Thanks for the wonderful reactions to the twist in the last chapter, including the guest reviewers who I can't reply to personally. d'Artagnan gets a bit of a break next, which means I had to turn my attention elsewhere...hope you enjoy!
The day passed slowly, Madame Trémaux spending a large portion of her time at the young man's side, there each time he awoke, hopeful that as the hours passed his lucidity would improve. Sadly, that was not the case and it only became more obvious that the Musketeer had no recollection of his time at the estate nor of his history prior to arriving. She'd done her best to calm him when he'd realized during his last waking moments that he didn't even know his own name, but he'd hyperventilated, the experience made worse by the agony of his broken ribs, and he'd passed out. She'd made the decision then that it would be irresponsible of her to keep him from proper medical attention, having neither the knowledge to assist with his memory loss, nor medication to manage his pain. It was too late for anything to be done now, but she ordered the physician to be sent for the following morning, unwilling to send any of her staff into town in the dark. Instead, she spent another night at the young man's side, managing to get him to drink small amounts of water and broth, and otherwise simply comforting him through her presence, holding his hand in hers. Fortunately, he still spent the majority of this time asleep and she believed this to be a kindness, unable to fathom how terrifying it must be to wake time and again in unfamiliar surroundings, with no knowledge of oneself, and in pain.
She was woken from a restless sleep by a knock at the door and realized with a start that morning had arrived and the physician had been brought per her instructions the previous night. Standing quickly, she ran a hand across her hair, doing her best to tidy the wisps that had pulled free during the night. "Come in," she called, still smoothing her dress as she took a step away from the bed and turned to face the door. As she'd expected, the physician had arrived and was led inside by Gilles. She gave the man a warm smile of thanks as the physician moved forward to examine his patient.
"Any improvement?" Gilles asked, the concern plainly written on his face.
Madame Trémaux shook her head in reply, turning back to the bed to watch the physician work, ready to move closer to calm the boy if he awoke. The man was pressing on the young man's injured left flank and she winced as she watched d'Artagnan's eyes flutter, unable to remain asleep through the pain. She moved around to the other side of the bed, placing a hand on his cheek so that she could get his attention as soon as he was aware. The physician paused and allowed her to explain what was happening. "Denys, it's good to see you awake." She waited for him to focus on her and he gave a small nod in reply, grimacing as the movement jarred his still fragile head. "Denys, there's a physician here to examine you." She motioned to the opposite side of the bed and removed her hand as d'Artagnan rolled his head to look at the man. After several seconds, he turned back to her and spoke softly, "alright." She nodded to the physician but stayed next to the bed as the examination resumed.
d'Artagnan's answers to the physician's questions were short, but predictable, and Trémaux took a small bit of comfort in the fact that the man had so far not done anything that she hadn't already tried, easing her guilt at not having sent for the man earlier. When he'd finished, he moved away from the bed, indicating his desire for the lady to follow him, which she did after giving d'Artagnan's hand a final squeeze before sliding her hand free from his. "He seems to be healing as well as can be expected."
Madame Trémaux frowned at him, "What of his memory?"
The physician shrugged, "Injuries to the head can be troublesome. Sometimes the memory is affected and sometimes it returns. There is no way to know."
"Do you mean to tell me that this could be permanent?" she hissed at him, her emotion making it difficult to speak quietly despite her desire not to alarm her patient.
"Madame, there is nothing I can do. His memories will either return or they will not; it is out of my hands." With that, he reached into his bag and withdrew a small vial. "If he is in pain, you may give him two drops of this on the tongue." He tipped his hat and turned on his heel to leave, Gilles following to escort him out.
Trémaux stood in place as she watched him leave, taking several seconds to calm herself before returning to d'Artagnan's side. Holding up the glass bottle, she said, "I have something here for the pain. Would you like some?"
d'Artagnan's face showed a glimpse of something before his expression became blank, and she wondered if he'd remembered something. He shook his head slightly as he answered, "No, thank you. I can handle it."
The man's reply made her frown as she knew his injuries had to be painful, especially after the physician's poking and prodding. "Are you certain, Denys? I imagine that your head and side must ache a fair bit."
He gave a shy half-smile, the most life he'd shown since he'd been hurt and she couldn't help but smile back. "It's not that bad."
"Alright," she acquiesced, "but you must promise that you'll tell me if you change your mind." He gave a slight dip of his head in agreement.
"Could you help me sit up?" he asked hesitantly, still uncertain of his place in the house.
"Of course," she replied, moving to gather more pillows from the cupboard and then helping the boy sit upright, placing the cushions behind his back as he held himself up on shaky arms. When she'd finished, he leaned back gratefully, sweat dotting his brow from the minor exertion. She wet a cloth and wiped his face, earning a look of gratitude from the young man and she was struck by how young and vulnerable he looked. Returning the cloth to the basin, she said, "You must be hungry. I'll have the cook prepare something for you."
He didn't seem overly excited at the thought of food but gave a small nod regardless, not wanting to upset his hostess who'd so far treated him kindly. She smiled at his agreement and left the room, d'Artagnan slumping more firmly into the pillows behind him as soon as she'd left. The truth was that he hurt terribly, but something tugged at his mind, telling him not to accept the medication he'd been offered. It was the closest thing he'd had to a memory so he'd heeded it, having no idea why he felt the way he did, but deciding to trust the feelings he'd experienced when she'd offered the pain relief. He knew that he could manage the aches that wrapped tightly around his head and side, increasing in their intensity with each thoughtless movement and, again, he had no idea where that belief sprang from, but was desperate enough to return to himself that he didn't question it further.
Now that he was alone, he cast his eyes about the room, noting the fine furnishings and recognizing that the home was owned by someone of status. He had no memory of Madame Trémaux but she'd explained that he'd had an accident while riding, and he couldn't imagine any reason why she would deceive him about the cause of his injuries, so he believed her. She called him Denys and, while he had no idea of his name, the one she used struck him as somehow wrong, but he could hardly disagree with her since he had no proof to the contrary. Despite the fact that he'd been treated well and, had so far had few moments of clarity, he felt unexplainably anxious, something greater than the loss of his memories compelling him to leave the house and run away. He'd considered asking the woman for more information about his circumstances, but he'd had little opportunity to do so thus far and, in truth, he was somewhat fearful of what he might learn.
His thoughts were cut short but the lady's return as she bustled inside, placing a tray on the table next to his bed. She'd brought a small bowl of thin soup along with a chunk of soft bread, hoping that his stomach might manage the relatively light meal so he could begin eating normally once more. She passed the bowl to him, noting the minor tremble of his hands, but didn't call attention to it, simply chatting about some of the unimportant goings-on of the estate to distract him while he ate. His bites were slow and measured and she could tell that his stomach was still unsettled, so she didn't say anything when he returned the bowl to her hands after only managing half of its contents. As she returned the soup to the tray, she looked at him with concern in her eyes, "Denys, are you certain you won't take something for the pain?"
His dark brown eyes met hers, the contrast starker than she remembered due to his unnaturally pale face. "No, thank you." He looked down at his lap for a moment, hands twisting nervously in the blanket. "Could you tell me some more about myself? Perhaps it would help my memories to return."
Madame Trémaux's heart clenched at the hopeful look on the young man's face, wanting so desperately to be honest with him, but fearful of what might happen if his secret was discovered. Affixing a smile to her face, she began. "Of course. I don't know much as I haven't seen you in a long time but you are my cousin," she said, choosing to continue with the story she and her brother had agreed upon. "You arrived nearly a week ago to help with the horses while my husband is away. From what Gilles has told me, you are very skilled and were doing an admirable job."
d'Artagnan smiled shyly at the compliment and Trémaux couldn't help but think how natural his reaction was, having responded similarly earlier in the week when she'd praised him. "Am I a horse trainer then?" he asked.
She considered her answer for a moment before replying, "You have many talents including those with horses."
He gave a small nod, thinking of his next question. "What of my other family?"
She knew a little of the boy's past from her brother's letters and decided she could be honest in answering. "Your parents are both gone and you have no siblings." The young man's face fell and she swore she could see sorrow in his eyes as she hurriedly added, "You are not alone, though. You have three very close friends who are like brothers to you and would do anything for you."
Her words rang true and she watched as his face clouded, clearly a hint of a memory returning but not enough for him to grasp. Placing a hand over his she suggested, "You're still tired. Why don't you rest for a while and I'll return in a few hours with lunch. We can speak more than."
He gave a tilt of his head before relaxing back against the pillows, eyes closing as he sighed in relief, his headache easing somewhat in his new position. Trémaux gathered her skirts and stood, slipping quietly from the room, concerned at how they would continue now that he was becoming more aware. It had been six days since the boy's arrival and she prayed for news from her brother, but if nothing arrived by the following day, she would have no choice but to send a letter of her own to Paris to update him and ask for his counsel about how to proceed.
The first days after d'Artagnan's escape had found the Musketeer garrison under close scrutiny by the Red Guards, Rochefort making no excuses for the increased presence of his men patrolling around streets surrounding the King's guard. As a result, there had been several barely avoided brawls between the two groups as the Musketeers grew weary of the Red Guards' harassment. Treville had felt increased pressure from the palace as well, having spent hours in front of the King, repeatedly denying knowledge of d'Artagnan's whereabouts and complicity in his escape. He knew that as long as he didn't admit to anything, there was little that could be done, since Rochefort had no evidence that contradicted Treville's adamant claims; for that he was eternally grateful as his thoughts drifted momentarily to his sister who had immediately agreed to hide his disgraced soldier.
When enough time had passed following the discovery of d'Artagnan's absence from the Chatelet, the inseparables had wandered out, intentionally swaggering confidently past the Red Guards hovering around the gates and, as expected, had been followed to a tavern where they enjoyed a leisurely meal. The longer they sat, adopting an attitude of three men without a care, the more the guards seethed until one of their number strode forward, angrily placing a hand on the table as he leaned into Athos' face in an attempt to intimidate the man. They'd shared a few words, the Red Guard accusatory, Athos calm and uncaring, before Porthos had taken offense to a particularly nasty insult at the older man's parentage. Without missing a beat, Porthos drove the tines of his fork through the fleshy portion of the guard's hand, leaving him howling with pain while the three collected their hats and walked away, staring at the other Red Guards as if daring them to follow; none of them did.
After that initial drawing of blood, the Red Guards kept their distance and Porthos was able to slip away from his friends and return to the Court, determined to search every dirty alley and hovel until he'd located Christophe. His friends knew that he would not return until he'd succeeded and they shared a silent look, all of them understanding what had passed between them. Stay safe. Return soon. Porthos returned the look with a nod as he glided away from them, disappearing between one step and the next. Athos and Aramis would continue to be visible on the streets of Paris, hopefully diverting the guards' attention from Porthos and allowing him to move freely until he was ready to re-join them at the garrison.
Porthos passed through several small alleyways until he stood at the edge of the Court and, with one last look around to confirm he hadn't been followed, he stepped forward, sensing immediately that hidden eyes were upon him as he crossed the border between the bustle of Paris and the space dominated by criminals and the forgotten ones. He moved confidently, his senses attuned to everything around him but feeling safe enough as a prince of Court, a title Flea had bestowed upon him after Charon had been killed. Still, it was always possible that there would be those who didn't know him or disagreed with Flea's decision, so he remained aware, refusing to be caught off-guard. He stepped into the building where Flea held court, the two men at the doorway giving him a hard stare before recognition dawned and they allowed him to enter. He stood at the back of the dimly-lit room, waiting for his eyes to adjust and for Flea to notice him. She was speaking with another man and dismissed him almost immediately as her eyes landed on the large Musketeer. With a smile on her face, she moved toward him, Porthos doing the same and giving her a firm hug, followed by a deep kiss before releasing her.
As happy as he was to see Flea, worry painted his features and the woman took his hand in hers as she led the way out through a back exit. As they walked, she shared with him what she knew. "There's still no formal news of Christophe's location but d'Artagnan's escape has sent ripples through Paris, enough to even reach the depths of the Court. There's a substantial bounty on his head and there are many here who would try to collect it, even if it means stealing the boy away from you."
Porthos bit his lip, squeezing Flea's hand as he considered the troubling information. "Any way you can keep people away from 'im? Let 'em know the Musketeers will pay for the boy's safe delivery but they'll have hell to pay if they go after the bounty?"
Flea shrugged noncommittally; sadly, they both knew that there was little hope of reasoning with those who had nothing and, while Flea did her best to take care of the Court's residents, there were still those few who resisted her rule and would act in their own self-interests. "You 'ave any idea where he's hidin'?"
Flea nodded and tugged at his hand, urging him to continue following. They moved to the outer edges of the Court and into the areas that were poor, even by their standards, the inhabitants here the worst of the worst and those who were barely managing to survive. Porthos' hand moved to the hilt of his sword, resting there casually but warning those around them that he and Flea were no easy targets. Flea stopped in front of half-destroyed house, the walls on one side collapsing inwards and threatening to give way under a heavy wind. She moved to the overgrown steps that led downwards, ducking through a small door into what was likely once the cellar. Porthos followed her cautiously, stopping just inside the doorway as he struggled to see anything in the dark space. When his eyes had adjusted, he was shocked to find a group of six children ranging in age from four to ten, all of them with dirty faces and patched clothing, but incredibly with large grins on their faces.
One of the larger boys stepped forward and gave a small bow to Flea, "Your Majesty." Porthos bit the inside of his cheek to hide the grin that was threatening, amused at how seriously the child had addressed the Queen of the Court.
Deciding that playing along would be the best way to win the boy's trust, Flea inclined her head in acknowledgement. "My loyal subjects, I am here on a matter of grave importance seeking a young man named Christophe. Do any of you know where he can be found?" Based on the description they'd gotten from d'Artagnan, both adults believed the child in front of them was the one they sought, but it would be easier if he identified himself and answered their questions willingly.
The boy exchanged looks with some of the other children behind him, several of them shaking their heads, suggesting he lie, but the boy turned back to face them and drew himself up straight as he replied, "I'm Christophe."
Flea gave the boy a warm smile, "Is there somewhere we might speak, in private?" She glanced at the children, making her meaning clear. Christophe waved at the children and they dispersed in a quick and obviously well-rehearsed fashion that would come in handy when in danger. When the last child was gone, Flea motioned for Porthos to approach. "This is my protector, Porthos. He is also a Musketeer." She and Porthos watched as Christophe's face blanched, the larger man positioning himself to catch the child if he decided to run. The boy glanced between Porthos and the door, apparently concluding that he was unlikely to make good his escape, and he swallowed, looking up at the large man who towered above him.
Coming down to one knee, Porthos slowly moved a hand to rest on the boy's shoulder. "Christophe, you're not in any danger from me. I know that you tricked a friend of mine into leaving the garrison but I'm not mad at you. I know what it's like to go hungry and to need to survive." He paused, waiting for his words to sink in. When the boy remained silent, he continued, "The man that hired you is a very dangerous man and he's trying to hurt my friend. I need you to tell me anything you can remember about him so I can track him down and keep my friend safe."
Christophe seemed to be considering Porthos' words and when he spoke, it was to ask a question rather than answering the Musketeer's. "How do you know what it's like to live here when you're a Musketeer?"
Porthos allowed a grin to split his face, pleased that the boy had thought to ask. "I grew up here with Flea," he motioned toward her with his head. "Then one day I helped the Captain of the Musketeers and he offered to sponsor my training. I decided to accept his offer but that doesn't mean I've forgotten about my days in the Court."
Sensing the boy's indecision, Flea added her words in support of Porthos. "He's telling you the truth and he helps the people here whenever he can."
Porthos gave Flea a grateful smile before returning his gaze to the boy. "Alright. I think he was a noble 'cause his clothes looked expensive; lots of embroidery and fine lace. I called him the cheese man." Porthos' brow furrowed in confusion at the boy's words, causing Christophe to giggle. "You know, Roquefort, the cheese."
It was close enough that Porthos knew without a doubt that it had been Rochefort who'd orchestrated d'Artagnan's kidnapping and he thumped the boy's shoulder gently in encouragement. "You did well, Christophe, very well." Standing, he looked at Flea, "We need to keep the boy safe. If Rochefort suspects that he might turn against him, he'll kill 'im."
Christophe crossed his arms a look of anger appearing on his face, "Don't need anyone to keep me safe. Been takin' care of myself since I was four."
Porthos nodded at the boy, "I know ya have, lad, but this man is dangerous and the Queen is worried about you." He glanced at Flea who nodded in agreement. "How 'bout you come back with us and spend a few days at court to make her feel better. It wouldn't be forever, just till we can take care of things."
Again, the two found themselves being appraised by the young child and it normally would have brought smiles to both their faces, had it not been for the gravity of the situation. The boy finally gave a decisive nod. "Alright, I'll come with. Just so you don't worry, mind."
"Of course," Flea replied. "Thank you for your consideration of my feelings."
The trio climbed back out of the small space and to the street above, the two adults keeping the boy between them as they retraced their steps. They were nearly back when Porthos' neck prickled, alerting him to the presence of someone else close by. "Flea, I think we've got company." She gave an imperceptible nod but her steps never faltered. "If anythin' happens, take the boy and run. If you don't feel safe here, go to the garrison and ask for Athos and Aramis – they'll protect you." He received another slight nod as his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, preparing to draw if needed.
They managed another ten feet before the men attacked. There were four of them, brandishing clubs and knives but fortunately nothing more threatening. Porthos pushed the boy toward Flea and caught a glimpse of them running before he turned to face the men, blocking the path so they couldn't follow his companions. He pulled his loaded pistol first and shot the largest man, needing to even the odds in his favor. The other three barely took notice of their friend's fate as they continued to advance and Porthos swapped his empty pistol for his sword, pulling his main gauche as well with his left hand. An evil grin on his face as he brandished his weapons, he warned the advancing men, "You don't want to do this."
The three men traded looks and Porthos could read their intention even before the first man began to move toward him, raising his club high above his head, planning to bring it down against Porthos' skull. The Musketeer nimbly stepped to the side, avoiding the blow, raising his dagger to parry the knife that was swiping at his chest. Unlike many attackers, the three moved in unison, forcing Porthos to protect himself on several fronts, not allowing him any opportunity to catch his breath. He brought his sword up to block a blow from the club, stepping forward as he did so to pull his dagger across the man's throat as the momentum of his deflected strike carried him away from Porthos.
The two remaining men both held wicked looking knives and one of the men was throwing his in a lazy arc between his two hands, forcing Porthos to watch the blade in anticipation of its owner's attack. The second man took advantage of Porthos' momentary distraction, throwing his blade at the Musketeer and grinning in satisfaction as it buried itself in the meat of his right shoulder. His arm went numb immediately, his sword dropping from his hand, and he brought his dagger up to block another strike from the other man's knife. As he did so successfully, he followed the man as he retreated a step, turning the dagger in his hand and using its hilt to knock the man unconscious.
The last attacker eyed Porthos' sword warily and Porthos inched closer, determined not to allow the man a weapon. "Come on," he goaded, aware that his wound was still leaking blood and needing to end things before he was physically unable to. The man seemed unwilling to engage him though, continuously circling and stepping away from Porthos' advances so the Musketeer decided to take a page out of his attacker's book, unerringly throwing his dagger at the man's chest. He was nowhere as accurate as Athos or even d'Artagnan when it came to knife throwing, but at this distance, even he could not miss. The man looked down dumbly at the blade that jutted from his chest, dropping to his knees before his eyes closed and he fell to his side. "Finally," Porthos groused, beginning to feel the effects of both the pain and blood loss.
Porthos carefully bent to retrieve his dagger and his sword, wiping the former on the dead man's clothes before sheathing both blades. His head swam dangerously as he stood upright and he knew that he was only minutes away from passing out. As his vision began to tunnel, he forced his heavy feet forward, plodding down the path that Flea and Christophe had taken, grateful that they'd only been a couple streets away from Flea's sanctuary. The same two men stood guard outside Flea's door and they moved aside hastily as they saw the sweat-covered face of the large Musketeer. Inside, Flea and the boy were waiting and she moved forward immediately when he entered, the boy following close on her heels. Porthos gave her a weak grin as his knees buckled, Flea holding him so he didn't fall the rest of the way to the floor. "You're safe," he breathed out as his eyes closed and he fell limply into her arms.