Dear all, thank you so much for the comments and PMs on the last chapter. Goodness, it did open a can of worms and I LOVE reading your speculation. Sometimes your thoughts and observations help me to sharpen up the next chapter or so whilst on other occasions, it is a joy to see that some of you are definitely on the right lines. I so enjoy the contact from you all.

So, what will happen now? The Citadel is in trouble; the Captain's in trouble; Athos is in trouble; Savatier is in trouble; Porthos is in trouble and Aramis ... well he is in trouble as he tries to hold everything together. As ever, there is the cliffhanger but no scrolling to the end to read that bit first. Promise me now!

CHAPTER 49

I

Later, Athos would not be able to recall how often he dived beneath the surface of the water. He had also lost track of time itself for the cold was numbing his limbs and his lungs burned as he fought to hold his breath as long as possible ... and that little bit longer. Underwater, visibility was virtually non-existent for the moon was too weak to penetrate the depths and he was heavily dependent upon touch. He almost recoiled when his hand made contact with a form that had none of the solidity or sharpness of the rocks and he grabbed at it in desperation, kicking out for the surface and dragging the person with him. He dared not think about which of them it was that he had found.

As he broke the surface, gasping for breath, he struck out for the shore and the hands reaching for both him and his burden. He tried to help as they hauled him out of the water but exhaustion and the cold conspired to render his limbs useless. He lay on his front, reminiscent of a landed fish, and breathing hard as the rock's rough surface scratched at his cheek whilst the smell of seaweed assaulted his nostrils. The onslaught on his senses was welcome, confirming that he was still amongst the living and, as if reminded, he reluctantly opened his eyes to look at the frighteningly still person laid out on the next rock, musketeers running hands over limbs for any sign of injury.

He could not suppress his sob of undisguised relief as the man violently coughed up a stream of water. Familiar blue eyes fluttered open, stared at him vacantly and then focused. A weak hand reached out and touched his arm, lacking the energy to actually grasp him. Mouthing a 'thank you', Tréville's eyes slid closed as he lost consciousness again.

"Come on," someone said, reaching for Athos and trying to pull him up. "We need to get the pair of you to the infirmary."

"Wait," he ordered, rolling onto his back and pushing himself into a sitting position so that he could scan the water again. "What of Savatier?"

There was an uneasy silence as the other men looked anywhere but directly at him, wondering which one of them was going to answer.

"There is no sign of him. He has not surfaced at all. The Lieutenant has drowned," one of them, Buton, finally said. "Now we really do need to move you two."

II

Aramis was dozing in a chair when the door to the infirmary burst open and a large group of musketeers noisily entered, disturbing the peace and quiet of those who, despite their ailments, were trying to rest in the early hours of the morning. He was galvanised into action when he saw three of them carrying the unconscious figure of the regiment's captain and guided them to the cot next to Porthos that had become vacant during the day when its previous occupant, one of the last of the injured men to recover from the attack by the English archers, eventually was well enough to return to his quarters.

"What happened?" he demanded brusquely, already pulling at Tréville's boots and inadvertently spilling the water that remained in them over the floor. "Get him out of his wet clothes," he ordered two of the men who had been carrying the Captain, before rapidly issuing a further string of instructions to the other gathered men for blankets, hot water, some broth, bandages and ointment because, even with a cursory look, he had spotted a plethora of cuts and abrasions.

It was as they peeled away obediently to fulfil their tasks that he saw and heard Athos, held up between two more musketeers, his teeth chattering uncontrollably like a noisy drum tattoo.

"Where do you want us to put him?" Buton asked, looking around for an empty cot and not finding one.

Aramis grabbed a chair and set it down nearby. "Strip him, wrap him in a blanket and sit him there; we have no more beds." He glanced to where the men were shrouding their unconscious Captain in blankets before he turned to Athos, an all-consuming concern making him sound harsher that he actually was when he saw his friend remonstrating with those who would undress him, insisting that he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. The shaking of his numb hands indicated otherwise.

"Let me do it," Aramis first waved the other men away and then slapped Athos' hands down. "I need you out of those clothes now before you catch your death."

"An unlikely occurrence," Athos corrected, sounding strange above his chattering teeth as he alluded to the possibility of death being caught, rather than his ability to lose his apparel.

Aramis was not amused. "Do not try to be clever or pedantic with me, my friend. Now is neither the time nor the place. What on earth have you been doing? I can't let you out of my sight without you go and do something stupid! What possessed you?"

His own hands suddenly began to shake as he fumbled with the row of small buttons on Athos' doublet; it did not do well to think on what might have been for, despite his dismissive scolding, he knew that something momentous had happened and he was not altogether sure that he wanted to hear it. Not this night. He glanced across to where Porthos lay restlessly. No, not tonight; there was too much happening already.

He cursed as another button on the thick, wet leather refused to move but stopped as a cold, trembling hand covered his. Raising his head, he looked into expressionless green eyes.

The voice would have been flat, devoid of emotion save for the persistent teeth-chattering. "Tréville and Savatier were fighting on the rocks. I could not get to them in time. Savatier fell, pulling the Captain in with him. I had to go in to find him. I could not just leave …." His voice trailed off. "I had to go in after him, Aramis. You have to understand."

His tone was pleading; he needed Aramis to comprehend why he had taken such a risk. Indeed, he had not even thought twice about his action; it was the obvious and only thing that he could do.

The two men stood, a tableau amidst a hive of activity until, ignoring the feel of the sodden clothing, Aramis suddenly pulled his friend into a desperate embrace, terrified at how close he had come to losing him, fearful that he could still lose another brother to sickness and feeling utterly helpless, that events were racing out of his control. Athos stood stiffly at first, arms by his side, bemused by the unexpected show of emotion and affection and then he responded, arms slowly rising and enveloping Aramis as the two clung together.

"Savatier is lost," he whispered into Aramis' ear, not daring to say the words 'dead' or 'drowned' aloud. As his brother pulled away to stare at him, he went on, "He never came up again; he could have hit his head on the rocks or his clothing must have weighted him down, just as ours so nearly did to us."

Aramis merely nodded at the significance of the pronouncement; the machinations of the former lieutenant were one less thing that they had to worry about now. He became business-like again and worked, successfully this time, at the buttons of the doublet. Once Athos was divested of the sopping wet garments and wrapped in a double layer of blankets, Aramis left others to serve him with hot broth and turned his attention to the regiment's commanding officer.

It was less than an hour before Tréville's body temperature was sufficiently elevated again that a healthy colour once more suffused his skin, the cuts had all been cleaned and treated to ward off infection and he had recovered his senses enough to sit up in bed and swallow half a bowl of hot broth, more than Athos had managed. The other musketeers had dispersed with the explicit instruction to inform the rest of the regiment that the search was no longer necessary and that the men might get some well-earned rest. It went without saying that those who had been present at the quayside would add their own version of events when recounting how the lieutenant had perished. One man had been dispatched to update the Governor and the message sent back was that Toiras would come down to see them within the next two hours, it being about five in the morning already.

Serge had materialised unbidden to refill the bowls with steaming broth and stood over the two recovering men, as if on guard, to ensure that they both emptied their bowls this time. Tréville, feeling like a recalcitrant schoolboy, did as he was instructed, albeit reluctantly, and wondered if Serge ever took the time to sleep.

At length, Aramis moved back to Porthos' bedside and resumed bathing hot skin to bring some comfort to his friend's fevered body.

"We were right then," Tréville said eventually, but there was no jubilation in his tone, only a sadness at the loss of an erstwhile good man who, for whatever reason, had turned bad.

"I think, perhaps, that it would be a good idea if the duties were eased but that the men did not stand down from those positions entirely," Athos suggested from his place on the floor. Two thin straw mattresses had been put down, one on top of the other, to afford him some respite from the hard wooden surface but he had chosen to sit on them, back against the wall, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them.

He looked up at the Captain. "We would not want to be taken by surprise again and the next time, should there be one, it might be someone from the English camp who manages to gain access somehow, some way. The fact that it has happened the once does not discount it happening again."

"I concur," said Tréville.

He eyed the younger man and wondered, not for the first time, how there could be such a store of wisdom on such young shoulders. It had been something that he had had to strive for through years of military experience but Athos was a strategist, a thinker, who absorbed information like a sponge and who only had to look at a situation briefly before he saw diverse outcomes. The men recognised and respected his ability, although the likes of Delacroix resented it, and the majority would willingly submit to a leadership that he did not believe he had nor deserved.

It was the natural step for Tréville's thoughts to turn to Pinon and the unresolved question as to why the young nobleman had walked away from his lands and responsibilities and refused to use his title. Something catastrophic had to have occurred for he was a natural leader and his estate must surely have flourished under his guidance. Although a man usually of few words and undeniably difficult to befriend, except by the very few, he had a fierce loyalty once it was bestowed and would do anything to support and protect his brothers.

And his Captain, Tréville realised.

He cleared his throat. "Athos."

Steady green eyes gazed up at him through a shock of unruly hair. Uncombed and left to dry, the musketeer's matted hair curled wildly and made him seem so much younger than his actual years.

"Thank you. You saved my life and I will never forget it," Tréville went on quietly.

Abashed, Athos dropped his head, a definite pink tinge appearing in his cheeks.

Tréville softened, his heart aching as he thought to himself, "Good grief, boy. What happened to you that you do not even know how to accept praise where praise is due?"

Athos mumbled something about anyone doing the same thing and began to scramble awkwardly to his feet, almost as if he were trying to escape.

"Where do you think you're going?" Aramis' voice carried easily.

"Coming to see how Porthos is," he replied.

"No need," came the curt answer as Aramis rounded Tréville's cot to stand at the foot of the mattresses. "He's asleep at last and I do not want him disturbed."

"I could help," Athos sounded plaintive. "Bathe his face or something."

"From what I hear, you just nearly killed yourself. You stay there until I am convinced you are fully recovered," Aramis ordered.

"He saved my life," Tréville repeated slowly and carefully, wary at the sudden emotional outburst from the younger musketeer.

"Granted, but what were you doing that deemed such action necessary?" Aramis folded his arms, his whole demeanour suggesting a suppressed anger.

It would have been funny were it not for the fact that he was being openly confrontational to an officer. Tréville's eyes narrowed but he made the conscious decision not to upbraid the man for his tone; he was clearly being stretched to breaking point by the demands within the infirmary and a critically ill friend. "I was attempting to apprehend a man who posed a serious threat to the safety of those within the Citadel."

"Why did you leave the courtyard when I asked you to wait? I said that I would not be long," Athos joined in.

"What is this? A pincer movement?" Tréville looked from one to the other of them but Athos was resolutely expecting an answer, even as Aramis seemed to soften a little, an eyebrow raised for he, too, was waiting for the Captain to justify himself. "All right, I did not wait and began to walk down to the quayside; that was when I saw Savatier and gave chase." He saw the exchange between the other two men and cut them off before either of them could remonstrate with him. "And if I had stayed put as you wanted, I would have missed him and he possibly would have been successful in his escape."

There was no denying that point but what was also left unsaid was that, had Tréville not engaged with his former lieutenant, they might have later captured the man and brought him to some form of justice, rather than having him lost to the sea.

III

Over the next few days, the Citadel fell back into an uneasy routine. The increased guard duties were maintained whilst others lined the ramparts when there were sudden but short-lived bursts of activity from the English camp when their musketeers opened fire upon the French defences and the small canon were brought into play. No damage was inflicted upon the Citadel and no harm was done to the men within its walls; it was as if Buckingham wanted to remind them of his continued presence without wasting too much ammunition.

The defenders were hardly likely to forget as their stores were rapidly depleted. Some of the men took to fashioning rods and lines and occupied themselves with fishing from the quayside but they were never going to produce sufficient for the occupants of the fortress and the few fish they did manage to catch were too small to assuage their mounting hunger. Rumours rapidly spread that soldiers were beginning to set traps for rats and roasting them over open fires but somehow no one was ever witness to this.

Tréville, fully recovered from his encounter with Savatier, started to spend more and more time shut away with Toiras, giving birth to varied speculation that they were either going to take the fight to Buckingham, thereby sending him back to his ships and away from French waters, or, as was more likely, the Governor was preparing to surrender.

Athos and Aramis gave little heed to what they were hearing and certainly did not care. Their attention was fixed solely upon their brother and they refused to move from his side; even the Captain ceased to find alternative things to take Athos from the infirmary.

For three days, Porthos seemed to rally, firing Athos with a renewed optimism, but Aramis refused to comment; he had seen such brief improvements too many times and he did not want to dash his brother's hopes so he maintained his own counsel. Although far short of a full recovery, Porthos slept less, chatted more and sipped at the water given him, even managing to swallow a few mouthfuls of a thin meat broth that Serge, on the Captain's orders, kept solely for the infirm. The griping stomach cramps that had left the big man whimpering on occasions seemed to have eased and his fever dropped a little.

But Aramis' reticence was soon proved to be correct.

The deterioration on the evening of the third day began with a general sense of malaise; Porthos fell silent as if the effort of saying anything was suddenly too much. He was listless and refused food and would have refused the water too had not Athos and Aramis argued with him, pleaded and cajoled, spooning the water between his parched lips. When his fever raged once more, they worked together, bathing him in cold water that one of them had freshly drawn from the well. Then they soaked a sheet in a bucket, wrapping him in it and repeating the process in a vain attempt to relieve the heat that emanated from him. He was oblivious to their ministrations when the watery, blood-stained diarrhoea poured from him, or when one held his head and the other a bowl as bouts of agonised vomiting and repeated dry heaves when his stomach was empty left him barely conscious. They alternated snatching brief periods of sleep on a mattress on the floor by the bed, fearful of straying too far, and starting awake when the crippling pain had Porthos curling into a foetal position, arms wrapped tightly around his body and crying out in a manner that was so uncharacteristic of him that it frightened them both, although neither would admit it.

Exhausted from very little sleep for too long and his nerves shredded with worry, Aramis looked haunted. Dark rings circled his eyes and his skin was sallow, waxen-looking. When Porthos ceased eating, so did Aramis. It was not deliberate but he had lost all appetite and the limitations in the food stock meant that the one meal to which they were now restricted held no appeal so it became easier for him to politely decline Athos' attempts to press him to have something. It was always the same excuse – that he would eat later but Athos knew that was not the case.

One afternoon, Athos looked at the meagre offering on the plate he held. He was sitting beside Porthos, who had not shown signs of being conscious for several hours, suspended as he was in a strange state of being no worse but definitely being no better. Athos began to raise a morsel to his lips when he sighed and threw it back down in disgust.

Aramis had gone to a side room some time before to make a herbal draught but had not returned. Athos frowned, puzzled at what was taking so long so he decided to go and investigate.

He moved quietly from habit rather than a desire to remain unannounced so that his friend did not hear him approach. He was struck, therefore, when he saw Aramis, back to the door, leaning on the table, his head bowed and his shoulders visibly shaking. He was weeping.

"Aramis?" Athos said softly, disturbed by what he saw.

Immediately the other musketeer straightened, sniffed loudly and swiped at his eyes, the gesture angry. He did not turn round when he spoke, his voice a mixture of despair and anger.

"I have nothing else to give Porthos or the others. Anything that is remotely helpful has all been used. I have managed to do little and now I can do even less. I have never felt so utterly useless as I do right now."

Athos carefully advanced and laid a hand on Aramis' arm. "You are not useless; you have done so much in caring for Porthos and the other men. The lack of herbal ingredients is none of your doing; you cannot hold yourself responsible."

Aramis shrugged off the hand and stepped away, beyond reach, beyond consolation for he felt so undeserving. "But I do hold myself responsible. Maybe I could have used the ingredients differently, different combinations, different amounts. I just don't know. All I am sure about is that I have nothing to bring our brother any relief as he lies dying."

"No!" Athos recoiled, not wanting to hear the word spoken aloud as if, by not saying it, it could never come to pass. "You cannot give up on him. Porthos is a fighter."

Suddenly, aggressively, Aramis grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the open doorway and pointed to the cot where Porthos lay, eyes closed and so still that it was as if he had already left them.

"I am not giving up on him; I am facing reality and you need to start doing it as well. We are about as close to losing him as we have ever been. Look at him, Athos; look at him properly. Where is the fighter now? He is but a shadow of the man I know and love, an empty shell. Where is his energy? His zest for life? What I would not give to hear his laugh; to hear his ribald jests; be at the mercy of his teasing. That is what I am trying so hard to remember and it is fading, along with him."

"Your prayers …" Athos began, stunned by his friend's ferocity.

"My prayers!" Aramis almost spat the words out in a manner so alien to the usually devout man. "I have been praying for him every minute I can since the first day he fell ill but my prayers are apparently going unheard at present. Obviously God and I are on different pages of the book, only He hasn't got to the part where Porthos wakes up and begins to recover."

Athos was lost for words. Events in his life had conspired to shatter any deep-seated belief he had once held and he spent little time now even speculating on the existence of a loving and merciful God, but he knew how importantly Aramis viewed his own faith and to hear such a disrespectful attack on the Almighty only highlighted the fear Aramis had for Porthos' survival. He depended upon the knowledge that his brother's faith held strong, no matter what, and this change shook his own foundations. The marksman had always been so strong, save for the Savoy incident, that to see him crumbling now was more than Athos could stand. He wanted – needed – Aramis to say that Porthos would get well for he could not even begin to imagine a life without the steadying presence of the big man. When he had been on his own downward path of self-destruction, Porthos had always been there, minding him, caring for him, protecting him when he picked fights with anyone he could find and even withstanding the physical blows Athos had unfairly dealt when the self-loathing, reproach and frustrations threatened to overwhelm him. At that moment, Athos felt as if he were drifting helplessly, directionless, or else caught in some nightmarish limbo where he could not, and dare not, face what might come.

"He will get well," he whispered as if, by repeating the words often enough, he could make it happen.

Aramis looked directly at him for the first time, the unbridled anger draining away and leaving him sad. "Oh, Athos," he reached out and cupped the back of the man's neck with a trembling hand. "If he survives until the morning, it will be a blessing, one more day and it will be a miracle. If he gets through that, then – and only then – might I start to think that he has beaten this and will recover. But there are many hours between now and then, and anything might happen."

IV

Toiras looked at the parchment that Tréville had handed him and read the information written on it with a childlike, spidery hand. Serge had never managed to control his letters properly but they were at least legible.

The news was not good and Toiras ran a tired hand over his face as he gathered his thoughts. Laying the parchment down on his desk top and straightening it with obsessive deliberation, he took a shaky breath and looked up to where Tréville stood, hands clasped behind his back and his face grim. The captain could well anticipate what the announcement was going to be. It was inevitable and a decision that he was glad was not his to make.

"As Governor of this island and, more importantly, the present commander of this besieged garrison, I cannot, in all conscience, inflict greater suffering upon the people within these walls. I will not subject them to a slow starvation just in case relief from the mainland manages to penetrate the English blockade. We have to face it; the English are not about to leave, especially after the last arrival of reinforcements. That eases the burden of the numbers of men they have lost. As we have witnessed daily burial details, we can only assume that the sickness has befallen them too. Both sides are in a parlous state but they still outnumber us greatly and they have access to a supply chain that we do not."

Toiras stood and pulled on the front edges of his doublet for he understood the full import of what he was about to say.

"Tomorrow, Tréville, you will go as my representative to the Duke of Buckingham in order to negotiate our terms of surrender."

The Musketeer Captain slowly let out the breath that he had been holding. So it was to end like this; starved into submission, sickness rife amongst their ranks, expected to hand over all armaments and, in all likelihood, to be held as prisoners of war within the walls they had attempted to defend for so many long weeks.

Toiras had not entirely finished though.

"I have one last idea. I want three volunteers. Go and sound out the men and bring them back to me within the hour."

A/N

- Toiras did send an officer to open surrender negotiations with the English.

- He did ask for three volunteers for one last task.