The group of assailants and their hostages rode up to the exquisite Château de Meung-sur-Loire, galloping across the moat toward the large grey stone structure. The front of the manor faced south toward the river, with the main structure being flanked by four round towers surprisingly no taller than the brick chimneys jutting above the roof.
Porthos remained on his horse awaiting instructions from the leader who lowered d'Artagnan down to the waiting arms of his men. The Gascon remained unconscious, his face streaked with blood that now trickled down his neck and stained his linen shirt. Blood oozed from his wounded shoulder, forming streaks on his right hand as the blood dripped to the ground.
Porthos shook his head with anger as he stared at the bloodied, unconscious Gascon, who just that morning had watched the ships sailing on the river with a smile of delight—which had not gone unnoticed by the large Musketeer.
The men dropped the limp d'Artagnan, allowing him to fall to the ground in an unceremonious heap. Porthos fisted his reins so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, drawing beads of red. He bit his lip to keep from cursing at the men as they laughed at the young Musketeer but he didn't dare, not without risking severe punishment to himself, or worse yet, to d'Artagnan.
"Get down from your horse," the leader demanded. "Tell me where you have hidden Marie d'Hautefort's letter from the king."
Porthos dismounted his horse and shrugged. "I don't know what you are talking about."
One of the hired goons hit Porthos on the back of the head with a pistol, knocking the large man to his knees. The Musketeer gasped but gritted his teeth against the pain throbbing in his head and dulling his vision. He could feel the slow trickle of blood beginning to run down his scalp to his neck, causing a slight tickle. He reached sideways to retrieve his hat which had been knocked off by the blow to his head and clutched it tightly in his hands.
"Search his saddlebags," the ruthless leader ordered.
The men set out to emptying the saddlebags on both horses, tossing the contents to and fro. They laughed with delight as the hidden pauldrons were uncovered as the last of the clothes were pulled out from the bags. "Well, look what we have here, Henri, two Musketeer pauldrons. Now, why would they conceal their identities?" The man named Gaston laughed viciously.
"Because they didn't wish to be noticed as they delivered the king's letter," Henri said. "We know how seriously the King's Musketeers consider their duty to King and Country, do we not?"
"There is nothing else in these saddlebags, Henri; we've checked every pocket and possible hiding place."
"Where is the letter, Musketeer?" Henri grabbed Porthos by the hair and yanked his head back, causing the large man to almost tip backward.
Porthos shook his head and remained quiet.
Henri took his fist and slammed it into Porthos' jaw, sending the Musketeer flying sideways to the ground. Drops of blood from his newly split lip dripped into the dirt underneath him. The large man wiped away the blood with his fist, clenching his teeth with defiance and cold hatred against the men assaulting him.
Porthos reminded himself that he must keep the king's correspondence a secret, no matter what they did or how much pain they caused him. During the ride to the château, he tried to mentally prepare himself for the possibility of torture; though staying calm and keeping his mouth shut was easier said than done. Now that he was being put to the test, he knew it was going to take every ounce of strength he had to endure the pain and suffering yet to come. God please, give me strength, Porthos prayed.
"On your feet, Musketeer," Henri said as he roughly grabbed Porthos under the armpits and pulled him up. The man pulled out his pistol and held it to the large Musketeer's head. "Try anything stupid and I will blow your head clean off." The gunman forcibly pushed the Musketeer forward into the château and down the spiral staircase into the darkness of the dungeon.
Jean-Pierre pulled the Gascon to his feet, eliciting a groan from the now semi-conscious Musketeer. The brute slapped the young man across the face to awaken him but it only evoked more moaning as d'Artagnan's head fell limply backward, as he lacked the strength to hold his head up.
Jean-Pierre and Jacques dragged d'Artagnan to the lower level of the abandoned château where the band of aggressors would have complete privacy to perform their brutal deeds of torment in the dungeon, being neither seen nor heard.
They tossed the young Gascon into the small cobblestone room designed for temporarily housing unwilling guests of torment. D'Artagnan splayed across the stone floor before rolling to a stop on the same side as his wounded shoulder, causing him to cry out in pain.
Porthos stood waiting for his young friend, having arrived just seconds before him. He instantly knelt beside his friend, turning the wounded man gently onto his back. "D'Artagnan, can you hear me? Open your eyes for me, lit'le brother."
The Gascon moaned in agony as the pain in his shoulder flared with hot intensity. "God," he hissed, "it hurts!"
"I know it does, mon ami," Porthos soothed. "I'm goin' to take a quick look at it, see how bad it is. I'll try not to hurt ya." The large man proceeded to unfasten the Gascon's doublet then he pulled it open to reveal the shirt now soaked with blood. He rolled d'Artagnan over to check his back and breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing an exit wound with soaking crimson staining the shirt. "Thank God," he breathed.
"Good news is that the ball passed through your shoulder," Porthos patted d'Artagnan's arm gently. "Bad news is that I have no bandages to wrap up your wound and no way to clean it."
Just then, Henri and Gaston entered the makeshift prison cell to toss the Musketeer strips of gauze to cover the wound, laughing at Porthos' attempt to comfort his companion. "Oh, we don't want the wound to get infected, now do we? We want him around to enjoy the first of many wounds he'll sustain unless you give us what we want."
"Don't tell them anything, Porthos!" D'Artagnan yelled just before a boot violently landed in his midsection. The air was forced from his lungs in a sudden rush, leaving him writhing on the floor stunned and breathless.
"Damn you to hell," Porthos growled as he lunged for the attackers. He rushed Gaston like an angry bear, knocking the surprised man to the floor where he smacked his head against the stone. Henri took his pistol and whipped Porthos on the head, knocking the large Musketeer off Gaston and into a crumpled heap against the wall.
D'Artagnan found his breath enough to allow a raspy scream at seeing Porthos knocked unconscious by the violent blow to the head.
"Where is the letter?" Henri pulled d'Artagnan partially up by his hair. "Tell me where the bloody letter is and we'll let you and your friend go."
"I don't know what you're talking about," d'Artagnan hissed, his jaw set hard with defiance. The young man's dark eyes stared at Henri with pure hatred.
"You are a stubborn pair, I'll give you that," Henri huffed, still fisting a handful of hair.
Without thinking, d'Artagnan spit into the man's face. The ill-thought action quickly brought a sudden, searing pain flashing from his arm and into every part of his being as Henri twisted and dug his thumb into the ragged flesh of his wounded shoulder. "Where is the damn letter?"
The young Musketeer went limp in Henri's hands, passed out from the white-hot pain. Disgusted, the man allowed d'Artagnan to fall to the floor. "Bandage up that shoulder wound then hang 'em up in the manacles." The sadistic man motioned to the restraints hanging from rusty metal rings in the ceiling. "Let's give them time to think about protecting their precious secret letter."
It took two men holding the limp body of Porthos as the other two men stood on short ladders fastening the manacles around the large wrists until he was hanging limply by his arms.
After half-heartedly wrapping the shoulder, they had a far easier time lifting d'Artagnan, as he was hung in the same manner as Porthos, with his wrists secured tightly in the chained manacles.
The savage group laughed at the sight of the two Musketeers hanging limply by their arms, bleeding and bruised, though they still did not have the letter they were paid to retrieve.
Orléans:
Aramis and Cécile strolled arm-in-arm on a walking path next to the Loire River, walking in the direction of the setting sun. The sky ahead was vivid with pastel colors as though the heavens were a freshly painted canvas. The blue sky deepened into a brilliant purple, fading into a soft pink and then finally orange as yellow rays streaked highlights across each color.
"Oh Aramis, I wish this moment would last forever," Cécile whispered as she stared at the beautiful sky. "If only I could stay here in your arms surrounded by all this beauty, I would be happy forever; I would never want to leave. I have so enjoyed your company these last few days, my sweet love."
"I also wish this moment would never end." Aramis cupped her face then pulled Cécile into a soft kiss, pressing her body into his. He paused to step back and gaze into her blue eyes smiling back at him; he then pulled her back into another kiss. The Spaniard began kissing her ear, moving down to her neck as he slowly began to go lower, his hand sliding down to her chest.
"Aramis!" the nurse smacked his hand in shock, looking around to see if anyone was watching. "Not out here in the open; people are watching us," Cécile said as she noticed the interested stares at the amorous couple.
"I don't care if people are watching." Aramis smiled with a wicked grin. "I'm in love and I want to tell the whole world."
"Well, you can tell the world without showing the world," Cécile playfully scolded. "Watch your hands, my dear monsieur."
"I want you so bad, Cécile," Aramis whispered warmly into her ear.
Taking both his hands in hers, she bit his lip softly, "then let's go home." She gazed into his face, waiting for his reaction.
Smiling, he turned around and offered his elbow as they walked back toward the carriage where it waited to take the happy couple home.
Cécile pulled Aramis by the hand across the threshold of her flat, giggling in anticipation. He swung her around, pressing her against the closed door, then kissed her neck before slowly making his way down her chest.
She led the way to her bedroom and shut the door behind them, leaving the world outside.
Porthos and d'Artagnan's bloodied bodies stand chained to a white stone wall. Their eyes are swollen shut and their faces bruised from relentless pounding of fists. It's probably for the best that they cannot see the row of rifles taking aim at their battered bodies.
"Have you any last words?" A sardonic voice called from out of view. "Tell us where the letter is and you can go free."
"Rubbish, we're not tellin' ya a damn thing," Porthos said stubbornly. "Jus' shoot an' get it over wit.'"
"Aramis, why didn't you come to help us? Don't you. . ." his words were cut off by the thunderous volley of rifles firing in unison.
"No!" Aramis screamed as he sat up in bed, his chest heaving with sudden panic. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip, with a shaking hand he wiped the sweat away. "Oh God. . ."
"Aramis, what's wrong?" Cécile asked as she threaded her fingers through his matted hair. "You had a bad dream but it's over now. You're okay, it's over." The nurse soothed, watching him with concern in the bright moonlight streaming in through the window. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
"I dreamt that Porthos and d'Artagnan were being executed for… something, I don't know what." Aramis buried his face in his hands at the vivid picture still in his mind. "I saw them standing in front of a firing squad," he paused. "They were beaten and bloodied, barely able to stand."
"Mother Mary. . ." Cécile's voice trailed.
"I heard a voice ask them something about a letter," his brow wrinkled. "Porthos wouldn't tell him anything," he paused, "then I heard d'Artagnan ask why I didn't come to save them… just as the rifles fired." Aramis' breath hitched in his throat, allowing only a terrified whimper to escape.
"Oh, my sweet Aramis," Cécile took the marksman into her arms as he began to cry. "Sweetheart, it was just a dream; it wasn't real," she soothed.
"No, it wasn't just a dream," Aramis countered. "Something is wrong, very wrong. I've had bad dreams before, but not like this. This was so. . . so real."
"Perhaps you should. . ."
"I need to go," Aramis abruptly jumped out of bed to fetch his clothes.
"That's just what I was going to suggest," Cécile frowned with understanding. "You would never forgive yourself if something really happened yet you did nothing."
"Something is wrong, I can feel it. I need to find out where they are and what is going on." Aramis finished dressing then packed up his belongings. "Is there a horse that I may borrow?"
"Yes, I will take you to Alphonse," she replied. "He's a good family friend; I know he will give you what you need if I ask." Cécile jumped from the bed to get dressed.
The eastern sky was just beginning to brighten with shades of orange as Aramis sat upon the borrowed black stallion. He leaned over to kiss Cécile on the forehead. "I will make it up to you, I promise. I will come back again and we can spend more time together then."
"I understand, my sweet Aramis." Cécile grasped his hand tightly as tears filled her eyes. "You need to take care of your brothers first. Go, find them and I will pray for their safety and your safe return."
"Just pray that I'm not too late," Aramis muttered low as he turned the horse toward the open stable door.
"Please be safe," she whispered. "I love you, Aramis," she called after him as he galloped away.
Aramis raised his hat and waved it without looking back as he sped down the road toward Paris. Please God, grant me speed so that I can help my brothers. Above all, dear God, don't let me be too late. . ."
A/N:
With over one thousand châteaux to choose from in the Loire River Valley, I found my château for the story quite by accident! I was doing geographical research and came across the Château de Meung-sur-Loire and decided to research it specifically.
The Château de Meung-sur-Loire is a castle and former episcopal palace in the commune of Meung-sur-Loire, near Orléans and just east of Blois.
The château, located next to a collegial church, was the country residence of the Bishop of Orléans. However, the bishops of Orléans abandoned the castle at the start of the Wars of Religion, (1562-1598) until the early 18th century. The castle during that time was occasionally abandoned, or was being used as a prison.
It was partially destroyed several times. The oldest still-existing parts date from the 12th century and were built by Manassès de Seignelay (Bishop of Orléans from 1207 to 1221). Still standing is the main rectangular-plan building, flanked by three towers, a fourth having been destroyed. It was occupied by the English during the Hundred Years War.
Beneath the castle are dungeons, a chapel and various medieval torture instruments, including one used for water torture.