"I'm sorry, Athos," Aramis lamented, wishing he had kept his curiosity under control and not asked about the scars.
The swordsman simply shrugged as he swished the remaining brandy around in his mug.
"On the ship, that whipping, it wasn't your first," Porthos said, amazed that someone of Athos' status would have been whipped more than he, the son of a slave.
Again, Athos declined to speak, merely gazing into the recesses of his brandy before slugging it back in one gulp.
Aramis stared at the bowed head of his friend, hesitated a moment, then spoke. "I have seen how you deal with servants and the people of Pinon. You treat them with courtesy and formality, sometimes with indifference, but never with cruelty."
Slowly raising his head, Athos met Aramis' gaze. "But is it not cruel, to give hope when the chance of change is unlikely? Like Ninon and the girls she 'taught'. Should someone encourage another to rise above their station knowing that it could result in acts of punishment. Even death. The nobility rule France using a hierarchical system, often cruel and unjust, built on the backs of the poor. This allows them to live a privileged comfortable life. Why would the nobility want that to change?"
A stillness settled over the camp though it was not one of ease, more that no one knew what to say. Finally, to break the uncomfortable silence, Porthos asked, "How did it end? You're here, so obviously you were set free."
Athos set his empty mug aside and dropped his hands into his lap. "Karl had gotten wind of the upcoming rebellion and had planned to take me with him when he headed back to Pinon to get the tools he said he needed. However, as you already know, Comte Dufort insisted I stay. Not knowing what else to do, Karl decided to go back to our estate and get help. He couldn't stop this by himself. He hoped I'd be spared, as I wasn't part of the estate."
"But you were still nobility. On the wrong side of the fence," d'Artagnan pointed out.
Athos sighed. The young musketeer was not incorrect. He gave a small shrug. "Karl had no other recourse."
"He could have told you and the Comte what was being planned," d'Artagnan countered.
"I do not believe that would have provided any better outcome. Comte Dufort would not have believed a mere smithy. The revolt would have still occurred and most likely Karl would have suffered greatly for betraying his own. Karl took the only course of action that had a chance of being successful. And it was, mostly."
He needed fortification to finish this tale so he leaned forward, grabbed his mug, and filled it to the brim. He wanted to throw it back in one continuous flow but he refrained himself. Having gone this far, he was determined to put this tale to bed once and for all.
"Interestingly, Karl the blacksmith, could not ride a horse. He could shoe them and drive a wagon, but that is where his skills ended. Had he been able to ride, he might have made the trip back to Pinon more quickly. But hauling the wagon took time.
When he got to the estate, he sought out my father and told him what was to transpire. My father, knowing the approximate size of Comte Dufort's estate's staff, sent for reinforcements from the other neighboring estates. My father was reluctant to bring…" Athos struggled for a word. "…the wrong skill set."
"You mean servants. Low born. Afraid they might forget which side they were fightin' for," Porthos interjected.
"Yes, there was that," Athos acknowledged ruefully. "Once assembled, they made haste for the estate. Three days had passed. In that time, the servants had ransacked the estate, the food stores, and the wine cellar. I have no idea if they had a long-term plan. My father and the men that rode with him had a plan. It was simplistic. Crush the rebellion and make a very strong public statement to deter any future ones."
With a low growl, Porthos said, "They hanged them."
Athos gazed off into the distance, recalling the event. "It was quite the spectacle. In Paris."
Aramis asked, "What of the Comte and his family?"
"He died. By the time my father and the troops arrived, the Comte was dead. In the room he had built..."
"…to torture his own staff," Porthos added, with no remorse.
Athos nodded his head. "Ironic, I suppose. He died in the very chains Karl had repaired."
D'Artagnan gave the fire a little poke, rearranging the logs. "And the rest of the family?"
"The wife and three daughters survived. They were not…compromised. Uncomfortable, but there was no retribution enacted upon them."
"And what of you, once your father arrived?" Aramis was curious as to what the Comte de la Fére's actions were regarding his son. When he saw Athos raise his mug and drain it dry, he began to regret his question.
There was a definite slur on the edge of Athos' words. "My father. My father found me chained to a wall. After seeing that I was indeed alive, he instructed one of the neighbor's sons to free me before walking off to attend to other matters. If I recall the conversation correctly, he said 'You are fine?' to which I answered 'I am fine, Sir.' And that was that."
"We'll at least we know where you got your infamous 'I am fine' line from," Aramis said jokingly, trying to lighten the mood a degree. It earned him a small lip quirk from the swordsman.
"My father always expected me to be fine, no matter what. I was the eldest. I had to set the example. Thomas was given a bit more leeway. But then Thomas always was." Athos paused for a moment to stare into the night sky. Aramis wondered what was going through the swordsman's mind, but he respected the silence.
"A few servants had been killed when my father first arrived, for 'resisting'. At least that is what was claimed. Though considering who had weapons and who didn't..." Athos paused, shifting his eyes from the sky to the tips of his boots. "The servants had gotten into everything…but the armory. A tactical error, perhaps, on their part."
Porthos summed it up. "They'd lost before they even started."
Again, Athos sighed. "They had no chance for fairy tale ending. They were doomed from the outset." He shifted uncomfortably on his bedroll. "It says a lot when someone willingly brings on death rather than live with the cards they have been dealt."
Aramis couldn't help thinking that was an ironic statement coming from Athos.
"The survivors were tied up and placed in two large wagons. Thirty-some men, women, and a few children. They were hauled off to Paris and placed in prison to await their punishment. My father and I rode back to our estate. A week later, he had me accompany him to Paris for the trial, if you could call it that, and the punishment."
"Were you called upon to testify?" d'Artagnan asked.
Athos exhaled giving a sour chuckle. "Testify. I tried to explain what I had witnessed. What I had seen. That there was a reason for their actions, even if misplaced. But my father swiftly silenced me. This was dangerous ground I started to tread upon and my father wouldn't allow it; chance alienating his own kind or worse, the crown. The only thing he wanted from me was to remove my shirt so everyone in the courtroom could see what had been done. How I, a noble, had been 'whipped' by a mere servant."
Athos stared into the fire. "The nobility in that courtroom weren't interested in the truth or justice. That would shine a light on behaviors they wanted to remain hidden in the dark. The nobility were comfortable in their lifestyle. Wanted, saw no need for changes. The whole trial was a mockery. Just as Andre had predicted. I was…it was…unpleasant."
Aramis repressed a shudder at Athos' understatement. Humiliating was the word that sprang to his mind.
"Not," Athos continued looking away from the fire, "that there was any doubt on the outcome of the trial. While it was going on one could hear the banging as the scaffolding was being extended to handle the extra…capacity needed."
D'Artganan, the youngest, who still possessed a shred of naivety, said with disbelief, "They hanged everyone? The woman and children too?"
"The women, yes. How could they be trusted? No one wanted a servant in their household that had been part of a rebellion. Who knew what evil ideas were lurking in their feeble minds. As for the children, those of a certain age were hanged for they were likely old enough to have been 'corrupted'. The younger ones were given to the workhouses."
"That was not a kindness," Porthos sadly stated.
"No, it was not," Athos agreed. "Most were probably dead within a few years."
"Or wishing they were," Porthos tacked on.
"The Comtesse made the prudent move to marry the man to whom the King granted the estate. The daughters made matches though none of any importance."
"And what of Karl?" asked d'Artagnan. "Did he stay on in Pinon?"
"Yes." Athos paused a second as if something had just occurred to him. "Though, other than to attend the hanging of the rebel servants, he never left Pinon again."
D'Artagnan was puzzled. "Your father took him to Paris to the hanging? Why?"
It wasn't Athos who answered, but Aramis. "Deterrent. Warning."
"But Karl didn't do anything wrong. He saved Athos, or Olivier."
Aramis took the reins of Athos' story. "Hangings are public to demonstrate, in no uncertain terms, to the audience, what will happen if you cross the line. Frankly, it would be quicker and probably more cost effective to dig a big hole, line all the prisoners up on the edge, shoot them, and then fill in the hole. It would take a lot less time, energy, and effort. But it wouldn't accomplish the goal of scaring the idea of rebellion from the next person's mind. Nothing like a good hanging or burning to send a strong message."
"So, Athos' father took Karl to watch the hanging to send a message," d'Artagnan said with understanding.
"Yes," Athos confirmed entering back into the dialogue. "As did the Comtes, Ducs, and Barons from most estates. France wanted to send a crystal-clear message. The trial and the hangings were well attended by both willing and unwilling parties. And I believe the intent was clear, for I don't recall hearing of such a rebellion, at least of that size, ever since. The nobility, once again, asserted their right to rule."
"Even though Comte Dufort did unspeakable things to his servants," Porthos grumbled, clearly not happy with the outcome of the tale, even though it was of no surprise.
"Even so. As much as it pains me to say this, again, he was within his rights," Athos stated quietly.
"Rights by law, perhaps, but not in the sight of God." Aramis made a quick sign of the cross. "May God have mercy on their souls. May they be in heaven reaping the rewards."
"Do you suppose God distinguishes between the rich and poor?" Porthos mused.
"There are a myriad of verses in the good book on that subject, but we'll save that discussion for another time. I have one last question for Athos."
Athos, who had let his weary eyes close, opened them just enough to glare at Aramis. "Haven't we bared our souls enough for one night?"
"Just one loose end to tie up. You know I am a consummate seamstress. In the beginning you mentioned your father returned to the estate because your mother had taken ill…"
With an inaudible groan, Athos scrubbed his hands across his face. Not there. He could not go there. Not now. Maybe not ever, though he suspected Aramis would drag it out of him some day. Athos had no clue what it was about Aramis, why he had the ability to make Athos talk about things he thought he had buried long ago. But not now.
"She had recovered…for the time being. But," he added firmly, "that is not a tale for tonight, if ever." Athos drained his mug, which he didn't even recall refilling. The brandy did it's work as a wave of exhaustion broke over him. He rolled onto his side and dropped off to sleep, though in reality it was probably closer to passing out.
D'Artagnan banked the fire for the night. Porthos wandered off to take care of a call of nature. Aramis took a moment to get up and ruffle through his saddlebags for a few herbs to make a restorative tea for Athos come morning. He knew the swordsman's preferred hangover cure was an icy bucket of water, but some willow-bark and a few other ingredients in his special tea would be helpful too.
Settling back on his bedroll, he pondered a bit on the night's tale. Was there some way to bring about a more equitable arrangement between the classes? A way that didn't require massive slaughtering by both sides. If he could solve that problem, perhaps, he should be the King of France. Of course, if he were the King maybe he wouldn't want to solve the issue.
Giving his head a little shake, Aramis shifted on his bedroll. Another fireside chat put to bed. The tales of Athos' past never ceased to surprise and amaze him. There were so many layers to the man, Aramis wasn't sure who Athos really was under it all. But of one thing, Aramis was sure. He respected, trusted, and loved his complicated brother-by-choice. And, he was sure it was a two-way street, even if the swordsman was more circumspect with his emotions. Aramis wore his heart on his sleeve. Athos kept his behind a stout wall. But it was a strong heart despite Athos' attempts to stifle it. It beat powerfully and radiated love that eked its way through the minuscule cracks in Athos' carefully crafted prison; cracks that Aramis was determined to widen to allow more of that beautiful energy to escape and make the world a better place. Aramis knew he had a long road ahead of him, but he didn't care. He liked a challenge.