The Key to Salvation

Chapter Three

They were almost within sight of the garrison when Aramis' nerve failed him. He was, at Porthos' insistence, riding while Porthos walked beside him. Getting into the saddle had been difficult due to the weakness in his arms and legs but he had eventually managed it without help. He'd been aware of Porthos watching him and was grateful that his friend hadn't immediately offered to help even though he had seen the indecision on Porthos' face. He still had his pride although it was severely battered. Now though he felt overwhelmed by the thought of returning to the garrison. Even the act of riding through the crowded streets had proved to be more of an ordeal than he had expected. He was so used to solitude that the mass of humanity with its accompanying noise had been almost more than he could bear. He pulled on the reins and brought the horse to a standstill.

Porthos looked up at him quizzically. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know if I can face the other Musketeers," he admitted.

"No-one believed you to be guilty. They will be glad to see you."

Although he was heartened by Porthos' words he couldn't believe that no-one had harboured any doubts about his innocence. It was human nature to believe the worst of someone and he had been convicted after a trial in which the evidence had been utterly damning. "When did you know I was to be freed?"

"The King sent word to Treville this morning. Serge is cooking you a special meal and your room's been cleaned and aired out."

These small acts of kindness nearly reduced Aramis to tears and he had to turn his head away to avoid embarrassing himself. For ten months he had known only cruelty and deprivation so any consideration for his feelings was more than welcome.

Porthos urged the horse forward again and they were soon walking through the archway leading to the garrison courtyard. The few Musketeers not on duty watched him with the same pity he had seen on d'Artagnan's face. No doubt he made a pathetic sight in his ragged dirty clothes with greasy hair and a beard which had run riot. He slid from the horse which was taken away by one of the stable boys who couldn't look him in the eye. Porthos took his arm and led him over to the table. During their journey the sun had come out and it was now turning into a beautiful spring day. He was thankful that Porthos had thought to remain outdoors. He had spent too long locked away from the sun and fresh air.

"You must be hungry," Porthos said.

"My stomach will not be able to tolerate heavy food. Some broth would be welcome though."

"I'll be back in a minute." Porthos disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with a bowl of broth and a chunk of fresh baked bread. He set it down in front of Aramis.

He found that his hand was trembling when he reached for the spoon and it was an act of will to steady it. In a flash of fear he wondered if he would ever regain the steadiness that had helped him to become a proficient marksman. Almost immediately he realised that it didn't matter. He no longer had a place in the regiment so his skill with firearms was unnecessary.

The first spoonful of the chicken and vegetable broth was heavenly and he nearly moaned with pleasure. He dipped the bread in the liquid and took a small mouthful, chewing carefully. He knew that he would make himself ill if he ate too much or too quickly so forced himself to moderation. After he had consumed half of the broth he could feel his stomach becoming uncomfortable and set the spoon down with a contented sigh.

"You need to eat more than that," Porthos grumbled.

"It will take time to build up my appetite again. Small meals at regular intervals will help." He ran a hand across his beard, grimacing with distaste. "I should like to be clean again," he said wistfully.

"That can be arranged. Go to the bath house. I'll bring you some fresh clothes."

There was no-one else in the bath house for which he was grateful. The large vats of water were kept warm by a constant fire and he picked up one of the buckets used to transfer the water to the tub. After hauling two loads he felt weak and lightheaded and sank down onto a bench. When Porthos arrived he took one look at his friend and took over the task. When the tub was full Porthos chivied him to his feet. He pulled his threadbare shirt over his head, faltering when he heard a deep growl from his friend.

"What did they do to you?" Porthos asked in horror.

Aramis looked down at his body, seeing for the first time how prominent his ribs were. "Food was not plentiful," he said. He reverently took his bible out and set it on the bench before removing the loose trousers and thin sandals that constituted standard prison issue clothing and stepping into the tub.

"Oh, dear God, that feels good." There were layers of ingrained dirt and grime on his skin which he attacked with a bar of soap. He had scrubbed himself red and raw before he was satisfied that he was as clean as he was going to get from one bath. The water had turned brown and was rapidly cooling before he dunked his head and worked lather into his hair. Once he rinsed it off he was ready to leave the almost sensual comfort of the water. Porthos held out a towel for him as he stepped out onto the warm flagstones.

When he was dry he put on his underclothes and then pulled on his breeches. It was abundantly clear how much weight he had lost when he had to fasten his belt several notches tighter than usual. Even his shirt seemed to swamp him. He left it loose to try and hide how thin he was.

"We'll send for the barber tomorrow," Porthos said.

Aramis towelled his hair dry, wishing he had something to tie it back out of his face. It fell now past his shoulders in a mass of unruly curls. "I would like that."

"You should rest before the others get back from the palace."

His hand shot out to grip Porthos' arm. "I don't want to be on my own. I have spent more than ten months without company."

"Then I will sit with you."

It was a strange experience to enter the room he had occupied as a Musketeer to find that nothing had changed. All his belongings were exactly where they he had left them. He crossed the room to close the window and then gazed longingly at the bed. Although it wasn't luxurious it was many times better than the hard pallet he had been sleeping on in prison.

"Why don't you lie down?" Porthos suggested. "I ain't goin' anywhere." He pulled over a chair and positioned it near the head of the bed where Aramis would be able to see him.

Aramis removed his shirt and boots and lay down. Since he had exerted himself more in the last few hours than in the past several months it didn't take long for him to fall asleep.

TMTMTM

"How is he?" Athos asked as soon as he entered Aramis' room. He kept his voice low to avoid disturbing his friend who looked very peaceful.

"He's a mess. Can hardly eat and I swear I can count every rib."

"He looks better," d'Artagnan observed. "At least he's clean."

"That was quite the process too. You should have seen the state of 'im."

"Treville would like to speak to him once he feels up to it."

"How did he persuade the King to release Aramis?" d'Artagnan quietly moved a chair so that he could sit beside Porthos.

"He won't tell me."

"All that matters is that he's home." Porthos glanced fondly at his slumbering brother.

"We will need to be gentle with him," Athos said. "He has endured a harsh ordeal from which he will not easily recover."

"It would help if we knew who set him up," d'Artagnan said. "Then at least he would have a future in the Musketeers to look forward to."

"We'll find the bastard who did this to him and when we do…"

"We will hand them over to the authorities," Athos said, correctly surmising that Porthos had something a little more painful and permanent in mind.

Porthos scowled at him. "Aramis deserves more than that."

"Perhaps so, but we are sworn to uphold the law. Aramis understands that."

"I've started to make enquiries about the servants who claim they saw Aramis in the Queen's chambers," d'Artagnan said hastily, trying to avert a disagreement between his two friends. "So far there is nothing unusual about any of them but two have left the Queen's service in the last few months. One still lives in the city. The other has returned to his village which is about two hours ride west."

"Did either of them suddenly come into money?" Athos asked.

"No-one has said anything but, if you had taken money to frame a Musketeer you wouldn't be boasting about it for fear of getting caught."

"That's true. You have done well, d'Artagnan." Athos smiled warmly at his protégé.

"So we look into these two, yeah?" Porthos said.

"We do. I will ask Treville to give us leave. Don't say anything to Aramis for now. We don't want to get his hopes up unnecessarily."

"He'll want to help," Porthos pointed out.

"He is hardly fit to be traipsing around the countryside." Athos looked fondly at their brother who still hadn't stirred. "I will sit with him for a while. With luck we will join you for supper."

"Make sure you're here when he wakes up," Porthos warned. "He isn't doin' well on his own."

"Don't worry, I won't leave his side."

After Porthos and d'Artagnan had left Athos sat down and, as he had done every day for the last ten months, he tried to think who might have a grudge against Aramis. "You have made a bitter enemy of someone, my friend. I just wish we knew who it was."

Tbc