Belated Easter greetings to you all; I hope you have had a good weekend. Profuse apologies for not uploading on Good Friday as planned but it had been a very busy week. I now beta read for a historical fiction company and had a looming deadline. Then I decided to do loads of baking on Friday ahead of visiting my support bubble on Saturday. Some of the baking was absolutely fine but I had decided to make a simnel cake for the first time. To cut a long story short, it was a hilarious but time-consuming unmitigated disaster and many text messages and a phone call from friends could not rectify things and, on Saturday, we decided that there was no salvaging it and it was consigned to a bin! :)
Hope you enjoy the chapter and that I haven't left too many errors in it.
CHAPTER 47
When Captain Tréville eventually rode through the archway into the garrison yard, he was slumped tiredly in the saddle, his face grey. He seemed to have aged ten years in the three hours or more that had elapsed since the explosion, but it was to be a long time before he would find any rest.
His mind kept going over events immediately before the bomb was thrown and in the aftermath. Having issued a string of instructions, he waited until all the injured and bodies had been removed from the scene and had then watched as his Musketeers, Red Guard and civilians fell to work in clearing the debris.
Jagged wood was gathered and piled to one side, rubble shifted, and arrangements made for the removal of the horse carcasses. Several magnificent beasts had been killed immediately in the blast and two Musketeers swiftly and respectfully took care of two other horses who were gravely injured. It was a hard task for anyone, and immaterial that all the lost animals belonged to the Spanish visitors. There were enough Musketeer mounts that would probably bear the scars of this day's atrocity, but they had been slowly walked back to the garrison to be tended.
Broken glass was swept up before water was brought and the stones scrubbed to remove as much of the alarming bloodstains as possible. There was some damage to buildings in the immediate vicinity of the Ambassador's coach and it was necessary to board over a handful of windows until repairs could be completed. There were scattered belongings collected by Tréville's men and taken for safe keeping at the garrison until they could be claimed.
When all seemed to be under control, he gave orders for his men and the Red Guard to finish the task and return to their bases to get what rest they could. He would make sure that Serge served more than watered ale with the evening's meal for reactions from the horror of the day would begin to make themselves felt as the men began to relax. If there were a few sore heads the next morning as a result then he was more than willing to turn a blind eye, anything as long as the soldiers could find some sleep after the gruelling hours.
He had yet to announce the names of the dead, although he was sure that news would have already spread within the garrison. He still needed to do it formally and the bodies prepared, a vigil mounted, and graves dug in the garrison cemetery for the burial ceremony.
Three dead Musketeers; all good men with families that he had to notify. Three victims and he feared they would not be the last for he had seen some of the other injuries. And what of Athos? Had he woken up yet?
His mind was still reeling and his own emotions running high when he arrived at Notre Dame, so the last thing he needed was the fierce argument with Richelieu that erupted as soon as he arrived at the chapel where the royal couple and France's First Minister had sought refuge. There was no mistaking which chapel was being used by them because the solid wall of Musketeers standing shoulder to shoulder was hard to miss.
They broke rank long enough to allow him to enter and then closed their formation behind him again. The Queen sat on a chair, pale yet composed as Louis sat beside her and held her hands in his, rubbing some warmth and comfort into them. He was clearly agitated but looked up at Tréville with something akin to hope in his eyes.
"Ferdinand ….?" His voice trailed off.
"The Cardinal Infante has very mild injuries, Sire, but was smiling, talking and walking when I last saw him. My men have taken him back to the safety of the garrison to be examined more carefully and to have some cuts and bruises tended. The same applies to the Ambassador; he, too, is safe."
With the news of her brother's survival, the Queen bowed her head and wept softly, the hours of worry finally at an end. Louis slid an arm around her shoulders and held her close in open affection.
"And you did not think to send a messenger to alleviate Her Majesty's worry for her brother's survival before now?" Richelieu demanded, a challenge in his voice.
Tréville ignored him and, instead, addressed his next comment to the top of Anne's head.
"My profuse apologies, Your Majesty, but I was employing the men in removing the injured as quickly as possible for treatment. Then I needed to have the dead respectfully removed before securing damaged buildings and initiating a clean-up detail. I must add that many civilians have stepped in to assist."
The Queen raised her head, her cheeks dampened by her tears, but she managed a weak smile.
"There is no need for your apology, Captain. You have done well for all of us in the circumstances and, of course, the needs of so many must come before sending news of my brother. You had already moved us for safe-keeping."
Louis was smiling broadly. "I am delighted that my brother-in-law is well and that citizens of Paris have willingly offered their help; I would have expected no less of them."
"At what point have you decided we can return to the palace?" Richelieu cut in. "This is not the most comfortable of places to be trapped."
"I would hardly describe it as being 'trapped', Cardinal. You are being heavily guarded by my men," Tréville replied, somehow managing to remain polite. "It was not possible to transfer you to the Louvre at the time but that is why I am here. We are leaving the cathedral now."
"What happened?" the King asked. "I am not clear as to the exact nature of the attack, although I vaguely recall that I heard the word 'bomb' being shouted by someone."
"That would be Musketeer Athos, Your Majesty. He raised the alarm when someone threw a bomb that rolled under the Ambassador's carriage and exploded."
"He didn't think to move the bomb?" Richelieu was scathing.
"Having given the warning, his priority was to get the Cardinal Infante to safety." The Captain's tone was fast indicating that he did not, after all, appreciate the direction of the First Minister's questioning.
"And I am so thankful that he did," the Queen interceded. "Without his swift intervention, I dread to think what might have happened to Ferdinand."
"That's as maybe, but perhaps you should not have let it happen in the first place, Tréville!" Richelieu suddenly spat out at him.
"I let it ….?" Tréville's eyes widened in disbelief at what he was hearing but he did not stay speechless for long. Something snapped and his eyes narrowed in icy fury. "I can only assume that the shock of the event is now taking its toll for you to level such an accusation."
"Assume what you will but it should never have happened," Richelieu repeated.
"I agree, but I most certainly did not 'let it happen', as you put it. You were informed of all the security measures put in place today and you were totally happy with the arrangements. I am sure you would have been only too pleased to point out any weaknesses had you spotted them."
Richelieu rose from where he had been seated and pulled himself up to his full height. "Well, there obviously were weaknesses if someone managed to get close enough to throw that bomb. Your men were negligent in their duty."
"My men!" Tréville gave up trying to conceal his anger anymore. "You forget that members of your Red Guard were along the route, alternating with Musketeers." He took angry steps towards the Cardinal who attempted to back away but was brought up short by the edge of the chair at the back of his legs. Stumbling, he sat down abruptly.
"I have lost at least three good men today and goodness knows how many injured, including Athos who saved the Cardinal Infante." The Captain seemed to tower over the First Minister. "Have you even stopped to wonder how many men you have lost?"
Richelieu had the decency to look shaken. "Some of my guards are dead?"
"Definitely, and more than the Musketeers, but I did not stop to count them. Perhaps you can make suitable arrangements to have your dead and injured collected from the garrison. All of them, including Brondate's men and civilians were taken there."
"Now is not the time for disagreement, gentlemen," Louis quietly reminded them and then looked to Tréville, horror etching his face. "There are many casualties then?"
It was a question where no-one really wanted to hear the answer.
"Too many, Sire," Tréville said, "but I will not have any idea of actual numbers until I get back to the garrison. I will then keep you informed."
"But what of the Treaty? Of the Mass for the dead? Who was behind this terrible deed? How will you find the perpetrators? What will Spain have to say about this?" Questions tumbled from the King as the wide-ranging repercussions of the day's events struck him.
Tréville exchanged glances with Richelieu, the recent animosity between them having rapidly drained away. Neither had broached Athos' suggestion with the French monarch that the intended victim was possibly Ferdinand; that was a subject for another day, preferably when they had further information to divulge.
"Let the Captain commence an investigation, Sire. For now, we need to return you to the palace and have the Cardinal Infante and the Ambassador join you there in safety and comfort," Richelieu advised.
So it was that, with the successful transfer of the royal couple and Richelieu to the palace, Tréville was able to return to the garrison and assess the human cost. He returned alone because half of the Musketeer escort had remained at the Louvre and the others had stopped to the scene to help accelerate the clearing up.
One of the stable boys ran out to meet him as he slid from the saddle and handed over the reins. He stood, hands on hips, and surveyed the yard which was full of a curious mixture of soldiers from different regiments and civilians. What was truly disconcerting was the quietness, given the number of people present and more were arriving all the time as news of the bombing spread and people hurried there to seek loved ones.
Even as he watched, two men appeared in the stable doorway and one sank to his knees in a strange, slow motion and rocked helplessly, his face disfigured by grief. He had obviously come from identifying one of the deceased. The other man dropped beside him, an arm around his shoulder in a vain effort to console him.
The walking wounded sat at tables being tended by Musketeers and some women, their voices low as they worked. The injuries all seemed to be cuts and bruises from flying glass and other debris. Tréville circled the yard, stopping to talk with the different groups, knowing that, at some point, he would need to go to the infirmary and to his office where the Ambassador waited.
He paused by Serge and watched as he finished bandaging the head of one of the Red Guard who thanked him profusely and rose a little unsteadily to join another pair who had already been treated and bore the marks of the attack. The group made their way stiffly through the archway to return to their own barracks.
Tréville frowned as the old cook sniffed and refused to look at him, busying himself by upturning a bowl of blood-tainted water into the dust and gathered together the unused bandages and dressings.
"Serge?" the Captain said softly, realising that the man was fighting to control his emotions.
The former soldier, accustomed to seeing death in all its forms during his year of service, hesitated and then turned , his eyes red-rimmed.
"Gerard didn't make it," he said gruffly.
Tréville sighed. He had expected it when he had seen the gravity of the man's injuries at the blast site, for Gerard had been standing near the coach. He was the fourth Musketeer lost to this debacle but, more than that, he had been a long-serving soldier and was one of the senior men in the regiment on account of his age and experience. He and Claude had struck up an odd but close friendship with the cook who was the oldest man in the Musketeers. He already seemed old when he had taken Tréville under his wing when the Captain had been nothing more than a raw recruit years before the inception of the Musketeers.
"I am so sorry," he said, squeezing the old man's shoulder gently. "Gerard was a good man and will be sorely missed."
Serge sniffed again. "This is a bad business," he said at last.
Tréville looked about him again at those who thronged the yard. "Yes, it is," he agreed bitterly, "and it's not over yet."
Taking a deep breath, he crossed the yard and entered through the open doorway into the infirmary. If outside had appeared calm, the same could not be said for in here. Men groaned and some even cried out before they were sedated or given a draught to ease their suffering whilst Aramis and the King's physician called out instructions to other Musketeers who were doing their best for the injured.
Aramis saw the Captain standing just inside the doorway and, wiping his hands on a cloth, joined him.
Tréville looked past him; every bed was filled, and more men lay on pallets on the floor.
"How are you getting on in here?"
Aramis rubbed at tired eyes. "We've lost another three since we got here."
"I heard about Gerard," the Captain told him.
"And two more of the Spanish. I'm worried about Brondate," and he indicated a cot against the opposite wall. "The blast caught him sideways on and he's badly hurt. There will definitely be some serious scarring but only time will tell if he can continue his military career."
Tréville did not know what to say; it would be a cruel twist of fate if that were to happen.
"Gallegos is in here too," Aramis continued, nodding in the direction of the far corner of the room to where the little man sat propped up against his pillows, arms folded and his face set in an expression of displeasure. "The sooner we get him out of here the better. He's done nothing but complain bitterly. Fortunately, we've all been far too busy to take much notice of him."
Tréville had just spotted where Athos lay on a cot halfway down the room and moved to stand over him.
"How is he?" he asked, keeping his voice low and ignoring the calls of Gallegos who had noticed him and insisted upon speaking to him.
"He hasn't woken yet," Aramis said. "We've made him as comfortable as possible. Apart from some cuts and severe bruising down his back, we cannot find anything else other than the severe head injury and I've had to stitch it. We won't know any more until he decides to wake up, so we just have to wait."
Athos lay on his side, his heavily bandaged head cushioned in the 'v' of two pillows placed at an angle to each other. Another line of pillows ran down his back to stop him from rolling over. The blast had caught him primarily from behind so his face, although a deathly white, was unmarked.
Tréville stood looking down on the unconscious man, his mind reeling. After what had already happened to the young Musketeer and his friends, it was not fair or right that he should be felled now by this.
He suddenly remembered the Cardinal Infante. "And Ferdinand? How is he?"
This time, Aramis managed a smile. "He is in the adjoining small room. He was not badly hurt but was knocked out when Athos landed on him. He does have a beautiful bruise and lump on his forehead. The shock has set in now and he's shaken so I have made him rest . He was asleep last time I looked in on him, but we will wake him to make sure he doesn't have any concussion." He lowered his voice. "He's an absolute joy compare with the Ferret. He'll be lucky to walk out of here because I am likely to strangle him soon!"
Tréville managed a wry smile. "Then let me drag you away from here for a little while. I'm sorry to do it for I know you won't want to leave Athos for long, but I need you to act as interpreter for the Ambassador. I fear he is not going to be in a good mood either."
Together, they walked out of the infirmary, neither of them heeding the rising calls of the Spanish interpreter demanding their attention.