Chapter 5
Athos sank heavily onto the small bed that was positioned against the far wall of his room. The ambience within the space was almost cell-like; the furniture was simple and minimal, comprising just those items necessary for life's basic needs. There was a bed, a small table and one chair – well only one Athos had wanted, the other two were stacked in a corner and only used when Aramis and Porthos managed to wheedle their way into his sanctuary, which did not happen often if Athos could help it.
There was no sign of a life before the garrison; no favourite object, picture, or memento of a former existence at all. The room was bleak, reflecting the mood of the occupant – hopeless and unloved.
There was only one thing that held any interest. The sword Treville had kept safe for him hung upon the wall, but the swordsman could not bring himself to use it, and anyway it would warrant too much attention for a Musketeer. Upon his commission, he had replaced it with a newer weapon, a fine blade on which no expense had been spared. However, he had been careful to choose nothing ostentatious, nothing that would identify any secrets about its owner. Only someone lifting the fine blade would realise its worth, and Athos had no intention of letting that happen.
He lit a candle, the flame instantly warming the damp and gloomy atmosphere. Lightning occasionally lit up the room, illuminating the sparse items within, and when extinguished, only heightening the effect of the darkened corners, leaving the impression something lingered in the shadows, just out of reach.
Athos wiped a hand across his face; he was warm, and so very tired. His clothes were soaked through and, despite the humidity, he felt himself shiver. Slowly he began to pull off the sodden leather, gloves first, and it was then he realised that he was hurt. So much had happened all at once he not even noticed the gash along his palm where he had snapped the neck of the bottle. Now aware of the damage, his brain kindled the sensation of pain and it began to pulse and throb along with the beating of his heart.
Athos knew he should make some effort to deal with the wound, but for some reason he could no longer keep his eyes open. However, he managed to tie a strip of cloth around the injury before tugging off the remainder of his wet clothing and collapsing back upon the bed. Feeble, he pulled the blankets over his head as the rain beat against the window and the thunder crashed overhead – if he wasn't in hell already, he soon would be.
Athos tossed and turned. The blankets suffocated him, and as they became tangled around his limbs his pulse would quicken – as it had for weeks – and his lungs would fight for air. Inevitably he would wake in a panic, soaked in sweat and fighting for breath. As he basked in his ability to breath in fresh, free air, he was remotely aware of the remains of the candle giving a small and guttering flame, whilst thunder still rumbled around the garrison and rain drummed a heavy staccato upon the roof of the building. A strong wind had blown up to accompany the storm and now whistled along the balcony outside.
Athos reached for the back of his neck and pressed against his hot skin in an attempt to ease the stiffness in his muscles. His head ached, and his hand throbbed mercilessly – the skin was stretched like a new glove, and his fingers felt as though they would surely split if he bent them too far. Once again, he resisted the nagging warning to seek out help. It was late, Aramis would be sleeping, and he would rather stand the pain than let the medic in the infirmary take care of his injury.
Feeling around under the bed, his left hand closed upon the smooth surface of a bottle, a decent brandy he kept for nights such as this. Pouring a hefty draught, he drank back the amber liquid without pause. The fire warmed his already inflamed body, but it was a healing fire; if only he could use its potency to heal his tormented mind. Athos stripped the bed of sheets and lay back upon the bare mattress – if there was nothing to plague his tired body, then perhaps his memories would lie buried and locked away where he wanted them to remain. Closing his eyes, he tried to conjure images that brought no discomfort, but the sad truth was they were few and far between. It was no wonder his sleep was plagued with guilt and torment for, when all was said and done, he appeared to collect more such burdens with every passing day.
Still, as the hours slowly slid by, the thunder rolled away into the distance and sleep finally came, with no more terrors at being trapped below the earth, no more fears of suffocation, or the taste of soil and mud. This time it was a summer's day, the grass moved and swayed in the soft breeze, and small flowers poked their heads above their emerald stalks. The gauzy white fabric floated around her willowy form, echoing the drifting clouds in the blue sky, but there was no laughter today, no talk of love and lingering kisses – only the creak of the bough and the stretching of hemp as it held its weight beneath the swaying canopy of leaves.
Suddenly a loud crack made his heart lurch, and the image vanished. Athos did not know if this was still part of the dream or whether the storm had returned and, still groggy from sleep, he pushed himself upright. The room was dark, the candle no longer burning upon the table. He listened intently for any sound or movement. Nothing. In fact the silence was so intense it rang in his ears. As his hearing adjusted, he tuned in to the barely audible sound of ticking from his pocket watch, hidden somewhere within the heap of damp clothes upon the floor... but that was all. Athos felt no immediate sense of danger, but could not shake the sense of unease that something or someone lurked just out of sight. Menace bristled in the intense quiet, and despite his heavy limbs and pounding head, Athos knew further sleep would be impossible.
As the swordsman considered the coming day, a light wind blew across the room and the Musketeer stiffened. Athos felt for his sword. No window was open, but the sudden chill was no draught from beneath the door, or whistling wind from between a crack in the woodwork. He moved carefully toward the entrance, realising as he approached that the door was slightly ajar. With his arm outstretched Athos eased the obstacle open further with the tip of his blade, but a slight creak was his only reward, along with another cool blast of air, the long-awaited respite brought by the recent storm. Athos ran his hand along the edge of the wooden panel. The lock was loose; something had given it a heavy blow, presumably the noise that had awoken him.
Puzzled, he made his way over to the table and took another candle out of a small box upon its surface. Once more the flame lit the spartan quarters, only this time the glow alighted upon a single piece of paper lying just inside the door.
Frowning, Athos reached for the parchment and opened it out. Just one word was scrawled across the plain page – Murderer. The accusation leapt from the paper as though it had been thrown in his face. His heart drummed against his ribs and his mouth was suddenly dry and choked, yet a cynical smirk played upon his lips – did they think he would be alarmed by the claim? He could not deny such an accusation, how could he? Sometimes in the dead of night he envisioned his hands red with blood. Yet to which of his deeds the note referred he could not tell; after all, just how many were dead at his hands? If someone really meant to accuse him of such a sin, then they would have to be more specific, and that thought alone left a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach. What type of man could admit to such a crime, committed not just once, but too many times to ever warrant redemption? If his accuser really wanted vengeance, how could he blame them? Ultimately, perhaps they deserved to take their revenge, only time would tell.
As the room began to lighten with the pale rays of dawn, Athos gave a deep sigh, and with none of his usual grace rifled through the heavily-bound trunk to seek out dry clothes for whatever forthcoming challenges were lying in store. His head still ached and his arm felt heavy. Thoughts of the next few hours spent with an eager batch of cadets elicited a groan, and it was with a heavy heart that he pulled on his shirt and prepared for the task he had been given.
Of course, there was the added frisson of some mystery avenger bent on accusing him of murder to add to his growing list of supporters. The note's mode of delivery meant it could only be a Musketeer, and whoever it had been he had hardly been subtle. Du Bois perhaps, or possibly one of the other fifteen or so recruits who had made the garrison their new home in the last few hours. Indeed, it was going to be an interesting day, if he could see it out without any new disgrace to add to the Captain's growing list, that would be an achievement, but he had to admit he was not hopeful.
ooOoo
Aramis and Porthos rode beside the Captain in silence, the scowl he had given them as he mounted enough to make even the garrulous Aramis hold his tongue. Neither man had seen Athos at breakfast, and though he rarely ate it, he would generally join them to push some morsel around his plate and make the occasional grunt in answer to their questions. But not this morning. Aramis had wanted to check to see he was alright following his abrupt departure the night before, but a quick visit to his room had told them nothing – empty and as tidy as it ever was, but no Athos.
It was Treville who broke the uncomfortable silence. 'Should I be concerned about last night's events? Am I about to be confronted with a furious Cardinal demanding the heads of my men for fighting with the Red Guard?' There was no humour in the question. It would not be the first time for such an occurrence, and both men doubted it would not happen again at some point in the future. The enmity between the two regiments was legendary, but Porthos' penchant for cards and Athos' temper meant that the three of them were particularly hated by the Cardinal's personal guards.
'No, it was a misunderstanding, nothing more. In fact, we acted in defence this time, we did nothing to provoke the attack,' Aramis explained.
Treville gave his man a sceptical glance. 'Really, three Musketeers whose reputations precede them were attacked without provocation?' Aramis looked thoughtful; the Captain did have a point.
'Well, a man accused Athos of having knocked over his ale, when in fact Athos had not even moved.' As he recited the events out loud, the marksman began to consider the series of happenings as they had unfolded the previous evening, reviewing them now in a different light. 'I attempted to talk the man down, but he was oddly persistent,' said the marksman with a slow, dawning realisation.
'What, and one man took on the three of you?' Treville scoffed in disbelief.
Porthos looked offended. 'Nah, that was the four men at the other table, after Athos gave the first man one of his best punches and knocked him across their laps.' Aramis glared at the big man but Porthos shrugged. They had been provoked and all things considered he thought telling the truth was probably the best course of action.
The Captain gave a snort. 'Completely without blame then.' For the first time, Aramis thought he sensed a slight unbending in his superior's voice; enough for him to risk the question that had been bothering him since last night.
'May I ask how you knew?' he enquired. Treville appeared surprised by the question and gave Aramis his full attention.
'Athos' injury,' he replied, noting the look of surprise on the marksman's face and hearing the groan from Porthos.
'What injury?' Aramis demanded. 'He sustained no injury in the fight – it was swift, and two of them had the sense to turn and run. Athos injured one, but not badly, and Porthos, well Porthos put one to sleep, and I doubt he will incur any serious ill effects today.'
Treville did not know whether to be concerned by the two men's ignorance or not. 'Well there was blood dripping from his fingers, so he must have sustained some form of wound, though I should not be surprised by his silence.' He was scowling once more, but Aramis was struggling to recall the events leading up to the drama. He thought back to their somewhat one-sided conversation, to Athos' stone-faced reaction to his probing. He recalled him standing bottle in hand.
Suddenly he elicited a deep moan. 'Mon dieu.' So much had happened all at once that he had failed to note what Athos was doing when the stranger had approached. Now he saw it all quite clearly: the broken bottle neck and Athos' grimace as the glass had obviously cut into his palm.
Treville and Porthos swivelled at the sound. 'Wot is it? Wot's 'e done now?' the big Musketeer growled, his deep voice a mixture of annoyance and concern.
'I cannot be sure, but just as the stranger accused Athos of knocking over his drink… well let us say, we ... well I … was discussing a delicate subject, it is possible I was touching on a rather raw nerve.' He stopped to gauge the other two men's reactions. Treville was still scowling, but Porthos had the grace to adopt a somewhat guilty expression, knowing he had left his friend to deal with their touchy comrade.
Aramis continued: 'He had picked up the bottle from the table, and again I am not sure, but I have a hazy recollection of breaking glass, which I must have mixed up with the sounds of the fight. But thinking back, I believe he may have snapped the neck of the bottle in his… annoyance. He said nothing, and things happened so quickly I gave it no more thought.'
'His bloody left hand,' Porthos sighed.
'What?' Treville queried.
''E was fightin' with 'is left 'and when I came outside. I noticed because I thought 'e was deliberately playin' with 'im. 'E does that sometimes when'e wants to let the cadets think they have more of a chance. Of course they don't, 'cause 'is left 'and is a good as 'is right.'
'God knows where that bottle had been, and you can bet he has done nothing to look after the wound,' said Aramis, almost turning his horse around.
'He is a grown adult, and if he has not been to the infirmary then that is his own doing, Treville stated firmly. 'We have a busy morning, and the King does not like to be kept waiting.'
'So 'as Athos – 'e's sparring with fifteen new recruits… with an injured hand,' Porthos muttered through gritted teeth, keeping his remark just short of insubordination. Treville, in turn, said nothing, but he wiped his hand across his face, and Aramis noted him briefly close his eyes in a gesture of contrition.
They reached the palace with no further discussion. Treville led them through the corridors, occasionally nodding at or acknowledging a member of the household. Aramis noted how many ignored the Captain; not out of arrogance, but they seemed somewhat distracted, and one or two even angry. As they neared the large room where Louis liked to hold his morning audiences, they became aware of raised voices.
The large double doors opened, and the three men entered, Aramis and Porthos holding back a little to allow Treville to make his greeting. However, the Captain held his tongue, all three of them watching as the King danced around the large space, stamping his foot and waving his clenched fists in the air like a five-year-old in a fit of anger.
'I will have my alterations; I will have my navy and I will have the hunting lodge at Versailles extended. I am the King, Richelieu; I will not let a bunch of old men stand in the way of my plans. I will not, do you hear me?'
Richelieu had the expression of a man who had borne a great deal and was attempting to remain stoic in the face of immense provocation.
'Indeed I do, Your Majesty. I understand your frustration, however…' he did not get the opportunity to complete his sentence before the monarch set to ranting once more.
'However, however, h-o-w-e-v-e-r, that is all I hear, and now you too Cardinal. Are you saying you agree with those philistines?' After one final stamp of his foot, Louis stood still, hands clenched, chin in the air and sporting a full pout. The Cardinal gave Treville a single look of resilience before bowing to the King's temper. If he had learnt anything at all as First Minister, it was to acquiesce before the King, then carry out steps to thwart the cantankerous Monarch in private.
'Not at all, Sire, but they have their duty to perform, a duty you bestowed upon them, and for some, your father before you. They believe they have France's best interests at heart.' He attempted a beatific smile, but it did not last long.
'Are you implying that I do not, Cardinal?' the King asked, looking far more dangerous than he had just a minute before. Heads had rolled over far less disloyal inferences.
'Of course not, Your Majesty, no one could devote more to their country, nor do more to care and improve its stature. I merely wished to suggest an explanation for the council's behaviour.
Louis stomped once again. 'I do not care for an explanation. They are old, and as you said yourself, some of those men were appointed by my father. I need fresh blood, more forward-thinking minds like myself. It is time for a new council to be appointed, Cardinal.' Richelieu had the temerity to look appalled, and Aramis and Porthos were doing their level best not to show just how entertained they were by the First Minister's discomfort, as they watched him squirm from one ill-considered remark to another. Treville merely followed the discourse with careful consideration, all the while aware that he could be dragged into the argument at any moment.
Louis began to warm to his suggestion. 'Yes, I think that is a wonderful idea, but how to choose? I think we will host a delegation.' The King smiled broadly, the same spoilt child, but one who had now forgotten his disappointment in favour of a new and exciting proposition, and he clapped his perfectly manicured hands together with excitement. 'Yes, a delegation. Young men, Lords, Barons; those men who head up commerce and innovation in our great capital, I want to meet them all. I will find my new council from amongst men of my persuasion, Cardinal, not old men too close to death to care.' It was then that Louis turned to Treville. His eyes lit with enthusiasm, just as the Captain's heart sank like a stone.
'Ah, Treville, just the man. I have had a splendid idea. I am going to host a delegation. I want to be surrounded by young, bold and enthusiastic minds like mine. I am going to construct a new council –one with an eye on the future, not stuck in the past. I know that I can trust you and the Cardinal to see it is done. Two weeks should be sufficient. Good morning, gentleman, I must go and consult the Queen, tell her the good news.' With that, Louis strode from the room, leaving a stupefied Richelieu, and a stunned Treville in his wake. As the room slowly emptied, neither man moved or spoke until the First Minister and the three Musketeers were all that remained.
'Well you were a lot of help,' Richelieu spat as he stepped down from the dais where he had been sitting.
'I had very little opportunity to become involved,' Treville countered. He would have enjoyed the Cardinal's poor temper if it had not been for the list of problems now crowding his mind.
'Yes, well, I suppose you heard all that,' stated the First Minister as he walked toward the double doors. 'I think you and I had better have a little chat, and I do not know about you, but I could use a drink.' With that, he strode through the doors, giving the two guards at the door little time to open them to allow his exit.
Treville nodded to the two wary Musketeers and followed upon the Cardinal's heels. Aramis and Porthos walked discreetly behind, though all were moving at a brisk pace. The corridors were now deserted; all non-essential courtiers had scurried to a place of refuge having heard the King's outburst – his tantrums were well known, and nobody wanted to be caught up in whatever fallout would follow his eruption.
The Captain disappeared into the Cardinal's office and indicated for Aramis and Porthos to remain outside. The two men leant against the wall with sighs of relief.
'Well that was an impressive show of pique,' Aramis grinned.
Porthos chuckled. 'The Cardinal looked as though 'e wished to be just about anywhere but there. I reckon 'e was even pleased to see the Captain!' Again he gave a loud bark of laughter, but when he looked at his friend, Aramis was not laughing, if fact he looked most perturbed.
'Wot's up?' the big man asked, the smile vanishing from his face.
'We should have requested permission to return to the garrison. Why, oh why, did I not notice he had injured himself?' Aramis chastised himself, shaking his head.
Porthos gave a grunt of irritation. 'I noticed, but it never sunk in. It can't 'ave been that serious. It's not as though 'e was bleedin' to death.' Aramis appreciated his friend's efforts to settle his concerns, but they both knew Athos of old; he could have lost a finger and he would still have said nothing.
ooOoo
Whilst the two men were considering the state of their friend, the man in question was downing his second jug of water of the day, a state of affairs that had not gone unnoticed and had merited several jibes and malicious innuendos from Deveaux and his pack of hounds.
The morning had grown warm once again. The storm may have lowered the level of humidity but the heat blazed down into the arena at the centre of the garrison, where fifteen new recruits now stood with mixed expectations.
They had sparred in pairs, one of the newest Musketeers making up the final set. Athos had watched carefully, moving them around until he was happy they were sparring with a partner of relatively equal skill. This had taken the early part of the morning, and he was almost glad Treville had wanted a report by luncheon, as at least it meant he had to be fairly brief with his assessments and he would be finished before the worst heat of the day. However, it did not make him feel any better – his head banged remorselessly, and his hand was so swollen he could no longer hold his sword.
He knew he was being a fool, but he hoped Aramis would return soon, and he promised himself he would succumb to whatever chastisement the medic subjected him to as long as he stopped the pain in his hand. He dared not remove his glove; it felt as though the thick leather was the only thing preventing his fingers from popping one by one, and he had a horrible feeling the wound was bleeding once more. At least, he hoped it was blood…
He began pairing the cadets off and working with them two at a time, after which he would partner each in turn and make some basic alterations to technique and stance, this being more to judge their reaction and ability to take instruction than to assess their prowess. He was relieved to find there were no more like Du Bois amongst the group. One or two were a little full of themselves, but by the time they had lost their weapon for the second time, or found themselves upon their backside, they were willing to accept they had much to learn.
Noon was looming and there was only one pair left to assess. The other young men had been allowed to watch each of the pair in turn and were seated around the courtyard in an attempt to avoid the hot sun.
Athos was facing a fresh-faced young lad of eighteen, eyes wide with anticipation, but with an obvious eagerness to learn. Suddenly the swordsman was back at Versailles, sparring with the two young cadets they had been forced to take upon the trip due to the lack of experienced Musketeers. Only one had returned, and Athos had taken the boy's loss personally. After all, he had been the one training him to defend himself, and he had suspected the boy was not really ready to face an oncoming foe.
'Monsieur Athos, are you alright? Would you like me to get you some more water?' the boy offered, his young face full of concern.
'Late night, Athos?' Deveaux sniggered as he took a seat next to the watching cadets.
Athos ignored the jibe, but as he turned to glare at the pathetic excuse for a Musketeer the garrison moved around him at twice the speed, and he staggered slightly, causing Deveaux to scoff in disgust.
'Don't you think you ought to leave that to someone who can stand upright and hold a sword. It is hardly fair testing their ability with your left hand when you are perfectly capable of using your right. Or do you need the advantage in order to maintain the upper hand?' The words dripped with venom and the new recruits looked at the bitter Musketeer with a mix of surprise and interest, before reappraising the man who had been mentoring them for most of the day.
It was true that no noble son would have been allowed to continue with any preference they might have had to use their left hand, there were far too many superstitions and associated stigma attached to such an ability. Only miscreants and those with no formal education or interest in such problems used whichever limb they had been allowed to favour. Indeed, Athos had been born able to use either hand for any task as he so wished, though over the years he had rarely needed to use his left hand for writing, so had lost the ability to be as neat as he was with his right – but where swords and knives were concerned, his left hand was equally as impressive and equally as deadly as his right.
Still, to use it on the recruits had left them at a slight disadvantage, used as they were to practising with fencing masters who, unless they were particularly thorough, would never have encouraged them to use both hands with equal prowess.
Athos looked down at his right hand, his whole arm felt stiff and, if he was honest, he felt the first frisson of fear as he considered the cause of his pain – it could only be infection from the broken bottle. And if that did not kill him, then Aramis or Porthos surely would, but worse than that would be the permanent damage to his hand.
He passed his sword into his right hand. His fingers felt far too large to fit around the hilt, but he tried anyway. It was as much as he could do not to groan out loud as he succeeded in gripping the weapon. He managed to raise it and then used whatever willpower he had to ignore the crippling pain. Deveaux had been right, it had been unfair to the recruits, though he had tried to make allowances for their disadvantage. He began talking to the young man who had offered the water and slowly he adjusted his stance and offered pointers to his most basic of moves.
The heat felt as though it was melting him from inside out, and he longed to remove his jacket and vest, but he was not even sure he could.
'Not going to spar, Athos? Too tired?' Deveaux gave a raucous bark of laughter, and the recruits again gave the swordsman a look of doubt.
Just then, Serge appeared from the refectory carrying a large tray laden with cups and jugs.
'Something cold for you youngsters, it's too 'ot out 'ere for all this dancin' around.' He placed the tray down upon the table by Deveaux and addressed the smug Musketeer.
'Ain't you got anythin' better to do than give 'im grief? He's workin' ten times 'arder than you ever do,' the old man told the furious soldier.
'Who asked you for your opinions old man? Stick to peeling potatoes, and things that are your concern.' With that, Deveaux got up and knocked one of the jugs over, spilling the cool contents upon the ground.
Serge shook his head and trudged over to Athos with a cup in his hand, ''Ere drink this, I know you won't get yourself one otherwise.' He held out the cup, but Athos hesitated. He now held his sword in his good hand, and was not sure he could hold the cup in his injured one. Serge looked at him from under his grizzled brows.
'You don't look so good, you sure you're alright young'un?' Athos attempted to grin, but it came out more as a grimace of pain. He stuck his sword into the ground and drank the cool draught with enthusiasm.
''Ere, give that cup to me if you're done with it,' Serge added gently. Athos realised the man was aware something was wrong and was grateful for his discretion. 'I reckon it's time you called it a day, these new lads will be wantin' their dinners soon.' He gave Athos one last look of concern before walking back to the kitchen, muttering about stubborn fools as he went.
Athos had to admit the excuse of dinner was just what he needed. The last thing he wanted was to pass out in front of the men, especially after Deveaux's innuendos about drinking.
He addressed the wilting recruits and managed the slightest trace of a smile. 'You have all done well. It is hot and you must be tired, let us break for lunch, and this afternoon Gerrard will take you around the armoury.' The young men beamed and headed for the canteen in chattering groups, eager for some refreshment.
As Athos turned toward the bench, he heard the beat of horses' hooves coming through the archway. Never had he been so glad to see his friends – well at least not since the last time he had been in a dire predicament, which truth be told had not been as long ago as he would have wished.
He locked eyes with Aramis, and whatever the medic saw had him jumping down from his horse and marching across the wide-open space between them. Apart from Aramis and Athos, only Porthos and Treville were out in the open. Everyone else was eating in the shade of the canteen, which was fortunate, because as Aramis came within arm's reach of Athos the swordsman's eyes rolled back in his head and he sank to the ground like a stone.