CHAPTER NINE
"You haven't touched your food," Aramis said as he quietly approached the bed that afternoon.
"My apologies. I know you are all soldiers and probably used to this fare," he replied, "But it is tasteless, and smells of nothing," he added. "No offence to your cook."
"Well, let's not tell him," Aramis said, under his breath.
He frowned though. It was odd that Serge's food would be considered tasteless, let alone with little aroma. Indeed, he could smell the roast meat from where he sat, plus the stewed apple that he had seen Serge lovingly prepare early that morning certainly smelled enticing to him.
He picked up the untouched plate and held it under his nose for a few moments.
"I think this is due to your head injury, my friend," he said. "I have seen it before. Sense of taste and smell temporarily lost." Hopefully temporarily, he thought.
"Really?" his patient said. "Then I regret my words, Aramis," he said, contrite.
The use of his name brought a lump to Aramis's throat and the fact that this was another thing for Athos to deal with.
"Temporary, you say?" he was saying now.
"I believe so, but I will ask Dr Lemay," he replied. "He is due to visit you later today."
oOo
"I would suggest you carry on as normal," the Doctor said later. "By all means with food that is stronger in flavour than you would normally eat."
"We'll get Serge on it," Porthos said, with a grin.
It did not hamper Athos that he had lost those senses, but it worried his three friends. Aramis knew that certain smells brought memories to the fore and if Athos did not have that ability, he could not access memories that may help him recover his memory.
Serge it seemed, enjoyed the challenge and spent the rest of the day experimenting.
oOo
The following day later found the Comte in his bed wear sandwiched between Porthos and d'Artagnan at a table in the larger room.
"What are we doing?" he asked, politely, looking around at the otherwise empty room.
"Well, since you cast aspersions on our cook, we are going to see what Serge has that you find acceptable," d'Artagnan said, a glint in his eye.
"That is not what I meant," their friend protested, a look of horror on his face. "I meant no disrespect, you have all been more than kind."
"See," Porthos said, "The lad is pullin' your leg. Aramis said you can't taste anythin', so we are goin' to see if we can help.
The Comte relaxed a little but looked dubious.
"What is your favourite food?" d'Artagnan ventured.
The Comte frowned.
"I don't know. I do not remember," he said, the crease in his brow deepening as he looked at them.
"It's alright," Porthos said, seeing the accompanying look that crossed his brother's face.
"It's probably temporary," he added, quickly, exchanging a look with d'Artagnan.
Athos had never had any great enthusiasm for food, seeing it merely as fuel, so this was perhaps a futile plan, but they were willing to do anything to help their friend. And as Aramis had said that morning, who knew what it might trigger?
Porthos had often wondered why Athos had no love of food. He would have been no stranger to any manner of fine food. Perphaps that was it; too much of a good thing. Perhaps he had grown bored with it all, he thought, though he could not imagine ever being bored with food himself. More likely, Athos had seen it for what it was, excess.
Just then, Serge came through with a tray and put it down on the table in front of Athos.
"Sweetest and sourest," he said, looking at Porthos, who nodded, and pulled the tray forward.
On the tray there were several bowls.
Porthos picked one up and smelled it as Athos looked on. He put the bowl in front of his friend and handed him a fork.
"What is it?" the Comte asked, reluctantly.
"That's beef in garlic," the old soldier replied. "Lots of garlic."
They waited while the fork was tentatively raised.
"Anything?" d'Artagnan asked, as the Comte chewed.
"Nothing," he replied, before looking at them sheepishly. "Apologies."
"Try this one," Porthos said, pulling another bowl across. This one looked the same as the last one but had a lot of red peppers in it and Porthos could definitely smell ginger and at least one of the spices to be found on the market stalls outside the Garrison. It made d'Artagnan's eyes water, as the Comte raised the fork once more.
"That made my lips sting," he stated, wrinkling his nose and reaching for the wine, though that too, tasted like water.
"What did it taste like?" Porthos asked, hopefully.
"I imagine," the Comte replied, slowly - "My saddle?"
Porthos stared at him for a moment, before slapping his friend on the back and laughing. He pulled his hand back quickly when he remembered he was being familiar with the Comte, but the man only smiled in amusement.
"That's not workin,' is it?" Porthos said, pulling one of the other bowls forward.
"That one is flavoured with sour apple," Serge said, arms crossed. He had picked the crab apples himself that morning. He'd never tasted such sour fruit. "Don't eat a lot, or your guts will suffer," he added, his lip curling.
The sour apple flavoured porridge went the same way as the beef, and it was now the turn of lemon posit. Alas, that too was declared tasteless.
Nothing appeared to work, each as tasteless as the last.
The Comte was beginning to look a little despondent. Over the last few days, it was dawning on him that something was very wrong. He had continued to have strange dreams that made no sense. Never a drinker, he appeared to have staggered through a few of the dreams. And always, a strange female presence lurked.
He stood, pushing the tray aside and looking at the three of them.
"My thanks, gentlemen," he finally said, "But this is pointless. I will return to my books."
"Alright," Porthos sighed. "Maybe time will take care of it, but in the meantime, you wanted to know about the regiment. So, tomorrow, we'll show you around properly.
The Comte brightened.
"I shall look forward to it," he replied with a soft smile.
At least it would get him out of the Infirmary, Porthos thought. There seemed a reluctance to explore. Either he did not want to intrude or he was content to have the time to himself. Maybe he was waiting to be shown officially. Well, tomorrow would be an interesting day for them all.
oOo
Olivier dreamed the same dream that night.
Something anchored him to it, in a world where he was currently afloat.
Try as he might, though, he could not fully remember it when he woke. Whoever drifted through this dream did so as a ghost.
The words, "I love you!" floated in the air around her.
It left him uneasy and disturbed. But then, that was his lot at the moment. Many things did not add up but he was disinclined to make sense of them. He felt strangely at peace here in the Garrison.
oOo
Treville had already organised the Garrison so that the Musketeers knew not to speak to Athos by name. He explained that Athos had lost his memory and that the matter must be handled carefully, if they are to bring him back to himself. There should be no sudden surprises, on Dr Lemay's orders. Failure to comply would lead to consequences, Treville had barked. They were to engage him in Garrison life in the hope that it would jog his memory. Treville was gratified to see that all were more than happy to comply.
"Ready?" Porthos asked, a little later as he entered the room.
His friend was standing in the middle of the room, a picture of disarray. He had managed to get one of the new shirts over his head, but as his arm was in a sling, the right sleeve hung empty as his side. Otherwise, he had had more success with the new breeches, but his feet were bare.
"I regret wishing Valois gone, now," the Comte muttered, looking somewhat embarrassed.
"He used to dress you?" Porthos said, in mock horror at the Comte's statement.
"He did not," his friend said, indignantly. "But he would have been of help with the boots," he added, staring at the boots standing side by side next to the table.
"Well," Porthos said, "You don't need the jacket. And leave the shirt as you've got it, your arm will be safer inside it. And I can 'elp you get the boots on."
"You don't have to," his friend replied, looking as though he needed all the help he could get.
"I think I do, unless you want to go out there in your bare feet," Porthos chuckled.
The Comte glared, before shaking his head and breaking into a smile.
"Not the safest thing to do, I would imagine," he muttered.
"In a number of ways, no," Porthos agreed, dropping down on one knee and reaching for one of the boots. Constance, bless her, had left a hose in each one, and Porthos carefully rolled each on to his brother's feet, before having him stretch out a leg and pulling a soft leather boot onto each. At least he looked the part of a provincial comte now, as he believed himself to be.
Standing, Porthos held out a hand. It was taken willingly and the patient was pulled to his feet.
"Ready?" Porthos asked.
Athos he looked up and smiled. Once more, Porthos swallowed at the unfamiliar sight.
"Don't you tell me I'd make a good valet," he growled.
"Really?"
"Ain't gonna happen," Porthos grunted.
The Comte cocked his head on one side as if sizing him up before smiling once more;
"Your job here is much more exciting," he replied, softly. "And much more worthwhile," he added, almost to himself.
"Yeah, well, my job will be forfeit if we don't get a move on," Porthos chuckled. He was beginning to feel a little more relaxed in the present company.
"You would not believe how ready I am to vacate this room. Even for a little while," the Comte said, his free hand reaching to support the elbow wrapped in the sling inside his shirt.
"Strict orders from Aramis, not to overdo it, yeah?" Porthos said, stepping aside to allow him to go ahead.
It was the first time Athos had left the room, the first time the Comte would see the world outside and the longest time Porthos would spend in his company.
He was to take the Comte to see their old soldier, Serge once more, as the Captain had said the Comte was interested in military history. Who else to regale him then? The Captain would take him to see the armoury and Aramis would then show him the stables.
If that did not stir any memories, Porthos thought, as they emerged into bright sunshine, they would have to think of something else. Though what, he had no idea.
Porthos looked around the yard, making eye contact with any soldier going about their business but all looked away, well prompted by Treville to act as though Athos were a visitor. Two or three Musketeers gave Porthos a slight nod to indicate that all was well, and he relaxed.
Rubbing his hands together, he turned to their patient, who was standing quietly beside him, holding his face to the sun.
"Right, you've met Serge already, but only in his capacity as cook. Time to talk to the time-served soldier. He can tell you a thing or two about battles. But don't ask 'im about Cleopatra or we'll be there all day," he added.
Laughing at the confused look on the Comte's face he led the way.
Serge wiped his hands on his apron and welcomed him into his domain. He spoke to him with respect, remembering not to use his Musketeer name; finally launching into some of his campaign tales, which his visitor appeared to enjoy as he sat for an hour listening intently. Serge was in his element, and Porthos made a mental note to keep their visit to the hour, or they would still be their at sun up.
Serge's boy then put bread and cheese on the table, and pouring wine, talk turned to laughter at some of the stranger things he and Porthos had encountered in the military, much of it revolving around the shortcomings of the generals and the doings of the ranks and file, fighters all of them but not adverse to a little bribery, corruption and pranks to see the days through.
Porthos joined in then, telling the Comte about his time in the Infantry. What a hard time it was. Porthos rubbed the skin on his face and held his hand up. "Not the same colour as everyone else." he said.
Porthos's mental clock did over run and the Comte was finally retrieved by Aramis who insisted he rest in his Infirmary room for an hour.
With Serge's and Porthos's tales swirling in his head and a full belly, and not a little wine, he was happy to lay down and close his eyes.
oOo
"My father had an armoury," he said later, as he surveyed the weapons in the building behind the stables.
"A wise precaution," Treville said, who was showing him around.
"By order of the old King," Athos added, lightly. "Though father was glad to do it."
He turned then to look at Treville.
"It still exists. I have maintained it," he said.
"Again, a wise precaution," Treville murmured.
Of course it existed still, but they had plundered it in their battle for Pinon. An event this man had no memory of, lost in the past as he was.
Treville nodded and moved on. He could not think of this man as anything other than Athos.
Every now and then, a look or a movement confirmed that this was his second in command. He could not think that he would not return to them. They were doing their utmost to prise familiar memories from him of his life with them. But of course, they were not memories to him in his current guise. They were an unknown; entirely unfamiliar and alien to him.
The Musketeers were a fairly new regiment and although the Comte, in his time, would know of their existence, Treville thought it doubtful he would ever have come into contact with any of them prior to his commission, a fact he had admitted to Aramis on their "first" meeting. No, what he was seeing and experiencing now was new. What they were experiencing too, was new and unfamiliar and they would have to learn to deal with it.
Next, it was Aramis's turn to show him the stables and the excellent horseflesh that the regiment was rightly proud of.
Walking down the central aisle of the stables, the Comte noticed the black stallion in the far stall, who had pricked up his ears and was stamping his hoof at the sight of the visitor.
Aramis watched as "Athos" wandered over, reaching up and stroking the horse's nose. The animal, unbeknown to him his own horse, instantly quietened.
"Handsome animal," he murmured, "We had one very similar when I was a young boy. They could be related," he said, looking over his shoulder at Aramis.
"What was his name?" Aramis asked, knowing full well that it was highly possible that the horse he spoke of was in Roger's bloodline. The army purchased horses from a wide range of local landowners, the old Comte de la Fere probably one of them. He could not voice it though and so kept his mouth shut.
"Marseilles," the Comte replied, breaking into Aramis's thoughts.
At the quizzical look on the Musketeer's face, the Comte smiled, running his hand down the horse's mane.
"My mother had a habit of naming the horses after places she held dear," he explained.
"Apparently," he continued, shyly, "it was where I was conceived, when my parents were en-route to Italy."
Aramis laughed at the Comte's candour.
Feeling emboldened he asked;
"And your brother's horse?"
"Carcassonne," his friend replied, straight away.
As Athos, whenever his brother was mentioned, which was infrequent, he soon changed the subject. But, of course, Aramis realised, that in the Comte's current life, his brother still not only lived, but was currently managing the family estate.
"A magical place," Aramis conceded, pulling his sad thoughts back. "Same reason?" he asked, mischievously.
The Comte huffed out a laugh.
"Quite possibly," he replied, side glancing him.
Roger continued to nuzzle his master's hand but it was time to go. The guard was changing and the men would be heading to the mess. Getting Athos back to his room would best be done before that happened, and someone could break the spell with a careless word.
Aramis had enjoyed this time with his friend. Apart from his arm, he appeared to have rallied. The head injury had settled, and all that remained was confusion, if the odd unguarded look that crossed his face was any indication.
oOo
To Oliver, the day had passed in quiet revelation.
As a Comte, his father had been required to keep an armoury at le Fere, and the young Oliver had become fascinated with the weaponry. For once, his father did not disapprove. Some of his father's retainers had been old soldiers and they had patiently and in some cases, enthusiastically, though unbeknown to the old Comte, recounted tales of battles and skirmishes to the lad, who fairly drank it in.
Now, he was in an actual Garrison. With battle-hardened soldiers.
As a lad, he had dreamed of taking a commission, but his life was one that was mapped out and impossible to escape. If anything, he was even more entrenched in the running of the estate, as Thomas had other notions of duty.
His attention was caught by some of the Musketeers who had gathered at one end of the yard and were engaged in swordplay.
From the window, he had a good view.
His young companion, d'Artagnan, was currently engaged with an older Musketeer and doing an excellent job, it seemed, of countering his strikes. He definitely had promise, though his moves were a little raw. His youth often got the better of him and he could be impetuous, which earned him a return that saw him lose balance. He would have loved to have joined them, joined in even, but that would perhaps not be welcomed. He could imagine that Aramis would be unconvinced that he was fit enough to participate. He had not mentioned to him that he could fight with both hands. Though even so, that would probably aggravate his shoulder and disturb his vision. He was not averse to being impetuous himself on occasion, as his father could have testified, but on this occasion, his common sense won out and he remained watching from the window and mentally correcting their moves.
Later, his Musketeer companions returned with food. He declined much of it but he sat by the fire with them, drinking wine.
"It must seem strange, Comte," Aramis ventured, tentatively.
"On the contrary," the Comte replied. "I found it fascinating. And, please, call me Olivier."
They were disappointed that he had said "fascinating" and not "familiar," but seeing him relaxed and content made up for their disappointment.
However, calling their brother, "Olivier" - a name they knew he disliked intensely, was a step too far.
That night, Olivier d'Athos, Comte de la Fere, dreamt of swordplay and battles, though the accompanying smell of burning and the elusive cloaked figure left him twisting in his sheets.
Fortunately, the latter was forgotten on awakening, slipping away quickly as he blinked himself awake.
Throwing aside the sheet, he tentatively rose, looking forward to what the new day would bring.
To be continued ...