Morning, the sun is shining, the sky is a sort of blue, there's a light breeze and it is spring. (Aiming on being positive here! Lol)

Every so often, you get one of those chapters that seems really straight forward when planned and then is the devil to write. This was the one and even now I'm not sure why I made such a mess of it. This is its third rewrite so I hope this one hits the mark!

Anyway, many thanks for the comments on the last chapter and ongoing support.

CHAPTER 73

I

Athos awoke slowly and lay still, staring upwards as his eyes focused on the roof of the tent. Instinctively, he knew that something was not right.

His hand hovered over his bandaged side but as long as he did not move his body, there was no pain, not even a dull ache. He slowly turned his head and surveyed the rest of the tent, judging from the dim light and the direction the tent faced that it must be very late in the afternoon, if not early evening. Everything was as it was when Aramis insisted that he rest. Things were untidy for the others had not had the time to sort things and stow their belongings and equipment properly. He wondered where they were and then he recalled them saying they were joining the Captain on a visit to the supportive nobles. They were not yet back then.

Sounds of activity outside reached him: men's voices in conversation, their words indistinct; someone's name bellowed across a distance and an indistinct reply; a burst of laughter and the clatter of pans so that he wondered how far they were from where Serge was positioned. His stomach suddenly rumbled at the thought of food; he had not eaten much all day, especially on the journey for the rolling and juddering action of the cart had made him feel nauseous. Most of the way, he had wished that he had been on horseback as that movement was familiar and enjoyable.

He gazed at the tent flaps, caught in a gentle breeze. Had the others left them untied? He had no way of knowing for he was asleep before they departed. His mouth felt dry; no doubt Aramis had given him something to assist in his rest! He knew, though, that some water would have been left within reach. He was correct; it was there on the upturned box by his side, along with the small bottle of whatever it was he had been given.

Carefully, he sat up and swung his legs slowly over the side of the cot. As he sat groggily on its edge he reached for the water and stopped, his hand mid-air. The bottle was un-stoppered and yet he could see that it still contained liquid, its level evident through the opaque glass. Aramis was never careless about medicines. It was a lengthy process in its preparation, even for the simplest of remedies. Other medication, procured from a physician or apothecary, was expensive and would lose its efficacy if left open to the elements. No, Aramis would not have left the bottle open.

He frowned, his unease growing and yet he could not explain it; he continued to pour himself some water. He would stopper the bottle afterwards.

As he lifted the cup to his lips, he suddenly smelt it – the faintest hint of a floral perfume on the air. It was enough for his breathing to become erratic, his heart to pound faster as memories flooded back. The cup fell from his clasp, its contents soaking into the ground as he lurched to his feet and stumbled from the tent.

Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan saw him suddenly emerge and bend.

"He sick?" Porthos frowned.

Aramis raised a hand to halt his brothers. "Don't know. Wait here."

He strode across the grass to where Athos stood, hands on knees, eyes closed and breathing hard.

"What's wrong?" Aramis asked softly, a hand on his friend's back.

Athos straightened, still taking deep breaths. "Felt sick. It has passed."

"So what brought that on?"

Athos, his face haunted, looked anywhere but straight at him. Porthos and d'Artagnan, ignoring Aramis' instruction, tentatively approached in time to hear Athos' words.

"I thought … it was … in the tent … perfume … I don't believe in ghosts," he whispered, still agitated.

Aramis glanced at Porthos who, understanding the look, disappeared into the tent as Aramis prompted Athos to explain further.

Porthos re-emerged and shook his head.

Aramis studied Athos carefully and, from the broken details he was hearing, hazarded a guess.

"The scent reminded you of the woman from the past? The one you loved and who died?"

The answer came in the form of a deep, shuddering breath and a nod.

The marksman sighed. "You must have been dreaming; you could do without such thoughts when you are not strong. Come," and he took Athos' arm, "let's go back into the tent."

But Athos shook off his hand. "How was there such a reminder? I did not imagine it. I smelled it! But she's dead. How can that be?"

II

There was no adequate answer, no explanation so simple that would placate Athos who remained distracted throughout the evening, picking at the food Serge had prepared for the men.

At some point, eager to escape the cloying atmosphere of the feast within the lodge itself, Tréville made his excuses and slipped away. He had been truthful when he said he was going to check with those on duty and to see that his men were settled. He also needed to have a brief meeting with the Captain of the Red Guard. Damn it! Why could he never remember the man's name? What was it telling him about his attitude towards Richelieu's regiment?

Stopping by the Inseparables' tent was last on his list. They were seated around a small campfire in front of it when he approached, and he immediately sensed the tension within the group. After a few strained pleasantries, he let Aramis lead him away.

"What's happened?" he asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

Aramis sighed and gave a brief account of what had happened when they returned to Athos.

"Did you see any signs of a woman around the camp?" Tréville wanted to know. "Did you ask questions of any of the men in the camp?"

"Of course not. He'd been in a deep sleep; I made sure of that. He was dreaming or having a nightmare, nothing more."

But Tréville did not seem convinced.

"You surely don't believe that there really was a woman in his tent?" Aramis asked incredulously, but the Captain did not answer. The younger man's eyes widened in shock as realisation dawned. "You said there might be another attack on Athos. Is this woman possibly in the employment of the man who recognised him as a Musketeer and spy? She must have been tasked with trying to kill him because she could move around, pretending to be a camp follower." His shock turned to horror and guilt at what might have been. "And I gave him something to make him sleep. He was alone and unable to defend himself! I could have got him killed!"

"You were not to know, and it didn't happen, thank God!"

"Perhaps his waking frightened off whoever it was. Supposing he had not stirred!"

"You must not think of it this way, but we cannot let this happen again." Tréville was filled with self-recrimination and lecturing himself rather than the Musketeer who stood beside him.

Now Aramis was angry. "Do you know who recognised him? Who is this man?"

But Tréville, fighting to suppress his own burgeoning fury and suspicions, would not answer. "I have to see the Cardinal. Do not leave Athos alone!"

III

"It is late, and I was on the point of retiring, Tréville." Richelieu sounded bored. He was seated in a lavishly tapestried chair and sipping at a glass of deep red wine. "What is it that is so important that it cannot wait until the morning?"

"She's here, isn't she?" the Captain demanded. "Your spy, assassin or whatever it is you call her!"

Richelieu frowned, his face darkening. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do!" Tréville spat out. "I have no proof, but you would have made sure of that. I don't know what the reason is behind all this but call her off, Richelieu. Tell her to stay away from my lieutenant."

He turned abruptly on his heels and headed to the door. Opening it with a little more force than he intended, he looked back at the glowering Cardinal.

"If anything happens to Athos, I will hold you personally responsible."

IV

It was later, much later, when the camp grew quiet and men settled for the night. Aramis, on the cot opposite Athos, reached to extinguish the tallow candle on the box between them and spied the open bottle of medication. His brow furrowed for he never left a bottle open to allow its contents to spoil and he could see by the flickering candle flame that this was far from empty. In fact, he had deliberately taken up a new one from supplies to have at hand for Athos. Had the injured man woken in pain and swallowed some more? It was highly unlikely.

Then snippets of Athos' garbled, broken sentences from earlier came to mind. Aramis had spent time trying to extract a coherent story from Athos, but he had been too disturbed. Now, though, Aramis recalled the disjointed comment about the medicine bottle, proof enough for Athos' disordered mind that someone had entered the tent.

Aramis' blood ran cold. He had tried to calm Athos, excusing the wild ramblings as the aftermath of a vivid nightmare or the remains of his drug-induced state, although Aramis had never known the sedative to have this effect on anyone before.

Had someone been in the tent during their absence? If so, the purpose could not have been a good one and Tréville seemed to have taken Athos' claims seriously. What was going on here? What did he and his brothers not know? What was Tréville – or Athos- not telling them?

Unsheathing his dagger from where he had placed it by the cot, he slipped it under his pillow, lay down on his side facing his brother and resolved to watch him through the night.

His intentions were well-meant, but his weary body harboured other ideas and it was not long before his eyes closed too.