"Success without honor is an unseasoned dish; it will satisfy your hunger but it won't taste good." Joe Paterno
(How Can I Know) Just What to Be?
It was not until he was halfway through the marketplace that he realised his error. He slowed, taking in the vibrant scenes around him which, until then, had been dust-swirls at the edges of his attention. A warm yeasty scent, with an under-note of glazed confiture and a sprinkling of sugar, tickled his nose from the baker's cart by which he had inadvertently paused, and he moved away quickly, turning his gaze resolutely away from the sight of the fat, crispy loaves and sugar-dusted buns. And found himself in front of a stall piled high with pies, their firm yellow pastry crimped neatly at the edges, some of them oozing meat juices, the rich scent drifting upwards as they steamed, still hot from the oven.
He turned sharply away, edging around a vegetable stall which boasted polished red apples, ripe Spanish oranges and in the centre a basket of early apricots, their skins tight with juice. He bit his lip as he pushed behind the stall, one shoulder brushing a bunch of carrots, their frothy tips sprayed like a bride's bouquet. Dammit, even the farm-fresh carrots smelled amazing, and nothing like the wizened finger he'd scraped mould from that morning in the Bonacieux kitchen, chewing it slowly to fool his stomach as he left his lodgings.
He ducked into the cool shadows of the arched walkway circling the market place and inhaled the musty air scented with ancient stones and last night's puddles with a feeling of relief. Breathing out slowly, he composed himself and reached the corner of the square without further assault. Turning out into the wide, tree-lined space in front of the Garrison he told himself to take the long route next time.
Athos had already grown used to the boy's resolute determination, his purposeful stride, the intensity of his eyes as he took in every word, every move the others made. He'd seen him change in the few weeks since his arrival; seen the haunted look retreat, replaced more often than not by a glimmer of humour, a tentative smile as he dared to tease back.
His sword skills were rough but his strokes were natural and confident and he was gratifyingly eager to learn. A trick demonstrated to him one day would appear the next in his repertoire of moves, and underlying whatever skills he brought and had assimilated was that burning intensity, that fierce spirit which Athos had seen the moment he strode into the Garrison courtyard calling for his blood.
He could smile at the memory now, with the nightmare of his night in the Châtelet finally fading. He'd been reluctant to take the boy on, in spite of owing him a debt for the way he'd assisted Aramis and Porthos in securing his release after the mockery of his trial. He had sought only to forget the whole episode as thoroughly as possible, and d'Artagnan was an unwelcome reminder of that terrible night.
And yet ... Against his will, it seemed, he was warming to the lad.
The others were no help, happily seeking out the lad's company at every opportunity. Porthos, he could understand: the big man gathered waifs and strays to him daily, and was friends with everyone from stable-lads to Red Guards – well, until they played cards with him. But Aramis was different, and it was this which had thrown Athos at first.
Everyone thought Aramis was gregarious and frivolous and fun-loving - and he was all of those things – but that didn't mean he welcomed intimacy. At times his optimistic air seemed painted on like a whore's mask, disguising the deep hurts which lurked beneath, so Athos could barely fathom the strength of the bond the lad seemed already to have formed with Aramis. They had been a contented threesome for so long that it hadn't occurred to Athos to look for a fourth, yet here he was, a dark-haired fireball from Gascony who had burst into the courtyard, stayed to help a wronged man, earned their respect, then remained, beaming and enthusiastic, accepting of their foibles, a balm to their weary souls.
Nearly two months after his arrival, Athos could barely remember life before d'Artagnan, but he found himself working out training exercises in his sleep and rising a little earlier, eager to put his ideas into practice with his young protégé. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Athos was enjoying himself.
He was therefore aware of a small sense of disappointment, that fine spring morning as he strode into the courtyard (narrowly stopping himself from whistling in a way that would be sure to attract unwanted teasing from Aramis at least) to find only his old friends at their table, and no sign of the young Gascon.
Before he could comment however, Tréville had appeared on the balcony above the sleepy meanderings in the courtyard, and instantly the atmosphere changed as men snapped to their positions for morning muster. And, just in time, the dark-haired youngster slipped between the ranks and drifted quietly into place next to Aramis as Tréville cast his keen eye over his men and began detailing his instructions for the day ahead. Nicely done, thought Athos, flicking a small glance sideways and finding the lad's countenance unremarkable.
"Oversleep, did ya?" Porthos grunted at the end of muster, casting an amiable look of enquiry at the Gascon.
d'Artagnan answered easily enough, something about getting distracted in the market, but Athos thought there was something there, a hint of dissembling perhaps?
He shrugged and set himself to steer d'Artagnan and two of the most promising recruits through a new drill he'd devised, then handed their training over to Aramis and worked, with considerably less enjoyment, on drilling a nobleman's second son who showed all the dexterity and grace of a mule.
At the end of the day d'Artagnan paused at the well to wash the sweat from his face and hands, glancing automatically at the parlour window even though he knew Madame Bonacieux was away with her husband on a buying trip. Usually he looked forward to getting home, as he was beginning to think of it. His host was a dour, aloof tailor given to snide comments, but his young wife was an excellent cook and her warm, dancing eyes encouraged him to linger at the table after each meal. But last night he'd arrived to see Madame Bonacieux clearing the plates from the table, a lingering aroma of rich stew the only hint as to the meal they'd clearly finished. He winced at the memory of the awkward conversation that had followed as his host leaned back in his chair and stared coldly at him.
"Your rent is late."
Merde. Bonacieux knew he was waiting to hear from his farm, where he had written for funds, but now it seemed he was losing patience. He had begun to apologise and remind Bonacieux of his position with the King's Musketeers, but Bonacieux cut him off with a wave of his hand.
"I am not interested in your aspirations. If you cannot pay your way there are plenty who would take the room and pay upfront. Do you have the funds, or not?"
"Not yet, Monsieur, but I am sure word will arrive any day now and then – "
"We will be away until the end of the week, and I expect you to pay me on my return. I shall require the next month's rent in advance as well as the two months you are already in arrears." As d'Artagnan, stunned, began to protest Bonacieux cut him off again. "Pay up, or leave, the choice is yours. And until you pay your way you may eat elsewhere."
There had followed an awkward silence during which d'Artagnan flicked a glance at Constance, who was standing with her hands folded tightly in front of her and her eyes downcast; he could see by the set of her shoulders that she was angry and embarrassed at the scene. Swallowing his pride, and his hunger, he had given a stiff bow and a final assurance, and retreated swiftly from the room.
He had lain awake most of the night trying to think what to do. The sum owed for his lodgings was not excessive but he had used the last of his money, from selling his father's horse and the few possessions he had packed for the journey to Paris, several weeks ago and he now had only a few coins left. Aside from his clothes and a spare shirt, braes and stockings, he owned only his horse and tack – without which he could hardly be a Musketeer – and the sword and main gauche given to him by his father. Both were fine weapons and he wondered briefly about selling them and buying something plainer, but immediately dismissed the thought. A man's weapons were as precious and personal as his horse or his wife: the thought of seeing another hand wielding either blade made him feel ill. No. He would have to find another way.
He had not fallen asleep until almost daybreak, making him late for muster that morning, and all day he had struggled with a rising sense of panic which had led him to decline the midday meal at the Garrison. He hadn't really thought about any bill he might be racking up there but now that fear weighed heavy on him. Was food provided to all the Garrison men, including trainees and workers like Serge and the stable-boy Jacques, or only to those who had won their commissions? Athos had agreed to mentor him but he assumed that meant Athos took responsibility for his training, not his debts. What would happen when he needed new boots, as he would soon – his were wearing thin – or a new girth for his saddle? Food was not free, someone had to pay for it – was it Athos? If it took him months to gain his commission, how long would it be before Athos lost patience with him? If he didn't hear from the family farm (why was he not getting a response to his letters?) he couldn't stay in Paris indefinitely just building up debt. His father had taught him always to pay his way, to honour his word, not to lean on others, but how could he stay in Paris with no income?
Now the blank windows of the Bonacieux house seemed to mock him as he rose restlessly from the well and headed back into the square beyond. He had no idea where he was going but he couldn't just sit in his room and fret. The evenings were getting lighter and the air was still warm, and the muted hum of Paris by night lured him out. He would walk, and think, and come up with a solution. Surely he could find employment somewhere in this huge city? He was fit and young, with plenteous skills learned on the farm; he would ask in every stables, every smithy, tavern and bakery. Someone would need an apprentice, and surely he could find evening work somewhere. He set off, whistling to cheer himself up, and vowed to ask at every establishment he passed, no matter what the trade.
Four hours later his only accomplishment was the small hole he had worn in the sole of his left boot. He could feel a blister developing as he stopped to empty it of grit, cursing quietly to himself. He'd need to find a cobbler and pay for it to be re-soled. After making sure no cut-purses were lingering he checked the contents of his purse: 23 dernier or just over two sols. It was barely enough for a loaf of bread so he doubted it would pay a cobbler, but he would have to try. Maybe he could barter, or pawn one of his weapons for a few days...
He felt a sudden fierce longing for his father, a feeling so strong that he even glanced to his right, almost expecting to see the familiar craggy face striding alongside him. But there no one there except – dammit! – the hand of a beggar boy reaching stealthily for the money-purse tied to his belt. He snapped his own hand back and trapped the boy's small fist in the very act of reaching for the purse, swinging around in the same instant and stooping to glare into the boy's face. "You'll find no easy pickings here," he hissed, furious at the thought of being robbed of his last precious coins.
The boy reared back casting a terrified glance behind him, and d'Artagnan followed his eyes to where a small girl crouched near an empty market stall, picking through the detritus left behind after the day's trading. He looked back at the boy, who could only have been six or seven, his sister even younger, and felt instantly ashamed of his own pathetic mood. He'd been hungry for a day, and at least had a warm bed to sleep in, and friends, and skills. What did these two have?
He let go of the boy's hand and the lad darted off instantly towards his sister, pulling her to her feet and wrapping his arm around her shoulders protectively. d'Artagnan hesitated, then noticed the girl was holding a tattered cabbage leaf in one grubby hand, which she now handed carefully to her brother, and it dawned on him that this might be all they had for their supper.
Rolling his eyes at his own soft heartedness he dug into his money pouch and counted out ten coins and held them out to the boy, who gaped at him for a moment then darted forward to take the money with a muttered "bless you sir".
He watched them run off, the boy looking back over his shoulder as if expecting d'Artagnan to change his mind, and walked on, feeling slightly heartened at having done a decent thing.
He was more aware of his surroundings now; having nothing worth stealing didn't make him any less of a target and this part of Paris was crowded with all manner of folk at this time of night. He moved slowly past scruffy inns from which light spilled onto the cobbles, damp now with evening dew, and wondered with a pang what the others were doing now. They had made him so welcome, yet he still felt apart from them, separated by his youth and lack of experience. If they knew he was penniless, what would they think of him? Would he still be welcome as an equal, for that is how they had treated him? He felt hot shame wash over him at the thought of confessing how broke he was. How could he aspire to be a Musketeer if he couldn't even feed himself?
He shivered a little as the night cooled, and thought about heading home, but couldn't bring himself to turn; he was too restless to sleep. And hungry... an enticing spicy smell wafted past on the mist that was settling into the dark alleyways. He was near the docks, he realised, turning without conscious decision to follow his nose. The muted sound of cheering and a crackle of torchlight lead him to slip through a narrow gap between two warehouses and forward into a brightly lit area thronged with people.
Glancing around quickly, his hand on his sword hilt, he realised he was standing on the rim of an open space encircled by warehouses and storerooms, along with half a hundred or more people crowded around something happening in the centre of the space. He hesitated, tucking his money pouch more firmly into his belt, then curiosity overcame caution and he wriggled through to a vantage point.
In the centre of a rough circle of onlookers two men were fighting with fierce intensity. They were grappling, twisting, punching and kicking – no weapons, he realised, but splatters of blood already coated the cobbles. It looked vicious and mean, but the onlookers were egging them on, not intervening. It couldn't be called a duel, not without weapons; perhaps a long-standing feud? But then why so many spectators?
He looked around, trying to figure it out, and saw an imposing man to his left taking money from a sailor and making a note on a sheet of parchment. As the sailor moved away another took his place and d'Artagnan could hear a minor argument over price. His brain finally clicked into gear and he realised he was watching bets being taken on what must be an illegal hand-fight.
His mind raced. They'd been briefed at muster not long ago to look out for the latest fighting ring, usually run and attended by men on the edge of society. It was a popular spectator sport amongst the working men, Tréville told them, being free unless one wanted to bet on the results of each bout, but apart from the fights themselves, drink and peer pressure often drew spectators to bet more than they could afford and disputes about payment led to further bloodshed. Several battered bodies retrieved from the Seine in recent weeks were rumoured to be victims of the fights and Tréville wanted this ring shut down. However it had no fixed venue and so far they had found no informants.
Now it seemed d'Artagnan had stumbled across it. He turned to retreat and report back, already wondering whether it was too late to rouse Tréville tonight – and found himself nose to nose with the man he'd seen taking the bets, now fixing him with a cold, suspicious glare from barely a couple of feet away.
d'Artagnan flicked a glance to the side and noticed three other men moving subtly to flank him. A subtle space opened up around him as the nearby crowd picked up on the tension and edged away.
Merde. He suddenly realised how vulnerable he was, way out of the usual stamping ground of the Musketeers and surrounded by suspicious strangers. He needed to get out of here but he had no doubt if he tried to run the four would bring him down in seconds. He needed to be smart...
"Bit out of place 'ere, country boy?" The big man's voice was deep and menacing and d'Artagnan felt a rising sense of panic. Then he registered the man's words. "Country boy"? He'd not even spoken yet, so how dare this man make assumptions about him based on the way he looked?
Before he could stop himself he'd snapped back: "What's it to you?", ignoring the inner voice hissing at him not to antagonise these men.
The man's nostrils flared and he took a step closer, as did his three henchmen. "I don' like strangers sniffin' around, tha's wot," he growled menacingly.
"How do you find new fighters if you don't let strangers in, then?" d'Artagnan shot back, hearing the words in his head only as he spoke them. Oh, gods, what was he saying?
Astoundingly his confronter slowly pulled his face back from where he'd thrust it close enough for d'Artagnan to smell his breath, and cocked his head to one side, looking d'Artagnan up and down.
"That milk-sop's not ol' enough to be out on his own, Loup!" he heard one of the henchmen mutter to titters from the others, and d'Artagnan turned his head slowly to glare at him, knowing his only hope right now was to bluff his way out of this. One of the men sneered and cracked his knuckles but the money-man – Loup - silenced him with a subtle flick of his hand. "You fought before?" he asked.
d'Artagnan hesitated, then answered honestly realising his hesitation would have showed. "Not like this. But I can hold my own."
"Why d'ya wanna fight?" Loup asked, still looking him over suspiciously.
"I need the money." He began to fumble his way through a story, but before he could elaborate, Loup's quick hand gesture had two of his men divesting him of his money pouch. d'Artagnan reined in his anger at the intrusion and waited, taut with anxiety, as one of them handed it over and the money-lender examined the contents. For the first time in weeks d'Artagnan found himself thankful for his penniless state.
There was sudden roar from the ring and a rush of punters pressed their way towards the money-lender's corner. d'Artagnan looked around to see one of the fighters being carried away, clearly unconscious, his face battered and bloody. For a few moments he couldn't move for the press of people around him, and he spent the time frantically working out his options. Leg it? Or brazen it out, but would he have to fight if they accepted his story? He didn't have a clue how the ring worked, or how dangerous it might be to stay, but if he could get some information he could present Tréville with the complete story. Might that help to win him his commission?
His hesitation cost him the luxury of a decision as the bets were quickly paid out by one of the henchmen and the money-man was beckoning him. "Le's see wot yer made of then." He gestured to d'Artagnan to remove his weapons.
"Wait – what are the rules? How does it work?" he asked, starting to fumble with his belts and buckles, playing for time. Was he really prepared to go through with this?
One of the punters who had won on the previous round leaned in. "No rules, mate. You hit the deck, you lose: that's it."
d'Artagnan handed his weapons and belts to one of Loup's sidekicks, wondering if he would ever see them again, then thinking it wouldn't matter if he didn't survive the fight. He was taking a massive risk, he knew, but he couldn't see any other way to retreat without arousing suspicion. "How long does the bout last?"
"As long as it takes." His informant was looking at him sceptically. "You any good?"
"I don't know," answered d'Artagnan honestly. And then there was no time for more talk; hands were turning him towards the centre of the square. Adrenaline flooded his body making his legs tremble as he walked. Get a grip, he told himself fiercely, looking around to see who he was to fight.
The crowd parted on the other side and he watched a slight man slide into the ring, hands bunched at his sides, head thrust forward as he peered around for his opponent. The man looked to be in his forties, skinny and short-sighted, and d'Artagnan began to relax. A beginner's mistake which he immediately regretted when the man locked eyes on him and launched himself across the ring without warning, his body slamming into d'Artagnan and sending him stumbling backwards, frantically trying to keep his feet.
The crowd roared with laughter at him, or so it seemed, and his blood boiled. His opponent had wrapped his arms around d'Artagnan's waist, trapping his arms, but as he managed to steady himself his opponent loosened his grip ready to launch a punch, and d'Artagnan immediately thrust his arms up and out, breaking the hold on his body, and at the same time brought one knee up sharply into the man's unsuspecting face with a satisfying crunch.
His opponent staggered backwards clutching his jaw, then spat blood out and straightened. The crowd's noise had abated when d'Artagnan counter-attacked, perhaps surprised by the newcomer's speed, but some were now shouting approval for him and the noise racketed up again.
The two men circled each other, egged on by men shouting for them to "get stuck in!" d'Artagnan feinted to the left but his opponent was too wise and just sneered, then flung a wild punch his way. d'Artagnan saw it coming a mile off and ducked – straight into the follow-up jab which he hadn't spotted. His teeth rattled as the fist connected solidly with his jaw and he stumbled backwards, scrambling desperately to keep on his feet as his opponent threw a succession of solid punches his way which d'Artagnan had to block with his forearms.
He kept moving constantly backwards around the circle, blows raining down on his arms as he tried to work out what to do. He'd not fought like this since childhood, when the village bullies had occasionally picked on him until he had grown tall and learned to hold his own. Since then he'd only fought with weapons, and then only in life-or-death situations where the need to survive had given him a surge of courage, and adrenaline had carried him through. This situation felt ridiculous, as he curled his arms around his face to protect himself, in the midst of a hundred men shouting for his blood for their own entertainment.
That realisation made him furious enough to step to the side and throw a punch of his own to the man's stomach. It didn't connect solidly but it was enough to break his rhythm, and d'Artagnan followed it with an elbow jab which doubled his opponent over. d'Artagnan fisted his hands together and cracked them down on the back of the man's head as he gasped for breath, and he folded gracelessly to the ground face first amidst groans and boos from the onlookers, none of whom had bet on the newcomer winning.
d'Artagnan stood panting, feeling sweat trickling down his face, and looked around, unsure what to do. He found Loup beckoning him over and tottered that way, feeling shaky. The fight had taken barely a couple of minutes but its speed and viciousness had taken him completely by surprise.
Loup handed him a handful of coins and patted him on the shoulder before turning away and for a moment d'Artagnan felt ridiculously pleased by the gesture. Then he looked at his hand: 10 sols.
It was enough to buy him a decent meal and a cup of wine but still... the fight had been brief but vicious and from what Tréville told them men had been seriously injured, perhaps even died, in similar bouts. Was that all a life was worth?
He sensed someone watching him and looked up. It was the same punter who'd advised him just before the fight, a man in his forties or fifties with a tanned, craggy face. He looked faintly amused at d'Artagnan's expression.
"It's not much, I grant you, but more than most of us earn on the docks, and it'd feed my family for two days."*
d'Artagnan felt a moment's embarrassment; had his thoughts been so easy to guess? He reminded himself he was playing a part and needed more information. "When can I fight again? I need more money than this."
"You can challenge anyone, or Loup will pick an opponent for you if he thinks the pairing will attract bets. That's how he makes his money."
"Is it his ring then?"
"Aye."
d'Artagnan felt a surge of excitement at the simple response: he'd found the fight's organiser, knew his name and his face! Surely this would be enough information for the Musketeers to shut down the ring ... but no, he still didn't know how often they met, or where. "Is it in the same place every night?"
A second later he was gasping for breath as his back was slammed into the nearest wall and a forearm as thick as his own thigh threatened to crush his windpipe, and then a menacing voice hissed "Wot you wanna know for?"
d'Artagnan couldn't breathe, let alone answer. A sharp word from his left brought a slight release in the pressure on his throat, and fury lent him the strength to push the henchman off. Glaring and straightening his shirt, d'Artagnan allowed his anger to show on his face. "I need to fight again. I just want to know where and when, that's all. I'm new to Paris."
There was a sudden bark of laughter and Loup's henchman cuffed him on the shoulder. "You're no city-boy, righ' enough. Southerner, ain't ya?"
d'Artagnan squashed another surge of annoyance and nodded slowly.
"Righ'. Seems the Gascon wants to spill more blood. Who wants to take 'im on, then?"
An hour later d'Artagnan had acquired another 25 sous and what felt like a hundred sore places on his body, face and arms. His knuckles were bloody, not all of it from his opponents, and he couldn't believe how exhausted he felt. He weighed his money belt in one hand, wondering whether to put his name down for another bout, and was just moving towards the steps of the warehouse where Loup and his men were holding court, when his tanned advisor caught him by the sleeve.
"I wouldn't," he said diffidently in his strong Breton accent.
d'Artagnan stopped and looked at him quizzically.
"You've had enough for one night. Four bouts, three wins, ain't bad for a first effort, but you need to pace yourself."
It was good advice. d'Artagnan could feel the tremors in his legs which meant he was running on empty. Besides, his rent was 8 livres per month and he only had 2 more nights before Bonacieux would be back expecting payment. He'd need to fight - what, another 450 times to earn enough – more if he lost. The thrill of finally finding a way to earn money had temporarily blinded him to the reality of his situation but now a wave of despair swept over him. There was no way he could raise it in time.
But his new friend was talking conspiratorially and he dragged his attention back. "D'ya reckon you can win against the experienced fighters? You can make more money on the bets on their fights. You can't bet on yourself, but I could put some coins down for you if you tell me if you'll win or lose. And even if you think you'll lose, you can bet on how many minutes you think you'll last, and whether you'll bleed yer opponent..."
d'Artagnan felt a surge of hope which he tried, unsuccessfully, to hide. "How much can you bet on each round?"
And, just like that, he was hooked.
He walked home in a dream, oblivious to the late hour, the malodorous stench carried in the river-fog, the scuffling of rats and beggars in dark alleyways. His new friend Mael had told him where and when the fighting ring would meet the following night, and advised him on his tactics. "You want a couple of easy wins first, then a spectacular defeat, keep 'em guessing. An' of course you bet on yer defeat so yer always winning." He'd told d'Artagnan they would spread the wagers around several of the money-takers working the fight. d'Artagnan's head was spinning from figures and possibilities but for the first time, he felt hopeful that he might get the money he needed in time to pay his debt to Bonacieux.
It wasn't until he was finally in bed, trying to find a way of lying which didn't press on any of his new bruises, that he remembered he had been going to report his findings to Tréville. He'd only fought the first time to avoid being beaten up, or worse, by the suspicious fight organisers; he'd ended up arranging to fight again the next night – to profit from the very activity he was supposed, as a would-be Musketeer, to be stamping out!
He turned restlessly in bed, wincing as his weight fell on a sore elbow. He would have to go to Tréville in the morning and report the fighting ring. He knew the appointed meeting place and time; Tréville would send men to round up the organisers and make that part of Paris safe, for a few weeks at least.
And d'Artagnan would still owe 24 livres to Bonacieux, with no way of paying him.
For the second morning in a row, d'Artagnan was late for muster, and this time no skill on his part could avoid Tréville spotting him as he joined the ranks at the back of the courtyard. Or spotting the puffy eye and dark bruises on his chin which no amount of washing in the well, then smearing dust on his face, could disguise.
He could see Porthos look around from the front rank as Tréville glared his way during the daily orders, and ducked his head. He'd always hated hats, finding they gave him a headache, but now he yearned for a nice wide brim to shadow his face.
At the end of muster he headed smartly for the training grounds with the other cadets, but Porthos caught him up and fell into step beside him before he'd got to the back of the courtyard.
"Been in a scrap, then?" It wasn't really a question, and d'Artagnan sighed. He'd thought of various excuses on the way in this morning, but he was a terrible liar, as the Invincibles were always telling him, and it went against his nature to dissemble.
He'd slept badly, wracked by indecision about what to do and finding new bruises every time he tossed and turned. At first light he still hadn't decided whether to do the right thing by the Musketeers. Telling Tréville about the fighting ring meant throwing away his best and probably only chance of staying on in Paris. What would his father do? Was it Gascon pride that made him want to keep quiet and solve his money problems by fighting? But what if the others found out he'd kept the information about the ring to himself for his own monetary gain?
He realised Porthos was looking at him speculatively. Before he could find a response, Porthos had laid a hand on his arm and pulled him towards a quiet corner of the training grounds behind the Garrison. "Are you in trouble, lad?" he asked, kindly. "If someone's 'itting on you, you know we'll 'elp, don't ya?"
d'Artagnan felt his eyes prickle at the unexpected kindness and he blinked hastily. "I – no, I'm... I – " He stammered to a halt, wondering what on earth to say.
"I suspect the lad wants to sort it for himself." d'Artagnan jumped slightly as Aramis suddenly spoke softly in his ear. Where had he sprung from?! d'Artagnan puffed out a breath and shot Aramis a grateful look.
"Yes, I do. But thank you. Both. I know you'll ... I'm grateful. But it's fine. Honestly." He shut his mouth before it could run away with him, knowing they were both watching him keenly. He needed a diversion, at least until he'd worked out for himself what to do. "Um, Porthos? Could you train with me this morning? I could use some tips."
As Porthos slung an arm good-naturedly across his shoulders, d'Artagnan failed to spot Athos watching him speculatively from the shade of a tree.
That evening he headed to the address Mael had given him, this time on the other side of the river. He was tired after a hard morning's training and an afternoon exercising the horses with the other cadets, but he'd picked Porthos' brains ruthlessly and spent some of yesterday's winnings on a decent bowl of stew at the Wren before excusing himself, pleading tiredness. Now he found he was almost looking forward to the evening.
He hadn't actually decided not to tell Tréville about the fighting ring, he reminded himself. He just hadn't had an opportunity. Tréville had disappeared to the Palace straight after muster, after all. If he did well tonight, he would report everything tomorrow.
Two men stood in the shadows watching him walk purposefully away from the Wren.
"Nice night for a walk, isn't it?"
"Huh. Can think of better ways o' spending it, m'self."
Aramis ignored the grumpy tone, knowing Porthos was as perplexed as he was. He pushed off from the wall and started to wander casually after d'Artagnan, knowing full well Porthos would follow.
"What do you think 'e's up to?"
Aramis smiled, and slung an arm around his companion. "It could be a woman..."
Porthos snorted. "That would account for the bruises, o' course," he said sarcastically.
"Well..." Aramis began, a soft look of reminiscence crossing his handsome features.
Porthos thumped him. "It's not a bloody woman!"
Aramis looked speculative.
"Nor that either! Drag yer mind out the gutter! It's money, I tell ya."
Aramis sighed. "He has been looking for post every morning."
"An' 'e won't 'ave 'ad much in the way of funds when 'e got 'ere."
"He'd sold his father's horse and possessions; that should have lasted him for – "
"To pay for 'is father's funeral," interrupted Porthos. "An' I doubt 'e got what it was worth, out there in the sticks an' needing a quick sale."
"True." They both paused, watching d'Artagnan weave through the market area as the stall-holders packed their wares away. "How about you stay with our Gascon, and I pay the Bonacieux household a visit to see if they can shed any light?"
A spray of blood flew into the air as d'Artagnan's fist connected solidly with the mouth of his latest opponent, and he watched in satisfaction as the man's head snapped to the side and he collapsed to the dirt. Another man down, another half livre earned. He headed over to the holding ring where the other fighters waited their turn, followed by cheers from the crowd as well as boos. People were starting to notice him, and more were betting on 'The Gascon' to win now.
He took a long drink of water from the barrel, poured a cupful over his head and wiped the blood and grime gingerly from his face, avoiding the bruised side of his jaw. He could see Maer waiting near the roped-off area and drifted over towards him. "How are we doing?" he asked, carefully not looking at the man. He'd been wary of trusting him to begin with, wondering if he was being a fool to hand over part of last night's winnings so the Breton could place a bet for him, but when he'd won his first fight he'd found Maer waiting with a fistful of sous and as far as he could tell he was not taking more than the percentage they'd agreed yesterday.
"Odds are not so good now they're expecting you to win. You need to lose the next one."
d'Artagnan grimaced. He knew it made sense but it went against every fibre of his being to contemplate losing a fight deliberately. "It'll depend on who I'm facing," he said, knowing he was procrastinating.
"A tailor from Nice. Fancy footwork, wins a few fights, but I'll get better odds on you for sure." d'Artagnan nodded reluctantly, they agreed on a wager, and Maer drifted off to place the bets.
The Niçois was fast on his feet as Maer had promised, but d'Artagnan dodged his first few punches easily enough and landed a couple of good body-blows. Come on, you bastard, fight! he muttered under his breath, wondering how to make it look convincing if his opponent didn't pick up the pace. He could hear the crowd exhorting him to get a move on and flatten the tailor, and that gave him an idea. He began to beckon his opponent forward, taunting him, dancing around him with some fancy footwork of his own, trying to give the impression of over-confidence. Something I should be good at, according to Athos, he reminded himself ruefully, allowing a look of surprise to cross his face as the Niçois stuck out a foot while he played to the crowd. d'Artagnan crashed to the ground with a grunt of genuine pain, and scrambled to hands and knees untidily, just slowly enough to give the Niçois time to kick him in the ribs then flatten him under his own body weight, holding him down until the ring-master counted him out.
He hauled himself to his feet slowly, holding a hand to his battered ribs and trying to ignore the bad-tempered taunts from the crowd, many of whom had lost money on him.
Walking slowly back to the holding ring he wondered if he should call it quits tonight. Maer drifted over as he found himself a wall to lean on, looking quietly pleased. "Brilliant, lad! Good move to feign the rib injury, too. You should be able to clean up on the next bout."
"I'm not sure..." started d'Artagnan.
"You're up against the Dog next. You'll get great odds on a win, my friend, great odds."
"How much have we – " he stopped as Maer deposited his purse into his hand, feeling the weight of the coins within. It felt amazing to be holding solid coin in his hand again. He fumbled the drawstring, peering inside. "Nine livres."
Nine? Still only one month's rent. d'Artagnan let his head drop back against the wall.
"If you can win this next bout, I reckon I can get fifteen livres from a five livre bet."
His heart raced. That would only leave him four livre if he lost – but if he won, he'd have all the rent!
"Well? Where did he go?" Aramis pushed a tankard across the table to Porthos as the big man sank gratefully into the seat his friend had saved for him in the crowded taproom.
"Lost 'im." Porthos took a grateful swig of ale and ignored the look of incredulity on Aramis' face.
"You lost him? Monsieur 'I know this city like the back of my hand' managed to lose our naive young country boy?"
Porthos scowled and took another long drink. "I got distracted."
Aramis cocked his head.
"Down by the docks. Bought a fish pie an' when I looked up 'e'd vanished."
"Porthos, you'd already eaten here, for pity's sake!"
Porthos looked sheepish. "They smelled too good... what did you find out?"
"Not much. The Bonacieux are away for a few nights, according to their maid. And she overheard a row last night, about money. It seems our Gascon is behind with his rent."
"Told ya." Porthos sounded worried, not smug, which worried Aramis even more. He sighed, and ordered another round of drinks.
d'Artagnan watched the Dog while they waited their turn, trying to pick up any clues as to how to beat him. He was a saturnine man, shorter than d'Artagnan but wiry and doggedly determined, hence his fighting name, and would be a tough opponent.
A grey-faced woman called to him and the Dog went over and kissed her, then took the bundle she held carefully. d'Artagnan watched, wondering what was going on, until he heard a quiet cry and realised it was a child – a baby. The woman looked tearful and the Dog seemed to be comforting her, and d'Artagnan looked away, feeling like a voyeur.
Moments later they were called to fight. He'd decided to let his opponent win the first round, which should increase the odds Maer could get. Now he was an established name he'd learned he could call for a rematch if he lost, and his opponent would have to honour the request or forfeit his fee.
He hit the dirt after only a few minutes of tussling, letting out a groan which was only partly feigned as his bruised ribs protested. The boos at the speed of the bout quickly turned to cheers when he struggled to his feet and demanded a rematch. The Dog looked at him but agreed readily enough and they faced off again.
This time d'Artagnan forced his weary feet to move faster and he struggled fiercely not to go down when the Dog got a hold on him, lashing out with his feet and elbows until he broke free. They circled one another, the cheers increasing as the minutes ticked by. Finally d'Artagnan managed a flurry of punches which sent the Dog scrambling backwards, and d'Artagnan brought him down with a trip and more-or-less fell on top of him in an exhausted sprawl to gain the equalising victory.
As he had hoped, the Dog immediately challenged him back. Three fights was the maximum between any two fighters on one night, but a final victory would give either of them a double purse. d'Artagnan did his best to look reluctant as he nodded his acceptance of the challenge and he saw Maer flash him a look of approval as he headed off to place the final bets.
While they waited for the nod from Loup, the Dog leaned across to d'Artagnan. "I'll cut ya in if ya let me win."
d'Artagnan was shocked; he'd not come across such connivance in any previous bouts. "No way – I need the money."
"Not more than I. My baby's sick. She's only two days old an' the fever will take 'er same as the last one if I can't get enough fer medicine tonigh'."
The man's voice was low and urgent and d'Artagnan felt a pang of sympathy. Before he could respond they were called to the ring and the Dog immediately lunged at him, landing a solid punch which rocked him on his feet. Instinct took over and they scrapped, each struggling to get the advantage in silent intensity. Finally d'Artagnan managed to get a hold around the man's waist and tip him over his shoulder in a move Porthos had taught him. As he hurled his body on top of the Dog to keep him pinned down his opponent looked to his left where the woman still stood clutching his child. d'Artagnan fancied he could hear the thin wail of the sickly baby and hesitated, his weight all on one forearm as he drew his fist back to land a final punch.
Without even looking the Dog snapped the side of his fist into d'Artagnan's elbow, which instantly gave way sending him crashing to the side. In a flash the Dog was on top of him, one arm across his throat, the other raised in victory.
d'Artagnan struggled to rise but could barely breath and was quickly counted out. The Dog threw him a jubilant laugh as he climbed off him, leaving d'Artagnan to roll to hands and knees and stay there, sweat dripping down his face as he tried to catch his breath.
Someone hauled him to his feet and he stumbled out of the ring, feeling sick. Had Maer placed the bets? How much had he lost?
"You fecking idiot!" hissed a voice in his ear. "Wot in hell's name was that?" Maer was beside himself with anger and d'Artagnan didn't blame him.
"I'm sorry. I got distracted... " d'Artagnan stopped, watching the Dog and his woman walk away and wondering why she was no longer holding a baby.
Maer followed his gaze and swore again violently. "Ya didna' fall for the baby thing, did ya? Jesus, were ya born yesterday, you bag of horse-shit!"
d'Artagnan closed his eyes as a wave of shame washed over him. He'd been duped. That bastard!
He barely listened to Maer's diatribe as he walked away to collect his fighting fee with despair and fury battling for supremacy. Clutching 20 sols he looked at Maer. "Is there anything left?"
Curling his lip, Maer handed over two livre, making three in all: everything he had to show for the last two nights. He shoved the coins in his purse, collected his weapons and walked numbly away, feeling sick. Musketeers were supposed to be men of honour but there was no honour, not in this!
By the time he'd crossed the river it had started to rain and his spirits had dropped into his worn boots. He'd got no choice now. He couldn't win enough in one more night before the Bonacieux returned, not with only 3 livre as a stake. It was pointless. He'd have to swallow his pride and leave Paris, return home and set his father's farm to rights. He would talk to Tréville in the morning and tell him what he'd learned. At least he could do one honourable thing before he left. He'd have to sell his horse to pay his rent, and hope to get a good enough price to buy a cheaper mount to get him home. He felt a pang at the thought of selling his beautiful mare, bred by his father on the farm. Lost in melancholy he caught the merest whisper of movement in the shadows ahead, looked up just in time to see a lump of wood whistling towards his head, felt an explosion of pain then nothing more.
"Monsieur Porthos! Wake up!"
It was only a whisper but Porthos' years on the street meant he was a light sleeper and he was on his feet, reaching for his sword before he registered that it was a child's voice. Creasing his face he stepped lightly to the door and pulled it open. A young lad stood there, looking petrified.
Porthos looked down the hallway: no one else in sight. "What's wrong, lad?" he asked kindly.
The boy looked ready to take flight but stood his ground. "The Gascon needs you," he whispered.
"Do you mean d'Artagnan?"
"Don' know 'is name but 'e's 'urt. I can show ya where."
Porthos didn't waste time on more questions, just nodded and turned to get dressed and collect his weapons. A minute later he was opening Aramis' door, heartily glad to see the man, for once, was sleeping in his own quarters in the Garrison. "Come on, mate, we're needed. Bring your bag."
In moments they were following the lad over the wall at the back of the Garrison so as not to attract attention from the night watch. Once safely out of hearing Porthos established that the boy knew them from their market patrols, had seen d'Artagnan with them, had seen him attacked but didn't know if he was dead, who had attacked him, or why. Almost running in their haste, they followed the boy down alley after alley. "Why are you helping him, boy? Why did you come for us?" asked Aramis as the lad paused to get his bearings.
"Cos 'e's kind," was the answer, and that was all they could get out of him. Then all other thoughts fled as they saw a dark shape on the muddy ground ahead.
Flinging himself to his knees Aramis heard, much to his relief, a muted groan. "d'Artagnan, what happened? Where are you hurt?" He could hear coins chinking as Porthos rewarded the boy for his help in finding their friend, but his attention was all on d'Artagnan as he slipped an arm under his shoulders and sat him up. He could see an oozing head wound under the hairline, and blood coated one side of his face which looked – surely – even more battered than it had this morning. What on earth...?
"Can you stand?" The lad was shivering and wet through and he needed to get him somewhere warm and light to treat his injuries.
Together he and Porthos pulled d'Artagnan to his feet and started to steer him towards the Garrison, but suddenly Porthos exclaimed and stopped. "Where're your weapons, lad?"
d'Artagnan stared down at his empty weapons belts and then looked up, despair written all over his face. "I don' know," he mumbled through puffy lips. "Oh, Porthos, I've lost everything!"
All night long, as he fetched warm water, and blankets, and wine from his room, and helped Aramis clean and dress d'Artagnan in dry clothes, all Porthos could hear in his head was the agony and utter desolation in that phrase. d'Artagnan would say nothing more about what had happened, only that he hadn't seen his attacker. He wouldn't explain why he'd been in that dingy quarter of Paris at that ungodly hour of the morning, nor how he'd collected so many injuries in the last two days. He fell into an exhausted sleep as soon as Aramis had finished tending him, then the pair sat looking at each other.
"We 'ave to tell Athos."
"In the morning," Aramis told him firmly. "No point in us all being sleepless. I'll take first watch."
In the morning d'Artagnan was hollow-eyed and resolutely silent. Porthos fetched Athos who looked shocked at the sight of his battered protégé, and dismissed them both. Ten minutes later he emerged from Aramis' room looking helpless. "He can't explain what happened. Or won't. He's devastated about the loss of his weapons though." He paused, looking at the others for anything they could add, but they both shrugged: they'd already told him all they knew.
News of d'Artagnan's loss spread quickly around the Garrison, but one look at Athos' grim face deterred most from asking questions at muster. Tréville visited him briefly and excused Aramis from duties so he could be on hand if d'Artagnan needed him, but shortly after his visit Aramis saw the Gascon emerge from Aramis' room and start to walk stiffly towards the archway.
"What the 'eck...?" exclaimed Porthos, following Aramis as he ran towards the Gascon.
"You're supposed to be resting!" Aramis admonished as he reached him, catching him by the elbow then letting go swiftly as he remembered the swollen joint he'd found there in the night.
d'Artagnan kept walking, his head down. "I can't sleep here with all this – noise." Aramis looked around, surprised. The courtyard was not especially busy; Jacques was humming to himself as he groomed someone's mount, the farrier was working the bellows, someone was whistling as they mucked out the stalls, two cadets were sparring half-heartedly waiting for Athos to give them orders... it was all the normal bustle of the Garrison.
"Where are ya goin'?" he heard Porthos ask, and hurried to catch up.
"Home," came the low answer.
"You're better off here, lad. You need looking after and with the Bonacieux away..." Aramis stopped as d'Artagnan stopped walking and swung around to face him.
"How do you know they're away?"
"We asked, lad," Porthos answered. "We was worried about you."
d'Artagnan looked as if he was going to erupt, but caught himself and muttered something that sounded like "Oh, what's the point!" and walked off. As Aramis made to follow, Porthos stopped him.
"Let's leave 'im be. We've got work to do."
"I'm off duty today, remember?"
"Nah, not that. We've got questions to ask. Weapons to find." Porthos gave him a meaningful look and strode off. Aramis looked after d'Artagnan for a moment, then sighed and followed his friend. Porthos was right. The best help they could give right now would be to track down the lad's attacker.
d'Artagnan had thought to pack his belongings when he got to the Bonacieux house, leave a promissory note for the rent, and head south at first light next morning. But when he finally got to his room he simply sat on the bed, staring into space. He hadn't been able to explain that it wasn't the noise that bothered him at the Garrison, it was the thought of not being part of it any more. . He'd messed everything up! Lost his father's sword, his precious main gauche, all the money he'd fought so hard to earn. Lost his future with the Musketeers.
He couldn't even tell Tréville about the fighting ring now, not after keeping quiet this morning. He didn't know why he'd said nothing when the captain visited him; he was simply exhausted, and in pain, and the captain hadn't pressured him to talk, merely patted him on the shoulder and assured him they would work to find his attackers, and he'd felt like a complete heel.
If only he'd won that last bout, instead of falling for the story about the baby! He would have been alert on the walk home then, instead of wallowing in despair, and might have spotted his attackers in time to fend them off. He was too bloody soft-heartened, and gullible!
He suddenly remembered his plan to sell his horse to clear the debt and flopped back on the bed with a groan. Resolving to rest for few minutes before packing and deciding what to do, he was asleep within seconds.
He woke with a start, and found the sleep had left him with a clear image in his head of the man who had attacked him: Raif, one of Loup's henchmen! He shot upright, trying not to wince as the sudden movement pulled at his bruised ribs and made his head thump, then pushed resolutely to his feet. Now he knew who had taken his weapons and the last of his money, he was dammed if he was going to skulk south! He would find tonight's fight and confront the man, even if it were the last thing he did.
In the half-light of the evening, he nearly missed the items lying on the parlour table as he passed through. Suddenly registering the familiar shapes he backtracked and stared, then reached out a trembling hand and curled his fingers around the hilt of his father's sword. How...? He spotted a curl of parchment lying beside his main gauche and saw Athos' familiar script.
Porthos and Aramis tracked these down and we bought them back for you.
We will offer our help as soon as you are ready to ask for it.
He sank slowly to the nearest chair and wiped a hand over his face, feeling overwhelmed. How had they... They must have scoured the city all day! 'Bought them back'... Raif must have sold them to a swordsmith. How much would they have paid to buy his weapons back?
His debt was now even bigger, yet his heart was lighter as he rose and strapped the weapons into place, feeling their comforting weight. He knew exactly what he was going to do now.
Three hours later blood was pouring down his face and his ears were ringing as he faced The Boar, a squat, heavily muscled man with scar-tissue around the piggy eyes which gave him his fighting name. He was hard to knock down and a seasoned fighter but d'Artagnan was fighting with purpose and spirit. He had his weapons back, and friends offering their help, and a plan. He was going to win enough money to pay his debts, then confess everything to Tréville and leave with his head held high. He hadn't seen Raif yet but he'd left his weapons safely with Maer tonight, and was keeping a sharp eye open for the bastard who'd attacked him. Even if he ended up in the Bastille because of it, he would get his revenge before the night was over!
Maer had been surprised to see him but was quickly seduced by the prospect of more winnings. d'Artagnan looked so battered that it was easy to get good money on him winning the first couple of fights and he reckoned he had nearly half of what he needed already. Now the punters had started to back him to win, which was why Maer had again counselled him to lose the next fight.
He was already finding it difficult to stand without swaying, and even if he'd been trying to win he wasn't sure how he would wrestle this lump of solid muscle to the ground. The trouble was he had to make it look convincing or Loup wouldn't pay out. The Boar launched another flurry of punches and one punch caught him full in the mouth, splitting his lip and making his eyes water. Before he could recover a punch to the stomach doubled him up and a blow to his head sent him sprawling.
The crowd bayed their anticipation of his impending demise ... and something snapped in d'Artagnan's head. He could almost hear Porthos yelling at him to get up, just as he did in training every day, and he rolled frantically to the side as the Boar, thinking him down and out, dropped to his knees ready to flatten him.
What am I doing, he asked himself, but in his dazed state he found himself responding to the voices in his head, staggering to his feet and landing a vicious kick to the Boar's kidney. Now it sounded like Aramis roaring his approval in his mind, and then Athos was there too, dammit, yelling at him to finish it off, and before he knew it he was doing just that, swiping the Boar's feet away as he lumbered to stand, then throwing all his weight on the muscular shoulders so he was unable to rise and could only growl and roll helplessly until the count was finished.
d'Artagnan flopped to the side, absolutely spent and unable to move even when the Boar rolled to his feet and took a menacing step towards him. He could hear nothing over the roar of the crowd and the ringing in his ears, but then someone was dragging him backwards out of the ring and someone else was between him and the angry Boar.
He found himself propped up in the nearest doorway and watched in a daze at the chaos around him. He could see Maer stalking his way looking furious and the crowd milling around the money-takers, at least half of whom had expected him to lose. Slowly it sank in that he'd done it again: blown everything, lost all his earnings in that one minute of madness when he'd refused to be beaten.
He watched as Porthos placated the Boar then turned to talk to Maer, and it was only as he spotted d'Artagnan and waved that d'Artagnan remembered something critical: Porthos should not be there.
He couldn't be there! No one knew where he was or what he was doing...
"Right, this way," came Aramis' cheerful voice in his ear. d'Artagnan could only gape as Aramis manhandled him away from the grumbling throng of those who'd lost money on him yet again.
"What are you doing here?" he managed to ask eventually, as Porthos caught up with them and handed something to him.
"Your mate's not too 'appy with you," he commented when d'Artagnan stared uncomprehendingly at his weapons belt, then looked concerned when d'Artagnan groaned.
"Oh, god! I've lost all my money again!"
"What d'ya mean? Ya won the bout, didn' cha?"
"I was supposed to lose it." He looked up, suddenly realising. "It was your fault! I could hear you egging me on! I thought it was in my head but you were really here, both of you! I should have lost!" he virtually wailed.
Porthos looked scandalised but Aramis only laughed. "It's a good job we bet on you to win then, isn't it!" He dug in his pocket and pulled out a full coin-purse, handing it over to d'Artagnan. "Not sure what your rent is but this should cover it."
He laughed again at d'Artagnan's baffled look. "You didn't think we'd let you have all the fun, did you?" he asked, pulling d'Artagnan into a sheltered doorway as a trio of Musketeers thundered past.
"Wait – what's happening?" d'Artagnan was struggling to stand, let alone keep up with events.
"We followed you, lad. Obviously." Absolutely nothing was obvious to d'Artagnan at the moment, so he simply leaned against Porthos' comforting bulk and watched as more Musketeers piled into the square and started rounding up fighters, money-takers and punters alike.
"Ah, there you are!" d'Artagnan just managed not to groan as Tréville strode over. Great. The only person missing was –
"Well done, d'Artagnan." Yes, of course Athos had to be there too – wait. Well done? He opened his mouth to ask what was happening but instead let out a yelp when Porthos stepped heavily on his toe.
"Best get him home for some attention, Captain," interjected Aramis smoothly.
"Yes, of course. I'll talk to you in the morning, d'Artagnan but promise me one thing." He fixed d'Artagnan with his steely blue gaze. "The next time you decide to do some undercover investigations, please do me the courtesy of informing me first." He flicked a last glance over all of them then strode off to supervising the mopping up of the last of the fighting ring.
d'Artagnan was left speechless, his wits scrambling to keep up. The others were all watching him, and Aramis was openly laughing. "You knew?" he managed, eventually.
"Not nearly soon enough," answered Athos reprovingly.
"Porthos recognised the description of the man who'd sold your weapons to the swordsmith. We tracked down some of his mates and started putting the clues together," Aramis explained, wiping the blood from d'Artagnan's face and checking him quickly over before prodding him to start walking.
"Why didn' you tell us what you were doing?" asked Porthos.
"Or ask for our help?" added Athos, pointedly.
"I ... I didn't think..."
"Tha's true!"
"Porthos, let him speak."
"I ... " d'Artagnan stopped walking, struggling to articulate everything that had been going on in his head for the last few days. The others stopped with him and waited. "I was worried too much about my family name, my debts, my honour ... I forgot about friendship," he managed, eventually. There was a small silence, then Porthos chuckled.
"Good job we didn' let your honour get in the way of our friendship then, ain't it?"
d'Artagnan couldn't speak past the lump in his throat so simply nodded, touched beyond words, as they resumed their slow progress towards the Garrison. Towards home.
Author's Note
The title is from The Yardbirds' song Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor. The prompt phrase didn't work as the first sentence but it is in the story, I promise! And I worked hard to get it under 11,000 words before this long Author's Note. Honest.
The first French monetary unit was the livre, introduced in 781. It was subdivided into 20 solidi (later nicknamed 'sol' or sous') each of which was further subdivided into 12 denarii (deniers). (It's a system that will be familiar to older British readers as we lifted our pounds, shillings and pence from the French system, down to the letters we used - l, s, d - until we went decimal. Who knew!)
In 1650,the closest I could find data for, 6 sols would feed a man for a day. Four pounds of wheat bread cost 4 sols; a pound of butter cost 12 sols but a pound of beef cost only 2 sols and a gallon of wine cost one livre. A horse would cost around 200 livre. An unskilled labourer could earn 1 livre for 10 hours work. I reckoned half board and lodgings would cost around 5 sols per day hence 8 livres monthly. No idea if this was in any way accurate but it's my best guess! I've always wondered how much 30 livres (the cost of the entrance fee for the Musketeers versus Red Guards contest in episode 1.7) was worth so these figures suggest it would have been a month's wages.
Thank you for reading. I know this isn't my best work, but I've been struggling to write for far too long and was determined to post something this month as a thank you to everyone who still writes so beautifully and inspirationally here to keep The Musketeers alive for us all.