Two weeks on and problems don't seem to be resolved. I hope you manage to 'catch' the later chapters as they make a sporadic appearance. :) Thank you for persevering though.

This chapter is a quiet interlude when Serge is left minding Athos, who succeeds in making more important progress on the road to his recovery.

CHAPTER 65

SERGE

I'm sittin' at the central table in the infirmary preparin' vegetables for tomorrow's main meal; tonight's is already cookin'. I've brought plenty to do an' Pierre, the kitchen boy, runs back an' forth between here and the kitchen to collect what I've done an' bring me some more. He's probably thankful that I'm not makin' him do the job for once, but then I have given him the added responsibility for tonight's meal an' I repeat instructions as well as issuin' new ones. He has to keep checkin' the seasonin' an' I warn him about the danger of addin' too much salt. The balance of herbs is all important too an' I carefully chopped all that he should be usin' an' left them ready for him; no more an' no less. The pots need stirrin' an the fire mustn't be too high so that there's a risk of the food catchin' at the bottom of the pots. Nobody wants the taste of burnt ingredients in their dinner.

The Captain came to me last night an' asked if I'd mind Athos as he wanted Porthos an' Aramis with him. He took Claude too so that only left me who knows about the boy's silence at the moment as the Captain wouldn't want any others in the regiment to see the lad like this. I understand why they don't want that information spread abroad; Athos is recoverin' still an' needs to find his voice before anyone accuses him of bein' incapable of stayin' a Musketeer. His brothers don't want harmful and irrelevant gossip goin' on. He needs to be left alone to get better with the least amount of fuss; the last thing he wants is for those of the regiment to be talkin' about him and speculatin' on what his future might hold. Of course, his voice will come back all in good time. I firmly believe it; I can feel it in my bones. We just have to be patient, that's all, an' the lad himself most of all.

When I have been in here to see him in recent days, he's either sound asleep or already awake. Porthos has warned me about the nightmares an' how they start so's what to do to calm 'im. I've seen too many good men cowed by bad dreams that have worn 'em down over time so that they no longer know what's real and what isn't. The boy's been through enough an' he can't deal with no more wearin' down.

Porthos an' Aramis have also given me lots of instructions about what to do an' say as Athos wakes as there are times when he can still open his eyes an' be confused about things. I hope I remember 'em all.

I am just in the process of finishing cuttin' the last of the carrots when I catch a movement out the corner of my eye. It's not been a straightforward job as not all the shutters are open, even though it's the middle of the afternoon, so I'm cuttin' the vegetables by candlelight because the Captain explained about Athos not likin' a lot of bright light, which I can understand given where he's been for so many weeks.

"Easy, boy," I say, as I get up from the table an' move to sit on the side of the bed, which is what Aramis does, so Porthos was tellin' me. I try to sound all gentle an' carin' but it's a long time since this grizzled old soldier's had to worry about such things. I've just got to hope that I sound gentle an' carin' enough!

His eyes are flutterin' open but he's strugglin' to come fully awake an' his head's twistin' from side to side.

I lay a callused an' wrinkled hand on his chest. Somethin' else Aramis does, apparently. "Come on, boy. Wake up. You're in the infirmary in the garrison in Paris an' you're safe."

I have to repeat it two or three times but eventually Athos is lyin' there, lookin' up at me with such a strange expression on his face that I go cold, thinkin' he doesn't recognise me. I haven't been prepared for this if it's the case.

"Now, boy, you must know who I am. Serge, the garrison cook. Remember me? Serge from the kitchen?" An' I grin, hopin' that I don't frighten 'im. It is a toothy grin, I'll admit, except where the odd tooth is missin'.

He gives a sharp nod and my grin widens. "I knew you'd know ol' Serge," an' I slap my knee in delight; I'm not sure what I'd have done if he hadn't known me an' got upset by the fact that it's me here an' not his brothers.

"Let's get you sittin' up," I say and move to help 'im. Trouble is, I haven't anywhere near the strength of Porthos an' I get the feelin' I'm makin' a bad job of gettin' Athos anywhere near sittin' up. He's tryin' to help but we settle on a strange position where he's half lying at a peculiar angle on the two additional pillows that I've somehow managed to wedge behind him. There are three more on the vacant bed next to us but I've no idea where or how to put them. He doesn't look very comfortable but at least he won't choke when he has 'is food.

"I like the haircut," I say, not wantin' to dwell on our failed attempt to get him sittin' up properly. "Suits you. Makes you look younger. Porthos 'as done a good job." It's all true … in the main, but I'm hardly likely to tell him he looks like he's just come out of 'is grave with his skin whiter than the pillows he's lying against an' the dark smudges round the eyes.

"I've got a treat for you, boy. You would've had some yesterday, but I didn't get it quite right. This one's better," I say, an' go to the hearth to pick up the bowl that's bein' kept warm there. Except it's more than warm an' I burn my fingers an' curse loudly. I'm blowin' on 'em when I glance round an' see Athos watchin' me carefully. I'm not imaginin' the glint of amusement in his eyes an' the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. He doesn't laugh aloud normally, but you might hear a slight chuckle or a smothered snort. This silence, though, is unnervin' an' I make the decision that I have to fill it, no matter what. I use a cloth to pick up the bowl and go back to the bed.

"We've got to get some meat back on those bones of yours," I say determinedly, "an' we're not goin' to do it if all you'll eat is my broth, good as it is. Aramis tells me you weren't ready for my thick soup an' it made you sick. Sorry 'bout that."

A hand moves slowly across the blanket to nudge just above my knee an' his expression has changed. He looks worried but then his fingers open and he gives me a couple of pats, a touch so light that if it weren't for the fact I'm keepin' an eye on his movements, I'd have missed them.

I cock my head to one side an' study him.

"You tellin' me it's not my fault?"

Relief washes over him an' he nods.

"Anyway, me an' Aramis have been chattin' about what we can do to tempt you an' I was given a recipe for this," an' I hold out the bowl for his inspection. He looks at it an' then at me an' there's no hidin' his trepidation or suspicion.

"Now I can understand why you're looking at it like that," I say lightly. "I wouldn't have recognised it either if I hadn't stood there an' made it, an' it's probably nothin' like you've smelt before either, but I can assure you it tastes fine. Tried it myself, I did. You surely don't think I'd give this to you without tryin' it first?"

He studies it again, sniffs tentatively at it and looks back at me with a raised eyebrow.

"It's good. It's called a 'white dish' and made with milk so that'll help you. It's got some shredded chicken in it an' a little bit of cinnamon, some sugar an' rice flour. Should've had a couple of other things as well, but they weren't in my store or were too expensive to buy, like the saffron."

He shakes his head firmly at this and I take that as a sign that he's pleased that I haven't spent any money from the kitchen's allotted money to purchase it for him. There's not much call for me to use it in the more basic dishes I serve.

"If you like it with the chicken, I could try it with a white fish another time. It's reputed to be just as good and tasty an' it's all things to help build you up."

As I'm speakin', I'm puttin' some on a spoon an' movin' it to his mouth.

"It's hot, mind. You blow on it," I urge an' he does. He's still wary when he opens his mouth but at that first spoonful, his eyes widen in surprise an' he slowly savours the flavour.

"Good?" I question an' he nods eagerly, openin' his mouth for more.

A few minutes pass an' we're halfway through the bowlful when his right hand slowly reaches for the loaded spoon. The bowl's cool enough now that I don't need the cloth anymore to save my fingers, so I spread it out over the blanket an' hand the spoon to him. At first, I think he's goin' to drop it an' I'm watchin' the food waver dangerously for the bowl of the spoon is tilted as he aims for his mouth.

The look of pure joy on his face when he manages to feed himself one mouthful is instantaneous an' I clear my throat.

"Damn bit of dust," I say by way of an excuse as I swipe at my eye. He doesn't let on that he knows I'm lyin', such is his excitement at his achievement.

"You think you're good now," I challenge him, "but the real test is loadin' that spoon again."

I hold the bowl closer an' it's a matter of trial an' error as he stabs at the food, controlling the spoon an action that is seemingly beyond him in his weakness. His brow is furrowed in deep concentration as he attacks the contents. There's either too much on the spoon an' it falls off again or he just scrapes the spoon along the bottom of the bowl an' fails to secure any.

He's not goin' to give up though. It might have been an easier process if I'd got him sittin' up right, but I'm not worryin' about it now as I see his grim determination changin' to satisfaction when he succeeds. One done, the next seems simple and the one after that, but it isn't long before he gives up, droppin' the spoon into the bowl, spent from the effort.

He's eaten nearly all the contents an' most of that by himself, so I must remember to tell the others. I've already spotted the larger bowl tucked under the bed and hope it won't be needed. There shouldn't be anythin' in this dish to upset his stomach. Right now, though, his eyes are growin' heavy an' he's ready for sleep.

"A little water first," I insist, rememberin' another instruction. I'm holdin' the cup as he sips at it, not even tryin' to take it from me.

After that, I pull out those extra pillows an' throw them on the next bed before I help him settle down, but his eyes are fixed upon the door an' I know he's lookin' for his brothers.

"They're with the Captain and a lot more of the men on a mission in the city. They're expected back later tonight so by the time you've had another sleep, they may well be here or shortly thereafter." I busy myself tuckin' in the sheet an' blanket round him, but his eyes never leave my face an' when I glance at him', he's frownin' hard.

"You want more details, but I don't know any to give you, I swear it," I add hastily as I see he is far from convinced. "They're not goin' to tell me when I'm not involved." I don't go on to say that they'd never tell me more so I can't worry Athos by accidentally lettin' slip any facts about what they're all up to. What they've not taken into consideration is that he'll worry anyway, because he doesn't know what's happenin'.

"All I know is that they haven't left the city," I repeat.

That's the truth an' I know better than to add how many Musketeers went out of here on foot earlier this afternoon, the Captain included. That's without all the ones that went with Claude yesterday to collect the King's mother. They should also be back later today.

The place is far too quiet for my likin'. All Athos needs to believe is that I was sittin' in here with him when they left an' not standin' at the door watchin' them go. Whatever it is must be big, important an' not too far away if it's involvin' so many men. They didn't all leave at once though. That was what was strange. The Captain, flanked by Porthos and Aramis, sent them out in groups of four or five at regular intervals until the three of them were the only ones left.

Tréville saw me watchin' an' acknowledged me with a dip of his head. Then he an' the other two were gone as well.

Author's note:

The 'white dish' was an early 'blancmange' and has an interesting history. Dating from the middle ages, it gets a mention in Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales and is mentioned in a recipe book compiled by the chefs of Richard II. Rice flour would have been available for Serge. It was originally made with chicken or other fowl or white fish, milk, saffron, rice flour, cinnamon and rose water. Didn't think Serge would have a bottle of that lying around! It was considered a good source of sustenance for the sick – ideal for Athos. In the later 17th century, the meat was omitted and cream and eggs added, becoming more of a dessert. It was in the 19th century that it really emerged as the blancmange we know today.