Dear all, apologies for yet another delay but I had a bit of a disaster. The weekend before last, we had a three-day, bank holiday weekend and, in between other things, I spent the time writing and editing this chapter before embarking on chapter 37. I was so proud of it and looking forward to uploading it last Tuesday morning. To this day, I do not know what I did but, at 11.00 pm on the Monday evening, I somehow overwrote Ch. 36 with 37 on my portable hard drive (I now have two copies of Ch 37!) and, according to the IT guys at work the next day, it was irretrievable! Wherever you are in the world, I am surprised you did not hear my hysteria! It has taken a week to rewrite it and I am convinced it is not of the same calibre but I trust it will give you a taste of developments! I vow not to make the same mistake again and will try hard to avoid it – whatever it was. You won't have to wait so long for chapter 37, I promise! Have done a quick grammar and spell check and trust the machine has highlighted any errors; apologies again if any do creep through.

CHAPTER 36

(I)

Plourde and Allard sat in a corner of the refectory, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible whilst they half-heartedly set about breaking their fast. Somehow, their part in the beating of a man held little sense of success for them, even though they knew that they had fulfilled Delacroix' wishes and were thereby freed from their significant debt to him.

When they had heard a shout and saw a figure hurrying towards them, they had immediately ceased their assault and ran back up the narrow, walled pathway that led to one of the main courtyards. They had not stopped until they had reached the relative sanctuary of their quarters, a sparsely furnished room which they shared with four other men. Pausing briefly outside the door, chests heaving as they tried vainly to control their breathing from the exertion, they listened at the door in case they could hear anything from within, a task made all the more difficult by the rain hammering on the windows that lined the corridor.

When all seemed quiet, they dared to enter the room and were immediately relieved to find it empty. The others – with whom they barely communicated – had either pulled a late duty, were still eating the evening meal or had opted to remain in the warmth of the refectory. Whatever the cause, it gave Allard and Plourde plenty of opportunity to soak their grazed knuckles and wipe their boots clean of their victim's blood. At least this way, they would not have to answer any awkward questions posed by their room-mates.

Their night was subsequently long, sleepless and lonely for they dared not whisper to each other as they lay awake in the darkness, listening instead for the sound of footsteps along the corridor and a pounding on the door that would herald the arrival of soldiers sent to apprehend them after the unexpected hero on the quayside recognised them, or saw enough of them to give a detailed description that would name them.

Now they sat at their table, miserably listening to comments in the refectory. It seemed – unfairly so - that the majority of those gathered there at that time were the King's musketeers. News of the seemingly unprovoked attack on one of their own had spread rapidly and feelings were running very high. It did not help matters that, to a man, they appeared to think well of the injured party; some were even excessive in their praise and respect for him.

Now the two men were very worried about the role they had played. Neither had thought to ask questions about why Delacroix had wanted them to 'teach a lesson' to someone; they had been too eager to be spared paying back what they owed. They had just accepted Delacroix' word and completed the task. Perhaps, if men were to be believed, Athos was an innocent in all this; that Delacroix was more the wrong-doer than the wronged in this instance.

When one musketeer reminded those present that Athos had had a very public altercation with Delacroix before they left La Rochelle, speculation became rife as to whether or not the other musketeer had somehow been behind the assault, causing Plourde to choke on the bread and cheese he was trying to digest. As he helplessly coughed and spluttered, Allard anxiously slapped him repeatedly on the back, shoved a cup of watered ale into his hand and begged him to be quiet. They need not have bothered for they did not draw attention to themselves as the sudden entry of yet another musketeer was of far greater interest to his colleagues in the room.

The big man in the ornately studded doublet called across to the wizened old soldier who ran the kitchen who, word had it, was of the musketeer regiment himself, rather than an original member of the Citadel's military complement. As the aged cook shouted back a reply that he would put a tray together, others of the King's élite men fired questions at the newcomer, whom Plourde and Allard quickly identified as one Porthos, given the number of times he was addressed.

"How is Athos, Porthos?"

"Porthos, how long before he's back on his feet?"

"Did he see who did this?"

"Was Savatier able to identify the attackers?"

"Are you going to be investigating, Porthos?"

"Do you need any help? We'll do anything you want, you only have to ask."

The man called Porthos raised his hand and his brotherhood lapsed into a deferential silence in order for him to respond to their cumulative inquiries.

"He's lucky. One broken rib and concussion, Aramis reckons, but 'e's lookin' none too pretty this mornin' with a load o' swellin' and bruisin' but, knowin' Athos, he'll be back on 'is feet faster than 'e should be."

"Wish him all the best from us," one man called out and Porthos nodded in appreciation.

"I'll do that. In the meantime, I'll be startin' to ask some questions of my own. Know this, I will find out who did this to 'im, no matter 'ow long it takes, and they'll regret it."

A loud, enthusiastic cheer erupted at his words and a terrified Allard and Plourde edged out of their seats and through the open doorway into the courtyard and the bright sun that promised another day of high temperatures; the rains of the previous evening only managing to create a temporary respite. The musketeer had been intimidating by his sheer presence, the angry scowl that darkened his features and the irrefutable vow to leave no stone unturned in his quest for the perpetrators who had brought such suffering to his brother.

Without uttering a word to each other, both Plourde and Allard were relieved that they were in possession of Delacroix' signed affirmation that they were excused payment of the debt to him by fulfilling the task of attacking his fellow musketeer. Yes it highlighted their undeniable guilt in proceedings, but it did explain how they had been manipulated; they presumed it to be written in Delacroix' own hand and it bore his name. If they were to face any punishment, they could ensure that he fell with them. Reassessing the value of the document, they wondered whether it was safe, concealed as it was in the space under the floorboards beneath Plourde's cot in their quarters.

As they slipped out of the refectory and into the bright sunshine, intent upon making themselves scarce, Faron pushed himself away from the wall beside the door where he had been lounging and moved in their direction. As if remembering where they were going, they changed course, only to find Bertram striding towards them with purpose across the courtyard. Alarmed, they veered to the right, to discover Garris intent upon intercepting them. Shepherded by the three, they found themselves guided through a low doorway into a storeroom where Delacroix sat on a barrel, waiting for them. With the door shut behind them all, Delacroix' three companions created a human barrier.

There was no escape for Plourde or Allard.

Delacroix ceased paring his nails with the point of his dagger and stared at them for some time before deigning to speak.

"The task was to give Athos a beating; you have nearly killed him. Had the Lieutenant not intervened, he might have been dead there on the waterfront; as it is, it seems that he has survived a worrying night and is expected to recover. In your enthusiasm or stupidity – I am not sure which is the more appropriate – you have potentially created a new problem, possibly drawing unwanted attention to yourselves and, by association, me."

The two cavalrymen exchanged bemused glances, not sure how the musketeer had reached such a conclusion. They were convinced that the victim himself could not identify them – they had never even greeted each other in passing so they were not convinced a link could be made between them. The more the hours passed, the more they persuaded themselves that the person who interrupted their attack had not clearly seen them.

"Athos has two close friends, Aramis and Porthos, and they will not rest until they find those responsible, especially Porthos. He is like a hound, a hunter. The slightest lead and he will be on to you and I fear you will talk far too readily." Even as Plourde and Allard began to shake their heads, eager to swear their loyalty and silence, Delacroix held up a hand to stop them.

"Our card games over recent evenings were very public, as were your heavy losses. It is common knowledge within the musketeer regiment that I do not like Athos. If our games were to suddenly end at the same time Athos is attacked, it would not even take an idiot long to reach the conclusion that the two events might be connected and that I had put you up to the assault. All of which, as we know, is the truth. We must therefore divert suspicion. This evening, we will join for another card game in the refectory after the meal is concluded. We will greet each other as friends and will smile and drink together whilst we play. To any onlookers, our mood will be light, the amassed debts immaterial and we will continue to win and lose together. Do you understand?"

He waited for an affirmative nod and then, with a menacing change that the other men had come to know so well, his features hardened. His next words carried a poorly veiled threat.

"If, of course, that does not deflect attention, then we will have to re-think the situation urgently."

(II)

Tréville had left the infirmary shortly before dawn for his temporary office, reluctant to head up to the room that had been assigned to him. He missed the convenience of a cot screened off in the corner of the room as in Paris and he immediately decided to resolve the problem once the Citadel came fully awake. Instead he snatched a couple of hours of restless sleep sitting at his desk before turning his attention to a pile of paperwork that lay strewn across the wooden surface. Although less than he amassed on a daily basis in the musketeer garrison, reports, duty rosters and constant monitoring of dwindling supplies kept him occupied even within the confines of a fortress under siege.

He yawned as he rubbed at red-rimmed, burning eyes and thought upon the events of the night before. Thankfully, Athos had not been as grievously hurt as initially believed; although it would be a long time before the image of the bloodied, limp, young man being carried across the courtyard would begin to fade from his mind. What would not disappear was the question regarding those responsible. Tréville could not dispel his sense of guilt that it was his orders to Athos that had endangered the man's life. He was still trying to work out whether or not Savatier was somehow involved but it was the surveillance upon him that had put Athos at the waterfront in the first place.

He sighed, not looking forward to the impending meeting he had initiated but knowing that it could not be avoided. Hearing the brisk, booted footfalls approaching along the corridor outside, he steeled himself and feigned interest in the inventory in his hand, even as a curt knock sounded on the door.

"Come!" he ordered.

Savatier entered, closed the door behind him and stood to attention before the desk.

"At ease," Tréville instructed but the Lieutenant hardly moved, his stance screaming an obstinate tension throughout the room.

The Captain attempted a smile. "I never had a chance to speak to you last night and was not aware that you had slipped away from the infirmary but I wanted to thank you for your action in coming to Athos' aid. I know you do not rate him very highly but thank you again for defending one of my men."

Savatier's gaze was fixed on the wall just above Tréville – anything other than actually making eye contact with his superior officer. He stiffened at the Captain's deliberate slight.

"As your second-in-command, that makes him one of my men too and equally my responsibility. No-one deserved that beating; anyone would have done the same as me if it were within their means. I did not think twice about rendering assistance and did not realise until the attackers had gone that it was a musketeer, much less Athos."

Tréville acknowledged his declaration with a nod of the head. "Did you see the attackers clearly? Was there anything that marked them out for recognition? Anything would be helpful in the apprehension of those responsible," Tréville said with hope.

"Sadly, no."

It was the response that Tréville had anticipated. "Athos cannot recall anything that helps. Aramis is unsure as yet whether this is the result of amnesia or just that Athos failed to see anything of note. We have spent much of the night speculating upon the reasons for the attack." He readied himself for any reaction on the part of the Lieutenant.

"We know that he has been argumentative of late; well, at least back in Paris and La Rochelle, but I have not been made aware of anything since we came to the island. It is possible that he had some disagreement with the men and they sought revenge, although it is odd that Aramis and Porthos knew of nothing that might have instigated this. It might have been an instance of mistaken identity and that Athos just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time but I do find that hard to accept. Perhaps there was no real provocation; it was merely the heat and the stormy weather making the men fractious and that this could have gone seriously wrong." He sighed dramatically. "Give the rest of your report then."

Savatier cleared his throat and recounted his version of events. "I was making my final rounds of the day when, from a distance, I saw two men skulking off in the direction of the quayside. I regret now that I did not follow them immediately; I might have prevented the attack at all. As it was, I went down that path between the walls that leads out onto the quayside and could hear them before I saw them. They were just beyond the exit and did not see my approach so I shouted at the top of my voice to startle them and drew my sword. When they ran, I went to their victim and found that it was Athos; he swiftly lost consciousness so I went back through the pathway to get further help."

Tréville's jaw muscles clenched in barely suppressed fury at the lies inherent in the tale. With a struggle, he schooled his features into a mask of neutrality as he rapidly sifted the information. Firstly, Porthos had been tasked by the Captain to check upon the new duties and, as he made his rounds, he never saw Savatier nor did the men he spoke to mention having seen the lieutenant, an expected response for anyone making a brief report on their watch. Of course the officer had not been seen, for he was down at the water's edge waiting for whatever! Secondly, the attackers had come from the walled pathway - that much Athos had remembered – and Savatier had come from the rocks in another direction. Had the lieutenant come from the pathway, he would have blocked the means of escape of potentially desperate men. Thirdly, Athos recalled curling into a ball to protect himself and that he was on his right side facing the water, a point substantiated by his injuries. That enabled him, just before he passed out, to see Savatier crouching in front rather than behind him.

Smiling again and endeavouring to keep his mood light, Tréville made another suggestion as he thought about dismissing the other man. "You should make time to stop by the infirmary to see Athos. In his lucid moments, he was eager to thank you himself."

(III)

Savatier was fuming as he strode away from Tréville's office and headed towards where the men should be gathering for training purposes, but he slowed his pace as it took him near the infirmary. He would not put it past Tréville to check up on him later, to ask questions of the right people to ensure that he had taken the time and trouble to go and see the injured musketeer.

As he entered from the sundrenched brightness of the courtyard into the cool, darker interior of the infirmary, he paused, allowing his sight to readjust to the gloom. It did not take him long to spot Athos lying in the second bed down on the left, but he pretended to be confused and waited for an orderly to approach. He recognised the young man as Poitier, another ineffectual musketeer in his opinion, who had depended upon a wealthy father to secure his commission from the King. He was next to useless in the field but had found a more fulfilling role in helping with basic medical needs.

"Lieutenant, may I help you?" The man was a simpering nonentity and Savatier gritted his teeth in an attempt to remain civil.

"I have come to see Athos," he explained.

Immediately, Poitier became animated, his face aglow. "Of course, Sir. Everyone is talking about how you rescued Athos last night; he might have been killed had it not been for you. I'll take you to him," and he went to lead the way.

"No," Savatier insisted. "I do not want to take you from your work. Just point to where he lies." His eyes followed to where Poitier indicated as if he had not seen the musketeer beforehand. "Neither Porthos nor Aramis sit with him?" He had to admit that it was unusual for two-thirds of the Inseparables to be absent when one of their number was injured or sick in any way.

"They woke him up to monitor his concussion about an hour ago and then left when he went back to sleep; Captain's orders. They'd been here all night and needed to clean up, eat and maybe grab some rest. They said they'd be in their quarters or up on the battlements getting some fresh air if they were needed or Athos woke up in the meantime. I expect they'll be back in an hour anyway to wake him up again; they'll be pleased to know that you visited."

"It's nothing. I would do the same for any of them. The Captain and I are responsible for the welfare of the entire regiment after all; it is disturbing when one of our own is made the victim of such a brutal attack." Savatier tried to make light of the situation as he waved Poitier back to his task of sweeping the floor.

Moving to the bedside, he stood and looked down upon the sleeping musketeer. Athos lay on his back, blanket pulled up to his waist and head turned to the right, facing the door, plainly showing his painfully swollen and bruised features. His shirt was untied at the neck and, from moving in his sleep, it had fallen open so that the top of the binding round his ribs was visible and the dark, curling chest hair failed to mask the extensive bruising on his upper body. It had been, Savatier noted, an impressively thorough beating. The musketeer always tended to look very pale but now he seemed ethereal, any unblemished skin bordering on the translucent, but thankfully lacking the blue-white hue of the previous evening when he was so cold and wet.

Pulling up a chair, Savatier sat down and leaned in close.

Poitier paused in his sweeping as he saw the Lieutenant seat himself at the bedside and heard the murmur of a low voice. Athos must have re-awakened then if the officer was speaking to him. It was just unfortunate that they were too far away for Poitier to distinguish actual words.

"Pity you're asleep," Savatier said bitterly, "but perhaps Poitier's confirmation that I have been to see you will suffice with Tréville. Deny my presence and I will convince them that you were awake the whole time but your concussion has affected your memory. Do you not recall that we passed several minutes in pleasant conversation with my asking after your welfare and you expressing your undying gratitude for the risk I took in saving your hide? Were your attackers not the cowards they so obviously appeared, I could have been their next victim!

"Had I known it was you, I'd have left you there for them to finish their task for now I have a very important question. What were you doing there alone at that time of night when the weather was worsening by the minute? Do not think to insult my intelligence by saying that you were out for an evening stroll for I will discover the truth, Athos. This is not over yet."

Savatier stood and replaced the chair before bending low over the sleeping figure, hands upon the pillow either side of the tousled head, his words little more than a malicious hiss. "It is such a pity that we are not entirely alone, for how vulnerable you look lying here with your brothers conspicuous by their absence! They don't seem to making a very good job of watching your back. I vow that if I ever find out that you were on the quayside following me, I will kill you myself."

He turned on his heel and strode from the infirmary, ignoring the cheery farewell called by Poitier who paused, leaning on his broom handle, as he watched the abrupt departure.

When silence fell once more upon the infirmary, save for the rhythmic swish of the broom head across the floor, Athos dared to open his one good eye and watched the doorway thoughtfully for a moment.

Wincing, he rolled over, clung to the side of the cot and struggled to push himself into a sitting position. He breathed hard in an attempt to control the waves of nausea that assaulted him as he changed position and began to swing his legs round to place his bare feet upon the floor. With his limited vision, he searched unsuccessfully around the cot for his clothes and boots; braies and shirt alone would not really suffice for his plans but, if need be, he was ready to endure anything, for he would not remain in the infirmary a minute longer. Something in Savatier's threat had initiated a sudden flash of memory for him that had not been there before in his other waking moments – something that concerned a rowing boat and a small satchel. He had to find Porthos, Aramis or Tréville and he knew from Poitier where they would be.

"I will not deny your presence, Savatier," Athos whispered to himself. "On the contrary, I heard every word you said." He broke off, unable to avoid emitting a long, low groan. How was it that every inch of his body was bitterly complaining and his stomach was roiling uncontrollably?

The sound attracted Poitier who was before him in an instant, hands placed on his shoulders as he tried to push him back down. "Athos, you shouldn't be moving. Stay in bed and I will run for Aramis and Porthos for you."

Athos swatted the man's hands away in irritation and spoke through clenched teeth, his face contorted from his beating and discomfort. "I'll find them for myself but first, you will get my clothes and boots and help me into them. If you don't, I swear I shall throw up over your feet and your nice clean floor."

Poitier only looked at him for an instant, the injured man's expression proving beyond doubt that he meant every word. The orderly scurried away to retrieve the items of clothing, leaving Athos to wipe a weak, shaking hand over his suddenly sweating face.

He inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. "In fact, I may still do that …. Just for the sheer hell of it!"