As promised, the second half (third?!) of this chapter, in which our friend Colombe makes another reappearance...
A Hole Where my Heart Used to Be part II
He woke well before dawn, feeling stiff, his limbs and face frozen. Heavy dew had settled on everything and the fire had died down. Reluctantly he unravelled himself and stretched cautiously, feeling the aching muscles and sharp bruises from the pitched battle yesterday underneath a burning sensation across his back as the welts on his back stretched and split.
He also realised his right ankle was throbbing. He vaguely remembered turning his foot on the mad dash down the hillside, and nearly falling, but the adrenaline rush had driven it from his mind, and after that he'd been too tired to take much notice of what he thought was just a bruised ankle joint. Now, after a night on the cold ground, it had stiffened and felt swollen.
He cursed, knowing it would mean another trip to the medics before Athos noticed. Then he put the anxiety firmly out of his mind as he remembered his conversation with Guérin last night and the resolution he had made just to get on with things. He had to trust that their friendship would overcome both the obstacles thrown up by the stresses of war and the divisions driven between them by their differing ranks in a situation where – for the first time since he joined the Musketeers – it did matter.
By muster he had visited one of the other medic tents, as the musketeer medical team was still back at the old camp. Someone there had strapped his ankle, and cleaned the wounds on his back where his efforts the day before had made them bleed again.
Jumot, unusually, took muster, neither Athos or Porthos having been seen yet this morning. Jumot referred briefly to yesterday's battle and updated everyone on the wounded before appointing everyone to standard camp duties. Before he'd dismissed them however, Athos appeared looking worn, holding a clutch of papers.
"General Faucille has ordered a survey of the upper valleys to determine the positions and numbers of the Spanish," he announced quietly as he stopped beside Jumot. He looked carefully over his men, noting every weary shift as his men listened. He knew they were hurting after yesterday's near-disaster, but the intention to keep pushing the Spanish forces now that they were retreating was a sensible one and the Musketeers, as always, were in high demand for scouting missions.
He conferred quickly with Jumot before announcing the new assignments. d'Artagnan was amongst a dozen called to take one of the maps Athos was holding and do a detailed survey. As he reached Athos he asked quietly after Porthos, but Athos went on handing out maps without answering, and d'Artagnan, after a brief hesitation, carried on towards the horse lines, pushing down the feeling of fear that their friendship had somehow been irrevocably damaged and reminding himself simply to give it time.
His was one of the furthest sectors and it took him until late afternoon to do a full survey, counting troops from the shelter of the tree-line high above that end of the valley and marking positions on the roughly-copied map. By the time he got back to camp he was tired and hungry, his ankle was throbbing and he couldn't wait to stretch out on his bed. He could not believe his bad luck therefore, that the first person he saw as he passed the guards on gate duty, was – of course – Colombe.
"Oy. Dartigan, over here."
d'Artagnan shut his eyes and briefly contemplated just keeping going as if he hadn't heard. The idea of simply drawing his pistol and shooting the bastard – accidentally of course – also crossed his mind but sadly there were too many witnesses around. It was a shame none of them appeared to be musketeers or anyone he could appeal to ...
"DARTIGAN!" Loud enough to draw a few pairs of eyes and make it impossible for d'Artagnan to pretend he hadn't heard.
d'Artagnan took a deep breath and turned Nuit. "Sir?" Managing to sound almost respectful in spite of the impulse to have Nuit barge into the smug git and trample him.
"I need someone to scout this sector." Colombe passed a map up to d'Artagnan.
"I've already completed my section, Sir." He made sure to keep his eyes on the ground and his tone respectful, feeling far too tired to risk another confrontation.
"Then you are free to survey this one. Report to General Faucille when you're done and hurry up – the debrief is at eight o'clock."
d'Artagnan couldn't believe it. Surely all sectors should have been surveyed by now. Why had this one been missed – and why did HE have to do it? But he knew he had no option but to obey the order. Colombe was clearly hoping he would object and looked almost disappointed when d'Artagnan took the map without further comment.
It was well after dark, and past 8 o'clock, by the time d'Artagnan returned the second time, so he headed straight through camp towards the General's red command tent. Sliding off Nuit he grimaced as his foot touched the ground; hours in the saddle had made the swelling worse and his ankle was really throbbing now. He left Nuit without hitching her reins, knowing she was too weary to wander, and limped stiffly into the tent, finding it already crowded with officers and men all listening to the General outlining the plans for routing the Spanish forces from their new position.
He caught a few disapproving glances at his tardiness, but Guérin was standing near the back and quickly beckoned him over. "Where have you been?" he hissed.
Before d'Artagnan could answer one of the captains started calling out the sector numbers and each man went up in turn with his map to give a brief summary of his findings. Slowly they worked through the sectors, putting each section of map into place on a table so they could begin to see the bigger picture of the troop positions. Finally it got to d'Artagnan's sector and he pushed through the others, trying to walk evenly as he made his way to the front to hand over his map. As he turned to retake his place he could see Athos eyeing him and knew, in spite of his best efforts, that his limp was obvious.
A few more numbers were called and then sector 17 was called. "Yes," he called, preparing to head for the generals' table again, but found another voice also answering: Colombe. Puzzled, he stopped, finding eyes turning on him and Colombe as the latter walked smartly up to the table and handed over his map. General Faucille took it and handed it to the captain who was putting all the maps together, then looked over to where d'Artagnan was hesitating. "That was the last sector – but you still have a map?"
All eyes turned to d'Artagnan and he flushed, wishing he hadn't called out so quickly. The map was obvious in his hand and he couldn't pretend it was a mistake. Then anger took over. If Colombe had surveyed it, how come he'd asked d'Artagnan to do it? He cursed his naivety. He'd been set up: given another pointless, meaningless, inane task. The bastard!
But he'd done the work, and everyone was waiting, so, somewhat reluctantly, he limped up to the table again and handed over his second map.
The general glanced at it, then picked up Colombe's map and compared them. d'Artagnan looked too, wondering himself if there had simply been a mistake in numbering the maps. But no: the two maps clearly covered the same terrain.
"Why did you survey this sector? You had your own sector already."
"Yes Sir. I ..." He faltered, seeing Athos' piercing green gaze on him. "I was asked to do this one when I returned this afternoon."
General Faucille looked puzzled, still comparing the two maps. "Who asked you?"
Merde! He didn't want to name Colombe – but he couldn't refuse to answer either. Dammit, the man had only himself to blame. Taking a calming breath, he answered "Lieutenant Colombe, Sir."
There was a stir amongst the men behind him. Everyone knew about the altercation and d'Artagnan's subsequent punishment. Everyone, presumably, except General Faucille who looked up sharply as he picked up on the change in mood in the tent.
"Lieutenant, why did you ask – what's your name?"
"d'Artagnan, Sir."
"Why did you ask d'Artagnan to survey an area you yourself had already surveyed? Do you not trust your own work?"
Lieutenant Colombe looked insulted. "My observations are accurate, General. And I did not ask him to survey my sector. He is lying."
There were gasps from behind d'Artagnan and he heard Guérin call out "He's not the liar!" before being shushed by those around him.
Athos stepped forward, saying quietly: "General, if I may?"
Recognising that d'Artagnan was one of the Musketeer captain's men, General Faucille nodded his permission for Athos to take over. Athos turned to Colombe.
"Lieutenant, why would my man be lying? He is injured, and presumably would have preferred to stay in camp than spend another four or five hours in the saddle for no reason."
"I have no idea! He's clearly just trying to make trouble again." If Colombe expected d'Artagnan to rise to the bait, he was disappointed: d'Artagnan swallowed, but literally kept his head down. He knew whatever he said would only land him in more trouble. But no one else spoke either, and he looked up to find the General regarding him thoughtfully, then eyeing Colombe with such an intense gaze that the lieutenant began to squirm and bluster.
"We were comparing notes when we both returned from our surveys this afternoon." Colombe's voice sounded defensive. "He asked to see my map so I showed him the spare copy I had made in case the original got damaged." He paused, looking round as if expecting praise for his diligence. When none came, he hurried on. "Maybe he just misunderstood our conversation and thought I'd asked him to do the survey. How would I know how a Gascon's brain works?" He spat this last out almost viciously and there another murmur of protest rippled around the room. Athos' head snapped up with a warning glare towards d'Artagnan, but the young musketeer had himself under tight control and his only visible reaction was the clenching of his jaw and the flaring of his nostrils as he tried to breathe evenly.
The General murmured to Athos: "Is this the one your man thumped the other night?"
Athos' eyebrow shot up, as did the general in his estimation: he certainly had his ear to the camp grapevine already. "Yes, Sir."
"Hmm." Before the general could say anymore, Captain Thiers started to point something out on one of the two maps he'd been scrutinising. d'Artagnan wondered if he should retake his place at the back of the tent but General Faucille suddenly barked out a question. "What are these marks, d'Artagnan?"
Hesitantly d'Artagnan squeezed past Colombe, careful not to touch him, and glanced at his survey map. "Those are camp fires, Sir." When the two officers exchanged glances, he felt heat rising to his cheeks, thinking he'd done something stupid. "It was dusk by the time I got to that section and dark by the time I'd finished, so where I couldn't see well enough to count troop numbers, I just marked their fires, Sir." Beside him he could hear Colombe scoffing and he shut his eyes, miserably. He'd done his best, he really had, but...
"Lieutenant, can you explain this?" Colombe stiffened then shoved past d'Artagnan. Captain Thiers was holding out the Lieutenant's survey map now.
"Mine is accurate, as I said."
"I'm sure it is; for the main part the two maps agree but here, towards the rear of the hill you were surveying – you have marked nothing."
"Because there was nothing there!"
"Yet d'Artagnan found evidence of considerable troops stationed behind their main camp. Which you missed."
"There was nothing to see, I tell you!"
"So is he lying about this, too?" There was a sudden hush in the tent as the General stood calmly waiting for an answer.
Colombe clearly didn't know what to say, settling for a mumbled "I have no idea."
"Both of you, stand down."
d'Artagnan heaved a sigh of relief and headed to the back of the tent as fast as his sore ankle would permit. Guérin pounced on him immediately. "What was all that about?" But d'Artagnan could only shake his head, wearily.
The officers were conferring over the map table, and the men could only talk amongst themselves waiting for dismissal or further orders. d'Artagnan shifted constantly, trying to ease the ache in his ankle, until Guérin tutted and wrapped an arm around his waist so that d'Artagnan had no choice but to lean on him. "Thanks," he muttered just as General Faucille cleared his throat pointedly and all talk ceased.
"Thanks to this... mix-up," he began, sending a meaningful look at Colombe which suggested he knew full well it was anything but a mix-up, "We have seen some evidence of greater troop numbers in reserve than might be clearly visible by daylight, which, if accurate, is concerning. We will therefore arrange for further surveys to be done tonight. It would be helpful if those of you who have surveyed today will volunteer to lead a team back by night since you are already each familiar with your area, so please await further instructions from your officers. Dismissed."
There were several groans as the men filed quietly out, and d'Artagnan heard a few grumbles directed at him from men who had been looking forward to their beds and now faced a night-patrol. He was glad of Guérin by his shoulder as they gathered outside the command tent waiting for their officers to emerge. After one over-loud comment about "bloody Gascon – probably just tear-marks on his map!" Guérin had heard enough.
"Oy! If he said he saw fires, then he saw fires. We don't know what it means until we've had a better look but if he's saved our men from walking into battle completely out-numbered, I for one am grateful!"
"Well said," came a dry voice behind him as the officers started to emerge from the tent. Athos walked slowly past those who'd been grumbling, men who were suddenly fascinated by the state of their boots.
d'Artagnan could see Athos' lips twitching as he reached them. "Guérin, are you okay to lead a patrol to your area?"
"Yes Sir – although my bit was pretty flat and I can't believe I missed any troops."
Athos nodded. "Probably not. If any are hidden it will be on the wooded slopes and in the gullies. Alternatively they could be decoy fires to make us think twice about attacking. Therefore the patrols will go out three hours before dawn, and if extra fires are spotted in your area, you are to wait until dawn to verify if troops are present. Take five men with you. Make sure they are fresh and get some rest yourself first."
Guérin nodded, taking his map back from Athos and squeezing d'Artagnan's arm companionably before heading off.
"Where do you want me?" asked d'Artagnan, noticing that Athos had no more maps to hand out.
"You're off duty now. Rest that foot before it gets worse." Athos turned as if to go but d'Artagnan stopped him, puzzled.
"What about my official sector, the one I did by daylight? That will need – "
"Since you have already surveyed Lieutenant Colombe's sector by night, I thought it appropriate to suggest that he returns the favour and does the repeat survey of your sector." Only the gleam in Athos' eyes betrayed his satisfaction at being able to turn the tables on Colombe in this way.
Both men turned as the eponymous lieutenant stalked past, brushing close enough to d'Artagnan to knock his shoulder as he passed. Athos shot a hand out to steady the young Musketeer and opened his mouth to reprimand Colombe, but d'Artagnan spoke quickly. "Leave it, Athos. He's been shamed in front of everyone and needs an outlet. If not me it will be some other poor foot soldier under his command – or his horse," he added, watching the man grab his unfortunate mount roughly by the bit and drag it forward to a mounting block, whacking it on the backside when it didn't move fast enough.
Athos answered without thinking. "It's a shame you didn't display such control the other night, d'Artagnan." The reprimand hinted at a bitterness that took d'Artagnan's breath away and there was a moment's stillness between them which was not, by any stretch of the imagination, comfortable.
"I came to apologise for putting you in that position and you threw me out." d'Artagnan's tone was equally low and just as bitter. He was glaring at the ground so missed the look of pain which flashed across Athos' face at the reminder of how he'd yelled at his musketeer.
Athos struggled for words. There was so much to say, to put right, but now was not the time, with others still streaming past them and the camp bustling with activity. He was suddenly aware that he still had hold of d'Artagnan's arm, and dropped his hand abruptly. d'Artagnan glanced down, then drew himself up. "Permission to retire, Sir?"
Athos shook his head wearily, then caught d'Artagnan's look of confusion and realised he'd taken the gesture for a response. "No – I mean... Oh, just go."
d'Artagnan stalked off, trying to disguise his limp. How was everything his fault? All he wanted to do was settle back into camp life, have everyone forget that he was a survivor of captivity and just be left alone to do his job. And try to come to terms with everything that had happened – including, apparently, offending Porthos by trying to save his bloody hide. And Athos by forcing him to... he couldn't say it, even in his head. They both understood the other would regret the flogging; there was no question that it would have hurt Athos emotionally as much as it had hurt him physically. But, even if – when – they got over this awkwardness, that truth would always lie underneath. Athos had flogged him.
He suddenly folded over, feeling as if he'd been hit in the stomach as the truth hit him anew and a wave of misery flooded through him. He'd been so busy trying to hold his head up, so distracted with the battle, and Porthos being in danger, then wounded and angry, and moving camp, and bloody Colombe, and hiding the pain of his torn back and now his ankle so that he could just melt into the ranks and not, for once, please God, just not be the centre of attention... amidst all of that, somehow the true impact of what had happened was only just sinking in.
As if his name had been called, d'Artagnan raised his head and looked across at Athos' tent, in time to spot the man he respected above all others, standing by the entrance. In the darkness it was hard to see but he thought Athos was looking at him, and for a moment he seemed to turn as if to walk towards d'Artagnan. Then his head swung towards the tent as a hand appeared in the flap, and d'Artagnan knew Porthos must have called him. He saw Athos hesitate and couldn't bear to wait for the inevitable decision. Instead he straightened and headed for his tent, almost running in his haste to get away from everyone and everything.
The next morning passed in a blur of activity as scouts were sent out, plans drawn up and weapons readied. d'Artagnan only saw Athos at muster or from a distance as he consulted with the other Captains. He hadn't seen Porthos at all, not since the night of the battle.
When the others went for lunch he ducked into the medic's tent to quiz Etienne, but all he would say was that Porthos' wounds were not serious and were healing well. By the afternoon he was so desperate for news that when he saw Athos supervising the unloading of a supply wagon he made his way furtively over to Athos' tent and ducked inside, expecting to see Porthos recuperating there. But Porthos' bed had disappeared from the tent, along with his possessions. They must have moved it back into the tent he shared with Porthos.
Sighing, he turned to slip out again and found Athos standing in the doorway watching. d'Artagnan stammered out an apology, hating feeling that he had to apologise for entering his Captain's tent when, a few months before, he had come and gone without thought or remark, as a brother would. But then, he thought bitterly, the camp had been their own. Now they were part of the massive French army, and everything had changed.
"He's alright." Athos' voice was unexpectedly gentle as he stood aside to let d'Artagnan past. "He's taken reports to General Moises over near Navarre. It's a four hour ride and he needed some time to himself. He'll be back later tonight."
Heartened by Athos' words, d'Artagnan stopped, twisting his hands and worrying at his lip. Athos waited, patiently. "Is he still – angry – with me?" d'Artagnan eventually managed to ask, trying to sound conversational rather than desperate.
"No!" Athos sounded cross now and d'Artagnan didn't dare look at him. "d'Artagnan, he knows he was in the wrong, but he's – shaken. Just give him time."
d'Artagnan nodded, unable to speak for relief, not just at Athos' words but at the fact that he was speaking kindly.
Athos looked as if he wanted to say more, but then someone called his name and he sighed, looking up to see Captain Allard bustling over to him with a parchment. d'Artagnan hastily thanked him and headed off before Allard – well known for delegating work to anyone but his own men – could give him any extra duties.
That night d'Artagnan sheepishly asked Fouchard if he could bunk in his tent, and slept with his face buried in his pillow in case he disturbed his tent mates with nightmares again.