Porthos opened his eyes and turned to the figure leaning against a mountain of pillows beside him on the bed. He blinked to focus, casting his blurry eyes around the room trying to remember where he was but the strangeness of the room did nothing to jog his memory.
Giving up, his eyes settled on the familiar form next to him, which brought a smile to his face. "Hello, li'l broth'r," Porthos greeted happily, though confused. "Wha' are you doin' here; shouldn't you be in bed?"
"I am in bed, Porthos," d'Artagnan replied, slightly bewildered. The young Gascon shook his head, staring at his friend with concern.
"Wha' are you doin' in my room and in my bed then, eh?" Porthos rubbed his bleary eyes with this palms, still only half awake and, for the moment, apparently forgetful of their conversation the night before. The Musketeer moaned from the pain of a headache pulsing behind his eyes, causing his temples to throb.
"Porthos, have you hit your head since coming in here?" D'Artagnan was incredulous. "This is my room and my bed, which you happened to wake up in, not the other way around, my friend. Besides, don't you remember our talk last night?"
"Hmm?" Porthos moaned again as his fingers massaged his throbbing temples.
"Are you alright, Porthos?" D'Artagnan became concerned for his friend who appeared to be in obvious pain. "You have another headache? I can call the nurse to bring you something if your head hurts," the Gascon suggested.
Porthos' brow wrinkled in confusion, his lips curled into a frown as he fought to remember how he ended up in d'Artagnan's room. At that instant, he stopped massaging his head then looked at the Gascon, forgetting all about his headache. "I remember you were dreaming about. . ." Porthos stopped himself short. "We talked about…"
"I was dreaming about the dungeon; we talked about surviving it," d'Artagnan said, finishing Porthos' thoughts. "Mon ami, what is wrong with you today, don't you remember what we talked about earlier?" The Gascon's worry for his brother grew as he watched his brow furrow with confusion; his face grimaced with the pain in his temples.
"You were angry 'cause I didn't tell you where the le'er was." Porthos mumbled. He closed his eyes and continued to massage his temples. Suddenly, his eyes flew open as the memories from last night flooded back. "We were talking about the. . ."
"Porthos, why is it so hard for you to just come out and say it?" D'Artagnan sat forward on the bed, glaring down at his friend with impatience. "You don't have to be afraid to say the word 'dungeon' around me; I'm not going to break down into uncontrollable sobs at the mere mention of that place, dammit! I'm not made of glass and I won't shatter into a thousand pieces because of a bad dream," he snapped angrily.
"Is 'at what you think, d'Artagnan?" Porthos asked softly. "Tha' I think you're too fragile to handle the memories of tha' place? What's happening to us, brother? I thought we got this out of our system last night. I said we should put the dungeon behind us… but we can't, can we?"
"It's rather difficult to put it behind us when the effects of it are written all over our bodies and the nightmares of the torture are stamped on our brains," d'Artagnan fumed. "Then there's the way you seem to be treating me, like I'm too fragile to handle the horrific memories; you can't even mention the word dungeon around me."
"I don't think you're fragile, young brother."
"Don't you think that, Porthos?" D'Artagnan lashed out angrily. "I'm not a child; I'm not fragile, so stop treating me like I am."
"I never thought you were," Porthos replied. "You're a man who looked into the faces of our tormentors with defiance and strength—I watched you." The large man spoke softly as he looked down at his hands. "You never showed them weakness—you never broke—'at is anything but childish or fragile, d'Artagnan."
The young Gascon sat with his eyes cast downward and his head bowed. "Why can't we get past this anger, Porthos? I feel so much hatred and anger inside, it's hard to be civil anymore." D'Artagnan fidgeted with a kerchief wrapped around his hand. "I don't want us to keep fighting like this. Despite what you may think, I am not mad at you."
"I know you're not angry with me," the large man smiled. "I know what you went through in 'at place; I went through it with you. I share your pain and I share your anger." Porthos paused as his voice quivered. "I know you didn't come through that hell wit'out any scars—neither of us did—but you did come through it, d'Artagnan. You're one of the strongest men I know."
The Gascon stopped fidgeting to look up at Porthos in amazement. The large Musketeer didn't normally bare his soul and his emotions—not to this degree. Porthos didn't give voice to such compliments often, but today d'Artagnan felt lucky, honored rather, to be thought of so favorably; especially when it was someone he deeply respected and so dearly loved.
"You knew where the letter was and still you didn't break," d'Artagnan reminded, grasping the large man's shoulder. "No, Porthos, you are the strongest and bravest man I know."
Porthos nodded then turned his head away to hide the tears welling in his eyes, only to have his face turned back toward d'Artagnan. "You don't have to hide your tears from me, big brother; I won't think any less of you because of the tears. In fact, I respect you all the more."
"Thank you." The large Musketeer forced a smile. He took in a deep breath then blew it out slowly as he wiped away the tears with his sleeve. "I'm really lucky to 'ave you as a brother."
"No, I'm the one who is lucky," d'Artagnan countered. "I'm lucky to have found three brothers when I was alone, seeking revenge for the death of my father. When I was looking only to cause harm, I found brotherhood," he huffed at the memory. "Yes, I am the lucky one, Porthos; I found a family."
"We all are lucky." Porthos clapped d'Artagnan on his good shoulder. "Speaking of our brothers, I 'aven't heard how Aramis and Athos are doing, 'ave you?"
"No, as a matter of fact I was just wondering how they were doing," d'Artagnan replied, looking into the hallway. "Think we can walk down there to see them?" The Gascon's eyes danced with mischief as he gave Porthos a wink. "Are you sure you're up to it, or is your head still hurting?"
"Nah, I'm alright," he said, waving off the concern. "So, we just walk out of 'ere with all these nurses hoverin' over us like mama birds?" Porthos gave a devilish grin. "I like it; let's go."
D'Artagnan turned to throw his legs over the edge of the bed when Porthos stopped him. "Wait, are you sure you're able to walk?"
"Really, Porthos?" D'Artagnan rolled his eyes; he shook his head as he bit back a grin. "It's my shoulder that hurts, not my legs. I can walk just fine, thank you. What about your chest wound? Maybe you shouldn't be walking around yet?"
"Rubbish," Porthos grumbled. "Besides, if anything goes wrong we 'ave 'Mis down there to help."
"Aramis was hurt too, remember?" the Gascon reminded. "He's probably been banished to his own room so he can heal and not be the typical mother hen hovering over Athos."
"Yeah, you're prob'ly right," the large Musketeer huffed. "Let's go see if we can find 'em."
D'Artagnan and Porthos made their way down the hall, checking every room for their brothers until they came to the room with a tent covering on the left side of the bed. Coming into the room further, they found Aramis leaning against several pillows; the medic slept soundly with his head turned toward the tent.
The two men frowned at the bandages wrapped tightly around Aramis' ribs restricting his breathing to shallow breaths. Turning their eyes to the tent, they exchanged worried glances. D'Artagnan motioned his chin for Porthos to check under the tent.
Porthos took a breath before peeling away a corner of the tent and stopped suddenly, gasping at what he saw. D'Artagnan quickly stepped forward at his brother's reaction to also take a peek underneath the sheet.
"Oh God!" D'Artagnan took in a sharp breath at the sight. Athos was very pale and had dark circles like bruises under his eyes; his neck was wrapped with a bandage. "What happened to him?" he whispered to Porthos. The duo frowned as they listened to the soft snoring riddled with occasional wheezing breaths.
"He's sick, that's what happened to him." Captain Tréville grunted as he got up from a nearby chair. "He needs to be left alone so he can heal," he said. The captain took the sheet from his Musketeer's hands then let it drop back down to close over the sleeping man.
"What are you two doing on your feet?" Tréville questioned, glaring at both men.
"Um…" d'Artagnan paused. The Gascon's eyes widened as he looked to Porthos for help.
"Cap'n, we just wanted to see how they were doin'." Porthos swallowed the lump in his throat. "We've been isolated down at the other end of the hall with no word 'bout Athos and Aramis, so we came to find out."
The captain sighed and let out a huff of resigned breath, "I never could keep the four of you apart when you men were sick or wounded."
"Captain," d'Artagnan questioned with concern. "What happened to Athos?"
Captain Tréville let out another long sigh; he knew they wouldn't rest until they got their questions answered. "The first doctor, Doctor Bonét, tried to cure Athos of his bronchitis by draining him of four pints of blood from his neck."
The Musketeers sucked in a sharp breath; the news sent shivers down their spines. The chills quickly turned into angry growls from the men demanding to know where Doctor Bonét was located so they both could do the doctor bodily harm.
"Nevermind the threats, gentlemen," Captain Tréville warned. "That doctor was fired and has been replaced by our trusted physicians, Doctors Berteau and Molyneux; they graciously performed surgery on all four of you two just a few days ago."
"Wha' have the doctors said 'bout Athos' chances for recovery?" Porthos asked as he stared at the tent covering his friend. "Why is he still so pale?"
"It's going to take some time for his system to recover after such extreme blood loss," the captain explained. "His normal color will not return until the lost blood is replenished with fluids; it may take several weeks of normal pumping and flowing of blood through his system. The good news is that he is showing signs of improvement already."
"Captain, we're ready." A sudden knock on the door with the announcement startled the group. In the hallway stood the four Musketeers the captain had brought with him in the search for his missing men.
"Captain, where are you going?" d'Artagnan asked. He looked at his waiting brother Musketeers in the hall then glanced back at his leader.
"Gentlemen, I must get back to the garrison and tend to my duties; I have been away too long. As captain of the regiment, I have many responsibilities and dozens of other men to look after." Captain Tréville explained while he gathered his belongings.
"Cap'n, we know 'at you have your duties." Porthos looked between the captain and the four men in the hallway. "Why the sudden rush to leave?"
Aramis stirred at hearing the urgent tone in the voices talking around the bed. "Captain's leaving?"
"I need to get back to Paris, Aramis," the captain replied, glancing over his shoulder. "I have duties to attend to."
"It's too soon for everyone to travel- for Athos especially!" Aramis struggled to sit up but decided against it as his ribs flared.
"I said that I was leaving, Aramis. I am taking with me the other men who have no need to be here," the captain motioned to the hallway. "I said nothing about you four leaving; I know none of you are fit to travel. Steward Fontaine is in charge of looking after you gentlemen; he also has the help of the physicians and the nurses. My presence here at the château is no longer required."
Just then, Steward Fontaine entered the room. "Captain, your horses are ready."
"Thank you for everything, Steward. Thank you for taking care of my men." Captain Tréville let out a long sigh as he looked around the room at his wounded Musketeers. "I apologize for leaving you with this extra responsibility in such a rush."
"No need to apologize, Captain," the steward replied. "I understand you have an important job to do and must return to Paris."
"You have been most gracious to me and my men, Steward Fontaine." The captain took his hand into a firm shake. "I will never be able to repay you."
"No need for repayment either." The steward firmly gripped the captain's hand. "It has been my extreme pleasure to host the King's Musketeers at the Château de Blois; it has been an even greater pleasure meeting the Captain of these fine Musketeers."
"Please extend my apologies to Duke Gaston for not giving him my regards in person, but we must be on our way." Captain Tréville nodded to the other Musketeers in the hallway. "Thank you for continuing to care for the wounded men I leave here with you; I hope that it will not be for too much longer."
"Your men are welcome here as long as they need to recover; unless Duke Gaston says otherwise, Captain."
"Take care, gentlemen." Captain Tréville turned to leave but stopped short. "Listen to the doctors' instructions and do exactly as they say. Oh, and no unnecessary activity!" The captain pointed a finger at each of the three Musketeers looking back at him. "Stay in bed and give yourselves time to heal."
"No unnecessary activity?" Aramis quipped with a mischievous grin. "Really, Captain, when have we ever. . ."
"I want my Musketeers healthy and back at work soon," Captain Tréville interrupted. "Perhaps a couple of weeks of guard duty will recompense for your extended absence." The captain paused to watch his men with warm regard.
"Rubbish, per'aps a couple weeks holiday will recompense." Porthos grinned but he thought better as the captain glared at him.
"What was that, Porthos?" Captain Tréville asked with raised eyebrows.
"Nothing, Sir."
"Um, Aramis." Doctor Molyneux interrupted with a grin. "Might I remind you of what you said just yesterday—right there on that bed."
"What was that?" Aramis asked. His brow furrowed, confused as he tried to recall whatever the doctor was talking about.
"I believe you said, and I quote, 'what I wouldn't give to be on guard duty at the palace and not here'."
"I can accommodate that request." Captain Tréville stated with a straight face, though inside he was smiling.
Aramis' jaw dropped. "No, wait… I said that when Athos was coughing and was very sick; I didn't mean it literally."
"Rubbish, 'Mis." Porthos shook his head while shooting a feigned glare his direction.
"I will be in contact with Steward Fontaine regularly, should anything happen requiring my presence." Captain Tréville informed his men. "Just get well, gentlemen." The captain turned on his heel to join with his group of Musketeers waiting in the hall; Steward Fontaine then escorted them to their horses in the courtyard.
"What's with the urgency to get back to Paris?" d'Artagnan asked. "Did anyone else notice how strange the captain was acting, is there something going on?"
"Yeah, I noticed it alright." Porthos nodded, feeling rather cross. "Somethin' strange is goin' on or he wouldn't have left us in such a hurry."
"Well, it has to be something big," Aramis shrugged. "Unless we're just being paranoid and he really does need to return to his duties at the garrison."
"Rubbish, I don't buy it," Porthos disagreed.
"I don't buy it either," d'Artagnan huffed. "So what do we do now?"
"Keep our ears open for what people are talking about around here," Aramis suggested. "Maybe someone will slip up with the latest gossip and give us a clue to what is going on outside the château; perhaps something is stirring in Blois."
Sometime Later, At Royal Palace with King Louis:
Captain Tréville was escorted into the throne room where Rochefort was briefing King Louis on the duty assignments and security details in regard to the upcoming parade. The king was looking rather bored with the details of the report and began counting candles in the chandelier above his head to amuse himself.
"Ah, Captain Tréville, how wonderful to see you!" King Louis cheerfully greeted; he welcomed the distraction from the boring briefing. "I trust that your men—my Musketeers—are recovering from their grievous injuries?"
"Yes, Your Majesty." Captain Tréville respectfully bowed his head. "Your Musketeers are receiving care from the best physicians in France; they are in good hands, Sire."
"Excellent, Captain," the king replied with a clap of his hands. "That is very good news, though I am sure you did not come here to give me a progress report on your men, am I correct?"
Captain Tréville looked to Rochefort who was listening attentively; though he pretended to be engrossed in the assignment list.
"My apologies, Your Majesty." Tréville glared at Rochefort. "The purpose of my visit is for your ears only, Sire."
"Of course, Captain." King Louis turned to Rochefort then waved him off, as though brushing away a fly. "Leave us, Rochefort."
"Your Majesty." The First Minister bowed before turning on his heel to exit out the double doors leading to the council chambers.
Captain Tréville watched Rochefort as he departed, not certain the cunning man had left earshot of the throne room.
"Captain Tréville?" King Louis broke through the captain's concentration on the wily man who had just departed. "I am on a schedule," he reminded with growing annoyance. "What is the purpose of this meeting?"
"I apologize, Your Majesty." The captain frowned then took a deep breath. I had better be right about my suspicions of Duke Gaston and the Cardinal-Infante. If I am wrong, this could lead to serious implications with charges of treason… and possibly, death.
"Captain…?"
"I have some information that may be very important to Your Majesty," he paused.
"Go on, Captain." King Louis nodded.
"As you know, my men are being cared for at the Château de Blois. While I was there, Duke Gaston was behaving very strangely—almost paranoid—like he was hiding something of import. A guest cloaked in secrecy arrived for an obviously covert meeting held behind closed doors. When this mysterious guest departed, he was again hidden under a cloak of concealment. However, by a stroke of luck I saw his identity, Your Majesty."
"Well, Captain, who was it?" The king was sitting on the edge of his throne in anticipation of the revelation.
"The guest was Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand, Your Majesty."
King Louis's jaw dropped in shock at the name; silently, he stared at the captain with wide eyes. "What business would my brother, Gaston, have with my wife's brother, the Cardinal-Infante of Spain?"
"I do not know, Your Majesty," the captain replied, shaking his head. "Duke Gaston's behavior was very suspicious, Sire. I thought you should be informed; I cannot begin to speculate on what the purpose of such a clandestine meeting would be."
"I don't like the sound of this." King Louis stood to his feet in anger. "I must find out what the purpose of their meeting was at once!"
From the connecting waiting room, Queen Anne gasped. She quickly covered her mouth to keep from crying out and giving away her hidden presence. "Oh God, I have to warn Gaston and my brother! I must get a letter to the château immediately." The queen quietly tiptoed away from her hiding place then ran down the hallway.
Rochefort grinned from his place behind the double doors in the council chambers. "If only I could have gained that letter from those useless morons I hired; I would then have proof of the queen's involvement in a possible conspiracy against the king. At last, I would have the damning and irrefutable proof to have charges of treason brought against the queen; the only possible outcome would be death."
Turning to the hallway, Rochefort saw the retreating hem of the queen's dress as she rounded the corner. "Ah, where are you off to in such a hurry, my Queen?" The devious man grinned.
"Was she listening to the king's conversation? How perfect; she herself will lead me to her secret correspondence box and I will finally have the damning evidence I need." Rochefort gave a diabolical laugh. "All the delicious details wrapped up in one convenient package with Queen Anne conspiring against King Louis. I couldn't have asked for a more perfect gift of revenge," he whispered. "Along with the queen, I will have the queen's brother, Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand and the king's brother, Duke Gaston. Oh, this is indeed, perfect."
"Whatever it is they are planning, they won't get away with it." Rochefort set out quickly to follow Queen Anne. "I will be seen as the hero who stopped a conspiracy against King Louis XIII. Indeed, a conspiracy orchestrated by his own wife, the Queen of France."
A/N:
In 1626 Duke Gaston refused a proposed marriage, encouraged by King Louis XIII and Cardinal Richelieu, to Mademoiselle Marie Montpensier. The union to Marie de Bourbon, Duchesse de Montpensier would bring significant wealth into the family of Louis XIII.
The king was backed by his First Minister Cardinal Richelieu, who had also been reducing the power of the nobility and consolidating central authority around the king without his knowledge. A conspiracy was formed to depose King Louis from the throne and give the crown to Gaston instead; the conspirators against the king and Richelieu extended as far as England and Spain, including Duke Gaston and Queen Anne of Austria, who is thought to have played a critical role in organizing the conspirators.
The juicy details of the conspiracy are cataloged in H. Noel Williams' A Fair Conspirator Marie De Rohan, Duchesse De Chevreuse.At some point, Richelieu caught wind of the conspiracy against the throne. Lest their plot be found out, the conspirators encouraged Duke Gaston to initiate a war; this was particularly true of the Comte de Soissons, who posted a reward should the duke take up arms against his brother.
NOTE: The timeline is in the story is a tad off, as is the KEY player trying to take down the conspirators, Rochefort. The KEY player who actually uncovered the plot and took them down was Cardinal Richelieu.