Chapter 3

Porthos is quite furious that Athos has assigned him a babysitter.

It's not that he dislikes Henri, just the opposite, he has great affection for the young man, but he doesn't like being coddled and Athos didn't even try and hide the fact that Henri was going along to keep an eye on him. In all honesty though, Porthos is sure he'd go mad with only the four scouts for company, since they barely speak and keep wholly to themselves.

Neither he nor Henri are in uniform, they're dressed like the scouts in plain, homespun breeches and simple woollen doublets and cloaks. Only their boots couldn't be replaced on such short notice but both men had a second pair that are less ornamental than the ones they usually wear with their leathers, but the quality and the workmanship is still apparent so they'd splattered them with mud to keep anyone they'd meet on the road from recognising them as anything other than farmers and local craftsman on their way home from a meeting to discuss trade with other businessmen in a nearby town.

For the past week Porthos had mostly been plagued by fever and chills, an ague which has kept George and Claude quite busy in the infirmary, and with Aramis gone, the two young medics had needed help, in the form of Jacques, whose aunt was a healer and had imparted quite a bit of wisdom to her nephew. The three of them had managed to keep the illness contained as they'd followed Athos' strict rules regarding cleanliness and quarantine. Porthos had been declared fit two days prior and he'd immediately left the infirmary and housed himself with Athos because he couldn't bear to miss any updates regarding his missing brothers. That, and the fact that his tent felt eerily quiet without the boisterous d'Artagnan and the big man could not find rest in there alone.

Porthos refuses to believe that they are searching for bodies and not healthy and whole Musketeers. He himself had been taken prisoner while on patrol in January, along with two other green Musketeers and they'd been traded back to Athos for five men that the Musketeers had captured spying. Their treatment in Spanish captivity had been fair and Porthos expects the same will hold for Aramis and d'Artagnan. It's what he hopes for, at least. He fears for what would happen to d'Artagnan if he was starved or worse, since he'd only recently regained the ability to eat an entire meal. The vomiting induced by the poison had been so horrendous that it had become a reflex and Aramis had tried everything he knew to will it away. But it had taken months, of eating small meals, numerous times a day and drinking vile, herbal teas sweetened with honey to mask the taste for the lad's stomach to finally heal and allow him to regain some weight. Porthos has listened to him struggle, almost nightly at first, to keep even water down, and to preserve his younger brother's dignity he'd pretended to be asleep while d'Artagnan had sobbed quietly in his bedroll, frustrated and angry and disappointed.

Aramis on the other hand, although for the most part healthy, like the rest of them, is not a man who takes to confinement easily. When he'd dedicated himself to God and cloistered himself in the monastery he'd discovered that taking orders from the Abbot as well as staying confined to the grounds went against everything he'd lived and learned up to that point. When his brothers had come to spirit him away he'd agonized only due to the oath he'd made and not from any love of the solitary and obedient life of a monk. Athos had wisely told him that it could not be his true calling if he was even slightly tempted to follow the Musketeers to war and Aramis had made his apologies to the Abbot and to the brothers and to God before riding off with the regiment, making a vow to always keep his faith first and foremost in his heart, no matter where he might find himself. Porthos hopes that he will draw from that faith and be resilient and patient while they search for him and d'Artagnan.

Henri pulls his horse beside Porthos and quietly inquires of his superior officer's health.

"If you ask me again, boy, I swear on my mother's grave I will give you a spanking you'll never forget," Porthos growls and the cheeky boy has the gall to laugh.

"You spend too much time with d'Artagnan, he's corrupted you," Porthos says wearily.

Henri's mirth slips away and mouth twists into a frown. "We will find them, won't we sir?"

"Of course, Aramis has been soldiering longer that you've been alive," he says, exaggerating to make his point. "He's been in worse scrapes, and d'Artagnan is like a cat, always lands on his feet no matter what."

"But we've found nothing, and these men are supposed to be the best at what they do. What if they're already in Arras? We'll never get them back if they've taken them there," Henri says mournfully.

"They're not in Arras, the General's spies have that place covered on all sides, and his men have orders to engage if they suspect the Spanish are moving them inside the walls. Dubois is terrified that our brothers will give up information to avoid torture, a lot he knows about Musketeers," Porthos says, affronted.

"That buffoon knows nothing about us whatsoever," Henri agrees angrily. "And he has no respect for our lives either, or he wouldn't have left us alone and exposed for so long, without reinforcements and munitions. If Captain…I mean Minister Treville hadn't forced him to move his camp closer to our regiment we might all be dead by now."

Porthos nods and pulls his hood down lower against the chill. "You are absolutely right, lad, but your words could get you court-martialed, so for your own safety, best keep your opinion to yourself, eh?"

"Yes sir," Henri replies contritely and they both pull back on their reins as one of the scouts, Nicolas, slows and comes to ride beside them.

"It's late, we'll camp near those trees up ahead until dawn," he informs them tonelessly and then once more leaves them to their own company. Porthos and Henri share a look, and the big man knows the lad is feeling just as uneasy as he is.

"I know that the General and the Captain trust them, but they make me…uncomfortable," the younger man says as they canter towards the spot Nicolas has indicated.

"Yeah, I hear you, lad, but they've done their job well up until now, they've not given us any reason to doubt their abilities or their loyalty."

When they reach their destination Henri takes both their horses to tend to them and Porthos walks over to where the scouts are busy making a fire and pitching their small tent.

"We've covered a lot of ground today and nothing, tomorrow we must ride towards the ruined abbey, I have a hunch about that place," Porthos says and almost at once Denis baulks.

"I doubt it, the mill is better suited for their purpose, I've been there, it's in good condition," the masked man says decisively.

Porthos nods and feels that uneasiness settle in his gut again. "Alright, but we've got to check both, the Captain's orders," he says firmly, his expression challenging.

Nicolas nods. "I agree, Musketeer, the abbey while quite derelict is actually easier to defend, the mill has no natural defenses, it's exposed, while the abbey is surrounded by rocky terrain and the walls are high and fortified."

The other two men grunt in agreement but Denis is quite insistent. "Yes, but it's barely habitable, it was crawling with rats and there were bats nesting in the rafters, I can't see the delicate Spanish using such a place as an outpost."

The other men chuckle and nod but Porthos is not convinced. "We'll check both, like Athos expects," he says tightly, and when they all agree, even the reluctant Denis, Porthos turns to where Henri is struggling to pitch their portable tent.

"This isn't much of a shelter," the younger man grouses, trying to get the middle pole to stand.

Porthos nods. "It doesn't really matter, lad, I have a feeling that we won't be getting any rest tonight," he tells the young Musketeer. "Listen, I know one of them will be keeping watch over our campsite, but just to be safe, why don't we take turns sleeping, yeah? I've just got this feeling…"

Henri looks over to the fire where the others are sharing a meal from their ration in silence. "I tend to agree, sir," he says quietly and together they manage to get the tent to stand. After a quick meal of dried meat and bread, the two Musketeers bed down for the night, with Henri agreeing to first watch.

"The slightest movement, the softest sound, you wake me, alright?" Porthos instructs firmly.

"Of course sir," Henri says, sitting cross-legged on his bedroll, a small knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other.

"How in the hell can you do that in the dark?" Porthos asks drowsily.

Henri laughs softly. "The same way Aramis can shoot a bottle blindfolded, it takes practice. I once saw a blind man in the market carving little angels, I was in awe and decided to try my hand. I'm not anywhere near as good as he was but I'm slowly teaching myself."

Porthos sighs and pulls his cloak over his freezing and exhausted body. "Good enough for me, I've seen your little animals and angels around the camp. In any case, you've got a knife in your hand, at the ready, which will help me to me sleep a little bit easier."

Henri grunts in reply. "Get some rest, sir, or else the Captain will have my hide. And you need to be in top form tomorrow...for when we find our brothers."

Portho feels his heart clench. "Yes, tomorrow we will find them, for certain."

For one fleeting, blissful moment when he opens his eyes, Aramis is convinced that everything that had happened to him was just a nightmare.

Until the agonizing pain in his shoulder and his trembling and fevered body tell him otherwise.

The physician, Raoul, is dozing in the chair beside his bed. The old man had been there all night, Aramis recalls, even when he'd demanded he be left alone to his pain and his misery. Oh, but the General - Navarro he's leaned is his name - won't have his prized hostage alone for even one minute until he's whole again.

A bizarre twist comes with his morning meal; a bath. Aramis is appalled that he's expected to bathe in front of a room full of strangers, and while his brother could be lying in a pool of blood in the cell beside him. The physician orders his bed be made up with fresh linens and requests warmed bricks be prepared to put into the sheets to keep their guest warm after his bath since his cell has no fireplace. It's like some macabre play being put on, with all the false kindness and comforts he hasn't had since Paris, the fact that d'Artagnan could be dead or dying making it all the more ghoulish. Defiant, aching and shivering, he refuses to get in to the tub.

"Señor, if you don't get into the bath the General will be very angry," the physician warns him cautiously. "He's away at the moment but these fine gentleman are here to make sure you do as you're told," the old man tells him, and he indicates the 5 soldiers inside the cell.

"How about this; I'll take a bath if you have a quick look at my friend. I assure you God would look very favourably upon you for this act of charity," Aramis saying, playing on his hosts' devout Catholicism for some relief for his brother. "Maybe you could have a look at his back, he was flogged last night, though from no fault of his own," Aramis says bitterly.

"I'm sorry, I cannot, but I can offer you something else instead. The general had one of his officers tend to him, I can bring him to you, and you can ask him anything you want, agreed?" the physician queries.

Aramis feels hope soar. Please, God, he prays silently, do not forsake our youngest brother, he's done nothing to deserve what's happening to him, Aramis begs, slowly rising to sit on the edge of the bed. "Agreed, but these men need to stand outside the door, I was a monk, Señor, and I'm not used to bathing in public," he says somewhat haughtily for effect.

"But I can't help you in and out of the bath on my own," the physician protests.

Aramis also knows that he is incapable of getting into the bath without assistance, so he makes a suggestion. "How about you bring that officer to me now, he can help me and he can tell me about by friend."

The physician looks torn. It's clear that he knows he needs to get Aramis in and out of the bath quickly and without any undue harm coming to him or he'll be punished by the odious General like anyone else that defies or disappoints him, and Aramis is counting on his the old man's fear to work in his favour.

"Alejandro, bring Lieutenant Alvares here at once, before the water goes cold!" the physician commands and Alejandro, a short man with an ugly scar that cuts across most of his face grunts and goes to do the old man's bidding. The physician instructs the rest of the soldiers to wait in the corridor and they reluctantly agree. Aramis is starting to feel hopeful for the first time since they'd been brought here. Maybe he can use this lieutenant to pass coded messages to d'Artagnan, or at the very least receive information on his well-being, until they're rescued by their brothers.

The lieutenant arrives, and the heavy wooden door is closed so that Señor Aramis does not take a chill and as Aramis is stripping off his clothes he realises, shocked, that he knows this man. The Spaniard gives him a look that clearly says 'keep quiet' and Aramis, now stripped to the skin allows the physician and the officer to help him into the tub. The water has gone from hot to warm but Aramis knows this is the best temperature for his fever, too hot and it will just rise again. He sighs tiredly and leans back and allows himself one minute to enjoy the feel of clean water on his filthy skin and then he turns to the Spaniard.

"My friend here says you tended to d'Artagnan, God bless you, Señor, is he badly hurt?" Aramis asks tentatively, not sure if this man is friend or foe or simply indifferent.

The physician hands Aramis a bar of soap and urges him to be quick. Aramis takes it and washes swiftly, carefully avoiding his bandaged shoulder. He can't do much with his hair since he cannot submerge himself due to his wound, but he does the best he can using his good hand and a bit of soap around his neck and behind his ears.

"The boy was flogged," the Spaniard answers flatly, as if he doesn't care one way or the other, but Aramis is wily and he can see that the other man is not as detached as he appears. "The General saw the benefit of having his wounds cleaned once it was pointed out to him that the boy will be more valuable to him alive," he informs Aramis, and he translates that to mean 'I suggested it' and 'I'm trying to keep him alive'. Why, Aramis isn't sure, but he does know that this is the man who'd told Athos about the poison, Athos had been very specific in his description; he'd told Aramis that it was the lieutenant with the green eyes who'd been seated on horseback beside the loathsome Alogando.

The water has gone cold and Aramis is trembling. He accepts the Spaniards assistance when he rises from the tub and he quickly wraps the towel that the physician offers around his middle. With the help of both men he is dressed in clean drawers, stockings and shirt and the physician calls for the warmed bricks to be brought. The Spaniard uses this small distraction to hand Aramis something small and metallic.

"To take to his wife, in the event of his death," the lieutenant hisses in his ear, pretending to be fixing the bedding.

Without even looking, Aramis knows what he's holding and he feels sick with dread. "Will he die?" Aramis croaks, horrified.

"Not if I can help it," the man whispers and pulls back when the soldiers enter the cell carrying a canvas that holds the warmed bricks.

With no other choice, Aramis lets the physician fuss over his wound while his bed is warmed. It's as if he's part of some farcical pantomime, cared for like a revered guest, his every need tended to. He wonders how long this can go on before he goes insane from the sheer absurdity. He slides the ring onto his smallest finger and it barely fits, but it will have to do until he can hang it around his neck beside his crucifix. It's the safest place for it, beside the most sacred symbol of their Lord.

And the best way to keep his brother close to his heart.

D'Artagnan's day did not begin quite the way Aramis' had, with a hot breakfast and a warm bath.

He opens his eyes to an all new experience in pain. He's had many wounds…too many…he acknowledges wearily, but this can't be compared to anything he's suffered before. It's impossible to make even the slightest movement without pulling at the lacerated skin of his back and after a tremendous struggle to relieve himself in the foul-smelling pile of leaves in the corner, he falls back onto the filthy straw and doesn't move for a very long time.

The door opens and he doesn't even have the strength to recoil; it could be Miguel but it could be the General, at this point he cares very little. There is not much he can do in any case, his fate is no longer in his own hands.

By some miracle it's not the General and his entourage, it's Miguel.

The older man is clucking and muttering at the state in which he finds d'Artagnan and without asking for permission he begins to strip away his fifthly cloak and doublet and pulls up his shirt to get to his wounds. He cuts the bandages away carefully and dArtagnan mumbles a grateful thank you, relieved he won't need to rise to remove the now-stained linen.

"I've given your friend your wedding ring, he was most concerned for you," Miguel tells him as he washes away blood and probably pus, d'Artagan thinks, disgusted, from his shredded back.

"Is he well?" d'Artagnan asks with a gasp, the pain overwhelming, "has his wound healed?"

"He's fine, my friend, and on his way to recovery, don't worry about him at the moment, worry only about yourself," Miguel tells him somewhat sternly.

"I'll live, I've had worse," he replies with a tired sigh.

"Maybe, but not under these conditions," Miguel grouses. "I've brought you a chamber pot and a bucket with clean water, if you'll allow me to help you bathe I will happily do so, the cleaner you are, the better your wounds will heal."

The thought of being jostled around makes d'Artagnan want to refuse, but the idea of wiping away the grime from his battered body is tempting so he agrees.

Miguel helps him sit and the other man takes a pile of clean rags from the sack he's brought with him. He wets one and begins with d'Artagnan's face, neck and torso, and he tosses it aside and wets a clean one for his arms. He helps d'Artagnan to stand and with much difficulty he lets his breeches and undergarments fall around his ankles and quickly gives himself a standard soldier's bath while Miguel looks away to give him privacy and then tosses the cloth into the pile. Once he's dressed, Miguel has him lay face down once again to rub the foul smelling salve into his wounds and the pain is again at the centre of his world.

"Last night you forgot to tell me the name of the fierce and courageous warrior you married," Miguel teases, obviously trying to distract d'Artagnan from the agony of having the deep slashes on his back treated.

"Constance," he whispers, panting. "Her name is as beautiful as she is."

"My God, friend, if you keep this up you'll have me falling in love with her as well," Miguel says with a chuckle and d'Artagnan can't help it, he laughs weakly as well.

"I would advise against it, Miguel, she is not a woman to be toyed with," he warns fondly.

"I would imagine not, you've described her as a woman as fearsome of the goddesses of the ancients. Does she carry a bow?" he asks, putting the last strips of linen over d'Artagnan's back.

"No, a sword and a pistol, I taught her myself," he replies proudly.

Miguel once again helps him sit while he wraps clean bandages around his torso. "In all honesty I thought you'd been exaggerating but now I see you were not. Tell me, is she truly as you describe her?"

"In the very first days after the incident in the market, she shot a man to save my life," he remembers grimly. "It cost her dearly, mind you, up until that moment she's been a merchant's demure wife...and servant," he adds, crossly, "but that night, she became something else, someone whose blood soared at the thought of adventure and of course, justice; she'd killed a murderous bandit to save me, not some harmless rogue."

Miguel seems truly shocked and intrigued. "I've never met a woman like that to be honest, my Esme was a quiet and humble girl, but greatly educated and generous. Her father was a nobleman and a scholar, and they'd travelled all over the continent together. She knew history and could tell you about exotic places you could never imagine existed. She also spoke four languages, and was teaching all the servants on our estate to read and write, her charity was renowned in our province, everyone loved her," he says with infinite sadness.

D'Artagnan feels his eyes fill with tears as Miguel speaks of his wife; his pain is still vivid, even ten years on, a man would have to be heartless to not be affected by the Spaniard's grief.

"She was truly a wonderful and generous woman, my friend, I'm sure she's been blessed with the most revered place at God's right hand," d'Artagnan tells him softly.

"I hope so," the older man whispers. "Have you eaten anything?" he asks, quickly changing the subject.

"What you left me last night, I woke with a grumbling stomach sometime in the night, thank you, Miguel."

Miguel removes the flask that he'd brought the night before from inside of his jacket and once again pours it into the pitcher. He's also brought a second jug with him, this one, he explains, has clean water.

"Try and keep these out of sight, here in the corner, hidden behind you," he warns. He then moves a cracked chamber pot a few feet away from him. "If anyone asks you where it came from, pretend it was always here, in that far corner, tell them. I'm allowed to tend to your wounds but not much more," he says regretfully. "If the General find out I'm helping you there will be trouble."

D'Aratgnan freezes. "Miguel, if you're putting yourself in danger…"

Miguel shakes his head sadly. "Not trouble for me, my friend, for you. The General wouldn't dare hurt a hair on my head. The old bastard is my mother's brother," he says disgustedly.

"Lovely," d'Artagnan says murmurs, cringing at the thought of being related to such a cruel man.

With everything else seen to and his bandages in place, Miguel helps d'Artagnan with his shirt, and today, his doublet as well. "You should try to walk around a bit, but be careful with that shoulder, it's still too swollen to be jarred," he warns. "Fortunately your eye is looking better," he notes and d'Artagnan agrees, he can actually open it now.

"I've brought you some food, bread, cheese and another apple, you must eat it," he says sternly, handing over the bundle of food. "The General is away today, you might yet get a reprieve from his wrath until tomorrow."

D'Artagnan nods, grateful for small mercies. "Are you sure that Aramis is alright? Is he being mistreated? Please, friend, be honest."

Miguel's expression is unreadable and d'Artagnan can't quite make out what he may be trying to hide. "I swear on my honour that he is not being mistreated in any way," Miguel replies and d'Artagnan sees sincerity in his gaze and he pushes his misgivings aside.

"You know, in another life or even another time from now, you and I would have been great friends, I think," d'Artagnan says honestly.

Miguel smiles and once again he reminds him of his beloved brother Aramis. "This war can't last forever, can it? Maybe we'll get that chance. And I must meet your Constance one day, you have me so intrigued I swear I'd brave a hundred French soldiers for a glimpse of this paragon of beauty and bravery!"

D'Artagnan laughs until the rumble of his chest becomes painful from the aches and the bruises that litter his torso. "I'll make sure to tell her that…if I ever get to see her again," he adds, biting down on his bottom lip, the thought that he may never lay eyes on her again too horrible to even imagine.

"I swear to you, on my honour and on the graves of my family, that I will do everything possible to help you survive your captivity," Miguel tells him meaningfully. "Now I must go, before my uncle returns, if I can distract him this evening and keep him away from you, I will; maybe a bit of that sleeping powder I've put in your wine…" he says deviously and he gathers everything he'd brought with him into the sack. "Eat and get some exercise, then drink the spiked wine and rest."

D'Artagnan nods, grateful. "I don't know how to thank you…" he begins.

Miguel opens the door. "Thank me by doing your best to make it through this," he says firmly, and then the heavy door closes and he's gone.

D'Artagnan lets out a long breath. He always does his best, it's in his nature, instilled in him from a small boy by loving parents, but he simply doesn't know if it will be enough.