Chapter 14

Ninon stepped from the shadows of the arched pathway that crossed the canal when she saw Porthos exit the chateau. Her wet hair clung to her head. Rain fell along her face and dripped from her jaw and her nose. She clung to the shawl that she had wrapped around her shoulders, but shivered against the cold. Mud splattered the hem of her skirt, and her shoes were soaked.

Night fires burned outside the tents and the sounds of men being ministered to echoed throughout the valley. Refugees assisted where they could, bringing comfort to those who would not see morning, and scripting last words onto parchment. Men could be seen walking through camp, checking on their fellow soldiers. Those healthy enough spent the night hours sorting through the bodies on the field, separating French from Spanish, musketeer from cavalry, the wounded from the dead.

Cries of anguish were heard in the distance. Loss of family, brothers, cousins, fathers and sons. Horses too injured for further duty were put out of their misery, their saddles and tack removed, and they lay where they fell.

Bonfires highlighted the actions, lit the way for those searching, and caused grief for those discovered. Porthos looked over Ninon's shoulder toward the valley and knew the pain that occurred after the battle: when the excitement, the desperation, and stress of battle wore off; when the results of actions were as sharp as a fine blade.

Porthos frowned as he approached Ninon. The sun had yet to rise, but the moon had shifted its position and heralded the sun's inevitable arrival. While the rains had slowed and the winds had stopped, the promise of a new day was waning as clouds continued to cross the sky. The bitter chill in the air was relentless.

"You'll catch your death, Ninon," Porthos said. "Come inside." He stepped sideways and motioned for her to step forward.

"Is it true?" She asked and tightened her fingers around the edges of her shawl near her chest. "When they said he'd been hanged…" she paused, looked away, and then said, "I hadn't left my tent since… but I heard that he's alive. Tell me it's true?" She searched his face for any hint of grief.

Porthos nodded. "It's true. Aramis an' d'Artagnan are with 'im now."

Ninon looked at the chateau, the lanterns that flicked behind glass widows, and the subtle orange glow it provided. "That's good," she said with a heartfelt smile. "How is he?"

Porthos cleared his throat and said, "Do you want to see 'im?"

Athos had never declared his affection for her. He had never stated publicly his feelings or spoke about her. But he changed in her presence, a subtle yet noticeable change that softened his voice, his demeanor, and he allowed her the privilege of seeing a piece of him he had denied even himself.

"May I?" She looked at Porthos. Her eyes grew wide, and the pitch of her voice changed.

Porthos raised his hand and nodded. "Come," he said. "Follow me."

They entered the chateau and Ninon immediately felt the heat of the fires that burned. She turned suddenly when someone tapped her shoulder and pulled her shawl away.

"Please, Mademoiselle," the gentlemen said as he draped her shawl over his arm. The house servant smiled warmly and tilted his head toward the stairs. "Madame Fontaine insists you be seen to —"

"But I —" Ninon said and looked at Porthos.

"Go," Porthos said, "get into some dry clothes, we'll be waitin'."

Ninon pulled the corner of her mouth into a half smile and nodded in acceptance. "I won't be long." She pulled up the hem of her skirt and followed the servant up the stairs.

Porthos watched her go. He nodded to Isabeau, who stood at the top of the steps, and then turned back toward the sickroom.

"How is he?" Marc asked as he exited a side room. He looked better, though he still wore the same clothes. They were dry, and he'd taken some time to clean himself. His arm had been re-bandaged, but his limp would take time to heal as the swelling of his knee abated.

Porthos winced, rubbed the back of his neck, and exhaled slowly. "Don't know yet."

Marc sighed in disappointment. "Let me know if anything changes?"

Porthos clapped Marc's shoulder and nodded. "I will," he said. "Any word on Levi?"

"Not yet," Marc said. "I'm going to go check." He limped toward the door and said over his shoulder, "If he's dead, I'm going to bring him back to life and kill him all over again, the little shit."

Porthos watched him leave and then continued down the hall. The rooms had been converted. Musketeers who had arrived to see to their captain, but were too wounded to return to camp, were provided space within the chateau. Bedrooms, dens, the grand hall, and even the boudoirs were filled with men. Some simply slept, others were seen to for their injuries, and some were left alone in their grief. Porthos sighed, took a deep breath, and then tapped on the door as he reentered the room.

D'Artagnan still stood beside the fireplace, and Aramis turned from his chair and looked at him.

"Any change?" Porthos asked.

Aramis shook his head and looked back at the bed where Athos lay. The light from the lantern and the flames from the fire made him look even more paler than usual. A sheen of sweat collected on his brow, his neck, and dampened his hair.

"Ninon would like to see 'im." Porthos closed the door and crossed his arms over his chest. "I told her she could."

D'Artagnan frowned, but nodded. "We should visit with the general." He looked at Porthos.

"You both should go," Aramis said. "I'll sit with Athos." He turned, handed a folded note to Porthos and said, "Make sure Thorell get's this."

"What is it?" Porthos asked. He didn't bother opening it.

Aramis sighed and rubbed his face. "I found it in Athos' belt… it's a letter from Raboin to his family." He looked at Porthos. "He knew he was going to die… he wanted his family to flee Spain."

Porthos huffed and said, "He should 'ave been thinkin' of 'is family before 'e betrayed King Louis." He looked once more at the bed, and exited the room.

D'Artagnan reluctantly followed.