Chapter 36

Biscarat breathed in sharply as the surgeon examined his shoulder, not particularly gentle in doing so.

Jussac's study was an improvised infirmary; in the guardroom, the other men would have stood in the way and pestered their comrade with questions. Here in the study, only Bernajoux kept them company - and a worried first lieutenant, who couldn't wait for the treatment to be over and was asking those questions over the doctor's head.

»How bad is it?«

»I don't have to use the bone saw,« growled Magister Travert with a cynical humour that seemed to be characteristic of all experienced doctors. Perhaps at some point this profession could only be endured with grumpiness, and d'Artagnan refrained from a sharp retort.

Instead, she discreetly closed the door behind her, through which she had rushed in with a question on her lips, and joined Bernajoux. She did not get to demand a report from him, for Travert continued his diagnosis and barked at Biscarat, »Shirt off!«

Biscarat grimaced and laboured awkwardly before Bernajoux stepped up and helped the friend pull his shirt over his head. Perhaps the order was also a ploy by Travert to make an unnecessarily brave acting patient see his own vulnerability and weakness.

Biscarat seemed very uncomfortable with the admission. His gaze went to d'Artagnan, he felt embarrassed at having to expose himself before her in more ways than one. She rolled her eyes. »Oh, please! That wouldn't have bothered you until a fortnight ago.«

Any memory of the last hour, of an almost saucy dress, was promptly wiped away and would never return. There was nothing to hide from the lieutenant, and Travert also kept a straight face at this half confession. Because his patient turned his head in wonder at this, making the examination more difficult, the doctor grumbled, »I have recently had to treat an excessive number of shoulder injuries. Starting with sneaky dagger thrusts, inflamed sword cuts-«

»We've already discussed that, Doctor.« D'Artagnan interrupted him gruffly, making it easy for Bernajoux and Biscarat to concoct an explanation; their first lieutenant had also apparently had the pleasure of some brusque aftercare in the past week.

Travert smiled narrowly. »Exhaustively, Monsieur le lieutenant.« He grabbed Biscarat by the head and uncompromisingly turned him forward again to continue his diagnostic. »A dislocated shoulder. Jussac put it back in place? Good work. Arm sling and support bandage will do.«

Biscarat grunted. Every single muscle in his arm and shoulder still hurt and throbbed like hell. Jussac may have done everything right, but he would feel the after-effects of this injury for a few more days. He could barely lift his arm enough for Travert to start wrapping the bandage tightly. Bernajoux had to support him while d'Artagnan watched impatiently, holding back her questions. He sought distraction in an ironic remark against his lieutenant.

»At least we can be sure that no musketeer has hit me. Never had. Not even this old scars here on my ribs I got by you.«

»It could still be arranged,« d'Artagnan mockingly replied, »if you want a lasting memory of me so badly.«

»Declined with thanks. I'm quite content to be the only man not to suffer wounds from a close encounter with you.«

Even Bernajoux' face twitched at the cheeky, almost hurtful double meaning. All too often, Biscarat did not know his limits and with d'Artagnan he had clearly overstepped them when her lips formed a thin line in response.

Before a light-hearted joke could turn into bad blood, Bernajoux interjected, »He fell off his horse.«

»I was under attack! We were ambushed.«

»Was a confusing situation.« Bernajoux tersely gave the report that d'Artagnan so desperately wanted to know. »We were waylaid three days' ride away, shortly after we met up to do that escort. Beat our way out and escaped. They must have had been tracking the damsel for some time.«

»Jussac, Meunier and Forgeron stayed a day behind us to investigate and retrace the attackers' tracks.« Biscarat said. »These were no ordinary brigands, they were too well armed for that.«

»Mercenaries.« added Bernajoux.

D'Artagnan asked frowning, »A targeted attack? What makes the young woman so valuable to send men after her?«

»She's Odette de la Nièvre, a grandniece of Richelieu.«

D'Artagnan was taken aback by the name. It sounded familiar, a memory not old. Rochefort had shown her a letter, a letter of recommendation to the Duc de la Nièvre about- »Lécuyer!«

The friends turned round, puzzled, and Travert sighed, pulled Biscarat back emphatically, and began the bandaging again. The Gascon hissed through his teeth and now remained well-behaved.

The men waited in vain for an explanation of d'Artagnan's exclamation; she lapsed into brooding silence, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere in the distance. Her expression reflected unpleasant thoughts in an easily readable way.

Bernajoux remarked, »Wearing your 'Please don't...'-face again?«

»My...?« D'Artagnan blinked confused. But before she could deny, Biscarat was already gleefully pursuing her, not letting her off the hook.

»Your 'Please don't let it be what I think'-face. We know it well by now.«

»I can't hide anything from the gentlemen,« d'Artagnan smirked. She has become wiser in the last few weeks, she trusted the new friendship. There was no reason to keep anything from Bernajoux and Biscarat and so she willingly explained to them, »The Vicomte de Lécuyer and the Cardinal's grandniece - there was to be a marriage alliance forged against Richelieu. That's why we brought the vicomte to the palace. He will have quickly dropped his plans.«

The casual spy in Biscarat immediately noticed the gaps in this explanation. »How do you know about that?«

»Rochefort. He had a few things to explain to me afterwards.« D'Artagnan kept to herself that the whole thing had actually been about a bargain, about her fate, that Tréville had made himself blackmailable and that she had chosen the Red Guard because of it. »I thought the matter was finally sorted out. But now Mademoiselle de la Nièvre is here - and I make such a face.«

»We've already guessed there is more to it. Monsieur was with her. One of Rochefort's agents.«

»The agent,« Biscarat emphasised, and d'Artagnan could imagine all the unsaid things that resonated in it. Especially as Magister Travert paused for a moment, murmured, and then seemed to decide that he had heard nothing and seen nothing.

She shuddered and hoped Tréville had nothing more to do with it. »A family quarrel in which no one should interfere.«

»We've done our part and got the damsel to safety,« Biscarat said. »Everything else is up to Rochefort and his men. Jussac is keeping an eye on Monsieur only until they get back to Paris.«

»It's no longer a matter for the Guard.« Bernajoux shrugged it off, but a painful foreboding crept into d'Artagnan's mind.

»Perhaps not a matter for the Guard. But certainly of individual guardsmen.«

»You believe, Sorel-« Biscarat started and wanted to laugh, to tease d'Artagnan, but she hissed, »I believe nothing! Faith, Hope and Charity, I'll leave that to His Eminence. He will settle everything with his grandniece and her father. It is none of our business until we're ordered otherwise. Are you through, Doctor?«

»I'll never be through, but it will do for today.«

»Good.« D'Artagnan composed herself and told the friends in the best officer's tone, »You're excused from duty for today. Rest, recover yourselves. I'll inform Captain Luchaire as much as you have reported to me. We'll learn of everything else after Jussac's return.«

With that, d'Artagnan turned on her heel before Bernajoux or Biscarat could tell her that the captain had already been informed by Sorel. That Sorel was by no means watching over Odette de la Nièvre at her chambers' door like a good knight, for he would have sworn to protect her from all harm for the rest of his life.

The door slammed shut behind d'Artagnan before the friends could even exchange meaningful glances and decide to stay out of it altogether.