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"GATHER SUPPLIES," Athos told him. "Bread, cheese, wine. Enough for two days; no more."
"Right," d’Artagnan said, his mind flying over the logistics of what they needed to do as he swept around the kitchen, grabbing a cloth bag and rummaging for what they needed while avoiding the slowly spreading puddle of blood on the floor. "We should take all three horses. Aramis’ mare is the most worn down. We can load her with the supplies—it will be quite a bit less than the weight of a rider, and it will also ease the burden for the other two."
"Good," Athos said. "Yes. That’s good. You have a tactical turn of mind, d’Artagnan. There isn’t enough money left to pay for fresh horses along the way, but perhaps we can rotate through the three we have. Let the weariest one carry the lighter burden of the supplies."
They hurried out of the castle, leaving Grimaud’s body cooling slowly on the stone floor. D’Artagnan was alarmed to see that all of Athos’ newfound strength seemed to have died along with his faithless servant, and he staggered as if drunk, bracing himself on whatever wall or piece of furniture came to hand until d’Artagnan surreptitiously slid his right arm through Athos’ left to steady him.
At the stables, he left Athos to arrange the supplies on Rosita while he saddled Athos’ fine bay mare, the only horse of the three that was rested and hale. In minutes, he was assisting Athos onto the animal; trying not to think about the clammy sweat on his companion’s face or the fine tremor he could feel beneath his supporting hands. He took Rosita’s reins in one hand and mounted Grimaud’s weedy little mare himself—well, Grimaud’s mare no longer, he supposed. The horse of a dead man.
Their pace on the journey would be determined by the slowest of the three animals. Athos, however, was not going to let either his own weakness or the horses' hold them back at the start, and headed out of the yard at a steady canter. A small crowd seemed to be gathering near where they had spoken with Madeleine; d’Artagnan felt a pang as he recognized Christelle, her hand clasped in that of a rangy lad a few years younger than he was. She raised her other arm in a wave. Athos and d’Artagnan were too far away and moving too quickly to make communication possible, though d’Artagnan raised a hand in return.
Within minutes, the familiar castle was once again fading into the distance behind them.
* * *
For d’Artagnan, the mad dash to reach La Croix-du-Perche was a gradual descent into hell. After reaching Oucques, Athos led them slightly northwest toward Cloyes-sur-le-Loir rather than straight north toward Châteaudun. Already, the evening darkness was nearly complete, and d’Artagnan was utterly unfamiliar with the route. Without the moon, waxing gibbous in the relatively clear night sky, travel would have been completely impossible. As it stood, it was still undoubtedly foolhardy.
Athos explained that this route through Cloyes-sur-le-Loir and several smaller hamlets—most of them abandoned—was more direct than the route they had travelled back and forth from Thiron-Gardais and Illiers-Combray. The roads (if they could even be called that, d’Artagnan thought sourly) were smaller, barely used these days. While that seemed at first as if it would be a detriment to them, d’Artagnan quickly came to understand Athos’ reasoning. The grassy, overgrown tracks they were following had not been churned into mud after the previous night’s deluge. True, they were wet and slick, full of water-filled potholes. They were not, however, sucking at the horses’ legs with every step, slowing them down and sapping their strength.
They rode through the night, stopping only to trade horses when one of the riders’ mounts tired more than the animal serving as their packhorse. Puddles still sufficed to keep the beasts watered, and d’Artagnan ate rations in the saddle during the periods when they slowed to let the horses regain their breath. He was painfully aware that Athos ate nothing.
The older man appeared to be navigating by the stars, confirming the route by noting the abandoned villages they came across. D’Artagnan decided that his previous distaste for riding through these ghostly reminders of lives snuffed out by the plague was nothing compared to his dislike of doing so at night. In the moonlight, tattered curtains in gaping black windows seemed to glow faintly as they fluttered in the light breeze, in counterpoint to the scrabble and scratch of wild animals gradually reclaiming the area from the previous human inhabitants.
As the night wore on, Athos began to flag visibly. D’Artagnan entreated him to at least eat and drink something, if he would not stop and rest.
"Wine," Athos replied in a weak, croaking voice, and d’Artagnan handed him one of the skins. He could barely hold it up to his lips, but at least it was something.
Morning saw them skirting slightly west of Cloyes-sur-le-Loir. Despite being nearly healed, the damaged muscles in d’Artagnan’s left shoulder were aching with the tension of remaining awake and upright on his horse. Athos was slumped in the saddle. His face was ghastly white, with gray, cracked lips and eyes nearly hidden in dark hollows.
"Athos, we must rest," d’Artagnan said, shocked by his companion’s appearance in the dawning light. "Just for a few minutes. You can have more wine; perhaps try to eat something."
Athos shook his head slowly, as if even that small movement took all his energy. "I mustn’t. If I dismount, I’ll not be able to continue. Give me the wine, though."
D’Artagnan reluctantly rode close, handing the wineskin over once more and steadying it with one outstretched hand as Athos drank. For the first time, he allowed himself to truly worry that Athos might not survive the trip, and felt the faint stirrings of panic lodge behind his ribs.
They trekked on, Athos’ growing weakness and the horses’ mounting exhaustion slowing their pace by increments. D’Artagnan forced himself to eat and drink, knowing that were he to succumb to weakness as well, it would surely be the final straw for them. Athos clung stubbornly to the saddle, ignoring all attempts to inquire about his welfare, or to press him to eat and rest. Dawn slowly colored the sky as another deserted hamlet came and went, and another, and another.
The sun was sliding like molasses toward the western horizon when Athos finally consented to a bit more wine, mixed with water d’Artagnan had added from a clean brook they’d passed two hours ago to replenish their supplies.
Fifteen minutes later, all d’Artagnan’s fears were realized when the older man groaned and reined his mare to a halt, doubling over to vomit a thin stream of yellow bile down the animal’s sweaty shoulder. D’Artagnan cried out and jumped off his own horse before it had even come to a stop, but he was too late to prevent Athos from collapsing sideways and sliding to the ground in a heap.
"Athos!" he cried, ignoring muscles cramped by long hours in the saddle as he rushed over and slid to his knees next to the unresponsive man.
Athos was unconscious, his skin radiating dry heat and stretched tight over the planes of his face. D’Artagnan shook his shoulder and slapped him lightly on the cheeks, all to no effect. He looked around at the deserted landscape, trying to force his sluggish, sleep-deprived mind into action.
The three horses stood around them, heads hanging low with exhaustion as they blew and snorted. After a moment, his little broom-tailed mare wandered over and began to pick at the grass on the verge next to them in a desultory manner. They had seen no other living souls, except for a single farmer with a rough cart pulled by an ass near Cloyes-sur-le-Loir, early that morning. It was exceedingly unlikely that anyone would find them here, either to help them or to rob them.
The sun was only a few degrees above the horizon. Already, the humid evening was taking on that golden, dreamlike quality of sunset. They had just exited a copse of young trees when Athos’ strength failed him; a few had dead or broken branches hanging from them.
I’ll make a fire, d’Artagnan told himself, still trying to come up with some semblance of a plan. I’ll make a fire so I can still see what I’m doing when the sun goes down. Then I’ll unsaddle the horses and put hobbles on them so they can rest and graze.
That constituted a plan, did it not? He rose and gathered the horses, hooking their reins over a sturdy looking low branch. The dead wood was a bit damp, but there were plenty of smaller twigs that had dried well during the day. The flint and tinder were in the front corner of the left rear saddlebag. It took more attempts than it should have to strike a spark and start the fire, but he managed it eventually, and fed small twigs to the little flames until they grew strong enough to dry the larger wood, sending plumes of smoke into the air.
He returned to Athos. The other man still did not respond to d’Artagnan’s attempts to wake him, so he dragged him closer to the fire and laid him carefully on his side with d’Artagnan’s rolled-up doublet under his cheek as a pillow to prevent him from choking if he vomited again.
Next, he unsaddled the horses and laid their gear in a rough semicircle around the fire. He rubbed the animals down as best he could with a piece of folded burlap and hobbled them so they could move around and feed on the tall grass. Taking food from the saddlebags, he ate without tasting anything and washed it down with watered wine. Unable to distract himself any longer, he returned to Athos and crouched down next to him.
The flickering firelight threw the older man’s sunken eyes into shadow. He still breathed, and a fast, thready beat pulsed beneath d’Artagnan’s fingers when he pressed them to Athos’ neck. Unsure what else he could do, d’Artagnan put some strips of dried meat in their little cooking pot, covered it with watered wine, and set it close enough to the fire to bring it to a low boil.
It was becoming harder and harder to stay awake and focused. Though it seemed a useless pastime, he distracted himself while the broth was cooking by taking an inventory of their remaining supplies and repacking them. When he had finished, the meat in the pot was soft and the remaining liquid had taken on a rich brown color. He moved the container away from the fire with a rag wrapped around his hand to protect himself from the heat, and poured a bit more liquid in to cool it.
The meat had been boiled to tastelessness, but he ate it anyway before dipping some of the broth out with a small wooden cup. He maneuvered Athos into a half-sitting position against his chest, feeling a moment of hope when the man moaned softly at the change. Still, there was no further response or indication of wakefulness. D’Artagnan picked up the cup in his right hand and supported Athos’ head with his left.
"Athos, you must try to drink this," he said, knowing it was unlikely his companion could hear him or understand. Still, he brought the cup to Athos’ slack mouth and let a small amount flow past his lips. At first, it just dribbled out again, but when he poured a little more and cupped his hand under Athos’ chin to close his mouth, he felt a weak swallowing motion under his palm. Heartened by the tiny success, he continued to feed Athos sips of the broth until the cup was empty, some of which he swallowed and some of which now dampened the front of his clothing.
When he was done, he resettled Athos on his side and sat down next to him, half reclining against one of the saddles and staring into the fire. He needed to stay awake and figure out what he should do. He could not afford to descend into panic, imagining over and over the moment when Athos’ breath would slow and stop, his heartbeat shuddering to a standstill the same way d’Artagnan’s father’s had, and his mother’s, and his beautiful little sister’s.
Leaving him alone.
No, he could definitely not afford to think of that, and he could not afford to sleep. There had to be something he could do. Some action that he could take to wrest Athos back from death’s grasp and get them both to La Croix-du-Perche. If only he weren’t so stupid and mired with fatigue.
Dizzy with it.
Aching with it.
There had to be something. Something...
* * *
He jerked awake some unknown amount of time later from a nightmare, disoriented, finding himself slumped sideways against the saddle he’d been leaning on. The fire had nearly burned itself out; only the faint glow of embers remained. He remembered Athos with a heavy jolt, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest as he lunged toward the other man, placing his hand loosely over the lower half of his face and nearly sobbing with relief when a damp exhalation of breath tickled his fingers.
"Thank you," he whispered to a deity whom he thought had abandoned him long ago. "Oh, God. Thank you. Thank you."
The rush of gratitude was followed quickly by a wave of self-loathing so strong it caused his stomach to surge and cramp. Too weak. Not good enough to keep the people you care about alive. Trying to force himself back under control, d’Artagnan stirred up the fire and fed it more twigs and branches until it was crackling merrily in the darkness once more.
He scooped more of the broth he’d made earlier into the wooden cup and repositioned Athos against his body. The other man did not groan or react, but it seemed that more of the liquid went into him this time, and less ended up down their fronts. Since Athos had successfully kept down the minuscule amount from earlier, d’Artagnan patiently fed him cup after cup until the small pot was empty. When he was done, he returned the other man to the ground, curling him onto his other side and making sure that the ugly burn on his cheek was not pressing into the leather of his makeshift pillow.
The moon had set while d’Artagnan slept, and the night was dark and endless. He stared at the fire; his mind turning tighter and tighter around the feelings of humiliation and failure. Drawing in and in on itself until it must by necessity turn outward into action. He scratched at his forearms unconsciously, his right hand working its way down until the nails pressed over the bandage on his left wrist and the inflamed flesh beneath it. The flush of pain sharpened his thoughts, giving them a new direction as they turned toward his right saddlebag, and what lay curled in the bottom of it.
Five minutes later he was kneeling on the ground, shirtless, with the untried leather lash gripped in his hand and no real memory of having made the decision to retrieve it. His shoulder was still just stiff enough to make the muscles protest at the movement as he let the tails hiss over his shoulder and bite into the skin for the first time, but it gradually loosened as the steady, rhythmic motion continued.
Hiss. Slap. Hiss. Slap. Hiss. Slap. Hiss. Slap. Hiss. Slap.
The pain rose; crested. Rose higher, driving out the thoughts circling, vulture-like, in his mind until there was only simple, blessed stillness. Sensing that the turmoil still lay in wait for him, thwarted only temporarily, he continued his self-flagellation longer than he normally might have, letting the pleasant buzz behind his eyes build higher and higher until the fire in front of him seemed to waver and surge, dimmer then brighter in his vision with each stroke.
He was brought back to himself by the sound of a cough followed by a moan, and the handle of the whip fell from nerveless fingers as he turned to Athos, as if in slow motion. The older man pushed himself clumsily to a sitting position, one hand rising to the side of his head as if it pained him.
"Athos?" d’Artagnan said in an unnaturally steady voice.
Athos grunted and looked around in confusion. "Where—?"
"We’re on the road from Blois to La Croix-du-Perche," he said, still in that strange, calm voice. "You collapsed and fell off your horse."
D’Artagnan felt almost as if he was watching himself from outside. He could see that part of himself that wanted to grab Athos and weep into his shoulder with relief like a small child, but it was hidden behind the steady, steady voice and the odd sense of detachment.
"How long?" Athos asked, urgency creeping into his tone.
"I don’t know," d’Artagnan answered. "Most of the night, I think."
Athos cursed once, sharply, and tried to rise. He was too weak, and fell back, panting. He looked up at d’Artagnan, meeting his eyes in the flickering firelight. "You must go on without me, d’Artagnan. Leave me here and don’t look back. The Queen’s life—our friends’ lives—are at stake."
D’Artagnan shook his head and replied, "No. I will not leave you here to die. If you want me to continue on to la Croix-du-Perche, then you will have to get back on your horse and come with me."
Again, the words came as if heard and seen from a slight remove, but d’Artagnan recognized the truth of them nonetheless.
"Damn you, you insolent boy!" Athos said, before letting his head fall forward to rest on his chest and continuing in a low voice, as if to himself, "Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno. De Tréville chose wisely. And damn him for that, as well." He looked up, speaking to d’Artagnan again. "Ready the horses, then. You’ll have to tie me into the saddle."
D’Artagnan nodded, and calmly pulled his shirt on over the lines of heat radiating across his back. He rose and looked to the east, where the sky was lightening in preparation for the break of dawn.
Half an hour later, they were riding north once more as the sun slid slowly up from the horizon on their right. His little broom-tailed mare had been limping slightly on her right fore when d’Artagnan caught and saddled her in the predawn light, so he packed her with the light burden of supplies and rode Rosita instead, leading the lame horse on one side and Athos’ mare, with her weak and unsteady passenger lashed into the saddle with loops of rope, on the other.
He was distantly surprised to come upon the familiar road into Luigny after less than an hour of riding, having had no idea that they were so close to their destination. The tree at the edge of town still bore the blood-colored plague cross, though the paint had flaked somewhat during the recent rainstorms.
D’Artagnan led his strange little procession down the main street, past the house where Aramis had given the dying boy tincture of opium; past stinking bodies lying at the edge of the road to be carted away; past frightened, feral eyes peeking out at them from cracked doors and windows. Whenever emotion and memory started to creep up on him, he shifted his shoulders, feeling the welts on his back drag against the linen of his shirt, pulling a bit where they had bled and stuck to the cloth. The familiar pain calmed him, reminding him that he was weak and alone; unable to save anyone here from their fates... except, just maybe, Athos.
Near the end of the street where the houses thinned out, a large man with sores on his face stepped into d’Artagnan’s path, wielding a club and eyeing their fat saddlebags with a combination of avarice and desperation. D’Artagnan pulled out his pistol and pointed it at the man’s heart, sighting down the barrel with dead eyes.
"Don’t," he said in that distant, detached voice.
The man snarled and leaned back, ready to swing the cudgel at Rosita’s head. D’Artagnan pulled the trigger before it could connect, and the would-be robber jerked and slumped to the ground. D’Artagnan led the horses around the body, riding out of Luigny without looking back.
The final leg of the long, ill-favored journey was quiet enough, yet it seemed to take forever. Worries slowly began to pierce d’Artagnan’s unnatural calm, buzzing around his head like flies. The trip had taken far too long. Would they arrive to find everyone slaughtered by Grimaud’s allies? Was he delivering Athos back to the welcoming arms of their friends, or to the same enemies who had tortured him in the first place? Even if they were not too late and were able to flee with the Queen, how would they all succeed in escaping while transporting an injured man on the verge of collapse?
By the time the little village of La Croix-du-Perche appeared in front of him, d’Artagnan was trembling lightly and covered with cold sweat despite the heat of the late morning sun. The sharp burn across his back—which had earlier wrapped his mind in a soft, gray cocoon—was now merely painful. He longed to kick Rosita into a gallop and bring the days of worry to an end, but with a lame horse on one side and a rider barely conscious in the saddle on the other, he was confined to the same plodding pace they had set all day.
Slowly the houses and buildings grew closer, until finally—finally—they were at the edge of town. He wanted to ask the first person he saw whether anything had happened, but the streets were deserted. They trudged down the road until they passed the chapel. The road turned north, and the houses thinned out and grew larger. Then—at last—they were at M. Rougeux’s cobbled drive, the last on the right.
With his heart in his throat and his hand on his sword, d’Artagnan turned the horses onto the property. Immediately, two young men in peasants’ clothes and wielding swords that were too large for them stepped forward to bar the way.
"Who goes there?" one of them asked in a voice of youthful bravado.
D’Artagnan’s heart sunk for an instant, sure that the chateau had been taken and he had delivered them both to their deaths. Before he could draw steel, however, his exhausted mind took note of the lads’ obvious youth and inexperience—the clumsy manner in which they held their inappropriate weapons and the nervousness in their eyes.
Cautiously, he removed his hand from his own weapon.
"Athos and d’Artagnan, to see M. de Tréville," he said, and waited to find out if they would live or die.
The nervousness evaporated from the lads’ faces, and the taller one turned to one side and yelled, "M. Porthos! It’s them!"
Only force of will kept d’Artagnan from slumping with relief as a familiar figure hurried forward from behind an outbuilding, a broad grin splitting his large face, which fell instantly into worry upon seeing the state of them.
"Good Lord above," Porthos said. "The two of you look like death warmed up. What in heaven’s name has befallen you?"
"Porthos, please," d’Artagnan said urgently, "he’s hurt. You must help him. We’re all in danger—I have to see de Tréville!"
"All right, d’Artagnan," Porthos said in a calming voice, laying one large, reassuring hand on d’Artagnan’s thigh, and the other on Athos’ knee. "We’ve got you now. You did good. Let us take care of things from here." He turned to the young man who had called for him. "Run and get Aramis, then tell de Tréville that Athos and d’Artagnan are back and d’Artagnan needs to speak to him."
The lad nodded and hared off, dropping his sword on the ground, much to Porthos’ obvious disgust at the lack of respect for his weapon. D’Artagnan choked on his own voice, swallowing a low noise of distress as relief warred with his urgency to relay his message to de Tréville. Porthos patted his leg one more time and said, "Come on; let’s get you both to the house."
He led the horses down the driveway, bellowing for the boy to come and take Grimaud’s mare when they passed the stable. Hearing footsteps, d’Artagnan turned to see Aramis jogging toward them.
"Aramis," he managed hoarsely, "please... Athos. He’s hurt. I tried, but I couldn’t... and now we’re all in danger. We have to leave before they get here!"
Aramis took Rosita’s bridle and looked d’Artagnan and Athos over with an assessing glance before resuming their slow progress toward the house. "I’m afraid none of us are going anywhere at the moment. Now, d’Artagnan, I need you to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. That’s it. And again. Much better. You’ve done well to get Athos back here. Can you tell me how he was injured?"
D’Artagnan breathed in and out as Aramis had ordered, trying to settle his thoughts into coherence. "He was tortured, Aramis. Branded. That was... five days ago, I think. No, maybe six. I’m not sure."
Aramis nodded. "That’s close enough. Thank you."
They arrived in front of the house; the lad who had run to get Aramis opened the door wide and moved forward to take the horses’ bridles. Porthos untied the sloppy loops of rope binding Athos’ dead weight to the saddle.
"Are you with us, old friend?" he asked, giving Athos a small shake. Aramis joined him, adding a steadying hand to the injured man’s shoulder.
Athos stirred and groaned.
"Enough slacking, M. le Comte," Aramis said lightly. "You’ve gone and made young d’Artagnan do all the work. Whatever will Milady say?"
"Porthos? Aramis?" Athos whispered in a voice like jagged glass.
"The very same," Porthos said, a smile lighting up his face.
"Thought I was dreaming you," Athos continued. He looked around in confusion, his view momentarily blocked by his horse as he was lifted carefully down from the saddle. "What about d’Artagnan? Is he all right?"
"I’m here. I’m fine," d’Artagnan managed. "I’ll report to de Tréville."
Athos met his eyes over his mare’s back as Porthos eased a shoulder underneath his arm to support him, and nodded. "Thank you."
Allowing his worry to ease a notch or two now that Athos was being cared for, d’Artagnan swung down from the saddle and was shocked to discover that his legs would not support him. Before he could collapse into a heap on the ground, though, a pair of hands caught and steadied him against Rosita’s side. He looked around and met Aramis’ eyes.
"Your injured arm is getting stronger," he said stupidly.
Aramis rolled his eyes and flashed him a pinched smile. "Just in time to support my friends as they collapse one by one, it appears. Now... out with it. Where are you hurt?"
D’Artagnan shook his head. "I’m not. Not like you’re thinking. Just my wrist. Rope burn from when we escaped capture."
"And you’ve been looking after Athos since then?" Aramis asked astutely. He readjusted his grip, causing d’Artagnan to hiss out a surprised breath as the other man’s forearm pressed against his shoulders. Wincing, Aramis moved his arm and gently peeled d’Artagnan’s doublet away far enough to look at his upper back. Though he said nothing, d’Artagnan knew that the stripes of darkened shirt material where the blood had soaked through would be obvious.
"I tried to help him," he replied in answer to Aramis’ question, not addressing the rest of it. "He wouldn’t let me near his wounds, though. I’m so sorry. I really did try."
"Athos is an honorable and loyal man, d’Artagnan. Brave as a lion; crafty as a fox," Aramis said philosophically. "Unfortunately, he’s also a complete idiot. Try not to take it to heart."
D’Artagnan opened his mouth and closed it again, not sure what to say in response.
"Come," Aramis said, taking pity on him. "You must make your report to de Tréville, and then you should rest."
"No," d’Artagnan said, balking. "We can’t rest. I told you, we must leave immediately."
Aramis chivvied him into motion again. "And I told you, we can’t go anywhere just now. Come inside."
The other man led him into the same cozy parlor where they had earlier been reunited with the Queen and indicated he should sit, but d’Artagnan shook his head, feeling his legs gain steadiness and his strength begin to rally now that he and Athos were back among friends.
De Tréville appeared from an interior doorway a few moments later, looking as harried as d’Artagnan had ever seen him. Aramis flashed d’Artagnan an encouraging smile that did not quite reach his eyes, and excused himself to help deal with Athos.
"D’Artagnan," de Tréville said, clasping d’Artagnan’s upper arm in a gesture that seemed almost paternal. "I am relieved that you and Athos have returned, even if a bit worse for wear. Porthos said I should get a report from you, given that Athos is indisposed."
"Yes, sir," d’Artagnan began, rallying his wits, "Grimaud is dead, but he’d already realized that you tricked him. He deduced that you must be hiding here with Her Majesty and informed his contact before we reached Blois. A troop of men could arrive at any time to attack; I’m surprised they didn’t beat us here, to be perfectly honest."
De Tréville nodded. "I see. And how came you by your injuries?"
Forcing down frustration that his warning about an imminent attack seemed not to be taken seriously, he replied, "We arrived at Illiers-Combray to find that the Comte de Thimerais’ mansion had been burned to the ground. Several of the men responsible had remained behind to guard it, and they captured us. They tortured Athos for information about the Queen, but we escaped and made our way to Blois—where Athos killed Grimaud—and then back here."
"Did Athos break under torture?" de Tréville asked, as if they were discussing the weather rather than the honor of a man who had sacrificed himself to protect d’Artagnan’s own worthless hide.
"No, of course not!" he replied hotly. "He would never—"
"Yeah, he did," Porthos interrupted from the doorway, and d’Artagnan wondered how long the man had been standing there. "Says no damage was done, though. He lied and told them we were at the inn at Châteaudun, but then he slipped up and gave them your name. Doesn’t matter—him and d’Artagnan here killed everyone who heard it when they escaped."
"Good enough," de Tréville said, as if the matter was closed.
"A bit better than that, actually," Porthos replied. "Athos also said one of the interrogators made a mistake of his own. Made reference to getting orders from ‘the Cardinal.’ And I think we can all guess which cardinal he meant..."
As it happened, d’Artagnan couldn’t guess which cardinal he meant—though it was obvious that de Tréville could. The captain’s single eye widened in surprise before furious anger overtook his expression for a moment, only to be hidden once more behind a mask of detachment.
"Interesting information, but not anything that’s useful to us at the moment," de Tréville said with tight control. He turned back to d’Artagnan and softened slightly. "Well done, d’Artagnan. You have acquitted yourself admirably."
D’Artagnan looked from de Tréville to Porthos and back again in confusion. Well done? How was any of this well done? Athos had been tortured... armed assassins were descending on the Queen for a third time... why did no one seem to understand?
"Sir," he said, "perhaps I have not made it clear. Another attack is coming at any moment. We must get Her Majesty to safety. We have to leave."
From deeper in the house came a long, high-pitched female cry of pain. Porthos looked uncomfortable, and de Tréville’s brow furrowed. D’Artagnan snapped his jaw shut abruptly, the hair on the back of his neck rising. He had heard that sound once before, a long time ago, from his mother when he was still a young boy.
It was the sound of a woman in labor.
