Goodness me! Two chapters up in two days! Please do not get used to it! :)

How is Athos faring?

ATHOS

I stand in the middle of the hell hole, head bowed and breathing hard as I try to slow my rapidly beating heart.

My throat is raw from screaming and shouting and now, as I sink once more to the uncomfortable ground, I am ashamed of my outburst, but I have had to vent my frustration. It has been building slowly, inexorably for a while now and it was inevitable that it would find release – and relief – somehow. Relief for that is how I regard it. The aggravation, isolation, anger and, I confess, mounting panic would overwhelm me otherwise.

I know that my captors are probably highly amused at that little scene; not that it would have been visible to any of them. No light appeared at the grill, but I suspect that they were nearby listening, laughing and whispering at the prospect of the Musketeer beginning to lose his mind.

Not that I am of course. Losing my mind, that is. At least, not that I am aware but the predicament in which I currently find myself is enough for anyone to abandon reason the longer the incarceration persists.

The fact that I can confidently declare that I have not lost my sanity yet must surely mean that I remain logical and am in full command of my faculties still, doesn't it? It stands to reason that if cogent thought were deserting me, I would not know it, would I?

I give a low chuckle in delight at my clever analysis until another question - a destructive, malevolent one – seeps into my consciousness.

Or would I know it? Is this merely a trick of the incipient madness that creeps upon me even now? When was the last time I had reason to laugh?

I shake my head in denial. I have not been here long enough, or have I? When was it that I was captured? How many times has the bag been lowered now with bread and water? Having decided that they were possibly sending the sack down to me every other day, I had resolved to keep a track of the occasions so that I could monitor the passing of the days but … I cannot recall now. Four? Five?

I roar in exasperation and my throat complains. How can I forget something so simple? All I had to do was count the sacks, but am I confusing myself by thinking what number the next would be, mixing it up with those I had already received?

So what occasioned my violent outburst?

A pointless bid for freedom.

The inactivity of body and the constant introspection of the mind forced me into doing something. At some point, the idea came to me that as the grill over the hole was far above me and beyond my reach, they did not need to fasten it down and therefore, if I could but climb to it, I could be the master of my own fate and secure an escape. There was the nagging worry that I might fall, break my neck and kill myself, but the practical view I adopted was that it least I would have tried, even if I had died in the attempt. Besides, if I were to die, then this hell would cease to exist.

I would be destined to face another one instead.

That decided, I then did something about it. It needed to be sooner rather than later, whilst I still had some strength. I was already suffering from sitting for prolonged periods with my knees drawn up to my chest through lack of leg space.

Firstly, I stood and attempted some of the exercises I did at the start of each day, but they were hampered by the constricting conditions. I did the best that I could and, when I felt that I had loosened up my muscles and limbs as best I could, I resolved to start the climb crablike up the uneven walls.

I knew all along that it was a fruitless exercise and would drain me of much depleted energy, but I made three attempts.

Three times! All destined to end in abject failure and all I had to show for my futile efforts were grazed hands and elbows, skinned knees and cut feet.

At least there was no broken neck for which I suppose I am expected to be thankful. Small mercies and all that.

I made it the third time. To the grill. But it was heavy and, in my precarious position, I did not have the strength to move it with one hand.

Back on the ground, I sat there consumed with misery and total exhaustion, despairing at my failure for I knew that I would never be able to make the climb again. Porthos would have managed it.

But I am not Porthos.

At the thought of him and then Aramis and the Captain, the garrison and everything associated with them, the hot tears came at last as I sat sucking on the bloodied abrasions to my hands, contemplating the rest of the wounds I had just gathered and wondered if subsequent infection might end the situation for me.

I had failed.

Then, as feeling sorry for myself gave way to unbridled anger, I succumbed to the outburst, and I admit that it made me feel a little better.

Until now.

I straighten my clothing, not that anyone will see if I am untidy or not; I cannot even see for myself. Then I think of my companions lying close by. Guillaume, Guy and Gervais; the Three Gs – a fitting soubriquet in case I get them confused.

What am I thinking about? I seem to lose the thread of coherent thought more frequently of late; I am becoming very skilled in distracting myself. Ah, my new friends, for whom the incumbrance of clothing has ceased to be a concern. Are they affronted if I am not looking my best?

There is a sickening realisation that all my thinking is actually being spoken aloud without my knowing it as I am suddenly aware of my voice, strangely amplified, coming back to me, taunting and haunting me from the walls that enclose me.

Defiant, I pull on the linen shirt again, my fingers finding a rent that is fresh.

"This was a good shirt," I moan, and note that I am speaking aloud. Again.

It breaks the pervasive quietness, but why waste my time and energy when no-one hears me? I am grown used to the silence and lean into its warm embrace. What need do I have of words? The Three Gs understand me well enough without them and, for some reason, my guards abjure the social niceties, refusing to engage in even the politest conversation. I would be content with hearing the latest news from Paris or even what the weather is like outside.

I stop. Why do I think I am no longer in Paris?

My thoughts return to the day I was brought here and the length of time I lay in the bed of the cart listening to anything that might help me identify where I was being taken before the blindfold was removed. It was countryside and I did not recognise the manor house I was taken into. If only I had some idea as to how long I was unconscious, for then I would be able to gauge how far I was from the city. Was I held wherever it was before being moved, or was the transfer immediate? Surely, if the crack on the head had rendered me unconscious for a lengthy period, I would have been the recipient of a serious head injury and concussion at the very least.

Yes, I had a terrible headache upon waking, but none of the accompanying symptoms of concussion, and I have unfortunately been subject to that enough times to differentiate between it and a wine-induced hangover.

My fingers play with the rent in my garment, its presence bothering me, its meaning circulating on the periphery of my understanding so that it is annoying.

I concentrate hard; on something else that was torn. But what? A fragment of dark blue damask. Where did I see it?

In the secret passage beside Richelieu's office.

When the full memory hits me, it winds me like a blow to my body and my breathing is briefly ragged as I fight for control.

I was on an errand for the Cardinal, delivering letters from him to the council members and had planned an easy route around the city, the circuit taking me back to the garrison. The task was nearly complete and I was looking forward to a relaxing evening, rejoining Porthos and Aramis at a tavern after the early and tempestuous start to the day when Bircann had been arrested.

The next place, according to my list, was Soubert and he owned a large, three-storey building with a high-walled and gated courtyard out the front. When I knocked on the door, I was admitted and asked to wait in the impressive entrance hall. The household steward approached, took the letter and asked me to wait, in case there was a reply. I did not think one was necessary, but it was not my place to pre-empt what Soubert might want to say.

When the steward returned, a dark blue doublet over his arm, he announced that his master was, indeed, penning a reply to the Cardinal and I would not be kept waiting for long.

A servant girl passed and the steward held out the doublet to her with the instructions that it was to be thrown out the back with the rubbish.

"A sad waste of an expensive garment," I commented lightly, hoping that he could not hear my pounding heart.

"Damaged beyond repair, I'm afraid," the steward replied as the girl disappeared. "A piece missing from the sleeve. If mended, it would be too obvious, making it inadequate attire for the royal court."

"How did your master do it? It seems a shame not to find some other use for it; the material is beautiful."

I remember the way he looked at me; it was an expression of utter disdain.

"I wonder that one of the King's Musketeers should concern himself with a piece of clothing. I have no idea how or where the damage was inflicted and it is not my business, nor is it any of yours, Musketeer."

It is not often that I hear anyone imbue the word 'Musketeer' with such condescension and loathing, but he managed it. I did not care though; I had seen enough, and I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible to go round the back of the house to the servants' area and find the discarded doublet. There was the proof I needed that Soubert was the traitor on the council.

It was an interminable time before a bell sounded, the signal for the steward to go and collect his master's message for the Cardinal, and then the steward himself seemed to be gone far longer than was necessary.

I recall warily looking round me, gut instinct warning me about the delay, but at last the steward appeared, thrust a letter into my hand and moved swiftly to open the front door. He said nothing but glowered at me. At least I was raised with more manners and have not forgotten them; I was not about to sink to his level.

"I will ensure that the Cardinal receives this as soon as possible," I said with a smile, slipping it into an inside pocket in my leather doublet and donning my hat again. "Good day to you."

I had barely cleared the threshold when the door was slammed behind me. Glancing quickly around, I grabbed the reins and led the horse away so that it could not immediately be seen from the front windows. Then, crouching slightly, I ran down the side of the house and flattened myself against it when I reached the end. Peering around it, there was no-one in sight, but there was a series of outbuildings. The smallest and nearest to the house was open fronted and I could see where someone stood to chop wood under cover. There were also several wooden boxes and sacks. Darting across to the building, I entered its shadows and began searching. Luck was with me for I found the garment screwed up in the top of the second sack I opened. Rolling it up as small as I could, which was no mean feat, I pulled more buttons open on my own doublet and stuffed it inside, thereby keeping my hands free,

Which was just as well for as I returned to my horse, I discovered that my luck had run out. Five men, two of whom were the same size as Porthos, awaited me.

I did not stand a chance, but I put up the best fight that I could. It was bloody and brutal, but there was a moment when a blow to the head had me staggering to my mount and clinging to the stallion's saddle in the vain hope that I could haul myself up into it and make my escape. I saw, with a sinking heart, that the gates were now closed and the rude steward guarding it, a leer on his face and a weapon in his hand should I manage to get that far.

It was immaterial anyway. Stunned, I was helpless as the men moved in. Out of sight of the road that ran in front of the house, I could expect no help from that quarter.

Another sickening blow to the head and my world went dark.