I upload this at the end of a strangely upsetting day. My heart and condolences go to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, who has today lost the man who was by her side, her rock, her 'strength and stay', loving and supporting her for more than 73 years. The passing of HRH the Duke of Edinburgh is a great loss; we will never see his like again. My thoughts are for the whole family at this time. The flood of programmes today have been a wonderful reminder of all that he has done over an incredible lifetime. His is a story of devotion, commitment, sacrifice and duty (with more than a little outspokenness, humour and naughtiness thrown in to help things along!) :) Many years ago, before the Queen ascended the throne, my father was a Grenadier Guard stationed at Windsor Castle for a while and told the tale of having to leap for his life out of the way when the Duke was speeding down the drive of the Great Park in a little red sports car! RIP, Sir.

I do apologise for any errors that may have slipped through the checking.

CHAPTER 48

I

Early evening in the infirmary and Aramis had taken up his position on a chair by Athos, who had not moved since being laid out there amongst all the pillows. The atmosphere was quieter and more organised now and the temporary pallets had disappeared once some of the injured had been removed to the Red Guards barracks or their homes. The few who remained in the infirmary were, besides Athos, two Musketeers whom Aramis wanted to keep under observation overnight, Brondate and three of his men and a civilian who was unlikely to survive the next few hours and whose wife sat quietly weeping by his side.

Gallegos was still an unpopular guest, but he had been moved out of sight into the side room where Ferdinand had been. He was now complaining about not being transferred back to the Louvre with the Cardinal Infante and the Ambassador. Aramis wished fervently that that had been the case, but he suspected that the King's physician had exercised his authority in demanding that the Ferret remain at the garrison until the following day, even though his injuries were mild in comparison to many others, because he was so annoying.

"Really don't see why we should be the ones who are punished!" Aramis mumbled to himself and took another mouthful of stew from the bowl he held.

Somehow, in the midst of the mayhem, Serge had managed to produce a simple dish with the help of the kitchen boy. It could be excused for not being up to his usual standard but at least it was hot and filling, and those patients awake to eat had been satisfied … except Gallegos.

"I am sorry that it is not up to your usual fare," Aramis said when Gallegos ceased his complaints to draw breath, "but our cook has been helping ferry and tend the injured."

"Is there nothing else?" the little man demanded, his upper lip curling with disdain.

"I could send for some bread and hard cheese if you would prefer," Aramis said calmly, his face devoid of expression. In a moment of surprising sympathy for the Spaniard, Aramis could accept that he had been very frightened and that he was now upset by the failure of the Ambassador either to insist that Gallegos be taken to the palace as well or that he at least pay the interpreter a reassuring visit before departing. The little man must be feeling abandoned, even more so now that he was isolated in a room by himself and Aramis made it abundantly clear that he was not going to rush every time the man called for him.

He yawned, exhaustion from the stress of the day beginning to take its toll. He had briefly escaped from his duties in the infirmary when he joined Tréville to act as interpreter for the Ambassador but de Calatrava made it abundantly clear that he was tired of being confined to the office and demanded immediate safe passage back to the palace. There were more heated comments about the treachery of the French but if he were anticipating kind of response, apology or defence, he did not get one for Tréville refused to be drawn into any exchange that bordered on diplomacy. Let Richelieu salvage what he could of the treaty.

A low moan and sudden movement from the bed had Aramis setting down the bowl on the small table beside him and leaning forward in his chair.

"Athos? Athos, can you hear me?" he asked softly.

Drawing his knees up into a foetal position, an indicator that he was in some distress, Athos groaned repeatedly, one hand reaching up to claw at the bandage that swathed his head. His eyes were still closed and his features contorted in pain.

Aramis grabbed at his hand and held it gently in one of his. "No, leave it. You have a head injury."

"Wha' happened?"

The barely distinct words came out on a breath.

"There was a bomb."

Athos frowned, eyes still closed, as he struggled to assimilate the information.

"A bomb?"

"Yes. Do you remember?"

Athos mouthed the word 'no' and groaned aloud, attempting to bury his face in the supporting pillows.

"Here," and Aramis reached for a cup of a pain draught that he had prepared in readiness.

With Athos lying on his side, it was not easy to slide a hand under his head and raise him sufficiently to put the cup to his lips, but Aramis managed, even if the movement elicited an agonised gasp from his brother. It did not prevent Athos from drinking greedily.

"Easy. Slow down," Aramis advised him. "You'll choke."

His words went unheeded, but problems were averted, and he lowered Athos' head back to the pillows. He heard the soft sigh and then nothing but the gentle, regular breathing.

Athos had slipped back into an uneasy sleep that would soon be soothed by the effects of the draught and although Aramis would have welcomed the opportunity to speak more with the injured man and ascertain if there were any other undetected injuries, he was relieved that there had been a response of any kind, no matter how limited. At least there would be some good news to share with Porthos when he eventually arrived.

II

At that moment, Porthos stood blocking the open doorway of the holding cell. Tréville sat on a stool, glaring at the Spaniard who sat cross-legged on the low cot against the wall, staring back with wary eyes. The interrogation was going nowhere for he sat in sullen silence, his only words had been an outburst early on in his native tongue. The two Musketeers could easily guess at the meaning given the tone. Since then, there had been nothing.

"Perhaps, Porthos, our guest does not speak a word of French. What do you think?" Tréville said lightly, a conciliatory smile on his lips and his eyes never straying from the prisoner.

Porthos straightened his back so that he appeared to grow several inches suddenly and cracked his knuckles.

"Don't know about that," he growled dangerously. "Want me to find out for you? Wonder what language 'e squeals in."

He took a step forward but Tréville's outstretched hand stopped him. There had been a flicker of fear in the prisoner's eyes that had lasted only a moment, but it was unclear as to whether the reaction was because of what was said or Porthos' intimidating action.

"I doubt that there will be any need for that, not once our guest realises the option that are open to him." Still Tréville smiled, but there was no warmth or humour in his ice-blue stare. "We have at least given him a nice meal since he arrived here. He's had exactly the same as the injured."

Porthos knew what the Captain was doing and immediately fell into playing along.

"I 'ad some of Serge's stew myself and it wasn't bad. Not bad at all when you consider that it could be 'is last meal." He nodded towards the prisoner and flashed him a broad smile although on Porthos, it looked feral.

Tréville frowned. "Not his last, surely? They would still feed him in the Chatelet when he's taken there."

Porthos wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Wouldn't catch me eatin' any of that slop! There's no tellin' what they put in it. The odd mouse or rat if you're lucky, an' passin' it off as good meat. Then that bread's so 'ard, you could use it to build a wall, once you've scraped off the mould and spat out the tooth you broke bitin' into it."

"You're right," Tréville agreed, still closely regarding the prisoner who had not even given up so much as his name. "Perhaps that's why so many of the residents prefer to starve to death."

There! That flicker again. There was no mistaking it this time.

"Mind you, our guest here probably would not have much of an appetite after Cardinal Richelieu's inquisitors had been asking a few of their questions," Tréville steered the conversation around to more potential horrors.

"Definitely. Reckon I'd sooner take the beatin' and floggin' rather than 'ave to put up with their more imaginative ways of gettin' their information. I've been down to the bowels of the Chatelet an' seen some of the instruments they use. Not pretty, not pretty at all."

Porthos was warming to his subject, especially when he saw the apprehension pass across the prisoner's face. "There's the rack, an' the hooks where they string you up, so your feet hardly touch the ground, but it's all that metalwork, the things they use on you while you're 'angin' there that gives me the chills just lookin' at them. They're all to create the maximum amount of agony. I like to think I'm tough," and here he shook his head woefully, "but I don't reckon I'd last out against any of 'em."

The prisoner's eyes widened as he seemed to take stock of the Musketeer's build.

Then Porthos became even more creative in his catalogue of supposed instruments of torture in the chatelet, enough that Tréville thought it better that he interrupted the flow of horrors. He stood up as if to leave.

"And to think, all that pain could be avoided if our guest only accepted our more generous hospitality and told us what we wanted to know about why he thought it was appropriate to lob bombs in Paris streets. I'm sure he was not acting alone and that someone put him up to it, perhaps paid him well, but now he'll never be able to spend his generous reward. I expect it was a handsome price when you're launching an attack on a Spanish Ambassador and the brother of the King of Spain,"

"Not to mention that Ferdinand is also the brother of the Queen of France. An' we all know that whatever upsets our Queen is likely to upset our King too," Porthos cut in.

Tréville nodded his agreement. "It is a brave man who will take the responsibility of all that on his own head. I trust that whoever employed him will value the sacrifice he is making for them."

"I think 'e's a fool," Porthos rumbled as both Musketeers stared at the hapless prisoner who, open-mouthed, looked from one to the other of them.

"Whatever," Tréville sighed, "but I do not have any more time to waste on him now. I have a garrison full of injured people. I will make arrangements to have him transferred to the chatelet and Richelieu's men can take over. All this would be unnecessary if he only understood French; he might at least have given us his name."

The Captain ducked his head to exit the holding cell.

"Espinar," a voice said from behind him, stopping him in his tracks. "My name is Miguel Espinar." The French was heavily accented but flawless.

Tréville resumed his seat on the stool.

"Thank you for introducing yourself. I have already explained who we are. Now, why don't we begin this again?"

III

It was not much later that the two soldiers left the holding cell, three other Musketeers tasked with relieving Porthos in guarding the prisoner. There was no mistaking the smug expression he wore, and it was easily matched by the Captain himself as the pair strode towards the infirmary.

"That was easy in the end," Tréville remarked casually. "There was no loyalty there."

"None," Porthos agreed, "except to 'imself and money." He paused. "Do you think I went over the top a bit?"

Tréville smiled. "Most definitely; you were even beginning to scare me, and I knew you were making it up. Still, it got the desired result without actually shedding any of his blood. For his own safety, he is staying here within the garrison until all this is concluded properly; I don't want anything happening to him."

"You goin' to question Gallegos while you're here?" Porthos asked as he reached to open the infirmary door. Tréville had told him that the interpreter had not been included in the transfer of de Calatrava and Ferdinand to the Louvre.

"I want to see Richelieu first to discuss how we are going to proceed. AT the moment, I only have the word of failed assassin against that of an Ambassador and his interpreter. If I could get some other evidence, it would help. Did Espinar have any personal effects on him?"

Porthos nodded. "Not much but what 'e did 'ave, I passed to Serge for safe keepin' in the kitchen long with 'is cloak an' boots. I did think about puttin' 'em in your office but the Ambassador was still in there at the time an' I didn't want to give 'im the chance to go pokin' about, not when there was a chance of there bein' somethin' that mattered."

"Good thinking," Tréville noted. "I'll have a look through his stuff before I go to the palace."

They entered the infirmary which was now a haven of tranquillity when compared with a few hours before. The King's physician had long since returned to the palace, confidently leaving the remaining patients in Aramis' care. The responsibility was not his to bear alone and two other Musketeers busied themselves, one stripping the blood-stained sheeting from a bed and the other helping Brondate to a drink.

Aramis was wandering between the beds, checking on the patients and, when he saw the Captain and his brother stroll in, his tired face lit up with a welcoming smile.

"How are things here?" Tréville asked, surveying the room.

"Much quieter now, although we lost the last civilian that we had here a little while ago. We've moved his body to the stable for now and a neighbour arrived to take his widow home," Aramis answered.

"There will be a lot of grieving tonight," Tréville acknowledged. "How is Brondate? Are you still concerned for him?"

"Not so much now. He's in no danger and, once I had cleaned him up, the injuries were not as serious as I initially feared. What about you two? How did you get on with the prisoner?"

"Where's Gallegos?" Tréville asked, for he did not want the Spaniard to know that they had apprehended Espinar.

"In the side room," Aramis explained. "I'm surprised you can't hear him still complaining. He hasn't stopped.

Porthos grinned and dropped his voice "Don't worry; he'll 'ave something else to complain about before too long. Our prisoner sang 'is heart out!"

Aramis brightened but before he could ask more, Athos began to move and so he hurried to his brother's side, the Captain and Porthos arranging themselves around the bed.

Athos tried to roll onto his back, but Aramis caught him by the shoulder and held him firmly in place.

"No, no, no," he insisted. "You must stay on your side."

Athos stopped struggling and his eyes flickered open; Aramis saw with relief that they were a little more focused than before.

"What happened?" the injured man asked softly.

Aramis took a deep breath. "There was a bomb."

"A bomb?"

"Yes. Don't you remember?"

Porthos noticed the worry etched on Aramis' face. "What's the matter?"

"I've already had this conversation with him," Aramis whispered, not wanting Athos to hear him. "He's not remembering it."

"Where?" the question from Athos was clear.

"On the processional route to Notre Dame," Aramis explained softly.

Athos screwed up his eyes and his brow furrowed; there was no way of knowing if it was because the pain draught had worn off or he was trying to force himself to remember events.

Suddenly, green eyes opened wide and fixed upon some unseen horror over Aramis' left shoulder as Athos fought to push himself up.

"Stop! What are you doing?" Aramis demanded, trying to hold him down. Tréville leaped forward to lay one hand on the top of the bandaged head and the other on his side, even as Porthos grabbed the scrabbling feet.

"I have to get up. Help me up!" he cried out desperately, drawing the attention of the other Musketeers and any of the patients who were still awake.

"No, Athos. You have to stay there. You have a bad head injury," Aramis insisted.

"I have to go. I have to warn them. There's a bomb!" He was frantic as he struggled against their restraining hands. "Bomb!" he screamed out. "Get away from here!"

"Athos, listen to me!" Aramis ordered, snatching at the flailing hand that had escaped his grasp. "You gave the warning. You've already done that. It's happened."

"Be still," Tréville said firmly, "before you hurt yourself further."

"The bomb!" he cried out again. "All those people!"

"Pierre," Aramis called to one of the other two Musketeers in the room. "Get me a sleeping draught, quickly!"

Athos had managed to get himself up enough so that he was at a strange angle, but it meant that Tréville could wrap his arms around the younger man to hold him fast as Porthos endeavoured to still the kicking feet.

"You must calm yourself!" Aramis said, cupping his brother's cheek in an attempt to soothe him but Athos, seeking to get free, threw his head back against Tréville.

At the impact between shoulder and injury, pain exploded in Athos' head. He cried out again as his peripheral vision turned grey and he crumpled in the Captain's arms, his eyes filling with tears, sweat beading his brow and his breathing ragged as he tried to ride out the agony.

Just then, an unseen, high-pitched voice rose above the chaos.

"What the devil is going on out there? The physician said I was to rest. How can I be expected to do that with all this racket? I demand that someone tells me. I insist that someone comes to me now!"

"If someone doesn't go and sort out that idiot, I will not be responsible for my actions," Aramis muttered through gritted teeth as Gallegos' strident whining continued.

Suddenly, on hearing the disembodied voice, Athos stilled, his eyes wide. "Who is that?" he breathed.

"Don't mind him," Aramis urged. "That's just the Ambassador's interpreter, Gallegos."

"Gallegos," Athos mumbled and then kept repeating the name, his anxiety increasing as he again began to resist the hands that held him.

"Ssssh, Athos. Forget about him. You must rest," Aramis persisted, but his brother was not to be placated.

"Something ….can't remember …. have to … have to remember. Important … Gallegos ….something …."

"He's very agitated," Tréville said, his concern clear.

"I've never seen him wake up so confused," Porthos added worriedly.

Pierre arrived then with the sleeping draught and handed it to Aramis who held the cup to his lips, but Athos refused to keep his head still long enough to drink.

"It must be his head injury," Aramis said softly to the men who assisted him, and then turned his attention back to his brother, pleading with him. "Athos, please sip this. It will help you."

It took some cajoling but eventually, Athos swallowed some of the draught. Even as his eyes grew heavy, he was still muttering restlessly.

"Important …. Have to remember …. Gallegos ….. bomb ….. have to …."

At last he fell still and silent, slumped against the Captain's chest and Aramis helped Tréville settle him back amongst the pillows, arranging the limbs and

"What do you reckon that's all about?" Porthos asked, straightening the sheet and blanket over his sleeping friend.

"No idea, but it's bothering him," Tréville said grimly. "If it's really important, let's hope that his thoughts are much clearer the next time he wakes."