Porthos did not look back, as much as he wanted to stay and help he knew he had to complete the task they had set out to do. With Athos and Aramis injured and unable to ride, they had no choice but to split up. D'Artagnan would look after the injured men whilst Porthos hurried back to Paris with the book.

The leather-bound book had caused them issues from the start, Porthos hoped that it would do some good when he got it to Paris. He did not know what was in the book that was so important. He did not know if it was intelligence that would help in the war effort or something insinuating that could cause a scandal or be used as blackmail against someone in high office. Whatever it was, Porthos knew that it had to be put into safe hands.

And the sooner he could do that, the sooner he could return to help d'Artagnan. He would return with a cart or carriage. Athos and Aramis were in no state to ride at that moment and the sooner they could all leave the area the better.

He found their horses, where they had left them, well hidden in a lush clearing in the middle of a thick stand of trees and bushes. His recce the week before meant they had a good understanding of the area around the target of their mission.

After greeting the horses and checking the other three mounts were unharmed and content to eat the tall green grass of the clearing Porthos tucked the precious book into his pannier and buckled the flap closed. He patted the book through the pannier and shook his head thinking again about the trouble it had caused.

'You had better be worth all this,' he muttered before mounting up and turning his horse to leave the wooded area.

Out on the open road, Porthos pushed the horse into an easy trot and started the journey back to Paris. It was unfortunate that he would have to stop on the way, it was too far for him to make the trip in one go. But the day was cool and fresh, the sky clear with little breeze to contend with. Porthos would have to make the best of the bad situation.

The bad situation was about to get worse.

The hours wore on, he paused to water his horse a couple of times and walked alongside the beast for an hour or so as the afternoon sun started to dip causing the shadows to lengthen. He realised he would not be near a town or sizable village as night took hold. But as he only intended to stop until the first signs of dawn it meant he would be untroubled by nosy tavern keepers or townsfolk eager to hear of life in Paris.

It did mean that he would be alone with his thoughts and worries. Worried that his friends were still in some danger. It was true their camp was well hidden and easy to defend, but with only one man fully fit of the three it would be a tall order to expect d'Artagnan to keep any group of attackers at bay for any length of time.

The gentle trickle of a small shallow stream drew Porthos' attention as the light became almost too dim to see by. His horse sensed that it was time to stop and naturally wandered off the main road towards the stream and waited patiently for Porthos to dismount and lead him to the water's edge. A low-boughed tree provided the perfect spot for Porthos to loop the reins, giving enough slack for the horse to bow his head to drink and to reach the fat stalks of some nearby grass.

Porthos stretched his back and wandered to the stream's edge. He looked at the water rippling over smooth rocks for a few seconds, allowing the tranquillity to momentarily chase his worrying thoughts away.

As he refocused, he became aware of another presence nearby. He was being watched. Two young men were standing on the opposite side of the stream, both wielding weapons, aimed at Porthos.

'Whatcha got onya?'

The taller of the two men waved his gun slightly indicating Porthos' horse.

'Nothing of value to you,' replied Porthos, keeping his manner calm.

He kept his focus on the two men. He did not want them to think he did have something of value by glancing at the horse.

'Search 'im,' said a gruff voice from behind Porthos.

The shorter man crossed the stream, splashing through the water with little care. When he felt the barrel of a gun being pressed into his neck, Porthos chose to remain as still as he could and allow the man to search him. His weapons were pulled from their belts and his pockets were riffled through. All the money he had, was taken.

'Take the pauldron as well, someone'll buy it off us,' said the gruff voice.

Porthos allowed the man to unstrap his pauldron. He was fond of the scratched and cracked sign of his loyalty to the King and country. But he was fonder of his life.

'What about 'is 'orse?'

Porthos was tense, he wanted to say something, wanted to distract the men from the contents of his panniers. But he knew they would not know the worth of the book he was carrying unless he gave them cause to question its worth.

He turned his head enough to watch the taller man opening the flap on the pannier. His blue cloak was pulled out. The man smiled with satisfaction at the find. Next, he reached in and pulled out the book, he glanced at the book, frowned, and then dropped it on the ground with little care. Porthos almost sighed with relief.

'Bit's an' pieces, nofink worth much. But the 'orse'll make us a load of money.'

'Some soldier you are,' said the gruff-voiced man behind him. 'Letting yerself get robbed.'

'It was not my inten-'

Porthos was not allowed to complete his rebuff. He felt a moment of intense pain as he was hit on the back of the head. Then nothing.

MMMM

Porthos shivered. Waking up cold only brought bad memories to the forefront of his mind. His five-year-old self, alone after his mother died. Cold, in the dark, with no one to help him. He forced his eyes open and blinked a few times. It was not dark; a pale light was brimming in the sky.

Memories of the previous evening fell into place. Porthos sighed.

He was lying on his side facing the stream. The trickle of water did not seem as enticing now. It seemed stark and cold. He reached out his hand and dipped his fingers into the flowing water for a few seconds. The cool water stung his fingers, affirming his place in the waking world. He pulled his hand out of the water and shifted to lie on his back wincing in pain as his vision swam.

After a few seconds when the world stopped spinning, he slowly sat up and looked around. His horse was gone. His weapons were gone. His boots were gone, and his doublet was gone. He was alone, he was defenceless, and he was not properly clothed for the spring weather, and he was still some hours away from the safety of Paris and the garrison.

But the book was still there.

The book that had caused all his and his friend's problems was still there. Lying where the robbers had discarded it. They had taken what held value to them. Money and things they could sell.

Porthos got to his feet, swaying for a second looking down at the book. With a sigh he bent to scoop it up, taking his time in deference to his aching head. The book was not heavy, but it was not easy to carry. But carry it he must. If he did not get the book to Paris all the misfortunes that had befallen him and his friend would have been in vain. With a determined step, Porthos began to walk.

He knew there would be no point trying to seek help. He wore nothing that marked him out as a soldier. He had been left with no money and he had nothing on him that he could sell. And, even if he had something he could sell he ran the risk of being accused of stealing whatever the item was.

So Porthos walked.

The road was not kind to his feet. It was not long before his feet were blackened by dirt and mud. His breeches were splashed, and his shirt was damp. And his head still hurt.

He did not rest; he did not tarry. His only goal was reaching the garrison. The longer it took him to reach the garrison, the longer it would take him to get help sent back to his friends. Before he was robbed Porthos had every intention of returning within minutes of reaching the garrison and passing on the book. He would hire a cart and a man to drive the horse and return to help his friends. Treville would probably have allowed him to take another couple of men with him. But now, all Porthos could do was get to the garrison and hope that men could be spared to return.

The outskirts of Paris were a strange place, the fields got smaller, and the buildings got bigger. The people became warier. Up to that point, anyone he passed had looked him up and down and ignored him. Now people actively shunned him, shooing children out of the way. A couple of men made derogatory remarks, and one old man smoking a pipe paused long enough to spit at him.

Without his uniform, Porthos felt naked. Exposed. His growing exhaustion did not help. The book was heavy now. He could feel its edges rubbing against his arms.

But he stumbled on.

At some point, he had walked past some particularly vicious brambles that caught his ankle. The cuts from the thorns were deep enough to still be bleeding. He feared the filth of the roads would lead to him getting an infection.

The streets became more defined, the buildings were closer together, their upper floors overhanging, blocking out the sky. The busier streets made it harder for Porthos to progress. A couple of times he was shoved out of the way. There was no respect for him. He was a man with no boots or jacket and no obvious possessions, other than a book. People probably thought he was insane. If they did not go out of their way to avoid him, they pushed him.

He only had to make it to the garrison.

He turned the last corner and paused; the sight of the garrison gate had not often been as welcome.

With his last ounce of energy, Porthos finished his journey.

'Get this to Treville,' he said to the cadet at the gate.

The cadet, one of the newer men, looked at him for a few seconds before a spark of recognition filled his expression.

'Yes, monsieur Porthos,' said the young man.

He took the book from him and ran into the yard. Porthos watched him for a second before moving to lean against the gate, he slumped to the floor and stared at the wall opposite. He could feel his eyes closing and his head bobbing. Sleep was something he would welcome.

Although he thought there was something else he had to do.

'Porthos.'

Porthos looked up, he found his Captain looking back at him. A hand was squeezing his shoulder, shaking him slightly, forcing him to pay attention.

'Where are the others?'

Porthos looked at the Captain for several seconds. The Captain glanced away and said something to the cadet who hurried off.

'Porthos, stay awake. You need to tell me what happened to the others.'

That was the thing. The other thing he had to do.

Porthos nodded, 'Aramis and Athos are injured,' he managed to say. 'They're at our camp with d'Artagnan.'

Treville nodded, 'well done. Let's get you to the infirmary. You've done well. You can tell me what happened once you're rested.'

Porthos wanted to help the others, wanted to explain all that had gone on, but all that would have to wait. He knew help was on the way to his friends, he knew the book was delivered.

He did not know if it had been worth it. He could only hope that it had been.

To be continued…

Whumpee: Porthos.