The Spanish Lady Returns (A Three Musketeers Fanfiction)

Summer, 1626 Part 3

Four-hour watches were done through the night. Most of the more experienced Musketeers had shared the opinion that there would be an overnight attack, but D'Artagnan had disagreed. "He's trying to be unexpected," he'd reasoned. "So, he'll attack just before dawn when its darkest. He'll think we will be tired from watching through the night."

"If he's going to be unexpected, why do you expect him to do that?" Maurice objected.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "It's a feeling I have," was all he could say in response.

So, the night watch was still enforced with double the men. D'Artagnan took his watch just past midnight and was unsurprised by the quiet. He was surprised when the sun came up and nothing happened. But then he realized that their opponent was trying to mess with their minds, and planned to take them unawares.

But, the Musketeer regiment was made of sterner stuff than that. The soldiers held to their posts with determination not to let the suspense get to them.

Slowly, the inside of the headquarters began to smell less of death and illness and more of soap with a hint of broth being cooked. One side of the courtyard had been commandeered by the women, and a line of laundry dried quickly in the hot sun. D'Artagnan was actually impressed at how quickly morale seemed to have improved.

The air in the cellar was much cooler than anywhere else in the garrison. D'Artagnan found he had to be quick on his feet to keep out of the way of the working women. Weaving his way through the beds, he searched for his friends. He was pleased to see at least five of the musketeers sitting up and looking as though they were beginning to recover.

An older woman informed him, when he finally broke down and asked, that the worst of the ill had been kept away from the others. She kindly pointed him to where Aramis and Porthos had been moved to. D'Artagnan spotted Maria coming from that corner of the cellar, holding her left hand over her face and shaking her right hand.

"What happened to you?" the Gascon asked, unable to keep a grin off his face.

"Porthos took exception to the broth, and I took exception to his offense," Maria responded, her voice muffled by her hand. She continued on her way and called over her shoulder, "You deal with him."

Finding Porthos out cold, D'Artagnan wondered just how hard Maria had hit the large man and made a mental note not to get on her bad side. He took a seat by Aramis' bed. Just as the Spanish woman had feared, the cut on Aramis' arm had become infected, making the former priest's fever that much worse. A bowl of tepid water was all that was available to try to cool the man's forehead.

The young Gascon spent several hours, caring for his friends. He found himself dozing as the day stretched on. He started awake when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Perdón," Maria said, moving to stand by him. She'd obviously gotten some sleep, her black hair in a messy braid. "You should return to your post."

"How is Treville?" D'Artagnan asked, glancing around. He felt a stab of guilt that he hadn't even looked in on his captain.

"Improving. His fever has vanished. I don't believe it will be long before he is trying to escape his bed."

Standing up, the Gascon noticed that there was a dark bruise surrounding her left eye. "Porthos got you good," he remarked. "Athos will never let him live this down. Neither will Aramis..."

They both looked down at where Aramis was muttering something unintelligible. "What would the inseparable musketeers be without Aramis?" Maria asked, seating herself on the edge of the bed. She wrung the water from the cloth and dabbed at the sweat on the ill man's face. "I cannot imagine such a thing."