Chapter 6
Athos was not destined to enjoy his oblivion for long. Kneeling at his side, Aramis took hold of the injured hand, eliciting from his friend a harsh intake of breath and a low cry of pain, as the previously inert figure's eyes flew open, staring in surprise at his abrupt return to consciousness.
'Forgive me, mon ami.' Aramis could feel the intense heat radiating from the glove and feared the worst. Looking over his shoulder, the worry was evident from his tightly knit brows to the grim set of his lips.
Porthos crouched on Athos' other side and the swordsman turned his pale face to the scowling Musketeer, grinding out one single word: 'Don't!' Porthos opened his mouth to reply but the cold glare on Athos' face told him perhaps now was not the time to begin his diatribe of rebuke – there would be time later, or so he hoped.
'The infirmary, now!' barked Treville. This time it was Athos' turn to be silenced. 'No argument, infirmary or face a disciplinary.' The angry growl brooked no quarrel, but it did not stop the recalcitrant Musketeer from making his opinion apparent. The look he gave his superior was insubordinate in its arrogance and disdain, but to his credit, Treville merely stared the stubborn Musketeer out until Athos turned his head away in disgust.
Aramis and Porthos took an arm each in an effort to raise the swordsman to his feet. However Athos was not about to succumb to their ministrations and shook them off in irritation. 'I am not incapable of walking!' He looked from one to the other, addressing them in his most superior tone, though neither man baulked at the officious rebuke.
To Athos' disgust, it soon became evident that from his seated position, and with his right arm close to useless, much to his growing annoyance he was struggling to right himself on his own.
Porthos said nothing, merely holding out his arm for his friend to make use of. Athos locked eyes with the rock of a man before latching on to his forearm with a brief nod of thanks.
As soon as Athos was seated upon a bed, the rather pompous infirmarian backed off, glad to leave what he considered to be an ungrateful and disreputable Musketeer and an insubordinate self-titled medic to get on with it. As far as the bigoted man was concerned, they deserved each other. Nonetheless, he kept one careful eye on the proceedings, as he knew people who liked to be kept abreast of such matters, and he was not averse to a little extra coin.
'I am afraid the glove will have to be cut off,' explained Aramis, now making decisions through the eyes of a medic, oblivious to all else. When the simple act of lifting the man's hand into his own caused Athos to hiss through gritted teeth, beads of sweat becoming tiny trickles of anguished perspiration upon the Musketeer's skin he had realised that removing the glove in any other way was out of the question.
'Do it,' was the only response, though it was barely discernible through the locked rigidity of the swordsman's jaw. Aramis gave the briefest of nods and Porthos positioned himself at Athos' back. The medic gave Athos the ghost of a smile before applying himself to his task. Throughout the preliminary preparations, Treville had remained in the background, seeking to give Aramis the room he needed, but now he stood at his medic's shoulder, taking a poorly disguised interest in what was about to be revealed.
Slowly, bit by bit, Aramis cut through the thick leather of Athos' glove and as the hide parted, so Aramis could feel the burning heat radiating from inside. The hand being gradually exposed was red and swollen, the fingertips and knuckles white from the force of the inflammation. As the soft cocoon fell away, Aramis gave a low moan as he saw for the first time the full extent of the damage to the disfigured appendage. The wound now exposed was oozing with yellow puss and dark streaks like cobwebs disappeared beneath the cuff of Athos' sleeve.
'I need to remove your jacket, mon ami.' Aramis glanced down at the long, sharp shears in his hand.
'No!' Athos managed to croak, 'I am not replacing this one.' The medic nodded and Porthos began inching the swordsman's good arm from his jacket. Removing his damaged hand was another story; every time it touched the side of the supple leather Athos gave a slow and heartfelt moan.
'I'm sorry,' Porthos apologised, his tone one of guilt and sympathy, until at last the useless arm was free. Aramis wasted no time in rolling up the damp linen of Athos' shirt to reveal the extent of the travelling infection. None of them were encouraged by what they saw. The arm was scarlet from wrist to elbow, with vivid red tracery where the virulent enemy left delicate patterns on the usually pale flesh as it forged onward with its devastating progress.
Athos was watching Aramis intently, and did not avert his attention as the medic examined the extent of the damage.
'Well?' he growled, asking the question on everyone's lips.
Oh Athos, why did you not wake me last night? Why did you not show me this morning? Aramis thought to himself, but instead he merely muttered.
'The bottle must have been filthy.' If Athos raised his brows slightly at the acknowledgment of the observation behind the remark, Aramis either did not notice, or chose to ignore it – he felt guilty enough that he had not registered the injury at the time, without Athos realising his neglect.
'What now?' Treville's question cut straight to the point but it allowed Aramis to banish all thoughts of what might have been and focus on the here and now.
'First I need to clean the wound and then cut away the infected flesh before I can close the lesion.' Athos had begun to shiver violently, though the grey pallor of his skin was now far too flushed for the medic's comfort.
Porthos draped the discarded jacket around his friend's shoulders, but it did little to help, the violent shuddering dislodging it almost at once.
Treville appeared with a blanket and wrapped it around the freezing Musketeer with a tenderness belied by his expression. Athos had slipped into a semi-conscious state and was beyond the point of acknowledging the gesture, but Aramis flashed Porthos a quick smile. Their Captain rarely remained in a temper for long, especially with Athos, despite the young man giving more cause than most.
Aramis reappeared by the bed and handed Porthos a mug of steaming liquid. 'Get him to drink this.' He looked away quickly, with only the slightest trace of a smirk as Porthos took the cup with a scowl and a reluctant grunt of thanks. Holding Athos upright, against his broad chest, Porthos positioned the cup for him to sip. Despite his feverish state, Athos grimaced at the pungent aroma. 'Drink up, mon ami, it is a new recipe for pain relief,' Aramis grinned.
'It is vile, give me willow bark,' Athos whispered, closing his mouth and refusing to oblige the patient Musketeer at his back.
Both Treville and Porthos looked to Aramis for his response, but the medic merely shrugged his shoulders and traded one cup for another, mindful of his patient's mulish expression.
'It is rather bitter,' he admitted. Athos sniffed the new offering with suspicion before slowly taking tentative slips in between convulsive shudders.
'Should we try to warm him?' Treville asked
'He will be plenty warm soon enough,' came Aramis' quick response, though the accompanying expression was one of unease.
Athos refused further pain medication, though he had taken more than the medic had expected.
Just then, a warm blast of air flooded the cool interior, and Gerrard popped his head around the door. 'How is he?' came the curious enquiry. Nobody responded, but their collective expressions alone removed any trace of a smile. 'That bad,' was his only comment. 'I am sorry.' With that, the older man withdrew, leaving the three men staring after him.
'I think I should go, we do not need incorrect rumours circulating around the garrison,' Treville growled.
Both men nodded, and though Athos' eyes were closed, nobody was fooled into thinking him asleep.
Treville stepped out into the brilliance of the sunshine. Though the infirmary was well lit, it managed to assume an air of gloom and cool shadows. He held his hand up to protect his eyes as he surveyed the courtyard. Standing in the far corner, he could just make out Deveaux quizzing an uncomfortable Gerrard. Just what Treville had hoped to avoid – the insufferable Musketeer would take Athos' removal to the infirmary and imbue it with tales of alcohol and lord knows what; anything to make him appear unfit to uphold the pauldron of a Musketeer – but Treville would not allow that, not for a man who had worked so hard to earn it.
In fact, it was Deveaux whom he had been waiting for in the rain the night before. Despite Treville's instruction to await an interview, the man had made a sudden disappearance, leaving the garrison soon after Athos and his friends had departed.
Treville was just considering calling Deveaux to join him in his office, when an anguished scream echoed across the heat-baked space, eliciting a wince from the seasoned Captain.
There were not many hardened soldiers – Musketeers included – who had not felt the bite of the surgeon's knife. He took in the sudden stillness of the new recruits, their terrified gazes fixed toward the infirmary. He hailed Gerrard and the man jogged toward him, responding to the urgency in his Captain's tone.
'Take them to the training ground and keep them busy,' Treville ordered. Gerrard's nervous eyes flicked toward the low building that housed the injured Musketeer, where another hushed howl could be heard from within. He affirmed his understanding and called to the group of youngsters, who now stood stupefied by the events unfolding out of sight.
Athos had endured much pain in his short life and was no screamer, but even he had his limits and the severing of putrid flesh had obviously taken him past his breaking point. Snapping them out of their morbid fascination, Gerrard herded the cadets out of the garrison to the field beyond, where the men did most of their training.
Treville's eyes lit on Deveaux's smug expression, the perfect target on which to vent his broiling emotions.
'YOU, with me, NOW!' the Captain snarled, stalking off in the direction of his office. He had been waiting hours for this, he had put it off for too long, and if he had been angry with the vengeful Musketeer before, he was bloody furious now. It was attitudes like his that had spurred Treville on to allow the disgusting spectacle yesterday in his garrison courtyard. He would not forget the expression of disappointment on Athos' face as he gave the go-ahead for the match. If he had acted differently, would Athos have gone off in so dark a mood? Would he have returned with the wound that now threatened his life?
Treville took up position behind his solid desk, scowling as Deveaux entered, barking his question before the man had even stopped moving. 'Where were you last night?' Whatever Deveaux had been expecting, it had not been this. His eyes narrowed, and he held himself rigid, his hands clenched at his sides. Nervously licking his lips whilst Treville's furious stare speared him to the spot, the Musketeer desperately struggled to formulate a response.
'I had business in town,' was his weak and feeble response.
'You did not have permission to leave, I had told you I wished to speak to you.' Treville leant across the desk speaking slowly, his voice almost inaudible, his anger bubbling just below the surface.
Deveaux shuffled from one foot to the other, his mouth opening and closing, but no words emerging. 'I... I had an urgent bill to settle, my… pistol… it was jamming.' He appeared satisfied with his lie – for a lie it most obviously was.
'Why did you not take it to the armourer? 'Treville continued, not prepared to let Deveaux off so easily.
Deveaux now felt on easier ground. 'I prefer to deal with a gunsmith in town.' Some of his usual arrogance had returned. Treville's brow furrowed. 'You do not trust the man who dispenses and looks after my regiment's arms?' Though he put the question to Deveaux, he already anticipated his response.
'I would not wish to burden him with my own personal weapon, and it is, after all, a family piece.' Treville suspected he had lost his advantage in this line questioning, and though he was still curious as to the man's sudden departure – despite his knowledge that the Captain was waiting to talk to him – he decided to let it go.
'So, let us now discuss your actions yesterday. You interfered in a match between gentlemen and behaved in a very ungentlemanly fashion.' He continued to lean across the desk in a most intimidating manner.
'Gentlemen!' spat Deveaux. 'Athos is hardly a gentleman. He may have some talent with a sword, but he employs manoeuvres which are far from gentlemanly. I still don't know why the King made him a Musketeer.'
Anyone observing the two men would probably have cringed at the statement. Despite having been bested by him on more than one occasion, Deveaux simply refused to believe Athos was the better swordsman. Instead, he preferred to accuse him of sly and underhand tactics or conduct not befitting a gentleman, but to be so blatant in his disapproval was nothing short of stupid.
Treville positively bristled with anger and indignation, and when he spoke, the level of control and the icy quality of his tone were enough to dispel any confidence Deveaux may have had in his opinion.
'I will tell you why the King made him a Musketeer. He does not have some talent with a sword, he is a brilliant swordsman, a fearless and skilful fighter, who is also a patient teacher to those who are prepared to listen. Athos asks for nothing, but gives everything to his comrades and his country. That is why the King made him a Musketeer. Treville glared at Deveaux, but the pompous, self-obsessed man did not know when to give in.
'We know nothing of him, unless you know his secrets. One night in a drunken stupor he many murder us all in our beds.' He stuck out his chin, refusing to admit Athos had any positive qualities at all. Treville clenched his fists. How he would like to reveal Athos' true status and watch this second son of a nobody noble eat his words – but it was not his place to do so.
Instead, he decided he was tired and that he would get nowhere with this fool. 'A man's secrets are his own. As for you, you are confined to the garrison for a week and on stable duty for the same duration.' Then he stood and straightened his shoulders, piercing Deveaux's attempt at bravado with his ice-blue eyes. 'And if Athos loses that hand, I will want to know exactly where you were last night or you will face a court martial.' Deveaux drained of all colour and left the room far more quickly than he had entered.
Treville considered what he had just said – he had uttered his worst nightmare aloud. He sat heavily in his chair and rested his head in his hands. The Musketeer Captain had a feeling that the next few hours were going to be very difficult indeed.