Chapter One
Porthos looked around the courtyard, some of the other Musketeers were sparring with each other. He wondered if he could join them. As a newly commission man he wanted to try to join in with the others, he needed to find his place amongst the men. The other three men who had been commissioned at the same time as him seemed to have managed to fit in easily. Two of them were sparring with some of the longer serving men.
He wandered over and watched for a little while hoping that one of the other watching men would ask him to spar. Nobody asked. Porthos was finding the transition from infantryman to Musketeer a little difficult. He knew some of the men resented the fact that he had been handpicked by Captain Treville. Porthos had not had to serve time as a cadet he had not had to work his way up. There were not many Musketeers who were handpicked. Most had to present themselves with a letter of introduction and hope the Captain would let them become a cadet.
The other thing that went against Porthos was that he was the only man amongst them whose skin colour was different. His skin colour was not uncommon in Paris, there were plenty of Parisians from an assortment of places. He was unusual as he was French and not a foreigner who had settled there. Some of the other men were wary of him, he was used to that, but sometimes he felt lonely because of it.
And then there was his upbringing, he had told a couple of the men early on that he had lived for a number of years in the Court of Miracles. As that particular piece of information had filtered through some of the men had taken to actively ignoring him or collecting their belonging together as he went passed. Did they really believe he would steal from them?
The sparring continued. One of the longer serving men, Aramis, had sauntered over. The man did not seem capable of walking, unless he was on patrol. He sort of arrived at his destination with a grace that some woman would envy. Aramis was the only one of the men who seemed either oblivious to Porthos' background or uninterested in it. With a winning smile, Aramis nodded towards an open space and drew his sword. Porthos smiled, for the first time since walking into the garrison courtyard that morning. He drew his sword and began to spar.
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Aramis found the behaviour of his comrades annoying. The man he was sparring with was a capable soldier, he had taken part in several battles and had the scars to prove it. Aramis could think of several of the other Musketeers who came from areas of Paris that were just as bad as the Court of Miracles. And the snide remarks he had heard about the man's background had nearly landed him in trouble with Treville. The Musketeer who had made the comment was still sporting a black eye where Aramis had punched him. Porthos had not even been around at the time.
Porthos was skilled with the sword his blows were hard and calculated. He seemed to be able to predict each more. Aramis found it hard work, which was good, he thought. They were evenly matched. The other sparing men had stopped. All eyes were on them. Aramis enjoyed the attention.
'Come on Aramis,' shouted one man.
A few of the others cheered him on as well. It annoyed Aramis that no one took Porthos' side. Aramis knew he had to lose the fight, but it had to be convincing. If they suspected he had lost on purpose it would make matters worse for Porthos. And if Porthos realised Aramis had let him win the man would not be appreciative.
As Porthos continued to press forward, Aramis shuffled back a little. Luck was on Aramis' side, the sun, high in the sky would blind him if he took another couple of steps back. Any competent swordsman would know not to put themselves in the position of being blinded by the sun. Porthos was pressing his advantage, Aramis pretended to tire and shuffled back again, the sun hit his eyes. Porthos swung his sword, Aramis missed it with his parrying dagger.
Aramis had enough confidence in his opponent to know that Porthos would not actually hit him with the sword. At the last second Porthos twisted his wrist causing the flat of the sword rather than the blade to make contact with his arm. The force was still enough to cause Aramis to stumble to the side and fall to the floor.
There was no cheer, a couple of the men said 'well done,' but the rest wandered off, disinterested. Aramis pushed himself over onto his back and rested on his elbows looking up with squinted eyes towards Porthos who looked quite pleased with himself. He stepped forward and reached out his hand. Aramis took it and found himself hauled to his feet with ease by the broader man.
'Sorry,' said Aramis, 'you managed to push me back enough to be hit by the sun. Very clever.'
'To be honest, I hadn't realised,' replied Porthos.
'I think you would have had me anyway, your sword strokes are brutal,' Aramis rubbed his arm for effect.
'Are you hurt?'
'No, bruised pride perhaps. We will have to have a rematch at some point.'
Porthos looked up, Aramis followed his gaze. Treville was watching them from the balustrade, leaning forward. When he saw them both looking at him he indicated for them to go up to him.
Aramis walked toward the Captain's office with Porthos a couple of steps behind. The new man seemed a little worried to be summoned by his Captain. As they reached the Captain he held out a sealed letter. Aramis took it and read the address.
'I want you two to deliver that for me. There's no need to wait for a reply, it shouldn't take you more than a few hours you can be back here before midnight.'
'Yes sir,' said Aramis.
Porthos nodded to his Captain. As they turned to leave Treville stopped Aramis. Porthos carried on walking and made his way towards the stable.
'Thank you for letting him win that,' said Treville quietly.
Aramis smiled as he replied, 'I don't know what you mean sir.'
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Porthos was determined that although the mission was a simple one he was going to make sure it was carried out properly. He still felt that he had to prove himself amongst the other men. His small victory over Aramis, one of the original Musketeers, would go a long way to earning him a place amongst them, but he needed to do more.
They had left the outskirts of the city and were trotting towards their destination. Aramis was talking, almost constantly. The man had an uncanny way with words, he had maintained a conversation between them for some time. But the conversation was not really about anything. He was remarking on their surroundings one minute then enquiring about which taverns Porthos liked to visit the next. Porthos found he enjoyed the lighthearted talk. Aramis was friendly and seemed to hold no ill will toward anyone. Porthos realised if he could become the man's friend he would go up in the estimations of the other men. Porthos wondered if that was what Aramis was doing, giving him a way into the inner circle.
Porthos was grateful to the man, his friendly overtures were genuine. They did not seem forced. Aramis was interested in Porthos and his background, he was fascinated by the workings of the Court of Miracles. When Aramis intimated what his own background entailed and what his own mother had been, Porthos could understand. Aramis was not of noble stock, he had probably had to work hard to become the respected soldier that he now was.
As they rounded a bend in the road they found themselves confronted by four men blocking their way. The thick tangle of trees on either side of the road meant that the Musketeers could not simply ride around the men. There was no choice but to engage with them. Porthos allowed Aramis to take the lead.
'You appear to be blocking the road gentlemen,' Aramis said, 'is there a problem?'
Both Musketeers had their hands on their guns. The guns ready to fire.
One of the men stepped forward. He was a big scruffy man in his forties.
'You're outnumbered,' he said.
'We are Musketeers,' replied Aramis.
'You're still outnumbered.'
One of the other men was staring at Porthos. Porthos glared back.
'Since when were they allowed in?' asked the second man nudging the skinny man who stood next to him.
The skinny man looked at Porthos with distaste, 'don't know, perhaps he's a servant to that one,' he said nodding toward Aramis.
Porthos did his best not to react, he was used to the abuse, but it still annoyed him. He had learnt to carry on as if it was not happening. Most people would give up if they did not get a reaction from him.
'Do you own him?' asked the fourth man, a young man who barely looked old enough to be away from his parents.
Aramis pushed his horse forward a couple of steps. Porthos glanced across at him and was surprised to see the man looked extremely angry.
Aramis addressed the first man who had spoken, 'if you are to lead a group of men, you should teach them not to speak out of turn. Get out of our way.'
'They ain't talking out of turn, soldier, they're making a valid point. He's takin' away jobs from people.'
The leader of the four men looked at Porthos as he spoke.
'He is people,' replied Aramis, with barely disguised annoyance, 'he is French and has probably served his country with more loyalty than the four of you have in your little fingers.'
Aramis seemed to have pushed the men too far, Porthos could see they were ready to fight. He felt he ought to say something but was not sure what.
The leader of the four gave a signal. The men rushed forward.
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Aramis was fuming. He had seen what small minded bigoted people could cause. One man could foist their opinions on others and those opinions could soon be seen as fact.
As the men rushed forward he pulled his gun from its holster and shot the second man who had spoken in the chest. The man looked surprised for a moment before stumbling back and collapsing to the ground. The leader of the gang did not react to the death of his friend, he continued to surge forward, grabbing Aramis and pulling him from his horse. He landed heavily, but managed to push himself up. Before he could properly stand he was grabbed by the big man from behind. The man wrapped his arms around Aramis, pinning his arms to his sides. Aramis could not reach his second gun or his main gauche. The man squeezed his arms tightly. Aramis felt as if he was being crushed by the vice-like grip. He was struggling to take a breath.
One of the other men approached them. Aramis realised the skinny man intended to stab him, a dagger ready in his hand. With no other way to defend himself, Aramis pushed off the ground with both feet and kicked forward at the advancing man, knocking him away.
The big man holding Aramis staggered back and fell to his knees pulling his captive down with him. Before the man could dictate how they landed Aramis managed to push back so that the man was under him. He kicked back with the heel of his boot into the shin of the man's leg.
The pain caused the desired effect. The big man loosened his grip, Aramis rolled away from him and managed to raise himself up on his knees, pulling his main gauche as he did so. Before the leader could start to rise Aramis had pushed the dagger into the man's chest.
A sharp searing pain in his leg saw his vision blur for a moment.
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Porthos was aware of Aramis being grabbed by the leader and kicking the skinny man. But he had his own battle to win. The youngest of the four men had rushed forward and slapped Porthos' horse causing the beast to rear up, unseating its rider. Porthos landed awkwardly, he knew he had hurt his ankle and would probably not be able to bear weight on it.
Pushing the pain away Porthos pulled his main gauche, he was not in a position to draw his sword. The young man was already on him. In the second it took Porthos to force the dagger into the man's gut he felt remorse for taking a life. The young man probably knew no different. He probably thought that robbing passers-by was the only way to survive.
The young man's only response to the mortal wound was to splutter a little blood as Porthos pushed him away. Blood stained the man's doublet as he weakly clutched at the injury before going limp.
Porthos did not have time to do more than glance at the dead man before he was distracted by a gunshot. He looked over to Aramis who had managed to kill the leader but been shot by the skinny man as he tried to get up. Aramis had collapsed to the ground, landing sprawled on his front. The Musketeer was weakly trying to push himself over onto his back, but appeared to be struggling.
Porthos pushed himself up, pulling his gun as he did so. He raised the weapon and fired. The skinny man, who had been calmly walking towards Aramis, his sword drawn, crumpled to the floor, a neat gunshot wound through his eye.
Aramis, who seemed to sense that the danger had passed collapsed back to the floor. He was breathing hard as he lay on the ground. Porthos could see the man's face. Aramis had clearly been injured and was in a lot of pain.
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