for he was determined that there was nowhere for them to hide and he did not care how long it took.
It was about four in the morning when Athos began to make signs of waking up. He lay facing Aramis when he emitted a low moan and the long fingers of his left hand clutched at the blanket.
For him, there was only pain. That was all that registered in his mind as he began to battle his way back to consciousness. Disbelieving that his entire body could be the source of such a singular agony, he tried to focus on that part of him that must have been injured. As yet, he had no recollection of what had happened and nor, in his confusion, could he decide upon where he was.
He was being made a fool by his other senses for his hurts did, in fact, appear to run through his entire frame. Shifting slightly, he attempted to find a position that was more comfortable but pain exploded simultaneously across his torso – ribs then – and his head. Possible concussion? It was likely but, for the life of him, he could not explain the multitudinous aches that made their way down his arms and legs, besides working their way across his back and shoulders.
He knew well the feeling of being run through by the point of a rapier and the forceful blow of a musket ball and all the agonies that resulted from both but this was nothing like that. It was as if he had been trampled by a horse.
There were noises, low and indistinguishable. Low groans. Then he realised they came from him. Something – someone – touched his forearm lightly and he tensed at its suddenness.
"Athos? Athos, can you hear me? Time to wake up; you have slept long enough, my friend."
He recognised the gentle voice with its calming cadence, the calloused hand that cupped his cheek. It was Aramis. He wanted to open his eyes to look upon his friend but the darkness remained and, beginning to panic at the thought of another hitherto unknown hurt, he raised his hand to his face but the movement was suddenly arrested by another hand gripping his and lowering it to the blanket, holding it there firmly.
"Your right eye is swollen shut but you should be able to open the other," Aramis assured him.
His breath hitched as he steeled himself in anticipation of serious discomfort but, gradually, he managed to half-open his good eye and winced for even the dim, flickering candle-light proved too much.
"Move that away," Aramis instructed softly, passing the offending item to a disembodied hand. Immediately, the voice of reason in Athos' head chastised him for such a ridiculous thought. Of course the hand could not be disembodied, it had to be attached somewhere to someone. He wondered if it were at all possible that he was already in the grip of delirium.
It was a strange sigh of contentment that escaped him as shadows crept in and his throbbing head gained some respite from the light. His mouth was dry and he wanted to speak but, apart from an additional moan with the effort, the words were not forthcoming; they formed in his mind easily enough but refused to be uttered. He tried running his tongue over his lips to moisten them but it seemed too large for his mouth and would not function.
"Here," Aramis said, a cup in one hand as he made to lift Athos with the other to help him drink but the movement, slight as it was, only resulted in the injured man eliciting a tormented croak, his one operational eyelid immediately squeezing shut. "Sorry, sorry," Aramis said hastily, letting him back down. "We'll just use a spoon." He was firm, knowing that, if Athos were in any fit state to maintain even a miniscule amount of stubbornness, he would not be thankful about being fed.
It was another worrying indication as to just how bad he was feeling that there was not a hint of objection. Instead, there was visible relief as Aramis began to dribble cold water between the swollen, split lips that spawned a droplet of fresh, crimson blood, no matter how careful Aramis was with the small spoon or how little Athos opened his mouth. Just the action of trying to swallow seemed to exhaust the wounded musketeer and he soon pursed his sore lips and turned his head away until Aramis gave up.
"Wha' happened?" Athos whispered at last.
"We were hoping you would be able to tell us," Tréville said, modulating his voice that, when he chose, could carry the length of a parade ground above the sound of sparring men. "Apparently you were attacked on the quayside and brought back here."
Athos frowned but those gathered at his bedside could not determine whether it was from renewed pain or endeavouring to remember the details surrounding his attack.
Standing to lean over the bed and thus ensuring that he was in Athos' very limited line of vision, Tréville tried a different approach.
"Did he do this to you, son? Was it Savatier?"
He thought for a moment that the young man was not going to answer, that he was drifting off into unconsciousness again but Athos' hand slowly reached out and weakly grabbed at the Captain's shirt front as if he feared the man would immediately charge off after the lieutenant.
"No," Athos insisted and swallowed thickly as he sought the energy to make himself understood about the fraction of memory that had suddenly resurfaced at the question. "No … not Savatier … he saved me!"