Good morning. Thank you for reading and reviewing the last chapter. Apologies for any errors that have crept through.
There's bad news for d'Artagnan.
CHAPTER 3
I
"We'll try again. Sip this slowly; it will help ease the pain," Aramis said encouragingly as he handed the cup to d'Artagnan, who sat propped against several pillows. His upper arm and head were swathed in bandages whilst his left ankle, equally bound, was elevated on more pillows.
"Hopefully, this one will stay down," d'Artagnan muttered miserably.
"That was the concussion," Aramis assured him. "Your eyes are brighter now and more focused and you are no longer so drowsy."
"Think that's 'is way of sayin' you'll live," Porthos chuckled from a nearby chair.
"The way my head's pounding," d'Artagnan groaned, "I'm not sure I'm ready to believe him."
Aramis gestured to the cup the young Gascon held. "That draught will soothe all ills."
"And you're sure nothing is broken?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly, gesturing towards his foot.
"Absolutely," Aramis insisted. "I do not doubt that it is painful and will remain so for several days. The strapping will give you some support, but it will heal quicker if you stay off it for a while."
"I was behind you an' saw you fall," Porthos took up the explanation. "Your landin' was more awkward than graceful an' the foot gave way. You went down 'ard, hittin' your head in the process."
D'Artagnan huffed with exasperation. "I wasn't much use in the attack, was I, falling off my horse like that? I'm sorry."
Porthos scowled. "Must've hit your 'ead 'arder than we thought? 'As it slipped your mind that you were shot?"
"Creased," the young Gascon corrected him.
The comment elicited a shrug from the big Musketeer. "In my book, that still amounts to bein' shot."
"But it left you outnumbered!"
"Three of us against five of them?" Porthos snorted with amusement. "That's not bein' outnumbered for us, especially when they were so useless at fightin'."
"I never expected to have to use on d'Artagnan the reasoning we usually employ with Athos," Aramis suddenly said, his face darkening and folding his arms as though angry.
"I know we've said they're alike in so many ways," agreed Porthos, warming to the subject, "but it's a bit concernin' that it's got this far this soon."
Aramis shook his head. "I know. I didn't see it coming. It's truly disturbing and I fear I shall have to make an unwelcome report about it to the Captain."
Porthos whistled through his teeth. "'E won't like it and I 'ave to say I'm not surprised. 'E reckons Athos has taken years off 'is life as it is so 'e won't want d'Artagnan addin' to 'is woes! "
D'Artagnan looked worriedly from one to the other. "What? What do you mean? Tell me!"
Porthos sighed and spoke slowly, as if explaining something difficult to a child who was finding it hard to comprehend.
"Did you deliberately fall off your 'orse?" When d'Artagnan's mouth dropped open, he added. "Simple enough question."
"No, of course not!"
"And did you deliberately get shot?" Aramis joined in.
"No!"
"An' did you try to break your ankle?" Porthos demanded.
D'Artagnan slumped in the bed and groaned. "Not at all."
Porthos slapped his thighs decidedly. "That settles it then. You didn't do this deliberately so there's no need for an apology. You didn't leave us anythin' we couldn't 'andle."
"We are more relieved that your injuries, painful as they might be, are light and that you will be fully fit before too long." Aramis sought to reassure him again.
"I'm more surprised that the attackers managed to survive this long in the robbin' profession. They obviously 'ad no common sense, thinkin' they'd take on soldiers, an' King's Musketeers at that," Porthos went on as he pushed himself to his feet. "Emergency over so what do you say to me goin' an' getting' us some food?"
He could not miss d'Artagnan's grimace and the way the lad rubbed at his stomach; it was not that long since his last bout of concussion-induced sickness.
"Just a light dish for you. Perhaps a bowl of broth," and Porthos patted his own middle, "whereas I'm in need of somethin' a bit more robust!"
Aramis was laughing as the door closed behind his ever-hungry friend but, as he sank into the vacated seat, he grew more serious.
"What is it?" d'Artagnan asked, noting the change that had come over the other man.
Aramis frowned, as though a fragment of thought was on the edge of his mind and he was struggling to make sense of it. "I don't know; something Porthos just said."
Weariness overcoming him, d'Artagnan let the pillows cushion his aching head and closed his eyes. "He said the robbers were useless at fighting."
"Mmmm," Aramis acknowledged. "He also said that they were stupid to take on trained Musketeers."
"P'raps they were desperate," d'Artagnan said, his voice dropping to a barely coherent mumble.
"We could have just been an ordinary patrol so why attack? If they were that desperate, what did they think we were carrying? We only had the documents we had just collected …." His voice trailed off as he considered what had struck him. "What was so important about those documents?"
When the only response to his question was a gentle snore, he smiled; d'Artagnan had fallen asleep.
II
When d'Artagnan next opened his eyes, much of the room was in shadow and a lamp burned low on the table beside him.
"Welcome back," a low voice said, hands reaching out to pour a cup of water.
"Athos, what time is it?" d'Artagnan asked, easing himself up on one elbow and taking the proffered cup.
"Late evening. You have slept well for a couple of hours or more. How do you feel?"
There was a pause as d'Artagnan took a mental stock of his various aches and pains. "Stiff and sore but much better than earlier. My headache is not thumping as it did before, and my stomach has quietened down."
"I ma glad to hear it," and Athos gave a slight smile, "but what of your leg?" He already knew the answer to that one but thought he would let d'Artagnan explain – it was enough to keep the young Gascon in Paris whilst he and his brothers headed to England.
"Very painful but not broken. Aramis says I have to rest; stay off it for a few days and then it will be fine." He looked around the Infirmary for the others, noticing their absence for the first time. "Where is he? And Porthos?" He grinned. "Are they that tire of me that they have taken themselves off to the Wren?"
Athos reached out to turn up the lamp; anything to delay having to tell d'Artagnan that they were leaving him behind. He watched as the warm glow of flickering flame grew and intensified whilst spreading light through the room and creating more shadows in the further recesses.
"They will be back soon; they are just packing a few things together." He hesitated, letting his words penetrate.
It did not take long.
"Packing?" d'Artagnan's eyes widened. "Where are they going and when?"
Athos took a deep breath. "The three of us are leaving in the early morning, bound for Calais and then England as escort for an emissary of the King."
"Three of you?" The truth of the matter was registering and d'Artagnan struggled to sit up straighter, as if intent on proving that he was more than capable of making the journey. "But what about me? Can't you delay your departure for a couple of days? Aramis says that I should be up and about by then.
Leaning forward and resting a conciliatory hand on his friend's forearm, Athos sighed. "You know as well as I that Aramis would not have said couple of days for that leg to be fully recovered. Besides, you received a concussion …"
"A mild one," d'Artagnan interrupted. "I was sick a couple of times, but I am well enough now."
"And you received a wound to your arm," Athos persisted. "That's without the physical exhaustion from so many days in the saddle and do not even think of making light of that. We are exhausted and are not looking forward to such a strenuous journey."
"Of course you are exhausted; you are all older than me," d'Artagnan risked saying, his lips twitching as he attempted – and failed – to suppress his brief mirth.
Even Athos managed a smile at the brotherly insult. "Be thankful that you are lying in that bed and have already received some hurts for I would ensure that you garnered a few more for that comment. Then I would tell the others and they could claim their own revenge."
He grew serious as he continued. "It would tax you too much. Besides, by the time we have got back, you will be fully recovered and back on full duties. You must remain here; it would ease our minds knowing that you were safe. We are going to have enough to occupy our minds as it is."
"You made it sound like a straightforward mission. Are you expecting trouble?" d'Artagnan frowned.
Athos thought before he replied for he did not want to say too much and thereby leave his brother worrying about them whilst they were absent from the garrison.
"You know our missions," he smiled reassuringly. "We do not go out expecting it, but it is wise to be fully alert as trouble has a habit of catching up with us. The worst we are likely to encounter is a cold reception from the English."
"I have never left France and would have enjoyed going to England," d'Artagnan admitted ruefully.
"From what I have heard, it is nothing special. Apparently, it tends to rain all the time, the food is very different and somewhat inferior, and the people are …" He paused, wondering how dreadful he could make his destination sound whilst still maintaining some plausibility. "They are reputed to be very cold and aloof."
D'Artagnan snorted with amusement. "There are those who don't know you who would say the same about you."
Athos smiled again as d'Artagnan picked up on the deliberately chosen words that were apt for him; he knew how some of his colleagues within the garrison regarded him.
Not that it bothered him. Once he had arrived in Paris after leaving his Pinon estate, he had not cared what anyone thought of him. His mind was suddenly distracted as other more appropriate words rushed to the fore: abandoning, neglecting, fleeing; none of them were very positive and yet all described his abrupt departure from the ancient family seat following his brother's murder at the hands of his Anne. He sought the good opinion of only a handful of people, and they were his three brothers and his commander. If the King had the occasional good word to add for a job well done, then it was an added advantage.
Until he remembered that a 'job well done' in preventing the theft of a relic whilst he recovered from the measles was what had led to his current assignment which entailed the trip to England. There was no advantage in that! He had managed to keep his feet on terra firma for three years since the Musketeers had been sent to the Île de Ré at the height of the latest Huguenot unrest. An English fleet and soldiers under the command of the Duke of Buckingham had also been involved and his thoughts strayed to his encounters with the royal favourite. News had reached France in the autumn of the following year that the noble had been assassinated by an embittered soldier before he had a chance to embark for La Rochelle.
"Athos?"
He realised that d'Artagnan was watching him worriedly.
"Are you well? You looked lost for a moment," the Gascon continued.
"Sorry, I was thinking of my last dealings with the English." Athos distracted himself by refilling the cup of water and handing it to his injured friend, whether or not it was wanted.
"Do I hear the beginnings of a story that I've not yet heard?" d'Artagnan encouraged. There was nothing he enjoyed more than listening to the many adventures his friends had had before he joined them, and this was definitely one that he had not heard before.
The door burst open to admit Porthos, Aramis in his wake. Both bore trays of food to be shared between the four.
"It is a story that will wait for another time," Athos insisted as he rose to help the others dish out the food.
"You came bearing food earlier," d'Artagnan said as he accepted a bowl of steaming stew.
"You have to eat to recover," Porthos pointed out, settling on the side of a nearby bed and attacking his own full bowl with enthusiasm.
"And we have to eat before we rest," Aramis added. "We have to get to sleep soon if we're starting early in the morning." He looked at Athos but inclined his head towards d'Artagnan. "You've told him?"
"He has,"d'Artagnan answered instead. "I wish I was going with you."
"And we wish you were able to be with us, but it is better that you have the chance to recover fully rather than suffer a long journey."
When Captain Tréville entered the infirmary less than an hour later, the lamp burned low and he smiled as he took in the scene. Empty bowls and cups were discarded on the table and the four men lay sleeping peacefully, the exhaustion from their days in the saddle finally taking their toll.
D'Artagnan lay on his back, his bandaged foot elevated, and his colour was much better. His brothers were stretched out on the coverlets of three neighbouring beds, still clothed with the exception of doublets and boots. Tréville looked at where the clothing and footwear had been discarded and chuckled softly at what that said about the three friends.
Porthos' boots had been thrown down on the floor, his doublet in a crumpled heap on top of them. Aramis boots stood by the bed, but one had fallen over and the bucket top of the other had collapsed whilst his long coat had been folded and lay at the end of the bed, his feet resting on it. He would have known that the pair of boots standing to attention by the bed and the doublet carefully draped over a chair back belonged to Athos, even without their owner being on the bed closest to them.
A pair of sleepy green eyes regarded him steadily; Athos had stirred.
"Go back to sleep. I am sorry for disturbing you," Tréville whispered.
He waited until Athos closed his eyes again and his breathing grew soft and regular before leaving the infirmary, quietly closing the door behind him. As the Captain strolled back to his office and his own bed, he smiled again to himself and hoped that his men slept soundly. Their rest was much deserved and it would not be too many hours before they would be on the road once more.
He tried to dispel the disquiet that had bothered him for several hours, ever since he had learned that Richelieu had not been totally honest with him. Now why didn't that surprise him? This should be a straightforward collection of an artefact with his men escorting the emissary. Surely nothing could go wrong. But then he remembered the attack on his men and the injuries d'Artagnan had received. Now he knew that the papers they were carrying were associated with the relic. And what about the relations who did not want the King to own the reliquary?
What lengths were they prepared to go to in order to prevent that from happening?