Chapter Three

The next coherent thing D'Artagnan became aware of, unsurprisingly, was the pain, and the sound of a bridge underneath them. "Almost there," Athos whispered to him.

He opened his eyes and spied the main house of Athos' estate in the distance through the trees. He never thought he'd feel so relieved to see that stone façade. Just as they reached the part of the road that met the front steps, a light rain began and was starting to block out the last of the evening sunlight. They didn't continue on to the stables further down the road. Instead Athos waved Grimaud over from the entrance to the stables and the servant obediently came at a run.

Athos dismounted and D'Artagnan moved to try the same himself, bracing a hand on Athos' shoulder but found no strength in any of his limbs. As it turned out he had to slide out of the saddle and let Athos catch him and lower him to the ground. It hurt, but not as much as climbing into the saddle had. Besides that point, D'Artagnan was beyond caring about being embarrassed or being a burden. Humility saved men from dying needless deaths on the battlefield, and that lesson was the first he gave to every recruit assigned under his authority because he had learned from direct experience that pride and honor could very easily turn on a man, on any soldier regardless of rank, and render him completely and unnecessarily vulnerable and helpless.

Athos gave the task of putting the horses in for the night to Planchet while directing Grimaud to go into the house and draw a bath. Before his silent servant left, Athos whispered something to him but it was lost to D'Artagnan because of the roaring in his ears. Sounds faded away and his vision blurred. All he had at his disposal to tell what was happening was Athos helping him into the house by touch and guidance. They went up a set of stairs one step at a time at an agonizingly slow pace, for that was all D'Artagnan could handle while on his own two feet. Once they reached the top, ages later, they walked down a long hallway or corridor with creaky floorboards covered by soft carpeted rugs. D'Artagnan hoped in passing thought that his boots wouldn't dirty them, but that seemed to be the last thing on Athos' mind as he pressed them on.

"Just a little farther," the man whispered into his ear.

D'Artagnan stumbled and Athos stopped them more than a few times so he could regain his balance and keep from passing out cold on the spot. But Athos spoke the truth, because it was a matter of seconds before D'Artagnan knew they had reached their destination. He felt the humid air of a bath on the cool skin of his face, and though the sensation made him dizzy the relief that flooded into his limbs gave him a brief spell of strength enough to open his eyes and take in his surroundings. He was momentarily confused at how short a time it must have taken the servant to prepare it, but then chalked it up to Grimaud having prepared it prior to his master's return. The man had always seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of things, not just about his master but about his master's friends, about day to day occurrences, changes in plans, and so forth.

Or perhaps they really had taken that long getting up one flight of stairs…the very thought made D'Artagnan color in embarrassment. Athos still held him upright and dismissed Grimaud to help Planchet in the stables. Wordlessly, Athos shed his own coat, rolled up his sleeves, and began the task of undressing D'Artagnan. It was a testament to how much pain the younger man was in that he gave no protest or argument on his own behalf. Beyond that, the room still stubbornly continued to spin and tilt in front of him, so rather than prolong the inevitable, D'Artagnan decided to simply give in. And thankfully, Athos didn't speak a word on the matter.

D'Artagnan's weapons were laid aside first, then his coat, waistcoat, boots and stockings, his shirt, and lastly his breeches and undergarments. D'Artagnan wanted to protest the latter but the pain reared its ugly head again when he did nothing more than shift his weight between his feet. He swayed dangerously to the side and the blood rushed in his ears again as his vision went gray, but Athos didn't let go and put his head under D'Artagnan's arm.

"Hold on to me," he said, before sweeping D'Artagnan's legs up and supporting him with ease.

"Sorry," D'Artagnan mumbled, grasping the back of Athos' shirt in a weak grip. He was airborne for only a few seconds before Athos lowered him into the warm water of the wooden tub. It felt like heaven and though sitting down in it brought a sorry throbbing ache it wasn't as bad as sitting in that God forsaken saddle. D'Artagnan wondered how long it would be before he could ride again as he leaned back against the wall of the tub and tried to relax, finding it easier than he thought it would be.

While he did that, Athos soaked a washcloth and began washing the dirt and afternoon sweat from his friend. "If I recall correctly, you've done the very same for me more than a few times, so I would ask you to cease that berating I know is going on in that thick head of yours. I am merely returning the favor."

"I…I had help then…"

"Yes, you did. Try to relax."

D'Artagnan wanted to laugh. Try? He couldn't do much of anything let alone try to relax when your body was screaming for it and the person you've spent months, if not years, pining after was supporting you, undressing you, and bathing you. The only way out of giving himself away was to ignore it and focus on something else. So he opened his eyes and spotted a jar of what looked like large chunks of salt on a table across the room.

D'Artagnan frowned. "I've seen those before…but I can't remember what…they are."

Athos looked over at the table and then went back to re-soaping the washcloth. "Epsom salts. My cousin, Louisette, is a baroness of northern Spain and her husband is an ambassador and trader of worldly goods. She has sworn by their medicinal properties and insists upon sending me a jar for every shipment her husband brings back from his exploits. I give most of them away to the apothecaries and they have also sworn by their worth."

"And what is your opinion of them, Athos?"

"We'll soon find out," he said straight-faced, though a twinkle in his eye gave him away.

D'Artagnan smiled. "I should have guessed."

"You said you've seen them before?"

"In Paris, I think. But not in the markets. If I remember it correctly…one of the Queen's ladies was carrying a jar of it as I was leaving the palace."

Athos nodded. "A gift, perhaps. Alfonso is known for his needless extravagance."

"Needless?"

The older man frowned. "The man has more land than he needs, more servants than the help he requires, vaults of riches he's inherited from his parents, the thanks of kings, counts, and lords of lands he will only see once in his lifetime. He is not a selfish man, but the cost of the wealth that passes through his hands never leaves his mind. And his mind is an endless ledger of accumulating numbers. My cousin has done much to temper him over the years, but I fear her efforts have not done enough. True charity doesn't expect anything in return, and nor should it shine in the splendor of generosity itself."

D'Artagnan nodded his agreement and furrowed his brows in thought. "Now that you mention it…I do remember seeing a rather large and bright sparkling bow attached to that poor jar."

Athos scoffed. "Then it was certainly from Alfonso."

Towards the end of the bath D'Artagnan could feel the tension pouring out of his muscles. He was by no means reinvigorated and was still quite weak, but his vision was clearer and the blood no longer rushed in his ears. Athos helped him out of the tub, not without a bit of hesitation on D'Artagnan's part and also with a few necessary pauses so the room would stop spinning. By that time Planchet and Grimaud had returned, brought up a light supper to D'Artagnan's room, and helped the young man into bed. Athos didn't return to his room to change. Instead, he pulled a chair up to D'Artagnan's bedside and dined with him while Grimaud and Planchet saw to dumping the bathwater.

D'Artagnan sighed when they had finished eating and leaned back against the pillows and headboard of the bed. "I'm sorry, Athos. I didn't mean to be such a burden-"

Athos gave him a sharp look. "You're not. This is no different from the old days so don't make it out to be."

"Perhaps I'm none the wiser but I am older, my friend." And I shouldn't be imposing on you like this.

But Athos' eyes had gone somewhere else. "Regrettably," he softly replied. "Though knowledge comes with age it cannot give you protection from everything."

D'Artagnan waited until Athos was done, and even then he couldn't open his mouth to say the words that he needed to say. They escaped him and left inadequate replacements to do the job. "I've been stupid…and I've acted poorly."

"So Planchet has told me. But I shall trust you to tell me the full story in time. Presently, you are in need of rest. If you need anything, I'm across the hall from you. And I'm a light sleeper." So don't you dare move from that bed.

D'Artagnan gave him a small smile in thanks. "Consider me properly warned, then."

Athos rose and replaced the chair to the desk against the wall. "Don't worry about the sun tomorrow. Sleep as much as you need. I'll send Planchet in for the dishes."

"Thank you, Athos," D'Artagnan said, sliding further down into the soft comforting sheets and pillows. "Good night."

"Good night, my friend," Athos said, on his way out.

When he was gone D'Artagnan sighed and turned his face into the pillows, surprised and happy to find that the smell of the sheets held a hint of the very same his beloved friend carried. But the last thing he needed now was to be reminded of that treacherous secret of his, much less what dreams could bring. For a moment he wasn't sure which was worse, the fact that he was a sodomite to the world or that he harbored forbidden feelings to a long-time friend and brother-in-arms. One secret needed to be told, and the other needed to disappear. Either way, it appeared as if he was about to lose a friend. And the pain in his chest felt worse than the physical agony he had so far suffered.

Planchet entered quietly when D'Artagnan was on the edge of sleep. "Has he threatened torture for information from you yet," D'Artagnan asked in a drone.

Planchet answered as he dutifully gathered the plates and dinnerware from their earlier meal. "No, master."

"Mmm. Mind you don't put it past him between now and tomorrow."

"I shall remain vigilant. Do you need anything?"

D'Artagnan declined. But before the servant could leave the room, D'Artagnan called him back. "Thank you. If you weren't happy in your current occupation you know I'd offer you a place in the guards. You've certainly got the tenacity for it having dealt with me for so long."

Planchet ducked his head. "This I know, master. Perhaps one day, but not now while I can still be of some use to you."

"Some," D'Artagnan scoffed. "Other men would charge you with doing too much! I have no proof of your doings but don't get used to taking such liberties when my attention is elsewhere."

Planchet smirked. "I wouldn't dream of it, master."

When the servant left, somehow D'Artagnan got the feeling he'd been expecting this sort of rebuke for a while. And he had only spoken to Monsieur de Treville earlier this morning. What else could he possibly have done…And then, like a bolt of lightning he understood. He sat bolt upright, but only made it a foot off the bed before he gasped in pain and fell right back down.

"Blasted man," he growled.

That night, D'Artagnan was lulled to sleep with plotting a revenge fit for two instead of one.

"Charles?"

He looked over to his father from the window. The older man sat comfortably in the chair with his feet propped up and a thin blanket laid over him from his mother.

"Did I wake you," he asked as he knelt next to his father.

His father shook his head, then he nodded toward the window his son had vacated. "Not a pretty sight, is it?"

"We need rain in Paris too."

His father smiled and wove his fingers affectionately in his son's hair. "Well, until then we'll just have to make do with what we have and save what we can-"

"Father…"

His father sighed and shook his head. "I hear it from your mother every day. Do me one mercy Charles and don't berate an old man about his age."

"You know it's only because she worries," he whispered, taking his father's hand into his own. "And when she worries-"

"You worry, I know. But you have more important things to worry about-"

"Don't say that. This is more important and you will always be more important to me than anyone else."

Bertrand was silent for a few moments, and when he finally did speak it was with a worrying tone of his own. "Charles…are you happy?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but surprise stole the words away. Why was his father asking him about his happiness? Hadn't he sent countless letters over the past year about his exploits, his friends, and his achievements? Hadn't he sat by this fireplace many nights when he could afford a visit home and recount his adventures with both his parents? Hadn't they enjoyed those nights? Had he let something else show in its place? Had he given himself away? Did his father know? He couldn't possibly know. But if he did… "Happy," D'Artagnan asked, after swallowing past a sudden lump in his throat. "I'm not sure I know what you mean, Father."

"Something tells me you do…"

Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes, but D'Artagnan forced them back. "I am only unhappy when I worry about you or Mother."

His father leaned forward and took his son's other hand that was gripping the arm of the chair. "Charles…tell me the truth."

D'Artagnan woke to a face full of soft pillows and clean sheets. He woke to comfort. There was warmth and sunshine on his face from a high window above the bed. Mid-morning or perhaps a little later. He sighed and laid his head back on the sinfully plush pillows. His heart still ached from the fond memory because it felt so real. His father's hand had been there. He had felt it as clear as day. Almost as if…

But that was wishful thinking. He eased himself up in bed and winced at the ache he still felt in his backside. But compared to yesterday he felt much better. For the most part, he could even stand up and walk around the room on his own without much pain. He dressed slowly and even took care when he sat down on the bed to pull on his shoes. It still caused him a considerable amount of pain, just sitting down on the soft mattress, but if he had to lie in this bed all day long his back would make him pay for it later. He rationalized it as the lesser of two evils in his mind as he pulled on a soft pair of shoes and went in search of some food and company.

He ran into Planchet on his way downstairs and immediately the servant ushered him to the table and put some food in front of him. He asked where Athos was and learned he was out in the stables having already eaten and immersed himself in some kind of work. D'Artagnan's curiosity was peaked, for more than a few times he had wondered how Athos chose to spend his retirement. He even allowed himself to fantasize about the day of his own retirement, should he be lucky enough to see it. But he could never get past the present want for more adventure and action, or perhaps it was only the need to actively be doing some kind of physical work. Truth be told, he hated the deskwork that came with his present position back in Paris. Bookkeeping and letters were not his forte. They never were, and in the past he had left those matters to men like Aramis who took pleasure in such things.

When he was finished with his breakfast, which could almost have been considered a midday meal, he rose and headed towards the door.

"Master," Planchet asked, uneasy and with that worrying look in his eye yet again. "Shouldn't you be-"

"I'm only going in search of Athos. My sword is upstairs if you need further proof that I won't get into any trouble without you."

The servant, as expected, did not look the least bit happy but went about his duties without another word.

Though it was the beginning of what was sure to be a long hot summer, D'Artagnan pulled on a soft and unadorned jacket over his thin white shirt. The coolness of the morning still lingered and gave him a chill. As he looked at himself in a framed looking glass by the door he noticed for the first time how thin he really looked. No wonder everyone was worried about him, he thought. He couldn't remember looking this bad since that first year in Paris when he caught that bad fever that swept through the streets. Many died and it was only toward the end of the epidemic that people started migrating toward the countryside for fresher air.

It had certainly worked for him. Looking back on it he thought perhaps part of what contributed to his declining health back then was homesickness. The simple sight of trees, for instance, did much to make him breathe easier in those days. It still did. He had never truly taken to the hurried life of the city and the politics that went with it. The country was where he was raised and where he felt most like himself. Oftentimes he wished there could have been some kind of happy medium between the two that he could have chosen for himself. But if he had taken that route, he never would have met Athos, Porthos or Aramis.

He glanced up at the house as he made his way down the path and, for the first time since visiting this place, he realized that this was not just a house but something worthy of being called a chateau for its age and size. There were larger estates in this part of the country for certain, some that even trounced the simple stonework of Athos' home with more elaborate rooftops, statues and windows, courtyards and latticework inspired by the grander architecture in Paris. Athos' house was different. There was an air about it that almost made him bow out of respect for the weathering it endured over the centuries that he was sure it must have stood here.

The real question was, how many centuries had it seen?

He continued on, pondering about it in the back of his mind even as he peered into the stables from the large entrance. Up close it was an imposing structure capable of housing twenty horses comfortably. D'Artagnan remembered from the last time he had been here that it had been half in disarray and unused. Now, it appeared spotless and in order wherever he looked. Athos had complained about having too much space in the past and D'Artagnan wondered if seeing this anomaly before his eyes was any warning to what further discoveries he would find. Presently, however all he saw were their horses munching on oats in their stalls.

"Athos," D'Artagnan called.

Something dropped to the floor above him in the loft. He looked up and spied Athos poking his head over the railing.

"One moment," he called back down.

Before D'Artagnan could apologize Athos was gone. D'Artagnan leaned against the doorway and listened to Athos rummaging around with things above. Then, seconds later he heard him coming down the stairs to his left. As he came down D'Artagnan noticed a few things. For one, Athos was a little red in the face and sweaty as if he'd been working on something. Second, he was only in a thin and loose white shirt that stuck to his body in, ironically, all the right places. Thirdly, there was a bit of sawdust or what looked like small bits of wood chippings stuck in his hair. On his way down Athos shoved his arms through the armholes of his vest but didn't button it for the heat.

D'Artagnan noticed that he was staring in a rather unbecoming manner, and had to clear his throat before he could even attempt speech. "I'm sorry. Did I interrupt you?"

If Athos was bothered by D'Artagnan's staring he didn't show it. "Not I. You and your rest, however, yes."

D'Artagnan frowned. "I'm all right-"

Athos gave him a look.

"Better than yesterday?"

Athos crossed his arms and pursed his lips.

D'Artagnan crossed his own arms and tried not to wince when he readjusted his weight. "Well, I am standing on my own two feet."

"You are leaning against the doorway," Athos drawled.

"I made it out here on my own," he challenged.

"It is not that far a walk from the main house. Nevertheless, you seem much improved."

D'Artagnan bit his lip and played with a loose thread on the coat. "Thanks to you."

Athos uncrossed his arms and sighed. "Are you still in pain?"

"Not much."

"How much is not much?"

"It is not completely gone," D'Artagnan admitted. "And I don't expect it to be for some days yet, but it is tolerable."

"For now, you mean."

It was D'Artagnan's turn to sigh. "Yes, for now. Things change as they always do. But that doesn't mean I can't take advantage of it while I can," he finished with a teasing smile.

Athos frowned. "And if I would rather you didn't?"

"Well…then I would have to ask you what you'd suggest for bedside entertainment?" As the words came out of his mouth he wanted to kick himself, but it seemed so damned easy, as if the words themselves were like silk or some sweet cider on a cool day. He didn't dare look up at Athos for a reaction, but bolstered on as if he'd meant it in the completely innocent way he should have said it. "I will be indebted to Planchet for the rest of my life but if I were honest I'd admit that I have sorely missed your company since our brief reunion yesterday."

"I'm certain we can find a few things to talk about to pass the time," Athos replied, ushering them both out of the stables and back towards the house.

And damn it all, that hand on his lower back again was doing far too much good. He grasped for words, any words that could keep them both on neutral territory. "I meant to ask you something, Athos-how old is this place?"

Athos almost looked a bit weary of giving an answer, as if he'd been asked that same question many times before or schooled on it against his will. D'Artagnan thought it might have been the latter. "Very. The oldest foundations probably saw the rise and fall of Charlemagne over eight hundred years ago."

D'Artagnan stared at him in disbelief. "But…the house can't be that old!"

"By the time I'm through with its history you won't doubt it. But first I'll need some wine and you'll need a comfortable bed-"

D'Artagnan stopped them both under the shade of an overhanging tree with a quick hand on his friend's arm. "Chair, Athos-please, I am hardly recovered but I would much rather see what it is we are talking about rather than leave it to the mercy of my feeble imagination."

Athos stuck the tip of his foot in the dirt and paused in consideration. "While I don't agree with you why don't we compromise for the library upstairs? It's in the oldest part of the building and the furniture is close to the softness that should be agreeable to your needs."

"That sounds perfect," he said with a grateful smile.