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“Explain to me, why we are here?” Aramis shook himself like a wet dog. His mare snorted, echoing his disapproval.
Athos glared at his friend from underneath the dripping rim of his hat. “To vanquish the Huguenot rebellion, as you well know.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Aramis grumbled. “And if it wasn’t raining so hard, you could even see the place where I heard it, more than five years ago.”
Athos didn’t deign that worthy of a response.
Aramis stretched and massaged his right shoulder. “I swear I can feel that thrice-damned musket ball. It knows I’m close. Must still be buried in some field around here, where they dug it out of me.”
“It’s probably the weather,” Porthos said. “Does it never stop raining in this place?”
“And why exactly are we out here in this weather?”
Athos nodded at the coach they were following. “Because the King is bored.”
“Bored.” Porthos sniffed. “He’s not stuck in a leaky tent all day.”
“He is not a common soldier. His suffering differs. He doesn’t have the usual fox hunts and evenings at the theatre to distract him.”
“What did he expect? It’s a siege.”
“Not all sieges are like this,” Aramis said. “We took Nègrepelisse in two days, Rayon after six. Not that I was there for that one. I still had a great big hole in my shoulder thanks to this place.”
“Not that you bear any grudges.”
“It was painful and miserable. Seems to be something about La Rochelle.” Aramis grimaced. “Still, no shortness of sieges in ’22.”
“I don’t like them,” Porthos said. “I was in Montpellier for months and in the end we didn’t even win.”
“Unfortunately, we have yet to find a better way to take these Protestant strongholds.”
“Particularly one as magnificent as this.” Aramis nodded towards the fortifications of La Rochelle.
“Much to Richelieu’s and Tréville’s concern, the king seems to grow rather tired of its magnificence,” Athos said.
Porthos wiped water from his face. “So he drags us out here in this gale.”
Athos smirked. “If your delicate condition requires that you stay indoors, I will ask Tréville to assign you stable duty instead.”
“You wouldn’t.” Porthos sounded genuinely alarmed.
Athos hid his smile behind the upturned collar of his uniform. “Not unless you insist on questioning the will of our King. For my part, I look forward to inspecting the sea wall. They have made great improvements to it since that storm.”
“Since the whole thing disappeared into the ocean, you mean,” Aramis said. “It’s as bad as ships, if you ask me.”
“You and your fear of the sea…” Porthos shook his head.
“My fear of the sea? Watch it. You can’t even swim!”
“So what? Do I look like a fish?”
“Not like you to be scared of a new skill. Except for riding, obviously. You learned that. Why not swimming?”
“I’m not scared.” Porthos drew himself up to his full height. “But I’m not stupid. We’re a cavalry regiment, not the goddamn navy.”
“Praised be the Lord.” Aramis shuddered dramatically. “My stomach would never take to it.”
“There might still be missions in which you have to cross a river,” Athos said.
Porthos shrugged. “Simple. I’ll let you two swims. We live in a civilised country, where they build bridges.”
“Bridges and other things.” Athos stopped his horse. They had made their way around the jagged battlements of Fort d’Orléans and the views opened up across the mouth of the narrow bay.
Porthos whistled through his teeth. Athos found he agreed. To their left was the headland where the heavy artillery was facing out towards the sea and the English ships; to their right, the towers of La Rochelle could be seen through the mist. Straight ahead, however, lay what Athos had to acknowledge as the greatest feat of architecture he had ever seen, despite his familiarity with various palaces and cathedrals. It was more reminiscent of the magnificence of the ancient Roman arenas.
From the depth of the churning grey sea rose a wall, as broad as any of their land-based battlements, paved with slabs of stone and wide enough for several men to walk abreast. It jutted out into the bay for a hundred yards or so, an identical structure mirroring it from the other side. There was further construction clearly ongoing on both, possibly with the aim to link them in the middle eventually, thereby cutting La Rochelle off from the ocean and any reinforcements or provisions.
Athos stood close to the royal carriage, following the animated discussion Captain Tréville and the Cardinal had with the king. They advised him to remain in his carriage and admire the new construction from afar, but the king was adamant that he wanted to walk the full length of the bulwark. He would not be cowed by the inclement weather, or indeed by the threat of English cannons. He insisted on showing himself to his troop and any English or Rochellaise who might be watching through their looking glasses.
Athos had heard enough to know the king would not be swayed. He trotted over to where Porthos stood holding the reins of both his Joseph and Aramis’ Angelina. A moment later, Aramis joined them, after bowing low to a group of men in strange uniforms and speaking to them in rapid Spanish.
“Who was that?” Athos asked. It was highly unusual to hear Spanish in these parts and rarer still to hear Aramis speak it.
“Ambrosio Spinola, Captain-General of the Army of Flanders,” Aramis said in the tone of a love-struck maiden.
Athos frowned. “What is he doing here?”
What did a Spanish general want with Aramis? Hadn’t the Spanish done enough damage already?
“Telling us that with this wall, the siege is already won,” Aramis said.
“How’d he know?” Porthos asked. “That’s ridiculous.” He put his hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “Alright?”
Aramis nodded.
“He knows a thing or two about sieges,” Athos said. “The victor of Breda, which he took after 11 months. Incidentally also fighting off English relief forces.” He nodded towards the west where the dark hulls of the English fleet loomed.
“Starved them out and watched them turn on each other,” Aramis added. “Every man for himself, like they’d never heard of Christian love and charity.”
Porthos nodded. “Guess that’s what they say about the Protestants.”
“Eh…” Aramis shrugged. “Gossip says many things.”
Athos remembered the gossip of his early days in Paris… He glared at the retreating backs of the Spanish. Gossip about what they had done to the musketeers, to Aramis… Brothers in the same Catholic faith showing no love or charity at all. He shook his head. It did no good to dwell on past hurts. The Spanish weren’t the enemies here.
“Gentlemen, the king wants to walk to the site of the construction.” Athos waved off their protests. “I know. Captain Tréville and the Cardinal tried. He’s insistent. Porthos, right behind his majesty. Anything happens, I want you to shield him. Aramis, stay on his left, towards the sea. Any danger from there will be long-range and require your aim.”
“If I can get my musket to fire in this rain,” Aramis grumbled.
“I’ll stay on his right,” Athos said. “With any luck, he will quickly tire of this excursion.”
He didn’t.
On the contrary, Louis seemed to be enjoying himself. He was soon dripping wet like the rest of them, but that did not keep him from darting back and forth across the bulwark. He sneered at the English fleet and the besieged city in turn, while one of the engineers attempted to explain the construction to him, jabbering on about sloped embankments and retaining silt to strengthen the structure.
Richelieu, in his full armour and billowing red cloak, stayed with the Spanish General. To Athos’ displeasure, they decided to walk right behind Aramis. His eyes lingered on his friend, but Aramis showed no sign of being affected by their presence. He must wonder, like Athos did, if Spinola had any involvement in the attack at Savoy. Flanders was far from Savoy, but Spanish intrigue stretched across the world.
Athos glanced at Tréville and found his unease mirrored in his face. He shook himself. This had nothing to do with Savoy. They had more pressing matters to attend to. First and foremost, their monarch walking out into the sea in the middle of two enemy forces. The massacre, for all its horror, had happened nearly three years ago.
“Your majesty,” Richelieu said. “Construction is still ongoing in this area. We shall return another time and admire its completion.”
“Oh, but how much better to see the work in progress!” Louis was smiling broadly, undeterred by the waves crashing around them or the rain lashing their faces.
“We would not wish to interrupt the work.” Richelieu narrowed his eyes. Athos imagined he was praying for patience. “It is of the utmost importance that it be completed quickly.”
“Then we shall encourage the workers!” With that, Louis turned and strode ahead so confidently, Athos and his friends had to hurry to keep up with him.
Suddenly, a shout sounded from the nearby fort and was repeated along the line of soldiers on the sea wall. An English ship. A small frigate detached itself from the looming mass of the fleet and sped towards them.
“Your majesty, we should retreat,” Athos said urgently. Louis stared at him, taken aback by being addressed so harshly and by a mere soldier at that.
The crack of a cannon echoed across the bay.
“Your majesty!” Athos stretched out his arm, attempting to block Louis’ way, but the king pushed him aside.
“How marvellous,” he cried, as answering shots rang out, smoke billowing from the broadside of several English ships.
Soon, the cacophony had them all shouting to make themselves heard.
“They are out of range,” Aramis yelled as English cannon balls splashed into the sea a few hundred yards away from the wall.
“This one isn’t,” Porthos bellowed, pointing at the frigate. He now stood in front of the king, shielding him with his body. Shielding him from musket shots at least. They all knew a cannon ball would tear through more than one man. Fortunately, the frigate seemed set on using its speed rather than its artillery, manoeuvring across the middle of the bay in an unpredictable zigzag, making it difficult to target for the French gunners.
The ship hurtled closer, driven by the storm. The sea was pockmarked with shots that had missed their target. The besieged Rochellaise would be cheering, anticipating the arrival of fresh supplies. On the sea wall, Richelieu and Captain Tréville were screaming at the king to withdraw, to get himself out of harm’s way.
He ignored them.
“Finally some excitement,” he cried. He pranced from one side of the narrow causeway to the other, hurling insults at the English and Huguenots alike.
The Spanish had retreated, but with the cardinal, their captain, the engineers, and countless soldiers milling around, the musketeers struggled to stay close to the king.
“Drive him back,” Athos barked at his friends and signalled for them to turn around and bar the king from walking any further towards the sea end of the wall. Louis barely seemed to notice, so caught up was he in the events.
“Huguenot scum,” he shouted, shaking his fist at the besieged city. “You’ll surrender to your king.”
With an almighty crash, a cannon ball hit the bow of the frigate, tearing through wood and men alike. Louis cheered and rushed towards the other side of the wall to delight in their success. His delicate boots slipped on the wet stones. Athos rushed forward to steady the king, while Porthos lunged for him, but both of them came too late. Louis teetered at the edge of the wall, arms flailing. He looked to overbalance when Aramis grabbed him and swung around, thrusting him at Porthos, who caught the king round the waist, holding him tight.
Athos breathed a sigh of relief.
It caught in his throat when Aramis' feet slipped over the edge, the speed that had just saved the king carrying him over. Aramis' eyes were wide, his mouth open in surprise, as he fell backwards off the wall and into the churning sea below.
“Aramis!” Porthos' scream cut through the din of the sea, the battle, and the voices, like a knife into Athos’ core.
Porthos handed Louis over to the onrushing Tréville and fumbled with his weapons belt. Athos took too long to realise what he was doing.
“Stop!” he screamed when he finally did, but Porthos did not even pause. He leaped into the sea.
Porthos couldn’t swim. Aramis could, but Porthos couldn’t.
“A rope, hurry,” Athos shouted at the engineers.
He fell to his knees at the edge of the wall, peering over. He could make out Porthos' dark head in the midst of the spray but wasn’t able to spot Aramis.
Porthos struggled to stay above water, being thrown back and forth by the waves, but bracing himself against the wall. And Athos wouldn’t lose him, couldn’t possibly lose them both.
A man came running with a rope.
“Porthos,” Athos shouted, throwing the end of it towards him. It splashed into the water within arm's reach, but Porthos shook his head, took a deep breath, and dived.
Athos reeled the rope back in and held it ready to throw again, but Porthos didn’t resurface. Athos scanned the waves. He had to come back up. Maybe the current had carried him further along the wall, maybe out towards the ships... He had to be somewhere.
Images flashed in his mind of their drowned and broken bodies, washed up at the beach. Images of death and devastation. They found English soldiers sometimes after an ill-fated attempt to reach the city. He shook himself. Not his friends. They lived. Had to.
Suddenly, Porthos' head broke through the surface again. He was gasping for air and thrashing wildly. He didn’t pay any attention to Athos’ shouting before he dove down again, clutching a main gauche.
“The king is safe,” Tréville said, kneeling next to Athos.
Athos had never cared less.
Porthos was doing something. He must have found... or maybe he was still searching for Aramis. What hope did he have? The current, the force of the waves... the weight of Aramis' weapons. And nobody could hold their breath for that long. Aramis was... No, he couldn't be. Athos refused to believe it. There was nothing rational about it, but then again, when had Aramis ever been rational?
It had been too long. Too long and Aramis would never… But he’d done it once, he’d survived Savoy when nobody else did. Maybe he could…
“Porthos! Aramis!” Tréville’s shout broke through Athos’ thoughts.
A few feet below them, Porthos had reappeared, this time clutching Aramis. Aramis’ body was limp, lifeless, held up only by his friend’s strength and determination.
Porthos didn’t have his hands free any more and was unable to brace himself against the force of the waves. As the water rose above their heads with every wave, Porthos was thrown against the wall several times. He never relinquished his hold on Aramis, shielding him with his body, but it was obvious that he struggled.
Athos fingered the rope, trying to come up with a plan. Captain Tréville snatched the rope from his hands and deftly tied a loop with a movable knot before throwing it out into the sea again.
“Put it around yourself, then draw tight,” he shouted.
With some difficulty, Porthos caught the rope. Whether he hadn’t heard the captain’s instructions or whether he chose to ignore them, Athos didn’t know. But instead of using the rope for himself, Porthos slipped it around Aramis.
“Don’t you dare let go,” Tréville roared as Porthos’ head disappeared beneath the waves once more.
But Porthos kept one hand on the rope, the other on Aramis.
“Haul them up.” Captain Tréville was first to the task, but Athos could feel other men join them as well. Together, they took the weight of the two men on the rope, momentarily buoyed by the waves. The sea was reluctant to let go of her prey. Athos’ arms burned with the strain as the water pulled in the other direction, and pain licked at his palms, but he only had eyes for his friends. Porthos’ hand in its dark leather glove the only anchor his first friend had to the land, the world of the living maybe. Porthos continued to clutch Aramis to his chest with his other hand while stretching his legs out either side of the still unmoving body dangling from the rope. He kept Aramis from being dragged against the wall with every pull on the rope.
Aramis’ head lolled back on his shoulders.
A distance of a few feet stretched for miles before Athos could finally lean over and grab Porthos’ arm. The sodden leather was slippery, but reassuringly real. He ignored the burn of the salt on his hands. For the life of him, he would not let go. Not now, when at least one of his friends’ lives was within his grasp.
“Careful,” Porthos gasped as they slowly pulled Aramis’ body up. Aramis flopped onto the stone, his miraculously unharmed weapons clattering to the ground.
“Keep him on his side,” Tréville shouted when several men made to lie Aramis flat on his back.
“How are you?” Athos asked Porthos. He grasped his shoulder, checking him for wounds. The sea was cruel and did not surrender her prey easily.
“Fine.” Porthos waved Athos off. “Aramis…”
Athos eyed him critically. He didn’t sound fine at all. He was gasping for air, awkwardly holding himself up on his elbows.
“See to Aramis. I’m fine.” Porthos glared at him.
Athos turned around in time to see Aramis’ body convulse. As disconcerting as it looked, Aramis was moving, was alive. It seemed impossible. Once again, a survivor against the worst of odds. His resilience was incredible. He retched and water flowed freely from his mouth. Tréville hit him between the shoulder blades with a flat hand.
“Let it all out, son.”
Aramis sputtered, bringing up more water before sucking in air. Athos knelt next to him. Aramis’ lips were blue, his face frighteningly pale. He coughed, water and air warring for supremacy.
“Easy now, easy,” Athos said. “We’ve got you. You’re safe.”
He rested a hand on Aramis’ shoulder as the slim body continued to shudder, caught in a cycle of coughing, retching, and gasping for air. Porthos would be better at this, but Porthos lay a few paces away, shoulders heaving as he recovered from his rescue mission.
At first, Aramis’ hands grabbed at the stone as if he wanted to keep himself from being swept out to sea again, but slowly he calmed.
“The king?” Aramis whispered.
“Is safe,” Tréville said. “Thanks to your intervention.”
Another coughing fit shook Aramis. Tréville’s hand lingered on his body. The thought was treason, of course, but Athos wondered who Tréville would rather see safe, King Louis or Aramis. At the moment, it certainly looked like the captain would give anything to see Aramis returned to the living.
Aramis relinquished his death grip on the stones and traced his fingers up and down his body.
“Anything hurt?” Athos asked, recognising that he was checking himself for injuries. Really, they should have done it for him, but Athos chose to interpret it as a good sign that Aramis was aware enough to do it himself.
Aramis continued with his examination until his hand came to rest at his shoulder. He shook his head, which immediately triggered more coughing.
“Where…?” he gasped out eventually.
Athos was at a loss, but Captain Tréville came to his rescue.
“You dropped your musket. It’s safe, though a little wet.” He smiled, clearly beyond relieved that his man was already thinking of his weaponry.
But Aramis repeated his question, fingers running over his shoulder. “Where?”
The old wound must be smarting again, even worse now after that exertion. Poor Aramis. It was about time they got him back to their tent and let him rest.
“Pauldron,” Aramis spat out.
Oh. Athos exchanged an astonished look with his captain. Neither of them had noticed, but indeed, Aramis appeared to have lost his pauldron. At a loss, Athos looked at Porthos who had heaved himself into a sitting position.
Porthos shook his head. “I had to… it got caught under water, wedged between rocks, and I couldn’t… I had to cut it.”
Aramis’ mouth formed a small, silent “Oh” as he dropped to lie flat on his back, breathing heavily as he stared up into the pouring rain.
All around them, men still shouted orders and shots broke like thunder across the bay.
Athos looked back and forth between Aramis and Porthos who was clearly clenching his jaw, not looking nearly as pleased with himself as Athos would have expected. Athos got the distinct feeling he was missing something. He wasn’t privy to the full extent of whatever had happened here. To him, Porthos’ explanation sounded perfectly sensible.
“He saved your life,” Tréville said, as if that wasn’t obvious.
Aramis closed his eyes. When he opened them again, a semblance of his usual smile had returned to his pale face. He rolled to the side and raised himself to his knees. Taking Tréville’s proffered hand, he was dragged upright, and although he swayed for a moment, he stood his ground. Athos quickly hauled a groaning Porthos to his feet, clutching his shoulder in silent thanks. Thanks, relief, and great admiration of his courage and skill. Athos tried to put all of that into the glance they shared.
“At least you finally started to learn how to swim.” Aramis’ chuckle was hoarse, but definitely there.
Athos shook his head. It was a bit too soon for this return to levity. "Neither the location nor the time of year were particularly conducive to a first swimming lesson."
“Don’t blame me,” Porthos said. “All down to Aramis. He had to go diving in like some idiot.”
“I was saving the king,” Aramis said. “You, my friend, were clearly the idiot, diving in for no good reason. And since I know you’re no idiot, you must have done it for swimming lessons.”
“I was diving in for you and that is a very good reason.”
Aramis laughed, which quickly led to more coughing. “You might not have noticed, but I’m not exactly royalty,” he said when he recovered.
“You are to me,” Porthos mumbled. A cacophony of shots drowned out his words to all but Athos who was walking right beside him. Aramis and Tréville, a few steps ahead of them, took no notice. The captain was walking somewhat closer to Aramis than usual, but Aramis’ steps did not falter. Confident and steady, he walked back along that treacherous sea wall.
Athos was relieved when they reached firm ground again. This simple excursion had brought far too much excitement.
This sentiment was not shared by the king.
His majesty had stuck his head out of his carriage’s window and was gesticulating towards them excitedly. Richelieu and the Spanish delegation stood off to the side.
“My hero,” the king cried. “My saviour, my brave musketeer.”
He beckoned for Aramis to step forwards. Aramis did so, bowing low. He did not speak. Athos suspected he was fighting another cough.
“So chivalrous.” King Louis clapped his hands. “Like the good knights of old.” He pointed at the Spanish general. “You don’t have that sort of loyalty in the Spanish army. But my musketeers… soon their names will be legend.”
“Your majesty…” Richelieu attempted to intervene before the King’s idle words sparked another war. His majesty ignored him, entirely focussed on Aramis.
Athos’ eyes met Porthos’. Porthos frowned and drew up his shoulders. Both of them were sopping wet. Aramis must be freezing in the strong wind. For as long as Athos had known him, he’d never coped well with the cold. Captain Tréville’s gaze was fixed on Aramis’ back while he bounced lightly on his feet as if he were unsure whether or not he could dare to intervene on his musketeer’s behalf.
“We should make you a knight for your bravery,” Louis crowed.
“I did my duty,” Aramis said. His voice was hoarse. Next to Athos, Porthos drew in a sharp breath. He’d want to see his friend in dry clothes and a bed sooner rather than later. Athos agreed wholeheartedly.
“A hero’s composure! A blue ribbon would suit you well. The Order of the Holy Spirit—”
“That would hardly be appropriate,” Richelieu intervened.
Of course not. Aramis would never be able to demonstrate the required degrees of nobility. A common soldier could save the King all he wanted, but he would never be special. Athos shook his head. He’d gladly give his birthright to Aramis.
“The Order of Saint Michael, then.” Louis changed track with remarkable surety.
He would never forget that order. He’d been handing out its black ribbons rather freely. In Athos’ former circles, Saint Michael was known as the order of every man and his dog. And somehow also the order for a musketeer who had done a great service. But even that was a privilege. For all his shouting about chivalry, Louis only acknowledged Aramis who simply overbalanced when trying to rescue him, never Porthos who jumped in knowingly, risking his life to rescue his friend who might well have been dead already.
Eventually, Captain Tréville managed to extricate Aramis from the King’s clutches and the three of them were free to find their horses and return to camp.
Porthos walked close to Aramis who looked rather peaky. Porthos was rarely in a contemplative mood, but the worry for his friend was clear in the glances he shot Aramis and in the way he hovered.
Athos followed close behind them. Close enough to watch Aramis shiver and to hear their quiet words.
“He’ll never remember to knight you,” Porthos said, shaking his head.
“Of course not.” Aramis shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter.”
“You deserve that medal.”
Athos agreed. But Aramis did not seem bothered. Or maybe he was simply resigned to a world that gave him few opportunities. Athos, despite his complete lack of heroism, would be the one most likely to become a knight, for no other reason than his birth.
“I’d much prefer a bowl of hot soup,” Aramis said. “Maybe Madame Couture will oblige.”
“She’d probably make you her second husband on the spot if you came back with a medal.”
Aramis chuckled, which quickly turned into yet another coughing fit. Porthos thumped him on the back until Aramis spat out more water. Porthos flinched, seeing the effects of their misadventure.
“Tempting, but hardly the point of the exercise,” Aramis said.
“The point being to nearly scare me to death.”
“An entirely unintended consequence, my dear.”
Their purposeful stride soon slowed to a crawl and conversation ceased when it became obvious that Aramis was too exhausted to walk and talk. He would never allow himself to be carried if he could avoid it. Certainly not in front of all of these men. But Porthos remained close, just in case.
They made it to their horses eventually and Aramis’ relief was evident when he leaned against his mare, catching his breath. Athos mounted and waited for his friends. It was high time they got back to their tent. He was wet to the bone and he hadn’t even been in the water. Aramis shivered violently and swayed where he stood.
“A hand?” he asked quietly.
Porthos groaned as he hoisted him into the saddle but didn’t comment on Aramis’ momentary weakness. The dreadful image of Aramis falling into the sea was still too fresh in their minds, burned onto their eyes. It would take time to recover, for all of them.