CHAPTER 13
Aramis and Porthos woke up to find their friend gone, though they were not unduly alarmed for they were used to his solitary ways. They hoped, over time, he might try seeking solace from them when he had nightmares. Yes, they heard Athos' restless struggles at night, but they tried to pretend they didn't so as not to embarrass him. Only a few times, when he had thrashed so hard caught in the throes of a nightmare that they feared he'd harm himself, had they intervened and it was never a good day after that occurred. Athos would coolly, but politely, thank them for their 'assistance' then either disappear or, if on the road, remain silent and aloof for the rest of the day. The only thing he didn't do, if they were on a mission, was turn to the bottle. They didn't know it, but Athos had made a promise to Captain Treville not to be drunk on duty and to date, despite Roudon's accusations, he had managed to keep that promise.
As Aramis stretched his limbs in bed, Porthos rose and walked across the room to where Athos' weapons belt lay hanging over the chair. Picking it up, he rattled it with annoyance. "Remind me to lecture him on always taking his weapons with him. Even if it is just to take a piss. We always need to be prepared."
With a final pop of his shoulder joint, which had been abused over the years, Aramis concluded his stretches. "He's new. He'll learn."
"Well, let's hope he learns before he gets killed," Porthos grumbled as he dropped the belt back on the chair. "I'd hate to break in anyone new."
"Please. No jokes like that. What we have now, it is like we were born to belong, like God made us to be together," Aramis waxed a bit mystical, causing Porthos to grin before turning serious.
"I don't know about the God part, but Athos does fit in with our fighting style remarkably well. At the battle, he did good. He was there when he was needed, but not underfoot. He held his own."
"He did do well, but it doesn't mean he is used to it, or the aftermath. I think that is why the Captain sent us on this mission. To give Athos some time away from the regiment, with us, to help him understand what he is feeling is normal," Aramis said thoughtfully, as slipped his shirt over his muscle-hardened chest.
"Yeah, well if Treville wanted a peaceful trip, he shouldn't have put Roudon in charge," Porthos groused. "Doesn't the Captain realize that man is an ass?"
Slipping on his pants, Aramis considered the question. "I believe Captain Treville is familiar with all his men's peculiarities, including Roudon's."
"Then why'd he put that jackass in charge? Instead of you?" Porthos continued to complain as he assembled his own attire.
"For one, Roudon does have seniority. And perhaps this is a test for us. A good soldier has to be able to work through any difficult situation."
"No. This is some sort of punishment for something we done. That's what I think," Porthos declared firmly as he buttoned up his shirt.
Aramis walked over and looked at himself in the mirror then straightened his clothes ever so slightly. "We do tend to vex the Captain at times, so you may be right."
"Of course, I am," Porthos declared with conviction. "If you are done primping over there can we go see if there is any food been laid out. I need a hearty meal in my stomach to put up with the likes of Lieutenant Roudon all day."
After a final adjustment, Aramis turned away from the mirror to head for the door. "I would think the Lieutenant would make you sick to your stomach."
Porthos shook his head before explaining his logic. "Nah, being hungry makes me sick to my stomach. And irritable. I need patience to deal with him and food to be patient!"
As they headed for the staircase that led downstairs, they came across Jourdain who was also up and about. "You're up early," the Comte observed.
"Not too early for breakfast?" Porthos queried in a hopeful tone.
"I'm sure Martha has something prepared," Jourdain assured him. "She knows I am often up early with the horses." At the bottom of the staircase they turned right and headed towards the dining room. "Where is your third?"
"Athos?" Porthos replied as they rounded the corner. A smile spread across his face when he saw the table full of food in the dining room.
"Athos," Jourdain repeated, as is he were trying out the name. "Yes, Athos."
"He is an even earlier riser on occasion. I'm sure he simply went to the stable to check on Roger's fetlock. Was it very swollen?" Aramis asked as Jourdain handed him an empty plate from the stack on the buffet.
"Swollen?" Jourdain echoed, as if he had no idea as to what Aramis was referring.
"Roger's fetlock? His horse, Roger. Athos indicated it was swollen last night. I thought you and he went to examine it," Aramis stated, a note of doubt creeping into his voice.
Cursing himself, Jourdain took a moment to gather his wits by handing a plate to Porthos before answering. "Pardon, I had forgotten the name of the horse," the Comte lied smoothly, hoping his excuse seemed realistic. Jourdain picked up his own plate, walked over to the food and put his back to the musketeers as he filled it. "The horse's leg was fine. No swelling. No heat. Nothing to worry about," he replied casually over his shoulder.
Porthos and Aramis gave each other a questioning look, then shrugged it off and filled their own plates. As they sat to eat, Roudon, Pierre and Francis joined them, filling their own plates before taking a seat at the long table.
"Unless I have forgotten how to count, aren't we one musketeer short? Did Athos oversleep?" Roudon asked in a tone that could only be called insinuating.
Porthos started to open his mouth to give an angry retort, but Aramis shoved a roll smeared with jelly at his face, effectively cutting him off. "You must try this jelly, Porthos. It is delicious."
Porthos glared at Aramis as he wiped jelly out of his beard. He couldn't help but think there were better methods Aramis could have employed if he wanted him to remain quiet. However, the jelly was delicious, as claimed, so he quickly forgot his irritation and enjoyed the roll.
"As for Athos, he is in the barn. Checking on the horses. Making sure they are fit for the journey. He is very conscientious that way," Aramis charitably offered up to their leader who simply scowled at the remark.
Suddenly, the sound of multiple hooves could be heard in the yard in front of the house. "I wonder who that could be this early?" Jourdain questioned curiously as he rose from his chair and moved towards his front door.
Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance, something tickling their well-honed intuition. They rose, hands on their weapons, and followed behind Jourdain. Roudon, Francis and Pierre merely glanced up from their plates, but didn't bother to stir from their chairs.
When Jourdain got to the large oak door, he flung it open and stepped out on the porch into the morning sunlight before the musketeers could warn him to be cautious. He strode down the steps and watched as strangers on horseback advanced towards him. The riders had their guns drawn and the sound of a shot rang out. Jourdain yelped in pain as a bullet tore into his leg causing him to collapse onto the ground.
Upon hearing the musket fire, Porthos and Aramis rushed forward, pistols drawn, though they were careful to stay away from the open door. Porthos gestured to a window to the right of the door and they both crouched under the sill before cautiously rising to peer out the pane to see what was happening outside.
"Twenty men, I'd gauge," Aramis said softly to Porthos, who nodded his head. By now, Roudon, Francis and Pierre were on the move, stirred by the sound of the gunshot.
"What is going on?" Roudon demanded as he drew close to the window, crouching next to Aramis.
"Comte Vergy has been shot. By those men out there," Aramis answered as he risked another peek out the window. A handful of the men had dismounted and were advancing towards the downed man while others disappeared towards the barn.
"Why did they shoot him?" Roudon asked, as if he believed Aramis should have a ready answer.
"I have no idea and I don't think it prudent to walk out there and ask them in case they aren't done shooting yet," the marksman snidely retorted.
Outside, the leader of the horsemen, who had dismounted, walked up on the man on the ground. "My name is Anton," he said in a polite tone. "Are you the owner of this estate?"
"I am," Jourdain answered, holding onto his bleeding leg and doing his best to not sound as scared as he was feeling.
"Then it is good that you are not yet dead." Anton said with a Spanish accent as he aimed his pistol at Jourdain's forehead. "If you wish to stay that way, you will do as I say." Raising his voice a little, he addressed the open door of the house. "Those of you in the house. If you want him to stay alive, you too will cooperate."
As Anton spoke, soldiers, whom the musketeers had not noticed, had circled the house, entered through the back-kitchen door, stepped into the foyer, and were now aiming their weapons at the backs of the five musketeers crouching by the windows.
Anton gestured for four more of his men to enter the house. With pistols drawn, the soldiers entered through the open front door. "Place your weapons on the floor," one of them harshly demanded, menacingly waving his gun at them. The five musketeers stood and slowly complied, placing their swords, daggers and pistols on the stone floor then taking a step back away from the piles.
Gesturing for one of his men to take over his position holding a gun to Jourdain's head, the Spanish Captain Anton walked across the yard, mounted the porch and then stepped into the house to survey the scene.
"There doesn't need to be bloodshed here today if you do exactly as you are told." Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and his voice grew harder. "What do we have here?" Anton questioned staring at the pauldrons on the musketeers' shoulders. "King's musketeers, I do believe." This situation had suddenly gotten a lot more interesting to the Spanish captain of the raiding party. Perhaps there was more than horses to be had here today. A chance for him to earn glory in the eyes of his superiors.
Roudon authoritatively took a step forward to haughtily address the Spaniard. "We are indeed musketeers. In the name of the King, I order you to drop your weapons and surrender immediately."
Anton paused for a moment, as if he were actually considering the idea, then offered up a lazy smile. "I don't recognize the authority of your King." With a command to his men outside, he had Jourdain dragged into the foyer. "This is very simple. You will cooperate, or he will die, then you will die."
Even though he was bristling, Roudon saw no other option than to cooperate. "We understand and will cooperate."
"Isn't that called aiding and abetting the enemy?" Porthos whispered to Aramis. Aramis cocked an eyebrow but remained silent when the Spanish captain's eyes focused on them for a moment before looking away.
Anton spoke to his own men in Spanish and a number began to disperse, some outside and some into the bowels of the house. "They are rounding up your servants," Anton addressed the wounded Comte. "And will confine them for their safety."
A few seconds later, men carrying ropes entered through the open front doorway. One of them went into the dining room, then came back out. After a hushed conversation, Anton spoke once more, addressing the musketeers. "You will move into the dining room, each choose a chair, sit and be as still as a statue while my men tie you up."
Jourdain was hauled into the dining room by the soldiers and they began to secure him to a chair.
"His leg wound. Let me examine it before you tie him up," Aramis pleaded when he saw Jourdain's blood-soaked pants leg.
Anton walked over to Jourdain, whipped out his dagger and silt the Comte's pants leg up to the knee. Pulling the material to the side, he exposed the bullet wound in Jourdain's calf. "See. The ball went through the leg. No need for worry." Dropping the bloody material, he wiped his gloved finger-tips on the tablecloth where they had just been eating leaving red streaks behind. Gesturing, he commanded his men to finish their work.
While the musketeers were being tied up, Anton walked down the length of the table contemplatively studying the food until he came to the plate of pastries, where he stopped and chose one. After taking a bite, he chewed with a thoughtful look on his face before swallowing. "You French are lousy soldiers, but good cooks. This is one thing we might keep, after we conquer your country."
Porthos glared at the Spanish captain and looked like he was going to offer up an opinion, but Aramis made a slight noise and the streetfighter, reluctantly, remained quiet. Aggravating the enemy would do no good at this point.
By the time that Jourdain and the five musketeers had been secured to their respective chairs, the Spaniards that had been sent to round up the servants returned. One of them whispered in Anton's ear and the man turned to Jourdain and inquired, "How many servants attend the household?"
"In the house? Six," the Comte promptly replied.
"And in the barns?"
"Ten."
Anton looked at the men who had secured the household staff and they nodded, indicating they had found all six servants.
"Felipe, go see how many servants they have found outside. Make sure all ten have been located and secured."
Aramis and Porthos eagerly were watching for avenues of escape, but none were presenting themselves that would not risk everyone's lives. They also knew that Athos was still unaccounted for, which was an advantage for their side though they realized one man against twenty wasn't the best odds.
After what seemed like an eternity, Felipe returned and after another quick consultation with Anton, he stepped back and waited. Jourdain looked up as Anton approached him once more. "It would appear we have secured all your servants," Anton announced with a grin of satisfaction.
"What do you want?" Aramis asked, even though he had an inkling of an idea given the business of the estate.
Anton walked over to the window to observe how the preparations outside were proceeding before announcing, "I am here to take your stallions for the glory of Spain."