Many thanks to all for continuing to read and review. Thanks to Doubtful Guest and those who I cannot thank personally.
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Chapter Eighteen
Three days later saw Athos propped carefully on a bank of pillows.
Aramis had earlier snipped through the stitches in his earlobe and been gratified to see that it had healed well. Now, Aramis was once again working warmed oil into the tight muscles of his shoulders.
"You'll be able to hold a sword soon enough," Aramis said, as he worked.
"I cannot even hold a fork," Athos grunted through gritted teeth.
He looked across at Aramis, who shrugged in sympathy.
"Although, I have known Porthos wield a fork as a weapon," Athos conceded, as he closed his eyes and Aramis laughed.
d'Artagnan carefully wrapped a cold cloth around Athos's still-swollen knee, avoiding the bandage on his thigh. As he did so, Athos emitted a contented sigh. After a few moments, he opened his eyes and, at the sight of him looking at them, Aramis and d'Artagnan paused.
"Don't stop," Athos said, softly.
Aramis looked at d'Artagnan and smiled.
"Carry on, while he is compliant," he said.
"Who knows how long it will last?" d'Artagnan agreed, as he bent his head and continued to wrap Athos's knee, before wiping his hands on a towel he had placed on the bed.
Just then, Porthos came in, carrying clean sheets.
He waved a pillowcase at Athos.
"From Madame Crecy*" he said, giving Athos a knowing look and a wink. "Special delivery," he added, as he put it at the foot of the bed. Athos gave him a soft smile and close his eyes once more, going back to enjoying their ministrations.
"She said don't get oil on it," Porthos said, tapping his hand on Aramis's head.
"How did she know I was using oil?" Aramis said, looking up.
"Beats me," Porthos grunted, before tossing d'Artagnan a fresh roll of bandages. "For you."
"How did she know I was wrapping his knee?" d'Artagnan asked, as Porthos dropped the sheets onto the cupboard top in the corner and began opening drawers.
"Don't question it," Athos murmured. "Or she will know."
He opened an eye and squinted at them, and they all laughed.
They passed a quiet few moments, each bent on their individual tasks.
"You don't mind missing the trial?" Aramis then asked Athos, bringing them back down to earth. It was scheduled for two days time.
"No," Athos murmured. "I have given Treville my account. I have no desire to look upon their faces again."
"Well," Aramis concluded, "Rest assured we three will be going. To ensure justice is served."
"I don't doubt it will be," Athos replied. "I expect a full report on your return," he added as he sank back into the pillows and closed his eyes.
Porthos grunted. It was understandable that Athos would not wish to see the Vachon's faces again. He also doubted that his brother would wish the Vachons to see him in his current state, though he did not voice it.
"Oh," Porthos suddenly said, remembering an earlier message. "The Cap'n wants to see me."
"About what?" Aramis asked, pausing to look at him with a raised eyebrow.
"No idea," Porthos replied, shrugging his shoulders. "But I better get a move on. He's not been in a good mood lately."
Porthos strode from the room, as the others exchanged looks.
"Think he's in trouble?" Aramis asked, silently running through a list of possible misdemeanours in his head.
"If he is, we'll know soon enough. The stables don't clean themselves," d'Artagnan laughed, as they heard the outer door bang shut.
As it turned out, Porthos had done nothing wrong. Treville had a job him.
Now, as Porthos stood before his desk, Treville reached for a missive on his desk.
"I received a message this morning from the owner of the Flagon Noir tavern," he said.
Treville looked up briefly, waiting for Porthos to confirm he knew the tavern in question as the scene of the Vachon's arrest.
"It seems," he said, as Porthos, who was standing in front of him, hands braced in his belt, nodded. "Some of the Silas's old comrades have returned to the village. Word of his passing has reached them, wherever they have been. And also, of the arrest of their tormentors."
"And they know the Vachon brothers are due to stand trial?" Porthos asked.
"They do," Treville replied. "That is why I want you to return. See if you can persuade one or two to return with you and attend the trial. Their word will be invaluable."
"You think it's needed?" Porthos growled. "Haven't they done enough to be sentenced?"
"Let's make sure, Porthos," Treville replied. "As it stands, they are accused of assault on one of the King's Musketeers and destruction of property and crops. The rest is hearsay. There are no witnesses to their most nefarious crimes. Testimony of the kind that those villagers can give will, as I say, be invaluable. And also, a deterrent, should others try and mimic their brutality. It has gone quiet of late, but we don't want a repeat of such actions. The King will want justice, but he will also want to be seen to be on the side of the common people. The Cardinal will endorse that. So, let us not take any chances. For Athos's sake, and for that of Silas Marchant."
Their King could be capricious, but in matters such as this and with the added weight of Cardinal Richelieu's counsel, and now hopefully with testimony from some of the villagers, the outcome did not look positive for Athos's captors.
"Take the cart, Porthos," Treville said. "Return it to the village. It is their property. If they are willing to return with you, you will have the means to transport them. And they can then return the same way. We will, of course, escort them safely home. Ensure that they know that.
"In the meantime," Treville continued, "I will ensure there are lodgings near the Justice Court. They can enjoy what Paris has to offer for a few days. I am sure the King would be amenable to providing a little largesse in the circumstances. Hopefully, we will have a good outcome at the trial and the sentence will be carried out the next day. If they do not wish to stay and watch the sentence being carried out, they do not need to."
Porthos did a quick calculation. It had taken them two hours to return to Paris from Silas's village, at a slow pace. He could be back by nightfall if he left at once. However, if he was to prevail upon traumatised people to return with him and face their assailants, he would need to take a few offerings with him.
"If I can persuade some of them to come back with me," Porthos said, not wishing to dampen his Captain's opptimism.
"I have every faith in you," Treville replied. "They may be old, but if they have half the mettle that Silas had, they will want to see justice done. We owe them the opportunity."
Porthos took his leave and went straight to the stables, where the cart had been stored.
Some of the Musketeers had taken it upon themselves to repair and maintain it. The axles were freshly greased and iron strips had been hammered into place along the wheel rims. A few loose planks had been nailed back in place and the woodwork was oiled.
He stood and admired it, remembering the state it had been in when he had first discovered it. Running his fingers along the sides, he hummed in satisfaction. His comrades had done a good job. Walking over to his horse, he stroked his muzzle.
"I'm gonna ask this of you just one last time," he whispered. "I know it's demeanin', but I can't do this without you. Extra hay for you when we get back, yeah?"
The horse nickered, and Porthos turned, so see Jacques smirking in the doorway.
Porthos allowed a smile to pull at his lips. "Horse," he said to the boy, "Cart," he pointed. "Get them ready, and I'll be back within the hour."
"Yes, Porthos," Jacques said, running across to the tack, hanging at the back of the stables.
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After a brief explanation to Aramis, Porthos set off with d'Artagnan on a quick shopping expedition. An hour later, when he pulled out of the Garrison, the cart held a wooden crate with six hens, a separate crate with a cockerel and a third with a pair of geese. Also onboard were two sacks of grain and a sack of seed. d'Artagnan had said if the villagers were returning, they would need to sow winter crops soon.
"See you later," d'Artagnan said, as he slapped Porthos's horse on the rump.
The horse shook his mane and moved smartly off through the archway under Porthos's guidance. If the horse felt demeaned, he didn't show it.
d'Artagnan watched as the cart disappeared along the street, before turning and heading back to the Infirmary.
Above him, Treville watched from his balcony, satisfied that Porthos had his mission firmly in hand.
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Porthos made good headway and covered the ground a little more quickly than when he had an injured friend in the back, and had been wary of every bump and dip in the road. The cart was in much better shape this time, and the weather was good. Soon enough, after only one brief stop to check the cart and water his horse, the first building came into view.
It was a strange feeling returning and Porthos steeled himself for his eventual first sight of the barn.
However, he had not gone far along the village track when ahead he saw an old man and an old woman, standing in front of what must have been their house. The man had got the door open, and the woman was sitting on the step, her head in her hands, weeping.
At the sound of the cart, they looked up sharply and watched him suspiciously.
Porthos steadily pulled his horse and cart to a standstill and raised a gloved hand in greeting. Pointing at his pauldron, he smiled, trying to look as friendly as he could. But these people were frightened, he could see.
"Porthos," he called. "Of the King's Musketeers."
The man came out from the doorway and Porthos could see he was limping badly. He turned and picked up a crutch that was standing against one of the posts holding the roof up.
"Here to talk about Silas," Porthos added, looking in concern at their frightened faces.
At that, the woman wiped her face on her apron and stood.
"Silas is dead," she whispered.
"I know," Porthos nodded. "And your village is ruined. By the Vachon brothers."
The old man spat on the ground.
"We are seeking justice for him," Porthos pressed on, dropping the reins and jumping down.
"You can help, if you want to," he added.
"Of course we want to!" the old man replied. "But how? Look around you, Musketeer. We have to start again. And without Silas, I don't know where to begin."
Porthos had been under strict instructions from Treville not to mention the cache currently buried in the barn. The Captain was still searching the archives for more information, and until such time, it would remain undiscovered. Silas had obviously not wanted the villagers to know about it, in case is sewed resentment. Such things could. He must have had managed it very carefully.
"The Musketeers will help you," Porthos confirmed, waving at the cart. "I've brought provisions. How many are there of you?"
The old man and woman went over to the cart, their eyes alighting on the birds and the sacks.
"There is more where that came from," Porthos added. "But we ask one thing of you."
The old man looked at him, but there was now determination in his eyes.
"There are six of us. What is it you ask of us?" he asked, putting his arm around his wife.
And so, Porthos told them.
To be continued …
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A/N: *Madame Crecy first appeared in Chapter 40 of "Infirmary Talks," another of my stories. She is the Garrison's formidable Laundress, with a particular soft spot for The Inseparables.