CHAPTER 29
The contingent of musketeers taking the Spanish prisoners back to Paris for trial was not as fortunate as the Inseparables. The wide-spread storm caught them unaware and they had no chance to seek shelter. This began a chain of events that would lead to much grief.
So far on the trip to Paris, Anton, the Spanish captain, had been a model prisoner and not because his wound was troubling him. His cause for worry more involved a rope and his neck, for there was no way he wouldn't be hanged as a bandit after he arrived in the capital. However, he had no intention of ever seeing the streets of Paris. He was simply biding his time looking for an opportunity to escape, though he realized that even if he managed to get free his future still remained dim.
For Anton, returning to his old position in Spain meant the same thing as going to Paris, death. His own government, after how badly he had botched this mission, wasn't going to allow him to remain alive any more than the King of France would for his crimes on French soil. All because of those damn musketeers. They had ruined everything, especially that arrogant Athos who had the audacity to escape and later injure him. He would love to meet up with the musketeer once more and do what he should have done from the start, kill the man.
The musketeers and their Spanish prisoners had stopped for a rest break when the leading edge of the storm hit them. The horses grew fidgety as the winds picked up and a scattered raindrop or two landed on their sweaty hides. The rumbling of the thunder in the distance added to the foreboding mood.
When they went to mount up, Anton had petitioned, really begged, that they not be tied to their horses given the coming storm and the restlessness of their mounts. DuPort listened to the plea, considered it, and was about to say no when a loud clap of thunder sent the horses into a mild panic making them hard to control and changing his mind. He acquiesced to the request and the Spanish prisoners were allowed to mount and remain unencumbered by ropes.
As they rode along, the storm grew in strength, bending tree limbs in ungodly ways and stripping leaves from the branches. The rain came pouring down next, dropping visibility to a few feet. Anton took advantage of all these distractions and kept reining back his horse further and further until he was near the edge of the procession with only one musketeer behind him.
It was Mother Nature in the end that gave him the final key to escape his captors. Lightning struck a pine tree in front of the column, causing it to burst into flames. A loud crack was followed by the tree trunk splitting and crashing down on musketeers and prisoners alike. Screams of pain from both horses and men competed with the shrieking of the wind as more trees caught on fire and began to topple. Anton and the one musketeer behind him were far enough away that they didn't get hit with the main trunk of the tree that crushed the men in front of them.
A few of the feathery boughs, set on fire by the lightening, did rain down around Anton and the lone musketeer in the rear. One flaming branch dropped on the hindquarters of the musketeer's horse causing the gelding to rear up in pain. The soldier on his back lost his balance and tumbled off the horse to the ground.
Anton didn't waste a moment thinking about anyone other than himself. He wheeled his mount around and started back up the road they'd been traveling as fast as he could push the horse. The wind and rain slapped them in the face and though the gelding was clearly unhappy, Anton, who was an accomplished rider, kept the beast in check and under control.
After a few punishing miles into the face of the storm, he came to a cliff overhang; dismounting, he led his horse underneath the sheltering rock. The respite from the storm was immediate and blessed. He and the horse stood there, dripping and exhausted as the storm raged on around them. As he stood there, soaking wet and trembling, he began plotting his next move. He wasn't going to waste this opportunity he'd been given.
The rest of the party, prisoners and musketeers alike were not so lucky. The fierce storm set off small, localized twister and what the fallen trees and flames didn't kill, the twister did. By the time all was over and the sun poked out from behind the sullen clouds, all but one musketeer had succumbed to the forces of mother nature.
-MMMM-
The Inseparables got the horses settled in the small stable, then shed the outer layer of their own soaked garments and draped them to dry over the stall walls. They had not bothered to move over to the lodge, choosing instead to stay in the stable. At the end of the building was a small living quarters, no doubt for the stable hands, with a few beds, table and chairs. There were four beds in the room, enough for each musketeer to choose his own and gratefully drop down to rest.
After a while, Aramis, always the medic, rose, retrieved his saddlebags and began cajoling Athos to take off his shirt. Athos, who was laying on his cot with his eyes firmly closed, ignored him.
"Athos. Take off your shirt so I can examine your wounds."
The beating of the rain against the stable roof was the only response Aramis received.
"Athos!" he repeated with a touch of irritation creeping into his voice.
Porthos, who's been resting on his back, sat up to watch.
"Honestly, Athos. Why do you persist with this obstinate behavior?"
The swordsman cracked open his eyes then said, "I don't wish to be a burden."
"It will be more of a burden if you fall so ill I gotta carry you," Porthos grouched under his breath. "Or if you give Aramis a heart-attack and I have to carry him." That earned him a glare from both of the other musketeers. "Whaddya glaring at me for? He's being stubborn and you're being a pest. Me, I'm just sitting here watching."
"Well maybe you could assist," Aramis suggested drily.
"How? By tickling him into submission?" Porthos asked with an innocent expression on his face, but mischief in his deep brown eyes.
That did get Athos to react. "There will be no tickling. Not now. Not ever."
"Is that a challenge?" Porthos inquired, swinging his feet off the edge of the cot.
"No," the swordsman replied with an interesting mix of authority and apprehension.
"So, you're going to cooperate?" Aramis asked with a pleasant smile.
Athos started to say no, but when he saw Porthos rise to his feet he changed his mind. "I don't suppose you'd take my word that I am in no immediate danger from any of the minor wounds I am sporting."
"If you believe that is the truth you are telling me, then yes, I will accept your word."
Athos' mouth dropped open a little as he stared at Aramis in disbelief. It couldn't be that easy. In the time he'd known Aramis, the man had never given up that easily.
"You seem surprised that I'm not insisting. It's called trust, Athos. I'm trusting you care enough for yourself, and us, not to underestimate the extent of your injuries. I'm also trusting you are not so pigheaded as to refuse our help. Help from your brothers."
The swordsman continued to stare at Aramis with an unreadable expression on his face. How easily people spoke of trust. If he were to be truthful with himself, which he rarely was when it came to this subject, he knew his fear of letting people in might, perhaps, be a touch irrational. However, he had been hurt by many people in his life, his parents, his brother, his wife and it had made him as skittish as a newly broken colt. He wanted to believe, trust, in these two men. He had no reason not to, for they had shown him nothing but kindness and friendship, and had even kicked his ass when needed. And no matter what, they always had been loyal to a fault. So why couldn't he simply trust them without such an agonizing internal debate?
"Perhaps, it would be..." he started slowly as if he was testing out every word to ensure he had chosen the right one, "prudent...to check the bullet graze on my arm. It might be...a little...sore." With that he began to shrug out of his doublet.
Aramis moved to his saddlebags and began unpack his medical supplies. Porthos went to fetch his own and Athos' bags to see what food supplies they had left. While Aramis worked on Athos' arm, Porthos laid out all the food they had left on the table. The storm showed no sign of abating and it appeared the wise move would be to stay here for the night.
Aramis made unhappy noises as he fussed over Athos' arm. "It is definitely infected." He brushed his fingers across his patient's forehead and as usual, Athos moved his head away. "You have a fever though I think it fairly mild still. I'll make a willow bark infusion."
Wrinkling his nose, Athos said, "Porthos, is there any wine left?"
The streetfighter rummaged around in their bags, coming up empty handed. Athos' sigh was very audible when he saw Porthos sadly shaking his head. "Truly, I am cursed," he muttered.
"Cursed? Far from it. We have food, shelter and good company. What more do we need?" Aramis declared jovially as he finished bandaging the swordsman's wound.
"Wine," Athos answered in a most definitive manner.
After they were settled once more, each with a share of their remaining food, Aramis asked, around a mouthful of food, "How is it you knew of this place, Athos?"
The swordsman inwardly shuddered, even though he knew it was inevitable he would be asked that question. He continued to chew his mouthful of food while he debated what tale to spin, for he certainly wasn't going to tell the truth, that he and Jourdain had used this lodge more than once when they were young men and had gone hunting.
"We rode past it." That wasn't a lie, exactly.
"Seems a bit out of the way to ride by," Porthos said as he glanced up at Athos who had his head down. The large man's glance wandered over to Aramis, who he could tell was not buying into the story either.
Athos raised his head, snorted and said "Spaniards." He stared both his friends in the eye as if daring them to further challenge his explanation.
Aramis seemed like he was going to poke the dragon, but a headshake from Porthos made him bite his tongue and remain silent. Porthos had spent months on the road with Athos and had learned that pushing the swordsman rarely yielded the results desired. Usually it drove the taciturn man deeper into his mental trenches where he built even stronger walls to block out the prying questions. In some cases, it was better to retreat and wait for Athos to make the first advance, something that he was starting to do more often with them as he fought past his trust issues.
"Well, I'm happy you knew it was here," Aramis said cheerfully. "It is not a fit night out for either man or beast. It is much nicer here, under a solid roof, reasonably dry, not dodging lightning, with food and good company than out there. The only thing missing is a good bottle of wine and a warm woman."
Athos rolled his eyes and Porthos, who was reposing on the bedrolls they had laid out, snorted. "Those two items with you two only borrows trouble."
"Ah, but it is trouble worth borrowing," Aramis sighed wistfully as he dreamily stared off into the distance. "Dreaming of a beautiful woman is a worthy and noble pastime." He gracefully dropped onto his own bedroll. "I know Porthos has an unrequited love from his past he still pines for in the lonely darkness of the night. What about you, Athos?"
"Women are why God created wine. And yet, it is still not enough." Abruptly, the object of the inquiry turned his back on them and pulled his hat low over his face.
Again, Aramis looked over at Porthos who shrugged. "Guessin' he had a bad experience," the streetfighter offered up.
The two thought they heard Athos mumble something about hell and damnation, but whatever he said was mostly drowned out by the rain.
"Well, I love women," Aramis declared stoutly as he got comfortable. "I think they are one of God's best works. Tonight, I shall simply have to be content to dream of the fair creatures. Until the morrow, gentlemen."