CHAPTER 53

As Porthos would learn over time, when required, Athos could go from sleep to actively fighting in four seconds flat, a talent that would save them many times in the future. However, today when the swordsman woke in the jail, it was not advantageous. Athos shot into consciousness and immediately began to struggle when he realized he was shackled. Fortunately, Porthos had been awake for a while and when he saw Athos becoming distressed once again, he swiftly moved to his side and held him firmly by the shoulders, immobilizing the thrashing man until he could get him to calm down.

"Athos. Stop!" Porthos commanded in a voice that forced its way past the irrational fear seizing the swordsman's mind.

Slowly, the blind-panic faded from the swordsman's green eyes, though his disheveled, sweat soaked hair attested to the intensity of the frenzy which had gripped him. When he felt Athos wasn't going to thrash needlessly about in the leg irons and risk injuring himself further, Porthos released his grasp on the man's shoulders. As soon as he was free, Athos scrambled to his knees and began heaving. His wild awakening had aggravated his concussion and in turn his tender stomach.

Porthos watched with compassionate sympathy, knowing the dry heaves that were wracking Athos' body must be incredibly painful. Eventually, when they came to a halt, Athos collapsed onto his side, rolling his miserable body into a tight ball. Cautiously, because he wasn't sure if his gesture would be accepted or appreciated, Porthos reached over and gently massaged Athos' neck and head, being careful to avoid the robin's egg on the back of his skull. Athos tensed, then gradually began to relax under Porthos' skillful fingers. Slowly, he unfurled his corkscrewed body as the pounding in his head decreased and his stomach unclenched from its muscle spasms.

After a bit, and with some reluctance, Athos began to maneuver to sit, so Porthos stopped his ministrations to assist. Scooting backwards, Athos used the wall to support his back as he stretched his shackled legs out in front of him on the dirty, stone floor. He glared at the offending leg irons as if he could will them off his ankles by sheer determination. With some amusement, Porthos watched Athos scowl fiercely, but ineffectively, at his shackles. While Athos' legendary glower was very effective at cowing people, it had no effect on inanimate objects.

"Thinkin' this might work better." A small grin crept across the musketeer's face as he reached in his pocket and withdrew the piece of metal. "Not," he added, "that your scowl isn't incredibly scary."

Athos' eyes shifted from the offensive shackles, to the object that Porthos was holding aloft. His scowl changed to a look of puzzlement as he stared uncomprehendingly at the thin metal shaft. Porthos decided to enlighten the confused man.

"I get you ain't thinkin' too straight with that concussion and all so let me help you. I'm gonna open the locks with this."

Apparently trying to figure out this new riddle was too much for Athos' addled brain cells for when the swordsman leaned forward to better examine the object, his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out once more. Swiftly, Porthos reached over and caught the slumping man to ensure he didn't add insult to injury by hitting his head on the floor. He arranged the unconscious man on his side, in what he hoped was a comfortable position, before moving away to stand and stretch his limbs.

The inside of the prison was shrouded in perpetual darkness with only a few torches which were always burning. It made it hard to judge night from day. Porthos glanced upwards at one of the minuscule, slit-like windows near the ceiling. The small rectangle was barely distinguishable from the surrounding dark wall, telling him that night had indeed fallen. Their best chance of escaping undetected would be under the cover of darkness, so he began to put his plan into motion.

Resettling on the stone floor, he drew his shackled feet close to his hands and inserted his newly acquired lock pick into the mechanism. Momentarily closing his eyes, he envisioned in his mind how to open the lock like he was taught as a young lad. After fiddling for a minute, he finally felt his shim connecting with the right spot and a satisfying click sounded as the lock opened. Palming his pick, he shucked the offensive metal shackles off his legs and laid them aside.

Next, he moved over to where Athos was lying and repeated his trick. Picking a lock was more an art than an exact science. Some people had the knack, and others never could master it. Porthos was lucky that he was a natural at it. After removing Athos' leg irons and setting them aside, he rose and moved to the lock on the cell's door. He squeezed his large wrist through the tightly spaced, rusted iron bars, and rotated his hand to insert the metal pick into the lock. He gave a furtive glance around, but it appeared the prison's other occupants were all sound asleep. Wiggling the metal to and fro, he finally heard the muffled click as the lock was sprung.

Tucking his pick into his pocket, he walked over to where Athos lay on the floor, crouched next to him, and gently began to rouse the man. It appeared he must have been on the verge of awakening, because after a few light taps on his bearded cheek, Athos' eyes slowly opened and he gazed about. Porthos half-encouraged, half-lifted the man into a seated position and tapped him once more on the cheek to get Athos to focus on him.

"We're gonna get out of here."

Athos' face displayed his confusion. "How?"

"Walk. Well maybe run. Come on. Stand."

Draping the somewhat befuddled man's right arm over his broad shoulders, Porthos rose bringing Athos along with him. When they were nearly upright, the musketeer placed his left hand on Athos' mid-section to keep the man from toppling over. Things were happening much to quickly for Athos' muddled state and he didn't realize that the shackles were no longer around his ankles.

Porthos urged the unsteady man to try walking and Athos made an attempt, lurching forward like a new born foal. He took a few wobbly steps, though he would have fallen flat on his face if it weren't for Porthos' arms holding him up. Athos stopped moving and shook his head as if to try to clear it before realizing that was an incredibly stupid move as his headache flared. Taking deep breaths, he leaned forward and braced his hands against his thighs. As his eyes wandered down his legs, it finally dawned on him his legs were unfettered. In another stupid move, he whipped his head and torso rapidly upwards to stare at Porthos. Once again it was only because of the musketeer's strong and steady hold on him that he didn't end up on his ass on the floor.

"Whoa. Slowly," Porthos cautioned as he saw Athos reeling. "I'm not carrying your skinny ass out of here."

The normally articulate man was at a loss for words. "How?" he mumbled as his eyes roamed from his bare ankles, to the shackles on the floor nearby, to Porthos' face.

"Childhood talent. Come on. Lean on me. We gotta go."

Keeping an arm firmly wrapped around Athos' middle, he urged the man towards the cell's door. After taking a clandestine glance about, Porthos pushed the cell door open. Athos glanced at him in amazement, but the musketeer declined to comment.

Stealthily, the two prisoners made their way through the dusky corridors to the staircase that led upwards. Once there, Athos motioned for Porthos to release him, which he did reluctantly. The determined swordsman made his way to the top of the stairs, then crept across the ante-chamber towards a door which hopefully led outside. Unlike the prisons in Paris, this one seemed woefully under guarded, not that either of them was complaining since it made their escape easier. When they reached the door, Porthos seized the handle before Athos could, figuring if there was a guard outside, he was in better shape to take him down.

Slowly cracking open the iron door, their luck held as it opened onto a street and there were no guards in sight. After slipping through the door, they quietly pushed it shut behind them and took deep breaths of the night air. While in reality the air was hot, muggy, and tinged with the odor of filth and fish, it was the air of freedom to the two weary men, and they reveled in it.

Athos braced his hands against the outer wall of the prison when a wave of dizziness, brought on by his concussion, exhaustion, and recent activity washed over him, threatening to plunge him into darkness. His knees started to buckle and Porthos was at his side in a flash, helping to keep him upright.

"You ain't gonna make it far."

"What's the plan," Athos grunted between tightly clenched teeth as the black spots clouded his vision.

That was a very good question and if the truth be told, Porthos had neglected to plan that aspect of their escape. Raising his eyes, he was sweeping the skyline searching for divine inspiration when he spied the bell dome and weather vane cross of St Rémy in the pale moonlight.

"We'll go to St Rémy. I'm sure Father Biene will help us. He knows who we are."

Athos wasn't convinced it was a brilliant idea, but his head was pounding too fiercely for him to even begin to have a coherent thought for more than a few seconds, let alone come up with a better plan. So gamely pushing off the wall, he staggered into the street in what he hoped was the general direction of the church. He'd only taken a few steps when he felt Porthos move alongside him and wrap his long arm around his torso to support his wobbly walk. Athos gave a small head dip indicating his appreciation of the act. One of his tutors had taught him that it is the stupid man, not the proud, that refuses to admit when he needs help. Athos was afraid that was a lesson he didn't employ often, but he did now.

The streets were fairly deserted and the two men moved through them as swiftly, quietly, and inconspicuously as their situation allowed, considering Porthos found Athos increasingly relying on his support to stay upright. At the rate he was leaning on him, Porthos figured if the church was more than a few blocks away, he'd be forced to sling the swordsman over his shoulder and carry him. However, the church was looming and when they rounded the next corner the massive doors mercifully came into view.

Like last time, Porthos steered them to the smaller doors to the side of the grand entrance. Using his free hand, he tugged them open and whispered a small prayer of thanks when he discovered they were not locked. Once inside, he moved towards the rear of the inner chamber he had been in last time, where he recalled there was a rather plain wooden door from which the father had emerged. He hoped that led to the part of the church where the brothers resided.

The moonlight shining through the church's windows provided enough ambient lighting for Porthos to locate the door he sought. However, when he tried to open it, he found it was secured from the far side. Guiding the flagging Athos to a nearby prayer bench, he propped the man against it before heading back to the locked door. Ducking his head to one side, he rammed the door twice with his shoulder before changing his tactics to a few swift kicks. After the last mighty kick, the door flew open revealing Father Biene, in his night attire, looking rather stunned.

"Sorry, father," Porthos mumbled apologetically. "I guess I could have tried knocking." A thud from behind him had Porthos whirling around. "Damn," he muttered without thinking when he saw Athos had passed out and collapsed on the floor.

By this time the priest had moved closer as he studied the large man. "I know you. The self-proclaimed musketeer, the one the captain jailed."

A short nod from the musketeer indicated he was correct.

The father peered around the larger man. "Is your friend unwell?"

"Got hit in the head, hard, by a guard, for no reason other than he could." Porthos walked over and scooped the swordsman off the floor. He stood there with Athos in his strong arms looking expectantly at the priest. "We need your help. Shelter. We didn't do what they say we did."

"All the musketeers I have ever met have been honorable men. I see no reason to doubt your word. Come this way, son."

The father turned and headed back through the still open door. After Porthos came through, the good father shut the door and reengaged the lock, which miraculously was still functional.

"God works in mysterious ways," he muttered as he walked past Porthos, leading him to a chamber where he could place the injured man. "Of course, knocking would have been effective too in getting my attention. I tend to be a light sleeper."

"Yeah, sorry about the door and the swearin' father," Porthos apologized again, sheepishly.

A small smile danced in the corners of the priest's mouth. "Trust me. I have heard worse within this sanctuary."

The room he led them to was plain, but functional, with a narrow bed covered in a rough woven, brown blanket. With great care, Porthos placed Athos on the cot, then rolled him on his side thinking it would be better for his back and easier for him to breathe. Father Biene moved alongside the bed, brushed his fingers over Athos' forehead, and murmured a short prayer for healing and sleep. "No one deserves to be treated like an animal," he murmured under his breath. When he was done with his prayers, he led Porthos to a second chamber, much like the first, where the musketeer could rest.

"I am most interested to hear what has befallen you gentlemen, but now, you need to sleep as much as your injured friend. You'll be safe here. God will watch over you."

Porthos wasn't so sure about that, but the father was right, he did desperately need to rest. He thanked the priest, and once the man had left the chamber, he shut the door and stretched his large frame out on the small bed. It was a tight fit, but he was so exhausted he didn't care. In less than a minute, he was sound asleep.

Father Biene pensively headed to his own chamber, but before he lay down, he knelt, bowed his grey head, and prayed to God asking for healing, safety, and guidance for the two fugitives he was now sheltering in his church. He had no doubts these men were fugitives, somehow having escaped from Dieppe's prison. However, his trust and belief in God was absolute, and he knew His divine guidance would lead him through this situation.