Chapter 37

"Oliver!" The desperate cries of a father pierced the air. "Ol-i-ver!"

Winds caused the branches of the trees to whip and bend unmercifully. Grasses bowed and swayed beneath the force and moved like rolling waves across the water. Horses stood huddled together, their backs to the cold chill and their tails tucked, their heads were lowered, and their manes fluttered and swayed. Rain poured. It ran in steams across the panes of glass and fell in waterfalls from the roofs. Puddles formed and filled quickly and overflowed. Streams tracked and ran along the courtyard, the road, and the paddocks.

Lightning flashed, and thunder roared. The crack caused the horses to spook and jump from their positions and gallop toward the far side of the pastures.

"Oliver!" The frantic cries continued. "Son, where are you?"

The voice was drowned out by the rain, the winds, and the thunder.

Oliver huddled against the base of an old sycamore tree. Its expansive branches creaked and moaned as the gusts continued. Leaves fluttered and struggled to maintain their hold. Those that couldn't were caught in the winds and danced through the air, only to find refuge against boulders, grasses, and tree trunks. The sudden snapping of a heavy branch caused Oliver to cover his head with his arms and huddle closer near the base of the tree.

Terror had seized him.

Suddenly, he was grabbed by the arms and lifted from the ground. Oliver looked into his father's concerned eyes and wrapped his arms around his neck. Soaking wet, the child clung to his rescuer.

"I've got you, son," his father soothed and wrapped strong arms around him. "I've got you."

Athos caught his breath in his throat and held it as his memories and the dream slowly faded. It had been a memory he thought was lost, but he clung to the sounds of his father's voice, the strength of his arms while carried, and the feeling of safety. His father had been a stern man, strong, and determined. But Athos' saw a different side to him after the death of his mother, a side filled with grief, emptiness, and heartache. Athos hitched his breath and struggled to cling to the memory of a man facing the torment of a storm to rescue his son, a man willing to sacrifice his own life for that of his child.

Athos could hear the clanging of buckets against the barn walls, the striking of branches against the wood siding, and the whistling of winds entering through the cracks in the walls. Wind gusts slapped the building, causing it to creak and moan against the force, but held strong as the storm continued.

He felt a cold cloth draped over his brow, the sudden pressure of a hand forcing it into place, and then the tug of the blankets over his shoulders. He couldn't tell if it was the weather or something else that caused him to shiver. Exhausted muscles cried for relief. Rapid, quick breaths persisted as his lungs and heart worked overtime to regulate. The pain continued to tentacle from his back, down his legs, and across his chest and arms.

"He's getting worse," Eve said as Emry stepped behind her. "I don't know what else to do for him." She rested her elbows on her knees while seated on the stool. She looked at the fire that continued to blaze and the flames that danced when the winds forced it to move and shift. Eve pressed her fingers to Athos' neck and then grasped her husband's hand when he placed it on her shoulder.

Emry had seen the storm coming and abandoned the fields and returned to the house with his horses. He had quickly unharnessed them, returned them to their stalls, and helped Eve gather the chickens and milk the old cow. At first it had been the winds, and then the rains arrived, followed by the violence of lightning and thunder.

Emry rubbed his face and nodded. He walked toward the wall where Athos' doublet and weapons belt hung and immediately searched the pockets.

"Emry?" Eve said as she looked over her shoulder.

"Those men were supposed to be here today," he said and then sighed when found a coin-purse. "They'll be back, Eve, and this will help." He squeezed the base of the bag and took a deep breath. He looked at her and shrugged.

"You're not a thief."

"He's dying and has no use for it." Emry opened the bag and dumped the coins into his palm. It wasn't much, just a few livres and sous.

Eve stood, walked to the fireplace, and added another log. "And what happens if they accept the money? What happens when they come back for more?" She turned to look at him.

Emry stepped toward her, his face stern and voice low. "I will not lose this farm, my children, or you," he said with a frown.

"Don't," Eve said and retook her seat. She wrung the cloth and again applied it to the side of Athos' face.

"Those men," Emry said, "they'll kill us, me, you… our girls…" He slipped the coins back into the pouch and looked at his wife. "As soon as the weather clears, Eve… those men may arrive. I will do everything I can to stop them… but I will not sacrifice our daughters. If they want money… I'll give them money," he looked at the bed, "if they want a musketeer, I'll give them one of those too — but I will fight for you and for our daughters."

Athos shivered, pushed his head deeper into the pillow, and swallowed several times. Sweat from exhaustion continued to bead along his forehead and contradicted the chill of his bones.

Emry shoved the bag of coins into his pocket and stepped closer to the cot. "The belladonna didn't help?"

Eve sighed and then said, "It did for a short while… I dare not give him anymore."

"Why do you care so much?" Emry said and stepped beside her and watched her rinse the cloth and then wrung it once more. Water slipped from the curves of each fold and then slip between her fingers. She folded it once again and draped it across Athos' neck.

"I can only hope that if he were my son…" she looked at Emry, "or you in the care of a stranger… that they might do the same."

Startled, Eve jumped with a sudden gasp when Athos grasped her wrist. He looked in her direction, but his eyes didn't focus. The vibrancy of his green eyes flickered in the light of flames. He parted his lips to speak but said nothing. The bruising around his temple had spread to his cheek, the right side of his forehead, and ran along the side of his jaw.

"He needs water," Eve said with a frustrated sigh. "He needs food… I care barely stand to look at him in this condition." She wiped her face and grasped Athos' wrist that held her arm. "Help me, Emry." She stood, pried Athos' hand away and then poured tea into the hammered cup.

"Has he pissed?"

"Must you be so crass?"

"If he hasn't, Eve, it could be a sign of something more severe."

"He's not one of your horses." Eve took a controlled breath and then shook her head. "If he has, he's been discrete about it… but I doubt he's moved from this spot since this morning after his friend left — he's," she paused, "just grown steadily weaker."

Emry worriedly rubbed the back of his neck. "This doesn't look good," he said.

Eve nodded and said, "Help me give him some tea."

Emry inhaled sharply through his nose and stepped beside the bed. He slipped his hands beneath Athos' arms and lifted him into a seated position. Athos groaned in the back of his throat. His head fell forward and his bangs curtained his eyes. He took several quick breaths and faltered when he tried to raise his hands to his thighs. Eve cupped Athos' jaw, lifted his head, and placed the edge of the cup to his lips. He drank slowly, but consumed all of it.

Eve took the opportunity to wipe Athos' face with the cloth. He narrowed his eyes, and dark lashes caused shadows to dance across his cheeks. Athos then closed his eyes, and his head dipped to his right when Emry stepped aside and helped him lie back down.

"He's weaker than a newborn calf," Emry said. He pursed his lips when he stepped back and watched Eve cover Athos with the blanket. "He'll be no good to anyone — not in the condition he's in."

Eve nodded, tossed the cloth into the basin, and stood. She wiped her brow and looked at her husband. "I've done all I know for him." She slapped at the front of her dress and reached for her shawl. "It will be morning soon." She listened to the rain slap the sides of the barn, the streams from the roof fall into the puddles next to the foundation, and the winds that persisted.

Emry pulled back the oilskin cloth, watched Eve step from the room, and then he looked to the cot and sighed. "Do you think he'll make it?"

Eve wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and said, "I don't know… I just… don't know."

Emry followed her and let the drape fall closed.