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“This ain’t right, not while the captain’s still in prison,” Porthos growled. “We should be getting ‘im out of there, not standin’ around here.”
“We need to remain with the King.” Athos kept his eyes fixed on the opposite wall, keeping a tight rein on his anger and an even tighter one on his emotions. “Those were Treville’s orders.”
“And what if she prevails?” demanded Aramis in a fierce undertone.
“Pray that she does not!” Athos snapped.
The heavy, double doors of the King’s audience chamber in the hunting lodge of Versailles muffled the sound of voices within. For the past three hours, Athos and his fellow musketeers had denied entrance to everyone: courtier, noble and servant alike. The King was closeted with the Cardinal and would admit no one. At first they had heard footsteps behind the doors, pacing back and forth across the room and, occasionally, the King’s voice raised in anger, but never that of his first minister. Richelieu knew better than to speak harshly to the King, always abstaining from any visible emotion, not screaming or shouting, unlike Marie de Medici, the King’s mother. Her verbal violence to her son in her frequent struggles for power had practically become commonplace.
When the King had swept out of his mother’s residence in the Luxembourg Palace, ordering his retinue to leave immediately for Versailles, the musketeers had ridden with him, despite their captain’s incarceration on the orders of the woman who saw in his implacable devotion to duty the very opposite of her own desires. With Treville removed from the King’s side, both Marie de Medici and her supporters believed that Richelieu’s fall from grace was as inevitable as night follows day. Treville had no wish to see France plunged into the sort of darkness that would inevitably follow the dowager Queen’s ascendancy. Their captain firmly believed that Richelieu, for all his faults, had the good of France and her people at heart, whereas Marie de Medici had no thought for any good beyond her own.
The messages that had followed them from Paris warned that those who had flocked to her cause were already thronging her palace, celebrating what they saw as the cardinal’s impending removal from office. But Richelieu, never a man to accept defeat, no matter how much it might be staring him in the face, had immediately taken horse and followed the King to Versailles, sweeping into the lodge, wreathed in black robes, looking like a carrion crow about to descend on the field of battle.
Athos had barred his way, sword in hand.
Richelieu had simply stared down his aquiline nose and hissed, “If you want to see your beloved captain alive again, I suggest you stand aside, Musketeer.”
Praying that he had made the right decision, Athos had done just that.
Richelieu’s air of hauteur had been cast aside the moment he had entered the King’s presence. To the amazement of all who knew the man, the cardinal had knelt before the King, head bowed, speaking words too low for those outside the doors to hear. Moments later, the King had ordered the room cleared, leaving him alone with the man who Marie de Medici had done her very best to exile from her son’s affections.
After that, it had simply been a matter of waiting, as they were doing now, hands on the hilts of their swords, eyes fixed ahead, alert for any attempt on the life of the man they were sworn to protect.
After what seemed like eternity, Athos heard footsteps approaching the doors from the inside and moments later they were thrown open to reveal Richelieu, thin face pale and drawn, but set with eyes that glittered with triumph.
He held out a folded piece of paper set with the King’s seal on barely-dry red wax.
“His Most Gracious Majesty orders you to ride to the Bastille and secure the release of his loyal servant, your captain,” Richelieu announced in ringing tones that carried the length of the corridor. “This is a warrant for his immediate release.” As Athos took the sealed orders, Richelieu added in an undertone, “Ride swiftly, and take an escort. I will pray you are in time.”
* * * * *
The guards on the outer gates of the Bastille stood with pikes at the ready, but in the face of ten angry musketeers and a sealed warrant from the King, they soon stepped aside.
Once inside, Porthos grabbed a jailer by the neck and shook him like terrier shakes a rat. It secured them the man’s immediate cooperation. Asking nicely might well have achieved the same result, but none of them were in the mood for nice, not after Richelieu’s words had heightened their fears for their captain’s safety.
As the jailer unlocked the door that led down into the lower levels of vast fortress on the eastern approach to the city, the foul stench that rose from its bowels assailed his nostrils and made Athos gag. He tugged his neckscarf up over his mouth and pushed the man in front of him down a flight of stone steps.
“All right, all right,” the man grumbled. “We weren’t to know that ‘e was goin’ to be let out. Our orders came from the King’s mother ‘erself. Told us ‘e was to ‘ave no special privileges.” The man hawked a gobbet of phlegm at the wall and laughed. “Quite the opposite, she said. Let ‘im know what it’s like to be out of favour, she said…”
Athos fisted his hand in the collar of the man’s jacket and slammed him back against the wall. “If you value your life, shut up and take us to him… now!”
Still complaining under his breath, the jailor led them further into the malodorous depths, passing numerous cells, some with their inmates crying and screaming for attention, others ominously silent. At the end of a long, ill-lit corridor that reeked of piss, shit and mould, the man stopped outside a heavy wooden door. He chose a key from one of several enormous bunches dangling from his belt and turned it in the lock.
“’e’s all yours,” the man said, stepping back and promptly scuttling away into the darkness.
Athos grabbed a smoking tallow candle from a niche in the wall and pushed open the door. Inside the cell, the stench was even more overpowering.
By the far wall, stripped to the waist and curled on his side on a pile of filthy straw, lay Treville, his back to the damp stones. One eye was swollen almost shut, his upper lip was split in two places and a livid bruise had formed on one cheekbone.
A long string of curses fell from Athos’ lips as he went down on his knees and laid a gentle hand on Treville’s shoulder. “Captain, it’s over, we’ve come to get you out of here.”
Treville blinked up at him, blue eyes clouded with pain. “The King…?” His voice was hoarse, rasping in a dry throat ringed with more dark bruises.
“Is safe and has ordered your release.” Athos gathered Treville into his arms and held the man close to him, doing his best to avoid the whip marks on his back and other welts and weals from a score of beatings. Treville’s enemies had not been gentle. “Can you stand?”
Treville leaned his head against Athos’ shoulder for an all too brief moment, then nodded. “I walked in here and I’ll damned well walk out.” But for all his brave words, Treville could not stand unaided. Once on his feet he was wracked by a spasm of coughing and spat blood on the rank straw, his face contorted with pain.
Aramis was at his side in a heartbeat, gently wiping Treville’s battered mouth with a clean linen square. “Captain?”
“Lost a tooth,” Treville mumbled.
“What else?” Aramis helped Athos support Treville’s weight as he ran a professional eye over the injured man.
“Enough,” Treville said with a grimace. “Just get me out of here. The rest can wait.”
Looking as unconvinced as the rest of them, Porthos promptly stripped off his leather jerkin, hauled his shirt over his head and held it out to his captain. With some difficulty, Treville was able to lift his arms and let them pull the shirt onto him. It draped loosely over his spare frame, and Athos wondered if the guards had bothered to bring food during his imprisonment. Often, with no one to bribe the jailers to show them favour, prisoners would simply not be fed. All Athos’ attempts to see Treville in prison had been foiled, and they’d had no choice but to leave their captain at the mercy of those glad to see him brought low.
With Athos on one side and Aramis on the other, they helped Treville out of the filthy cell and along the dark corridor, ignoring the jeers and shouts from the other prisoners. The jailers wisely stayed out of their way. Progress was painfully slow, with Treville hobbling on stockinged feet, boots long gone, rather than walking and having to stop every few yards simply to catch his laboured breath. Each step appeared agony, and Athos wondered what damage the scuffed leather breeches concealed.
Once outside the gates of the Bastille, Athos was relieved to see that their companions had commandeered a carriage and were steadfastly ignoring the haranguing being flung in their faces by its enraged owner and his equally outraged wife, while around them a crowd had started to gather, no doubt in the hope of seeing some bloodshed. But the man and his servants, whilst furious, lacked the will to more directly challenge ten heavily-armed and hard-eyed musketeers who would have been entirely happy to take out their own anger on anyone who dared stand in their way.
After settling Treville as comfortably as possible in the carriage, Athos reluctantly left his captain to Aramis’ ministrations and swung himself onto his horse’s back, not bothering to check the animal when it lashed out with hard heels at anyone who came too close.
With its musketeer escort, the carriage made relatively swift work of the journey back to the garrison. Porthos had insisted on a route that stayed well clear of the Luxembourg Palace, not wanting to risk as brush with Marie de Medici’s supporters, so they had avoided any problems other than the usual press of people in the city’s narrow, crowded streets.
Once back in the garrison, Athos jumped to the ground as the stableboy ran to take their horses, and yanked open the carriage door. Inside, Treville was cradled in Aramis’ arms, propped up on cushions with a rug drawn up around his shoulders. Beneath a layer of dirt and crusted blood, his face was as pale as death and he was shivering violently. Athos had been certain from the pained grunts as they’d helped their captain out of the Bastille that he had suffered broken ribs, at the very least, and his left hand and wrist were badly swollen.
Between them, they carried him up the steps and into his private quarters, with Porthos yelling for a tub of hot water and Aramis calling for someone to fetch the doctor who usually attended to their more serious injuries. In the relative sanctuary of Treville’s bedchamber, they eased their injured captain into a chair and Athos quickly poured a goblet of cognac and held it to his captain’s battered mouth. Treville took a mouthful and swallowed quickly, precipitating another coughing fit.
Aramis grabbed a wooden bowl and held it to Treville’s mouth. “Swill it around your mouth and then spit. It will help numb the pain.”
Treville did as he’d been bidden so far as the swilling bit went, but then he swallowed instead of spitting. “Too good to waste,” he said hoarsely, meeting Athos’ eyes with the ghost of a smile hovering on his badly-marked face.
Athos touched the backs of his fingers lightly to Treville’s bruised cheek. The rough beard rasped against his skin. To Porthos he said, “Get Serge to mix some brandy with hot water, lemon and honey. We need to get him warm and dull the pain.”
While they waited for the doctor to arrive, Aramis conducted a limited examination of the visible injuries while Athos laid a fire in the hearth. Aramis pronounced Treville’s wrist and hand badly bruised and swollen but probably not broken, then, kneeling at Treville’s side, he did his best to gently draw off his stockings, the captain’s boots no doubt having been stolen almost as soon as he’d arrived in the Bastille.
A sharp intake of breath told Athos that his friend has discovered something very much not to his liking. Aramis cradled one foot gently on his lap and stared in horror at the mass of purple and black bruising on the swollen flesh.
“No wonder he could barely walk, the bastards have tortured him!” He stared up at Treville in horror. “How could you have walked on this?”
“With difficulty,” Treville admitted. He allowed Athos to hold the brandy to his lips again and took another mouthful, this time without coughing, although he was still shaking uncontrollably, and Athos had to steady his head to allow him to drink.
Athos could feel hot anger rising in him and it was all he could do to clamp down on the urge to ride to the Luxembourg Palace and find those who had ordered this abomination and make them pay for their wanton cruelty. Even Marie de Medici herself would not be safe if she crossed his path. Athos knew something of the pain his captain had suffered. He had once fallen into the hands of the Spanish, who, believing him to have been a spy, had ordered him beaten on the soles of his feet with a cane to loosen his tongue. Athos could still vividly remember the searing pain that had lanced through his body with every stroke, far worse than the lash of any whip across his back had ever been.
Aramis, reading his mood, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Revenge is a dish best eaten cold, my friend. Leave her to the Cardinal.”
“Richelieu?” Treville queried, letting his head fall back against the back of the chair in exhaustion. “How does he fare?”
“Back in the ascendency, it would seem,” Athos supplied. “It was him who obtained the warrant for your release.”
Treville’s eyes fell closed and for a moment, terror tried to claw its way out of Athos’ stomach, until he saw Aramis feel for the pulse at the side of their captain’s neck and nod reassuringly.
Moments later, Porthos arrived at a run, a large goblet of hot spirits in one hand and Doctor Lemay at his heels. Behind the two men, they could hear a bathtub being hauled up the steps as Treville normally used the wash house alongside his men, claiming no special privileges of rank in that regard. While musketeers and the garrison servants bustled in and out, casting fearful looks at Treville’s drawn face, Lemay went to work, carefully removing the man’s shirt and examining his patient with both care and consideration. The young doctor’s handsome face was set in a studiously professional mask, letting nothing of the horror he must have been feeling come to the surface while he had a paitent to care for.
After an initial examination, Lemay tipped a draught of laudanum into the steaming mug of brandy and instructed Athos to help Treville drink. Once the tub of hot water was installed in front of the fire, Lemay stood back with an approving nod.
“Captain, we need to get you warm and clean these wounds before anything festers. A bath is the fastest way of doing this. Would you prefer your men to leave while I assist you?”
Porthos opened his mouth to object, but with a warning glance, Aramis laid a hand on the big man’s arm. With a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Athos knew what the doctor expected to find when they removed the rest of the captain’s clothes. He grabbed the neck of the brandy bottle and downed a hefty slug.
Treville shook his head. “All soldiers here…” he murmured.
And so, while Porthos and Aramis held Treville upright, Athos helped the doctor draw off the remaining stocking and slip the leather breeches down legs that shook like those of a new-born foal. As he had expected, the rear of Treville’s undergarments were stained dark with filth and blood. With a face as still as a marble effigy, Lemay peeled them down to leave Treville standing naked before them.
Athos was a veteran of numerous campaigns, including the sige of la Rochelle, and knew at first hand the kind of inhumanity that could be visited on those vanquished in battle. No soldier with honour would treat anyone thus, but there was often little honour left in the aftermath of war and, seemingly, none at all in the confines of the Bastille. But despite that knowledge, he still felt himself tremble with rage when he saw the blood streaking the back of Treville’s thighs. It was Porthos, this time, who placed a steadying hand on his shoulder and for that Athos was grateful. This was not about his pain or rage, this was about the harm done to a man Athos respected and loved from the bottom of his heart as his captain and… sometimes, as more than that.
There were other things soldiers were occasionally known for and, in the darkness of a tent the night after a major engagement, no one enquired too closesly how fighting men took their pleasure and buried the sort of memories no one should have to carry. It had started like that for him and Treville, the night after a particularly viscious sortie that had seen half their company cut to ribbons in front of them, and had continued on other occasions since. Athos had been circumspect in the liaison, they both had, but Porthos and Aramis knew him better at times than he knew himself, and he had few secrets from them.
“How many?” Athos said quietly, surprising himself with a voice that did not shake.
“Four, maybe five,” Treville admitted. “They used a dagger hilt to ease the way.” The captain paused, then added, “At least I hope it was the hilt.”
“If it was not, you would already be dead,” Lemay commented.
“And people complain about my bedside manner,” Aramis said, in a much-needed but ultimately unsuccessful attempt at lightening the mood.
“Bring me more of that brandy and there will be no complaints,” Treville said, his voice slightly stronger now as the fire and the hot spirit started to relax muscles long cramped with cold and pain.
“I will need to examine you, Captain,” Lemay said. “But first, step into the tub. Aramis and Porthos will take your weight while Athos assists me. Is that acceptable?”
“I’m no blushing virgin, Doctor,” Treville said with something that came suspiciously close to a laugh. “Nor was I even before this. Do what needs to be done.”
And so they did. Lemay worked as swiftly and gently as he could, wiping away the mess from the back of Treville’s thighs and from between his buttocks while Athos did his best to ignore the bruises left by cruel hands and the bloody furrows carved by ragged nails. Apart from the occasional hiss of indrawn breath, Treville remained silent. Once his abused flesh was as clean as they could contrive, Lemay ordered Aramis and Porthos to lower their captain gently into the tub so they could wash the rest of the muck from his body.
Afterwards, Athos dried him with clean cloths and Lemay applied salves to the worst of the cuts, bound Treville’s ribs and bandaged his left wrist, splinting two of the fingers together in case they had been broken. When all that had been done, they dressed him in a clean nightshirt and helped him into a bed warmed by hot bricks swaddled in cloth. The heat of the water and the hot spirits had finally brought an end to the shivering and some colour had started to return to Treville’s face.
Lemay stood back with a small smile and a professional nod of his head. “Provided none of the wounds fester, he will heal. He must remain in bed, at least until the swelling in his feet has subsided. This will all take time.”
Athos pulled a chair over to the bedside. “I’ll make sure he goes nowhere.”
“He needs you to stay sober,” Lemay said, shooting a glance at the brandy bottle on the mantelshelf.
“I am aware of that,” Athos said, taking no offence. It had been a reasonable observation, but he would be sure to remain well on the right side of insensible, no matter how much he wanted to erase the sights of the last hour.
Treville held out out his uninjured hand to Lemay. “Thank you, François. I am, yet again, indebted to you.”
The young doctor smiled. “Regrettably, I’ve seen worse, and you have the strength of a bear and the stubbornness of an ox, so I am confident of your survival. I will return tomorrow, but if anything changes, I will come at once.” He squeezed Treville’s hand gently then took his leave of the others.
Athos remained at Treville’s side.
He had no intention of leaving his captain to face the coming of night alone. There would be darkness, he had no doubt about that, but they would await it together.
And if it lay within his power to help Treville back into the light, then he would do so.