Thank you so much to all the readers who are on this journey with me.

Please forgive me that I have used a little "author's licence" in referring to an 'oubliette' when Athos realised where they were going to put him. Although created and used in the medieval period as the most horrendous places of imprisonment (it makes me go cold just thinking about them; there are some despicable versions described and pictured online - Warwick Castle in the UK has a 'good one'!), they were not actually so-named until the 18th century. I used the term in the hope that many of you would have an idea of the horrors facing the Musketeer lieutenant.

CHAPTER 18

ATHOS

Calm. I have to stay calm. It serves no purpose to lose control and I would not have my captors hear me and gloat that 'the Musketeer is losing his mind already.'

That does not mean that I do not want to kick out and scream, to roar my frustration … and my fear for, yes, I am afraid. Afraid that I will never again see the light of day, feel the warmth of the sun upon my skin, know the joy of tasting cool, clear water as and when I want it.

A huff of amusement escapes me – or is it suppressed hysteria? I never thought the day would come when I relished the idea of water over a good wine!

I think of my brothers. What are they doing? Do they know yet that I am missing? Are they even now hot on my trail, on their way to rescue me from this death pit? Is there a trail to follow or have my captors erased any clues that they might follow. Memories flood my mind to bring me comfort and hope.

Aramis and the look in his eyes when he has found a new love to surrender to his charms; the infuriating hurt look of innocence he adopts when escaping the fury of the cuckolded husband, but then there is the warm glow in his expression of unquestioning friendship and brotherhood; the inescapable concern when he is treating Porthos and me for any injuries we might have incurred. I can imagine his expression now at my unexplained disappearance and it pains me for doing this to him, even though it is not my fault.

Porthos has such unstinting enthusiasm for life. His physical strength exceeds much that I have seen and yet there is such gentleness in his soul, in a gesture of camaraderie. In my head, I can hear his unrestrained and joyous laugh when he wins at cards or puts a recruit on his backside in the dirt whilst sparring, just as he had done this morning.

Was it this morning? Or was that yesterday? I have no idea how long I have been entombed; it could be as little as one hour or many. All I know is that it already feels like forever. My meagre attempts to lift my spirits with fond recollections plummets as the reality takes root. I am unlikely to see beyond this stone cell and therefore will never again feel the handshake, a clap on the back, or the arm around the shoulders from my brothers.

I berate myself again. They will not desert me but will move heaven and earth to locate me and I must do my part. I must stay strong for them, in mind, if not my body.

All for one and one for all.

How long can a man go without food? Three weeks perhaps? And water? Much less, a matter of days. Perhaps to die from lack of water is preferable to a slow starvation. Who knows? I will, no doubt, find that out for myself.

I have read about these prisons, seen diagrams of them in books on architecture and medieval punishments that my father had in his library, but I have never laid eyes on one … until now. To me, and not just because I have now fallen victim to one, they are amongst the cruellest form of torture devised by mankind.

Often bottle shaped, the prisoner is thrown down the shaft so that the fall results in broken bones, anything that might speed the death process. These prisoners are the forgotten ones, often left to starve to death or, perhaps worse, given just enough food and water to subsist at some level, drawing out the whole process so that a man is driven mad first. What will be my fate? What do my captors have in store for me?

If my brothers are to stand any chance of finding me, then I wish for the little food and water, but if not … I want to die as quickly as possible, before the indignity of losing my mind. Right now of course, when I have a steadfast hold upon my sanity, I can rationalise and think this way, but if that same sanity were to crumble, would I be aware of it? Would I know what is real and what is not? Some recognition of the disintegration process would be a torture all of its own. Oh, that I might be spared from becoming a gibbering wreck, to end my days drooling and speaking inconsequential nonsense! If I could be reassured that there would be no semblance of realisation as to how far I have fallen from being a man …

I have already taken stock of my very limited surroundings; it did not take long. Fortunately, I was not thrown down, but ordered to climb into the pit once I had been stripped of my doublet and boots. The rope ladder was then swiftly pulled up. My captors held lighted torches as I descended and I was able to see that my cell was roughly round in shape and lined with uneven stones. As I stood there, peering up at my last glimpse of the world, the top was well beyond my reach. I gauged it to be more than my height again. At the bottom, there was very little space. Touching the walls either side of me, I could not straighten my arms and when I sat on the uneven ground, I had to keep my knees bent for lack of room.

With the ladder removed, a grill was replaced over the opening. I saw my captors peering down at me, jeering at my misfortune and laughing maliciously. My first thought was that I would make them regret it, when I got out of here!

Then the pit was plunged into darkness as they left, taking the torches with them. I confess that the panic rushed in and threatened to overwhelm me so that it took a lot of willpower to steady my breathing and slow my racing heart.

That was, however, long ago and I am still sitting in the same place, head bowed as I hug my knees. I shiver, but whether it is with terror or the intense cold down here, I cannot tell. A lone tear tracks down my cheek and I admonish myself. Shedding tears is a luxury I can ill afford for my body needs to retain water, not waste it. I swipe at it angrily and suck my finger, convincing myself that I taste a faint saltiness.

The darkness is total and so is my isolation, as I can hear nothing at all. Any movement, any life, is way above me on the upper floors of the chateau but there is a strange peacefulness in that knowledge. In some cases, prisoners were confined within the walls of buildings so they could hear the sound of life going on around them and beyond their reach or, worse still, were close to the kitchens so that they could smell the food being prepared. That must have been the ultimate torture to a man slowly dying of starvation.

I shift position slightly and put down a hand to steady myself, but immediately withdraw it with a gasp. I suck another finger, hurt this time and bleeding for the coppery taste of it is on my lips. Somehow, I have cut myself. I reach out again, tentatively this time, and find the offending jagged stone.

Except that it is not a stone, for it is long with one end splintered and jagged, the other end finishing with two rounded protrusions and I fight against the resurgence of panic for I think I know what it is.

I feel around in the darkness and discover more of the same or similar, of different sizes and then the proof. A large object with a smooth, domed top, two big holes that are level with each other and beneath them two smaller ones and then ….

My imagination runs away from me and in my mind's eye, I can see the mad grin created by the teeth.

I have company after all and the grim reminder of what awaits me. It is the remains and spectre of at least one predecessor.