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CHAPTER 61
Athos was angry.
He stared hard at the closed door for several minutes after Carveau had left him, knowing that the man was going directly to the Captain before heading back to his royal patient at the Louvre and that the recommendation would be to confine him to the infirmary for a longer period. The only outward signs that the Musketeer was anything but calm were the twitching in his facial muscles, the handful of bedding screwed up in a clenched fist and the deep breaths as he fought to control his warring emotions.
At least four more days in bed! The very idea was preposterous. There were only five full days remaining before most of the regiment departed for Versailles and he was determined to be amongst them, so it was impossible for him to be lying in the infirmary for four of them.
Why was he so incensed? Was it merely because of Carveau's unrealistic instruction or because the physician was correct regarding how he was really feeling? He knew that it was early days in his recovery and just how ill he had been in the wake of his injury and the inappropriate treatment at the hands of the inexperienced lay brothers, but now he was sleeping naturally, and eating and drinking more of what was set before him to build his stamina. The best test of his strength was to be on his feet, moving around – albeit gently at first – and attempting to wield a sword. His right side was dominant but the wound to the left would affect his balance, impede his movement and slow his reactions. He seldom considered himself the best swordsman in the regiment or beyond, but the accolade had originated from those who had seen him in action. Very well then! If he were the best, then the Captain deserved to have him present at Versailles.
But then another thought, unbidden, rose to the surface despite his best efforts to suppress it.
There was unfinished business with L'Hernault. The man would be at Versailles and their paths would unavoidably cross once more. L'Hernault had already proven that time had not diminished the animosity he felt towards Athos when he sent the three murderers in pursuit of the individual he only knew as the Comte de la Fère; it had not mattered for years that the original argument was between their fathers. L'Hernault was determined to don the mantle of revenge abandoned on his father's death.
When he had lain in the darkness, eyes closed as he feigned sleep, Athos had begun to remember the events surrounding the meeting near Troyes and what had later transpired. There was no doubt that L'Hernault had recognised him; his startled expression as he looked at Athos across the crowded room spoke volumes, but that surprise had quickly given way to a dark fury. As soon as the meeting was concluded, L'Hernault attempted to thread his way through those gathered to reach Athos but he was too late; the Musketeer had already slipped away.
There was no time lost in sending men in pursuit and such was their confidence in their task and the assumption that they had the superiority of numbers over a lone nobleman, they were careless. Athos was aware of their presence before night fell that day. He tested his suspicion two or three times the next morning, altering his direction for no apparent reason, but instead of riding nonchalantly past, they likewise changed their route and kept up their dogged pursuit. For more than two days, he attempted to throw them off and each time he thought he had been successful, they appeared again in the distance. They rode hard, pushing him and his exhausted horse to the limit so that they began gaining ground. He was forced to weigh up his options. If he continued as he was, his faithful mount would drop dead beneath him, and the terrain was such that it afforded him no adequate place of concealment.
He had no choice but to turn and fight on his own terms. So he stood waiting for them, quite literally. His horse grazed freely behind him as, with a pistol in each hand and his sword and main gauche lying at his feet, he watched them ride up until he gauged that they were within range. When they realised that he was so well-armed, it was too late for them to run. They shouted in alarm, but his first shot found its mark and one of his would-be attackers immediately jerked backwards over the rump of his horse and hit the ground with a dull thud. The second was saved as his startled horse shied so that Athos' precious final shot only grazed his shoulder.
As they dismounted to face him, Athos threw the brace of pistols aside and snatched up his other weapons. The men bore down upon him, one of them emitting an enraged roar, but he was ready for them, shutting out the extraneous noise and totally focusing upon the dangerous encounter.
They were better than he anticipated - for that he had to give them credit - but they were no match for him in the end, despite their attempts to out-manoeuvre him. He cleanly ran one through with the rapier and temporarily threw off the other with an elbow to the throat. He staggered away gagging and Athos inhaled a rasping breath even as instinct warned him of a new danger. He wheeled around. Too late. The man he had shot had come to his senses and, despite his mortal wound, had lurched to his feet to exact a final revenge.
Pain erupted in Athos' unguarded left side as a blade sliced through his flesh and he reeled backwards, desperate to increase distance between the two of them to give himself time to prepare for another attack but, the deed done, his assailant sank to his knees, blood bubbling on his lips and pitched forward, never to move again.
His body afire with agony and his peripheral vision already darkening, he knew there was still one man to dispatch so, chest heaving, he turned back, almost unbalancing himself with the speed in his injured state.
The third man was almost upon him and it was instinct once more that saved him. With a guttural scream of defiance, he stabbed the man in the stomach.
He did not recall collapsing, nor did he have any idea as to how long he lay unconscious in the dirt, but he stirred at a nudging to his shoulder and the huff of warm breath upon his face.
Forcing his eyes to open and then focus, he found himself staring up into the face of his horse. To him, the stallion looked somewhat confused. Trying to roll on his good side to push himself first to his knees and from there to his feet, Athos gave a laugh that bordered on the hysterical and which then metamorphosed into a sob as the pain threatened to overwhelm him once more.
After that moment, events became confused, disjointed. He had no recollection of arriving at the monastic building nor of the lay brothers themselves. There were unpleasant, brief memories of extreme pain, feeling as though he was burning up, weakly fighting against some foul liquid being forced between his lips and vomiting again and again, long past the time when he had anything left in his stomach. After that, there was nothing but merciful darkness until he awoke in the infirmary. Of his brothers finding him, caring for him and the journey back to Paris in the bed of a cart, there was nothing and Aramis had only seen fit to furnish him with a skeletal outline.
The creaking door to the infirmary opened, interrupting Athos reflections. It was Serge, bearing a loaded supper tray.
"Mutton stew," the old cook announced as he set down the tray and picked up two bowls. "An' if you've no objection, I thought as how I'd sit 'ere an' eat me own. Keep you company, like."