Okay, this chapter's slightly longer as I HAD to get to THAT certain point!
I realised I could not keep you in suspense for a few more days.
I just hope that posting within 24 hours will not confuse you.
CHAPTER 39
The friends walked through into the courtyard leading their horses as they heard the great doors being shut and barred behind them. A fourth man emerged from a darkened doorway and scuttled to join the other three lay brothers, the four of them standing close together as if in a show of unity against the soldiers.
"This is Porthos and this is d'Artagnan." Aramis introduced his companions, indicating them in turn and conscious of keeping his voice even. "And you are?"
He looked directly at the man who had admitted them and quickly assessed him. Straight-backed and the tallest of the four, he exuded an air of defiance.
"I am Bartholomew," he said sternly and went on to name those with him.
Theodore was the old man who had first come to the door. Wizened and bowed at the shoulders, he had seen at least seventy summers, or so Aramis gauged, but the lines that marked the corners of his eyes and mouth suggested a warmth of character and a wisdom garnered during a long life.
Anselm was of indeterminate age and could have fallen anywhere between forty and sixty. His face was hard, his eyes narrowed with suspicion and his mouth set in a grim line. Periodically, he opened it as if about to speak but seemed to think better of it and snapped it shut again.
The youngest was Robert but even he was older than the Musketeers. In the torch light, his face was sickly and clammy and he wrung his hands nervously as his eyes darted from the newcomers to Bartholomew and back again.
"We thank you for your hospitality and apologise for disturbing you at such a late hour," Aramis continued, maintaining a pleasant tone and delivering Porthos a deliberate smile for the big Musketeer was noticeably impatient.
"We will prepare some food for you," Bartholomew said, "but no doubt you wish to stable your horses …"
His voice trailed off as he seemed to see the fourth horse for the first time.
"Robert will help you," he added weakly, his eyes fixed upon the extra animal.
Aramis and Porthos turned to their mounts as if to unbuckle the bags attached to their saddles. D'Artagnan began to do the same.
"He's recognised Athos' horse," Porthos whispered.
"I know," Aramis replied softly, and their eyes met. "I hate lies, especially when they're told by someone within a religious house. It's about time we had some straight answers."
It was another one of those moments when they knew instinctively what to do so that d'Artagnan was left standing in mute surprise.
The Musketeers whirled around as one, drawing pistols from belts or from the holsters on the front of their saddles so that they had the four lay brothers covered between them.
"Stand perfectly still, gentlemen," Aramis ordered, as the four seemed to consider doing the exact opposite, but they rapidly complied, hands held aloft.
"I repeat, we are not here to harm you," the Musketeer insisted, his eyes and voice cold, all semblance of former friendliness a mere memory, "but we will have the truth."
When he had their attention, he hooked his brace of pistols through his belt and took a step forwards, knowing that Porthos was alert to their every move. In his peripheral vision, he saw that, belatedly, d'Artagnan also had a pistol trained on the lay brothers.
"I know you recognise our brother's horse. He arrived here the night before last and I believe he was wounded. Georges Dupuis told us that you gave him the horse to sell. Why? What has happened to Athos?"
His voice cracked under the strain of needing to know the worst. "Why do you say he is not here? He would not have left without the stallion. For pity's sake, if he has died in your care, then tell us. Do not lie to us and have us go on our way to continue our search in vain."
The lay brothers all looked to Bartholomew, ready to follow his lead but he appeared indecisive.
It was Theodore who broke the silence with a sad smile and indicated a door to the left of the main building. "Come, I will take you to him."
"Be quiet, you stupid man," Bartholomew spat out. What was it? Anger or panic?
"Enough, Bartholomew," Theodore said firmly. "We prayed that he would not be alone, unmissed by anyone. These men are his friends, his brothers-in-arms. They have a right to know."
"Know what?" Aramis asked, carefully watching the exchange between the two men.
It was as if Theodore had not heard him.
"We did our best for him. You did your best, but we all knew we did not have the necessary skills, that he needed more than we could give him."
Aramis felt sick. What did they mean? What were they talking about? The use of the past tense had not escaped him. Was he too late? Had Athos succumbed to his injuries, whatever they were?
"Enough!" he ordered, more brusquely than he intended. "Take me to him now."
"I will show you our infirmary," said Theodore, leading the way. He kept up a defensive commentary as they walked, as if engaged in casual conversation.
"The sick of the village come to us and we try to help them as best we can. Of course, we do not have the extensive learning of Brother Luke, God rest his soul, but Bartholomew assisted him in the infirmary and learned much although, it seems, not enough for your friend's needs. He saw the Brother do many wonderful things and constantly reads his notes. He referred to them when your friend arrived."
They had reached the door to the infirmary and Theodore held it open, his expression apologetic as he repeated, "Bartholomew did his best."
In the infirmary, six beds were set against each of the long walls and three were occupied, the invalids spread out to afford some privacy.
Porthos sprinted down the room that was sparingly lit by candles and looked at the patients. "He's not here!" he called out desperately.
Aramis looked down on the old man.
"Where is he?" he whispered.
Theodore sighed and walked to a door set in the right-hand wall.
"We call it the dying room," he said gently.
Aramis swallowed hard and watched his hand reaching for the latch as if it were not a part of his arm. This was the moment between the not knowing and the knowing; for now, he existed in ignorant dread but with the opening of the door, there would come either the realisation of his worst fears, when his world would fall apart, or the granting of a brief period of relief and hope.
Resolved, he pushed open the door and took a step, gagging at the stench within.
"Athos!" he moaned and heard Porthos and d'Artagnan break into a run.