CHAPTER 23
Nature wasn't on their side as shortly after midnight it began to snow again, large wet flakes falling from the dark skies to land on the moving men and horses. It made what was already going to be a long journey longer and more dangerous. As the snow accumulated on the track, the two horses, already weary and overburdened, slowed down even more due to the deteriorating conditions.
For the horses' sakes, they took a few short breaks, each time building a fire to keep warm. Aramis, riding tandem with d'Artagnan had slumped more than once during the long trek, the lad being forced to hold tight to ensure the musketeer stayed in the saddle. They had argued over who was going to ride in the front and who in the rear, but d'Artagnan had insisted and Aramis acquiesced. The first time he felt the marksman drifting off, he was glad he had insisted. The war saddles were roomy just for occasions such as this, where survival meant two on a horse, though it was still easiest to have the injured man in the front, where one could see him.
There had been no debate on the riding order of Porthos and Athos. The streetfighter had all but tossed the lighter man into the saddle before climbing up behind him and locking his powerful arms around him. Athos hadn't objected, though he hadn't done much of anything since they pulled him from the river, his fever robbing him of his senses. Porthos could feel the heat of the fever through Athos' leathers and as Aramis had discovered earlier, it was not a bad way to keep a little warmer. But he worried that Athos, as the trip grew longer, was less and less responsive. At the last stop, Porthos had basically carried him from the horse to the ground, where he sat in a heap, and then back to the horse. The only thing the streetfighter was grateful for was what d'Artagnan had noted earlier; no matter what condition he was in Athos seemed to have a knack for staying in the saddle.
The snow eventually drifted off to a lazy stop and the pink glow of dawn once more found d'Artagnan studying the cock-topped spire of the Abbey, wishing they were closer. When they finally rode through the Abbey's arched gate, morning prayer was over and, surprisingly, the courtyard was filled with many brothers passing through, carrying baskets to the stable area.
As they came through the gates, heads turned in their direction, though no one stopped to greet them. For a moment, the two horses and the four men simply stood, exhausted, in the courtyard, happy to have reached this destination with everyone still alive. Porthos dismounted first, leaving Athos in the saddle, but placing a steadying hand on the man's thigh.
Suddenly, like last time, a now familiar robed man glided across the courtyard towards them.
"You're back. And on Christmas Eve," the Abbott said, rather strangely if anyone had been sharp enough to listen closely. Almost as if he shook himself out of some sort of trance, Abbott Dubois, added in a warmer tone, "You have found your missing friends. The Lord does answer our prayers."
Aramis and d'Artagnan had slid from their horse to the ground, leading it over to stand by Porthos' shoulder.
"D'Artagnan. Good to see you again. And you I presume are Aramis," the Abbott stated with the utmost confidence.
"I am, but how did you…" the confused man asked, sure he'd never met the Abbott before.
"Your friends mentioned your names last time they were our guests. And that must be Athos," he said, as he turned his eyes to the slumping man on the horse. "He doesn't look well at all."
Porthos and Aramis were surprised the Abbott was able to identify their brothers for they didn't recall them talking that much about them on the last visit.
At that moment, another brother slid next to the Abbott and whispered something softly in his ear. Abbott DuBois' eyes slid over to the stable and then back, almost as if there was something going on in there he didn't wish shared with the four musketeers. He gave a curt nod to his brother who glided away.
The Abbott caught Porthos staring at the gliding man and reminded him, "Classes." Aramis curiously glanced over at Porthos, but the big man ignored him.
"Let's get your brother off that horse and in some place safe and warm," the Abbott said, suddenly bustling them about as if they'd overstayed their welcome in the courtyard. "Surely, you must be tired of seeing all this snow."
Porthos lifted Athos down from the horse and could tell the man was in no condition to walk. So, he simply slung him over his shoulder. "Lead on."
It was a testament to how lost in fever Athos was that he didn't even seemed to know he was being carried like a sack of grain over Porthos' shoulder. The Abbott led the musketeers deeper than before into the inner sanctums of the Abbey. To a room with a large fireplace, four beds, a couple of tables, chairs and even a few rather comfy-looking overstuffed chairs flanking the fireplace. The oddest thing about the room was there wasn't a single window, though a good number of candles, which, once lit, gave the room a warm glow. The mantle was decorated with greens, holly with cheerful red berries, and scented pinecones.
"I see the brothers have been busy in here. We use this as…ah… guest quarters. For visiting brethren from other Monasteries," he tacked on, lest it seem like the Abbey was an inn.
"You are pretty far removed here," Aramis said conversationally as he took in the room. "I can't imagine you get many visitors."
"Given the nature of our work, we find it useful to be off the beaten path as they say." The Abbott paused again as if he was considering what he had just said. "Being in the business of prayer, of course, and worshipping our Lord that is. It is useful to be isolated. Not have people barging in at awkward times."
Aramis was wondering what an 'awkward' time was for a monk, but before he could inquire, the Abbott went on. "Of course, the King's musketeers coming here are always welcome. You play an important role for King and Country. While we look after the country's spiritual needs, you look after her physical needs." The Abbott paused again, as if he had made a faux pas, before adding, "By being soldiers and fighting and all.
Porthos, who had laid Athos down on one of the beds upon entering the room, joined the group. "Abbott, could we impose on you for food…"
"And medical supplies…if you have any to spare," Aramis hastily added.
"But of course. I will send Brother Francis to consult with you. He knows best what is in our infirmary."
"I could just go there, to the infirmary, and not put Brother Francis out," Aramis stated politely. "I can manage a few more yards."
The Abbott seemed to get flustered at that suggestion. "Oh no. That would not be suitable to have you running about the Abbey, I mean in your weakened state. That would not be good at all. Brother Francis will be more than happy to consult with you here and bring what you need. The infirmary is so far away. Yes, that would not do at all."
Once again, another brother mysteriously floated to the Abbott's side. Strangely, he seemed to have sawdust covering the lower half of his robe. The Abbott looked at the unseemly robe and then over at the three standing musketeers. "Brother Tomas. He saws wood, for the fires of the Abbey. Obviously, he has just sawn fresh logs for your fire." Brother Tomas nodded his head as if to agree with the statement, though he remained otherwise silent.
"Our good brother will bring them in and stack them in the rack, in case you need them later."
Porthos took a step forward. "Let me help carry the wood. I carried him. I can carry anything."
"Yes, oh well, that is very kind of you, but a musketeer carrying wood? What would the King think of his musketeers doing such…tasks."
"You have no idea what we have done by the command of the King," d'Artagnan piped up. "Carrying firewood is nothing. Trust me."
"No, no. You shouldn't be running around anymore than Aramis. Please, sit, get warm and I will send Brother Francis with medical supplies; Brother Tomas will bring the wood and I shall stop by the kitchen and have Brother Jacques send up food."
Aramis was puzzled, trying to figure out if the Abbott was deliberately confining them to this room, which didn't make sense. "I'm sure, with it being Christmas Eve, you and the brothers are very busy preparing and don't need a bunch of musketeers underfoot."
"Oh yes indeed. We are quite busy preparing. Of course, it is a simple celebration. We spend the night in the main chapel, secluded, praying. I mean if you were walking about you'd almost think the Abbey deserted. But of course, we are all in the chapel, praying, which is exhausting work. On Christmas, we all return, from the chapel that is, and meet in the refectory for a huge feast. Every brother comes and our own Brother Jacques out-does himself. You will join us of course, after your night's rest. Which I am sure will be peaceful inside these walls. Now let me be off."
With that, the Abbott glided out the door with Brother Tomas right behind, pulling the door tightly shut.
"Was the Abbott that…odd…last time?" Aramis questioned, as he moved across the room to Athos' side.
Porthos and d'Artagnan trailed after Aramis. "I don't know. All religious men are a bit odd if you ask me. Standing around praying all day. What kind of life is that?" Porthos said as he flopped on the bed to the right of the one Athos was lying on.
"Sounds rather peaceful to me," the medic-musketeer said as he loosened Athos' doublet after placing a hand to the man's forehead. "Still hot."
D'Artagnan, who had moved over by the fireplace and was fingering the greenery asked, "Did it seem to anyone else that the good Abbott doesn't want us wandering around his Abbey."
"I admit he seemed a bit…strange…but it is Christmas Eve. They probably have very sacred ceremonies and they simply want to focus on the holiness of this night. This is probably not a night they like to have guests," Aramis surmised, as he helped a groggy Athos out of his jacket. The room was warm as was the man.
Before anything more could be said, there came a polite knock on the door and a flurry of activity took place. Brother Tomas, still covered in sawdust, came in with armfuls after armfuls of wood, enough for a week it seemed to Porthos, who insisted on helping him move it from the cart in the hallway over to the log carrier by the fireplace.
D'Artagnan's attention was taken up by the second cart, which a brother, whom they hadn't met yet, wheeled into the room and over to the table. The brother laid out a huge quantity of simple, but hearty fair, enough for ten people. To the food he added bottles of wine and ale. A few sweet confections found their way onto the table. "I took some of these from tomorrow's fare. I thought, after all you have been through, you might appreciate them. Don't worry, there are plenty more," he said when d'Artagnan began to protest that they didn't want anyone deprived because of them.
The last person to come into the room, sans a cart but with two baskets in his hands was Brother Francis. He set them on one of the empty beds and Aramis eagerly dug through them. "You seem to have a wonderfully stocked infirmary," Aramis said distractedly as he dug through the baskets, removing what he thought he'd need.
"Yes. Well we get a surprising number of injuries in our small community. People not careful with tools and the like."
"I didn't know monks used tools? I thought the main tool was prayer," Aramis quipped as he laid out the supplies.
"Of course, but we are a working Abbey. We make our own wine, build things, grow things. Injuries happen."
Aramis gathered what he needed then began to produce a potion to help reduce Athos' fever while the brother watched. "Be sure to allow your friend to wash that down with a nice glass of our wine. It's going to taste horrible," he declared as he watched what the medic-musketeer was grinding together.
"Listen to the good brother," a weak voice from the bed called out.
Aramis turned and saw Athos had managed to sit up on the bed. "Since when do you ever follow religious advice?" he gently teased.
"When it involves drinking wine," Athos stated flatly.
Soon enough, the room was empty except for the four musketeers.
"Anyone feel the need to see if the door is locked from the outside," d'Artagnan joked, though there was a slight truth to the jest.
"It's warm. There is lots of food and wine. A fire. Beds. If the brothers don't want us messing about with their ceremonies, I'm good with that," Porthos cheerfully declared as he sat at the table and began to make inroads into the food.
Aramis, who'd finished the tincture and was leaving it to steep, joined Porthos and d'Artagnan at the table. "Will you need help to the table, Athos? I'm sure Porthos wouldn't mind carrying you once more, considering he carried you over his shoulder all the way here."
"Is there going to be wine in my glass if I come to the table," Athos demanded after giving Aramis the evil eye.
Aramis lifted the lid from a pot on the table and the smells of a wonderful stew flooded the room. "Same rules as always," he said as he ladled some into a bowl and set it by the empty chair. "Food, medicine, wine, in that order."
Athos attempted to rise from the bed, but couldn't make it as a wave of dizziness overcame him. Before he even sank back onto the bed, Aramis was at his side. "If we are relegated to this room for the night, you, my friend, are confined to this bed. After you eat and take the medicine, I will put some salve on your burn and bruises...everyone's bruises," he added, including the others. "I know we have all been beaten and battered these last few days, but it so happens that Brother Francis has my favorite salve already made."
"The one that smells," d'Artagnan mouthed around his food.
"Of mint, yes. Very festive," Aramis confirmed, before turning his attentions back to Athos. "Let's prop you up here with some pillows, and I shall bring you some food."
"And wine," Athos reminded him. "I have a fever. You said liquids are good for fever if I recall."
"Yes, they are," Aramis agreed as he took two pillows from the other beds and helped Athos position himself in a more upright manner. "But I meant water, not wine."
Athos only managed a quarter of the bowl of stew, and turned down all other offers, including the sweetmeats Porthos brought over from the table. He downed the tincture with minimal fuss, but only managed a few mouthfuls of wine before he started to drift off. Aramis took the cup away and helped position him comfortably on the bed.
Once Athos was settled, Aramis took the time to check the burn on his arm and rub salve on it and his bruises. Then Aramis went back to the table and ate his fill, before the three of them retired with the wine, and sweets, in front of the fire. One after the other, they dropped off into a deep sleep, one that would keep them in their room until the morning's light.
