by R A Dodson
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. With luck, they would be able to find something edible growing along the way, since there didn’t appear to be anything in the immediate area.
Donning the weapons belts they had taken the previous night, they mounted using a fallen tree trunk. Athos turned 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 farther 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 burnt-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 farther 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 dragged 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 farther 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 Curse 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.
Chapter 26
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 liberated 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 plums hanging from a row of trees in desperate need of pruning, but no less productive for their neglect.
Athos frowned. “The fruit is still green. We’ll become ill if we try to eat it.”
D’Artagnan took a deep breath, and guided Grimaud’s mare to the nearest tree. “No. We won’t.”
He plucked a plum free with his less-injured arm, and closed his eyes, picturing it plump and ripe. A moment later, he handed it to Athos, who examined it with a furrowed brow for long moments.
“You have magic.”
But d’Artagnan shook his head. “It’s only hedge-magic. I would have mentioned it earlier, only...”
Athos’ piercing eyes fell on him. “Magic is controversial in Gascony.”
He thought of the secrecy. The witch trials. “You could say that, yes.”
The other man raised an eyebrow. “Controversial or not, it’s certainly quite welcome at the present juncture.”
D’Artagnan tried on a small smile, and plucked more of the fruit, ripening it in his hand. 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 green plums for the journey, and set off with renewed determination toward Châteaudun.
They followed the river a little way farther 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 mann
er,” 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 had 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 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 a 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 that had cost magical energy to ripen, 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 festering,” 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, they 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 discove
r 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.