Chapter 23

Aramis groaned, rolled onto his back, and took a deep breath. Sweat dampened hair had dried and now clung in clusters around his face. His muscles ached and protested at the slightest movements. They reminded him of the last two days. When the pain of tremors became so severe that his groans were followed by shallow whimpers and sharp gasps for air. With a shaking hand, he rubbed his forehead and remembered pleading with d'Artagnan to kill him, to end his misery, and stop the poison that moved through his body. Even his feet had cramped, causing knuckles and joints to pop and snap as he involuntarily made himself as small as possible, tucking his knees and arms to his chest.

Aramis looked up when he felt a damp cloth on his brow, and he looked at d'Artagnan who stared back at him as though the entire episode would start once again. "What…" he paused, "what happened?" he asked and looked at d'Artagnan with bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes.

"You almost died," d'Artagnan said. He sat next to the bed with his elbows on his knees. "If the burdock root helped…" He bit his bottom lip and rubbed his face. He focused his eyes, and then exhaled slowly. "I can't imagine what would have happened without it."

Aramis made a motion to sit up but hitched his breath with a deep throated groan. "I feel as though…" he caught his breath when d'Artagnan slipped an arm behind his shoulders and helped him. "I have spent the past couple of years fighting a losing war… by myself." His hands shook, his throat was dry, and a slight ache remained behind his eyes. "How long?"

"Three days… just like the man said."

Aramis looked at the chair where the man had been seated. He then looked questionably at d'Artagnan.

"He bled to death before I could ask him anymore questions. I didn't…" d'Artagnan paused, and with a look of disappointment, glanced toward the window. The drapes fluttered. Dust particles danced within the beams of light that shone across the floorboards. "I didn't realize I had cut him so severely."

Aramis nodded as he lay against the pillows. "Was it just him… or were there more?"

"I don't know." D'Artagnan ran a hand over his face and rested his hand against his thigh. "The town mayor has asked the community to keep an eye out for strangers and to let me know if anyone has been asking about the musketeers."

Aramis swallowed. "That's good." He looked toward the pitcher and sighed when d'Artagnan followed his gaze and stood.

Aramis listened to the sound of water pouring into the glass and then he reached with a shaking hand and grasped the pewter cup. D'Artagnan helped steady it as Aramis drank and then lay back with an exhausted sigh.

"I've never felt so weak," Aramis said. He let his eyes close for a moment and then he looked at d'Artagnan, who looked as tired as he felt.

"I thought you were going to die," d'Artagnan said. His voice cracked, and he swallowed to hide his emotion. He retook his seat, folded his fingers together and listened to his knuckles crack. "You were out of your head with pain, Aramis." He rubbed his eyes and wished he could forget the sounds of Aramis' agony, his desperate pleas, his shuttered gasps for breath, and the uncontrollable chills that racked his body.

Aramis cupped his hand over his mouth and stroked his mustache. "Was the poison in the wine?"

D'Artagnan nodded. "You finally fell asleep last night, and I spent some time searching for the woman who poured it." He shook his head and winced. "I couldn't find her, and the kitchen staff had no idea who I was talking about. I went to the livery and the stable hand told me that six men and one woman arrived a day before we did… but five of them quickly left after," he looked toward the empty chair and the blood that stained the flooring, "after his body was removed from the building. They weren't French —"

Aramis raised a shaking hand to capture d'Artagnan's attention. "Spanish?"

D'Artagnan twisted his mouth into a frown and said, "No… the stable hand thought they were Austrian… maybe Hungarian?"

"In France?" Aramis questioned. He scratched his head as the pain continued. "That makes no sense."

"Unless they were hired… by the Spanish," d'Artagnan said. He rubbed his thighs, took a deep breath, and said, "We've angered a great many people, Aramis. Milady de Winter, Vadim had friends… We destroyed Marie de' Medici's chance at reclaiming the throne. Hell," he said and leaned back in his seat with a heavy sigh, "Even the red guards hate us, and Rochefort is too busy trying to impress the king to do anything about it." He hung his head and looked toward the floor. "The man… the man I killed, said… the Spanish want us dead."

Aramis tossed the blanket off his legs and gingerly slipped his bare feet to the floor. He hissed, allowed his muscles to adjust to his movements, and then hung his head as his shoulders slumped. "I wouldn't put this past Milady to have hired them?" He frowned and cast his eyes to the floor. "Maybe the Spanish ambassador? Maybe they need us out of the way to get closer to the king?" Aramis rubbed his face to relieve his exhaustion, and said, "Marie de' Medici was exiled to Germany." He looked at d'Artagnan. "If she's the one behind this —"

"How would they find out the details of where we would be and when?"

Aramis licked his lips, grabbed the pewter cup from the small table next to his bed, and took another sip of water. "Whoever did this wouldn't have to… just those close enough to us would need to know. Remember," he looked at d'Artagnan, "everyone knows we're the closest to the king? A well-planned attack," he shrugged, "could happen at any time."

D'Artagnan looked toward the ceiling and watched a fly crawl along the rafters. "I don't think just anyone would do this," he said and watched the insect fly toward the window and land on the glass. "Rochefort would have the details of our duty… he's the captain of the Red Guards… maybe one of them arranged this."

"Red Guards?" Aramis huffed and then rolled his eyes in disbelief. "They couldn't get wet if they fell out of a boat."

D'Artagnan snickered and spittle sprayed from his mouth. He wiped his lips and looked at Aramis, who shrugged.

"We need to find Athos and Porthos," Aramis said as he grasped the edge of the mattress near his knees and shifted himself forward. He swallowed, unsure if he could stand, much less ride.

"Madame Sabot has agreed to have a bath brought up for you." d'Artagnan stood and walked to the door. "Maybe the heat will help your muscles relax." He paused and ran his hand along the edge of the door. "You should get some rest, Aramis. I'm sure Porthos and Athos are fine."

Aramis pursed his lips and said, "If someone is after us," he looked d'Artagnan in the eyes, "they might be after them too." He rubbed his thighs and then pointed toward his coin-purse that was hooked to his weapons belt and hung from the hook near the door. "Go find us some food…"

"You haven't slept —"

"I'll sleep when I'm dead. Go get us some food and have that bath sent up." Aramis scratched his head. "Watch your back. These people may be on watch, but they don't know what to watch out for."

D'Artagnan cocked an eyebrow. "Neither do we," he said and closed the door behind him as he left.