Thank you for reading and leaving comments about the battle. I love how some of you have taken Grenouille to your hearts. It's easier introducing new 'baddies' to a story but to create a good character that people like seems harder somehow.
Perhaps he and Claude are from similar moulds. What has happened to him though?
CHAPTER 116
I
"He saved my life," Porthos whispered, his voice catching, his dark eyes filled with horror.
His hands were pressed down on the long tear that ran from Grenouille's left clavicle diagonally down across the sternum and was bleeding profusely.
"Aramis!" Athos shouted and then tried even louder. "Aramis!"
"He's coming," d'Artagnan said, pointing to where the field medic was running towards them, clutching a bag to his chest.
Grenouille moaned and struggled beneath the pressure of Porthos' hands.
"Try not to move," Athos ordered.
The man's bulbous eyes flickered open and he attempted to focus on Athos' face.
"Captain," he murmured in recognition, relief evident in his voice. He must have been wondering what had happened to the young man who commanded him.
"Ssshh," Athos urged. "Aramis will be here soon."
"Did we win?" Grenouille gasped.
"Did we …?" There was a ghost of a smile. "Of course we won! How could we do anything else when we had you and Porthos fighting for us? All I can say is that I am thankful I did not have to face the pair of you."
Grenouille snorted with amusement and immediately followed it with a wince. "And Porthos? Is he …?"
"I'm here an' I'm fine; thanks to you."
The injured man closed his eyes momentarily. When they opened again, it was with an effort. Excessive blood loss was claiming his hold on consciousness.
"Grenouille, stay with me. Look at me!" Athos ordered urgently.
All credit to the wounded man as he fought to obey the directive.
"Is it bad?" he wanted to know, pain distorting his features.
Athos could not tell for there was so much blood.
"I doubt it," he said dismissively, trying to hide his anxiety with a false levity. "It is one of those wounds that always manages to look worse than it really is. I get them all the time."
Porthos guffawed at the claim. "Is that right!" he demanded. "You know something, Grenouille? I reckon if Athos lost 'is leg, 'e'd get up an' hop back into battle, claimin' it was just a scratch."
Grenouille chuckled and gasped in rapid succession.
"Where the hell is Aramis?" Athos hissed over his shoulder at d'Artagnan.
"Aramis!" d'Artagnan shouted out. "Over here!" He leaned down to speak so that only Athos could hear him. "He's been stopped on the way over here. A Musketeer. Linville, I think."
Athos twisted round as far as he could to look up into d'Artagnan's face, an eyebrow raised in an unspoken question and ignoring the pain that lanced his own side at the awkward movement. The young Gascon shook his head and Athos sighed. How many good men would be lost this day?
The fingers of the weak hand that he held now squeezed his as Grenouille rode another wave of pain.
"I will be leaving you in Aramis' capable hands soon," Athos chattered on, desperately saying anything to distract the injured man.
"He's the one … who … puts you back together … all the time," Grenouille grunted.
"I would not say all the time, but he has done it … once or twice."
Porthos' mouth dropped open at what was, to him, an outright lie. "And the rest," he added.
Athos ignored him. "I can recommend his stitchwork. He uses small, delicate stitches. It will still scar but I can assure you that it will provide an admirable talking point with the ladies."
Grenouille huffed in amusement. "Don't get too many … of the ladies … these days …so if a good scar'll change that, then … I'm not … complainin'." He finished with a suppressed cry.
Athos felt a hand on his shoulder. Aramis had arrived. Releasing Grenouille's grip, Athos shuffled backwards so that Aramis could take his place.
"Now then, Grenouille," he began, all business-like. "What have you done to yourself?"
"He got it saving Porthos," d'Artagnan explained .
Aramis froze and glanced sharply at Porthos, who nodded affirmatively.
The medic flashed a warm, thankful grin. "I expect there is a good story there to be shared and I shall look forward to you telling me all about it over a drink back in Paris. Until then, we'd better do more than just patch you up, my friend."
The injured Red Guard managed a contented sigh at the unexpected recognition from the King's men who surrounded him and then his eyes slid shut.
Athos got to his feet slowly, awkwardly; the movement was that of a man far older in years but, in the aftermath of battle, an indescribable weariness was taking hold of him. If he had felt exhausted before, he could not find the words to describe what he was feeling right now but the day was far from over and there was much to be done. He would have to shoulder some of that responsibility for it could not be left entirely to Tréville.
He surveyed the site again for much had been happening in the time he had been with Grenouille.
There were so many prisoners! What were they going to do with them all? Some were obviously going to be of little or no trouble for they had been rounded up into one group and were sitting on the grass; they either wore expressions of utter horror at what they had experienced or wept openly, their terror not having had the time to abate. Some sat in mute shock, shrunken in on themselves, their shoulders rounded in humiliation.
Another group sat in sullen fury, not wanting to accept the resounding defeat they had just suffered. A third group, much smaller in number, was clearly comprised of the arrested nobles but even they were hard-pressed to maintain any dignity.
Athos could not remember seeing or hearing riders go but he presumed that either Musketeers or the mounted allies had ridden in pursuit of any rebels who had tried to escape the carnage.
The dead would have to be moved. He could not envisage the King being happy with the hunting lodge's back garden being dug up to accommodate a mass grave, especially when the bodies belonged to a troublesome faction. It went without saying that Linville and any other Musketeer who had paid the ultimate sacrifice would be taken back to Paris and the garrison, their home, there to be laid to rest with full honours in the Musketeer cemetery with their brothers who had fallen before them.
He had never stopped to wonder if the Red Guard had a similar last resting place. If not, perhaps it was something he could suggest in the final days or hours of his captaincy. He did not know when Richelieu anticipated that he stand down from the temporary command. It could be this very evening with the rebels successfully defeated or he could be expected to lead the men back to Paris and remain in position until the Cardinal appointed a permanent replacement. He felt a sudden stirring of nausea as it occurred to him that Richelieu might stall in his decision. How long might it be before he was reunited with his brothers?
Athos suddenly saw Tréville standing in an open space and supervising tasks around him. Musketeers were checking the fallen, separating and moving the dead from the injured. If there were many of the latter, Aramis and whoever could assist him were going to be exceedingly busy.
A respectful quietness had descended upon the battlefield as order was gradually restored. Even a priest of the King's household had emerged from the lodge and was wandering in search of the dying so that he could administer the last rites.
Walking towards the Musketeer Captain, Athos saw the moment that the man noticed him and raised a hand to greet him. Tréville acknowledged him with a broad grin, his relief evident that the younger man had come out of the conflict unscathed.
It all changed in an instant.
The smile froze as Tréville looked past him, at the same time reaching for his pistol.
It was warning enough as pure instinct kicked in. In one fluid movement, Athos drew his rapier and pivoted, just in time to hear a scream of rage and block the thrust of another weapon that was intended to deliver a death blow.
L'Hernault had come out of hiding.