Part Two - If Death Dares to Find You
Six
When D'Artagnan returned with an armful of firewood, it was as if time had merely paused while he had been away. The fire still made the only sound as it crackled and popped in the shuttered room, pushing out just enough light to see by and enough warmth to make the room comfortable against the chill of an early spring evening.
Firelight flickered over the prone form of Aramis lying motionless just as he had left him on the pallet of blankets before the hearth, their blue cloaks pulled up over him to keep him warm. Athos too remained where he had been, sitting with his back to the arched facade of the fireplace, knees drawn up and hands loosely clasped in front of them. He made no acknowledgment of D'Artagnan when he walked into the room, but there was just enough light for D'Artagnan to see the glint of Athos's eyes from beneath the brim of his hat. He was awake.
Porthos was in the same place as well, sitting at Aramis's side, staring into the fire. His sword and pistols were laid out next to him, and he was absentmindedly polishing his main gauche with a small cloth. His eyes stared blankly into the fire giving no attention to the blade in his hands.
D'Artagnan moved the other side of the fireplace and began carefully shifting his burden of wood, piece by piece, from his arms into the small stack that he had already collected. His motions were focused, each piece laid softly and quietly to nestle next to its mate.
Finished with his work and satisfied with the pile he had accumulated, D'Artagnan stood and faced the other men. He wasn't sure what to do next, but the stillness of his friends, both the injured and the well, was alarming. The silence in the room felt holy, sacred as if sitting the vigil for the dead.
Aramis's life balanced on the edge of a blade. D'Artagnan's own hands had stitched the wounds and time and time again during the process he had to pause, to feel again for the pulsebeat of his friend's lifeblood tapping against his fingers. Aramis gave no response during his care of him. Even as D'Artagnan mercilessly cleaned the sword slash at his side with alcohol, pressed on the gunshot wound in his chest to stop the bleeding, rolled him to his side to stitch his shoulder. No response, no sound, not even a change in his breathing to indicate Aramis had any awareness at all. Even now D'Artagnan would not believe the musketeer lived if not for the calmness of his friends indicating the marksman had not slipped from his tenuous hold on life while he had been out gathering firewood.
Calm was not the right word. They were taught as bowstrings as they kept vigil over their brother. Their stillness was as unnatural as Aramis's. The air suddenly felt too heavy to D'Artagnan, the atmosphere too thick with woodsmoke and despair. They were not waiting for him to recover, they were keeping vigil to see if he would die. Maybe this is what their years of soldiering had taught them but D'Artagnan's spirit rebelled. If Aramis's God saw fit to take him from this world it would not be without a fight and he would not leave this earth surrounded by broken men already grieving. D'Artagnan was not sure what he should do but he was determined to do something. He took in a deep steadying breath then squatted at Aramis's other side, facing Porthos.
"Has there been any change?" D'Artagnan's voice was pitched low and soft but it seemed to boom and echo into the corners of the room. He placed a hand gently on Aramis's chest, needing to reassure himself again by feeling the slight rise and fall of his breathing. D'Artagnan found the quiet rhythm comforting. He looked up at his friend, "Porthos?" he asked again, "Any change?"
The big man gave a little sigh and blinked his eyes as if D'Artagnan's question needed deeper thought than he was capable of. He shifted his gaze toward D'Artagnan but the young musketeer could not fathom what he was thinking behind his large dark eyes. "He woke up for a minute," Porthos finally said.
"That's good," D'Artagnan smiled. But Porthos shook his head sadly.
"I don't know," he seemed weighed down beneath his words, "It felt like he needed to say something and once he did, he just let go. I think he knows he is dying." Porthos's gaze deepened and D'Artagnan felt his heart breaking at the deep remorse he found there.
"What did he say?" was all D'Artagnan could think to ask. He didn't want to address the rest of Porthos's words.
Porthos's tone was weary when he answered, "He needed to apologize to Athos. Damned fool is lying there dying and his last words are to apologize to that idiot," Porthos shook his head, "Fools and idiots."
D'Artagnan didn't need to look to know that Athos had heard that. He bit his lip, considering how to respond.
"Did you get him to take some water?" D'Artagnan opted for a neutral response.
"Yeah," Porthos said with a sigh, running a hand through his hair, "and some of those herbs for fever. He's so cold. I don't think it matters." Gingerly, D'Artagnan moved his hand from Aramis's chest to lightly brush his forehead. The chilled flesh was almost shocking. No wonder Porthos was so rattled. It was like sitting with a corpse that had forgotten to stop breathing. D'Artagnan felt a swell of grief rise in his chest, but his own passionate spirit refused to allow it a foothold. He would not be dragged into despair. Aramis deserved better.
"I snared some rabbits. They're outside. Can you clean them and set them to boil? We will need a hearty broth when he wakes again," D'Artagnan said, hoping that Porthos would respond to his suggestion for action. He waited a moment then shifted his hand to lay on Porthos's arm, "Porthos. I need your help. Aramis does. Please." Porthos exhaled and pursed his lips but gave D'Artagnan a curt nod. He pushed himself up from the floor, sheathing his main gauche at his back as he left the room, his other weapons forgotten.
D'Artagnan took a deep breath, finding it easier as some of the brooding intensity that had infused the room lifted with Porthos's exit. D'Artagnan knew it would not be that simple but he found a confidence and purpose now in his actions. Every instinct told him that Aramis's life depended on more than God and medicine - it hinged on them and their ability to bring him back.
His first course of action was to not give in to the silence. He eased down the two blue woolen cloaks so that he could check the dressings. The marksman's chest was bare but patched and swaddled with bandages. "I know you are cold, mon ami," D'Artagnan spoke as if Aramis could hear him, "But you know as well as I that I need to check these frequently for bleeding. Your chest looks good, now for your side," and D'Artagnan kept up a string of soft conversation, narrating each action he was taking. He had no response from Aramis, but it felt better to talk to him then to just treat him like a body. The coldness of his skin worried D'Artagnan but he knew there was nothing for it. Blood loss brought on this chill and despite the wool cloaks and the warm fire, they would not be able to drive it out until Aramis was able to take in sustenance and have the strength to fight it himself. Making broth from the rabbits would help, but he had to wake again to take any of it.
Satisfied the wounds needed no further attention and did not yet need to be redressed, D'Artagnan slipped the covers up over the marksman again, tucking them around his shoulders. His hand lingered on Aramis's cheek, wishing some of his warmth would transfer to his friend.
"You are settled," he said softly. D'Artagnan looked fondly down at his friend, thinking about the all too frequent times he had woken from a wound or sickness to be greeted by Aramis's smile when he opened his eyes. "I'll be here when you wake," he promised. His hand lingered a moment longer and then D'Artagnan settled down cross-legged in the spot Porthos had occupied, put his hands on his thighs, and fixed Athos with a stern gaze.
"So," D'Artagnan said boldly, "Would you like to explain why you shot Aramis?"
Seven
D'Artagnan's return with the firewood had barely registered with Athos, nor had his conversation with Porthos had much impact other than to cause his heart to clench at Porthos's proclamation that he was an idiot and Aramis a fool. That had fixed his attention enough for him to feel Porthos's anger still pouring from him like blood from an open wound. Yes, he had embraced him, on some level given him enough forgiveness to give him comfort, but Athos knew the wound between them was as far from healed as the one he had put next to Aramis's heart.
That the marksman still lived was nothing short of a gift from a God Athos thought had long ago abandoned him. Athos had lost track of how long he had sat here, watching the life slowly lift from his brother's body as he saw over and over again in his mind the events from the room upstairs. Aramis helpless in the grip of a madman, the queen with a gun to her head, and Athos facing the most devastating choice of his life. Yes, he had ordered Anne's death but as beloved as she was to him at the time, she was still guilty of a crime. But with Aramis, there was no crime, only a love so strong Aramis would have died along with her Majesty if the madman's bullet had found its mark. Aramis would never have forgiven him if he hadn't taken the shot but now he could not forgive himself for having done it.
Athos wished yet again for the oblivion of wine but the little they had was set aside for Aramis's wounds. Instead, he brooded and thought and saw himself, again and again, sighting his own brother with his pistol, watching the blood blossoming on Aramis's chest and tracking his slow and silent fall to the ground. Over and over again he saw it until D'Artagnan's question forced him back to the now.
"There was no other option," Athos sighed, leaning his head against the wall, unable to fully meet D'Artagnan's expectant gaze. If Porthos, an older and more seasoned soldier, could not understand how was he going to explain what he had been forced to do to D'Artagnan.
"What happened?" D'Artagnan demanded. He spoke quietly so as not to disturb Aramis but that did not stop his tone from being insistent.
"Soldiers make choices," Athos heard the bitterness in his own voice "Aramis gave his life for the Queen. Anyone of us would have made that choice."
"Did he? Or did you choose for him? It's your lead ball that went through his chest after all," D'Artagnan's words hit Athos in the gut.
"If another man had said that to me, I'd kill him," Athos felt his fists clench. He loved D'Artagnan as much as the others, but he could beat him into the ground for that accusation.
D'Artagnan pushed himself up from where he had been sitting beside Aramis and stepped lithely around the prone marksman. He stood before Athos, arms crossed, and spoke softly.
"Things have not been right between you and Aramis for months," D'Artagnan spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, "Your passions have ruled your choices before - you would have let Porthos die before you'd bring him to Pinion without Aramis's intervention. With no one there to intercede . . ."
Athos did not allow D'Artagnan to finish as he surged up to grab the younger man by the jacket, pulling him in close, "I would give my life a hundred times over before I'd lay harm to him," Athos hissed, "How dare you think anything less." Athos gave D'Artagnan a shake, his knuckles white for the strength he poured into his grip. If he released his hands, he might kill the Gascon for his words.
"I don't think that," D'Artagnan was surprisingly calm, "It is you who are acting as if you do." He put his hands gently over the ones twisting into his leathers, "I do not believe you would willingly hurt any of us. I believe what you said. I believe you had no choice, but you must believe it too." Athos felt the fire and tension drain from his body as quickly as it had overtaken him. He dropped his hands from D'Artagnan and took a shaky step backward to lean against the wall. He felt utterly deflated.
"I forgive you, and Porthos will eventually, but you have to forgive yourself," D'Artagnan's voice was sad, tired."Your guilt is too great a weight for Aramis to bear - he will not survive it." D'Artagnan glanced over his shoulder to where Aramis lay unmoving, "Porthos said Aramis begged your forgiveness. I do not know what for, but if you cannot forgive yourself he will not believe that you forgive him. Whatever it is he has done." D'Artagnan returned his gaze to Athos, "He is so close to death that maybe all that keeps him here is us. You cannot abandon him now."
Athos's words fled his mouth at D'Artagnan's statement. The Gascon cocked his head and gave Athos a thin smile - a silent invitation to make a choice, then moved to the other side of the fireplace to carefully select some more wood to add to the flagging fire.
D'Artagnan had laid down an ultimatum. To stay here was to stay in solidarity as brothers in arms, not in the solitude of a death vigil for a friend he had mortally wounded. Ever since they had laid Aramis out in this room, Athos had felt the walls closing in, the sound and color leaving, until all that remained was death's fingers gripping his own heart. He felt the maw of oblivion opening up beneath his feet and knew just how many bottles of wine it would take to push him so deeply into the abyss that this time he would not come out on the other side.
Athos was engulfed in a swirling fog of memory and fear and saw not the antechamber of the ruined chapel but his family tomb where he had buried his father and his brother but now Aramis was there, a marble figure laid atop his own grave. His breath caught in his chest and Athos propelled himself off the wall and out of the room, needing air, needing light, needing something, anything that wasn't death to surround him.
The waning sunlight felt unbearably bright as he staggered out of the chapel. He placed his hand on the crumbling doorframe to steady himself and took in several deep, shuddering breaths. The chill air of the early spring evening stung his over-warm face and as Athos clamped down on his wayward emotions the thought crossed his mind that he might himself be feverish from his wounds. He had forgotten his own hurts but in truth, the throbbing in his head had been growing along with his worry over Aramis and his guilt at his actions. Part of him wanted to retch but pride and willpower kept his rebellious stomach under control.
Athos gathered himself, letting the cool air and thinning daylight revive his dark spirit and refresh his tired body. He'd lost track of hours, but it had been early in the midday when they had been ambushed in the clearing and now dusk was coloring the sky. Athos took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. He'd been lost too long in his own bleak mind. Athos had long practice in holding his demons at bay. It was something he could put to use now too. He knew also how to grieve but those feelings he crammed into the deepest part of his heart. Later, he promised himself. Later, when there is wine and it is only a few steps to the swirling dark waters of the Seine will he let his grief have free reign.
Athos wandered over to where D'Artagnan had staked out the horses. The Gascon had stripped them of their the saddles and the saddle blankets now lie beneath Aramis. He'd watered their mounts and put them to their oats, tomorrow they could be let out in the field beside the abbey where the stone wall still runs around what would have been their rye fields. The soft grass would keep the horses well fed until they could ride from this place. When that will be wholly depended on Aramis. There was a well with a bucket in the small courtyard and Athos lowered it to pull up some water. He settled by the horses, cleaning the dried blood from Aramis's saddle. It felt pointless.
It didn't take long to finish his task and the light had all but died from the sky when Athos rose to return to the chapel. Making his way back toward the doorway, he met Porthos coming from around the corner of the crumbling structure, a small brass pot containing what must be the skinned rabbits. Porthos seemed intent on just walking by but Athos stopped him, a hand to the big man's chest.
"Porthos, I . . ." Athos licked his lips uncertain of what he even wanted to say. "I'm sorry," were the only feeble words he could find.
"Sorry, yeah. Me too," Porthos gave a mirthless smile, "Sorry we're stuck out here. Sorry Aramis is lyin' dyin' on the floor. Sorry you put your damned duty before Aramis's life." The last words were low and dark, threat sparking in Porthos's dark eyes.
"Aramis put duty first," Athos replied, thinking back to the conversation he had had with Aramis just that afternoon. The only solace Aramis had been able to find in his impossible love for a woman he could never have, a son he could never claim, was to put his own life before theirs. Even Porthos would not begrudge him that choice if only Porthos could know. But he couldn't know unless Athos was willing to risk Porthos's neck for treason so he continued the only way he could, "We are soldiers, Musketeers. Our lives are not our own the minute we take up our commission."
"So what's our brotherhood then?" Porthos's rage flared and his voice rose, "What is all for one? You are a bastard Athos, and I don't know that I can ever forgive you."
"I don't need your forgiveness," Athos spat, old and practiced barriers rising up, "When I pulled that trigger, I killed us both. You may as well dig my grave when you dig his!"
"Enough!" D'Artagnan appeared on the doorstep, anger lining his features. "Enough. Aramis is not dead and the two of you acting like he is helps no one. Is this what brotherhood means?" D'Artagnan took them both in with a gaze that could stop a charging bull.
Athos stepped back a pace and folded his arms, head bowed. D'Artagnan was right and shame flushed his cheeks. Porthos too seemed to let his anger diffuse and remorse took hold of his features instead.
D'Artagnan softened his tone but continued with conviction, "We can either live in hope or despair and I choose hope. It's what Aramis would have us do and I don't plan on letting him down. That's our duty. That's what all for one means. So get yourselves right about this." D'Artagnan reached out and took up the cook pot from Porthos. "I'll set this to fire. We need more water for the night and more firewood before it is too dark to see. There is a pile in the back."
D'Artagnan left the two men alone and they stood in an awkward silence. Athos wasn't sure how to move on from this moment but he was their leader, no matter how fractured they might be right now, and he knew he had to be the one to bridge the gap.
"I'll draw the water and then help you with the firewood," Athos said. Porthos nodded, sadness having replaced the anger in his eyes. He said nothing but gave Athos a small glance as they separated. It was a tiny gesture but it spoke loudly. Porthos would not abandon him and Athos would not abandon them. D'Artagnan was right, they owed at least that to Aramis.
Eight
The night did not pass easily for Athos. The first time Aramis woke he was incoherent, moaning with the pain of his wounds but with no recognition in his eyes as they held his hand and wiped his face with a warm cloth. His grip on Athos was like an iron band clenched around his wrist. It was hard to believe he could look so frail and yet have the strength to hold on like a vise. Athos endured it while Porthos and D'Artagnan managed to get Aramis to drink more water, even in his distressed state the marksman's body giving in to thirst.
The wound at his chest was red with dark bruising setting in around it but that was only to be expected from the proximity of the shot. They maneuvered him cautiously to his side so they could check the exit wound and the slashes at his shoulder and left side. All looked well as they refreshed the bandages but the side wound seemed angry and warm around the sutures and this gave them concern. It could just be the disturbed flesh from the cleaning and stitching, but this could be a sign of a wound turning putrid. It was too early to tell for sure and with Aramis's hold on life so tenuous, they decided to leave it be for the night rather than try to clean and stitch it again. They applied warmed cloths which seemed to ease the marksman's distress and he drifted off again but to sleep or unconsciousness they did not know.
Athos slipped back to his post against the wall, leaning next to the fireplace, hat pulled low over his face despite the near darkness in the room. D'Artagnan had stoked up the fire again before he and Porthos settled down again on the floor, Porthos stretched on his back on a bedroll and D'Artagnan curled under a cloak on the other side of the fireplace. They were indistinct forms in the dim light, only Aramis seemed truly human as the ruddy firelight highlighted his face and hands, the flicker giving them a sense of life despite the unearthly stillness that had again overtaken the marksman.
Athos knew he was done sleeping. The taste for wine was pulling at him in a way it had not done in a long time, since before D'Artagnan had joined their company before Aramis and Porthos had decided he was a danger to himself without one of them around. The ache and despair of loss was not a new feeling but that did not render it less potent and wine was the only cure he knew until the Musketeers. He did not know he could feel this kind of emptiness again with Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan only a few feet away.
There was nothing for it though but to sit and survive the night. He sat in his spot watching over the others, noticing when D'Artagnan grew restless as the fire waned, and Porthos's light snoring filtering away as the big man finally drifted into a deeper sleep. Wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him or if he truly could see the slow rise and fall of Aramis's chest as he slept. He chose to believe the marksman was breathing and had not slipped quietly from them in the darkness but he could not bear to draw near and confirm that Aramis still lived.
Near dawn, when sleep was heaviest upon his other companions, Aramis stirred again. Far less disturbed than earlier in the night his hands twisted ineffectually at his blankets and the soft sounds he made were more like words than the painful cries of before. Consumed still by guilt, Athos hoped one of the other would wake to comfort the marksman but they slept on unaware and it fell to Athos to kneel quietly by Aramis's bedside and take up his hand in his.
The slender fingers were still far too cold, but could it be that they held just slightly more life in them than before?
"Aramis," he whispered. Athos bit his lip as he brushed a hand across Aramis's forehead hoping to draw him fully awake. The marksman's quiet muttering continued and Athos tried again, calling his name and squeezing his hand. Aramis shifted slightly against the blankets and his eyes struggled open, gleaming darkly in the early morning light.
"Estoy muerto?," Aramis's soft words held a note of desperation, "Estoy muerto?
"You live, my friend," Athos answered thickly, knowing the Spanish word for death, "Despite all I've done to you. You live."
Aramis furrowed his brow as his breathing grew heavier, the breaths coming too rapidly.
"La vida duele," Athos did not know these words, but the pain behind them was evident as Aramis closed his eyes and let out a small moan. His head thrashed against the blankets beneath him, then Aramis's eyes shot open again and he gripped Athos's hand tightly, trying to raise himself up. "Mátame, por favor, mátame. El dolor es demasiado. No puedo soportar esto!" he cried.
"You are speaking Spanish, Aramis," Athos said, gently pressing the marksman back against the blankets, "Be still. You are wounded. Do you remember?" Aramis blinked up at him as confusion played across his features but then gave a slight nod. "You saved the dauphin and rescued the queen, do you remember that?" Again Aramis nodded. Athos nodded in return and found somehow a reassuring smile. He surprised himself with his next words, "You must remember that they live. That you must have strength for their sakes. You are their protector. Can you remember that? That they need you?" Athos said, heart full. He needed Aramis too, they all did, but Athos could not bear to say it.
Aramis closed his eyes, so much emotion playing across his face that Athos was not sure he had said the right thing. Was it pain, resignation, despair? In a moment Aramis's breathing grew more steady and he opened his eyes again, a hard edge to his gaze that had not been there before.
"I will live," Aramis said with great effort but the ghost of a smile lit his face, "You worry too much."
Athos couldn't help it as he grinned. Leave it to Aramis to be on the brink of death and darkness and find a way to tease him still.
"I fear we both will live," Athos said as the smile faded. "There is some broth, can you manage it?" Aramis nodded yes, he'd try. Athos was reluctant to let go of Aramis's hand but the marksman himself released it and closed his eyes again. The lines on his face said he was still in pain but the steady and deliberate breathing suggested Aramis was working his way through it.
Athos left Aramis to regain his composure and moved to the hearth to spoon out the rich broth they had made from the rabbits D'Artagnan had caught. He also poured some of their wine into a cup and mixed it with water. They had precious little left, but there was still enough if they had to redress the wound at Aramis's side and Athos could not imagine facing the pain of such severe injuries without something to dull the senses.
When he returned to the marksman's side Porthos was there, leaning over Aramis and talking softly to him. He looked up as Athos approached and reached his hand out to take the bowl from him.
"I'll help," they were the first words Porthos had spoken to Athos since their exchange outside the chapel the evening before.
Nine
The morning was quiet as Aramis seemed to have exhausted whatever stamina he had left on eating and bearing the pain as they again redressed his wounds. The one on his side looked no better nor no worse and they decided to again leave it be. Aramis fell back into a deep slumber still chilled beneath the pile of blankets and cloaks. They hoped the broth would do him some good. They ghosted quietly around the room, D'Artagnan bringing in more firewood and Porthos again tending to his and Aramis's weapons. Athos returned to his spot against the wall.
In the early afternoon, they gathered around Aramis to check the wound at his side and this time, things had deteriorated. Aramis did not rouse as they pulled back the cloaks and turned him to his side.
"I can smell that," Porthos's terse words came as D'Artagnan started to pull back the bandages. They all knew the scent of a wound gone foul but to hear it said confirmed the fear they all shared.
D'Artagnan sat back on his haunches, "We have to clean it out."
"It'll kill 'im," Porthos said, despair leaching through tight lips.
"We have no choice," Athos's voice was flat, the tone of command clear, "He will die if we do not."
"You love sayin' that, don't ya?" Porthos said darkly, "Always there is no choice with you."
Athos felt a surge of anger and rose to his feet and yet his voice remained taut and controlled, "What would you have me do? Leave him to lie here rotting from the inside?" Porthos pushed himself to stand as well and they faced off with Aramis lying on the ground between them.
"You could show the decency to at least be a little concerned!" Porthos's voice rose and anger flashed dangerously in his eyes, "You are so ready to do the right thing, do your duty, that you don't even notice the people you are sacrificing to do it!"
"You have no idea what I feel," Athos said with a dangerous calm, his hand twitching toward his rapier.
"Because you feel nothing," Porthos snarled.
"Porthos, stop! Athos is right," D'Artagnan was on his feet too. "The wound must be reopened and cleaned. There is no choice." Porthos pressed his lips together and took a deep breath. He obviously had more to say but was fighting back his words. D'Artagnan turned his gaze to Athos next, "And you could do well to remember that this not easy for him, for me, for any of us."
Athos said nothing but stood his ground as rage and despair warred within him. Porthos was wrong, he felt every wound, every heartache, every tragedy of theirs as deeply as his own. And he was furious about it. Furious that still, even after hanging his own wife, he could not stop himself from it. No matter what he did to hollow himself out he still had feelings. Too many damned feelings and they would destroy him as readily as the bullet to Aramis's chest was destroying the marksman. It might be the sword wound that was festering, but the shot that should have killed him had weakened Aramis to the edge of death. There was little chance he had enough strength left to survive a festered wound.
The sound of horses, lots of them, interrupted whatever might have been Athos's next words. They reacted out of instinct, Porthos immediately picking up his sword and main gauche and flanking Athos to the left as they stepped to the doorway of the chapel to meet the threat. D'Artagnan held back in the door frame, pistols drawn and primed. They were grim and ready for a fight when they recognized the quartet of musketeers riding into the yard at a fast trot. Porthos sheathed his weapons and D'Artagnan lowered the pistols as the men drew up and dismounted.
"Lieutenant," Joubert said as he approached Athos. He reached out his hand and Athos gripped his forearm as the young musketeer did the same. A greeting of brothers regardless of their rank, "How is he?" Joubert asked, face concerned.
"He lives," Athos replied, "But one of the wounds festers. Your return is timely." Athos knew that of all of the musketeers that had ridden out Joubert was the closest they had to a physician after Aramis.
"I'll take a look and see if we can keep him comfortable until the Queen arrives with supplies," Joubert shifted to move past Athos but he stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"The Queen?" Athos asked, raising a brow. Joubert looked down and shifted uncomfortably.
"She insisted we stop here before returning to the palace," the musketeer replied, "She wanted to see after your well-being. She was concerned about the musketeers who were wounded in her defense."
"She should not be here," Athos was angry. He knew full well it was his duty to have been at the Queen's side. He could have convinced her to make way directly to Paris. Yet he had been unable to put his feelings aside and chosen instead to stay with Aramis. Not knowing the source of the attack, the Queen remained in danger - perhaps even more so if anyone questioned her sudden interest in the health of a certain musketeer.
"She insisted," Joubert said again, raising his eyes. "I had no choice." Athos was beginning to see why Porthos hated that statement. "The carriage is a small ways behind us. We rode ahead to ensure it was safe. Clemente has ridden back to meet them."
Athos shook his head but released Joubert's arm so he could continue on inside. It might not be right, but Athos was deeply grateful that the Queen's stubbornness had brought them Joubert just when he was needed most.
D'Artagnan followed Joubert inside but Porthos lingered, clearly having something more to say. Athos turned to him, the tension from earlier gone. The potential threat of the approaching horses had erased it from both of them. Whatever their differences with each other at some core they remained brothers. At least Athos hoped so.
"Why's the Queen comin' 'ere?" Porthos said quietly so the other two musketeers in the yard would not overhear.
"To see to a musketeer wounded in her defense," Athos said dryly.
"And you think that's a good idea?" Porthos replied, "You think that's safe?"
"I think it's a terrible idea," Athos answered, "But as much as you don't like to hear this . . ."
"Yeah, yeah," Porthos cut him off, "We have no choice." Athos gave him a nod and shifted to move from the doorstep to give orders to the remaining musketeers but Porthos put a hand to his shoulder and leaned in closer practically whispering in Athos's ear, "I heard what you said to Aramis about being the Queen's protector and now she is here to see to his health. I'm not fool enough to miss that something is going on."
"Let it go, Porthos," Athos warned.
"Not on your life," Porthos whispered back. The big man released Athos's shoulder and headed back into the chapel. Athos scrubbed a hand over his face, for all of his efforts and sacrifice he was not managing to keep anyone safe at all.
Ten
The sound of a man screaming while his wounds were treated was not new to Athos but that did not mean it was any easier to bear. Particularly so when it wasn't just some poor unknown sod on the other end of the knife, but Aramis.
His first agonized cry was heartbreaking. The Queen's face had gone pale and Athos thought she might collapse. He suggested she take Constance and see if they could find anything useful to them in the remains of the garden. She seemed the brighter for having a task to do and as Constance took up the Queen's arm to lead her away she sent a grateful look to Athos. He gave a dip of his head and as he met her eyes he realized that Constance knew everything. Despite the danger that put her in, Athos felt some relief surge through him. If Aramis did not survive, he had an ally in Constance. They must get the Queen through this without revealing her feelings. He owed that to Aramis as much as he owed it to France.
He sent them with Porthos as guard, who was fairing little better than the Queen if truth be told. Athos could not bear both his own guilt over having sentenced Aramis to this agony and the silent accusation of Porthos who looked about to wrestle the devil himself in the struggle for Aramis's life. Despite what others might think, Athos was not in fact unbreakable. He sent him with the Queen for Porthos's benefit as much as for himself.
D'Artagnan and Clemente were assisting Joubert while Athos remained outside, overseeing the musketeers patrolling the grounds and keeping the contingent of Red Guards who had survived the ambush in some semblance of order. Athos had taken up a spot at the doorstep which now served as an unofficial command post as men came to ask for orders and report on the different tasks he had set for them. Truly there was very little to do, but Athos knew they were lingering for word about Aramis and none were immune to the wretched cries coming from the chapel.
"Athos," Edouard, a red-haired and stocky musketeer, called out as he approached. Athos pushed himself up from where he was leaning on the door frame to step forward to meet the musketeer.
"Find anything?" Athos asked.
"Here," Edouard held out a coin purse and a sheaf of papers, "These were on the body of the man whose throat was slit." Athos took up the papers and sifted through them. The one who had held Aramis was called Javier Athos remembered. It felt like it had happened days ago, but it had only been yesterday afternoon. He had sent Edouard with a few men to search the bodies and then bury them. Athos forced himself to focus on the documents as another cry sounded from the chapel.
"He had been corresponding with that woman he mentioned," Athos said, trying to make sense of the poor writing and bad grammar, "Emilie of Duras. He wanted to hand the Queen over to her. Who is she?"
"I don't know," Edouard replied, "But whoever she is, she seems to have had help from someone close to the Queen." Athos looked up in surprise at the statement but took the paper that Edouard offered him next. "This was on the other man," he explained.
On fine parchment and in a neat hand, the Queen's schedule for the trip to Fontainebleau was laid out in careful detail - including the number of the red guard expected to be with her and likely spots to stage an ambush. It was unsigned but this was clearly the work of an educated person with the means to finance the attack if the size of the coin purse they had recovered was any indication. Athos considered the papers and pushed back through the haze of his guilt and worry to focus on the events of yesterday, the conversation between the brothers that he had overheard before bursting into the room. He had been negligent, sloppy in his duty in the wake of his emotions.
"No, they disagreed," Athos said as the memories sharpened, "The younger brother, Matthieu, said they had been hired to scare the Queen, not abduct her. Javier had other plans though."
"Plots within plots," Edouard said quietly, "But regardless the intent someone close to the Queen orchestrated the attempt."
"Indeed," Athos answered, mind flipping through options and strategies before handing the papers back to Edouard, "Take these to Treville. He needs to know there is a spy in the palace, a spy close to the Queen. As for Emilie of Duras, find out if he knows of her. I think she too poses a threat to the crown, but I do not know if these incidents are linked through plan or happenstance."
"What of the Queen?" Edouard asked, nodding over his shoulder to where her majesty and Constance were emerging from the overgrown garden, a bundle of plants in Porthos's arms. The large musketeer was favoring his right leg, a telltale sign the injury from the crossbow bolt was troubling him. Athos would have Joubert look at Porthos's wound before riding out.
"We must get her majesty back to Paris with all haste," Athos said, "This attempt was thwarted but who is to say another is not planned. She is not safe here."
"Good thing there were musketeers and not just red guards or things might have been very different," Edouard raised a knowing brow to Athos.
"Yes, good fortune that as it seems Treville's intercession is the only reason we are here," Athos gave his head a shake, "Report directly to Treville upon your return. Speak of this to no one else."
"Understood," Edouard gave Athos his hand and they parted ways as the Queen and her party approached.
"Majesty," Athos said, offering a deferential bow.
"Any word?" She asked, her voice calm and regal but her blue eyes wide with worry.
"Not yet," Athos said, "but things have quieted and I expect we will hear soon." It was true, the chapel had fallen silent. That no one had come immediately to get him suggested Aramis had not died beneath their hands, but beyond that, he could not speculate. He focused instead on the Queen.
"Majesty, you must return swiftly to Paris," Athos said calmly, "This was not a random attack. They had information about your plans from someone inside the palace."
"It could be anyone," the Queen said, taking in the new information, "There are so many people, servants, guests . . ." the Queen's eyes were wide at the seemingly endless possibilities.
"No, Majesty, this is someone close, very close to you," Athos said quietly, "Someone who knew specific details about the arrangements for this trip." Athos saw Constance clutch the Queen's arm tightly, anger, not fear rising in the young woman's face.
"We will find this traitor, Majesty," Constance bristled at the thought of the Queen and the Dauphin in danger, "The Musketeers will deal him." The Queen gave Constance a fond smile, one surprisingly serene for the news Athos had just shared and patted the young woman on the arm.
"Of course they will, Constance," the Queen was calm and confident, "We must keep faith in our musketeers." Athos was impressed at the Queen's ability to mask her fears so completely, but then again she was a Spanish princess married into a French court at the young age of 14. Young as she still was, she had had over a decade to learn how to protect herself. Her defenses seemed as accomplished as Athos's own. "The King must be informed."
"Yes, Majesty," Athos gave a slight bow, "I'll have the men prepare for your departure."
"We will leave as soon as they finish in the chapel," the Queen said, leveling her sharp gaze to Athos. "We will prepare a spot in the carriage for Aramis." The Queen's tone suggested there would be no argument, but Athos could not let her do this. Her delay to see Aramis was already questionable, but to delay her return further to wait for a wounded soldier who might not recover was near treason on his part if Athos let it happen.
Before Athos could respond, Clemente emerged from the doorway behind him, his doublet off and his shirtsleeves rolled up. His face was grey and he took several staggering steps toward the side of the building before leaning over to retch. Everyone stared at him in silence until the young man finished, standing awkwardly and leaning a hand against the wall to keep his balance. He ran his sleeve over his face then finally noticed he had an audience.
"Majesty," Clemente attempted a half bow but could not let go of the wall, "My apologies, I did not realize . . ." He left his sentence unfinished and looked desperately at Athos in despair for his unseemly behavior in front of the Queen.
"It's alright," the Queen gave the young man a kind smile, "It is a difficult duty you were asked to perform." Clemente attempted another small bow and then a musketeer was at his side offering a water skin and walking him back toward their horses just as Joubert emerged carrying a small pot covered by a damp cloth. He too was in a disheveled state, blood on his untucked shirt and his hair damp with sweat. The pot, Athos knew from experience, would be the fouled bandages from their grim work. Those would be burned, they could not be salvaged.
"How fares our musketeer?" The Queen's question was light as if asking after a lady at court, but Athos saw the deep worry in her blue eyes. Joubert gave a small bow before replying.
"Majesty, the wound was deep and fouled and took much to clean and redress," Joubert looked troubled as if he did not wish to continue, "He is resting. It is in God's hands now," the young musketeer added his voice cracking.
"My physician will see to him as soon as we get him back to Paris," the Queen replied, "He will have the best of care toward his recovery."
"Majesty, he cannot travel," Joubert said earnestly, "I do not know how he has survived thus far, but there is so little strength left that his body could not take the abuse of a carriage. He must not be moved."
"I think that is for me to decide," the Queen raised her chin, bringing the power of her crown to bear. Joubert exchanged a worried look with Athos but Athos gave him a slight shake of his head. He would handle this.
"Yes, Majesty," Joubert said softly.
"I would see him," the Queen's serene smile once again descending over her face.
"Of course, Majesty," Joubert replied with a bow, and stepped aside from the doorway. The Queen gave him a nod of acknowledgment and entered the chapel, Constance at her side and Porthos following behind. Athos caught sight of the big man's face but could read nothing but storm clouds. But he didn't have to see it to know that Porthos's guts were as twisted as his own. Athos let Porthos move past him before following them into the chapel.
The room was overly warm and smelled of sick and sweat but in all other ways, it was much like yesterday. Aramis was on his back on the palette of blankets before the fire, two blue musketeer cloaks tucked closely around him. His lips were slightly parted, his dark curls tousled and damp from the sweat of what he had endured.
D'Artagnan straightened from where he had been crouched at Aramis's side. He gave a low bow to the Queen before stepping back from Aramis to give them all room to gather around. Athos did not miss how the Gascon's eyes were full of tears, nor the hitch to Constance's' breath as she noticed too.
Porthos moved to where D'Artagnan stood and gave him a comforting pat on the arm before kneeling beside Aramis and placing a hand gently over the marksman's chest. Athos doubted that Aramis was breathing deeply enough for Porthos to feel it, but he recognized the same need in himself to feel life beneath his hand.
Standing between Constance and Athos, the Queen did not move. She stood completely still, stricken with some combination of grief and fear that made Athos's heart ache. If Athos had any last remaining doubts that what had happened between the Queen and Aramis in the convent may have been a passing fancy on either of their parts, the Queen's face dispelled them from his mind. Her feelings were obvious to anyone bothering to look. And that was dangerous to them all.
"He looks quite pale," the Queen said softly.
"He is not well, Majesty," Athos replied.
"Perhaps then it is correct that he must not travel," her tone was casual as if she was discussing the fit of her newest gown.
"A wise decision, Majesty," Athos was relieved but hoped it did not show overly much in his tone.
"How long do you think it will be?" The Queen never did like to give in to circumstances, "We could wait the day and then in the morning —" she did not finish her sentence as Athos was already shaking his head no.
"Majesty, with wounds this grave it will be days before he has the strength to make even a small journey," Athos knew this was not what the Queen would want to hear, so considered how best to make a compromise she could accept, "You must return with the Dauphin to the safety of the palace and inform the King of this treachery. Perhaps though you might inform Captain Treville and have him send us a physician and more medical supplies. It would help greatly if we could give Aramis proper care."
He watched the Queen bite at her bottom lip as she considered his suggestion. He knew she did not want to leave Aramis's side any more than he did, but he also knew, the Queen needed to protect her son and do her duty to France. No matter what she felt she would not jeopardize the safety of the Dauphin.
"As always you give me wise counsel, Lieutenant," the Queen graced him with a smile but her eyes remained troubled. "Porthos, perhaps you could organize the guards to leave behind the supplies we carry. We have far more with us than we need for the journey back to Paris. There are more blankets and some cushions from the carriage as well." Porthos looked none too happy to be sent from the room, but he knew a dismissal when he heard one.
"Yes, Majesty," he said gruffly with a dip of his head. He fussed with the blanket beneath Aramis's chin then rose and gave the Queen a slight bow before heading out to follow her orders.
"Constance," the Queen turned her manufactured smile to her lady in waiting next, "perhaps you would show D'Artagnan where we found the mustard seed and comfrey in the garden. They will need more for poultices than what we have gathered."
At his name, D'Artagnan lost the faraway look that had masked his troubled eyes since they had entered the room. Athos could see the Gascon was barely holding it together. It was not just Aramis but the tension between all of them that had been grating on D'Artagnan's nerves and with Constance now added to the mix, Athos doubted D'Artagnan could maintain his composure much longer.
"Of course, your Majesty," Constance gave a slight curtesy and moved to take D'Artagnan by the arm. "Come, I'll show you just where things are." When D'Artagnan did not move, Athos realized the boy was waiting on word from him. He gave D'Artagnan an approving nod and the Gascon let Constance bundle them off. Athos wondered if he too would be sent away by the Queen but she said nothing, choosing instead to take three small steps forward and lower herself delicately to sit by Aramis's side.
"Aramis," her voice broke on his name as she reached out to smooth the hair from his face. Gingerly she pulled back the cloaks to Aramis's waist, running a hand lightly over the bandages as if she could feel the wound beneath.
"He is so cold," she said, not taking her eyes from Aramis's face.
"It is the loss of blood, Majesty," Athos explained wondering how he still had words to speak. He watched her hand lay softly over Aramis's shoulder, over the hole that Athos himself had put in Aramis's chest. Whether Aramis lived or died, they were tied together now through sorrow and blood and nothing would be the same again. Athos felt a lump rise in his throat as he watched the Queen tenderly stroke Aramis's face. "It might best to keep him warm," Athos suggested, his voice thick with emotion.
The Queen gave a small nod and shifted her hands to pull the cloaks back up over Aramis's chest. She paused and let her hand trail to the golden chain at Aramis's neck. She pulled it gently and found a golden jeweled cross in her hand.
"He still wears this," the Queen said softly.
"Always, Majesty," Athos answered. She held it tightly then brought it to her lips before placing it on his chest and pulling the cloaks up over it. She smoothed his hair back again, her other hand stroking his cheek. Athos cleared his throat, knowing that he could not let this continue any longer. The others would be back at any moment. "Majesty, you must make haste. You cannot stay here with your safety and that of the Dauphin at stake."
"I know," the Queen said. She lingered nonetheless, giving Aramis's face one final caress before leaning close and whispering to him something that Athos could not hear. She straightened and turned toward Athos, offering him her hand so he could help her up. She was small and came only to his chin, something Athos had not really noticed before, but then rarely did they stand this close. She peered up at him, her blue eyes sharp and clear.
"This is the first time I've touched him since —" the Queen did not finish that thought as if she too had vowed never to speak of it. But clearly, there was something she wanted to say to Athos, "We have had no further assignations. No encounters behind a closed door. He has never sought me out privately nor spoken directly to me other than on the occasion of the Dauphin's birth." She paused, her chin raising slightly, her eyes defiant and clear, "Aramis has done nothing wrong. None of this is his fault."
"I would assign no blame," Athos replied, "The situation is . . . complex and we are all involved in some way."
"It is not complex at all," the Queen's tone was almost incredulous, "It is quite simple. Our duty to France, to the King, to the Dauphin comes first. For all of us. For me, for Aramis and for you. If not, how could you bear to have fired that shot?"
She looked up at Athos which such earnestness and devotion in her gaze that he could do nothing but duck his head away from her prying eyes. That the Queen herself would say this, would offer comfort to the man who had shot a person so beloved to her, was overwhelming. There had been too many emotions in the last day, too much for Athos to handle. He felt the tears draw in his eyes but his stubborn pride would not allow them to fall.
"I know you love him as I do," the Queen whispered, "Keep him safe for me."
In a rustle of skirts she was gone and Athos, finally alone, put a hand to his eyes to keep the tears from tumbling down his cheeks.