Chapter Five – Some strange routine life (Pt. 3)
"If he wakes make sure he stays in bed," Aramis said to a fidgeting Planchet in front of him. "He needs his rest."
Planchet nodded, itching to return to the pot of stew he was preparing in the kitchen. "Yes, master Aramis-"
"And if he needs anything you are to fetch it for him."
"Of course, m-"
"If he's hungry give him something light."
"Well, there's a pot of-"
"Make sure he has plenty of drinking water."
"Well, there's also a pitcher-"
"And whatever you do, Planchet do not let him out of this house. When I say keep him in bed I mean confined to his room and no other-"
During the one-sided exchange Porthos had donned his cloak, taken his hat, and leaned against the doorway waiting for Aramis to finish. Athos had gone on ahead, giving them both a flimsy excuse and a strong suspicion that they'd have to drag him home dead drunk again. Porthos sighed to himself. The one stench that he could not seem to get rid of in his finer clothes was Athos' particular choice of inebriation. And damned if the stuff didn't last through two washings during one his more moodier weeks. The price of brotherhood, Porthos thought to himself. Turning his mind back to the present he frowned when it looked like Aramis wasn't about to stop anytime soon, so Porthos tried to interject himself. "Aramis-"
"And, for all that is holy, do not-"
"Aramis!"
"What," the former-priest exclaimed, turning his heated gaze onto Porthos.
Porthos said nothing but gave him a stern look in return that seemed to deflate the younger man from his endless rant. "I think the poor man's got a handle of things from here. After all he dealt with the three of us for years, what's only one charge in the boy?"
"You know how serious this is!-"
"Yes, and by this point so does the damned servant thrice over! Come along, mother hen," Porthos said, grabbing and pulling Aramis along by the shoulder. "We've shifts to cover and cardinal's guards to bother ourselves with."
"Where's Athos?"
"Where he usually is when he's in a mood. Piss-drunk." Porthos pushed the younger man out the door and just when Planchet thought he was free, Porthos turned back and pointed a finger into his chest. "You watch over that boy, you hear me?"
Planchet nodded, wide-eyed, and with his tongue stuck in his mouth.
After that Porthos took his leave and left the stables with Aramis. He tried not to snap at the younger man again when he caught him looking back towards the house over his shoulder. Of all four of them, the man who least understood the art of subtlety was himself. And if Porthos thought Aramis was being obvious, well then half of Paris would know something was up by the time they reported for duty. It also didn't do any favors for Porthos' own peace of mind. Between the two of them, Porthos and Aramis had been able to switch shifts the past few days so that one of them was home with D'Artagnan while the other balanced guard duty with 'Athos-duty.' But today was the first time they couldn't avoid being shifted together.
Treville was starting to become suspicious of their behavior. And though the man said nothing, they knew when they were on the verge of being found out despite the captain having his hands full with the stubborn Spaniards. Athos somehow kept reporting for duty as normal, but those who knew him stayed clear of him as they had in previous years when he was in one of his darker moods. Perhaps it appeared that all was normal to most, but to those with a sharp eye, like Treville, something was bound to slip soon. And Porthos just hoped it wouldn't be his fault.
It took skill to sneak around weak floorboards that loved to creak under the slightest pressure, especially when one was supposed to be confined to bed for the remainder of the week. But threats never stopped D'Artagnan from satisfying his curiosity before. And his desire to know more about the men who he had such exploits and adventures and battles with was stronger than his fear of getting caught. It wasn't such a hard thing. All it took was patience, waiting for the others to leave for guard duty-as they explained to him the previous night-waiting for Planchet to finish cleaning upstairs, waiting for the right moment to open his door and sneak out.
He was still a little wobbly on his feet, but the headaches this morning were thankfully dull and almost nonexistent. The past few days between all the sleeping and dreaming, and being told to give things just a day more, nearly had him clawing at the walls in madness. These men were far too kind for being kidnappers, and D'Artagnan knew they were simply looking after his well-being, but the scare of an injury he couldn't remember aside, he was still in a place he didn't know with men he couldn't remember. And he wanted answers he couldn't get through the stories they told him every day to help aide his memory.
D'Artagnan tried the door furthest down the hall opposite of his, which was Athos', and found it locked. He frowned, decided not to press his luck, and moved on. Next he tried the room next to his, which was Aramis' and found it already open. He poked his head inside and stared in wonder at the number of books on the shelves across the room. In addition to the collection that was somewhat neatly put away there were short grouped piles of them by the bed, by the desk, on the desk, some on the windowsill with papers stuffed inside, and even more hidden under a clean pile of clothes. Books of all sizes and shapes and colors. D'Artagnan was certain he'd never seen this many books in his entire life and he started wondering how anyone could possibly come by the sheer number in one lifetime. Then he spotted the crucifix hanging on the wall, the well-worn bible on the nightstand next to the bed, and pages upon pages of handwritten verses and thoughts and theses all about religion and faith in Latin.
Well…there was his answer.
But why would someone who was studying to enter into the priesthood spend his time here serving as a musketeer? Why wasn't he in a cloistered monastery somewhere where he could spend every hour of every day devoted to what was clearly his passion in life? Or was it? Was it ever? Why else would he be here? And why did he seem happy to be here if his heart lay elsewhere? Was Aramis unhappy?
D'Artagnan scratched the back of his head and put the papers back on the desk exactly how he'd found them. Just as he was about to exit the room, with more questions than he had when he walked in, something caught his eye. There was a half open drawer of the dresser sticking out, forgotten and nearly unobtrusive. He walked over to push it shut and got a glimpse at what was inside. D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow and then slowly shut the nearly full drawer. He crept across the hall shaking his head in disbelief.
How many handkerchiefs could one man possibly need?
All in all, Aramis' respectful and caring nature made sense-even if his present circumstances and motivations for them remained a mystery. D'Artagnan suspected he was a man of intense intellect and his room did not disappoint him on that assumption. Porthos' room left little to the imagination. One would think he'd stepped into a lord's room rather than a musketeer of the king's guard, but D'Artagnan's bare feet squishing down on the plush rug certainly weren't complaining. And the boisterous and carefree person he'd been introduced to seemed to fit the accommodations and things in it. Practically everything he needed to know about the man was out in the open.
Despite his leg injury, Porthos seemed truly happy being a musketeer. His wardrobe might have suggested he was a little vain and materialistic, but he seemed a man loyal enough to stick by those he cared about even if they didn't share his interests. But there were differences between Porthos and Athos. Athos had a refinement about his actions and words that Porthos didn't. Come to think of it, these three men seemed to be so different from one another. D'Artagnan looked around with a hand on the back of his neck and furrowed brows. Why would a potential priest in Aramis, a probable noble in Athos, and a man who clearly wished he was a noble in Porthos put up with each other in a set of apartments in Paris?
D'Artagnan had always held friendship in as much respect as he did family, and what was going on here surely had to be a great example of that. For how else could such opposite men stand to live with each other? They had their differences, but at the end of the day they compromised and continued going on about their normal business as if quarrels were no large matter. Only men who served together and fought together could live as these three did. And it made the boy wonder what kind of battles they must have seen, what kind of adversaries they must have overcome.
And in all that, where did he fit into the picture?
How did he fit into their normalcy? Or did he at all? Did he jest about things early in the morning or hold his tongue for later? Did he offer help or insight when it came to it or wait respectfully until all other options were exhausted? What was it like riding alongside them on the streets? Fighting by their side? What were dinners usually like afterwards? What did they talk about? What did they avoid talking about?
What should have felt routine was now an insufferable mystery. It was all some whirlwind of a strange dream that was starting to mentally take its toll. Just feeling the endless barrage of questions in his head brought back the familiar sensation of an impending headache. How long had he been standing here thinking? His feet didn't ache, but dizziness started pulling at his balance and reminding him that only yesterday he could barely get out of bed on his own.
His knees almost buckled as he swayed to the side but he caught himself on the armoire and managed to stay upright. A soft sound above his head confused him at first, but before he could turn to find the source, it found him. He cried out as something thick and heavy fell down upon him and caused him in turn to fall. He went down on the floor with a loud thud and struggled with the material to no avail. Seconds later he heard the muffled sounds of someone hurrying up the stairs and into the room.
Planchet made a big fuss when all things were said and done, but D'Artagnan was just happy to be free of the stifling winter cloak that assailed him. "You're certain that you're all right, master D'Artagnan-"
He tried to get a word in edgewise but he was hard pressed to achieve that, what with the servant continuing on a long monologue about the abuses he would suffer should D'Artagnan suffer some further injury under Planchet's watch. In the end, D'Artagnan gave up on trying to assure him he was fine and stood to help him hang the cloak back up. "Let me help you-"
"No, no, no," Planchet exclaimed. "Don't worry about this, young master-"
"Must you call me that," D'Artagnan sighed, stepping back and leaning on the side of the armoire.
Planchet cocked his head to the side on confusion. "Call you what?"
"I'm not really your master am I?"
"Well…technically, yes-but if it helps things I like you much better than the others-Oh, don't tell them I said that, sir-If you don't mind me calling you that-but I mean you're free to do as you please and I shouldn't have asked you to-"
"Planchet! It's fine…really. I won't say a thing. You have my word," he promised, allowing the servant to lead him back to his room.
"You certainly don't look all right. Perhaps you should lie down and-"
D'Artagnan spun around and shook the hands off him. "If I lie down in that bed for a moment longer you'll sooner have a bigger problem on your hands than a sick master," D'Artagnan groused. Then he sighed in regret. "I'm sorry. It's not you, Planchet. It's just…my head-"
"Oh, master Aramis said that if you had any more headaches to-"
"Yes, I know what he said! But that's not it. I have another headache but the problem is not the damned headache. Its…all this strangeness, these things I can't remember. This place isn't…home. And I just can't seem to make sense of things."
And that was the truth of his biggest discomfort in all this. He was feeling so out of sorts that all he wanted was something familiar, something routine that he knew like the back of his hand to help him through this awful mess only he could sort out. But there wasn't anything here that could do that for him, and that realization only made him more upset than he already was.
Then, like a gift from God, he spotted a small wooden box by his bedside that he knew to be his mothers. He ignored Planchet's ramblings behind him and snatched the item up, knowing what lay inside and finding his moods lifting as he traced his nose alongside the sweet-scented closed edges. The ultimate home comfort from his mother entered his mind and made his stomach growl in unabashed want.
"I can make you something to eat if you're hungry, sir. I know an excellent sweet roll recipe that-"
"Actually," D'Artagnan replied, turning with a brighter smile. "I've got something else in mind, for the both of us, if you're open to learning a new recipe?" D'Artagnan smirked at Planchet's dumbfounded but ready-to-please look and lifted the small latch on the box in his hands to show the servant what was inside.
The man predictably gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Is-is that?!-"
"Yes," D'Artagnan slowly explained with a grin. "And we're going to be very careful when we use it."
"When we…?! Goodness," Planchet breathed in disbelief. "Are you certain, young master? Cinnamon is very hard to come by and-" (1)
"I wouldn't have brought it from home if I didn't intend on using it one day, that I do know. Do we have any carrots?"
"W-well," the servant sputtered. "Plenty! Stores! Though master Porthos avoids them like the plague itself, most vegetables for that matter."
"Well, we'd best get started if we want it done by dinner then." All previous discomforts and feelings of weakness and exhaustion left D'Artagnan as he allowed Planchet to lead the way down to the kitchen. The servant pushed him into a chair by the warm hearth, but listened attentively to every detail D'Artagnan gave him as the afternoon ticked by. Finally, D'Artagnan felt productive and had something to do to feel useful.
Later that night, his mother's carrot cake went over better than they both imagined it would. The sour moods that his friends sported once they came through the door, dragging a stumbling Athos, quickly fled once they got a strong whiff of what D'Artagnan and Planchet had been toiling over for the better part of the afternoon. He peeked into the main room and met a chorus of worn but curious reactions.
"What are you doing out of bed?"
"Are you feeling all right?"
"What is that heavenly smell?"
But D'Artagnan kept it a secret until after dinner, and judging by the lack of any leftovers for all five of them, his attempts to win over their favors and lighten the mood amongst them had worked. The only problem was he had failed to rouse any words from Athos. When Porthos later joked at Athos expense, likely to put D'Artagnan more at ease around the man, the three could only watch as Athos abruptly rose from the table and stalked up to his room…slamming the door shut after him. D'Artagnan tried to ignore the little twinge in his chest about the man he knew next to nothing about, but as he finished off his wine he couldn't help but give it life by voicing his concerns.
"Is he always in such a foul mood," D'Artagnan whispered to Aramis, almost afraid Athos would return if he heard himself being talked about.
Porthos shrugged and poured D'Artagnan another glass of wine. Aramis, to his credit, managed a smile at the boy's innocent question and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Most of the time," he admitted. "But he grows on you."
Athos' mood hadn't changed much over the next couple of days, and though Aramis and Porthos reassured D'Artagnan that leaving the man be was the best course of action D'Artagnan was beginning to wonder for whose benefit it was for. The young man had been cooped up in the house for days after they had discovered him on his feet and though he could venture out beyond his room, the confinement was somehow worse than before. He wasn't sure why they didn't want him to go outside, but growing up in the country drinking in the sunlight every day and hungering for another hard day's work in the fields made him accustomed to the outside air no matter the season. And being without it for so long, being stuck inside forced to watch it pass by without him, seemed a silent torture.
So when he woke up to see the start of another day he made up his mind to do something about it. Aramis and Porthos still slumbered in the morning and Planchet was easy enough to evade. Athos, however, was unpredictable. In fact, of his three companions, D'Artagnan could count on one hand the number of times he had physically seen Athos since waking up here. And it wasn't very many. Had he done something to offend the man that he couldn't remember? That was certainly a possibility. But there were also other facts to consider. He rarely slept. He sparingly spoke. He almost never sat down to eat with them at the table during meals, apart from that one night they had the carrot-cake waiting for them all. And when Athos did eat in his room he didn't take much from the plate that Planchet brought in to him-which led to a very nasty argument between him and Aramis one particular evening.
D'Artagnan flinched as another loud shout echoed down to where he sat with Porthos at the table.
Porthos cleared his throat, rather loudly with a short glare aimed at the floor above them. "You know, lad, you can never underestimate the power of a good bar-song at the end of a long grueling day."
D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow and tried to ignore some choice words that wafted down the staircase. "A bar-song?" He thought it sounded enough like a rowdy bar in the house already.
"Now, what you need to know about taverns is the ones with the worst ale are the loudest. If you want a place with the good kind, it'll be much quieter."
"How is that?"
"Because most of the men by that point will have drank themselves to sleep."
D'Artagnan let out a puff of laughter, which quickly disappeared with a loud crash from Athos room. Porthos cleared his throat loudly again. "Now, as for bar-songs. The best kind are, of course, sung by the women for we must allow them that courtesy. Not all have the voice of angels, mind you, and some songs are oftentimes more suited for the bedroom rather than in the company of dozens of drunken wanting men like myse-er, others, yes, others! Other men who are not us!"
D'Artagnan nodded. "Of course-"
"But nothing truly beats a good rousing anthem by men with their half empty mugs and good spirits. Holidays make for the best of times. St. Valentine's day especially in my opinion. In fact, a song comes to mind just now that an Irishman taught me one fine evening-"
D'Artagnan tried to wave Porthos off as he put his goblet down on the table. "Oh you don't have to-"
"My young love said to me," Porthos began to sing, hearty and growing in volume with each passing verse. "My mother won't mind. And my father won't slight you for your lack of kine-Annnnd she laid her haaaaand on meeeeee, and this she did saaaaay-" (2)
Though D'Artagnan did his best to listen when Porthos first started, he couldn't hold back wincing as the argument grew in volume upstairs, thus affecting the mirth and voracity to which Porthos' sang.
"-OUT OF MY BLOODY ROOM, YOU INSUFFERABLE PIOUS ARSE!-"
"-NOT WHEN YOUR AGE REFUSES TO REFLECT YOUR ABSENT INTELLECT!-"
"IT WILL NOOOOT BE LOOOOOONG, MY LOOOOOOOVE!"
"-AND IF YOU SAVED ANY SENSE FOR YOURSELF-"
"-I'M THE ONLY ONE IN THIS ROOM WITH IT BECAUSE I AM NOT TRYING TO STARVE MY DAMNED SELF-"
"-THE CONTENTS OF MY STOMACH ARE NONE OF YOUR GOD DAMNED BUSINESS AND NEITHER WILL IT CONFESS ITS SINS TO YOU, YOU DELUDED GOD-HOUND!-"
"TILL OURRR WEDDING DAAAAAYYYY!" Followed by the tell-tale sounds of breaking dishware and slamming doors.
D'Artagnan shook himself and resolutely ignored the twinge in his head at just the memory of the headache he had that night.
What had made him think of that again? Ah, yes. Athos, and his…puzzling, if occasionally volatile, ways. Well, there was the matter of the wine to consider too, especially with the last incident in mind. It seemed like every day Planchet went out to get a handful more just to keep the racks somewhat stored. It seemed silly to worry about someone when you barely knew them, but who wouldn't when the signs of something being wrong were so obvious? Surely things hadn't been this way before, for all that time he'd spent with his friends since coming to Paris…or had they and D'Artagnan had never said anything?
That didn't seem like something he would do…but then again, not much was making sense to him nowadays.
The small courtyard was slick with morning dew and a few thin clouds of fog that had yet to burn off from the morning sun. The weight of his sword strapped to his waist disappeared as he dropped his head back, closed his eyes, stretched and breathed in the morning air. This was what he missed.
Fresh morning air and sun.
Pure and sweet.
Light and open and free.
Sinfully peaceful…
"What are you doing out here?"
D'Artagnan opened his eyes and spied Athos over by the stables. The man looked somewhat disheveled by lack of sleep and sweaty from exertion already, as if he'd been fencing with invisible partners all night long. Everything about the man screamed tension with variations of 'Get back inside this instant' and 'Leave me alone' but D'Artagnan ignored them and flashed him a smile of 'Good morning' before he shrugged and replied. "I'm not really sure myself. I've always been an early riser."
Athos sighed and looked ready to make his leave-which D'Artagnan wouldn't have been all that surprised by…just disappointed-but leaned back against the door and relented. "As have I," he muttered.
D'Artagnan couldn't help but let the surprise show on his face. Athos was talking to him. After days of silence and sparse meetings the man was finally talking to him! Hope ballooned in his chest and he tried very hard not to let it choose his words, because he'd be damned if he was going to screw up this opportunity. "I'd imagine there aren't too many Parisians who share the same sentiment…the city, I mean, it's quiet. I wouldn't have expected that."
Athos frowned and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Not everyone who resides in Paris grew up here, boy."
"I suppose not. Do you…you don't mean yourself as well?"
Athos nodded.
Well that…he hadn't expected. "Oh. Do you miss the country?"
"No."
"But the winters, surely, they are worse here in the north?"
Athos snorted. "Like hell frozen over."
D'Artagnan laughed. "I thought as much."
Athos sighed and continued avoiding D'Artagnan's gaze. "…you really should be resting."
"Perhaps. But that house is driving me mad. I needed…would it bother you if I stayed out here for a little while?"
Athos finally looked at him and D'Artagnan couldn't help but feel the urge to fidget under the man's sharp gaze. Then something softened, small but noticeable. "No, but it will once you collapse from exhaustion."
"And…if I promise to tell you before that happens?"
Athos stared at him, then pointed to the sword in his hand. "What do you plan to do with that?"
For no reason at all a spark of self-consciousness shot through him and stole the retort that was hot on his tongue. D'Artagnan wasn't sure why but there was something about this man that made him feel a little modest. Sure he'd brought his sword out here to practice…but not in front of an audience! But did that really matter? "What one usually does with a sword, of course," he replied, with an air of confidence he didn't fully feel.
Athos came towards him at a leisurely walk and drew his own sword that lay against the fence. "Come on, then," Athos sighed, resigned and with a hint of disinterest, though it sounded somehow false. "We'll test your balance."
Once D'Artagnan got over the initial shock he readily drew his own sword and tried to hide a grin of anticipation. His father had started practicing with him only a year prior when he turned fifteen, but he was a quick learner and even came up with a few creative moves of his own that his father praised. If D'Artagnan couldn't have those times in the comforts of his home at hand then this would do as something temporary in the mean time. Besides, the challenge of fighting someone new was just too good to pass up, especially from someone he wanted to know more about.
Athos made the first move and D'Artagnan parried off of instinct. But the next move threw him for a loop and had him knocking his opponent's sword away with less grace than a drunkard. He gasped out of surprise and stared in disbelief as they both paused. That was a simple counter…why hadn't he caught it? Athos knocked his sword against D'Artagnan's to get his attention back. He could have been imagining it, but he swore he saw genuine worry in his friend's features.
"Get the sleep out of your brain and focus," Athos chided with the wary eyes of a hawk. "Again."
They continued like before, starting out slow and gradually increasing the speed, but the farther they got the harder it was for D'Artagnan to keep up. Everything simply felt wrong, from the stance to his footwork and even to the weight of his own sword. He knew he was performing poorly, as if he'd never held a sword before in his life, but he was stubborn and tried to remember how to correct the mistakes he was making. And in the process he barely missed a blow that would have done him serious injury had Athos not halted inches from striking him.
"Pay attention," the man snapped.
"I am," D'Artagnan exploded. "I just…I know what I'm doing isn't right, but I don't know how to…It doesn't feel natural and I don't understand why! I've done this a thousand times before-I know it!" He huffed in frustration and turned his back, pacing up and down but failing to find the reason why his sword felt so awkward and unnatural in his hand. "How can something like this make me forget how to fight," he hissed, angry but fearing the answer-if there even was one.
D'Artagnan looked over to Athos for help, but found he wasn't there. He blinked in surprise and turned himself in a circle looking for the man. Perhaps he'd gone back to the stables? "Athos," he called.
The back door to the house opened and he caught sight of the man before he disappeared into the house, leaving D'Artagnan alone, frustrated, and confused in the courtyard.
Notes
1. Cinnamon around this time was a pretty valuable spice. And through out history it's funny to see how people have gone a little crazy over what lengths they'll go to get it or find out how to grow it. And carrot cake was actually around since medieval times because carrots have a lot more natural sugar in them than other vegetables. And considering that sugar wasn't cheap, this was something of an alternative.
2. The song Porthos is singing here is "She Moved Through the Fair." This is an old Irish folk song. The word 'kine' in the fourth line is another word for cattle, so conversely, the meaning refers to the wealth of the potential suitor and not 'kind' as in kindness like it is sometimes translated or sung.