Thanks for reading the previous chapters. Apologies for any errors that may have crept through here. I have done a proof-read and edot but something always manages to slip through.
Meanwhile, the effects of his imprisonment are beginning to take their toll on Athos
20 DAYS EARLIER
ATHOS
"For the last time, empty the ruddy sack!" someone shouts above me. "If you don't want it, I'll take it away again. Can't spend all day shoutin' down to you; I've got other things to do."
I abruptly open my eyes and there is a disconcerting light-headedness that hits me. Pushing forward off the wall where I have been sitting, I try to call an answer, worried that whoever it is will take away the precious bread and water, but the only sound I can make is an unintelligible croak.
"Oh, you are still alive then. For one minute, when you weren't movin', I thought you'd saved us all a lot of time an' bother an' gone to meet your maker."
The voice does not belong to those I regard as the 'regulars' and I briefly wonder what has occasioned this change. He taunts me and I take an instant dislike to him, imagining my hands at his throat.
"Get a move on!" he goads.
I try to inject some speed into my movements, but my limbs are unresponsive, and I crawl unsteadily on hands and knees over the uneven ground. Two hand placements, two knee 'steps' forward. They are nothing, would be nothing under any other circumstances but, to my horror, whatever strength I thought I had has deserted me. Could it just be that I have been in a deep sleep and I am not yet fully aware of things, discombobulated by the rude awakening?
With the meagre light afforded me from the flaming torch above, I reach for the sack, but my fingertips fail to make contact and I squint, desperate for my eyes to focus on their target. I am definitely dizzy, a new, slightly nauseating factor with which I have to contend. Straining, I reach for the sack again, my fingers brushing the rough cloth but as I do so, it moves, rises a little so that it is just beyond my reach.
"Come on, get a move on!"
Still that annoying voice. I change position from the crawl so that I am on my knees and sitting on my heels and reach out again.
Once more the contact and once more it rises and a disembodied, jeering laugh comes from behind the torchlight.
I straighten up, stretch my arm and catch the corner of the sack between thumb and two fingers but it is yanked from my grasp and I pitch forward, hands down first to steady myself. Pain erupts through the palm of my left hand as something slices into the fleshy part.
Again the laughter. At least I am providing entertainment for someone.
"Get up!" comes the vindictive order. "On your feet!"
My breathing is ragged through effort and suppressed rage, but I crawl to the wall, gasping at the pain that lances through my hand and up my lower arm. Something is amiss, but I cannot explore that now for the sack with its precious contents could disappear at any moment … and I need those contents like I have never needed them before.
Using the jagged surface of the wall, I get my feet under me and I haul myself upright, but it all takes time, longer than it should. I turn and lean against the wall that has assisted me.
Strangulation would be too good and I imagine my dagger in my hand, stabbing at my gaoler, burying the blade up to its hilt and then slowly – so as to inflict the maximum amount of pain – gutting him like a fish. There is little comfort in the idea – partly because I am momentarily alarmed by the level of violence I intend to use and also because of the other things that prohibit me.
He happens to be up there, and I am down here, and I do not see a circumstance when that arrangement will change any time soon. Then there is the fact that he is wielding a flaming torch and I do not have a blade, so the gutting is a vague dream.
And then there is the worrying revelation that my strength has gone. My legs can barely hold me up as I launch myself at the sack which hangs at head height.
It moves once more, accompanied by the cruel cackle from above and I fall again, my breath catching, pain knifing through my hand. Something is in the wound and it feels as though I have just driven whatever it is further in with my weight. Tears of anger, frustration, white hot pain and a fear of what I have done to myself threaten to overwhelm me and I choke them back.
The person taunting me is speaking but I blot out the noise, concentrating solely on the sack as I regain my feet somehow; I do not even remember doing it but the next thing I am aware of is reaching up, stretching, rising on tiptoes.
As I close the distance between my fingers and the sacking, so it moves ever onwards and somehow, I find a little more height out of sheer determination.
I am not appreciating this game!
Suddenly there is a furious voice above me, the sound of a blow landing and a cry of painful surprise from my tormentor.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Remember our orders. The prisoner is to be kept alive for now."
"I was just havin' a little fun," the other voice moans petulantly.
"This is not meant to be fun; not for any of us and especially him," and I imagine the person pointing down into the hole to where I am standing, swaying. I recognise the voice; it is that of my usual gaoler and I almost sob with relief that the vicious mockery has ended.
There is something different in his tone during his recent visits. Gone is the callousness of the early days of my captivity. Instead, he sounds almost sympathetic, as if he regrets being in charge and the treatment being meted out to me. Do I want his sympathy? I doubt very much that he would feel sorry enough to extricate me from my pit and release me. I suspect that would be too great a miracle even for the likes of Aramis to expect. He is probably far more concerned by the prospect of what would befall him at the hands of his employer if I happened to die prematurely.
I find myself fleetingly wishing that would happen, just to create an awkwardness for those who hold me here, and then I dismiss the notion. I have survived thus far, and my brothers will come for me. The mysterious nobleman said as much many days ago. I don't know exactly how long it has been since then but there have been several sacks delivered to me in the interim.
And here comes another. It is at chest height now; I can just see it in the gloom afforded by the torch above. My fingers fumble with the opening and a feeling of desperation threatens to overwhelm me, but it passes as soon as I have the leather water bottle and dried hunk of bread in my hands.
The men are still arguing loudly and they do not wait for me to put the previous bottle in the bag, not that I can tell where it is. The sack is pulled up, the torchlight disappears, and I am left once more in complete darkness.
I am disorientated. My prison may only be small, but I know where I sit and sleep, where I move to relieve myself as I try to maintain some dignity. A futile exercise really as the space stinks of damp, sweat and body waste. Mine. And the odour must also roll off me by now.
My hair is tangled and I feel its lankness and greasiness as I try to run my fingers through it. My beard has grown and is unkempt, itching and annoying in turn. I scratch at my head and torso and wonder if lice can survive down here. I dread to think how I look and imagine a thick layer of grime that renders me unrecognisable. The taste in my mouth is foul and the tepid water I receive does little to alleviate it.
Standing in the middle of my prison, I sniff repeatedly as I identify the direction of the worst of the smell. I do pass water, but that is becoming more erratic and it's even longer since my bowels emptied, adding to my overall discomfort. A diet solely of bread can hardly be regarded as healthy so that I wonder what else is happening to my insides apart from the griping pains that hit me at intervals and my body as a whole. My shirt, voluminous to begin with, now hangs upon me or slides off my shoulders so that I am constantly pulling it up to sit about my neck properly and I have given up tucking it into my breeches. They are so loose now that, even buttoned, they have permanently parted company with my waist and just about rest upon my bony hips.
My thoughts longingly turn to a bowl of Serge's vegetable pottage when meat supplies dwindle in the garrison. Good grief! What does this mean when a meagre pottage strikes me as a dish worthy to set before the King?
Gently feeling with my toes, I locate the bones and from there, I easily find where I sit. I lower myself to the floor and uncork the bottle, desperate for some fluid. I count the mouthfuls – three – and run them around the inside of my mouth before swallowing. I am being greedy but right now, I do not care. My mood is turbulent after this last episode with the Tormentor, for that is what I have called him. By comparison, the more usual gaoler is a saint and I huff at the irony, but that is the name I give him – the Saint. Mystery Man will remain just that.
I delay eating the bread for the fingers of my right hand gently probe the palm of my left which is bleeding. As I feared, a sliver of jagged bone has cut me and embedded itself in the flesh. Thankfully, it has not gone through and enough remains above the skin for me to grip it tentatively between thumb and forefinger. I take a deep breath, hold it and pull. It comes out easily as though I am extracting a large splinter. Have I got it all? I explore the wound with my fingers as best I can, hissing at the resultant pain, but it is clear.
I have to make a decision.
There is no knowing how long I must wait for the next water bottle; I can just about make each one last with carefully rationed sips, but I need to clean the wound. It won't be thorough; I cannot waste too much of the precious liquid, nor can I actually see what I am doing, but I pull the stopper again, feel for the opening and tip it over the wound.
I dread to think how many sips I have used and whether I have just made a wasteful and pointless gesture, but it is done. I lick at the water trickling over my hand and taste the diluted coppery flavour of my own blood. I contemplate ripping some of my shirt to bind it, but am concerned with the dirt I might be introducing to the wound as a result.
Sitting back, head against the wall, I rest the offending hand palm upward on my raised knees and wonder if it is elevated enough. I close my eyes and resolve to check it again in a little while to ascertain if the bleeding has stopped.
"We are sorry that you are hurt," a voice says softly to my left.
My eyes snap open. Stupid! I cannot see anything! My heart is racing.
"Who is it? Who is there? Identify yourself," I demand.
At least I try to. What actually leaves my mouth is an indecipherable rasp, something akin to the noise I made when I tried to call out to Tormentor earlier. What is happening to me? Am I losing the will and the ability to speak?
A chuckle emanates out of the darkness. "He does not recognise us."
Us? How many of them are there? Where are they from and how have they managed to invade my space?
"I hate to correct you, but it is actually you who invaded our space." Another voice, not the first and deeper than the owner of the laugh.
I did not speak that out loud. How can they read my thoughts and who the devil are they?
"Rest assured, we are nothing to do with the Devil." From the continued chuckle that accompanies the comment, I determine that this is the second voice.
"I wonder that you do not know us for we have been here all along and you gave us our names," says the first. "I am Guillaume and these are my friends, Guy and Gervais."