Many thanks to Estel-Ara, Doubtful Guest and Guests who have reviewed and also to all others, who, hopefully I have been able to respond to personally.
Onward, to The Wren.
oOo
CHAPTER ELEVEN
An hour later saw them enter their usual tavern and find a quiet corner.
On the walk to The Wren, the Comte had remonstrated with them that he had no money, only to be shouted down in good humour. He was their guest, they had said and this was a favourite haunt of the regiment. All part of his "education," Porthos had laughed. Aramis and Porthos had briefly discussed the sense of bringing the Comte out into the wider world before they collected him from his room.
Normally, no-one referred to them in The Wren by name, only as Musketeers, and as the Comte was with them, any such acknowledgement would seem to him to be meant for his companions, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan. As it turned out, the only person to speak to them was the barmaid, who only had eyes for Aramis, much to the Comte's amusement. Porthos merely rolled his eyes, as d'Artagnan poured four cups of wine. This was a place where the Musketeer Athos sat in shadowy corners, minding his own business, and they were confident he would not be disturbed by anyone outside their present circle.
The Comte drank sparingly and they all soon realised that with no melancholic past, Athos's mind was free of dark thoughts and his body had not forged a path that would see a need to try to obliterate his demons with copious amounts of wine.
The food came and Athos reluctantly lifted a fork. Still unable to taste or smell, food was not enticing and only served to remind him of his lost faculties. He tucked in though, not only to show gratitude, but to appease Aramis, who was watching him carefully. However, he had expended a lot of energy during the afternoon and found he was hungry.
The meal passed in good humour.
"Do you play cards, Comte?" Porthos asked, mischievously, at one point.
"Porthos ..."Aramis warned.
"What?" Porthos said, eyes wide. "Just makin' conversation."
"May I remind you, our guest has no money for such frivolity."
"Might be frivolity to you, but it's my livelihood," Porthos grumbled.
The Comte placed his glass carefully on the table, before raising his eyes to look at Porthos.
"What did you have in mind?" he said, his tone low and clipped.
Porthos held his intense gaze, before a wide grin spread across his face and he reached into his jacket, pulling a battered deck of cards out.
Before he could shuffle them, the Comte reached out and took them from him.
"Belle, Flux et Trente-et-Un," (Best, Flush and Thirty-One), he murmured, fanning the cards out and inspecting them.
He pulled four cards from the pack and handed them back to Porthos.
"You have some extra cards in here," he said, his green gaze meeting Porthos's ever-widening ones.
Porthos reached out and took them, shoving them self consciously back into his pocket.
"Don't know 'ow that happened," he muttered, as the Comte (for this was the Comte now, Athos having retreated into the shadows) shuffled the remaining cards.
"If we play," he said, "I will give you my marker. If you trust me to make good on any debt I incur?"
"'Course," Porthos agreed, realising he was suddenly feeling quite out of his depth.
He looked across at Aramis and d'Artagnan, who were busy smirking into their glasses.
"We need three dishes. Our bets goes into each one," the Comte then said, getting down to business.
"This game," he added, succinctly, "Is in three parts."
The Comte dealt them each two cards, face down, and one card face up.
"The highest, or "Best" card wins the contents of the first dish," he said.
Porthos nodded with a smile. The smile faded when he lost. The Comte scraped the money from the dish and put it on the table in front of him.
"The winner of the second part is the one who has the highest value Flush," he said, with a smile of his face.
Porthos didn't like that smile.
Neither of them though, had a hand of three cards of the same suit, so that meant they moved onto the final game.
"Stake remains for the final part," the Comte explained, and Porthos's coins were left in the second bowl. They had agreed that the Comte would match any stake Porthos put in.
"Third part," the Comte confirmed, his eyes flicking up to meet Porthos's once more. Well, that was unnerving, Porthos thought.
"We exchange cards by turn and the first to thirty-one or as close to thirty-one as possible, wins," he said.
"Bring it on," Porthos growled, leaning forward.
Each passed a card across, as Aramis and d'Artagnan watched. After a few moments, the Comte laid his down.
"Thirty," he said, quietly.
Porthos looked at his cards, and then at his friend, and threw his cards on the table.
"You've played this before," he growled, with a sad sigh.
"Obviously," the Comte laughed, as he scooped up his winnings from the second and third dishes.
"I like that game though," Porthos brightened. "We can maybe play some more, back at the Garrison?"
"I don't see why not," the Comte smiled, as he pushed the winnings across the table toward Porthos. "I don't want your money," he said, softly.
"Nah," Porthos said, shaking his head. "You won it fair and square," he said, firmly. "Don't let it be said I'm not an honest card player."
Aramis and d'Artagnan both snorted loudly into their glasses.
"I am sure you are," the Comte smiled, knowingly, as his eyes slid over to Aramis, who shrugged his shoulders.
Porthos started to laugh, before calling the barmaid across and dropping the coins into her cupped hands.
"Two more bottles, Cherie," he boomed.
She returned in quick haste and gave Aramis a knowing smile, before returning to the bar, leaving the four men laughing and uncorking the bottles.
"You're on a promise there, my friend," Porthos laughed.
Aramis, far from feeling uncomfortable, beamed back at him.
The three found themselves casting furtive glances at their friend, who seemed to be relaxed and enjoying himself.
All thus went well, until a fracas occurred near the bar.
"Who are they?" the Comte asked about a group of soldiers who had just entered and were already harassing a patron.
"Red Guard," Porthos growled, glaring at them.
"Under whose command?" the Comte enquired, as the name was new to him.
After a shared look, a silent decision was made between his three companions. This may be another exercise in stirring his memory after all. They therefore explained they had been the Cardinal's force, and the tension between the two regiments.
"When the Cardinal died, they were leaderless," replied Aramis. "Their entry standards are somewhat below that of the Musketeers."
When Athos looked blank, before he spoke;
"That seems counter productive," he said, "And France is the loser."
Aramis leant forward and spoke in a quite voice, his eyes not straying from the rowdy Red Guard;
"The King wanted Captain Treville to take his place," he confided.
"Captain declined," Porthos added.
"The King's Council were in chaos when the Cardinal died," d'Artagnan cut in. "No one knew who was in charge."
"Still don't," Porthos growled, as he glared across at the men he loathed.
Far from any the wiser, the Comte looked totally confused. And then he said two words that pulled them all right up.
"Which Cardinal?"
After a few stunned moments, Aramis replied.
"Richelieu."
"The Foreign Minister," the Comte nodded. "I can see why he would want his own force, but not to guard the King, surely?"
Aramis cleared his throat, which was becoming tighter by the minute.
"Richelieu rose to First Minister," he replied, carefully.
"And Advisor to the King," Porthos added.
"That news has not reached Pinon," the Comte murmured, with a deepening frown on his face.
They all shared a look as they entered dangerous territory. How to explain? In Athos's new world, Richelieu was but a Cardinal. His appointment to First Minister would have occurred around the time of his brother Thomas's death. As he said, he would have known him as France's Foreign Minister, his rise to power and influence over the King still to come.
"They say he wore out his heart in the service of France," d'Artagnan added, slowly; repeating the line that Athos had actually said when they had discussed the event shortly after the Cardinal's death on-route to meet a contact who turned out to be the Comte de Rochefort.
There was no sign of recognition, as he hoped though. In fact, his face was closing off in a familiar gesture,
"And it is still chaotic," Aramis stated as they watched as the man the Red Guard were harassing began to fight back.
"I have been away from Paris for too long," the Comte said, raising his hand to rub his temple.
They shared a look over his head.
"The Cardinal was not exactly a friend of the Musketeers," Aramis whispered, wary of being overheard. "And the Red Guard are still not to be trusted."
"Too right," Porthos growled.
The bar tender called a halt to the Red Guard's rowdy behaviour and the patron retreated to the far side of the tavern.
"Time to go," Aramis said, then, eager to stop the conversation and return to the Garrison. Taking up their hats they stood and hurried their friend from the tavern. He was easily manoeuvred, his mind obviously racing.
Back in the infirmary, they parted company, Aramis walking Athos back to his bed in the infirmary.
"You have not been entirely honest with me, Aramis," the Comte said, as Aramis closed the door.
"What do you mean?" Aramis said warily.
"My memory," his friend stated, bluntly. "The Cardinal's progression from Foreign Minister to First Minister is common knowledge to you. And not recent. If the Red Guard are his creation, it has not occurred overnight. It is not the knowledge I lack. It is the memory."
He dropped his head, resting his injured arm on his lap, the other hand in his hair.
"Memories are often disrupted following a head injury," Aramis said, quietly.
"And the scars I have?" he said, lifting his head. "The dreams that haunt me?"
"I cannot say," Aramis floundered. "I am not privy to your life," he added, hating his response but wanting to end this.
"No, you are not," the Comte replied. "Perhaps it is time I returned to familiar surroundings. Perhaps it is time I returned home."
"The time is not right," Aramis countered, quickly. "I am sure all will become clear soon."
The Comte though, was silent.
In the end, Aramis conceded;
"Perhaps we can send a message to Pinon," he said. "It may take a day or so."
Another lie, but he was desperate. And Pinon was only an hour's ride away. Within one day only, Athos could find himself in a nightmare.
"I am grateful to you all," the Comte finally said, cutting off any further attempt by Aramis to placate him. "But I would like to be alone now."
The truth, Aramis knew, as he wished him good night, was that he wasn't sure that anything would "become clear soon." Even Lemay wasn't. Despite their best efforts to stir his memory, Athos had shown no recognition. It had been to no avail, apart from giving them an insight into a part of their brother's life that had been intensely private, only being laid bare recently and then, not fully.
Athos would only become more confused as time went on. He had been injured and then successfully distracted, but they would have to think of something that would bring him back soon. But he greatly feared they had exhausted all their ideas.
oOo
Finally, they admitted defeat. They feared their friend would take matters into his own hands and send a message to Valois in Pinon. Then, all would be revealed.
"There is only one thing to do," Treville said, when they were all sitting dejectedly in his office the following day.
"What?" Porthos grunted, leaning dejectedly against the wall of the Captain's office.
Treville sighed and pushed a parchment aside, before sitting back and meeting their enquiring eyes with a steel blue gaze.
"We take him to the Palace," he replied. "To meet the King."
His statement was met with stunned silence, until Porthos huffed out a breath;
"That's drastic," he said.
"It's all we have left," Treville continued. "You've said it yourselves. We have shown the Comte de la Fere everything that is familiar to Athos, with the exception of where his duty lies as a Musketeer."
After a moment, Aramis walked slowly across and stood in front of his Captain's desk.
"There may be a problem with that," he said, quietly.
"What?" Treville said, staring up at him.
"Milady de Winter," Aramis said, tersely. "The King's Mistress. And, Gentlemen, Athos's wife."
To be continued …
oOo
A/N: The card game I have described was very popular in seventeenth century France, and was a forerunner of Poker.