| |
"RIDE FOR YOUR LIFE, d’Artagnan!" Athos said, and spurred Aramis’ mare to a gallop, d’Artagnan following close behind. A shot rang out behind them as they scrambled around a tight turn onto the main road, heading south. A second shot followed, but fortunately for the pair of them, it was too dark for accuracy. Both men urged the horses into a flat gallop, knowing their only chance was to outdistance their pursuers.
Without benefit of saddle or bit, d’Artagnan gripped the mare’s slick hide with his knees and gave the horse her head, feeling her powerful, compact muscles bunch and explode beneath him with every stride. A fall at this speed meant almost certain death—either from the impact or at the hands of their pursuers—and was all too likely, riding bareback as they were. D’Artagnan’s fear was all for Athos, though. His friend had undergone hours of torture and could barely remain upright under his own power.
He risked a glance to the side through watering eyes and received the impression of a figure bent nearly double; hands tangled in the Spanish mare’s extravagant mane, clinging stubbornly to the animal’s broad back. Both horses’ breath came in deep, rhythmic snorts as they settled in for a sustained run.
Their saving grace was that these horses had rested in the barn during their captivity, while their pursuers’ animals had been out on patrol during that time. Additionally, though the lack of tack made their headlong flight ridiculously dangerous, it also meant that their captors’ mounts were carrying upwards of fifty extra pounds apiece in saddlery and supplies. D’Artagnan refused to think about how they would manage after their escape with little more than the clothes on their backs—and barely any of those, in Athos’ case. Instead, he focused on the way that the hoof beats behind them were fading almost imperceptibly as they gained ground.
The moon had set, and Rosita’s light gray hide was a faint blur beside him under the starlight. D’Artagnan split his attention between his injured companion, the pursuers now far behind them, and the labored breathing of his own sweat-lathered mount. He squinted. The dark shapes off the road on Athos’ other side were almost certainly trees, he decided.
"Athos!" he hissed, receiving no response.
Sitting back, he allowed his exhausted horse to slow, which she did gladly. He was relieved to find that Rosita kept pace with him in the apparent absence of any direction from her passenger. As quickly and carefully as he could, he eased close to the other horse and grabbed her rope. Closer inspection showed Athos still bent over her neck, hands tangled tightly in the horse’s mane.
"I’m taking us into the woods to hide," d’Artagnan whispered, unsure if the other man was even aware enough to understand.
He directed the horses off the road and down a gentle incline, letting them pick their own way in the dark. Not until the large boles closed around them, hiding them from view, did he release a tense breath. The little mare he was riding continued to press forward eagerly, and he concentrated on avoiding low branches and other obstacles, letting her take them deeper into the forest, always traveling downhill.
The horse’s goal became obvious when the rushing of water caught d’Artagnan’s notice over the background rustle of leaves. He was suddenly aware of his own powerful hunger and thirst, it having been many difficult and exhausting hours since they had eaten or drunk. The trees opened up into a clearing, allowing just enough starlight in to see by. The horses hurried forward to the pebbled shore of the small river and plunged their muzzles into the cool water, drinking deeply.
D’Artagnan slid to the ground gratefully, feeling shaky and weak. After the horses had a few swallows, he tugged their heads up and led them away from the water, lest they drink too much while hot and blowing, and bring on a bout of colic. Rosita came reluctantly, but calmly, while his own mare pinned her ears back and snapped at him to express her displeasure.
"You can have more in a few minutes, you infuriating beast," he said, tying both horses to a sturdy branch so he could turn his attention to his companion, still draped over Rosita’s back and showing no sign of awareness. "Athos. We’re safe now, I think. Let me help you down. There’s water here; you should drink something."
He reached up, intending to untangle Athos’ hands from the horse’s mane, but the only response was a groan and a determined tightening of the other man’s grip. D’Artagnan stilled his hands, at a loss as to how to proceed.
"I need your help, Athos," he tried. "You can get off the horse now, but you have to let go of her mane."
Athos’ eyes fluttered, struggling to focus on him. "... d’Artagnan?" he asked after a pause.
"Yes, it’s me," d’Artagnan replied, caught between worry at Athos’ befuddlement and relief that he was responding at all. "Let go of the horse’s mane. I have you."
Athos looked at his tangled hands in confusion, but did not resist this time as d’Artagnan eased them free of the long hair. He gingerly swung a leg over, allowing d’Artagnan to help him slide down. The younger man bit back a curse as the numbness and heaviness that had characterized his abused arms gave way to sharp pain followed by a deep ache of wrenched muscles.
Unfortunately, Athos’ legs were unable to support him when his feet met the ground; nor was d’Artagnan’s remaining strength sufficient to keep them both upright. The pair stumbled to the ground in a heap, Rosita stepping sideways to keep her hooves clear of them and directing a concerned snort at their untidy tangle of limbs. After a moment, d’Artagnan was able to shift Athos over to rest against the base of the tree. The older man was a pale blur in the starlight. His skin radiated heat under d’Artagnan’s hands.
"Where are you hurt?" he demanded. "What did they do to you?"
"Burns," Athos grated out. "Branded... me."
D’Artagnan’s gut clenched, and he swallowed hard, trying to be practical. "Right. We don’t have any bandages. Or ointment. Or, well, anything really." He wracked his brain, suddenly remembering his mother holding his hand in a bucket of cold water after he burned it trying to get a heavy pot of soup out of the fireplace. Deciding it might help and probably wouldn’t hurt, he urged Athos to sling an arm over his shoulder and dragged him to his feet. "Come on. Let’s get you in the river until your skin cools down, at least. It should help with the pain."
Athos let himself be led. When they reached the edge of the water, d’Artagnan debated with himself about removing Athos’ braies, but decided he might as well let the water wash away all the horse sweat that was sure to be soaking them, and which would probably sting like the devil against any wounds.
"Can you drink a bit?" he asked, helping his companion kneel at the shallows. Athos nodded, and the two of them drank from shaky, cupped hands. D’Artagnan had completely forgotten about the torn skin around his left wrist until the cool water lapped against it, startling a sharp gasp from him.
"D’Artagnan?" Athos asked quickly, sounding more coherent. "Are you injured?"
"It’s nothing," he said, striving to keep his voice even. "Just a scrape. Forgot it was there until the water got in it."
Athos seemed to relax at that, and d’Artagnan turned back to him.
"Come on," he said. "Let’s get you in the river and see if that helps."
D’Artagnan clumsily removed his and Athos’ stolen weapon belts, along with his own boots, stockings, doublet, shirt, and breeches. The two of them crawled into the water in their smallclothes. A choked cry escaped Athos’ control and he cursed sharply as the water flowed over his injuries.
"Easy," d’Artagnan said, remembering the initial sting as his mother had submerged his burned hand in the water. "Give it a minute, Athos—it will pass."
His companion’s harsh breathing gradually quieted as the initial shock wore off and the water slowly began to work its magic.
"Better now?" d’Artagnan asked. "Are you all right on your own for a few minutes, here in the shallows?"
"Yes. Thank you," Athos replied in a weary voice.
The current was not fast, and Athos had positioned himself comfortably with his head near the bank and the rest of his body trailing into the slightly deeper water. D’Artagnan nodded and waded a bit further out, ducking down to scrub at his own layers of sweat and grime with aching arms and hands. He took a deep breath and slipped under the surface, running a hand over his face and through his hair before emerging and wading back to the bank.
He untied the horses and brought them back for another drink, pleased to see that they were breathing normally again and showing no signs of distress; the sweat drying slowly on their coats. His mare waded further into the water and, after pawing a couple of times, dropped down to wallow and roll in the shallows. She was far enough away not to be a danger to Athos, so he let go of the rope to prevent it becoming entangled in her legs as they waved in the air, and left her to it.
Rosita watched with pricked ears and delicately splashed a front hoof in the river. He sighed and flipped the free end of the rope over her back.
"Go ahead, then," he told her. "You might as well."
The Spanish mare joined her herd mate, the two horses grunting in pleasure as they scratched their backs on the pebbly river bottom and let the water wash the sweat out of their coats. After a moment, they lurched to their feet and shook themselves like oversized dogs, thoroughly spraying d’Artagnan, who only sighed again and gathered up their wet lead ropes as they stepped back up onto the shore.
He checked on Athos, relieved to find the other man splashing water on his face and hair. Leading the horses back to the tree, he judged that their ropes would still be long enough to use as reins if he cut off a couple of lengths for makeshift hobbles, allowing them to graze in the clearing overnight and regain their strength. After hobbling the pair and turning them loose, he sorted through his clothing. Athos could use his loose linen shirt, which wouldn’t chafe too badly against his burns. His boots wouldn’t fit the man, though maybe his stockings could provide some minimal protection for Athos’ feet. Likewise, d’Artagnan was too slender for either his breeches or doublet to work for his companion.
Examining the weapons belts as best he could in the faint starlight, it appeared they had netted five daggers, three swords, and two pistols, one of which was already discharged. There was no additional shot or powder. Two of the purses were disappointingly light, containing only a few coins, but the leader’s had a promising heft to it. He looked up as Athos wove his way unsteadily up the bank to join him.
"Here," he said, proffering the shirt and stockings. "Put these on. I’m sorry, but I don’t have any other clothes that will fit you."
Athos nodded and donned the clothing with stiff movements, carefully lowering himself to rest against the tree trunk once more.
"It’s unlikely that we’ll be found here," he said in a weak voice, "but we should try to keep watch nonetheless. Can you—"
"I’ll take the first watch," d’Artagnan said quickly, knowing that Athos was on the cusp of collapse.
"Wake me in a couple of hours," Athos said, and d’Artagnan nodded, privately thinking that he would do no such thing.
The other man was asleep or unconscious within minutes, and d’Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief that the pain of his burns was not enough to keep him awake and tormented. He settled himself against the tree as well, positioned so that he could make out the gray blur of Aramis’ mare in the clearing beyond; knowing that the horses would react to any disturbance in the area well before he became aware of it.
The muscles of his neck, shoulders, and back throbbed with ill use, making it impossible to get comfortable. He tried to tell himself that the pain was a good thing, since it would keep him awake despite his exhaustion. He was still telling himself that when he drifted into troubled sleep an hour later.
It was daylight when he jerked awake, though clouds obscured the sun. He looked around, momentarily disoriented before events came crashing back to him. Athos was still dead to the world, his neck canted in a way that was certain to add to his already considerable discomfort. The horses were still grazing in the clearing; their meager pile of weapons and money was undisturbed.
D’Artagnan let out a sigh of relief and made to rise, only to fall back with a surprised grunt when his arms completely refused to function. The sudden noise jolted Athos to awareness as well; the other man looking around himself with the same initial confusion d’Artagnan had experienced.
"What—?" he began, only to cut himself off with a wince as his injuries made themselves felt.
"I’m sorry, Athos. I fell asleep," d’Artagnan said, wisely omitting the fact that he would not have woken the older man, regardless. "Fortunately, no harm appears to have come from it."
The confusion faded from Athos’ eyes as he took in their surroundings.
"I see," he said, still sounding worryingly weak and spent. "Well, we should probably get on the horses and make for civilization."
"Yes, probably," d’Artagnan agreed. "Only, I, er..."
Athos’ brow furrowed, and d’Artagnan’s attention was drawn to the blistered, weeping welts running at irregular intervals up the side of his neck, disappearing under the loose, borrowed shirt and terminating with an angry red burn less than an inch below his left eye. He swallowed hard; he had taken the indistinct marks as bruises in the darkness, even after Athos told him he’d been burned.
Stupid.
Athos was still staring at him, and he recalled himself to the conversation with difficulty.
"I, uh, can’t seem to lift my arms this morning," he said in a rush. "I may have... damaged something getting loose from the ropes yesterday."
"I thought you said you weren’t injured."
D’Artagnan fought not to duck his head in embarrassment. "I didn’t think I was; not to any significant degree."
"One of your shoulders is hanging lower than the other. You’ve probably torn some muscles. Can you move your hands?" Athos asked in a tired, hoarse voice.
He wiggled his fingers experimentally, and was pleased to find that it elicited only a dull ache. Flexing his wrists, however, reminded him rudely of the bloody, torn ring of flesh around the left one, and he hissed in pain.
Athos turned toward him and leaned forward stiffly to lift his left arm in both hands and examine the damage. "Well," he said. "I had been wondering how you got loose. I suppose that answers the question. I’ll need to tear a strip off the bottom of your shirt to bind it."
D’Artagnan nodded, and watched dumbly as Athos picked up one of the daggers they had stolen and used it to remove a thin strip of linen from the item in question. The older man lifted his arm again and efficiently but gently wrapped the cloth around the wound and tied it off. It was ridiculous—surely soldiers bandaged each other’s wounds after battle all the time—but something about the act made his chest ache.
He cleared his throat, and asked, "What of your wounds?"
"Too many and too spread out to bandage, I fear." Athos’ voice hardened, gaining strength. "But they will not prevent me from finding and gutting that cowardly cur who called himself my servant all these years."
"You can’t mean to go after him now?" d’Artagnan asked, disbelieving. "You can barely stand!"
"I don’t need to stand for long; only long enough for you to help me back on Aramis’ horse."
D’Artagnan let himself flop back against the tree. "A task that would be much simpler if I had any use of my arms."
Athos settled back, as well. "Indeed. Which is why we will be resting for another hour or two while you try to get some movement back in your shoulders. We’ll need to move soon regardless, to obtain food and supplies. There’s also no guarantee that our friends from the manor won’t come looking for us in the daylight, as well."
That was true enough, d’Artagnan acknowledged. And so, while Athos dozed restlessly, he went back to flexing his hands and wrists, gradually forcing movement and feeling further up his arms until he could bend and extend his elbows. Eventually, with a great deal of pain and a bit of whispered cursing, he was able to roll his right shoulder to and fro, and raise that arm to chest level. His left was still practically useless; all attempts to force it into action sent a muscle running down the side of his neck and over his shoulder screaming in protest, and any resulting movement was as weak and tremulous as the fumbling of a newborn kitten.
Feeling as close to functional as he was likely to get, d’Artagnan rose unsteadily to his feet and grabbed the lead ropes, walking slowly out to retrieve the horses. Rosita approached him with pricked ears, stepping daintily within the confines of her makeshift hobbles. His own mare—that was to say, Grimaud’s mare—eyed him in an unimpressed way and went back to grazing until he walked up and awkwardly tied the rope to her halter, one-handed.
The knots in the hobbles had tightened overnight, and defeated his clumsy right-handed efforts to undo them, so he led the animals back to the tree at a slow walk and roused Athos to untie them rather than cutting through the rope and wasting it when they might need it again.
"Better now?" Athos asked, eyeing d’Artagnan’s awkward movements.
"As long as I don’t need two arms for anything," he replied a bit snappishly, and immediately felt remorseful when he thought about Athos’ own painful injuries. "Do you want to go back in the river? Cool your burns again?"
Athos shook his head, and levered himself carefully to his feet. "No. However, we should both drink some more before we leave. It will help fill our stomachs, if nothing else."
They made their way back down to the edge of the river and slaked their thirst, though d’Artagnan was privately of the opinion that it did nothing whatsoever for his growing hunger. Donning the weapons belts they had taken the previous night, they mounted using a fallen tree trunk; Athos turning pale and gray from the strain. The older man slumped forward for a moment, bracing himself against Rosita’s neck briefly before straightening again and indicating with a nod that he was ready to proceed.
By mutual agreement, they decided to follow the river rather than the road, at least until they were further from Illiers-Combray. The going was slower, but they could stop to water the horses or get a drink themselves, and if someone approached, it would be easy to melt into the trees and disappear. After an hour or so, the river meandered gently to the east, and a small cluster of buildings huddled near the outer bank.
It was the first sign of human habitation they had come upon since fleeing the burned-out manor. The two looked at each other, and Athos shrugged and placed a hand on the butt of the loaded pistol at his hip before riding toward the largest of the structures. As they approached, it became increasingly evident that the property was abandoned, though it had evidently been quite an impressive farm at one point.
D’Artagnan dismounted and drew his sword with a weak and shaking arm. "Hullo!" he called as he eased open the front door of the main house. The only answer was the creak of hinges, along with the smell of dust and old decay. He crept further into the house, calling back to Athos to reassure him that no one was hiding inside. No footprints marred the dust and not a breath of air moved except for that which he himself disturbed.
There was nothing left in an edible state in the kitchen; time, insects, and rodents had seen to that. There was, however, a crate of wine with only a few bottles missing. Assuming it had not yet turned to vinegar, this was a useful find, indeed. D’Artagnan rummaged around until he found a pile of cloth sacks in a cupboard. He used the ones that were frayed and rotted to wrap the bottles before loading them into the bags that were still sound.
He carried the first of four such sacks back to the front door and presented it triumphantly to Athos, who nodded approvingly and called him the very best of men in a low, serious voice. Once all four bags were outside, he gave two to Athos, who tied the tops together so he could hang them across Rosita’s shoulders.
D’Artagnan reentered the home and ranged further into the back, opening doors until he stumbled upon a large bedroom that smelled of musty, sweet decay. The two intertwined figures on the bed were barely recognizable as human bodies anymore; more than skeletons, but far less than corpses. They were presumably the owners of the place; a husband and wife, struck with plague at the same time with no one else left to care for them.
At least they died together, d’Artagnan thought, and tried to push any further musings about them out of his mind. Instead, he made himself search through the dead couple’s belongings thoroughly, looking through drawers and chests for anything useful.
Eventually, he re-emerged to find Athos, still mounted, making steady inroads on one of the wine bottles.
"How desperate are you for clothes?" he asked.
* * *
An hour later, a few rays of sunshine were breaking through the clouds as the pair rode away with their spoils. Though dusty and stiff, a new set of clothing transformed Athos from pale, sickly ghost back to confident swordsman—assuming one did not linger overlong observing his gray complexion and the sheen of sweat on his brow. Rosita bore the one saddle they had recovered from the barn that had not yet cracked and rotted to a dangerous point, and both horses now wore bridles, though they still relied on makeshift rope reins rather than trust the original stiff, mildewed leather.
Perhaps most importantly, the coffers of the once prosperous farm yielded plentiful gold to supplement the coins stolen from their dead captors; enough, hopefully, to pay for what they needed to resupply themselves after losing almost everything in Illiers-Combray. And—an added bonus—as they wended their way through the property’s extensive, overgrown orchard, d’Artagnan shouted in excitement at the sight of ripe plums hanging from a row of trees in desperate need of pruning, but no less productive for their neglect.
The two men ate ravenously without even bothering to dismount; the horses also taking their share. They filled one of the cloth bags with more for the journey, and set off with renewed determination toward Châteaudun. They followed the river a little way further before Athos decided it was veering too far to the east. The next time they came across a bridge spanning the sluggishly flowing water, the pair regained the road and headed southwest.
D’Artagnan tried to be circumspect in his assessing glances toward Athos, knowing that the other man would not appreciate them. Nonetheless, he could not hold his tongue as they rode past the abandoned cottages of Dangeau with no sign of stopping, despite Athos’ gradually deteriorating posture.
"Athos, do you not need to stop and rest for awhile?"
"What I need is Grimaud at the end of my sword, explaining what demonic spirit possessed him to act in such a craven, dishonorable manner," Athos said flatly, before shooting a glance of his own at d’Artagnan. "Why? Do you need to stop? Are your shoulders paining you?"
Yes, he thought.
"No," he said. "I was just asking."
The pair continued on in silence, their steady pace gradually eating up the distance until Châteaudun appeared on the horizon as the sun was slanting low in the sky off to their right. They approached, passing the northern market cross—empty of commerce at this late hour—and entered the large town. There was little choice other than to return to the inn at which they had stayed before; not only could they get rooms for the night and care for the horses, but the innkeeper was their best resource for finding the various items they needed for their journey.
Assuming, of course, that the man was not still holding a grudge over whatever passed between himself and Milady.
"Let me do the talking," Athos said, and d’Artagnan strove valiantly to hide his misgivings at letting Athos take the lead with the man who had flirted so shamelessly with his wife only a few days before. They handed their horses off to be stabled, ignoring the stable boy's quizzical look at their makeshift and missing tack.
Athos allowed d’Artagnan to assist him into the inn, where the owner greeted them with a sour expression.
"You lot back again, are you?" he asked.
"Only the two of us, sir," Athos replied. "Our party was attacked on the road by bandits. We barely escaped with our lives. The others were too badly injured to make it back with us. They are staying at an abandoned farm some hours’ ride from here. Young d’Artagnan and I returned to secure medical supplies and provisions."
"Injured, you say?" The innkeeper raised an eyebrow, and hesitated for a moment as if mentally struggling with himself. His attention turned to d’Artagnan, and as if the words were being pulled from him, he added, "Even your sister?"
D’Artagnan found himself at a loss. Would he gain more sympathy by confirming the lie or denying it? Athos stepped in before he could say the wrong thing.
"Yes, I’m afraid her injuries are grave," said the older man. "You’ll have to forgive my young friend; he is understandably distraught by the situation."
The innkeeper’s expression wavered for a moment before collapsing into sympathy. "I’m rightly sorry to hear that, young man," he said. "Your sister was quite a firebrand. And a beautiful one, to boot."
"She still is," d’Artagnan said.
"Aye, of course she is, lad," the man agreed quickly, as if humoring him. "Of course she is. I’ll get you pointed to everyone you need to talk to in order to get your provisions, though they’ll all still want paying, obviously."
"Fortunately, we found gold in the coffers of the abandoned house," Athos said smoothly. "We will be able to pay."
"Well," the innkeeper said. "I suppose that’s a stroke of luck, at least. You need rooms tonight?"
"A single room will suffice," Athos said. "And we will need food."
"You’ll have it," said the man.
"Are there any herbalists open at this hour?" d’Artagnan asked. "Or physicians who might come out and look at my friend’s wounds?"
The innkeeper shook his head. "The herbalist shuts up his shop at dusk, so I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until morning. And the physician died last month. Which, if you think about it, doesn’t speak too highly of his skills, though personally I always found him to be a pleasant enough fellow."
D’Artagnan nodded, swallowing his disappointment. "Perhaps we could get some hot water and clean linen for bandages sent to the room, in that case? We’ll pay extra for it."
"Of course, lad," the innkeeper agreed. "I’ll have the food sent up as well. If you don’t mind me saying so, you two look like a stiff wind would blow you right over." He glanced at Athos. "You can take the same room that you and your soldier friends had last time."
Athos nodded and counted out several coins, passing them over to the man, who swept them into a till. D’Artagnan readjusted the bag that held a couple of bottles of their scavenged wine and draped Athos’ arm over his shoulder, helping him up the stairs to the room he indicated would be theirs.
They were just getting settled when a light knock came at the door and a familiar face entered, bearing a platter of food.
"Sylvie!" d’Artagnan exclaimed in surprise.
Sylvie’s eyes widened and a smile spread across her face, only to dissolve again as she got a better look at the two of them.
"I didn’t expect to see you again so soon!" she said. "Good heavens, my pet, whatever has befallen you?"
D’Artagnan relayed a slightly abridged version of their cover story, to many exclamations of dismay and tuts of sympathy.
"You poor men," she said when he had finished. "I wondered what was going on when my uncle called for hot water and bandages. You two eat this food before you collapse completely, and I’ll be back in two ticks with the rest of what you need. All right?"
"Thank you, Sylvie," d’Artagnan said gratefully, and let his eyes close briefly when she stroked the side of his face with her fingertips, before bustling out the door and back down the stairs with light footsteps.
"You appear to have made quite an impression during your brief stay," Athos said in a dry voice.
D’Artagnan was unable to prevent the flush that rose to his cheeks; grateful when Athos let it go with an amused shake of his head and handed him a bowl of stew, a chunk of coarse bread, and a spoon. The fare was simple, but hearty, and d’Artagnan ate ravenously, having had nothing other than water, fruit, and wine in well over a day. They washed it down with one of the remaining bottles from the farm, Athos once again toasting d’Artagnan’s luck and ingenuity in finding the abandoned crate.
Sylvie returned shortly thereafter, bearing a steaming bowl of water and piles of clean linen. She offered to help them with their wounds, but Athos politely declined, assuring her that they had things in hand. Once she had gone, making them both promise to call on her if they needed anything, Athos insisted on cleaning and re-bandaging d’Artagnan’s wrist, which was becoming quite inflamed and sore.
"It’s infected," Athos said. "Hard to tell by candlelight, but I think there are some fibers from the rope embedded in the wound. They are already scabbing over, so all I can do for now is to wash it and flush it out with wine."
D’Artagnan nodded his understanding, gritting his teeth and locking the breath in his chest to prevent any noise escaping as Athos gently scrubbed at the red, weeping flesh and poured wine over it. When the fiery burn retreated a bit and the wrist was rewrapped with clean cloth, he cleared his throat to ensure his voice would be steady and asked Athos to let him tend to his burns.
Athos shook his head, and d’Artagnan frowned.
"Tend to them how?" the older man asked. "I’d prefer not to have either hot water or wine poured over them, thank you very much. And if you tried to bandage all of them, I’d end up looking like a corpse wearing a shroud. Leave them. I’ll be fine."
After a bit more fruitless arguing, d’Artagnan subsided, an idea entering his mind that would have to wait until morning. Exhausted, the two of them retired to the bed, which was wonderfully clean and soft after the previous night spent against a tree trunk with neither tent nor blanket for comfort. The pain in d’Artagnan’s wrist and shoulders was not enough to keep him from falling asleep within minutes, but his rest was interrupted by nebulous, threatening dreams of failure and loss.
Each time he jerked awake, however, Athos was a solid presence by his side, grounding him either with the sound of gentle snoring or a hand on his arm and mumbled, sleepy words of reassurance. The fourth or fifth time he awoke, the darkness had given way to pre-dawn light. D’Artagnan struggled upright and tried not to wake the other man as he rose to use the chamber pot. His shoulders felt like rusty iron hinges, but he was thrilled to discover that he could, with difficulty, raise his left arm a few inches today.
He washed his face and hands with the water left from the previous evening. Dressing awkwardly, he roused Athos with a gentle shake, just long enough to inform him the he was going out to begin the process of replacing their provisions. Athos nodded his understanding and promptly went back to sleep, drawing a slight smile from the young man.
D’Artagnan strapped on one of the weapons belts and fastened the purse securely inside his doublet before heading out the door. The serving girl in the tavern—not Sylvie, somewhat to his disappointment—provided him with bread and cheese, which he ate quickly while waiting for the innkeeper to appear. The man still seemed to be in an accommodating mood this morning, though d’Artagnan somewhat cynically put it down to the generous amount of gold Athos had paid him.
Whatever the reason, though, he answered all of d’Artagnan’s queries, and within a quarter hour he was heading for the stable with a list of names and addresses for the various merchants and tradespeople he needed to see. The stable boy saddled Grimaud’s mare with their single, scavenged saddle and brought Aramis’ horse out with a halter and lead. D’Artagnan mounted—albeit somewhat clumsily with his nagging injuries—and reached forward to offer the little mare a crust of bread as was his habit. He took Rosita’s lead rope and exited the yard, heading for the saddle smith as his first order of business.
An hour later, he was at the market, filling both horses’ shiny new saddlebags with dried meat and fruit for traveling rations, along with eggs, honey, and fresh milk. The herbalist provided him with oil of roses, turpentine, and an assortment of medicinal herbs. A clothier supplied him with new, clean shirts and braies, and a merchant on the edge of the town square with blankets, canvas, waterskins, and a cooking pot for camping rough.
By the time he returned to the inn with both horses fully laden, the sun was well past midday. He tipped the stable boy five shiny copper sous to help him carry his purchases up to their room, where he found Athos pacing slowly back and forth, a wine bottle held loosely in his hand.
The other man turned at the sound of their entrance. "Did you manage to acquire everything?" he asked.
"I think so," d’Artagnan replied, dismissing the boy with a wave. "I’ll need Sylvie’s help to get into the kitchens and assemble my mother’s recipe for salve. Some of the herbs have to steep, but it shouldn’t take more than an hour."
"We need to continue on to Blois immediately," Athos said.
A wave of frustration overcame D’Artagnan, and he slapped both palms down hard on the rough table where he had laid the saddlebags, gritting his teeth as the abrupt motion jarred up the length of his sore arms.
"We need treatment for our wounds, lest we collapse from a fever on the road and die. In the absence of a town physician, that means taking an extra hour to let me make the damn salve, Athos."
Athos huffed out his own frustration and turned away. Deciding that action would get him farther than arguing, d’Artagnan chose to interpret the silence as assent. Grabbing the bag that contained what he needed, he headed out the door and back down the stairs. Sylvie was flitting to and fro amongst the afternoon customers, smiling her toothy smile whenever someone called her over. She noticed d’Artagnan almost immediately and indicated that he should meet her by the door to the kitchens.
"What can I do for you, pet?" she asked upon joining him there.
"Sylvie, Athos is hurt worse than he’s letting on," he told her. "I bought ingredients for a healing ointment, but I need access to the kitchen to make it—bowls for mixing... boiling water for steeping herbs; that sort of thing. Can you help me?"
Sylvie nodded. "Of course, d’Artagnan. I have to keep serving the customers, but I’ll introduce you to Cook. Follow me."
Cook turned out to be an elderly, rough looking man with two front teeth missing, but in d’Artagnan’s book, anyone who had produced the flaky meat pies he and Milady had enjoyed during their previous stay was a person worth knowing. The man only grunted at Sylvie’s explanation and told d’Artagnan to help himself to what he needed, but also to stay out from underfoot. He patted Sylvie’s shoulder fondly as she turned to leave, however.
D’Artagnan thanked the man politely and quickly gathered what he would need, taking it to a low counter in the corner to work. He separated the egg whites, placing the yolks in a bowl for Cook to use as he saw fit, since he didn’t need them. In a separate bowl, he crushed the herbs with a pestle and poured a scant cup of boiling water over them, leaving them to steep. He beat the milk and egg whites together, grimacing and cursing his sore shoulder under his breath; then added honey until the mixture turned into a thick paste.
When he was satisfied with the texture, he carefully added first the oil of roses, and then the turpentine, a few drops at a time, stopping after each addition to smell the concoction until it matched his childhood memories. As d’Artagnan was waiting for the color of the steeping liquid to darken a bit further, Cook wandered over to peer in the bowl, throwing him a wink and proclaiming with an unexpected burst of humor that the concoction would make "a right awful pudding, even with all that honey in it".
Once the steeping water reached the same golden shade as the honey had been, he carefully strained out the leaves through a folded, loosely woven cloth, and moved the small pot to the fire, stirring it slowly over the heat until the liquid was reduced to a thick brown syrup sticking to the bottom of the vessel. After cooling for a few minutes, he added the sharp-smelling substance to the salve and stirred it in until it was a smooth, uniform color and texture.
Satisfied, he scooped the finished ointment into the clay pot he had purchased and sealed it tightly with a cork lid. Thanking Cook once again for the use of his kitchen, he offered the old man the unused milk, honey, and egg yolks in recompense and hurried back to the upstairs room.
"Finished?" Athos asked, a note of impatience in his voice. "Good. Let me help you apply the salve to your wrist, and we’ll leave."
"Correction," d’Artagnan said, feeling his jaw tighten again. "We’ll apply it to my wrist and your burns, and then we’ll leave."
"That’s not necessary," Athos said, his flat tone never wavering.
D’Artagnan took in the older man’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes, bruised with exhaustion even after a relatively quiet night of rest.
"This salve is my mother’s recipe. She always used it on our cuts and burns when we were growing up. Claimed it would cure any wound that did not penetrate the heart... though, admittedly, that might have been a slight exaggeration on her part." D’Artagnan firmly pushed away memories of smearing the fragrant concoction over her unconscious body, in those last, horrible hours; covering the buboes and black spots with a thin, even coating; thinking maybe, maybe. He cleared his throat and continued to speak, driving the knifepoint home. "To dismiss this ointment is to dismiss my mother’s memory, and I will take it as a personal affront, Athos."
Athos stared at him for a beat, assessing, before seeming to deflate slightly. "Very well. Let me see your wrist. After I’ve bandaged it again, I will attend to my own injuries while you ready the horses for travel."
D’Artagnan looked at him for a long moment. "Your word?"
The older man’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "I am not in the habit of lying to my friends, d’Artagnan. If I tell you I will do a thing, you may rely upon it as a promise."
D’Artagnan let himself relax, confident that Athos would do as he had said. "I believe you. Thank you for indulging my concerns."
Athos acknowledged him with a single, brusque nod and motioned for his left wrist. D’Artagnan let him unwrap the injury and apply the smooth paste over the angry, seeping flesh, sighing as the initial sting faded, to be replaced with a soothing sense of coolness that brought comfort as much with its old familiarity from childhood as from the lessening of pain. When his wrist was snugly bandaged once more, he gathered the saddlebags containing their supplies and left Athos in privacy.
He was tightening Rosita’s girth for the final time when Athos rejoined him. D’Artagnan took the proffered clay jar and, under the guise of making sure that the cork stopper was tight, confirmed that a reasonable amount of the salve had been used. The stable boy helped them mount up, and the pair rode out into the early evening air.
It was late in the day to start traveling, but d’Artagnan still worried that someone might wonder at the two of them leaving the town and heading south after claiming their injured friends lay to the northwest.
"Should we not travel to the north for a bit before skirting back towards Blois?" he asked quietly.
Athos shook his head. "It’s unlikely anyone will take notice of it, and at this point I am more concerned with haste than discretion."
D’Artagnan shrugged and nodded his understanding. The pair rode briskly out of Châteaudun with the sun low in the sky on their right. Once on the open road, d’Artagnan rummaged one-handed in his pack for some dried meat, offering a share to Athos, who shook his head and rode on in silence. They would not make it to another town before dark, d’Artagnan knew, remembering their trip a few days ago in the other direction.
Athos pushed on until they had almost lost the light completely before indicating that they should stop and make camp. They had only managed a couple of leagues by d’Artagnan’s estimate; perhaps three. He wondered if Athos intended to make it all the way to Blois the following day, privately thinking that such a plan seemed untenable given their injuries and how heavily laden the horses were.
Camp was basic, although compared to their night spent after fleeing Illiers-Combray, it seemed positively luxurious. The weather was in their favor—pleasant and calm, requiring no fire. They shared wine from their slowly dwindling reserve, which they had transferred to the waterskins d’Artagnan had purchased in Châteaudun. D’Artagnan ate a good meal of dried rations, aware that Athos was only picking at his own food. The worry that had been gnawing at him since their ordeal two nights ago ratcheted up another notch.
"I’ll take the first watch and wake you in a few hours," Athos told him.
D’Artagnan indicated his agreement and wrapped himself in his newly purchased woolen blanket, resting his neck and shoulders against the seat of his saddle where it lay on the ground, on top of the saddle blankets. The position felt almost comfortable, and he was relieved that his shoulders seemed to be healing well... even the left one.
His left hand and wrist still pulsed with heat in tandem with his heartbeat, but it was bearable as long as he didn’t move it around too much. Still, worry about Athos’ injuries, what they might find in Blois, and what was happening back in La Croix-du-Perche spun his mind in fruitless circles that gradually grew tighter and tighter. His thoughts turned to the last purchase he had made from the leather smith—one that he had not mentioned to Athos—a thonged lash lying coiled at the bottom of his saddlebag, waiting to be used.
Soon, he told himself firmly. Not tonight, but soon.
Eventually, his mind quieted enough for him to fall asleep. It seemed as though only moments had elapsed when Athos woke him with a hand on his arm.
"It’s going to rain," the other man said. "Help me put up the tent."
D’Artagnan could indeed smell incipient rain, and the breeze was picking up. He rose wordlessly and helped Athos set a pole under some sturdy branches so they could drape the canvas tarpaulin in an upside down V-shape, fumbling slightly in the dark. Fat drops were just beginning to fall when they finished dragging their supplies inside and hunkered down in the small space.
"Get some sleep, Athos," d’Artagnan said. "I’ll keep watch."
Athos grunted and stiffly eased himself down between d’Artagnan and the supplies, while d’Artagnan wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and crouched down by the tent’s entrance. It was unlikely that anyone would be out looking for mischief tonight and stumble across them, but after falling asleep while on watch during the night of their escape, he was determined to stay alert. His mind seemed only too ready to return to earlier worries, and though the time passed grudgingly with rain pattering against the oiled cloth above his head, he did not doze.
Daylight came slowly, the unrelenting drizzle casting everything in muted grays. When it was finally light enough to see, d’Artagnan woke Athos. The older man seemed to take an extra few moments to get his bearings, and d’Artagnan wondered if it was lack of sleep or his injuries that left him slow to return to awareness. When he had finally roused himself sufficiently, he reached back into the saddlebags and searched until he found their rations.
"Eat," he told d’Artagnan. "Given the conditions and how much ground we have to cover, the day promises to be an unpleasant one."
D’Artagnan noticed that again, Athos himself ate very little, instead dedicating himself single-mindedly to the wine once more. He pressed his lips together, certain that bringing it up would be pointless. When they had each partaken of their preferred form of sustenance, Athos checked d’Artagnan’s wrist, covering it with more ointment and bandaging it carefully.
Aware that Athos seemed unwilling to let d’Artagnan see his injuries for some reason, the young man quickly suggested that he saddle and pack the horses while Athos used the salve on himself. Athos hesitated, but agreed when d’Artagnan added, "Please, Athos. The ointment will only last for a couple of days before it starts to go bad. There’s no point in having it here and not using it."
Awkwardly navigating around each other in the cramped space, d’Artagnan took out his new traveling cloak and secured it around himself. He was thrilled to find that his left shoulder was noticeably better, and his right was more stiff than actively painful at this point. Wrapped up against the rain and damp, he left the shelter of the tent and began to ready their mounts. The animals appeared unhappy but resigned to the dismal weather.
Athos emerged after a few minutes, and together they packed the things that would least benefit from getting wet on Rosita before taking down the tent and covering her saddlebags with the canvas to protect everything as much as possible. D’Artagnan assisted Athos into the saddle and mounted himself, thrilled anew to feel the strength and flexibility in his arms starting to return. The pair headed south at a faster pace than d’Artagnan would have chosen under these conditions, and he wondered if Athos truly thought to cover the remaining fifteen leagues to Blois in a single day.
It seemed both unrealistic and foolhardy—two things that he did not generally associate with Athos. Still, all he could do was to keep up and watch the other man as closely as he could for signs that his strength was failing. Perhaps d’Artagnan would be able to persuade him to stop for a rest in Oucques, and cover the final leg of the journey tomorrow.
The air was still warm and humid, but the rain itself was chilly where it trickled down the back of his neck, under his cloak. D’Artagnan cursed himself for not having bought them both wide brimmed hats, but it was too late now. Sometimes there was merely a slow drizzle, but other times it became heavier, turning the road to muddy slop under their mounts’ hooves and forcing the animals to work twice as hard to make progress, blowing with exertion.
They should have made Oucques by early afternoon, but it was nearing evening when the two waterlogged travelers finally rode into the town. D’Artagnan had been distracting himself with thoughts of a dry room and the steaming rabbit stew they had enjoyed in the town’s inn on their earlier trip north, but when he shared the sentiment with his companion, Athos replied, "There is daylight left to us. We will press on for Blois."
D’Artagnan looked at him steadily. "Athos, we will not reach Blois today."
"Nonetheless, I, at least, will continue," Athos said. "If you wish to stay here overnight, you may join me in Blois tomorrow."
D’Artagnan sighed internally at the man’s cursed stubbornness.
"We shouldn’t separate. We’re both injured and we need each other’s assistance. I’ll stay with you."
Athos nodded once in acknowledgment, dipping his chin sharply.
They rode on. Oucques disappeared into the gray mist of rain behind them. The times when they were forced to slow the horses to a walk and let them rest came more frequently. The quality of the light changed slowly as the evening progressed, until a sudden darkening heralded the first true downpour they had faced that day. The wind came up; the temperature went down. The rain felt as though some giant was dousing them with water thrown from a huge bucket.
It was absolutely miserable. Cloak or no, d’Artagnan was soaked right down to his skin within minutes. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he peered into the deluge in vague hopes of finding shelter, but could make out nothing beyond the dark shape of Athos hunched stoically in his saddle. There was nothing for it but to keep going, and try to stem the shivering that was slowly overtaking his body.
What seemed like a small eternity later—but was probably only a few minutes—d’Artagnan felt his mare perk up her head and tug against the reins, moving forward into a brisk jog despite the sucking mud under her feet. Having had several reasons of late to trust the animal’s instincts, he turned back and shouted, "Athos! We have to get out of this storm! I think there’s shelter ahead!"
Athos indicated with a wave of his arm that he should lead on. D’Artagnan twisted to face forward again, searching the murk ahead for whatever had caught the mare’s attention. Moments later, the skeleton of an old barn loomed out of the encroaching dark. The little horse put on a burst of speed, skirting neatly through a gap in the wall between two bare timbers and heading without fail for a dry corner under part of the roof that had not yet fallen in. Rosita was only seconds behind.
The sudden lack of rain was almost a shock in itself. After a beat, unable to help himself, d’Artagnan turned to Athos and asked in his driest voice, "I assume you’re amenable to stopping here for a bit?"
To his credit, Athos only raised a self-deprecating eyebrow and said mildly, "It would seem to be prudent at this point, yes."
D’Artagnan huffed, caught between irritation and perverse amusement at the ridiculous nature of their situation. He dismounted, shaking the water out of his eyes and taking inventory of their surroundings as best he could in the little light that remained to them.
"I think there are enough loose boards in this dry area to make a decent fire, assuming the flint and tinder didn’t get soaked," he said.
Athos had slithered unsteadily to the ground, and was leaning against Rosita’s steaming flank as he carefully untied the tent material and removed the oilcloth from over his saddlebags.
"Damp, but not soaked," he said. "The inside is dry."
"Well, thank heaven for that," d’Artagnan said with heartfelt relief.
The pair shed their outer cloaks and quickly set to gathering materials for a fire. Seeing how unsteady Athos appeared, d’Artagnan indicated he should light the fire, and set himself to caring for the sodden, exhausted horses. A few minutes later, the first flames were licking at the splintered, half rotten wood they had torn from the building’s bones. Athos built the fire up until it was roaring, and d’Artagnan arranged their belongings around it, hung and draped as best he could manage to facilitate drying.
"Get some sleep, d’Artagnan," Athos said when they were down to their shirts and smallclothes, the fire slowly roasting the chill from their bones. "No one will be out tonight in this weather."
"Except, apparently, us," d’Artagnan said pointedly, though there was no heat behind his words. Athos silently toasted him with the wineskin he was holding, acknowledging the gentle dig.
"Except us," the older man agreed. "Fear not. Tomorrow will see our errand completed. I, for one, have no wish to drag things out any longer than absolutely necessary."
"No, indeed not," d’Artagnan replied, understanding how deeply Grimaud’s betrayal had pierced the other man’s heart.
The two of them settled down next to the fire, listening to the crack and snap of burning wood and the occasional soft snuffling of the horses. D’Artagnan’s exhaustion warred with his continued worry about his companion, their mission, and the future, keeping him from all but the lightest of dozing. He heard Athos moving around periodically, and worried that the older man wasn’t getting much rest either, though he needed it even more than d’Artagnan did.
It was hours later, the fire burned down to embers and the rain slowing to a stop, when the two men finally dropped into troubled sleep. When Athos roused d’Artagnan to wakefulness the next morning, there was a feverish glint to his eyes and two spots of color high on his otherwise ashen cheeks.
"Come," he said. "It is past time to finish this."
Sunlight was streaming through the cracks and gaps on the eastern side of the dilapidated structure in which they had sheltered, making a mockery of the previous night’s storm. D’Artagnan rose and ate quickly, wanting nothing more at this point than to see an end to Athos’ self-imposed mission so that the man might finally be cared for properly. Athos did not even make a pretense of eating this morning, but still insisted on treating d’Artagnan’s wrist once it was determined that the milk and egg whites in the remaining salve had not yet gone off. In return, d’Artagnan insisted that Athos use the rest of the ointment on himself, again offering to see to the horses in order to give the other man the privacy he seemed to need.
They left in good time, stopping to let the horses drink from one of the deep puddles by the side of the road. The going was still heavy, but something about the blue sky seemed to give both horses and men a burst of energy, and they steadily ate up the remaining distance to Blois, until the first of its buildings appeared on the horizon shortly after the sun passed its zenith.
"He will be at the castle," Athos said with certainty. "We will go there first."
The castle was slightly west of Blois. It seemed impossible that it had been a mere two weeks since d’Artagnan had last seen the place. So much had happened in the intervening days that it felt more like a different lifetime. As they rode up the rocky drive leading to the gates, a familiar face looked up from a garden plot set back in the grounds.
"Madeleine!" d’Artagnan exclaimed, feeling a smile split his face despite the grim nature of their errand.
"M. d’Artagnan! M. Athos!" Madeleine called back, her own face lighting up with happiness. "We did not expect you back!"
"How is Christelle? And your grandmother?" d’Artagnan asked as they approached and halted their horses in front of the girl.
"Mémé is faring well," Madeleine said with a smile, "and Christelle is to be engaged to a very nice boy from down the road. Truly, our fortunes have finally turned, and much of it is thanks to you and your friends."
At the news of Christelle, d’Artagnan felt his own smile fade, but he quickly covered his reaction and said, "That’s good to hear, indeed."
"Madeleine," Athos said, a slight note of impatience coloring his voice, "we are here seeking Grimaud. Has he returned?"
Madeleine’s brows drew together. "Yes, M. Athos. He arrived at the end of June, and has been living in the castle since then. He... has not seemed himself, to be perfectly honest, and he would not speak to us of the rest of you. We were beginning to think something horrible had happened."
"I suppose you could say it has," Athos said grimly.
Madeleine looked from Athos to d’Artagnan with a questioning expression.
"Grimaud betrayed us, Madeleine," d’Artagnan explained. "He sent word of our location to the Queen’s enemies and brought them down on her—both here, and at Thiron-Gardais. We are here for justice."
Madeleine’s shock was palpable. After a moment, she gathered herself and asked, "But Her Majesty still lives? Yes? And the rest of you?"
"Yes," Athos said. "But it was a close-run thing."
A frown marred the girl’s forehead. "And you are certain it was M. Grimaud?"
"We have proof," d’Artagnan said gently. "De Tréville devised a trap to discover the traitor, and there can be no doubt."
"Do you know where we can find him?" Athos asked.
Madeleine’s face was troubled, but she answered without delay. "I believe he is in the kitchens, hanging herbs on the drying racks. I saw him only two hours ago."
"Thank you," Athos said, and whirled his horse around, cantering toward the stables.
D’Artagnan looked from Athos’ fast-retreating form to Madeleine. "I’d better go with him," he said, and Madeleine nodded her understanding, still frowning unhappily.
Grimaud’s mare was eager to regain her old, familiar stable, and they caught up with Athos as he was dismounting. Athos and d’Artagnan put their horses in the stalls next to Athos’ own gelding, which he had loaned to Grimaud for the trip to Thiron-Gardais. They quickly secured feed and water for the tired animals, but did not unsaddle them.
Athos seemed fired with new energy, steadier and more focused than d’Artagnan had seen him since before his torture outside of Illiers-Combray. His eyes burned and his face was flushed with heat, as if animated from within by the force of his righteous anger over Grimaud’s betrayal.
D’Artagnan followed along in the older man’s wake as he swept into the castle, striding over and around the debris left in the main hall after the bomb attack; taking the stairs down to the kitchens two at a time. Athos unsheathed his sword and stalked into the cool, echoing space where d’Artagnan could make out a stooped figure bent over a wooden frame in one corner.
"Grimaud," Athos said, his voice a low growl that seemed to roll through the large room like distant thunder.
The man straightened slowly, only to let his head fall forward again as if in resignation. Athos and d’Artagnan crossed the room side by side. Grimaud turned to meet them as they approached, his face gaunt and pale.
"Why?" Athos asked, the word cracking like a musket shot.
Grimaud’s expression slowly transformed from sick dread to a sort of twisted disbelief.
"Why?" he echoed as if the word tasted bad on his tongue. "You can ask me that, after you have spit and trodden upon your family’s legacy? Would it not be more appropriate, sir, for me to ask you why you have thrown everything away to follow this reckless course, tilting at distant windmills like some addled hero in a romance?"
Athos’ face was stone. "I am seeking to return the rightful heir to the throne of France, as any good Frenchman should, and to free the country from the tyranny of a Spanish puppet ruler."
"You are consorting with a Protestant apologist, seeking to topple a good Catholic regent and bring chaos and confusion back to the land!" Grimaud nearly shouted, pressing forward as if unaware or uncaring of the blade leveled at his heart. "You are concerned with politics, while I am concerned with our immortal souls!"
D’Artagnan stared at Grimaud. "If you wanted Her Majesty dead so badly, surely you could have poisoned her food or stabbed her in the breast a thousand times over. How the hell does sending armed soldiers and sell-swords after a pregnant woman not put a stain on this soul of yours that you seem so worried about?"
"I have never killed another living soul," Grimaud said, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I’m not like you—with your blades, and your guns—taking lives as easily as reaping grain from the fields."
"Then you’re a coward and a hypocrite, as well as a traitor," Athos said, "and you should know that the lives of thirty-five Benedictine monks—good, devout Catholics from the abbey at Thiron—are on your conscience. Burned alive by the army you sent after our friends and the woman we are pledged to protect."
Grimaud’s face crumpled, and his voice was high and desperate as he said, "If they were knowingly harboring that woman, then they were not good Catholics! I heard her, you know. I heard her trying to convince her husband to give the Protestant scum equal rights as a bribe to gain their support against Isabella and her son! God punished Louis with the plague... but He left it to me to punish his temptress Eve, with her rotten apple."
"God’s teeth! I will kill you for this treachery, Grimaud," Athos said.
"Of course you will," Grimaud said, sounding defeated. "You have been lost to me for years, Master—ever since you took that... that creature you call your wife into your bed, and into your life. She has turned you weak and sinful with her own wickedness! You know what she is."
D’Artagnan felt a shock behind his ribcage. Was Grimaud talking about Milady? He was unable to stop himself from glancing at Athos to see his reaction, but the older man’s face could have been carved from the mountain that was his chosen namesake.
"Yes," Athos said. "I do. I know exactly who and what my wife is. And now I know what you are, as well."
"Then know this," Grimaud said in a voice like a death-knell. "I finally figured out what de Tréville must have done to trick me, and sent word to my contact. Troops will descend on La Croix-du-Perche before you can possibly warn them. The deed will be done, and there is nothing you can do about it. You will all burn in Hell for your sins, while I go to sit at God’s right hand."
D’Artagnan’s heart sank at the words. Athos’ lip curled into a snarl, and he tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword.
"To Hell I may go, Grimaud," Athos said, "but no just God would accept such an inconstant servant as you into His embrace."
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Grimaud’s features in the instant before Athos lunged forward and ran him through. The old servant’s body slid to the flagstones, blood gushing from the wound as the blade slipped free. Athos staggered sideways a step as if he, too, had been wounded, and d’Artagnan moved quickly to support him. The other man sagged for only a moment before dragging himself upright and shaking d’Artagnan off.
"We must ride for La Croix-du-Perche as if the very Devil himself was behind us," Athos said in a voice made hoarse by strain and weakness. "Our friends’ lives depend upon it."
