In which, Porthos finally plucks up the courage to meet the Comte de la Fere, the Comte learns what has happened to Valois and a plan is hatched.
oOo
CHAPTER SEVEN
The man Porthos knew as Athos was sitting on the side of the bed, tentatively. As if he had never encountered such a structure before. He was supporting his arm, held now in a sling. He looked up at Porthos and momentarily froze, before rising, unsteadily.
"Monsieur?" he said, his voice clipped, but oh, so familiar.
Not a shade of recognition passed across his features.
Porthos put the tray down and swallowed, before turning, and freezing.
"What can I do for you?" the man said, gently, aware of the awkwardness in the man's demeanour.
Porthos swallowed.
He looked like Athos. He sounded like Athos. But there it ended.
To his credit, Porthos thought, the Comte did not look flustered. It was a sign perhaps, as Aramis had said, that Athos's non-judgement had been present in the noble he was before his wife had brought his world crashing down.
But then, he spoke again, and Porthos tensed.
"You are a Musketeer?" the Comte asked. Porthos froze, clenching his teeth, ready for a disparaging comment from the noble in front of him.
"Just like any other," he replied gruffly, squaring his shoulders. "What of it?"
"Athos" held his glare.
"Aramis explained that much of your daily work can be quite boring, and that can sometimes be relieved when you have missions, and vital information to transfer around the region?"
Porthos did not reply, his mind whirling. It was not what he had thought.
"I was just wondering," the man added, mildly, "I was wondering if you could spare some time to explain the running of the regiment to me?"
Porthos blinked at him, his heart suddenly punching a hole in his chest.
"Me?" he asked.
"Who better?" the Comte said, the familiar eyebrow raised.
Porthos slowly nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I can do that."
"Excellent! Thank you, I am grateful," the Comte said. "And thank you for the food," he added. "Outside your remit, I would presume?"
Porthos nearly smiled.
"Just helpin' out," he said, turning to go, before he said something he regretted. Before he begged Athos to remember him. To remember them.
When Porthos left the room, he bumped into Aramis, though he suspected his friend of hovering.
"What is it?" Aramis asked at the confused look on his friend's face.
"He asked me to explain the regiment to him. The workin' and such."
Aramis reached up and patted his shoulder.
"That's good, isn't it?" he enquired, gently.
"It means he's not Athos," Porthos grunted, before looking up and meeting his friend's gaze. "But he's not a stuck-up noble either," he added.
Aramis smiled.
"I would imagine the qualities of our dear Athos, inbred in him as a first born son, remain," he replied. "He has never shown prejudice."
"So ..." Porthos said, quietly.
"What?"
"If we don't get 'im back, he's not such a bad person to 'ave around?"
Aramis smiled a sad smile.
"If we don't get him back and he decides to stay with us, Porthos, it would mean re-learning everything. Why would he want to do that?"
"He needs to get his memory back," Porthos growled, realising the impossibility of what he wanted, walking away quickly.
"Yes," Aramis said, watching his retreating back, "He does."
oOo
Later that day, d'Artagnan watched the men train, lost in thought.
He had come a long way under Athos's tutelage. One day, he would best him. It wasn't the desire to beat Athos, just a feeling that it was an inevitability. He knew that Athos would not ever let him win under false pretences and when it finally happened, it would be on his own merit. That drove them both on, he knew.
Athos wanted him to be as high a standard as he could achieve, in order to stay alive. Athos was generous in that desire and one day he knew he would make his mentor proud. Or so he had thought. Now, he was not so sure. He had watched Athos carefully but saw no sign of his brother-Musketeer in the man residing in the Infirmary. Apart from his voice, though that had changed a little. And he smiled more. He seemed relaxed, despite his injuries. He was a little easier to talk to than Athos had been in the beginning. He had wondered if he would ever have a conversation with Athos in the early days. It had been gradual and that had made it a stronger bond between them. Athos had not wanted him to go under cover to snare Vadim. He had said as much, but had relented. That had been a turning point. He had listened and given ground. Truth be told, he had wanted to prove his worth to Athos and that had never changed. He had no desire to take his place today on the training ground. He knew Aramis or Porthos would eventually pull him to his feet and haul him across but they were pre-occupied themselves at the moment and Treville was distracted and bad tempered.
So he continued to sit and brood and wish for the stranger in the Infirmary to return to him.
Across the yard, a cry went up and someone landed in the dust. There were cheers, but not from d'Artagnan, who was hardly aware.
oOo
"He speaks differently," Porthos said, later as they all sat together in the yard.
"There is a precision to it," Aramis agreed.
"Like when Athos got mad, he spoke real slow and clearly," Porthos added.
"Very clearly," d'Artagnan added his own comment, on the receiving end of many of Athos's precise comments when they were training.
"That's right," Porthos said. "That man in there, is Athos with the rough edges squared off."
"I don't think Athos had … has ...any "rough edges," my friend," Aramis said, with a smile.
"Maybe Athos has just relaxed around us, over time," d'Artagnan said.
"Well, now he speaks like a Comte," Porthos persisted, miserably.
"He is a Comte," Aramis said. "Perhaps you should get used to it."
"He will come back, though?" d'Artagnan said, looking at Porthos, who nodded;
"If we have anythin' to do with it, he will," he replied.
"I think he was far happier with us than at Pinon," Aramis agreed.
"I want 'im back," Porthos said, staring miserably across the yard.
"I know," Aramis replied, softly. "We all do."
oOo
"I do not understand why I do not have my possessions," the Comte said, later. "I do not understand any of this," he added, his fingers running lightly over the scar on his shoulder.
Aramis and Porthos looked at each other.
"I mean," the Comte continued, "If I was travelling from Pinon to Paris, I would have my clothes, and whatever papers I was carrying for whatever business I was attending to," he said, looking confused.
"Stolen, perhaps," Porthos said. "Paris can be a dangerous place."
"And where is Valois?" the Comte puzzled, reaching up and rubbing his head.
The side of his head felt a little rough; a patch of skin that had been damaged some time ago, burned, almost, but had healed. He had no memory of such an injury.
"It is a mystery I must solve. The man is a liability."
"Well," Aramis said, attempting to steer him away from his increasing agitation, "Doctor's orders, you must rest. You have a concussion."
"Hmm, so you say," the Comte said. "I need my clothes, gentlemen," he added, for the first time, giving them the glare they had come to accept from their friend.
oOo
What a position they were all in.
It seemed that lying to Athos would become an art form in the coming days, if they were to get him through this. If he were to discover what had happened to his home and his family, they feared a return to the dark days of their first acquaintance.
Worse was to come. Later that day, Aramis came out of the Infirmary and dropped down on to the bench where the others were. He scrubbed his hands over his face dejectedly.
"What is it?" Porthos asked.
Aramis sighed, dropping his hands from his hair but keeping then over his mouth as he thought.
"The Comte wishes to send a message to Pinon to tell his brother that he has been detained in Paris."
"Ah," d'Artagnan said.
"Well, that's alright," Porthos said, after a few moments.
"How is it alright?" Aramis asked. "That world no longer exists."
"We tell him we've had word. His valet has gone back to Pinon. Seein' he was in good hands, in the care of the King's physician, no less, he felt it incumbent on him to return and inform his family that he would be a week or two in Paris while he recovers."
Aramis broke into a small smile. "And we will send word when he is ready to return?"
"Yeah," Porthos smiled.
"What do we do with him in the meantime?" d'Artagnan asked.
"We instruct him in our savage ways, of course," Aramis replied.
"Say what?" Porthos asked.
"We show him around, gentlemen." Aramis said. "It may jog that memory of his."
The three of them smiled.
"That's a plan," Porthos grinned, raising his cup. "He said he wants to learn more about the regiment."
They all chinked, feeling better than they had for days.
"Incumbent?" Aramis said, then, raising his eyebrows at Porthos's use of the word.
"Athos taught me that," Porthos said, shyly, before breaking out into a grin. It was a joy for his friends to see.
"He has taught us many things, in his own quiet way," Aramis sighed, a little whistfully, before suddenly frowning.
"But what are we going to do about clothes for him?" he said.
"I have an idea," d'Artagnan smiled.
oOo
"Truth be told," the Comte said, when Aramis told him that Valois had returned to Pinon, "I am glad of a little space between us."
"Servants make you uncomfortable?" Aramis said brightly.
His friend raised his eyes to look at him.
"How perceptive of you," he murmured.
"It's a gift," Aramis returned.
"I brought you some books," he said then. "They belong to a brother Musketeer." he added, softly. "The Captain said you like military history."
He placed three of Athos's books tentatively on the bed. Two were on military campaigns and one was a book on Greek poetry, borrowed from his room. Athos had marked some of the passages and had scribbled in the margins on some pages; a fact Aramis did not think would go amiss in their quest to stir their brother's memories.
The Comte frowned when he held each up to read the title. He then looked up and met Aramis's careful gaze with a question in his eyes.
"Our brother is very cultured," Aramis said, softly, by way of explanation.
"I would like to meet him."
"He is away at the moment."
"That is a pity."
"Yes," Aramis whispered. "A great pity."
oOo
Laying one of the books on his lap that night, Olivier thought of Pinon and of his tenants.
They needed no instruction on how to work the fields, but if there was a problem, would Thomas deal with it adequately? He had a short attention span when it came to responsibility. That had always fallen on Olivier's shoulders. He had long ago resigned himself to his fate, setting his books carefully on his shelf in his bedchamber to escape to when the weight of responsibility was too heavy. His thoughts should be of his estate, but somehow, they were not. They were caught up in this new, strange world of clashing steel and musket shots as the men trained.
Aramis had a scar on his forehead and Porthos was equally marked, though more severely. He felt that Porthos was particularly wary around him and could only assume it was because their lives were so different.
He would make a point of learning more about Porthos. If he himself had any qualities, it was his ability to learn, and he would learn about Porthos. Perhaps of all the Musketeers, this man could teach him the most, not only about the regiment, but about life outside the constraints of his own pampered life. For compared to this man, he had led a very privileged life. He hoped he would have time, for one day he would have to make his way home to Pinon; to duty and responsibility.
Somehow, he felt oddly disturbed by that.
To be continued ...