A/N: A longer chapter today, as we catch up with events in the barn ...

oOo

Chapter Six

It wasn't the isolation that gnawed at Athos. He had always been comfortable with his own company, to a point. It was the inactivity, the sheer boredom. The inability to plan, for he had seen no opening that he could exploit without putting the old man in danger. The fact that Silas had withstood the onslaught of these three as his village had been slowly decimated, had spoken of a bravery and a single-mindedness that Athos appreciated.

More than anything, he wished to relieve Silas of his shackles at their hands, and so he held his tongue.

When they shouted in his face, he turned it away. When they ate their food sitting on the floor in front of him, he ignored his griping belly. When they threw water on him, he welcomed it. When the two youngest sat cross-legged across from him and made sport of throwing stones at him, he ducked his head to avoid injury to his eyes and face and gritted his teeth as the sharp stones bit into his scalp and his neck.

He could not afford to lose his temper and yet, his silence infuriated them. The only saving grace was their drunkenness which made their wits dull and made them tire easily.

So far, he had withstood them, but he knew it would not last as, from his own experience with drunkenness, anger was never far from the surface but it did not mean he would not take any opportunity he could to defend himself, rather than attack.

But he knew that things did not always go to plan in such circumstances.

He could get a little sleep by drawing his knees up in order to rest his head. The rope between his wrists behind the post was long enough to lay on his side. Had they tied his wrists together, he would not have been unable to move at all. Perhaps they wanted him to try and retaliate, but it was more likely they did it so they could manhandle him to his feet and when he fell, he would still be tethered. They were taking no chances. He had given up trying to free himself, rubbing the skin on his wrists raw.

Tethered as he was, they could taunt him too; holding out a piece of food, usually bread, only to withdraw it when he finally reached for it. He had eventually stopped reaching.

Once, Raymond had stood in front of him, eating a freshly roasted rabbit leg, the smell of which had driven him half mad. Smiling, Raymond had reached out and run his thumb roughly over Athos's bottom lip. Athos had pulled his head away, but the lingering faint taste was not unwelcome. Raymond had then run the now-picked bone down his cheek before laughing when Athos closed his eyes. Raymond turned away then, tossing the bone behind him, where Athos could see it. Stripped bare of meat as it was, it made his empty stomach twist.

The heat was oppressive during the day; his shirt adhering to his back and he sat hunched forward for much of the afternoon, welcoming the cooler temperature of the evening. His bones were stiffening though through lack of use, even though he tried to flex his muscles as much as possible. A weakness was spreading through him and his throat was dust dry for most of the day. As much as he welcomed Silas, the fear was that one time, he would not come, and so he made himself accept that early on. Every visit from him was a bonus.

The anger he tried so hard to suppress was simmering in his blood. If it came to it, he would fight them and probably die in the act, but that was infinitely preferable to meeting his death tied to a post.

The only time Athos saw daylight was when he was taken outside to relieve himself, which wasn't often, given that they gave him little water and only the odd hunk of bread. Athos ate very slowly and with apparent little interest, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of appearing needy, when his belly screamed for him to shove it down as fast as he could.

At such times, there were two pistols trained on him; Henri's and Phillipe's, as he made his way under the trees. On this occasion, he found a stone and, as his hands were free, he wrapped it in his fist.

When they ordered him back, he stepped through the undergrowth and when Phillipe got too close and prodded him in the back with his pistol, Athos promptly whirled around, knocking the pistol from his hand and throwing a punch at him. His stone-enclosed fist provided enough force to knock Phillipe off his feet, leaving him sprawled on the ground, rubbing his face. However, while Athos was catching his breath, Henri stepped swiftly forward from behind and threw a choke-hold on him, cutting off his air.

When the two brothers dragged him senseless back into the barn, Raymond took one look at his brother's bruised cheekbone and laughed, rubbing his hands together.

"Oh, he's a dangerous one, lads," he laughed, "We are going to have to be careful with this one."

When Athos opened his eyes, he was slumped at the base of the post, tied once more. He didn't appear to have any more injuries but he knew they would not be so careless in future. It had been worth it though, and for his part, caution in these circumstances was not a word he recognised. It was merely a line in the sand that he would measure, and shift when he could.

Now feeling a movement next to him, Athos flinched, but the old man placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and he opened his eyes and studied him for a few moments.

Silas had a shock of white hair. Despite his infirmity, his back was straight. He had no beard, being neatly shaved. He wore a thin scarf tied around his neck, despite the season. His clothes were clean and his boots were in good order. Athos had wondered how he coped with only one arm, but it did not seem to hinder him. His eyes were the brightest blue and he had a self-contained manner about him. Even at their first meeting, when Silas had spoken to Raymond the morning he had arrived, he had shown no fear, just a pragmatic attitude that even Raymond did not seem to take offence to. He had no doubt though, that Raymond would not hesitate to kill the old man should he see fit; Athos had seen evidence of it that had led to him giving himself into Raymond's hands, but Silas seemed to know his boundaries with the three. That was a comfort of sorts. You didn't live to such an old age without being able to take care of yourself, he thought.

Silas was obviously used to the three men's ways. By his calculation, and from what Silas had said, they had come to the village after Christmas time. It was now August, the crops had died, and the villagers had gone. All except this one. It still puzzled Athos as to why Silas remained.

"You should not risk yourself by coming," Athos said, his voice dry. Silas always gave him water and the small amount of food he managed to carry upon his person.

"You said you were going to Paris, Monsieur Athos," Silas was saying now, ignoring Athos's entreaty. "Where had you come from?"

Athos thought. His memory was vague. His head throbbed and he felt a wave of nausea at the effort of trying to remember. Flashes of a large house, a lake …

He frowned in confusion.

Silas waited, watching.

This was the fourth of his furtive visits. The second time, he found Athos soaked to the skin. He had no doubt that they had thrown water on him to revive him at some point. The heat in the barn was oppressive, and his clothes would soon dry. Had it been winter, he would surely die.

Each time Silas came, Athos was hurt a little more. A cut here, a bruise there. The brothers were obviously taking their time with him. So far, Silas's visits had gone undetected. They watched him as he moved around the village and the track, but did not touch him. Perhaps they enjoyed his agitation at being unable to help. Silas for his part, kept under cover as much as he could. His cottage in the abandoned village had become a refuge over the months, but the gnawing pain he felt at the brother's recent cruel actions within his barn had made him bolder and all the more determined to bring Athos whatever comfort he could.

Each time the Vachons returned, they lashed out at Athos. It had become their slow game. Crippled as he was, all the old man could do was try and keep the Musketeer alive until help came.

The trouble was, he didn't know where that rescue would come from, or when. If indeed, it came at all.

Now, he gently prompted the confused, injured man;

"Monsieur Athos. Where had you come from?" he repeated, gently.

Athos opened his good eye.

"I don't remember," he finally admitted.

"It doesn't matter," Silas said again, and Athos nodded, glad to forget but comforted by the old man's visit. Silas's visits were always quick, by necessity. He had started to quietly appear when the thugs had gone and he always brought something.

"Here," he whispered now, holding something to Athos's mouth.

Warily, Athos raised his head, as the old man tapped his lips with whatever he held.

"Cheese," the old man said, "Just a little, to keep up your strength. But there is more, if you can keep it down."

Stains in the earth to the side of him suggested that some of his other offerings had not stayed in his stomach. A punch in the gut would do that, the old man thought sadly.

Athos opened his mouth and felt his bruised lip pull as he accepted the morsel. He was seated, having slipped down the post after Raymond had delivered his parting gift, a punch to his ribs. Thereafter, breathing had been somewhat harder.

Athos chewed carefully. It tasted good and he held it in his mouth, relishing the flavour. The inside of his mouth was swollen from an earlier punch to his cheek, delivered by the smaller of Raymond's brothers. A brave move, as his opponent was tied up. A fact Athos had quickly pointed out to him that morning, which earned him another punch.

Athos finally swallowed, and grimaced.

"Can you feel my ribs?" he asked through clenched teeth. "Tell me if they are broken?"

Silas hesitated to touch him. He was bruised and bleeding, but if it helped Athos to know, he would do it. He felt terrible that he could not help further, but if Raymond knew he was trying to ease Athos's way, they would both be killed. Looking quickly behind him at the doors, expecting to see Raymond at any moment, he placed a hand on Athos's side and ran it carefully along his chest, old fingers probing.

"It doesn't seem so," Silas finally said, relief evident in his voice. "But there may be one or two that are cracked."

"As long as they are not broken," Athos sighed, dropping his head back against the post, he squinted at Silas through his good eye.

"What a pair we are," he murmured, a faint smile on his lips.

"Do you have family?" Silas hesitated, not wishing to pry.

Again, Athos struggled to reply.

The old man put his hand gently on his shoulder and squeezed.

"It doesn't matter," he said, kindly.

"Brothers," Athos said, as a face came to him, quickly followed by another. Brown eyes shining at him. "I have brothers," he murmured, his head dropping once more.

"Then, you are blessed," the man said, a smile in his voice.

Athos did not reply. Right now, he felt anything but blessed.

Silas broke off another piece of the soft cheese and lifted it to Athos's lips, before breaking into a chuckle, when it was accepted. A chuckle which ended in a rattling cough.

"Are you ill?" Athos asked, when Silas had got his breath back.

"Just old, my friend," Silas sighed. "Just old."

Athos hummed;

"It comes to us all," he said, closing his eyes.

Silas nodded. "Well, you have a long way to go to catch me, Monsieur."

He pulled a water skin from his shoulder, where he had slung it earlier, before setting out to the barn. Holding it up, he tipped it and let Athos take a long drink. He did not know when he would be able to come back and any spillage would dry quickly in the heat.

Athos shifted and emitted a pained groan, and Silas was suddenly reluctant to leave him.

"The year was 1589," Silas suddenly said. "The year I lost my arm. The old King triumphed at Arques, as you will know."

Athos raised his head and caught the look in the old man's eye.

"So I understand," he answered, through gritted teeth.

"I imagine you were a studious boy who liked to read about that kind of thing," Silas continued.

Athos closed his eyes, pain etched on his face, but Silas could tell he was listening, as he smiled faintly. A boyhood memory had in fact flared in Athos's mind. A distant memory of sitting in the orchard, his back to an old apple tree, reading an account of the battle, given to him by his father.

"We were south east of Dieppe," Silas was saying.

"In the Arque river valley," Athos nodded, eyes still closed.

"That's it," Silas encouraged.

"The Duke of Mayenne was on his way?" Athos continued.

"Charles of Lorraine, yes. The oppressor, coming from the east," Silas said, now lost in the memory. "But King Henry, he knew Mayenne would have to cross the Eauline river and then the Bethune to reach the road to Dieppe. Henry decided to defend the river crossing at Arques. We were outnumbered but we had the guns of the castle to support us. Those cannons were in a good position, overlooking the valley."

When he stopped, Athos shifted, and opened his eyes.

"Carry on," he murmured.

"Well," Silas continued, "Mayenne attacked, sure enough, in a thick fog, no less. He had German mercenaries with him, who would pretend to desert. It was a good tactic. Henry had Swiss guard with him and they did fall for it and the Maladerie, part of our defence lines that ran near a leprosy hospital - a strategic building in the valley - was taken. Henry's regiments joined the Swiss guard to restore the situation. And then, Athos," Silas said, his eyes twinkling, "the fog lifted. And the guns started up again, right into Mayenne's advancing forces. The Maladerie was recaptured and Mayenne was defeated. By then, though, I'd already had this shot off," he said, lifting his stump. "Later, I heard that reinforcements started to arrive, sent to Henry by sea from Good Queen Bess of England. So that made old Henry bold and he attempted a second siege of Paris, but Mayenne came back to defend the city.

I missed that," Silas finished. "The after effects of the amputation to tidy this up," he added, soberly,"finished my soldiering, as you can imagine. Though they were grateful, my mates."

"In what way?" Athos asked, curious at his choice of words.

Silas looked back at the doors of the barn.

"I will tell you later," he said.

And with that, he gave Athos a final drink and rose unsteadily to his feet.

"I have to go," he said then. "I will try and come back later, when they sleep."

"Silas," Athos murmured, shaking his hair from his eyes, "Thank you."

"Try to hold on," the old man said, sadly. "Your brothers will come for you."

With that, he slung the water skin back on his shoulder and turned to make his way out. He had taken Athos's mind off his pain for a few moments, but the situation remained grim.

Athos opened his good eye and watched his retreating back, catching a glimpse of the early morning sun, before the door closed and he was lost in shadows again.

To be continued …

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A/N: For those who are interested:

For this story, I assumed that Athos was thirty three years old and therefore born in 1597 as the series was set in 1630. Silas was eighty in 1630, therefore he was born in 1550 and was thirty nine when he lost his arm at Arques. He had, therefore lived with only one arm for forty one years.

The Battle of Arques occurred on 15-19 September 1589 between the French royal forces of Henry IV of France (Louis's father) and troops of the Catholic League during the eighth and final war of the French Wars of Religion (1585-1598).