Chapter 9

It was late September. The fields had been ploughed and the harvest safely gathered in; birds now flocked to the stubbled troughs picking at the remains of the summer crop, rising in clouds at any hint of interference, as they reaped their own harvest.

Once the colour of cornflowers, the autumn sky was gradually fading, along with the warmth of the sun. The first frost had visited the estate, a coat of sparkling white draping the landscape that morning, the air clear and crisp, the pale orb shining over a land cleansed and new. The audience watched in anticipation as the majesty of winter slowly stepped up to take centre stage, nodding as it passed, acknowledging the vibrancy of summer as she took her final encore.

The young master of the house had just turned sixteen, though there were no joyous entertainments planned, no thrum of celebration in the air. The only evidence of goodwill and warm regards had been shown below stairs – in secret – but the young man's delight was not destined to last.

Athos finally emerged from his father's study after another humiliating beating. His gift from the staff had been discovered, and his visit below stairs reviled and thrown in his face. How his father found out, he never discovered, though he had his suspicions that there were plenty of those amongst the household who knew how to make the most of what they knew.

He had done his best to conceal the present – in fact it had been only one of two gifts he had received. The buckle was a fine piece of craftwork; the cook's son was a master metal worker and had fashioned the piece featuring the de la Fère crest. It was not silver, but to Athos it was more precious than anything else he had ever been given, and the young Vicomte had been overwhelmed by their generosity. Though they rarely dared show it, the staff on the estate thought highly of their young master – despite his quiet ways, he registered their existence and showed a respect and appreciation for their efforts.

However, his father's sources were ever watchful, and though no outward favouritism was ever shown in his presence, any gesture of kindness always filtered back somehow, and it was Athos who bore the brunt of their allegiance. And so news of the gift had come to his attention, and his father had demanded said gift be handed over. But Athos, in an unusual show of defiance, had refused. The Comte had become apoplectic, and his son had received the thrashing of his life, but still he had not conceded the buckle, or its whereabouts. As he strode from his father's domain Athos headed for the stairs, banished to his room for the duration. However, a small smile quirked the corner of his mouth; he was determined to hold his head high, despite his discomfort, safe in the knowledge that his father may have given him a brutal beating, but he, Athos, had remained the victor.

After several long hours locked in his bedroom, without luncheon or supper, the young Athos had emerged to yet another monologue of abuse. At least this time it was not physical, but the attack on his self-esteem had taken a heavy blow. He had been told, yet again, that he was a poor inheritor of the de la Fère name and all it entailed, that he was weak and lacking in honour and backbone – everything that being of noble blood demanded. What was said after that Athos did not know, he had stopped listening. He was light-headed with hunger, his heart in his mouth awaiting the punishment he felt sure was just around the corner, but it never came. His father banished him from his sight and ordered the objurgated young man from the room.

Athos had practically run from the house, picking up speed as he tore through formal gardens and the lawns beyond. Late blooming flowers heads, still bent from the morning's hoare frost, nodded as he passed; air crisp, his lungs burning with the effort. Athos' booted feet slipped upon the icy ground, his breath billowing out before him as he sped toward the stables. So urgent was his need that he had not taken the time to snatch a coat before he left, but he hardly felt the clutch of icy air.

He had to see for himself, he had to see the horse was still there.

The boy had awoken with no expectation, he had learned that for him a birthday was just like any other day – a gift was usually bestowed, but without any pomp or ceremony. It was perhaps one of the only times in the year his mother would bestow a kiss upon his cheek, but this year she had remained in her room with some perceived aliment or other. So, with no sense of anticipation, he had followed his father to the stables. He had been stunned beyond belief when his father had given him his gift. The stallion was huge; Athos had not yet attained his full height, yet though he was almost as tall as his father, the black beast had towered over him. The horse had snorted with an arrogant superiority that should have terrified him, but it had not. Athos had approached the prancing animal and tentatively stroked his soft nose.

'You need to show him who is master, break him, make him your animal or you will never control him.' With that, and luckily for Athos and the horse, his father turned abruptly and left the stable yard; his job was done, gift given, obligation fulfilled.

'What is his name?' Athos asked the unfamiliar boy holding the stallion's reins – his appearance suggested he was not much older than Athos.

'Don't rightly know he has a name. Your father …' at this point the boy spat quite deliberately on the floor, flagrantly showing his dislike of the Comte, not caring what Athos thought of the gesture. '…he just bought him and said the horse was for his son.' The boy looked at Athos, his resentment glaringly obvious.

Athos ignored his insolence. It was not the first time he had seen the expression of antipathy upon the faces of villagers or staff, though he hated the assumption that his wealth and future title somehow made him different, a subject of hatred. He was not his father, and he hoped he would be a fairer and more just lord when his turn came, though he was not looking forward to that day.

So it was that he ran as fast as he could toward the stable that morning as it was unlike his father not to add to his humiliation by denying him something he had shown to care about or to enjoy. The Comte had dismissed his first-ever fencing master just because Athos had formed a bond with the young man. He had dismissed the local vicar and his family, because they had shown kindness to the boy on more than one occasion. Athos had long ceased to exhibit any emotion to anyone or anything at all, lest they, too, be banished from his life. And so he had readily expected the horse to be the latest victim of his father's cruel punishment – but perhaps he had not realised just how overjoyed Athos had been to receive the splendid animal. No more ponies, or docile mares, now he had a real horse, a man's horse, or so he hoped.

When he arrived breathless and shaking in the stable yard, he could not believe his eyes. There was the horse, stamping and chomping at the bit, froth flying from his curled lips, snorting smoke into the air like an angry dragon. A rope bit into his neck and the holder of that rope was giving him a severe thrashing with the whip – the boy from the previous morning who had shown such disrespect now struck the horse repeatedly. Blood showed upon the animal's proud neck and his eyes were wild with pain and fear.

Athos was enraged. The emotions he had hidden so deep, for so long, exacerbated by his father's poison as well as the fear of losing his most magnificent gift, had only added to his emotive state, driving him into a rare fury. He snatched the whip from the stable hand's grip and lashed out at the boy in anger. The first swipe caught him on the arm, but as the boy turned in surprise the second caught him full in the face. A cut opened up, reaching from his forehead to his chin, crossing his eye in the process. Before Athos could comprehend just what he had done, a voice rang out from behind him.

'Well done, boy, show him who is master. No one on my estate treats a horse like that.' Athos turned to find his father not more than twenty paces behind him, a malicious smile upon his face. He could think of no reason he should have followed him to the stables, but a cold fear clutched at his insides and as his father grew closer. He heard the stable hand cackle.

'Take a good look. This horse is for the knacker's yard – seems you've been a naughty boy.' The realisation hit Athos like a thunderbolt. His father had been coming to revel in the look upon Athos' face when he told him he was taking the horse away. Athos was consumed by a red mist, fed by a potent mixture of anger, humiliation, and defeat. He launched another attack on the sniggering servant, though his was not the face he saw before him as he struck.

Athos only stopped when his father removed the whip from his rigid fingers. The boy before him was holding a hand to his damaged face and spat blood at the pair of them.

'Like father, like son – pigs the pair of yer.' The boy did not wait to be dismissed, but simply turned away and loped off toward the trees, never to set foot upon the estate again.

Athos had stood trembling with horror at what he had done, but luckily for him, his father had interpreted it differently.

'At last, finally you show signs of the man I have been waiting to see. Well done. The peasant got what he deserved. You can keep the horse, perhaps you have earnt him after all.' He slapped Athos on the back and once again turned away toward the house.

Athos was completely shocked, not just by his actions towards the stable lad, but by the pride his father had shown in such outrageous abuse. Staggering toward the silent horse he buried his head in the soft mane and wept. If he had only known this was to be the first of many such occasions over the years, the boy would have wept harder.

ooOoo

The man skulked at the back of the tavern – the White Horse was not the type of establishment he would normally visit. Not just because it was close to the Musketeer barracks, and so normally full of soldiers, but the wine was decent and so more expensive. In addition, he was less likely to make a quick sou or two, compared to the opportunities which presented themselves in the less salubrious establishments. However, tonight was an exception, he had received word his contact wished to meet.

He drank from the cup of wine in front of him. It was good, far better than he was used to, and he was going to make sure the man he was about to encounter reimbursed him for his troubles. As he searched the crowded room he noted a group of cadets enter through the narrow door. Now they were usually good sport, raw and still easy targets if you could catch them in pairs, but tonight they formed a large group. As they found themselves seats, one of them moved away and locked eyes with him. He was of average height, with no particular features to recommend him, except the condescending arrogance resulting from his perceived noble birthright. The man spat on to the floor. Still, allies came from the oddest places – if this young upstart could help him achieve his aim after all these years, he would keep his resentments to himself.

'Are you Du Bois?' he mumbled as the young man approached.

'Beau?' the condescending cadet queried. How the man hated the nickname, but it was a reminder of the damage that had been done to him, a constant reminder of what he had lost thanks to de la Fères.

He nodded and gestured for the cadet to join him. 'This isn't the best place to meet, what if your friends notice?' Beau complained.

'I had no other way of leaving. It would have seemed odder if I had disappeared into the city on my own seeing as I am supposed not to know my way around.' He sneered at the man by his side as though he was an idiot.

Suddenly he felt a sharp prick in his side. 'Let me remind you how raw you are. We are sitting in a tavern in the dark drinking wine – for which you are paying by the way – and if I were to gut you like a fish right now, nobody would know until your friends decided to leave. That could be hours away, by which time you would be very dead, and they would simply think you could not hold your drink. So perhaps a little respect is in order. After all, without me, you would never even have known he was still alive.'

Du Bois' eyes flared with surprise and, in an effort to retain his dignity, he took a long gulp of his wine, nodding his head as he did so.

'So, what have you to tell me that is so important?' Beau asked.

'Someone came to see Athos, a girl, she was quite desperate. It was not the first time, she came before, during the evening. She gave one of the other Musketeers, Deveaux, a message. Porthos told her Athos was ill and she left. I do not know who she was.' Despite his cocky attitude earlier, Du Bois hoped the information was important; he was not sure he liked sitting in such close proximity to a man with a knife, who appeared far too eager to use it.

'A girl, what sort of girl?' Beau asked, curious.

'Just a girl, an ordinary...' He stopped, not sure what to say without raising the man's ire once more. That he had a dislike of nobility was evidently clear. '…a serving girl I would say, that is, a girl working in a household, not a street girl.' He hoped he had not made any kind of insult to women of this man's acquaintance, but it was the politest description he could think of.

'Is that all?' Beau scowled.

'Well, Porthos let something slip, I was not entirely sure what to make of it, but I received the impression there was another woman, I do not know who, but someone important. Whoever she is, Porthos did not look pleased.' This piece of information seemed to cheer the man up.

'No, I don't suppose he did, if it's the woman I've in mind. Still, she's dead and gone, but it will be a real sore point with Athos if you need to get under his skin.'

'Who was she?' Du Bois asked with genuine interest.

'You don't need to know, just find a way to irk him, it will be enough for now.' With that Beau stood and, draining his glass, he looked at the empty cup then back at Du Bois. 'Expensive stuff this was.' Was all he said.

Du Bois scowled but handed him a coin to keep him happy. Beau nodded and left. Du Bois considered what Beau had told him, not much to be honest. So there was a woman in Athos' past, and she was dead, and a sore point, but why? That was what he would aim to find out – perhaps his father would know.

ooOoo

Both Lemay and Treville were overjoyed to find Athos sleeping normally, though this in turn had brought on new drama as Athos was now aware of the pain and discomfort of his fever.

'How long has he been awake?' the doctor asked, his brow furrowed as he watched the man on the bed attempt to move, pushing the sheets away from his heated skin.

'A few hours, no more. He spoke a couple of words but then it appeared as though he became aware of the pain – he attempted to move his arm and it was too much. He passed out and has not awoken since and though he has mumbled in his sleep, we can not make out what he is saying.'

All eyes watched the young doctor to see how he would react to this information. To their surprise he smiled. 'That is encouraging. I assume he has not taken any fluid since then?' He looked to Aramis and the medic shook his head.

'If I am honest, I was afraid to wake him.' He slid a glance to Porthos, which did not go unnoticed by Treville.

'What is wrong? Is there something else?' He eyed the two Musketeers, waiting for one of them to answer. Aramis dropped his head, leaving Porthos to explain his brother's concern.

'When 'e awoke before, 'e didn't recognise us.' He, too, looked uncomfortable, but he stood straight and awaited the doctor's response like a man anticipating a firing squad.

Lemay frowned, then gave a gentle smile. 'Do not worry overly much at that, it sounds as though he may not have been fully awake. We shall see what happens now. I think it is time to encourage Monsieur Athos back to the real world, but first let us prepare something for him to drink.' The Musketeers were taken aback, but then Aramis moved swiftly into action; though he was concerned over Athos' state of mind, brewing a preparation of willow bark for the pain and fever at least gave him something to do.

When all was ready, Lemay nodded to Aramis. He had not forgotten the time he had attempted to awaken Athos from sleep before the Musketeer had known who he was – Athos had almost throttled him.

Aramis gave a small grin, acknowledging he, too, remembered the event. 'Athos, Athos, it is I, Aramis. Wake up, mon ami.' He gently shook Athos' shoulder, but did not stand too close. In his friend's present state, he was not totally convinced that he might not find himself on the end of his friend's defence reaction.

Athos frowned in his sleep but appeared as though he was listening. Aramis tried again. 'Athos, come, wake up, you need to take a draught, it will help you feel better.' For a few moments nothing appeared to happen, and the Musketeers' apprehension steadily grew, but Lemay did not look overly worried. Slowly, Athos' eyes began to flutter open, and he gazed at some fixed spot on the ceiling, not appearing to focus on anything in particular.

'Athos, it is Porthos, can you hear me?' The big man's deep voice seemed to bounce around the room in the stillness.

Athos still fixated on the same spot on the ceiling. Eventually he swallowed, then he spoke. 'All of Paris… can hear you… as always…' His voice sounded rough, but to the men standing at his bedside it was the most wonderful sound in the world.

'Huh, well you don't appear to be in a better mood after all that sleep,' Porthos muttered, though his eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

Athos turned his head toward the sound and gave the slightest twitch of his lips, though it quickly turned into more of a grimace. 'I have felt better,' was all he said before closing his eyes once more.

This galvanised all four men into action. 'Oh no, you cannot go back to sleep yet, you need to drink,' Aramis almost shouted. Porthos lifted Athos gently and Aramis held the cup for Athos to drink. He opened his eyes again and gave the cup a look that clearly showed his distaste, but he allowed Aramis to pour its contents into his mouth. He gave a small smile as the cup was removed.

'Never thought I would be glad to drink that,' said Athos, and with that he closed his eyes and fell back into a contented sleep.

The doctor looked at Aramis, who gave a sheepish smile and shrugged. 'It was quite strong.'

Porthos laughed. 'Perhaps when 'e awakens next time 'e will be a little more grateful.' Though he sounded put out, it was clear he was as delighted as everyone else that Athos knew who they were.

'Once the fever breaks, he should begin to heal. There is no sign of further infection in the wound so it can now be permanently closed and allowed to heal.' He eyed the cup Aramis still held. 'If that is as strong as I suspect it is, then now might be the best time to deal with it.' He laughed and went to wash his hands. 'Keep making him drink every couple of hours and, as soon as he is able, introduce broth. Unless you need me, I will call tomorrow evening to check on his progress. I bid you good day gentlemen.' Treville saw the doctor out and the two Musketeers grinned at one another over Athos' sleeping form.

In the early hours of the morning Athos' fever broke. His colouring became pale, but it was better than the unnatural flush brought on by his high temperature, and as dawn illuminated Paris in a golden glow, Athos awoke.

Porthos was fast asleep in a chair by his side, whilst Aramis lay on a bed not too far away. Athos smiled. He could feel a dull ache in his arm and, gingerly touched it with his left hand. For a moment his heart constricted in his chest – there was so much swaddling around his hand he thought the worst. Then he attempted to move his fingers, and the discomfort, though reassuring, made him realise the hand was still there. He closed his eyes for a moment in relief. The last few hours came back to him – the training, the pain – then there was nothing. He could guess the rest, as after all, this was hardly a new experience.

His head felt clear, but he could not help but think there was something he had forgotten, something he should be doing, but it would not come. Suddenly a familiar voice broke into his consciousness.

'Good morning, mon ami.' Aramis swung his legs over the edge of the bed and smiled at Athos. Porthos, hearing his friend's call, awoke with a start.

Athos eyed them both. 'Well I am glad I was in no danger.' His voice dripped with sarcasm, despite the raw sounding words. Both men laughed.

'I was only resting my eyes,' Porthos offered, scowling at Athos.

Athos raised a brow. 'Is that so? Good to know.'

He watched Aramis prepare more willow bark, and as the medic brought it to his lips Athos gave him a hard stare. 'Like last time?' Aramis looked as innocent as he could.

'It is merely willow bark, it will help the discomfort in your arm.' He held out the cup and, with Porthos' help, Athos was able to hold it in his good hand.

'Of course it is,' Athos drawled, but he drank anyway, and for Athos, he drank plenty. He caught his breath then fixed Aramis with a cold hard stare. 'Tell me.'

Aramis nodded, he hoped he could phrase his news in a way that would not upset his friend.

'The cut on your hand became infected.' He tried not to sound as though he was cross, but by the look on Athos' face he knew his friend realised he was not happy, but he made no comment. 'Your arm is swollen in consequence, but now the lesion is healing the swelling should soon reduce. The wound is at last free from infection and Lemay says he can see no internal damage, so it should be as good as new.' He grinned at Athos, who was watching him intently, looking for signs that the medic was lying. He was obviously contented with what he saw, for he merely nodded. Athos looked at the offending limb and tried to lift his arm. The action elicited a sharp hiss, but he raised it off the bed. The arm would not bend, and he frowned at his inability to flex it further.

'The wound is freshly stitched and the elbow still out of action, give it time Athos,' Aramis urged.

Athos sighed and smiled, 'So what have I missed?' He insisted on sitting up and, as he appeared much brighter, Aramis agreed.

'Well.' Aramis gave the question some consideration, and then he smiled. 'The King has a new initiative.' Athos groaned. 'Why does that fill me with dread?' He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Porthos laughed. 'Not only you my friend, the whole of the Louvre is on tenterhooks and the Cardinal is pacing his office in concern.'

Athos raised a brow and smiled. 'Really? It must have been rather radical.'

'You could say,' Aramis laughed. 'His Majesty has decided he needs new blood around him, he feels his ministers are out of touch with his needs. He is planning a new younger council to take France into the future.' He was no longer smiling and the look on Athos' face was one of incredulity.

'You mean he wants someone who will let him have his own way?' Athos drawled. 'Why? What did he ask for?' Both Musketeers laughed at their friend's insight.

'Oh, the usual, a navy, and extensions at Versailles.' Aramis shrugged, as though the requests were a mere trifle.

'Ah, yes, I can see why he was thwarted, the Cardinal must be furious.' Athos chuckled as he envisioned Richelieu's reaction, wincing at the same time. His eyes began to close, and he eyed the cup on the side with a wary glance.

'No, do not worry, mon ami, you are just naturally tired, I promise you it is not of my doing. Rest now and you will soon be back to full strength. Tonight I think we will risk some broth.' But before the medic had finished speaking, Athos was fast asleep.