A/N: This one's for Mountain Cat, who is having a tough time in Texas due to the weather and outages.
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112. The Woman in the Infirmary
"All done," the old man said, as he gathered up his tools.
Morgan was a carpenter by trade and had been brought in many times over the years to fix and mend. Shutters, doors, furniture; all fixed, repaired and replaced by this man and his small team. He had been around longer than they could remember.
It was Morgan that Treville had brought in when he first took over the garrison after Louis had commissioned his elite regiment.
It had been a garrison cum jail before, but had fallen into disrepair as peace encroached. But peace had been a fleeting concept with the likes of Marie de Medici coveting the crown of your own son, following the assassination of her husband, old King Henry.
Treville had overseen the refurbishment, bringing in the best he could find to renovate stables, accommodations, stairways, kitchens, laundry and his office. His final commission for Morgan had been the conversion of a building into their own Infirmary. Morgan's "best" turned out to be his own family, but Treville did not mind nepotism if it got the job done.
Morgan and his two brothers and four cousins had worked night and day, laying flagstones, replacing window frames, hearths, doors and building new cots. There had been a small unveiling when the garrison was fit for purpose. Louis and his first minister, Richelieu himself, had arrived to inspect the return on their investment. Morgan was relieved he had built some tables and benches and placed them around the walls on one side of the yard, as the King of France actually sat on one of his benches to take a drink and take in his surroundings! Richelieu, he noted, preferred to stand.
Louis had then rushed up the stairs to Treville's office with some purpose.
"Shelves, Captain!" he had cried. "You will need lots of shelves and compartments for all the documents that will be passing between the two of us! Is that not so, Cardinal?" he had turned beaming at Richelieu, who was turning a disdainful eye upon the old, but serviceable desk that Treville had pressed into service.
"Quite so, Sire," Richelieu had sniffed, before turning and sweeping out of the office.
Standing on the balcony he had a good view of the yard below. Treville joined him, standing shoulder to shoulder to survey his own small empire. If he wanted to be a little mean spirited, he almost thought His Eminence was a little jealous of his self contained bespoke regimental garrison.
The King suddenly swept out of his office and headed down the stairway.
"Come, Treville!" he called up as he descended. "Show me the Armoury!"
"Certainly, Sire," Treville smiled, before following his monarch down the wooden stairs, not meeting the Cardinal's eye as they left him on the balcony.
Not long after that day, Treville's first soldiers walked through the archway and life in the King's Musketeer Garrison settled down into the organised chaos and noise that now greeted Morgan's ears as he straightened his back. He was almost a decade older now, but there would be no retirement for him. Two of his cousins had been pressed into the army and had died in the Northern Territories and his two brothers were married with large broods to care for. He himself had never married but lived a family life through his brother's families.
This morning, Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan had been tasked with assisting the master carpenter that morning, by way of a punishment meted out by an irate Captain after they had stretched his patience once too often. He did give them the choice between stable duty, latrine duty, or stripping the cots and determining which were to be replaced and which could be repaired. That seemed an easy choice, until Treville told them he wanted all the woodwork washing down as well, and could not ask an old man to do that. He had told them that after they had made their choice, of course.
Porthos was about to say he could always employ a younger carpenter, but a crushing pain on his foot from Athos's boot had stayed him.
"They should be good for another few years," Morgan said, kicking the foot post of the nearest cot. "As long as he doesn't bounce up and down on them too much," he added, nodding towards Porthos.
"Not much chance of that in 'ere," Porthos grunted.
"Not what I heard," Morgan had chuckled to himself. "Heard one of them cots ended up in pieces in the yard beyond, a while back," he added, as he picked up his bag*
"Once," Porthos growled, looking at Aramis, who quickly looked away. "Get's borin' in here sometimes."
"Can't blame you," Morgan said, looking around. "I wouldn't want to be in here too long."
"Well, it would be odd if you enjoyed being confined here," Athos replied, quietly, as he pushed a cot back into place.
"We could not be without it, I'm afraid. And it has its advantages." Aramis interjected.
d'Artagnan collected one of the mattresses they had moved to the other room and dropped it onto the cot that Athos had shifted, before trailing back for another.
As he came back and repeated the process, Morgan was still talking.
"It has its moments too," Morgan said, heaving his bag onto his shoulder with a grunt.
"How so?" Athos asked.
Morgan dropped his bag on the floor and scratched his head.
"I thought you of all people would know, Athos. You can't wait to get out of here."
"That is because I value my privacy," Athos replied, coolly.
"So does she," Morgan replied, his voice dropping, even though they were alone.
"Who?" Aramis asked, sitting down on one of the newly-mattressed beds, which earned him a disapproving look from Athos.
"The woman in the infirmary," the old man said, giving them a knowing smile.
"Are we talkin' about the same place?" Porthos asked, as he leaned against the window sill.
"The Garrison Infirmary," the man said, looking around the room. "This place."
"I don't understand," Athos said, as he too, now took a seat on the opposite cot.
"You will," Morgan hummed, as he ran a finger over the nearby table top, before tapping his knuckles on the gnarled surface. "When the influences align."
"What influences?" d'Artagnan asked, his voice a little higher.
The four friends looked at one another, before turning their attention back to the old carpenter, who had now pulled out a chair and sat down.
"That," he said, leaning forward, "I do not know. But it has happened every so often. Give or take."
"What has?" Porthos asked.
The old man sat back and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pipe. He did not light it, merely held it between his fingers.
"When the time is right. When there is a pull," he said, looking up and pinning them all with a watery gaze.
"What!" Athos said, losing his patience. "What happens? Spit it out, man!"
The old man complied by spitting on the floor.
"She walks," he said.
oOo
"Who could she be?" d'Artagnan asked, after Athos had thanked the old man and had ushered him out, none too slowly.
The four remained behind, under the pretext of tidying up after him, but in truth, needing to ruminate about his words.
"He was just an addled old man," Aramis replied. "Vague in the extreme."
"It's an old buildin'" Porthos replied. "Goes back a long way before us. The footprint of it, anyway."
"Have you seen anything … odd?" d'Artagnan asked them. "You've been here longer than me."
"Don't think so," Porthos replied. "Not "seen" anyway."
"What?" d'Artagnan said.
"Porthos!" Aramis hissed, crossing himself, hastily.
Athos said nothing.
Hadn't he been haunted for years? Even when his wife had appeared before him, defiant and determined, his first words to her were, "You're dead." He was confused, rather than afraid.
His wife felt herself slighted, and therefore justified in her actions. No doubt if she had been dead that night, she would have felt the same way, being a woman who knew her own mind and wants.
Now, as he looked at Aramis, he saw how his friend's fingers had strayed to the crucifix around his neck. Saw how his lips moved silently.
"We don't know she's unsettled," Porthos said then, in all seriousness.
"You believe him?" Aramis said, breaking from his prayers.
Porthos shrugged.
"Seen some things myself," he said. "Felt things."
"What kind of things?" d'Artagnan asked.
He had wanted to see things too. He had wished it, after his father had died so brutally. Surely, if his father's soul was restless …? But to offer such talk went against the church and he had been watching Aramis closely.
"Court of Miracles is an odd place," Porthos shrugged once more.
d'Artagnan wanted to ask but did not. Did he want it to be true? That somewhere, his father … He shook himself as a shiver ran down his spine. Porthos and Athos had been the two who did not look overly perturbed by the revelation that a woman walked their Infirmary floors. A long dead woman.
"Sometimes thought there was someone behind me, but when I turned, there was nothin'," Porthos replied, breaking into his thoughts.
"Or they'd gone," d'Artagnan replied, leaning forward and tucking his hands between his knees.
"Gentlemen!" Aramis said, sharply. "Can we stop this talk now," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. "This is a place of healing."
"People have died 'ere," Porthos pointed out.
Just then, a door banged and they all jumped.
All, apart from Athos, who had been thinking about what Porthos had said. About turning around and there was nothing there.
About the times he had felt his hand held in this place. Or a hand on his shoulder. That time fingers had carded his hair. But he had seen no-one when he turned his head. Delirium? Exhaustion? But Aramis never left them when they were here, and those times he had not been close – but he had been present. He held his peace, not wishing to embellish an old man's stories or fuel d'Artagnan's interest. Or upset Aramis further.
He had no love for this place, but he valued it. He would continue to vacate it as soon as he was able and if a woman walked the floors, she was not, in his experience, defiant or determined. She sought to comfort. That was all he knew on the matter.
"As Porthos rightly points out," he said. "People have died here and they will continue to do so, no doubt. But they have passed in the knowledge they were cared for and valued. This is a place of love and respect and I am sure Aramis will confirm, it is blessed in that it is overseen by a higher power, whatever we each perceive that to be."
A few moments of silence met his words.
"Can I remind you of that the next time you curse at me while I am sewing you up?" Aramis asked.
Porthos and d'Artagnan laughed. There had been some colourful and expressive words thrown around these walls over the years.
"You may," Athos conceded, rising to his feet. "Let us now consign the old man's tales where they belong."
"Amen," Aramis said, with some relief.
But as they trooped out, they all knew that d'Artagnan would still hope to see his father, Porthos would still occasionally turn expectantly, Aramis would still utter his silent prayers and Athos, having felt the vengeful touch of his "dead" wife, would recognise the difference and know that the unseen fingers of the woman in the infirmary, when she sought them out, were gentle.
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Thanks for reading! More soon.
*Chapter 26, "King of the Castle." Porthos wrecks a cot, but it wasn't his fault, to be fair.