Chapter Three

d'Artagnan heard the farmer's wife returning down the hall, then felt her skirts brush his legs. He was kneeling still, on the floor beside the bed in the bedchamber into which he'd half-dragged the couple's limp-as-a-wilted-stalk landlord.

"Here," the woman said, bending over so her ample breast rested over his right shoulder. In her right hand she was holding a bowl out to him. "Mustard and water; it will make him vomit again. It draws the blood to the stomach to cleanse it."

At least that's what d'Artagnan thought he heard, her accent was so thick he had trouble understanding her. If he'd understood correctly, it sounded like an old wives tale, but with no Aramis to discredit the remedy, it was all he had to work with.

Behind him, her spouse repeated the instructions gruffly from the doorway. " I've signaled the neighborhood 'bout the fire and sent men to deal with it," he added, "likly b'now, there won't be much left o' the place. Her'n want't know wot happened t'your hands?"

The bowl was set down on the small bedside table and d'Artagnan's hands were seized. He was drawn to his feet and the wife hauled him the two steps necessary to cross the room to inspect his palms in the light of the single, wavering candle flame atop the dresser.

A pair of sharp commands sent the farmer clomping down the hallway and back again, several more candles inserted between the fingers of one hand, a sewing basket in the other. He passed over the sewing kit and lit three more candles, seating them in wax puddles on the top of a humpback trunk pressed up against the wall at the foot of the bed.

The little room grew brighter, shadows sprang up in the corners, and the missus let go of d'Artagnan's hands to rummage in the sewing basket until she unearthed a small pair of scissors. Motioning imperially, she drew him closer to the line of candles, then set to work pulling out thorns that had worked themselves deep into the flesh of his palms.

d'Artagnan made not one sound until she had smoothed a thick salve over both hands and was bandaging the left. He flexed the right one, already bandaged, and sucked in his breath. He'd counted; with the scissors she'd drawn out seven little spikes and brought to the surface half a dozen more with a sort of glue like substance that pulled them out. She'd pulled another half dozen out of his left hand. Holding reins was going to be an unpleasant experience for the next day or two.

"Thank you." d'Artagnan gave her a little bow, there was no room to do more, and the woman stepped back, though she issued several more instructions he could not follow. He did move back around the bed to pick up the bowl she had set down, looking to the husband for translation.

"Her'n says to make sure he's 'anging over t'side when it starts't workin', so he ain't soilin' t'bedclothes."

"Right. Any idea how long it takes to work?" d'Artagnan asked without expectation, thankful Athos was out of it enough to be slightly compliant when he pressed the bowl to the pale lips.

"Her'n say mebbe right away, mebbe a few min..."

No need to continue. d'Artagnan jerked Athos sideways so he hung over the side of the bed, spewing more black slime on the woven rag rug. Behind them, the woman chattered some more and d'Artagnan felt her abundant fundament press into his other shoulder as she bent to move the rug so it took the brunt of the barrage.

"More," she said, after inspecting the discharge closely. Then mimed her words so her intention was clear.

d'Artagnan choked back his own gag reflex and tipped Athos' head back to pour more of the foul brew down his throat, then hurriedly hauled him back over the edge, this time to heave over a wooden bucket in place of the rug. How they'd managed that so quickly, d'Artagnan had no idea, though time no longer ran linearly for him either.

When there was nothing left to vomit, the épouse brought soup for d'Artagnan to alternate, until finally, several d'Artagnan eternities later, the comte began to emerge from the dense fog of alcoholic haze.

The farmer had disappeared when it became clear d'Artagnan no longer needed an interpreter.

"Enough," the wife said now, after another inspection of the contents of this new bucket. d'Artagnan thought they must have been at it for at least an hour, possibly two. Athos appeared to have lost all skeletal structure, hanging between them like so much wet laundry. His sweat-soaked clothes were plastered to his body, his hair curling like a wet halo around his haggard features.

The wife gestured for d'Artagnan to lift the comte again, sign language having become the preferred method of communication, and peeled off the literally dripping shirt. She collected a damp cloth and made quick work of bathing the silent-as-a-stone Musketeer. Finishing that, she turned each pillow mounded behind their patient and signed for d'Artagnan to allow her landlord to lie back again.

d'Artagnan drew the covers up, stood for a moment looking down at the Musketeer, then turned to help clean up the room. The wife disappeared again briefly, returning with a handful of dried mint that she crushed and sprinkled around the room, instantly freshening the stale atmosphere, though even that could not overcome the pungent aroma of smoke and fire and alcohol.

"I'm sorry, Madame, I missed your name. I know your husband told me -" d'Artagnan began.

She put a finger to his lips, stopping the exhausted utterance with a soft smile. "It is no matter, the name it is not important." And held out a clean shirt. "This will fit, yes? It belonged to my eldest."

d'Artagnan, mindful of the gift she imparted, took it with careful reverence. "Thank you, I will make sure it is returned to you in the same condition." The shirt was beautifully smocked to gather the fullness across the chest and embroidered along the neatly turned hem, with white on white fleur de lis. It was pristine; the son had not worn it many times.

"No no, he will not need it again. He is gone to the Blessed Mother. It is fine enough even for our comte, yes?"

The raiment they had stripped off the comte had been plain, coarse muslin, only the bare essential of a shirt. This was of the softest cotton, every seam finished so no raw edges showed, every exquisite stitch set so precisely even the closest inspection did not show where one ended and the next began.

"Oui, Madame," d'Artagnan agreed respectfully, "fine enough even for the comte."

She beamed her pleasure as she announced, "I will bring food."

d'Artagnan stifled his sigh. It really had been too much to hope that she had not recognized the smell of spirits. He turned back to Athos with the shirt and found the comte watching him, though the red-rimmed eyes dropped before their gazes touched.

"You cannot imagine how much I resent the fact that you're a good friend right now."

The rasp d'Artagnan heard in the Musketeer's voice did not detract in the least from the declamation. He did not so much as flinch from the castigation. "You would have done the same had our positions been reversed," he said quietly, sitting down on the side of the bed.

"There is a vast gulf of difference between us, d'Artagnan. And I am not putting that shirt on."

"Of course there is. You're eons older than me, you're a Musketeer in the king's employ, and you're a stupid drunk. I, on the other hand, am barely old enough to walk and talk, I'm a lowly farmer from Gascony and I am ridiculous when I drink. Which is why I never drink in excess." d'Artagnan gathered the shirt between his hands. "You are also putting on this shirt because it would be the height of rudeness to refuse after all this woman has done for you. And you are never impolite, even when you've poisoned yourself practically to death."

"That's not what I meant."

"You are not usually delusional either. You're damn well aware I understood exactly what you meant, now sit up." d'Artagnan kept the hard edge in his voice despite the unholy desire to weep like a babe.

Athos' suffering cut to the quick. Aramis would know exactly what to do or say to drag their leader out of the emotional tempest he was drowning in. d'Artagnan could only hold on to the man and hope Athos would not slash the bindings he was trying to lash around some immovable object that they might both weather this night's storm.

Sighing, Athos gathered the strength to lean forward, though he could not manage it on his own.

d'Artagnan maneuvered the shirt over the Musketeer's head and threaded his pliant arms through the sleeves, tying the laces loosely at the wrists.

While d'Artagnan had neither Aramis' skill nor emotional range, he was not so inexperienced that he did not recognize Athos' anger was directed inward. And that this was a pain over which the man had no control. He understood, too, that quite a bit of Athos' resentment was directed at him for standing in the way of dealing with that pain in the only way the comte imagined it could be assuaged.

He would plant himself between Athos and that assuagement for as long as necessary, endure whatever abuse the Musketeer heaped upon him as a result, so long as in the end his friend was alive to face another day. And then they would find this woman and deal with her.

"What happened?"

"I told you."

Because he was a quick learner, d'Artagnan had realized early on that Aramis' people skills were worth emulating. He'd watched the man like a hawk and knew, as a result, Athos usually spilled if the interrogator waited him out. Only ever in bits and pieces, but always enough that an astute listener could put the puzzle pieces together if inclined to do so. So he waited - with uncharacteristic patience.

"I told you," Athos said again, so wearily d'Artagnan thought his own heart might break at the desperation in the singularly simple and yet terribly complex set of words.

"And I heard you, but I don't understand how a woman who should be no more than a ghost set your home on fire." d'Artagnan, who had moved to the floor because it put him slightly lower than the comte's eye level, pulled up his knees and propped his elbows on them. "Tell me again. You had her hung because she was a cold-blooded murderess, you thought she was dead, and now she's alive? It makes no sense. I can't fathom that you were not there to see the deed done. If you gave the order, you stayed to see it carried out."

A long silence ensued before the raspy voice admitted, so quietly d'Artagnan had to strain to hear, "I watched Remy pull the cart out from under her ... heard the involuntary cry as the rope choked her and I could take no more ... I turned and rode away ... she did not die, d'Artagnan ... there was not enough of a drop to break her neck. Remy cut her down as soon as I was out of sight and revived her. I found him ... this afternoon ... with his throat slit. She said he had lived in fear for the last five years, that he was terrified I would find out what he'd done, and she'd put him out of his misery ... it's probably true. He was the kind of man who would have found that knowledge hard to live with."

Like you, d'Artagnan thought silently, squeezing his eyes shut. "Who else did she kill?"

"Thomas ... when she realized he had discovered the truth of what she was and had been trying to tell me ... I was completely under her spell and had no ears to hear his indictment. I thought -" Athos stopped dead, his breathing growing more labored than before. "I thought," he said eventually, the hoarse rasp little more than a broken sigh of sound, "that for once someone had chosen me over him ... if I had listened..."

Thomas, my younger brother ... everyone's favorite.

"Mère de Dieu," d'Artagnan repeated softly, understanding coming full circle.

"I happened to be nearby when my ex-fiancé screamed the house down ... Anne probably would have murdered her too ... claimed Jeanne and Thomas killed one another ... I would have believed her."

"Anne?" d'Artagnan did not know why he was surprised, Anne was not an uncommon name. "Her name was Anne, like the queen?"

"Yes." Though she was the direct antithesis of France's lovely Spanish ambassadress.

An imperative knock sounded on the door jamb. "I've brought food and black coffee," the wife stated.

d'Artagnan rose quickly, taking the heavy tray, though there was nowhere to put it. The woman gestured to the floor and stepped back, folding her arms over her bosom as she fastened a gimlet eye on Athos. "We didn't know the Master'd taken the king's coin. We thought he'd been murdered by that whore, too, not seeing him for nigh on five years now."

d'Artagnan did not understand, but she was gone before he could ask her to repeat herself.

"She says they thought I'd been murdered ... too," Athos translated.

"Oh." That was enough to illuminate the rest of her comment. A nobleman turning up after five years absence, in the uniform of a soldier, no matter how elite the unit, would certainly raise eyebrows. But there had been no malice in the woman's voice, only fond exasperation. That said a lot about the character of the man lying in the bed.

"You never did tell me where your horse is." d'Artagnan said, changing the subject with determination. There was nothing to be done this night, in the matter of a resurrected wife. He busied himself buttering a slice of bread, then slathering it with a thick coating of goat cheese. "We need to get back to Paris before roll call in the morning."

"Horse?" Athos put a hand to his aching head - the one holding the bread d'Artagnan had just put into his hand.

"Two ears, four legs, long tail. They convey us from place to place?" d'Artagnan sat back down on the bed, took the bread back, broke it into pieces and began handing them over one at a time, lips twitching at the garnered scowl.

The scowl went from obstinate to murderous, but Athos cooperated. Because d'Artagnan was right; they did have to get back to Paris. "Left him at the blacksmith barn."

"Where is that? And how far?"

"Where are we?"

"Mmmmm ... I don't know. Half an hour from the house, maybe an hour. I lost track of time." And direction, but d'Artagnan could get that from the farmer.

"Blacksmith is east of the house. Short ride ... longer walk." Athos refused the last pieces of bread. His abused stomach was churning again. "Is there water?"

"No," d'Artagnan inspected the tray. "The goodwife apparently thinks you still need sobering up; she brought coffee. There's other stuff on here I don't recognize, but no water. Do you want some?"

"Please."

d'Artagnan unfolded and headed off in search of water.

Athos took the opportunity to drag himself to the edge of bed and use the chamber pot, though his trembling limbs would not hold him up longer than it took to do the necessary. It was going to take more than a few bites of bread and few more minutes lying down to recoup the strength necessary to make it onto his horse.

"What time is it?" he asked, crawling reluctantly back under the covers as d'Artagnan returned with a pitcher of water and a copper chalice.

d'Artagnan put the pitcher on the floor beside the tray and knelt again by the bed. "I left the barracks right around the hour of evensong." He held the cup for Athos to take, making sure there was strength enough to hold it before letting go. "It must be well after compline."

"Why did you come back?"

d'Artagnan sat back on his heels, dark eyes shifting to the floor. "I was ..." He twisted his neck as though it was painfully tight.

In this small, quiet room in the middle of the night, Athos heard it pop.

"I was worried."

The Musketeer squeezed his eyes shut. The puppy was both a blessing and a curse. And definitely sent by the Erinys; he might be roasting comfortably in hell right now otherwise.

"d'Artagnan," he began, then stopped; he could not call the youth on his hero worship, no matter how uncomfortable it made him. He changed tack in the middle of the stream. "We have to get back."

"I know. I just wanted to be sure you were alright before I go collect your horse."

"Depending on where we are, it may be quicker riding double back to the blacksmith." And in the habit of command, he added, "Get the farmer."

d'Artagnan shifted back to his knees, usurping the power of command. "No." He set the cup he'd taken back down on the table by the bed. "I seriously doubt you're capable of standing on your own, and I don't have the luxury of Porthos' assistance to haul you around."

So much for hero worship, but Athos had to concede the youth made a valid argument.

"So you're staying here while I got collect your horse."

"You've made your point."

d'Artagnan scooped his jacket off the top of the dresser and slid into it.

"d'Artagnan?"

The youngster turned in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder.

"You saw her ... she was ... she was real?"

"The woman I saw on a horse was not a ghost. And she was a bruising rider."

Athos let his head sink back against the pillow. "It's not a dream."

"Uh ... your home is probably burned to the ground by now. If this is nightmare, I'm having the same dream."

"Stone does not burn." Dreams did; they went up in flames like dry tinder. His had burned down years ago, though they had continued to haunt him nightly. "God ... she's alive. What do I do now?"

d'Artagnan recognized it for the rhetorical question it was. "I'll be back shortly. There's nothing to be done tonight. Try to rest."

He knew the Lazarus story of course, but to be confronted with a modern day version of an ancient biblical tale was confounding to say the least. He turned to go, stopped, and turned back again. "Athos, did she set the house on fire knowing you were in it?"

"I do not believe so. I was ... a surprise to her, though not quite as much of a surprise as she was to me. She had a dagger ... I would have let her kill me ... I told her to." And he'd meant it with every fiber of his being. He'd grown oh-so-weary of waiting in this anti-room of hell.

d'Artagnan leaned his forehead against the doorjamb, helpless in the face of such desolation. What gave him the right to impose his own will on another? The struggle hardly merited notice, so short was its duration. Quietly, without fanfare, he drew his pistol, set it carefully on top of the dresser and walked out of the room.

Epilogue

The youth from Gascony had never been more grateful for a sunrise, for the warmth of the sun shining beacon bright across the length and breadth of Paris as they rode in through the gate in the curtain wall Charles V had caused to be built, down the rue Saint-Honoré, past the Louvre, and on to place Saint-Sulpice.

"Our Spanish friend." They were first words Athos had spoken on their return journey. d'Artagnan reined up, turning in the saddle to observe his mentor. No one would guess, seeing the comte as he was this morning, that he'd spent the night heaving up his guts. Though Aramis might recognize the dark shadows echoing the blue of the gaze following a rider up the street ahead of them. The bruised cheek would surely be cause for questions as well, but obediently d'Artagnan followed that gaze, his own lighting on the uniquely broad hat marking the Spanish spy.

"Leave him to me ... d'Artagnan." The brim of the hat shading those fiercely blue eyes turned back slowly.

d'Artagnan, ahead by the length of a horse, said nothing as Athos eyed him in turn, merely waited expectantly.

"Say nothing to the others ... of what happened."

d'Artagnan nodded. "You have my word."

The hat tipped in acknowledgement, Athos clicked his horse into motion again and - despite the pauldron boldly on display - became one with the throng of merchants and craftsman hurrying through the street.

The youth from Gascony, older and wiser than he had been just yester eve, touched his heels lightly to his mount, moving forward with purpose. The streets were busy and he could move at no more than a careful walk, so he set his mind to excising the events of the last fourteen hours, pleasantly surprised when it turned to thoughts of his mysterious lady. A woman with a rope burn around her neck and a penchant for murder. Fleetingly, he wondered if Athos' un-dead wife could be one and the same, but the idea was too preposterous to even admit to consciousness and he set it aside as well.

By the time he dismounted beside the lines of laundry in the foreyard of the Bonacieux home, he was wondering how Porthos' shoulder was and if - just perhaps - his land lady would be glad to see him.

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