CHAPTER FIVE
In the outer room, the surgeons had done all they could. They had dug into flesh to retrieve elusive musket balls. They had cleaned and sewn ragged edges together. The dead had all now been conveyed to the temporary mortuary at the rear of the Garrison. Eight more were in various stages of trauma, including their Lieutenant, whose blood had now been swabbed away and who now hovered between life and the death he had often courted.
With these thoughts weighing heavily on him, Treville walked wearily around the three rooms they were using. The anteroom, which had been filled with his injured men awaiting surgery; the room itself where the two surgeons had laboured, assisted by Aramis and a small army of helpers from those left behind when the Regiment had left that morning. Kitchen staff, stable boys, those not on duty; all doing their part. Porthos, his lips pressed together, his head down, quietly issuing orders so that soiled linen was shifted and fresh brought in; water was boiled, bandages were brought through, and drinking water made available.
The bedlam of the earlier hours had faded as each man was cared for. In the relative quiet, Treville slipped out of the side door and crossed the yard to the rear of the main block.
The stillness of the evening air contrasted with the cacophony of noise that had assailed his ears only a few hours earlier; although his blood still pumped loudly in his ears and his heart hammered in his chest. He pulled in a lungful of city air. Although not fresh by any standards, it was a vast improvement on the cloying atmosphere of the Infirmary; the accompanying smell still in his nostrils.
He doubted he would ever be able to rid himself of the sight, sounds and smell that this day had brought.
It was with a heavy tread that he pushed through the wooden door ahead of him and walked into the dark windowless interior.
Ahead of him lay his dead soldiers, all known to him, now each covered with their own blue cloak. A lit candle stood at the head of each one, their yellow flames burning brightly against the darkness that otherwise surrounded him.
DePaul; Fournier; Bessette; Grovois; Pelletier ... and Loubert.
Someone had hung a crucifix on the wall above them. He had not seen it there on prior occasions when they had used this room for the last resting place of other souls who kept the Garrison running, prior to internment in their small cemetery. He berated himself that he had not ensured that such a symbol had been erected before this day, and quietly thanked Aramis for doing so; as he was sure that it was he who had sought to bring such peace and comfort to this small room.
He had sent for a priest, and they had received absolution in this room. Treville knew that a priest moving around the injured brought solace to some but also fear to others and, thinking of his Lieutenant, sometimes contempt.
So the priest now sat in Treville's office, should he be required during the evening, and Athos would remain undisturbed.
Treville quietly adjusted the cloaks around all six men, resting his hand on each shoulder, before quietly swearing vengeance for the sudden and brutal loss of their lives.
There would be more bloodshed before this played out.
oOo
In the Infirmary, Aramis skidded to a halt at the side of the bed.
He put one hand on Porthos's shoulder and the other on Athos's chest, and by that action, Porthos lowered his brother down onto the mattress.
Porthos's shirt was wet where he had been holding Athos, and the heat now radiating from Athos's limp body was evidence that this new day had dawned with further trials in her heart.
But Athos breathed still, and Aramis rolled up his sleeves and went in search of cold water. Porthos shucked off Athos's shirt and used it to mop his chest and face, steeling himself for the coming hours.
oOo
The following morning, with hardly any sleep, Treville made his way to the Palace. He was beside himself with rage and doubted his capacity to deliver a succinct, concise report of the ambush to their Majesties. How he wished that his Lieutenant was at his side with his ability to report matters with such an inscrutable expression that those who listened could not tell if they were in receipt of his respect, distain or mockery.
News had spread, following Sir Edmund's swift return to the Palace last evening, and it was with a heavy heart that Treville entered the Palace receiving room to see the Cardinal standing closely behind a very angry King.
Henrietta Maria and Sir Edmund Temple were nowhere in sight as Treville stood before the King.
"That could have been ME!" yelled the King, as Treville stared at a spot on the wall behind Louis, tamping down his anger at the man's unbelievable selfishness. Richelieu had obviously done his work.
"Sire," Treville said, courteously but firmly, "I understand these brigands were English."
"And that makes a difference, how?" cried the King, jumping to his feet.
"They did not attack the coach, your Majesty," Treville answered, ignoring the question.
"What are you saying?" Richelieu now asked, stepping forward.
"They were English, and their target seemed to be my men."
Richelieu tilted his head. The man was no fool. He would reach the conclusion soon, Treville thought.
"They sought to deplete the Musketeers?" Richelieu said; conclusion met.
"I believe so. They had ample time to attack the Royal coach on the procession, yet they sought out the second coach. And they did not attack that either," Treville said quietly. "Just my men."
The King was looking from one to the other, obviously confused.
"So, they may also seek to deplete the Red Guard?" Richelieu added.
"Perhaps," Treville said, although his own belief was that his Musketeers were more of a threat to any assassins than the Red Guard.
"But, more importantly, it seems they may be planning a further attack, with our defences weakened," Treville said, levelling his gaze at the Cardinal.
"On the Queen Consort." Treville affirmed.
"And Henrietta Maria still has to make the return journey." Richelieu said finally.
"She may have to remain within the Royal Palace grounds until that time, until I can pull in extra men from their assignments around the districts and borders." Treville said.
"And perhaps delay her return." Richelieu said, looking at Treville.
The King threw up his hands in dismay, and returned to his seat. The hunting he had planned after his sister had returned to England may have to be postponed.
oOo
Six months earlier:
Aubin Fabron was twenty three years old, the eldest son of a Blacksmith.
He looked nothing like his father, who was a giant of a man with thick corded muscles, honed through years toiling at the anvil. He was dark haired, with brown eyes. In contrast his son, although strong, was lean, with pale blonde hair and blue eyes.
Growing up, Aubin had spent many hours in the confines of the family smithy, watching his father hammer out steel into sabres. Many items of ironwork were made in the smithy, but it was the swords that held fascination for the boy. The lad had been allowed from an early age to handle the finished swords, polishing them to brightness, before they were collected by the finely dressed soldiers and taken away.
By the time he was old enough to take over the smithy, his love of the military had overtaken his desire to follow the family trade. He had left that inheritance to his younger brother and made his way to Paris to find a regiment and seek adventure; aware that as a poor blacksmith's son, there would be little choice for him.
The fabled King's Musketeers comprised many sons of the nobility; daunting in itself. However, he soon learned that the King had sanctioned another private contingent of guards to protect his Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu, who was becoming unpopular and had been receiving death threats.
The King's ever growing dependence upon his Cardinal's counsel had led to his desire to protect him, and so the Red Guard was born. Richelieu had resisted at first, but the King had insisted and so the Red Guard became a formidable force in itself, well trained and equipped, but lacking the finesse of the blue cloaked Musketeers; who Aubin had watched patrol around the city with both interest and awe.
He had watched in amusement the rivalry between both groups, whose aims were both relatively the same, but were as chalk and cheese in regard to executing their duties.
Now, he sat at the back of the tavern, and watched yet another altercation unfold.
"Come on then, you bugger," the big dark-skinned Musketeer was yelling at the small wiry Red Guard he had been happily playing cards with just a few moments ago. Beckoning him to take a swing, the Red Guard foolishly complied, finding his fist aimlessly swinging past the big man, who merely leaned back. The other man spun in an arc, before losing his balance completely. The Musketeer roared with laughter, his voice booming around the room. Turning, he caught the eye of his two friends on the bench in the corner, and winked at them. They in turn, smiled indulgently and each raised their cup to him. The Musketeer laughed once more before turning back to the chaos he was creating.
Tables were overturned then, and, judging by the glint in his eye, the big man was seemingly relishing the prospect of tearing the smaller man limb from limb. Aubin Fabron had seen this scene played out before, and the big one always triumphed. He wondered at the brain capacity of his fellow Red Guards for even taking this one on, which they seemed to do regularly, especially over card games.
This Musketeer obviously loved to brawl. He did not seem as imperious as the friend he often threw over his shoulder and took home, or as languid and charming as the one who was more interested in toying with the barmaids than with the Red Guard.
It was entertaining though. And, as he had recently joined the ranks of Richelieu's small army, it was good to know the opposition, even if they were not meant to be on opposing sides.
Sure enough, the Musketeer took the Red Guard apart, and laughed all the time. His friends merely raised their eyebrows, stood, and steered him out into the night.
His booming laugh echoed against the walls of the alley as they all made their way home. He had had a good night, at least, Aubin thought as the other man was peeled off the floor and thrown into a corner by his "friends."
To be continued ...