I really wanted to update sooner but it's been a full on kind of week, so I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but it's here; I won't say "enjoy" because it's not that kind of chapter but there is plenty of love here in spite of the situation they are in, and I hope that comes across. And now the inevitable warning: description of corporal punishment. Skip this chapter if this will upset you.
Chapter Seven: Illusion of Me
The night passed. Neither of them slept. They each lay listening to the other's breathing, and willed the night to heal everything, and dreaded the new day, and marvelled at how time could both creep and gallop at the same time.
d'Artagnan rose as soon as he heard the first chirrup of the sparrows. Porthos' eyes tracked him as he pulled on his boots and put on his oldest shirt, leaving his doublet and weapons on his bed. As d'Artagnan headed out, he stopped and turned back, managing to raise a shaky smile. "It'll be alright, Porthos. Please, tell Athos that I understand, and I'm sorry." And he left before Porthos could think of a response.
Left on his own Porthos sat up, his eyes feeling hot and scratchy. He pinched the bridge of his nose viciously, wondering how he was going to get through today; wishing he could be anywhere else but here, today. Then he cursed himself – knowing that the day would be a heck of a lot worse for both d'Artagnan and Athos – and hauled himself out of bed, putting on what Aramis called his 'game face': stoic, cheerful, confident, supportive Porthos, reporting for duty.
d'Artagnan hauled a bucket of water from the well and tipped it over his head, trying to wake himself up and relishing the feeling of the cool liquid on his skin. Shaking the droplets from his hair he straightened and looked around.
A few men were stirring, heading for the latrines or joining him at the well. No one wished him a good morning and no one met his eyes. Not sure if this expressed their disapproval or simply discomfort at not knowing what to say, d'Artagnan decided to dismiss everyone else from his head. He would not have room for any extra emotions today.
Raising his chin in a familiar gesture, he turned from the well and then stopped, realising he had no idea where to go. Back to his tent, to wait for the summons? He couldn't go to Athos – that would be totally inappropriate. He couldn't go to the horse lines in case someone thought he was planning to abscond. Ditto the river. It was too early for breakfast, even if he could stomach any. A walk around the camp? More staring eyes – maybe not. He turned in a slow circle and saw to his relief Guérin approaching him.
"Morning, d'Artagnan. Ready for duty?"
Merde. He'd completely forgotten that Guérin had swopped duties with him after he'd been sent on that bloody errand last night. "I'll – I might be a bit late." Guérin obviously didn't know what had happened when he'd returned. Maybe he'd leave one of those lovely people currently staring at him to explain it. "I'll tell Porthos. Excuse me."
As he walked away he could hear Guérin asking someone what he'd missed, then an eruption of swearing, but he couldn't worry about that. He had to shut his mind. Just find Porthos and tell him about guard duty. One thing at a time.
An odd sound stopped him in his tracks. Wang. Wang. He looked over to the centre of the main camp, a hundred paces away, where he found the source of the sound: two men hammering a tall post into the ground. His insides seemed to turn to liquid as he recognised its purpose. It would be the whipping post.
A voice in his ear, suddenly. "Don't look. It'll be fine. Just keep your head up." Guérin, grasping the situation in seconds and working out where his energy was needed at this moment: in supporting, not in questioning or emotion.
He nodded, without looking Guérin's way, and set off again towards where he could see Porthos buckling his doublet on outside their tent. He was aware of Guérin shadowing him quietly but didn't alter his focus. One step at a time.
By the time he reached Porthos, the big musketeer had also identified the sound of the post being hammered into the ground and his face had darkened with rage. "They're doing it there?" he hissed, brushing past d'Artagnan as if he were irrelevant. "Putain! That's crazy. It's nothing to do with the main camp!" And he bustled off towards Athos' tent.
"Porthos! I'm on duty at 6 o'clock. Can you tell Athos?"
Porthos stopped abruptly and swung around, looking bemused.
"Guérin swopped with me, remember? You'll need to find cover for me until afterwards..." his voice trailed off, not sure if he'd be able to stand duty afterwards. Aware of the adrenaline starting to pump through him at the thought of what lay ahead.
Porthos nodded slowly and turned back to find Athos just as Guérin came up to stand by d'Artagnan. "It'll be fine," he repeated. "It's Athos. He won't hurt you."
d'Artagnan didn't know whether Guérin meant Athos would find some way out of carrying out the punishment, or just that he would be gentle, but either way he couldn't manage to speak. One voice in his head was telling him just to run, but another voice was telling him go deep inside himself somewhere none of this mattered, and he couldn't seem to speak past either voice.
And then he saw Athos.
Their eyes met immediately across the open space, even with Porthos bearing down on Athos and a dozen Musketeers milling around in between. And d'Artagnan could immediately see every second of his own sleepless night reflected on Athos' face, and see the torment threatening to break his calm façade, and knew that nothing else mattered other than to make it right with Athos.
So he smiled. It was a rueful smile. It said 'I know I'm a prat. I've messed it all up, and I'm sorry, but it will be okay, and I'm sorry'. And he saw Athos' expression soften for just a second, until Porthos reached him and the day crashed back into place around him, and he saw Athos don his Captain's mantle again, and that tiny moment of understanding was lost.
There were a ludicrous number of people up and about for this time in the morning, mused d'Artagnan as Porthos led him across to the newly erected post. Shame it's not raining, then let's see how many of you want to stand and watch. His thoughts were skittering all over the place and he welcomed it, happy not to think about being flogged until he absolutely had to ... damn! Now the words were thundering in his ears. He was going to be flogged, flogged, like a common criminal, in front of friends, and men he looked up to, and men who looked up to him. He had commanded some of these men, only in small ways so far but he'd been given a position of responsibility, of leadership, and now he was to be stripped of his dignity and his flesh literally laid bare for all to see...
"Steady." The voice in his ear sounded just as it had been all those months ago, on the way to his first proper battle. Porthos, sensing his rising panic. Always by his side – but he can't be, for this. This is just me now. Me and five hundred pairs of eyes.
"Take your shirt off." They'd arrived at the pole, and the soldiers who'd been lounging casually around the central muster area had followed them, drawn like magnets, moving to form a perfect circle around the post. Porthos was looking at him, his face calm as always, waiting.
Merde... this was really happening. Slowly he raised leaden arms to his shirt and started to fumble at the lacings with stiff, shaking fingers. There was a low murmur of voices around him, easy to block out, as he finally succeeded in loosening the laces enough to pull his shirt over his head.
Someone stepped forward to take it immediately and he glanced over. Guérin, looking white faced but resolute, managing to squeeze d'Artagnan's fingers slightly as he took the shirt and stepped away.
It won't hurt, d'Artagnan told himself. It doesn't break the skin, it's no worse than a beating in a fight and God knows he'd had enough injuries in his time to know how to deal with pain.
But this would be different, another voice told him. This is Athos causing you pain, deliberately. Your friend. The man you look up to above all others. And he's punishing you because you've lost control in a moment of – what? Inattention? Distraction? Madness? He deserved this, he realised. He'd brought it on himself. He had to learn to separate what had happened, to box it up and not let it ruin his future... He would use this, learn from it. It would make him stronger -
Fils de pute! His moment of introspection fled as Porthos approached holding out a pair of iron manacles. Immediately his resolve vanished as his bowels cramped and panic surged through him at the thought of being manacled ... like a prisoner.
Porthos saw the colour drain from his face and the slight lurch as his knees started to give way, and correctly interpreted it. Instantly his free hand was catching d'Artagnan under the elbow, yanking him towards him in a way that might look rough to the onlookers, but in fact saved him from collapsing.
"Stand tall!" he hissed in d'Artagnan's ear as he released his elbow cautiously.
"Don't... don't put those on. Please!" d'Artagnan whispered, hating to beg but not able to take his eyes off the manacles. It was too much; just too much.
Porthos hesitated. "You'll need something to hold on to." He looked around, seeing Guérin still nearby. "Fetch me some rope," he commanded, quietly. Guérin shot off and Porthos dropped the awful manacles behind d'Artagnan, out of his sight.
It was but a moment before Guérin returned with a length of rope. Porthos quickly fashioned a loop at one end, passing it through the ring on the post then making a loop at the other end. "Put your hands through there," he instructed, nodding his approval as d'Artagnan put each hand through the loop then wrapping his hands around the rope above each loop. This would anchor him and give the appearance of being tied up, yet he would be able to free his hands if he chose.
Porthos made a show of checking the stability of the post, the ring and the ropes, using his proximity to say quietly: "You can do this. Focus on one thought. I'll be right here. You're with friends." Then he stepped away and d'Artagnan turned his head to follow him, feeling bereft of his comforting presence. Porthos moved to stand next Guérin and the group of other Musketeers, which seemed to include pretty much anyone who wasn't on duty, d'Artagnan thought.
The murmuring suddenly stopped and d'Artagnan his head craned further around to see Athos approaching, back ramrod straight, face inscrutable, looking the same as he did every morning before muster, except that in his hand he held a horse whip – a thin, flexible leather-bound cane around two feet long, crowned with a short flick of thin leather.
That doesn't look too bad, thought d'Artagnan, turning his head back and settling his feet apart so he wouldn't stagger. And it was only ten blows. Now it was about to happen, he just wanted to get it over with, confident he could deal with it.
But Athos cleared his throat and then his voice rang out around the gathering.
"Sub-lieutenant d'Artagnan, please turn to face me." Startled, d'Artagnan twisted around awkwardly with his hands still through the loops of rope, seeing, with surprise that immediately turned to dread, that Fouchard was handing d'Artagnan's doublet to Athos. "You admit to striking a superior officer. You are therefore no longer fit to lead men, and must forfeit your officer's commission. d'Artagnan, I am relieving you of your rank as of now." And so saying, he started to unbuckle d'Artagnan's pauldron, on which the symbol of his rank was etched just below the elaborate fleur de lis.*
d'Artagnan tried to hide his dismay but wasn't sure he'd succeeded. He'd heard of this before – the public humiliation or cashiering of an officer who is stripped of his rank for some misdemeanour – but he hadn't been expecting it. Lifting his chin, he held Athos' gaze, hoping to convey his acceptance of the inevitable.
In a rare display of weakness, Athos heaved a visible sigh before handing the doublet and pauldron to Fouchard and lifting the whip. He jerked his chin at d'Artagnan who felt a wave of nausea rising as he turned to face the post again.
His hands gripped the rope tightly as he waited, listening to the hushed voices of the onlookers. He heard Athos take a step closer, then another, then the scrape of his boots as he adjusted his stance slightly. He heard the slight creak of leather as he raised his arm high, then a long pause, broken only by the odd whisper from the throng of onlookers and the sound of harsh breathing – his own, he realised. He tried to breathe more slowly, deeply, clamping his mouth shut so as not to let any sound escape. Concentrate on your breathing, he told himself, thinking of Porthos' advice to focus on something. He shut his eyes but promptly opened them again so he could see the reassuring warmth of the wooden post inches in front of him. He didn't want to be in the dark... Dammit, do it, Athos! The anticipation was unbearable and he wanted to scream at him to get on with it. What was he waiting for?
There was a sudden swish and an audible thwack and the force of the blow took him completely by surprise. He stumbled forwards, his whole body thrumming with the power of the blow. His face hit the post with a dull thud, and a second later the pain rushed in as his senses caught up with him.
Con! A line of fire erupted across the skin of his back between his shoulders. He'd caught his breath as he fell into the post, and now he had to order himself to start breathing again. Breathe through the nose, steady now. He could almost hear Porthos talking to him: it's okay, it's fine, it's not that bad. The pain was settling into a dull ache now. He straightened, pushing himself off the post, suddenly ashamed of his body's weakness. He planted his feet again and prepared himself.
As if waiting for him to recover, Athos' next blow arrived almost immediately. It wasn't quite so hard, this one, and he only stumbled forward a tiny bit, recovering his stance almost immediately. Before the pain of the second blow had even registered, he heard the swish again and the third strike hit him, as if – now he'd started – Athos also couldn't wait to be done with this.
Each blow landed in a slightly different place so the lines of liquid fire were separate, laying a pattern of burning stripes across his shoulders and upper back.
He'd lost count! For some reason that panicked him. Was it five, or six? They didn't feel so hard, now, as if Athos had lost heart, or was going easy on him. Seven. Or six. He was holding his body still, trying not to lean too hard on the ropes around his wrists as they were already biting into the still fragile skin there from when he'd been manacled for four weeks by the Spanish. Eight. Or seven. That one landed too close to the previous hit and it hurt more than the rest, pain pulsing from his skin, dancing across his shoulders, bringing stinging tears to his eyes for a second. No! He would not show weakness. This was hurting Athos just as much as him, he knew; he would not make it worse by betraying his pain. Nine! His body was beginning to tremble now but he was nearly there, he'd nearly done it. Just one more to go... Ten! Or nine, he reminded himself, forcing his knees to stay locked in case he'd miscounted and there was another blow to come.
There was a growing buzz around him, and at first he thought it was because the spectacle was over, but it grew into the sound of discontent, and protest, and then he heard a quiet argument behind him, between Athos and someone whose voice he recognised only too well: Colombe.
He hadn't seen the man amongst the onlookers – he must have been standing behind, watching d'Artagnan's shame as his skin was striped by the whip. What were they arguing about? Now Porthos' voice joined in, raised in protest, and he shifted, opening his eyes and turning to look behind him, hissing as the movement pulled at his burning skin.
"Don't look." Guérin appeared, blocking his view, handing him a water bottle.
"Don't look at what?" d'Artagnan was suddenly alert, suspicious. Why wouldn't Guérin meet his eyes?
Guérin was trying to keep d'Artagnan from seeing the implement being waved around aggressively by Colombe at the moment, which looked like a horsewhip but with multiple thin oil cords attached to the end. He didn't know what to say, but he feared d'Artagnan would know soon enough. He told him the easier part. "Colombe's arguing about the number of strokes."
That bloody connard! d'Artagnan could hear the odd word from the bastard: "Totally insufficient... The General ... same opinion... far too lax... insupportable insolence... court martial..." It didn't sound good. He shifted his weight, desperate to move now. His back felt as if someone was dripping liquid tar on it and the pain from the bruising was spreading, deepening with every breath he took.
The hubbub had died down as everyone strained to hear what was going on, and in the hush d'Artagnan heard Colombe's voice again. "I'm happy to take over if you are unable, Captain Athos."
The intake of breath from a hundred musketeers meant d'Artagnan could not hear Athos' words but there was no mistaking the tone as he snapped back his response. He looked to Guérin for interpretation but the fair-haired musketeer was hurriedly returning to his place amongst the onlookers as all attention swung back towards d'Artagnan again. He swallowed, wishing he knew what was happening. Deciding that he, of all people, had the right to know he opened his mouth to ask, just as something sliced across his shoulders with a sudden wet schick sound.
It felt like his skin had been torn apart and he couldn't contain a gasp of surprise. Oh, Mon Dieu! that hurt.
A second later another whisper of air gave him the tiniest warning to brace himself before a new slash tore into his skin. This time he managed to keep his mouth shut but even so another grunt of pain escaped him. Before he had time to recover there was a third stroke, then a fourth. The fifth sent him stumbling forwards, his whole body now screaming with the pain radiating out from his shoulders and back. He clutched desperately at the ropes, trying to muster the strength to push himself upright again, but the next stroke and the next landed in quick succession and his legs wouldn't cooperate; his back was just a cauldron of fire. He couldn't tell if his eyes were open, he couldn't hear if he was making a sound, all he could think about was trying to stay upright and not to sob.
There was a roaring in his ears now and it took a while – schick! – for him to recognise Porthos' voice, shouting something. "You haven't told him how many! Athos, he doesn't know!"
A pause in the strokes, then Athos' voice sounding strained, as if his throat was constricted. "Twenty-five."
Twenty five? Was that in total, or the number still to be given from the new whip? For d'Artagnan had no doubt he was being flogged with something different now. Schick! This time he did groan, he was sure he had, his forehead jammed up against the post, the pain all too much now, every inch of his back radiating raw pain. Schick. Schick. Schick. He couldn't do it, his legs wouldn't hold him up any more, he was going to collapse in front of everyone... schick... No, dammit! Not in front of Colombe. Schick. He would not give in. He pushed himself away from the post again and stood as straight as he could, roaring silent defiance in every fibre of his being. Schick. He would not give in. He would not...
Hands encircled his and drew them back through the loops of rope. He struggled feebly for a second, still trying to hold himself upright, then recognised Porthos' familiar musky smell and let his body sag in relief. "Is it done?" he whispered, almost to himself. He hardly recognised the hoarse assent as Porthos freed his other hand and took him by the arms to turn him. "My shirt," d'Artagnan opened his eyes, finding blood dripping into one eye from somewhere. "I need my shirt."
"Not a good idea, my friend." Porthos sounded odd. d'Artagnan turned his head to look at him, hissing through his teeth as the movement pulled on his tortured skin. Porthos was white around his eyes, his mouth set in an angry line.
"I'm okay." d'Artagnan wanted to reassure him but his voice didn't sound right. "I just want my shirt." He couldn't think straight. His back was on fire, his wrists hurt, his face hurt, everything hurt. Guérin was there, holding out the water bottle again, and d'Artagnan tried to lift his hands to take it, but they were trembling too much. Guérin tutted and held the bottle to his lips. "My shirt," mumbled d'Artagnan again, pushing the water away. Everyone was still gawping at him and he couldn't bear the thought of all those eyes feasting on the evidence of his pain, his shame.
Guérin thrust the water bottle into his hands impatiently and grabbed his shirt from Fouchard who'd been holding it. "Perhaps you'd like your doublet, too?" he muttered, fiercely. d'Artagnan raised smile for him – "no, just the shirt," and then he took a step forward and went down like a sack of potatoes.
"Bugger off, everyone," he heard Porthos roaring as he clutched onto something – Porthos, probably, and tried to push himself up off his knees. "Guérin, get his other arm."
"I'm okay," he tried to tell them.
Somehow he was walking, with hands clamped around both his arms to hold him up, but moving his feet and taking his own weight. He lifted his chin, looking straight through everyone, searching only for one face. But Athos was not there. He hadn't actually seen him since the very beginning: it was as if a phantom had delivered the punishment. Or – a dreadful thought struck him. Had Colombe taken over when the whip had been changed? Suddenly it seemed very important to know.
"Who did it?"
"Did what?" Porthos, sounding stressed as they manoeuvred him back towards the Musketeer's part of camp.
"The second part of it."
The hands propelling him forward both stopped as Guérin and Porthos looked at each other. "He couldn't see," Guérin realised.
Porthos swore, quietly. "It was Athos, throughout." Sounding uncertain. Not sure if that was a good thing.
"I want to see him." More consternation going on over his head. "Please, Porthos, I need to see him."
"Guérin, go and get Etienne to meet us in our tent. Or Julien." A blink, then Guérin had gone from his side. "Are you sure, d'Artagnan?"
d'Artagnan leaned more heavily on Porthos and nodded. "I need to tell him I'm sorry."
"What are you talking about?"
"For making him ... Porthos, I'm so sorry..."
They were on the move again, more slowly with only Porthos to help him. d'Artagnan seemed to have lost all sense of balance but the only thing he could think about was the fire in his back and his equally burning need to see Athos.
"I don't think it's a good idea, lad. Not right now."
d'Artagnan felt anger coursing through him. He'd just been through hell, in front of the whole bloody camp! Why wouldn't Porthos help him? He pushed Porthos' hand away, suddenly furious at being held, at being steered.
At not being listened to...
He clenched his jaw and lurched towards Athos' tent on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else.
He stopped when he reached the doorway, suddenly aware of how he must look. Looking down he realised Guérin had draped his shirt across his shoulders, but his chest was uncovered and he could see a thin trail of blood curled around his ribs. Why was he bleeding? The whip wasn't supposed to cut, only to bruise. What had Athos used for the second part of the flogging?
Porthos was standing next to him, touching his arm lightly, silently begging him to come with him. d'Artagnan ignored him and knocked on the central pole. "Athos?"
There was a flurry from inside the tent, then Fouchard appeared, pulling the canvas flap open and stepping out. "d'Artagnan! How are you – what are you doing here?" He was whispering, looking agitated.
"I want to see Athos. I have to tell him – "
He didn't get any further before Athos was there, pushing Fouchard aside and stepping close to d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan felt only relief at being able to see him but before he could start to apologise Athos was in his face.
"Get out of my sight!"
d'Artagnan took a shaky step backwards, shocked to the core. Athos pursued him, his eyes a steely blue – "Go away. I don't want to see you anywhere near me!" He raised a hand to point at d'Artagnan's tent, and d'Artagnan flinched as if he thought Athos would strike him
"Athos, he just came to..." Porthos tried, stepping forward slightly as if to protect d'Artagnan.
But Athos was turning, pushing Fouchard out of his way so forcefully he nearly fell. Whipping the tent flap closed behind him he disappeared back into his tent.
"Shit..." muttered Porthos, looking at d'Artagnan. He didn't know what to do. He was desperate to go to Athos but one look at d'Artagnan's stricken expression told him he couldn't leave him. How much worse could this day get?
d'Artagnan felt sick. No, he was going to be sick. He turned and stumbled towards his tent ignoring everything – the sweat dripping into his eyes, the pull of the shirt where it stuck to his back, Fouchard calling after him, Porthos swearing, Guérin running over with Etienne in tow: head down, eyes fixed only on the sanctuary of his tent.
Once inside he took a huge breath, as if he'd stopped taking in air for the last two minutes. The nauseous feeling returned and he retched, handing on to the tent pole for support, then crying out in spite of his best intentions because it hurt too much.
Suddenly there were gentle hands guiding him to the bed and a calm voice issuing instructions. "Guérin, warm water. Fouchard, in my bag there's a square of muslin, can you get it? d'Artagnan, just sit for a minute lad. We need to get this shirt off you. Bloody stupid idea to put this on, I don't know what you were thinking... Thanks, Guérin, just put it there."
Etienne began to run warm water down d'Artagnan's back and he arched away from it, hissing as it seared into his skin. "Sorry lad, it's just stuck in a couple of places. Get him some water to drink, Fouchard – he needs to keep the fluids up."
d'Artagnan just wanted to be alone. Without pause for thought he reached behind him and grabbed the collar of his shirt, wrenching it away from his shoulders with a vicious jerk.
"d'Artagnan, no! Oh, merde... You've... oh, lad."
d'Artagnan was biting his lip so fiercely he was drawing blood. "Just leave me alone, all of you. Please!" He didn't want any of them here. The only person he wanted near him at the moment was the man who didn't want to see him.
There was a rustle as Guérin and Fouchard left the tent. Then Etienne sighed. "It'll sort itself out. You just have to – "
"How?" He spat the word out. "How will this get better?"
"Oy! You did this, don't get angry with me! You could have told Athos what was going on weeks ago and he would have –"
"I did! He told me to handle it."
A pause and a quiet curse.
"He was right, though. He's got enough to cope with. I should have been able to ... I should have – "
"Wait, you're blaming yourself now? Oh, you pig-headed Gascon." His voice softened again and d'Artagnan was unexpectedly reminded a little of Tréville. Etienne was a lot grumpier and more foul-mouthed, of course, but had the same blunt honesty and high expectations, and surprising moments of gentleness. Another wave of pain shot through the muscles in his back and he suddenly couldn't cope with any more.
"Etienne, please just go." He gritted his teeth, aware of sweat pooling on his brow and running down his face, and he ducked his head. "I'm on duty this morning. I need to –"
"You're not going anywhere lad, not today. Lie down now, let me sort you out."
Etienne pushed gently on d'Artagnan's arms and he finally allowed himself to sink onto the blanket, face down, wincing as the rough material met his face where it was bruised from contact with the post.
For a while he said nothing, concentrating on not crying out as Etienne wiped the blood and shirt fibres from his back.
There was a rustling when he'd finished, and the sound of a stopper being pulled from a bottle, and d'Artagnan braced himself, knowing what was coming. Etienne didn't believe in warning his victims and sure enough, his back was suddenly aflame as Etienne poured alcohol over it to sanitise the wounds. d'Artagnan curled his hands around the sides of the bed with a death grip, aware of the sound of his breath hissing out jerkily. He wanted to ask Etienne to stop, desperate for a moment to gather himself, but he didn't dare open his mouth for fear of what agonised sound he might make.
"Relax your muscles, lad, it won't hurt so much."
You bloody try relaxing when your back's on fire, thought d'Artagnan viciously.
Etienne chuckled as if d'Artagnan had spoken aloud. "Soon be done." He patted the skin dry, probably being gentle but every touch felt like a hammer blow.
"Is it bad?" d'Artagnan managed to ask, through gritted teeth.
Etienne's hand on his back stilled and d'Artagnan wanted to scream as the weight pressed on his bruised and torn flesh. "Forgot you can't see it. Could be worse. Athos didn't go easy on you, mind you, and the Cat tends to cut where the whip just bruises. But he was careful not to strike in the same place twice, mostly. Trickier with the Cat, of course."
d'Artagnan didn't understand. "Cat?"
"Cat-o-nine-tails? You've seen one haven't you? That's what Colombe insisted Athos use. Said the whip was for ladies, not soldiers. Didn't give Athos much choice, especially with the General looking on."
"He told me to get out." d'Artagnan blurted out the thought that was bouncing around his head like thunder circling.
"Just now? Aye, likely he did. Should'a left him to cool down. You couldn't see his face but we could. Bloody furious about everything, he was."
"I went to apologise..." It was almost a whisper.
"He'll take your apology, lad, just give him a wee while to cool down. No one wants to see that kind of punishment, let alone have to carry it out. Hard on him."
"I know! That's why I wanted to tell him how sorry I am."
"He knows. Not your fault. It'll soon be forgotten." Etienne started smoothing something cool onto d'Artagnan's back and he groaned first in pain at the touch, then with relief as it took some of the heat out of his skin.
"You'll have to take it easy for a few days. You've got a couple of deeper cuts where the lash hit the same spot more than once, and a dozen or more shallower cuts; the rest is just bruising. He's kept to your shoulders and upper back except for one that curls around your side – think you moved for that one. Did a good job, Athos did."
Etienne had obviously been watching closely, d'Artagnan realised. He felt strangely comforted by that, and even more so by the notion that Athos had been careful with his aim.
"Right, you're done. Should really put stitches a couple of the deeper ones, but the skin around is too swollen and it'll just tear. You'll just have to be careful or it'll keep pulling, and scar. The rest of it should heal okay. I'll check on you in a bit. Drink lots of water and get some rest."
He stood up, apparently not expecting a response, and d'Artagnan heard him walk briskly away.
He lay for a long while simply breathing, feeling the heat settle into his skin, and after a while he realised he was already getting used to it. He could deal with it.
What he didn't think he could bear was losing Athos. And if that happened, he'd lose Porthos too, because his loyalties would be stretched to the limit. The idea of any kind of life without those two in it, let alone a life in the Musketeers, was simply too bleak to contemplate.
* I couldn't find out whether musketeers had anything to show their rank, but I needed some public, practical demonstration of d'Artagnan's loss of rank, and surely they would need some indication on their uniforms or how would others identify an officer? So I've assumed that there is a mark on their pauldron which would be cut off now d'Artagnan was demoted. If anyone knows, let me know!
According to good old Wikipedia, apparently the navy cat-o-nine-tails rarely cut the flesh, being too heavy, but the thinner, lighter army version frequently did cut the skin, and this was a more traditional implement for punishment than the horse-whip Athos used to start the punishment.