Testament of the Spirit

by SpaceCowboy

I.

Captain Treville hated getting up this early, and projected his displeasure of being woken by the King's messenger before the sun had risen by stomping down the staircase of the garrison's courtyard.

"Good," he said, arriving at the table where four of his musketeers sat waiting for him. "You're here. Saddle your horses. The King has requested an escort for a lengthy journey, and specifically asked for my best men. Simply by absence of any others, you four will do."

D'Artagnan stood with a smile. "I feel honoured."

Porthos rose next. "Where's he going?"

"A better question," asked Athos, joining his brothers on their feet, "is why are you not accompanying him?"

"It's not the King who's travelling," answered Treville, "but his physician, Doctor Lemay."

Aramis flashed a smile at his captain as he pocketed an apple. "I'll fashion a guess. Is he planning on visiting the villages near Rouen?"

Treville frowned. "How'd you know?"

"Gorge and Callais returned from there a week ago and spoke of rampant illness," replied Aramis, tossing an apple to Porthos before rising to his feet.

"Yes," nodded Treville. "So you remember."

Porthos held up a hand. "Hold on a second here, Captain. We aren't riding into some sort of plague, are we? I've been feeling pretty good lately. I don't want anything messing with my insides."

"You'll be safe," replied Treville. "Just don't drink the water."

Athos' head canted to the side. "The water?"

"Reports from the region suggest the disease is coming from the water supply," replied Treville. "Something about decaying livestock festering near the river. Doctor Lemay is to see if he can relieve some of the symptoms, possibly find a cure. The King believes it's in the best interest of France, particularly Paris, if this 'problem' remains sequestered to this small region of the countryside. Many have died already, their bodies disposed of…"

"Yes," said Aramis. "Callais mentioned something about people… disappearing."

"The Captain said disposed of, not disappearing," said d'Artagnan.

Treville sighed, rubbed his forehead. "No, Aramis is correct. It seems paranoia has set in. Anyone suspected of being sick disappears, most likely disposed of. At least, that's what the villagers believe. Apparently there's a group of very determined men travelling around and rounding up the sick. My god, it's like we've gone back to the dark ages."

"And the King wants Musketeers accompanying Lemay," said Porthos. "Two birds, one stone."

"Precisely," said Treville. "Now, it's a long trip, so I suggest you prepare accordingly. And take a recruit, you'll need a messenger. Doctor Lemay will travel by wagon, he has supplies he needs to bring, and so the journey will take longer than usual."

Aramis tipped his hat at their superior. "Aye, Captain. When does he plan on leaving?"

"This evening," replied Treville.

"Doesn't give us much time," said d'Artagnan. "Especially if we need to load extra munitions."

"A threat is highly unlikely," Aramis informed him. "It's mainly farmers and villagers out there."

"Correct," said Athos. "But remember who we're talking about. When does trouble ever give us a day off?"

Treville straightened his shoulders. "Take the extra ammunitions from the armoury," he ordered. "I'm not willing to bet against Athos on this one."

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "Captain? If we go in there with full armament, won't it give the wrong impression?"

"Perhaps," replied Treville. "But better prepared than sorry."

It took four days for Treville to receive word something had gone wrong.

A warm glass of wine awaited him by his bedside, as did a good night's sleep, but the messengers' arrival took precedence. He waited at the top of the stairs for the young recruit, his hand outstretched to receive the note.

Treville read by the candlelight of a lantern, then looked sharply at the young recruit. "Do you have anything to add to this?" he asked.

"No sir," replied the recruit. "Porthos said he didn't want to leave out any details in the letter."

"So, he's in charge now?"

"I'm afraid so," said the recruit. "Sorry, not that he isn't capable… I just mean… Well…"

Treville put a hand on his shoulder. "It's all right, son," he said. "I know what you meant. Now, did Porthos mention needing any further support from the garrison? Any more men?"

The recruit shook his head. "No, sir. It seems Aramis was right. The villagers took our presence as a show of force, even with the Doctor accompanying us."

"All right," replied Treville. "Go get some rest. You'll leave with Gorges and Callais at first light. I'm not sending you back out alone."

The recruit left and Treville entered his office.

"Damn it."

He dropped into the chair behind his desk and grabbed the bottle of wine he kept in a drawer. Negating a glass, he poured the wine down his throat with barely a swallow. Then slammed the bottle back down, closed his eyes and hunched forward.

So much for a good night's rest, he thought.

~The Musketeers~

Wreathed by gently rolling fields scattered with yellow-headed ragweed, the jarring lines of the town across the wide river stood out like a blemish.

Porthos snickered before turning away. Two of his brothers left several hours ago to scout the town, yet neither had returned, which made looking at the town all the more frustrating. They weren't late, but since they'd left, Porthos' stomach ached in unsettling way.

Athos had decided only two of them should enter first to explain their motivations before the rampant paranoia they'd witnessed in previous villages could cultivate.

Porthos believed it a good idea at the time.

He shook his head, rubbed his chin and stepped forward. He dipped a naked foot into the warm, clear water of the river and closed his eyes. Fresh air filled his lungs as he breathed deeply, until he remembered Treville's caution and quickly retracted his foot.

"Don't drink the water," said d'Artagnan.

Porthos looked over his shoulder and saw the young Gascon standing on the river's embankment. "Yeah," he replied, pulling his boot back on. "Just remembered."

Porthos trudged over to d'Artagnan. "Where's Lemay?"

"Relieving himself."

They stood side-by-side, starring across the water toward the small village. "Well," said Porthos. "We meet up in a few hours so we should set up camp in the meantime. Plus, I'm starving. Have you got the wine, or did Aramis pack it all?"

D'Artagnan smiled.

Porthos clapped him on the back and led him away from the water. "That's my boy," he said.

By evening dusk, camp was set, Lemay settled, but still no contact from either Athos or Aramis. Porthos sent d'Artagnan into the village to find them just as nightfall bathed the countryside in darkness, and hours later the Gascon returned a hurried, dishevelled mess.

"What do you mean they never arrived?" asked Porthos.

D'Artagnan gripped the hilt of his sword, his young features tarnished by worry lines. "Never showed up," he said. "I … I was the first Musketeer they'd seen in weeks."

Porthos shook his head. "Oh, this isn't good."

"No, it isn't."

Porthos ran a hand down his face, pulled on his beard. "Where's that messenger?" he asked, casting glances over his shoulders. "I need to send word back to the Captain."

to be continued…