Captain Tréville raced his horse in front of the small company of Musketeers thundering toward Blois to protect his four vulnerable men who were still wounded and sick; the men were completely unaware of the monumental events over the past few days.
Tréville didn't know how many Spaniards were heading west looking to take advantage of Duc d'Orléans' retreat from France, but he knew his men were both unaware of the conspiracy and the potential danger approaching the château.
The captain acknowledged that even if his men were healthy and armed to the teeth, they would still have trouble holding off dozens of armed Spanish soldiers. However, Captain Tréville's men didn't have their health and their weaponry was very limited.
Looking back on the events of the last several days, Captain Tréville could hardly believe that the king's own brother and the queen—his own wife, for the love of God— were involved in a conspiracy to overthrow King Louis. The captain didn't want to believe it, yet he wondered if the queen had somehow tampered with the letter from the king? That damn letter is what started all of this; but how does one accuse the queen of such a thing?
Of course, without the letter, the captain had no proof to back up his suspicion. Besides, even if he did have such proof, what would he do with it? The Duke of Orléans had fled France and the queen had been cleared of treason. If the captain proved that the queen was involved with the conspiracy it would surely mean immediate death. Captain Tréville was emphatic, in no uncertain terms did he want Queen Anne's death to be a burden carried on his shoulders.
The captain shook his head to clear his mind of such morbid thoughts. No matter, he didn't have time to worry about the consequences of the conspiracy; he had to protect the château and the innocent lives currently residing within its stone walls.
Château de Blois:
The four Musketeers were sleeping soundly after having worn themselves out laughing over trivial, but humorous, topics. Laughter was the perfect distraction for their tormented bodies and minds. They found solace in the company of their brothers, each having forgotten—if only momentarily—the nightmares of which they were reminded every time pain shot through their bodies. They were reminded every time they dreamed.
Aramis was sleeping on the bed holding a hand that had slipped out from underneath the sheet. The comforting touch of the medic's hand seemed to satisfy Athos, lying alone inside the tent; the touch was sufficient enough to allow him to sleep peacefully without waking, feeling lost and afraid.
Porthos and d'Artagnan slept side-by-side on their cots clinging to one another, each finding comfort in the other's touch, as though they were afraid to let go. Subconsciously, they remembered the horrors that happened every time they were separated in the dungeon; the simple touch of a hand reassured each man that his brother was still at his side.
The Musketeers slept until around midday when they almost instinctively stirred together. Aramis awoke to immediately check on the still-sleeping Musketeer next to him, throwing back the sheet to reveal Athos' flushed face dampened with a sheen of sweat.
"Athos?" Aramis gently shook the Musketeer's shoulder, becoming alarmed when he didn't awaken. "Come on, Athos, you've had long enough to sleep; we need to get some water in you." The medic shook the shoulder again and was relieved when he saw the tired eyes open. "There you are, my friend," he let out a relieved breath. "You had me worried."
Athos let his eyes slide closed again but Aramis was having none of the sleepy behavior. "No, open your eyes, Athos," he ordered, tapping the Musketeer's cheeks in frustration. "You need to drink some water; it's time to wake up now."
The medic looked up as Doctor Molyneux entered the room to check on his patient. "Athos is too lethargic," Aramis announced with some panic. "Why isn't he waking up?"
The doctor sat on the edge of the bed to check Athos' pulse and temperature; he listened to the patient's breathing with his ear pressed to the Musketeer's chest. "His lungs are still congested, but the lethargy concerns me. When was the last time he had anything to eat?" Molyneux asked.
"In all honesty, I don't think he's had anything to eat since we got here," the medic replied with a frown. "He's been either asleep or unconscious the entire time."
"Well, therein lies the reason why he's so weak; especially given the large amount of blood loss he experienced."
"You mean he hasn't eaten in almost a week?" Cécile asked, incredulous. "Merciful heavens, no wonder he can't wake up!" The nurse poked her head into the hallway to find Nurse Maria. "Nurse, can you show me to the kitchen so we can get some soup brought up for Athos?"
"Of course, come with me." Maria motioned her head toward the stairs.
"I'll be right back." Cécile tapped Aramis on the shoulder and smiled.
"Athos, you must be hungry, huh?" Aramis smoothed his hand over his friend's face, gently brushing away the clumped hair from his sweaty forehead. "Cécile is bringing up some soup so you can eat; you need to regain your strength or you'll never heal."
"He's not gonna heal if he's starving to death." Porthos interjected as he sat on the bed next to Aramis.
"The thought of food. . . makes my stomach turn," Athos replied without opening his eyes. He frowned as he swallowed the bile rising in his throat; he concentrated hard to keep from getting nauseous.
"Athos, you have to eat or your body will grow weaker," Aramis warned.
"Oh, he'll eat," Porthos nodded affirmingly. "He'll eat if I have to spoon-feed him and force it down his throat." The large Musketeer stretched out his hands and cracked his knuckles for effect, all the while letting out a throaty growl.
Athos peeled open his eyes as the hint of a smile turned his mouth upward. He watched as his friend glared at him, stretching and flexing his fingers as warning. The sick Musketeer let out a huff of amusement but then let his eyes slide closed again. His breathing slowed to an even, sleeping rhythm.
"Damn," the medic cursed as he scooped his brother in his arms to pull him upright. "Let's get you sitting up, at least." The marksman worried as the sick Musketeer was so weak that he lacked strength to hold his head up. Aramis couldn't hold back the smile as Athos snuggled his head into the crook of the medic's neck and fell back into a light sleep.
"Aw, hell, 'Mis." Porthos tipped his chin toward the sleeping Musketeer. "You might as well let 'im sleep 'til the food comes up."
Aramis acquiesced with a nod of his head. "I'll give him a few more minutes," he whispered. Though he worried for his drowsy friend, the medic didn't mind being used as a temporary pillow until the food arrived.
After some time, Steward Fontaine returned to the room with a group of kitchen servants carrying trays of soup, meat, bread, cheese, fruit, tea and water for all the men.
Porthos jumped up from the bed rubbing his hands together in cheerful anticipation, laughing with delight. "I don't know what you boys are eatin' but this should be 'bout right for me; I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse."
"Now, now Porthos." Cécile shook her head and smiled at the large Musketeer. "There is plenty for all of you ravenous gentlemen and there's more on the way."
"Why don't we bring the long table over and let them sit together while they eat," the steward suggested to the servants, motioning to the table in the corner.
"What an excellent idea, Steward." Doctor Molyneux agreed. The servants prepared the table, setting the tableware and dishes, then displayed the vast assortment of food family style for the men.
Aramis shook Athos but he just groaned and smacked away the medic's hand. "Come on, Athos, dammit, you need to get something to eat." The medic persisted, though he was losing his patience.
"That's it!" Doctor Molyneux smacked his knee in frustration. "Aramis, go sit at the table with everyone else and get something to eat. I'll handle Athos," the doctor ordered as he shooed the medic away.
Doctor Molyneux sat Athos back, propped against the pillows; he put a tray with a bowl of soup on the lap of the Musketeer. "Now, you will eat this soup even if I have to spoon feed it to you like a baby," Molyneux fumed. "I am your doctor, Athos; I am not asking you, but I am telling you to eat. Now, either you will feed yourself or I will feed you—it's your choice—but either way, you will eat." The doctor stood by the bed with his arms crossed resolutely, glaring at the Musketeer.
Athos sighed in compliance; he picked up the spoon and slowly fed himself the soup. The Musketeer soon slowed, breathing heavily between bites. He laid back against the pillows with his eyes closed, doing his best to keep the food from coming right back up again.
Aramis and Porthos traded quiet glances as they watched Athos grimace and scowl. The Musketeer soon lurched, barely giving time for the doctor to extend an empty bowl under his chin as he threw up the bites of soup he had just swallowed.
The doctor wiped Athos' mouth with a napkin then retrieved another bowl of soup. "Try again," he ordered.
Athos blinked in surprise at the doctor's harsh order. He glanced at Aramis before slumping in resignation, realizing the physician meant business and had no intention of backing down. The Musketeer reluctantly picked up the spoon and scooped a bite of soup, hesitating with the spoon at his lips; he let the soup pour into his mouth and then swallowed, grimacing miserably as it went down.
The three Musketeers at the table covered their mouths to hide their smiles as they watched their headstrong lieutenant lose a battle of will. Athos, the headstrong Musketeer, was bested by a French country doctor more stubborn and unyielding than the bullheaded comte.
Athos finished the soup then fell back against the pillows, exhausted; he closed his eyes, concentrating on keeping the soup down. Beads of sweat popped up on the Musketeer's forehead then rolled down in streams over the creases of his scrunched his face. His chest heaved with heavy breaths; his stomach rumbled, though he fought the urge to toss up what felt like rocks in his belly. He groaned while tightly fisting the blanket in both hands.
Aramis watched with concern as Doctor Molyneux swabbed a damp cloth over the Musketeer's face to soothe his patient. "Are you going to be alright Athos?" the physician asked as the patient fought to retain his meal.
Athos barely nodded, remaining quiet as he concentrated on his breathing while not getting sick. The doctor continued his ministrations, watching as the grimaces and the creases on Athos' face slowly smoothed then disappeared altogether as he finally drifted off to sleep.
"Good," Molyneux whispered. "Let's hope he sleeps long enough for the food to absorb and stay in his system; he's got to gain his strength if he's ever going to recover."
Later at the Château:
The Musketeers had each fallen into a lazy afternoon nap after having had their fill with the lovely meal brought up to their room earlier. Athos slept soundly next to Aramis; his head once again snuggled into the crook of the medic's neck as they leaned against the pile of pillows. Porthos and d'Artagnan slept on their own cots set close together, though not clinging to each other in the daylight.
Everyone else inside the château was carrying on with their daily duties when suddenly the sound of gunfire rang through the large grand entrance. Spanish troops poured in through the double doors of the large manor, knocking over statues and busts in the long hallways.
Steward Fontaine was upstairs talking with the doctors when the gunshots rang out. "What in the hell is going on down there?" he asked, running to the staircase to look over the railing. "Get in that room and lock the door!" he ordered the physicians after seeing soldiers moving around downstairs.
He ran to the duke's personal office where Gaston kept his special collection of flintlocks and muskets and grabbed two pistols from the case. Fontaine then searched for lead balls and powder, gathering up enough to last for several uses, then headed back toward the stairs.
The steward shot a soldier as he crept around the corner at the top of the stairs; he shot another as the soldier bounded up behind him. Fontaine grabbed their weapons then shot at an approaching group of soldiers running toward the stairs; the remaining soldiers of the group took cover behind the statues adorning the railings of the sweeping staircase. The steward ran with his armload of weapons and kicked at the door of the Musketeer's room where the two doctors hid themselves. "It's Steward Fontaine, let me in!"
"What the hell is going on out there?" Porthos growled as the steward ran into the room. "Who is out there shooting?"
"Better yet, why are they out there shooting?" Aramis interjected. "Who are they and how many are there?" The marksman pounded questions at the steward.
"You're not going to like this," Steward Fontaine warned. "They're soldiers; I can tell from the uniform they're wearing that they're Spanish. I saw several downstairs, all going in different directions."
"Spanish soldiers?" Aramis shot Porthos a startled look, his eyes wide.
"Wha' the hell are Spanish soldiers doin' this far north?" Porthos asked the steward, glancing between Aramis and d'Artagnan.
"Why would they come to the château?" D'Artagnan asked, now standing at the foot of the bed near Porthos and Aramis. "Where exactly is Duke Gaston?"
"I do not know the answers to any of your questions, gentlemen," the steward said. "They are quite valid questions and I am quite concerned as to why the Spanish are here. I shot three or four dead on the stairs, but there's too many for one person to hold off; I'm going to need help."
"Steward, where are our weapons?" D'Artagnan stepped forward. "If we can get to our swords and pistols, we can help hold them off."
"They're down at the other end of the hallway," he replied, shaking his head. "It may be too dangerous; there are too many soldiers out there."
"Well, we can start by reloading these." D'Artagnan motioned to the two flintlocks and three muskets the steward brought with him into the room. "We'll use them as protection while Porthos and I run down the hallway to retrieve our weapons."
"Wait a minute!" Aramis protested, sitting upright on the bed. "Why you two?" he asked. "I don't have a hurt shoulder, d'Artagnan, so I can carry the weapons easier than you."
"No, you should stay here and guard Athos. Besides, you're a good shot and can provide covering fire; you can watch our backs as we make our way down there." Porthos gave a matter-of-fact answer, eliciting a nod of agreement from the young Gascon.
A series of shots rang out in the hallway, followed by nurses screaming; they each ran into a room, locking the door behind them to keep the intruders out. Another shot rang out followed by a lead ball bursting through the Musketeer's door, causing the wood to splinter. The men in the room scattered for safe cover.
"Bloody hell!" Porthos cursed as he helped reload the muskets.
"How good a shot are you, Steward?" Aramis asked as he also reloaded his musket.
"I served in the army fighting against the Huguenots, as well as many other campaigns," the steward replied. "I am quite skilled with a firearm."
"Excellent, we should be able to provide Porthos and d'Artagnan with enough cover to get to our weapons," Aramis nodded. "Are there any more weapons up here and—more importantly—is there anyone else who can help keep these soldiers at bay?"
"Yes, there are more weapons in the office," nodded the steward. "As for the servants, they could be spread anywhere inside the château; I have no idea if there is anyone on the third and fourth floors who can help us. I heard the nurses locking themselves into the bedchambers down the hall, hopefully they will stay out of harm's way."
"I'm not particularly fond of guns but I do know how to shoot and I know how to reload," Molyneux offered. "I am a doctor, gentlemen. I normally save lives not take them; I would prefer to reload if I'm needed in that manner."
"Alright, you'll be our reloader, doctor," Aramis nodded. "We need to gather up the rest of the weapons; everyone will have to help out, if we are to hold off these Spaniards." Aramis looked to every person in the room. "It's not much, but it's the best we can do for now. Are we ready?"
"Aye, we're ready." Porthos and d'Artagnan stood with their pistols in hand, ready to run. Aramis and Steward Fontaine positioned themselves by the door with muskets, prepared to cover them against gunfire the Musketeers would be drawing the minute they stepped out of the room.
The door was thrown open wide, instantly alarming shooters across the hall by the stairs. Aramis and Steward Fontaine peeked out from behind the safety of the door and shot two soldiers as they reloaded their weapons. Porthos shot a third soldier crouching at the top of the stairs, while d'Artagnan shot another running up the stairs toward them.
While the hallway was momentarily clear, the two Musketeers ran down the hallway toward the room where their weapons were being stored; Steward Fontaine ran to Duke Gaston's office to retrieve more weapons and ammunition.
As the doctor reloaded the weapons, more soldiers poured up from the stairs to give chase to the men running down the hallway. Aramis and Doctor Molyneux shot two soldiers, who then tumbled down the stairs and took more soldiers with them as they tumbled to the bottom.
As the steward neared the office, a shot rang out from a soldier who had stepped out from his hiding place across the hall. The ball clipped the steward across his shoulder, sending him spinning into the wall. He turned around just as the soldier swung his musket at his head, intending to kill by any means necessary. The steward ducked then quickly grabbed the musket from the soldier; he used it like a club against the side of his attacker's head. Fontaine turned the musket then smashed the butt plate into the soldier's forehead, splitting his head open and knocking him out cold.
Steward Fontaine made it to the office where he gathered up as many weapons as he could carry, as well as another powder flask and a drawstring bag full of lead balls. He found Duke Gaston's favorite pistol in the desk drawer; he loaded the pistol then stuffed it into his belt before poking his head into the hallway to see if the way was clear.
Slowly, he made his way back to the sickroom but stopped just outside the doorway. He watched with dismay as Porthos and d'Artagnan were pinned down two rooms from where their weapons were stored. The steward noticed two soldiers with pistols across the hall from their location, halting the Musketeer's advance.
"Porthos and d'Artagnan are in trouble," the steward reported to Aramis. "They're pinned down by soldiers across the hall so they can't get to their weapons. I'm going down there to see if I can help."
"Doctor Molyneux," Aramis called over his shoulder. "Do you think you can help me secure the hallway while Steward Fontaine goes to help the boys?"
"I can help out," Athos rasped as he sat up on the bed.
"Are you joking?" Aramis countered. "You're sick and in no condition to fight, Athos."
"I may be sick, Aramis, but I'm not helpless, dammit!" Athos growled with displeasure. "I can help hold off the soldiers." The lieutenant looked for a pistol in the cache of weapons the steward had brought to the room. "I can handle a pistol. Besides, it looks like you're a little short on manpower right now."
"Fine," Aramis reluctantly agreed. "But if you feel like you're going to collapse—I don't care what's going on—you will get back in that bed, do you hear me?" Not waiting for a reply, "If you get shot, so help me…" he stopped himself short, unwilling to think such things.
Athos cocked his head and gave Aramis a look of ire. "Just take care of yourself and don't worry about me," the lieutenant ordered.
"Yeah, easier said than done," Aramis muttered under his breath. Suddenly, the medic jumped back to align himself with the door frame as he saw a soldier sneaking his way up the stairs. The marksman's eyes grew wide as he saw two more men following behind him.
Aramis motioned quietly to Athos, holding up three fingers at chest level, then motioned with his head toward the stairs. Athos nodded with acknowledgement and steadied himself on his feet, ready to engage in a certain firefight. He glanced at Doctor Molyneux, who also nodded as he held a musket in his hands.
Aramis waited until the first soldier was at the top of the stairs then shot, hitting hit his target in the chest and killing him instantly. Athos swooped out from behind the door with his pistol aimed at the second man, who then turned tail and tried to run back down the stairs; the lieutenant's shot hit the man in the back. The soldier lurched forward then tumbled down the stairs, taking a third man down with him.
Aramis grabbed a loaded musket from Molyneux and took aim, easily hitting a soldier who had suddenly appeared. The medic breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived as another group of three soldiers ran up the stairs. Finding their comrades dead, the soldiers turned back around to go retrieve help.
Athos and Aramis exchanged alarmed glances at the sound of more soldiers running their way. "We're not going to be able to hold them off at this rate," Athos hissed to Aramis. "There are too many of them!"
"We're only going to last a few more minutes…" Aramis was interrupted by gunfire erupting from down the hall where Porthos and d'Artagnan were located. Shots were exchanged in rapid succession, followed by the distinct sound of bodies dropping.
"Is there another staircase down at that end of the hall?" Athos asked, his eyes shifting wildly between the men.
"Yes, there is," Doctor Berteau replied. "Steward Fontaine told me there is a private staircase at that end—not many people know of it—but it appears the soldiers have discovered it."
"Porthos, watch out!" D'Artagnan took aim at a soldier who had the large Musketeer in his line of sight. The Gascon fired his weapon, hitting the soldier square in the chest before he could pull the trigger.
A second soldier came from behind a door to take aim at d'Artagnan, now holding an empty musket; before the soldier could fire, he fell over dead with a shot from Steward Fontaine's pistol.
The Gascon reached down to pick up the loaded musket of the dead Spaniard just as an unseen musket fired from the private staircase. "Ah damn," d'Artagnan yelled in surprise. The Spaniards ball grazed along the right side of the Gascon's head above the tip of his ear; the force of the hit caused the young man to drop to his knees as he cupped a hand protectively over the wound.
"Watch out!" Porthos swung from behind the Gascon to shoot the Spaniard as he stepped into the hallway. A second soldier emerged from the staircase to take a shot at Porthos. The lead ball hit the wall behind the Musketeer, sending stone shrapnel flying into the large man's neck. "Bloody hell!" The large Musketeer kicked angrily at the scattered stone pieces on the floor.
Finally, the men reached the room where the Musketeer weapons and accoutrements were stored. Porthos and d'Artagnan strapped on their weapons belt then quickly secured the pistols and main gauches, before strapping on their swords.
"Keep your hands free for fightin'." Porthos secured Athos' weapons belt and the lieutenant's sword around his waist so his hands could remain free for fighting his way back to the room.
"That's a great idea," d'Artagnan smiled as he reached for Aramis' weapons belt and sword. He strapped the belt over his own then attached the medic's weapons and sword before joining his brother Musketeer and the steward, ready to charge down the hall.
The three men ran to the room next door without incident but as they pressed forward, they met resistance from soldiers pouring up from the stairs in front of them. The Musketeers easily killed two soldiers, and the steward a third, allowing them to reach the safety of another room.
The men reloaded their weapons and charged from the room, but they were soon accosted by a group of three soldiers from across the hall. The steward shot one soldier dead; the Musketeers were caught in a hand-to-hand struggle with the remaining Spaniards.
Porthos easily wrestled the musket from his opponent and then swung the stock into the man's head; he quickly turned on his heel to slam the musket into the head of d'Artagnan's opponent. The Gascon nodded his thanks to his brother as they stepped over the soldiers to continue on their way.
The three men ran from room to room until they finally reached the bedchamber where the rest of the group anxiously waited for their return. The men ran into the room to find bodies lying on the floor, blood pooling beside the unmoving forms.
"Oh God!" D'Artagnan gasped at the sight. His chest heaved from running down the hallway and had to lean over at the waist to catch his breath. The Gascon grimaced as pain in his shoulder flared and the fresh wound on his head stung; blood from the head wound trickled down his ear and streaked down his neck.
"What happened here?" Aramis ran to d'Artagnan to examine the head wound. "Well, I'll be damned," the medic let out a sigh. "Looks like the ball skimmed along your head just under the bandage. Good thing you had this thick bandage around your head or you'd be missing a good chunk of your skull."
"Never thought I'd be so happy to have received a head wound in all my life," d'Artagnan grumbled. "That fall to the floor earlier probably just saved my life."
"It's that hard head of yours," Aramis chuckled. "Wait, what's this?" The medic took a step back to stare at the weaponry around d'Artagnan's waist. He looked up at the Gascon with raised eyebrows. "Well, don't you look like a mercenary; that's my weapons belt and sword you're wearing."
"That was my idea," Porthos interrupted. "We kinda had our hands full runnin' down 'ere; didn't have room to carry anythin' more."
"What the hell?" Aramis blurted as he saw Porthos' bleeding neck. "What happened to your neck? Let me take a look at that." The medic pulled the large Musketeer to him so he could get a better look at the pieces of stone embedded in the flesh. "Hmm, some of these pieces are in deep," he frowned. "I'm going to have to dig these out…"
"No time, we've got more soldiers coming up!" Athos yelled. "At this rate we're going to be overrun shortly; we can't keep holding them off . . ." his voice trailed as he took a shot at a soldier, dropping him in place on the stairs.
"Who are these people?" Doctor Berteau asked. "Where did they come from?"
"They're Spanish soldiers," Aramis answered, trading worried glances with Athos. "Where they came from exactly, I don't know."
"Spanish soldiers this far north?" Athos was stunned. "Why would Spaniards be in Blois, at the château in particular? Where exactly is Duke Gaston?" The Musketeer coughed as he wiped sweat dripping from his brow.
"The Spaniards are ejército de tierra, infantry, or ground army, in other words," Aramis explained. "Why they are in Blois, I have no idea; I wonder if this has anything to do with Captain Tréville's quick exit out of here a few days ago?"
"What do you mean, 'quick exit'?" Athos rasped. The lieutenant wasn't even aware of the captain's departure, having been unconscious and under the steam tent when he had left.
"I knew something strange was going on with him," Aramis shook his head. "He said that he had business to attend to back at home, but said nothing more. The captain's mannerism was tense as though he was anxious about something, but he wouldn't say what. Something big has happened; the ejército de tierra wouldn't be here otherwise."
"I wish the captain had stayed here," d'Artagnan groaned. "We could really use his help right now."
"Rubbish," Porthos disagreed. "If the cap'n had been 'ere, then he'd be in the same damn situation as us right now."
"What we need is for the captain to come down here and bring the regiment along with him," Athos growled. "We can't hold them off much longer; our ammunition is running low. If we don't get some help here very soon… we're in very serious trouble."
A/N:
Ejército de Tierra translated literally means 'army of the ground (infantry).'
The attack of the Château de Blois is completely fictional. I thought it would be an interesting twist to the story and fun to make the boys fight, soldier against soldier, even though they are still sick and/or hurt.
Here is an interesting fact regarding the position of steward of a château/castle/palace, as I have grown quite fond of our friendly steward, Steward Eriq Fontaine:
A lord would need a vast array of officers and servants to run a château/castle/palace. When the lord had obligations that took him away from the castle his main representative was the steward. The steward had substantial power of his own, because he had to know virtually everything that went on at the castle and in the surrounding estates. He had to be skilled at accounting and legal matters, as well as calculating the revenue from taxes and the money spent by the lord.
The Steward was head of all the castle staff, managing all personnel except for military personnel; and he was also the head of the lord's court in his absence. In this way, the lord had an immense load taken off his shoulders through the help of a steward.