CHAPTER 17

Less than fifteen minutes after they had left Comte Vergy's estate, Athos regained consciousness, though his head ached abominably and when he tried to remember what had happened, his mind remained stubbornly blank. It concerned him that he couldn't recall how he had been rendered unconscious. Unfortunately, Athos remembered exactly who Anton was, that part of his memory was still intact. But on other things his mind remained mulishly fuzzy.

It was an odd feeling to wake and find oneself on a moving horse. Once, when he had been injured, he had woken riding double with Porthos, the strong man's arms holding him securely in place. But Athos could never recall waking up alone on a horse. The ropes that they used to secure him to his horse and saddle were tight enough that he was in no danger of falling off. Still, it was an unsettling experience.

Thinking about his experiences on horseback under odd conditions, his mind wandered back to one of the riding instructors he had as a young man. Jacob. The man had been a soldier, an officer, who had been wounded severely enough to end his career. However, his injuries did not affect his ability to ride and teach, something at which the officer excelled. Athos' father had hired him to work with his sons, figuring an ex-solider, especially an officer, would instill discipline in his sons. Olivier and Thomas had both learned to become accomplished horsemen under Jacob's tutelage, but it was the older brother who had surpassed the instructor's expectations. Jacob found the elder son was a naturally gifted horseman and had pushed Olivier harder, challenging him and watching the boy flourish.

Their lessons began to branch out from horsemanship also to the art of soldiering, which the Comte de la Fére had tolerated until it became clear his oldest son had become too enamored with the subject to the determent of his other studies. The father and son had fought, though it was a one-sided battle as the boy Olivier had no power, and the instructor was sent packing without so much as a reference for his next position.

Recently, Athos the musketeer had come across his old riding instructor in Paris. Athos didn't know his ex-instructor's life story since he was fired by the Comte, but it was obvious he had fallen upon hard times, at least of late. The man was serving as a stable-hand at an establishment in an unsavory section of Paris. The stable rented broken-down nags to low-income patrons who found themselves in need of transportation. Many of the renters could barely ride, though the horses were so worn down it really didn't matter. In an odd way, they suited each other.

He, Aramis and Porthos had been chasing a thief through the streets of Paris when the man had ducked into the stable, a poor choice. Aramis and Athos had followed him in the front while Porthos circled around the back. They had trapped the thief between them and after he was apprehended, Porthos dragged him back outside. As Athos was departing the stable, gazing sadly upon the condition of the horses, he had spotted Jacob in one of the stalls. Their eyes had met, but recognition was only one-sided and only because of the unique scar that marked the ex-soldier. Had it not been for the disfigurement, Athos wouldn't have recognized the man in his disheveled, beaten down state. And Jacob certainly would not recognize Athos the musketeer as the boy Olivier. Athos had continued out of the stable without stopping, but the memory of what he saw had stayed with him. And as he rode along now, he pondered once again, the fate of Jacob and his role in it. Athos knew his father had fired Jacob because of his own behavior. Had he simply been content with learning what Jacob had to offer on riding and not pestered him about soldiering, his father would not have fired the instructor. Then perhaps Jacob would not have ended up working in a dilapidated stable. The weight of another life he perceived he had ruined fell upon Athos' shoulders as they rode along

The Spaniards moved swiftly throughout the day, stopping only briefly to water and rest the horses. When they halted for breaks, Athos was left tied on his horse and by the end of the day his headache, his bladder and his thirst were competing for the top spot on his list of miseries. He still couldn't remember what happened between the time he was tied to his horse and the time he awoke. The more he tried to recall the worse his head pounded, so for the time being, he willed himself to let it go. His memory would either come back on its own, or it wouldn't, but forcing himself to try to remember was only making a bad situation worse.

That night when they stopped to set up camp, he was brutally dragged from Roger's back, landing in a heap on the ground because he didn't have time to get his numb legs and feet under him. Showing no mercy, the soldiers dragged him to a nearby tree. They untied him momentarily, letting him relieve himself, though privacy was not an option. When he was done, they secured his torso to the trunk. Then they tied his legs together. His arms were bound in front of him, but they did leave his hands and wrists with a little movement. Once he was trussed up like a pig on a spit, he was left alone.

Dinner was served to the soldiers in the camp. After the men had been fed, Anton picked up a cup of water and bowl of food and wandered over to where Athos was secured to the tree.

"So, your name is Athos?" Anton started the conversation with the musketeer, who sat there and simply stared at him, obviously not planning to reply. "Come now. You already said that was your name. It is no secret." He set the bowl and cup in Athos' line of sight, but out of reach of the musketeer, before perching on a nearby rock.

Athos remained silent, his green eyes coolly staring at the man as if he were a servant of no importance.

"So far, this is not much of a conversation, Athos. If you are civil to me, perhaps I can be civil to you. Are you hungry? Or thirsty? I have both food and water here as you can see. And to get it, you simply need to answer my questions."

Athos refused to look at the bowl and cup that the Spaniard had nudged closer to him. Instead, he shifted his gaze to the forest as if he were totally alone.

Anton drew his knife from its holder, then a whetstone from a pouch and began to sharpen the edge of his blade. "You know, Athos the musketeer, I believe my superiors will be quite pleased that not only have I returned with the stallions, but also with an enemy spy."

"I am no spy, Monsieur," Athos said drolly, finally reacting. "You kidnapped me. A citizen of France."

"Kidnapped? Trust me, my leaders will not care how you came to be in Spain, just that you are. So, let's start with an easy question, shall we? There was a battle. Not far from the border. Were you there, Athos the musketeer?"

Silently, Athos contemplated what to reveal to this man. It was going to be a fine line he walked between satisfying the Spaniard, so he kept him alive, and not providing any information of real value. Athos would die for his country, if that is what was called for, but he also wasn't averse to being alive should there be a rescue attempt. The swordsman decided there was no harm in answering this question. "I was," he stated in his usual taciturn manner.

The noise of the whetstone grinding against the edge of the steel was the only sound for a few minutes as Anton focused on the task at hand. Eventually, when one side of the blade was done, Anton raised his head and asked, "And who won?"

In a tone that suggested the question was dumb because there could only be one answer, Athos replied, "France."

"I see," Anton said evenly as he dropped his head to study his blade once more. "Pity. That will anger my superiors. It is not good when your taskmasters are upset. Did we at least kill many of your men?"

"No. Not even a handful. You had the numbers, but not," Athos made a derisive sound, "the skills, brains or talent to win."

In a flash, Athos found Anton's freshly honed blade pressed menacingly to his throat. "Do not mock Spain."

Steady as a rock, Athos sat there as if he were on a Sunday picnic, not tied to a tree with a dangerously sharp knife pressing against the tender flesh of his throat. "I don't mock, Monsieur. I am simply stating fact. You had greater numbers and yet you lost. I was merely speculating as to the causes of Spain's…failure."

Like a striking cobra, Anton rapidly slashed his blade through the musketeer's linen shirt leaving a laceration across Athos' left bicep. The swordsman's shirt grew damp from the blood welling from the gash. "Let's not speculate any more, shall we?" Anton suggested. Satisfied he had made his point, he wiped the stained blade on Athos' pants before resuming his seat and picking up the stone he had discarded. The sound of grinding filled the night once more.

"You must be very thirsty after your long ride today. Would you like this cup of water? The price is very reasonable. As a King's musketeer, you must be very familiar with the royal Palace," Anton suggested moving on to his new line of questioning.

"No. Not really. I get lost. It is a very large…confusing place," Athos said in a tone that bordered on being insolent.

"I see," Anton said in a tone that indicated he didn't. "But as a musketeer, you have met the King. Conversed with him."

"Conversed?" Athos gave a little laugh. "I don't know how the Spanish guard their King, but we are little more than statues that can move. We are ignored and certainly do not converse with the King."

"Yet you are near your King. You see and hear things. Things of importance. Tell me," Anton needled, "is he really the boy-King that they say? A child feigning to be a man. Under the thumb of the Cardinal Richelieu. A glorified puppet."

"He is King. Of France. A powerful country that thwarts Spain's invasion," Athos answered in an assured manner.

The Spaniard's face turned red, but he maintained his composure. "You have given me nothing yet to earn the water, so let's talk about the garrison. I'm sure you know about it. How many musketeers reside within its walls?" Anton queried, moving on to his new set of questions.

"Too many if you ask me," Athos declared sadly shaking his head even though it made his headache worse. "Always crowded. A man can't hear himself think."

Picking up the cup of water, the Spanish captain pressed, "How many musketeers?"

Athos shrugged, then looked away. "I am but a common soldier who was drafted into the musketeers because I am good with a sword. I can't read, write or count high enough to tell you how many men. Just…many."

Anton smiled as he brought the cup of water closer to Athos, then tipped it so it spilled onto the ground. "Please, Athos. I do not think you are as dumb as you claim to be." He tossed the cup aside and picked up his newly sharpened dagger once more.

Athos stared Anton. "Even an idiot, if raised in the right environment, can learn to appear intelligent."

Anton had the distinct feeling he'd just been insulted and he stared into those fathomless green eyes searching for duplicity, but he couldn't find it. "What of that black beast you ride? Other than his temperament, he is of very good breeding. How is it a common soldier can afford him?"

"I won him. In a card game. Though, given his temper, perhaps I was not the real winner." Again, the musketeer gave a little shrug. "But, as I have said, I am not the sharpest of blades. After all, I did get captured... by you"

Anton had the feeling he had been insulted once more. His brown eyes narrowed as he spoke. "You know what I think. Musketeer Athos? I think you are very clever indeed and are trying to play me for the fool."

"You may think what you like, Monsieur," Athos returned in a voice that clearly indicted he thought Anton was right in his assumptions. "When you take me before your superiors and claim I have all sorts of valuable intelligence, we will see who is the real fool."

"You believe you can withstand torture designed to get you to talk? Because if that is the case, then you are indeed a fool, Athos." Shoving his blade into its sheath, Anton rose and stood staring down at the trussed man. "But as you said, time will tell which one of us is the fool."

With that, Anton kicked over the bowl of food, turned on his heel and walked away. Athos wasn't sure if what he did was smart or dumb, but he did learn two things. One, he wasn't going to be let free at the border, not that he ever really believed that was true. And two, Anton was not an adversary to take lightly.