For there is no difference between Jew and Gentile—the same Lord is Lord of all and richly blesses all who call on Him.
Romans 10:12 NIV
The Musketeers watched their brother suffer with fever into the long hours of the night. Fresh candles were lit as the old flames burned low, casting eerie shadows across the dark infirmary. The men kept constant vigil by Aramis' bedside, each taking turns swabbing his fevered brow while murmuring soft words of comfort in his ear.
Aramis tossed his head side to side as haunting images tormented his fevered dreams. He mumbled incoherently between outbursts of wild screams, as though revisiting the bloody fields of Savoy or other sanguinary battlefields, if only in his mind.
Lines of worry deeply etched the faces of the three Musketeers as Aramis languished over the long hours. The sick man shifted uncomfortably in the bed, writhing in a fevered state. His face glistened with sweat, despite the cold cloth continuously expunging perspiration from his skin. Brief moments of consciousness allowed for sips of soothing, warm ginger and peppermint tea, and the occasional swallow of the vinegar mixture, before lapsing again into a restless sleep.
The patient lying on the bed hardly resembled the vibrant, exuberant man so revered by his brothers. As the hours passed, the Spaniard's dark locks clumped and plastered to his sweaty face, contrasting with the paleness of his skin. Fever flushed the medic's cheeks, giving him the rosiness of being kissed by winter's cold.
Finally, as the darkness waned and morning light began to seep through the windows, the room was still; the only sounds were the soft snores chorusing between its walls. The weary caretakers had fallen into an exhausted sleep after many hours of fretting, wearing them down to nearly depletion.
Aramis awoke in a daze. The fog in his brain hindered any lucid memory of where he was or why. He peeled his eyes open but saw only shadows of figures enveloped in a swirling grey haze. The room spun wildly; he clamped his eyes shut against the dizziness threatening to overcome him, almost causing his stomach to rebel.
He waited for the dizziness to pass before cracking his eyes open just enough to stare at the plain wooden beams directly above his bed. The sound of snoring captured his attention; he turned his head left to find Porthos sleeping soundly in the chair beside his bed. The medic's mouth twitched upward at the sight of the large man slouched and folded quite unnaturally into the small piece of furniture.
He turned his head right and was surprised to find Athos slumped against his pillow, half in his chair, half on the bed with his head near Aramis' own. His vision blurred as tears moistened his eyes; he resisted the urge to run a comforting hand through the wily hair but thought it best to not wake his exhausted brother.
Aramis blinked back the tears as he continued his search around the room. His eyes roamed but then stopped as he spotted the figure of d'Artagnan's lanky body sleeping soundly at the foot of his bed. Once more, his mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile; his heart finally content to find all of his brothers at his side—just as they had promised.
He suppressed a dry cough as it suddenly bubbled from his chest. He tried to swallow it down, but his throat felt so dry he faintly wondered if he had ingested sand during the night.
"Ath's," Aramis rasped with a squeak. His parched mouth felt like wads of cotton had been stuffed between his teeth. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Ath's… water…"
"Mphff…" Athos raised his head at the sound. He blinked his tired eyes until his vision cleared; confusion creased his brow with heavy lines. Pain shot through his core as the stiff muscles in his back screamed out from sleeping at such an odd angle for… how long? "What…?"
"Athos," Aramis repeated. At last, the call for help penetrated the fog encapsulating the weary lieutenant—alas alerting him to awareness. "Water…"
"Aramis, you're awake!" Athos declared with a smile spreading across his lips. "How are you feeling, any better?" The Musketeer fetched a cup of water then held it to the medic's lips, allowing him to drink slowly.
"Better," Aramis smiled after swallowing the water. He took another sip then leaned back against his pillow, wearing a satisfied smile on his face.
Porthos and d'Artagnan stirred at hearing the voices; their tired eyes widened with happy surprise at finding Aramis awake, drinking water and seemingly doing better.
"Aramis!" The two men jumped to their feet and reached out to touch Aramis, as if to confirm their friend was really conscious.
"You scared us half to death last night, brother." Porthos growled playfully. "Don't do it again!"
"You really had us worried, mon cher," d'Artagnan smiled. "Maybe there is some truth to that 'Four Thieves' superstition, huh?"
"I told you that the garlic and vinegar mixture worked!" Sister Maria interrupted as she entered the infirmary with Sister Angelica. "Now, whether the 'superstition' of the Four Thieves is true or not, we do not know; the origins are difficult to determine. Regardless, the medicine does work."
"Oui Madame, it seems so." d'Artagnan nodded politely then stepped back to give the nurses room to examine the patient.
"It is very good to see you awake, Monsieur Aramis." Sister Angelica placed the back of her palm against his forehead, checking his temperature. "Your color is pale and you are still a little warm but, considering your condition last night, this is a vast improvement. Allow me to check your wound; I'm going to apply more of the vinegar mixture and then rebandage it. Afterward, we all must allow Aramis to get more rest—it is too early to let our guard down."
The nurses set out at tending to the wound, reapplying the medicine around both sides of the sutured ankle. The Musketeers held Aramis firmly on the bed as he once again bucked against the painful, yet necessary treatment, of his ankle.
Aramis endured the ordeal as best he could, controlling his breathing as the vinegar rekindled the scorching pain emanating from his foot. Rivulets of sweat streamed down his face, soaking his hair, by the time the nurses finished wrapping the long strips of cloth around the ankle.
"The wound is looking much better," Nurse Maria nodded, "but it is going to take time to heal. The infection appears to be dissipating; the skin is no longer warm to the touch, which is a very good sign. Your foot should heal just fine as long as we remain vigilant and stay ahead of the infection."
Aramis merely nodded weakly.
"Well, I think the perfect remedy is some hot chamomile and mint tea after Monsieur Aramis takes another dose of his medicine," Nurse Angelica said as she held the spoon ready. "If you are to stay ahead of the infection, you must take your medicine like a good patient."
Aramis swallowed hard, repulsion twisting his face as the color drained from his skin. "I'd almost rather take my chances… with the infection… than swallow any more of that… sour medicine, Sister."
"I do apologize for the pungent flavor of the medicine but the healing power of the mixture makes the temporary displeasure worth it," Angelica suggested with a half-grin.
"I beg to differ," Aramis frowned. The medic scowled, grimaced and coughed as he took the swallow of the foul mixture. Once again, sweat beaded on his brow as he concentrated hard at keeping the contents of his stomach down. "I can't take much more of that…"
"You were supposed to be training the new recruits on their marksmanship skills today, mon ami." Athos quickly stepped in, attempting to distract the medic by getting his mind off his discomfort. "Perhaps I can reassign another…"
Athos was interrupted by a loud commotion outside in the garrison courtyard. The Musketeers exchanged alarmed glances at the sudden shouting; their eyes narrowed as they strained to listen to what the commotion was about.
"What the bloody…" Porthos began but was cut short.
"Quiet!" Athos snapped just as Captain Tréville rushed into the infirmary, his features marked with anxiety.
"We just received word of an attack to the Red Guards traveling east, ahead of His Eminence, to Vincennes," the captain reported.
"Was the cardinal hurt?" d'Artagnan shot to his feet at the news.
"No, the cardinal was turned back and was not harmed, but apparently the Huguenots got word of the cardinal traveling to Vincennes and were waiting in ambush. His Majesty has called on the Musketeers to assist," Captain Tréville declared. "We leave immediately!"
The nurses gasped aloud "Oh no!" they yelled, grabbing onto each other at the sudden, horrible news.
The captain of the Musketeers stood back, waiting as his three men rushed from the room. He gave Aramis an apologetic look before turning on his heel to follow the men to the horses.
"No, our brothers cannot be involved in this," Angelica cried. "They cannot be!"
"I should be going with them!" Aramis flopped back against the pillows in frustration. "I'm useless in here; I should be out there with my brothers, not lying here in bed."
"You are in that bed, young man, because you were severely hurt," countered Sister Maria. "Your body is still fighting an infection that could have killed you last night. Your place—your only place—is right there in that bed!"
"If I hadn't gone wandering off…"
"Enough! I will not stand here and listen to you feel sorry for yourself," Nurse Angelica snapped as the tension in the room caused tempers to flare.
Aramis was momentarily stunned. He opened his mouth to respond but gave second thought at the nuns glaring stares. The medic swallowed hard, deciding against further protests.
"I should make you that tea now," Sister Maria said, her voice tense. The nurse gathered the herbs and the hot water at the table but with shaking hands, she knocked over the pewter cup and sent it clanking across the floor.
"I cannot remain calm as though nothing is wrong while our brothers may be in danger!" Angelica plopped down on the cot and began to cry. "I'm tired of the lies, Maria; we must reveal the truth."
"I think you are right, Angelica," Sister Maria agreed, shaking her head somberly. "I will go find Gabrielle and tell her what has happened."
Aramis watched the two nurses, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What is going on, where is Sister Maria off to?" The medic pushed himself up on the bed as realization dawned on his face. "Why do you both keep saying 'our brothers'?"
"I'm sorry," Angelica sighed deeply. "There is something I must confess to you."
"I don't think I like the sound of this…"
"Forgive me, Monsieur Aramis," the nun whispered softly. "You have every right to be angry for what I am about to reveal," she closed her eyes. "I am so ashamed; may the Lord deal with us as He so chooses."
On the Road East, Near Vincennes:
The Musketeers galloped toward the village of Vincennes not knowing what they would find upon their arrival. Thundering hooves pounded on the road toward the skirmish between the Red Guards and the Huguenots which, by their arrival, had escalated out of control into a bloody melee.
The sound of musket fire echoed over the hills just ahead, spurring the band of Musketeers to gallop faster. They rushed to join alongside soldiers—with whom the Musketeers did not ordinarily share amicable relations—to fight a mutual enemy of the crown and of the church.
As the Musketeers crested the final hill, smoke from spent musket fire clouded the air above the killing field. Scattered bodies lay unmoving in the grass as pools of blood soaked into the dirt, staining the ground.
"My God!" Captain Tréville exclaimed with utter shock at the ghastly sight. "Let us dismount here," he whispered to Athos. "We will use the trees for cover as we move to reinforce the Red Guards. Keep out of the line of sight as much as possible."
"We will dismount here," Athos ordered the men behind him. "It appears the Huguenots are firing from that tree line across the field. We will stay within these trees for cover until we join with the Guards. Stay behind the trees and keep your heads down. Let's move!"
Musketeer Garrison, Infirmary:
"This is not easy for me to confess, Monsieur Aramis." Angelica wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "However, in light of what has happened, I cannot continue to lie anymore."
"Sister, what has you so grieved?" Aramis asked, his muscles tensing in preparation of bad news. "What is wrong?"
Angelica took in a deep breath then let it out in a slow release. "Maria, Gabrielle and I are not who we profess; we have deceived you."
"What are you talking about?" Aramis questioned with growing alarm.
"We are not," she swallowed the lump in her throat, "we are not really Sisters of Sainte Madeleine. We were originally traveling toward Vincennes to join with our brethren, our fellow followers of... of the Evangelical Lutheran Church, when we ran into your leader, Athos."
"Pardieu," Aramis gasped. "No, I cannot believe this…"
Angelica ignored the gasp from Aramis and continued her confession. "Our job was to assimilate with the people of Vincennes, offering our services at Sainte-Chapelle de Vincennes as cover."
Aramis remained quiet, letting his head hang as he listened.
"We were to keep our ears open for word of the meeting with the cardinal and his bishops, in regard to when the meeting would take place and what would be discussed. We just wanted to know if there were plans to attack our people; we meant no harm!"
"Wait a minute, I don't… I don't understand." Aramis shook his head, his brow creased with disbelief. "What are you saying?"
"I am not Catholic, Monsieur Aramis," Angelica replied in a whisper. "I am Lutheran, more specifically of the Evangelical Lutheran Church; as are Maria and Gabrielle also. We are missionaries, including the men with whom we are traveling. We only just recently joined with a group of Huguenots—greater numbers means louder voices."
"Mother Mary…" Aramis tipped his cup, spilling tea over the side of his bed. "We were on that road to look out for Huguenot activity; it was suspected that the Huguenots have moved north from Créteil..."
"I did not like being joined with the Huguenots, but we agreed as there is strength in numbers. We are followers of Martin Luther; we are separate from the Calvanists—the true Huguenots you seem to despise so deeply."
"You have been lying to us all this time," Aramis paused, "and yet you want to argue about the specifics of your faith!" The medic threw his cup across the room; the pewter goblet bounced off the wall then clanked across the floor. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed to stand, but was overcome with nausea and a wave of dizziness. "Oh God," he collapsed back onto the bed, falling sideways with a moan.
"Aramis!" Angelica grabbed the medic by the shoulders to stop his momentum over the edge toward the floor. She pushed him onto his back and then pulled his legs up until he was lying flat and proper on the bed. "You mustn't get up; you will only hurt yourself worse."
"Are you really a nurse, or did you lie about that also?" Aramis gritted angrily through clenched teeth.
"No! I mean, yes… I mean... I'm sorry." Angelica sighed heavily. "Yes, I am really a nurse, as Maria and Gabrielle are as well; we did not lie about that. As nurses, we traveled with missionaries to the Kingdom of Denmark, helping treat their soldiers and the innocent victims who have suffered in war."
"Then how could you be involved with such a group?" Aramis sneered. "The Huguenots are murderers! They have killed our people; they have killed good citizens of France… sons of France!"
"And your Church—you Catholics—have also killed good citizens of France and sons of France!" Angelica retorted angrily, her fists clenched. "Are we not also citizens of France? The Protestants have been relegated to non-citizens—our rights have been stripped away. We are sons and daughters with no country! Our native country will not claim us, but would have us wiped out of existence. As Protestants, we are no better than enemies of France."
"The Huguenots are enemies of the crown…"
"We are not the enemy, Monsieur Aramis! We are being murdered because our faith differs from the true ruler of France—the Catholic Church," Angelica cried out with exasperation. She angrily wiped away the tears streaming down her cheeks.
"How dare you," Aramis growled. "This is heresy!"
"I was born in Orléans; Maria was born in Meaux; Gabrielle was born in Paris; Jacques was born in Lyon; and Jean in Paris." Angelica declared, standing her ground. "Are we not also French, are we not also your countrymen?"
"My countrymen are being murdered by your people..."
"My people? Jacques served six years in the French army, but now his service is no longer recognized! Why, did he not also serve his king and his country? As citizens of France, do we not all serve the same king, King Louis?" Angelica sat back down beside Aramis. "Are we not all the king's loyal subjects?"
Aramis sat quietly, wringing his hands in the blanket. He kept his head bowed low, refusing to meet her eyes.
"Why then are we treated so differently simply because of our faith?" Angelica reached out to stop Aramis from wringing the blanket. "Do we not all serve the same God?"
"There is only one God." Aramis looked up but quickly dropped his gaze downward to his lap.
"Is our God different from the Catholic God?" Angelica whispered. "Or would you admit that we all worship the very same God?"
"There is only one…" his voice trailed.
"The one and only God, who calls us all His sons and daughters," Angelica interjected. "The very same God who does not segregate His fallen in Heaven based on the faith they chose in this life. Does our God care if we are Protestant or Catholic; Jew or Gentile?"
"No," Aramis whispered softly.
"No, God does not," the nurse smiled. "The glaring difference between the Catholics and the Protestants is that we refuse to serve the Catholic Church of France; we will not serve His Eminence, nor abide by his demands."
"I do not serve His Eminence!"
"If you are Catholic, you do indeed!" Angelica shot to her feet and grabbed the back of her chair for support. "We serve God, not the Church… and certainly not His Eminence."
"But killing is not the way of God; it is unnecessary bloodshed," Aramis countered. He let out a breath as he dragged a hand through his unruly hair. "Killing accomplishes nothing for either side."
"You are right, Aramis." Angelica agreed as she sat on the edge of the bed. She looked at the medic as her eyes blurred with tears. "Historically, our people have been killed for rejecting the Church while trying to worship the same God as you worship. We have been persecuted for spreading the gospel of our faith and for helping the less fortunate."
"The king has given the Protestants freedom to worship openly," Aramis countered.
"You are wrong, Monsieur Aramis. The king professes our religious freedoms—all the while trying to convert us to Catholicism— but then he punishes us if we do not convert. We are hated by the Church, and despised for not serving His Eminence," her voice cracked. "We just want to be left alone; with true freedom to worship God the same as you—without fear of repercussion. Is that too much to ask, Aramis?"
"It is not… it is not too much to ask." Aramis met Angelica's eyes and held her gaze until the nurse lowered her eyes, her cheeks flushing. "I have not looked at this situation from the Huguenot… er, the Protestant point of view. I side with the Church, and with His Majesty, because that is how I was raised; it is how I have lived and performed my job. I had no idea…"
Suddenly, the garrison was buzzing with yelling, snorting horses and the clanking of swords. Heavy booted feet rushed toward the infirmary, bursting in the door carrying bleeding and wounded men.
"What happened?" Aramis cried out, though he was ignored for the moment as more wounded Musketeers were brought in. The medic tried to get a glimpse of the wounded, taking inventory of their injuries. Two wounded men; one with a bleeding head injury and the other with a torn shoulder. A third man limped in with his knee bleeding from a gunshot wound; a fourth man with a bleeding leg.
Porthos arrived carrying a limp Musketeer in his arms, the identity of whom was hidden by the crowds of men filling the room.
"Who is that, who is hurt?" Aramis called out, moving side to side as he tried to get a better view of the new patient.
Porthos broke through the crowd gently carrying his precious armload to the cot next to Aramis.
"Madre de Dios!" Aramis gasped at the unmoving form of Athos. Blood dripped from a wound just above his left eye, marking his face with red lines that streaked across his skin. "Oh God, what happened?" he asked, trying to get up from his bed.
"No, you must not move," Angelica stopped the panicked medic. "You must lie still; you cannot help him, Aramis. I will tend to his care!"
Just then, Maria and Gabrielle rushed into the infirmary looking for Angelica.
"Get these women out of here!" yelled a Musketeer.
"No, we are all nurses!" yelled Angelica over the noise of the crowd. "We can help the men—please! I can tend to Athos; I am quite experienced in battlefield wounds. I need hot water, clean cloths, cotton, sutures, wine, and, of course, the surgical tools…"
"Go, get everything together of which the nurse requested!" Captain Tréville ordered, sending the men scurrying. "Until Dr. Lemay arrives, the nurses are in charge of tending to the wounded and you will do as they say. All unnecessary personnel, I want out of this room—we cannot have this crowd in here."
The room soon emptied, save a few men who were carrying the requested supplies, who then deposited them on tables near the bed. Two more Musketeers stood firmly in place beside their wounded brothers, unwilling to obey the captain's general order to leave.
"We're not going anywhere, Captain," d'Artagnan stated firmly.
"Our place is right here." Porthos crossed his arms in a show of defiance. He squared his jaw as he raised his chin up with a snort. "Our place is here… right beside our brothers."
Aramis stared in horror at the bloodied form of his brother as he lay unmoving on the cot next to his; the lieutenant's face paled in stark contrast to the deep red blood oozing from the jagged head wound.
"Mon Dieu, what happened to him?" The medic's eyes widened as he watched the blood stream from Athos' temple, roll across his ear and onto the floor…
… drip… drip… drip...
A/N:
The members of the Protestant faith, including the Huguenots, had been granted religious, political and military freedom by Henry IV with his Edict of Nantes (1598, granting French Protestants the same rights as French Catholics). Later, following renewed warfare, they were stripped of their political and military privileges by King Louis XIII, though they retained their religious freedoms. Things between the Protestants and the Catholics took a serious turn for the worse under King Louis XIV as he revoked the Edict of Nantes, abolishing all rights of the Protestants.
King Louis XIII sought to convert Protestants to Catholicism, through the use of soldiers—Dragonnades—stationed in the homes of Protestants, to force them to convert. Under this duress, many Protestants converted to Catholicism; while others fled the country. The penalties for preaching or attending a Protestant assembly were severe: life terms in the galleys for men, imprisonment for women; confiscation of all property was common.
The Huguenots were inspired by the writings of John Calvin. Huguenot numbers peaked near an estimated two million by 1562, concentrated mainly in the southern and central parts of France. As Huguenots gained influence Catholic hostility grew.
The Calvanists based their belief in salvation through individual faith without a need for the intercession of the church hierarchy; they also believed in an individual's right to interpret scriptures for themselves. This placed the French Protestants in direct theological conflict with the Catholic Church and the King of France; they were accused of heresy against the Catholic government and the established religion of France.
At the height of the persecution was the infamous St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre in 1572, known as one of the worst mass killings of Huguenots in history. It is believed to have been instigated by Catherine de Medici whose Catholic daughter Margaret was to marry Protestant Henry III of Navarre (Henry IV of France). Several thousand Protestants, who had come to Paris for Henry's wedding, were killed, as well as thousands more throughout the country in the days that followed. Henry narrowly escaped death, thanks to the help of his wife and his promise to convert to Catholicism. The massacre began on the night of 23–24 August 1572. The slaughter spread throughout Paris, lasting several weeks, and then expanded outward to urban areas. Modern estimates for the number of dead across France vary widely, from 5,000 to 30,000.
Lutheranism is another of the major protestant denominations, begun in the sixteenth century as a movement led by Martin Luther (1483-1546), who was a German Augustinian monk. Luther taught that salvation and eternal life is not earned by good deeds but is received only as a free gift of God's grace through faith in Jesus Christ as redeemer from sin. Luther insisted on Christian or Evangelical as the only acceptable names for individuals who professed Christ.
The main differences between a Calvanist and a Lutheran are:
Calvinists believe that salvation is predestined whereas Lutherans believe anyone can attain salvation through faith.
Calvinism stresses the absolute sovereignty of God whereas Lutheranism believes man has some control over certain aspects in his life.