Note: I am so excited! Season two tomorrow! In fact, I am so excited I'm going to post another chapter. Here you go :D
Chapter Three
"I told you we should have left!" Porthos roared.
The three of them were hiding in a wooded area having ridden hard across all terrain to lose the guardsmen. Aramis' shirt sleeve was saturated with blood so they stopped as soon as it was safe to do so. As luck would have it they came across a small stream giving Athos a chance to clean up the young musketeer.
"Thank you Porthos, now if only we could go back in time and do it your way. What's done is done, we just have to deal with it." Athos wiped away the welling blood and Aramis hissed.
"How are you brushing this off so easily? They know who we are and where we are. We're going to be hunted down now!"
"We probably would have been anyway! Like you said - Henri suspected us. What would you have me do? Kill the man to keep us safe?" Athos looked up with accusing eyes.
Porthos just huffed and turned away.
Athos went back to examining Aramis' arm. "This could do with stitching…"
"It's nothing, just a scratch." Aramis mumbled.
"It's nothing? Have you seen your shirt?" Athos held up what was little more than a bloody rag now.
"... got nothing to sew it with anyway…"
"I'll sort it." Porthos suddenly stalked over to his horse.
"Porthos, where exactly are you going?" Athos asked wryly.
"To sort it." The musketeer sighed and the anger left his voice. "On the road we passed a signpost for a town, it can't be more than a couple of miles away from here. I'll get a kit to sew him up with and be right back."
"How are you going to pay for it? We have no money."
"Desperate times call for desperate measures Athos, unless you'd rather he bleed to death?" Porthos gave a nod at Aramis.
"... 'm not dying…" Aramis muttered tiredly.
"Well you look pale enough. I won't be long." The musketeer mounted and set off between the trees.
"Porthos!" He looked back at Athos' shout. "Just... don't get caught".
A deep laugh echoed through the woods.
Hours passed and the sun went down letting a chill creep into the air. There was still no sign of Porthos.
"He's got himself caught, he shouldn't have been this long…" Athos kept looking through the trees anxiously.
"Have faith…"
"That's easy for you to say. I know what Porthos is like… He probably stopped for a game of cards and started a fight over it. I'll have to go and look for him."
"He'll come back." Aramis picked at the bandage around his arm. It was made of the remnants of his shirt and was turning red like the rest of it. "He wouldn't leave us like this… He wouldn't be so reckless, not now."
The sound of trampled undergrowth proved him right. Porthos emerged with a bag full of supplies. He dropped the sewing kit in Athos' lap without a word.
"Here you go." Porthos dug out a bottle of wine and gave it to Aramis. "I got you a new shirt too, thought you might need one, and there's enough food to last a few days…"
"Porthos… how did you get all of this?" Athos asked somewhat surprised at his bountiful escapade.
"I have my ways... I can avoid being seen if I wish." Seeing Athos' glare Porthos gave a laugh. "What? Did you forget where I came from?"
Athos said nothing more. He set about sewing the gash in Aramis' arm while the young musketeer downed his bottle.
"Oi, leave some for the rest of us." At a glare from Athos Porthos held up his hands. "Kidding… Besides, I can always get some more." The glare intensified. "What have you got against stealing? These are dire circumstances if you hadn't noticed."
Aramis winced as Athos pulled hard on the thread. "Easy…"
"It is… dishonourable." Athos said without looking up.
"Oh, so you think I was dishonourable all those years I spent as a thief?"
"It's not the same."
"Isn't it? Well, you'd better be thanking this dishonourable thief for the fact you're eating tonight."
Aramis gave a sudden gasp as the thread pulled tight. "I would appreciate it if you didn't distract him while he's doing this!"
"He's doing great, you'll be fine." Porthos walked by and ruffled Aramis' hair.
The young musketeer rolled his eyes. "This is why I try not to get injured around you two, you both benefit from my exquisite sewing skills and I have to put up with your ham fisted efforts…" He winced as Athos tied off the thread.
"All done. Now Porthos, if you would be kind enough to dish up this fine meal you have acquired for us."
"My pleasure."
~oOo~
Stealing was something of a slippery slope… That first act of theft gave way to more. At first it was little things. Porthos would take bits of food and other items they sorely needed, but he soon became bolder. He moved on to clothes and picked up a pair of boots when he wore a hole in his own. The light fingered musketeer even took a whole bridle when his reins snapped.
Athos never gave his approval, instead he turned a blind eye or gave the occasional glare. Often when they set up camp Porthos would excuse himself. He always returned with more items than he left with. Sometimes he returned with news of soldiers on the road or guards roaming the streets, and on those occasions they would hastily break camp to move on. Thanks to Henri it was now known the 'rogue musketeers' were in the area, and the cardinal seemed to set all his dogs loose after them. It was no longer safe to go near villages where strangers would stick out like a sore thumb. So the three musketeers remained in the wilds, or when need arose they would seek shelter on the outskirts of larger towns where individuals could remain anonymous.
It was in one such town Athos and Aramis huddled around a small fire they started outside an abandoned mill. The area seemed to be deserted and all the buildings had gone to rack and ruin. It looked safe enough. Porthos had left to acquire some food. Their supplies had dwindled to nothing and winter was approaching fast... hunting was no longer as profitable as it had been.
Aramis stared at the flames, deep in thought. He wasn't usually so quiet, it caught Athos' attention.
"What troubles you?"
The young musketeer looked up, suddenly drawn from his thoughts, and shook his head. "Nothing… I was just wondering."
"About what?" Athos asked softly.
"Whether I'm a father yet." His eyes quickly dropped back to the fire.
Aramis spoke little of the queen or their child. Her golden cross had remained in his pocket since the day Porthos knocked him to the ground. There was still an undercurrent of resentment between the three men when it came to the subject of the queen, and Aramis felt so terribly guilty for their current predicament. It made life just a little more bearable simply not to talk about them. But Aramis thought about them often. In the quiet moments between running and struggling to live he pictured her face with a delicate smile... he imagined holding the child he would probably never see.
"You may well be. If I had a glass I'd make a toast, but as it is…" Athos raised an empty hand. "To your son or daughter. May they have the good fortune not to take after their father."
Aramis let the ghost of a smile play across his lips. "I wonder what name she has chosen."
"I doubt 'Aramis' will form any part of it."
Suddenly a figure loomed in the darkness and the young musketeer's hand reached for his pistol. He soon relaxed on seeing it was Porthos.
"Put that fire out, you can see it from miles away!" He growled.
"It's cold!" Aramis protested.
"Then you'll just have to get yourselves something warmer to wear won't you?"
Athos raised an eyebrow noting that Porthos was wrapped in a nice warm cloak he didn't have before. "That's not your cloak."
"It is now."
"Porthos… you are becoming too bold." Athos sighed.
"You worry too much. We'll be safe here for a while. I tell you the town guards are an ill disciplined bunch, I found half of them falling about in the tavern. They wouldn't know their arse from their elbow."
Athos gave his friend a pointed look. "Yes, because that's something musketeers would never be found doing - sober as churchmen, every last one."
Porthos barked a laugh and went about sharing his spoils of food. "Drunkards we may be but I'm sure even Aramis knows his arse from his elbow."
"We're not musketeers… not any more." Aramis' sombre voice cut in.
"Speak for yourself. They can kick us out and call us criminals, but I'll always be a musketeer until the day I die."
"Which will be quite soon if you parade about in front of the guards taking anything that's not nailed down." Athos threw a pointed look at Porthos who turned away and seemed momentarily uneasy. At this Athos narrowed his eyes. "What are you not telling me?"
"Nothing Athos… we're safe. Well we'd be safer if you put that fire out like I told you to."
"Porthos." His name was said as a warning.
"Alright… I found this on the town noticeboard." He pulled a crumpled piece of parchment out of his pocket and gave it to Athos.
Carefully the musketeer smoothed it out and sighed. He looked up at Aramis. "There is a pretty penny on your head my friend. Four hundred livre for your capture."
"Let me see." Aramis held his hand out, sounding suddenly shocked.
The paper was a wanted poster with a rough sketch of Aramis and a description of him and his companions. "Two hundred apiece for each of you as well. They must really be desperate to get their hands on us…"
With a scowl the young musketeer threw the parchment into the fire where it quickly shrivelled and turned to ash.
"You know what this means? We have to go." Athos leaned forwards and made to put out the fire.
"We've only just got here! We'll be safe Athos, don't you trust me?" Porthos did his best to protest. After a while in the woods he was enjoying civilisation and he was quite at home with the anonymity of the crowd. Porthos had survived by blending in before... his old skills had not gone rusty with disuse.
"It's too dangerous. We might be recognised, and the cardinal's men must have been through here. They might still be around!"
"They're probably long gone, and I bet they've nailed those things to every tree between here and Paris - nowhere is going to be completely safe. We just have to be careful - as we always are - and we will go unnoticed."
Athos had managed to extinguish the fire but he stalled before gathering their belongings. "Aramis… what do you say?"
The young musketeer scrubbed at his face with an arm, clearly tired out. "I think we're safe enough here, there's nobody about in this quarter, and I cannot face another minute in the saddle. I would fall out of it as soon as I'd mounted… Let us stay, at least for tonight."
Finally Athos gave in. "Very well… but if we're woken by the cocking of pistols I will not be pleased."
~oOo~
As it happened the three musketeers made it through the night unharmed. When morning came Porthos did his usual disappearing act after loudly exclaiming he might bring them back a cloak each. Athos simply rolled his eyes and kindled a fire as soon as Porthos was out of sight. The morning was a chilly one... their breath clouded the air and frost touched the ground.
Aramis rubbed his arms vigorously, trying to get some warmth into them. "What are we doing Athos?" He sounded as miserable as sin.
"Slowly freezing to death?"
"I'm being serious… We're running blindly with no plan and no place to go. What are we supposed to do when winter sets in? We can't keep going on like this."
"Well we have been quite occupied trying to stay one step ahead of the authorities. 'Away from Paris' was as good a direction as any… Where are we supposed to go? We will forever be pursued in France, if we manage to settle somewhere we will live our lives looking over our shoulder. We might be able to reach the border, but which country shall we flee to? Who is going to take in treasonous musketeers? Maybe England or Spain would find our plight more favourable, but crossing the channel will be no easy task and Spain is hundreds of miles away. At our current pace we will not reach it before winter. So, Aramis, what would you have me do?"
"We should get out of France. I doubt we would make it across the channel, the cardinal's men are more numerous than rats on those docks. But I speak Spanish, we could get by in Spain. Even if winter comes before we get there it will not be as harsh the further south we travel. We can at least try." Aramis spoke more excitedly as he went on, the prospect of a warmer winter in Spain lifted his spirits.
But Athos remained stony faced. "This is something we should discuss when Porthos returns. He will need to have a say."
"As you wish…" Aramis reluctantly let the subject drop.
It was about an hour later when Porthos' heavy footsteps could be heard crunching on the frosted ground. He approached slowly… Aramis looked up to find him ashen faced.
Athos immediately assumed the worst and shot to his feet. "What is it? Were you seen? Are they coming for us?"
"No… no, sit back down." Porthos waved his hand at Athos and reluctantly cast his eyes towards Aramis.
"Then why do you look as if someone had died?" Athos asked as he resumed his place by the fire.
Porthos said nothing. He looked to the ground as if searching for an answer in the dirt. Not finding one the musketeer's eyes settled on Aramis once again.
"The people are all talking… News has just come from Paris…" Porthos spoke as if each word weighed a tonne, he struggled to get them out. "The queen has…"
At this Aramis sat up straight.
And Porthos wrestled his words into submission. "Aramis, I'm sorry… the baby did not survive."
Aramis remained silent.
His child… His child was dead.
It was a child that should not have been, it was a child that meant his own death, but it was still his child.
The world felt like it had fallen away from him. Aramis heard voices and felt hands at his shoulder, but what they said made no sense. The young musketeer could only hear his own words echo through the mist… I will watch over your son and guard him with all my strength and heart. I will lay down my life for him if necessary. He will have no more devoted servant… Aramis couldn't protect them. He had failed. The young musketeer felt guilt deepen around him… Even if it had been a natural death, even if God had simply decided to take his child, Aramis felt responsible. Maybe the stress of this concealment and discovery had taken its toll on Anne. Whatever the reason, Aramis was at fault, he had failed.
His child was dead.
There was a hollow in his heart. Yet no tears came. Aramis could hardly breathe, but he managed one question with a weak and cracked voice…
"Was it a girl or a boy?"
And through the fog Porthos answered solemnly: "You had a son, Aramis..."
"A boy... So she was right… I was supposed to watch over him. I was meant to…" At that his voice failed him, but he wanted to shout - I WAS MEANT TO DIE, NOT HIM! He had said he would lay down his life for their child and he had meant it.
The young musketeer was not angry, or perhaps he was just angry at the injustice of the world… That his child should die having only a taste of life's breath, while he lingered in this scant existence. He got to his feet without quite realising it… He needed to walk, he needed to be alone. Hands tried to stop him, but he pushed them away.
"Aramis, where are you going?" Athos spoke coldly.
"Away from here." Aramis bit back in a vicious tone.
"You have to stay, you can't go wandering. Sit down."
"I can't… I need to go." He ran fractious hands through his hair and took a deep breath. "Please… let me go."
"No, sit down." Athos voice seemed to harden when his words were ignored. "Sit down, Aramis."
That was an order, and one not to be disobeyed.
All the while Porthos, the bearer of bad news, hesitated between the two. "Keep your voices down…"
He might as well not have spoken.
Aramis felt the hollow in his heart consume all, his voice darkened. "Leave me alone!"
Athos sighed and tried to calm things down. "Aramis my friend, I understand you have suffered a blow, but you cannot go wandering, not here…"
"You cannot order me to sit as if I am a dog at his master's feet!" Aramis' eyes were shining, his breath seemed to catch in his throat. "My child is dead!"
With that their tempers ignited again.
"A child you would never have known! It is not worth risking your neck over!"
"My neck is worth nothing!"
"And ours?!" Athos stepped forwards and took hold of Aramis' arm, making to force him back to the camp fire.
The young musketeer wasn't sure if he meant to do it or if it was a reflex action… but his fist shot out and connected with Athos' face. The older musketeer fell back and crashed hard against the ground. Porthos rushed to help him while Aramis simply stared at his own fist… He felt nothing.
And then he ran.
~oOo~
But Aramis could not run for long. Grief and exhaustion weighed him down. His constricted throat couldn't seem to gasp in the breath his body demanded… and so he dropped into a stumbling walk as the fog settled in around him once more.
Eventually Aramis started passing people. They were terrifying to him once, harbingers of death every one… It only took a single shout to bring a guard and that would bring the hangman eventually. But now he didn't care, and it was wonderfully freeing. Still, Aramis could not appreciate such freedom when his heart was being rent with sorrow. He didn't care if anyone shouted… he didn't care if they clapped him in irons… he didn't care if they placed his head in a noose. None of it mattered.
There were more buildings and more people, still Aramis didn't care. He wandered freely through their marketplace, paying no heed to brightly coloured stalls or groups of laughing children. Nobody paid him any attention, if they did it was simply to avoid him. With such a dishevelled downcast appearance the young musketeer was probably taken for a vagrant. Aramis quickly came to realise the ideal place to be alone was in a crowd. He was so used to being the centre of attention... In Paris every lady passing would get a sultry smile and a tip of the hat, but here everybody looked away. He was near invisible. And that suited his purpose, he was lost in grief and wanted to walk through the streets like the ghost he felt.
A spire caught Aramis' eye between the roofs of closely built houses. Perhaps that's where his feet were taking him… Perhaps God was calling to grant him comfort. Aramis passed through the streets, eyes fixed on the spire, ignoring all else about him. Finally the young musketeer came to stand before a church, stone wrought and old, it was nothing compared to the great cathedrals of Paris. But that did not matter to Aramis, it was a house of God like any other. He walked toward the large wooden doors that stood open, welcoming him in… The graveyard he passed through held stone carved angels, some were frozen in weeping poses, their wings spread to the sky. Other gravestones were small, cracked and weathered. Their writing was barely legible and the people in those graves were long forgotten by the living… as we all are eventually.
Sweet singing voices filtered through the doorway, and Aramis found a small choir on entering. He slipped into a pew at the back and let his eyes wander to the large stained glass window at the front. Its warm light cascaded across the cold stone floor and saints watched in judgement from their position on high. The harmonies echoed gloriously around Aramis, bouncing from each wall to crash into him, near tearing his soul from his body with the beauty of it. The young musketeer recognised the Miserere, he knew every word of the psalm that had been put to music.
Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam...
They sang in latin and Aramis whispered the words under his breath with clasped hands before him. "Have mercy upon me, O God, after Thy great goodness".
Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea, et a peccato meo munda me.
Quoniam iniquitatem meam ego cognosco, et peccatum meum contra me est semper…
"Wash me throughly from my wickedness, and cleanse me from my sin. For I acknowledge my faults, and my sin is ever before me".
Cor mundum crea in me, Deus, et spiritum rectum innova in visceribus meis...
"Make me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me". The words went on and on and around and around.
Candles were extinguished as the verses filtered through the church, running endlessly like a river. Though eventually they did cease, giving over to silence and quiet reflection. Aramis took in a deep breath. The air of the church seemed musty but clean. The breath shuddered out of him as he thought of his child...
And he found that he was crying.
Not just for himself or the small life lost, but for Anne as well. Aramis fished the small golden cross from his pocket and reverently pressed it to his lips. The hurt for her must be immeasurable. To suffer another loss… Why God? Why would you take another child from her? Aramis looked up to the cross at the front, asking a question he knew would not be answered. But maybe God had not taken his son… Maybe the cardinal had… The thought was too much to bear. His forehead collapsed to his clasped hands and another sob wracked his frame. He wished with every bone of his body to comfort Anne as she had comforted him. That was where this had all started… a small act of comfort.
There was no comfort here. Not in the cold stone, not in the warm fractured light or the silence. Aramis came to realise he found comfort in the touch of another person. It was people that kept him together when he needed solace. There was nobody here. Where would he find comfort? With the friends you pushed away… with the friend you punched. A voice at the back of his head gave an answer. And Aramis felt suddenly ashamed. After Savoy they had comforted him, they had given him solace, and he had just run away… He would have to go back. He would have to apologise.
"Forgive me, I could not help but notice you grieving." Aramis registered a presence at his side and looked up to find the wrinkled face of a priest staring down at him.
For a moment he hesitated. Should he open his heart or make an escape? But it would not be right to shun this man of God… Aramis shuffled along the pew and made space for the man to sit down.
The priest sat with a stiffness that came of his age. "Might I ask what troubles you?"
"I have…" His voice seemed to dry up. Aramis wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. "I lost a child, I cannot comfort his mother, and I pushed away my friends…"
"Then you have much to grieve for, and I am sorry to hear it. I daresay your friends will forgive you, as for the mother, your wife?"
Aramis said nothing. He could not condemn himself and admit to fathering a child out of wedlock, nor could he lie to a priest. The young musketeer just stared stonily at the golden cross entwined about his fingers.
Seeing he was going to get no answer, the priest continued. He seemed a friendly provincial sort, one who was beyond standing on ceremony and chasing power… He was a stark contrast to the cardinal. "She will not find comfort with you or anybody else. Such is the pain that comes from a mother losing her child. Only time will prove a salve to that wound, and it will never heal entirely. Stabat mater dolorosa…"
The sorrowful mother stood… It was a mother's fate to weep for her children it seemed. Just as Mary wept for her son on the cross. The priest was right. It was a pain that could not be touched nor quelled.
"How old was your child?" The priest asked softly.
Aramis swallowed heavily. "He died shortly after birth."
At this the priest became quiet and looked away, he lost his gentle comforting manner and seemed suddenly mournful. Slowly it dawned on Aramis… his child had not been baptised. The thought filled him with horror. Baptism was necessary for salvation, would his son be denied entry to heaven?
"Please Father… please tell me my son will be at peace." Aramis' voice was quiet but desperate. "Tell me he is in heaven."
The priest seemed to hesitate. "I cannot say where his soul will rest. The fate of unbaptised children is not known to mortal man. We can but entrust him to the mercy of God."
Aramis felt himself crumple inside. How much mercy would God show to the bastard child of an adulterous tryst? He could only hope that the sins of the father would not pass to the son.
"There is hope. Jesus showed such tenderness to children, there must be a way of salvation for those unfortunate enough to die before baptism. I will pray for your son."
"Thank you Father…" Aramis found himself getting to his feet, his eyes were blurred with tears. He wanted to get out of this place. He believed in a God who loved… one who accepted, and forgave others. How could the fate of a newborn child be so uncertain?
The priest slowly got to his feet and stepped aside for Aramis to pass. "I will pray for you too, my son."
The young musketeer managed a sad smile. He had the feeling he would need more than prayers...
Aramis passed through the graveyard in a hurry and without a look back. He made his way through the marketplace and winding streets. The buildings seem to leer over at him as they met to form narrow alleyways… The young musketeer had walked through this town in his own head, and now he was out of it he wasn't quite sure where he was going. There seemed to be darkness in every corner… which way had he come from? He couldn't ask for directions, he would just have to wander and hope for the best. The young musketeer turned to slip down an alley. Now he was wary of the townspeople again he would rather avoid them if he could. He had only taken a few steps when the sound of another approached from behind… Aramis did not even get a chance to turn before receiving a blow to the head. And with that he crumpled gracelessly to the ground.
Note: For those interested, have a look on YouTube for "Vatican 1600 (Allegri's Miserere performed by the Tallis Scholars)". It's a beautiful rendition of the Miserere.