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In this chapter, Aramis is left watching Athos whilst Porthos is on duty at the palace. As always, when Athos is recovering, he does not make life easy!
CHAPTER 70
ARAMIS
I open the door to the infirmary, two bowls of food balanced precariously on a book as I shoulder my way into the room and stop dead.
"What on earth do you think you are doing?" I demand angrily as I hastily put what I am carrying on the table and surge forward. "Ten minutes! That's all it was. I was gone ten minutes and you were safely sitting up in bed."
And now he is not!
Athos is standing very unsteadily beside his bed, one hand on a chair back in an effort to keep himself upright. Clad only in fresh braies, he is trying to make his way to another chair at the table on which lies his leathers, boot stockings, breeches and a linen shirt: all waiting for him where he can see them, an incentive for him to recover and wear them once more. His boots, their soft leather newly polished, stand below the same chair. I see I made a grave error in placing them there. I had wanted them to motivate him, to be the carrot to entice the mule, so to speak. Not that I am calling Athos a mule. Far from it.
Correction! There are times when he can be very mule-headed, obstinate to the most annoying degree, and I am clearly facing one of those moments right now.
Porthos and I had had his clothes cleaned once his fever broke and we told ourselves that he would be well again. It was probably our imagination, but we believed we could smell the taint of Bircann's dungeons, the stench of the pit that had been his prison, even though we knew he had been divested of most of his clothing before being forced to descend into it.
The soft, voluminous shirt is a gift from both of us, pooling our resources in a spontaneous gesture of relief that he has been restored to us, even though he has others. The shirt he had worn down that hole was beyond saving being filthy with engrained sweat and dirt, ragged, blood-stained and stinking.
Porthos saw it as his responsibility to clean and tend the retrieved weapons and I would not dare argue with him when I saw the expression on his face. In truth, we have become overly protective of Athos in our own way, and we recognise it, plus the need for us to take a step back before too long for he will not thank us nor tolerate our overt care.
Has that time arrived now as I watch him standing there, breathing hard, defiance on his face? I should be rejoicing at this clear sign that he wants to do more and yet I feel conflict, that this is too soon for him, that he is not ready and he needs longer to recover. My anger stems more from the shock at his growing independence and my desire to keep him safe rather than being directed at him.
"You should not be out of bed," but my protest sounds feeble and from his expression he will have none of it. I sigh. "What are you trying to do?"
He glowers at me as, still hanging onto the chair back with his left hand, he slaps his chest noisily and abruptly with the right and points vehemently towards the door through which I have just entered.
"You want to go outside?"
He nods enthusiastically, and his expression softens so that he now looks as though he is pleading with me. I know immediately that I will be the loser in this battle, but I am determined not to face a totally humiliating defeat.
I straighten my back and fold my arms across my chest, indicating that I will not concede easily. "I will help you then, but only on my terms. Is that understood?"
There is a moment's hesitation when he eyes me warily, wondering what my demands will be, but then he nods.
"I will assist you to dress. You will let me support you rather than attempting to get to the door on your own and I do not care that some of the men may see. They are fully aware of much of what has happened to you and how weak and ill you have been as a result so they will appreciate that you are not fully independent yet." I stress the word so that both he and I acknowledge our belief that he will fully recover. "We go as far as the bench outside the door and no further today and when I feel you have had enough, I bring you back in – unless you want to come back inside first, which is fine. Do we have an agreement?"
There is no hesitation this time and we set to work to achieve our goal.
It takes us a good twenty minutes to get him dressed in shirt, breeches and boots and to cross the infirmary floor in a series of shuffling and lurching steps. I hold his left arm round my neck and have him firmly around the waist, our route not as direct as it might have been as he grabs at furniture in the way for additional support. This is not the first time in our friendship that I have helped him thus when he has been injured, but he does not have that earlier weight and I can still feel his bones through the warmth of the soft linen shirt. We have a routine whereby he eats a little and often of what we call 'normal' food now; too much and he is still uncomfortable or, at worst, sick and I cannot ignore the incredible muscle wastage in his arms and legs. It will be a long journey before he is fully fit.
Outside, I lower him onto the bench. The few men sparring in the yard stop what they are doing and break into a simultaneous mix of cheering and applauding. When a couple make a move to approach, I shake my head and they stop. He will not admit it, but it has taken every ounce of his strength to get this far and I am secretly hoping that Porthos will have arrived from the palace to help me get Athos back to bed. Also, I do not want the men inundating him with questions that he cannot answer so that they realise he no longer speaks. We have managed to conceal this fact from most people so far; a little longer will be good.
He raises a hand to the men in greeting, gives one of his half smiles and settles on the bench, head back and tilted to the sun.
It took Porthos and me a long while to read and interpret the many nuanced expressions of Athos but the one I see now fills me with a sudden and crushingly raw emotion. He is rarely overtly demonstrative but now his face is one of sheer, unadulterated joy … and I want to weep.
That joy is at being alive, of being in the open air and feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin, of having taken another step – quite literally - towards reclaiming his life.
Suddenly, his head turns to me and one eye opens as he regards me quizzically. He has sensed my scrutiny, his instincts also making a tenuous return.
I clear my throat. "I am sorry. I know I am being stupid but seeing you sit here, so contented …' My voice trails off as I suspect that my sentiments will betray me.
I cannot meet his intense gaze and bow my head, so he reaches for my hand closest to his and clasps it, giving it a little squeeze which is nearly my undoing, but I am saved by Serge. God bless that man and his sense of timing!
"I saw you make your way out an' thought you could do with some refreshment after all that exertion," the old man announces, setting a tray down on the bench beside me. "Some watered ale, good enough for a celebration," and he lays a hand on Athos shoulder. "You don't know what it means to me to see you up an' about at last, boy." He sniffs loudly, turns on his heel and strides away, swiping at his eyes and muttering something about wind and dust.
I pick up a cup of ale and hand it to Athos who stares at me, one eyebrow raised.
Dare I explain to him the depth of loss that was felt by the garrison when he was missing? "I know you have been through hell," I begin, "and nothing we experienced can equate with that but when you were missing and our comrades were out with us searching day after day, morale was low; we all felt your absence very deeply, none more so than Porthos and me." Then I swiftly added, "And the Captain of course, and old Serge and Claude. We are all delighted that you have been restored to us," and I held out my cup. "A toast. To you and your continued recovery; from here on, may it be swift and complete."
Our cups gently collide. Along with the drinks, Serge has provided thick, buttered slabs of fresh bread, still warm to the touch and topped by slices of hard cheese and I pass one to him, still amazed when he looks at it in obvious delight and takes a large bite. Will this 'new' Athos stay with us or will he eventually slide back into old habits, especially where food and wine are concerned?
There is a sudden burst of activity as men stream into the yard and head for the stables. Two of the stable lads are already leading out saddled horses, handing over the reins to the animals' owners. It is the change of duty at the palace so the Captain and Porthos should return soon and I relish seeing the look on their faces when they see Athos sitting in the yard.
He is distracted by the busyness and responds to the calls and waves of our colleagues as they mount up and file out in twos through the garrison archway into the Paris street beyond. I spy Pierre, one of the stable lads, looking in our direction and then he disappears inside his domain.
At once, the yard is quiet again; those who were sparring have gone to clean up and visit Serge for their own food. Athos has grown thoughtful.
"You will be joining them before too long," I say, guessing at what is going through his mind. He looks pained though and I can tell that he is not convinced. We didn't bring paper and pen out with us for him to communicate so he pats at his lips, throws his hands palms upwards as he shrugs and then shakes his head. If he is doubting his future with us, then it could be detrimental to his overall recovery.
I do not know what to say to encourage him and the sound of closer horse's hooves serve as a welcome interruption. Pierre emerges with a big grin on his face as he leads Athos' huge black stallion towards us. If I thought my friend looked joyous before, it is nothing compared to now. He struggles to his feet as the animal whinnies in greeting at seeing his master for the first time in far too many weeks. I do a quick calculation in my head. Is it six or seven weeks since the beast returned of its own volition, thus raising the alarm that something untoward had happened to Athos?
He wraps his arms around the animal's neck, it's head seemingly huge against his shoulder as he buries his face in the thick mane. He is trembling and I realise immediately that he is completely overwhelmed.
Pierre looks at me, his eyes wide in alarm. "I didn't mean no wrong. I thought he'd want to see his horse, how I've been takin' care of him while the master's been away. I've made sure he's been exercised an' everythin'. I brought an apple so's he can feed it." He holds out the fruit to me.
"You have done nothing wrong, Pierre," I reassure him, relieving him of the apple. "Athos is so pleased to see his horse. He will thank you for the time and care you have so obviously been taking. I will pass him the apple when he is ready, and I will return the horse to his stall. Many thanks for your thoughtfulness. You have done well."
Mollified, Pierre dips his head in a gesture so redolent of Athos in past days and retreats to the stables. Meanwhile, I move to stand behind my brother and place a hand on his shoulder, waiting for this current wave of emotion to subside. Such a display might be another thing that is out of character, but I see it as yet one more example of his vulnerable state and once again, I wonder at how much more this poor man can endure.
At length, he recovers himself and pulls away from his horse, the heels of his hands rubbing at his eyes. I continue to wait until he feels that he can face me when I merely grin and hold out the apple. He smiles weakly, takes it from me and offers it to his mount who has never been known to turn down anything edible.
Eventually the standing becomes too onerous, and Athos sinks onto the bench, his relief evident.
"I'll take him back for you," I offer and when he looks disappointed, I hasten to add. "It's enough for you right now. You can see him again tomorrow."
I only have to get the horse through the stable door and Pierre is waiting for me, despite what I had said to him but in that short time, when I return, Athos' eyes have closed.
"Perhaps it is time for you to go back into the infirmary," I suggest softly, but his eyes snap open and he shakes his head. "Then I will get my hat; it would not do for you to burn in the sun."
I know that I had stipulated my terms for him being out here, but it is a long time since I have seen him look so relaxed and content and I willingly cling to anything that might make him happy, no matter how small. This extended taste of fresh air will, I hope, help him sleep naturally and without the nightmares that have begun to plague him.
Having retrieved my hat from the infirmary, I hand it to Athos who promptly pulls a face that makes me laugh, but he dons it nonetheless and tips his head back so that he can peer at me from beneath its wide brim. There are some advantages to him not having a voice; he is unable to make a caustic comment, but I would never tell him that.
"That's better," I insist. "It's more than my life's worth to have you resembling a strawberry when Porthos arrives."
And so we sit a while longer in the sunshine: me breaking the silence with occasional comments, Serge bringing us more ale, men passing and calling out their good wishes, Athos dozing a little and all the time I watch and wait for Porthos' return.
As soon as I see him riding through the archway beside the Captain, I nudge Athos awake. There is none of the sluggish regaining of awareness this time; instead, he is instantly alert and straightens up at the sight of the newcomers.
"Well, look what we have here," Porthos yells delightedly as he slides from his saddle and rushes towards us. "I never expected such a welcome." He is about to slap Athos on the back in greeting but stops himself just in time, for which I am thankful. All too frequently, he doesn't know his own strength and he has made both Athos and me stagger. If he were to do that to Athos now, he would knock him straight off the bench and we would probably have a freshly broken bone with which to contend.
The Captain is also approaching us and there is no hiding his pleasure at seeing Athos up and about.
"So," I begin, "was it an easy, straightforward duty?"
Porthos and Tréville glance towards each other and my heart sinks. What can have happened now?
"Not too bad," Porthos answers, "but not what I'd call straightforward."
"I have news for you," the Captain continues, his words directed at Athos whilst I am finding it hard to determine from his expression whether the news is good or bad. "Do you want me to tell you out here or would you prefer to wait until we have you settled back in the infirmary?"