The Three Musketeers has been one of my favorite books for more than 20 years. The adventures of d'Artagnan (who will never, sorry, be "d'Art" to me) and his friends have been read and re-read at least a dozen times. I even have my favorite translation (the 1941 Great Illustrated Classics version), and my favorite movie version(s) (1973 and 1974 films with Michael York, Richard Chamberlain and Charlton Heston). It was with great trepidation, therefore, that I initially turned on BBC's The Musketeers. But what a joy it was to see that they could come up with new stories and use the book as a backdrop. Characterization was pretty spot on, the original storyline wasn't radically ignored, and well, it wasn't bad to look at these guys, either!
So, my thoughts ran wild after "An Ordinary Man" (2:2), and this was what I began. This will go slowly, it's a very, very busy time for me at the moment… but I wanted to get started. Please let me know what you think! Thanks x
* TM *TM * TM *
D'Artagnan allowed his musketeer friends to drag him to a tavern, where they clapped him on the shoulder to offer sage comfort and plied him with alcohol. He bit his lip and forced a smile when the touches were too harsh for his aching body, and tipped the wine out onto the floor or into someone else's cup when it was too much for his mood and his companions weren't looking.
Eventually, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had consumed enough alcohol themselves that he no longer had to pretend to be enjoying himself, and he begged off for the night, something they assumed was due to his own drunkenness and potentially the need to get some sleep after the last thirty-six hours, about which they were certain in their wine-soaked states that they had erased all residual bad feelings.
The young musketeer eased himself down onto his bed back at the garrison, stiffly and not without more than one hitch in his breathing. His ordeal with Sebastian LeMaître, chained to a naïve yet stubborn King Louis XIII and being marched off to a life as a Spanish galley slave, had taken its toll on d'Artagnan in more ways than one. Fear, duty, shock, and anger had all taken their turns racing through him as he fought to survive and protect His Majesty. Now, in the aftermath, with the adrenalin rush subsided, it was weariness, disappointment, and pain that plagued him.
He pressed one hand carefully against his sore stomach, an unwelcome memory of the large baton used to subdue him in the first place flashing through his mind. Then he pulled the hand away and turned both hands palms up to look at his wrists. Raw, red, and in some places shredded but no longer bleeding, he curled his fingers into loose fists, stopping when the stinging made his eyes prickle with tears. Another memory appeared, this one of the approach of the musketeers in the woods, ready to rescue him and the monarch, relief flooding through him as he looked up at Athos. "Am I glad to see you." The words poured out of him, the feeling of security finally allowing exhaustion into his consciousness. Then Athos's words in return: "Is the King safe?"
D'Artagnan understood the greeting; it was Athos's duty—indeed, all the musketeers' duty—to protect the king before all else. His own mind was racing, drifting back to the last day and a half; darting forward to the immediate future. It was only later, on the long trek back to Paris, that the wounded, tired, and frightened part of him had whispered inwardly, "What about me?"
"Never mind that," he muttered now to himself, his body protesting the lateness of the hour, his head throbbing, but not from drink. He reached down and slowly, painfully pulled off his boots, then without bothering to do more than take off his pauldron, he pulled his legs up on to the bed, curled into himself, and fell into a deep but troubled sleep.
* TM * TM * TM *
The first weak rays of sunlight woke d'Artagnan the next morning. He opened his eyes just a little, rubbing one hand slowly across his face and up into his damp, tangled hair. After a moment, he frowned, realizing that at some point in the night he must have crawled under the blankets on his bed, a move he couldn't remember making, but for which he was grateful, as his head was still aching, but at least now it was on a pillow. He shifted a little, stopping as each bruise and gash and strain that had stiffened overnight woke up with him.
"Tell me! Or he dies."
The barrel of the pistol mere inches from d'Artagnan's chest made his stomach clench, but he knew he had to do his duty. He leaned in ever so slightly to the King and advised, "Don't."
D'Artagnan tried to remember the look on King Louis's face, whether the idea of his protector being shot dead in front of him disturbed the monarch. But he couldn't. He only remembered that the King had gone ahead and announced his identity, but whether that had been through anger or whether to protect his subject—well, d'Artagnan wondered if he knew the truth of that. Still, he had done his duty as a musketeer: protect the King. Protect France.
Against his better judgment, he began to sit up. The pain was instant, and sharp. He paused, bit his lip, kept moving. Another image flashed into his mind, then his own voice in his memory: "Pepin? Get up! Come on! Come on! Pepin, get up!" Another shot. Another loss. D'Artagnan shook his head now, Pepin's staring eyes boring into him, the uncomprehending look on the man's face calling out to d'Artagnan even as the King grabbed him as he screamed and pulled him away. Away…
D'Artagnan felt his eyes fill with tears, suddenly overwhelmed by the events of the last forty-eight hours. A risky royal request; a violent struggle and capture; mistreatment and pain and fear mixed with a strong duty to keep the King safe; the return of Milady de Winter; the fight for freedom; and then the return to the palace to watch the Dauphin's christening while pretending that all was well. Everything had washed over him and through him as it happened. He'd walked through it all mechanically, not giving himself the chance to digest what was happening. His three closest companions had never given up on finding the King, probably the most important mission they had ever had, just as protecting him during their captivity was probably the single most important thing d'Artagnan had ever been entrusted to do, even by circumstance. And he'd succeeded, they all had. Honorably.
So why did he feel so bad?
"Why do you musketeers insist on disappointing me?"
D'Artagnan swiped at his eyes, angry at himself. Only children cried at words. He wasn't a boy any more; he was a man. And more than that, he was a musketeer. Determined to be the solider he had sworn an oath to be, he stood up quickly, ignoring the pull of his injuries, and cleaned himself up to face the day.
* TM * TM * TM *
His first stop once he left his quarters was the office of the Captain of the Musketeers, Monsieur de Tréville. Normally, he would have been questioned about the events immediately, but after the successful return of the King, followed by the christening of the Dauphin, topped off with the dressing down of d'Artagnan by the monarch, Tréville had taken a look at the young Gascon and waved him into the arms of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and told him to return in the morning, after he'd had time to clean up, eat, drink, and most of all, sleep.
D'Artagnan entered, then stopped when he saw that Tréville was not alone. "It's all right, d'Artagnan," the leader of the musketeers greeted. "Rochefort is here to see you."
D'Artagnan glanced at the King's right-hand man with both suspicion and confusion, then looked to Tréville as he came further into the room, his question asked with his eyes.
"The King has sent me, d'Artagnan," Comte de Rochefort announced. D'Artagnan looked back at him, furrowed his brow. "The palace needs to understand your allegiance."
The young Gascon's eyes darkened as the King's voice echoed in his head. Are you taking sides with a traitor against your king? "My allegiance is to His Majesty," d'Artagnan said dangerously.
"Believe me, d'Artagnan, it is not I who asks. I have no doubt that you did all you could to prevent the King being kidnapped and nearly made into a Spanish galley slave." Though the words were conciliatory, there was something in them, and in the arch tone of the Comte's voice, that set d'Artagnan on edge. "No, it is the king who is concerned."
Tréville saw that the musketeer was about to speak and talked first. "His Majesty surely knows that d'Artagnan is loyal to the crown. By all reports, he was a brave and honorable protector during their captivity."
"For the most part," Rochefort qualified with a nod.
"The—the most part?" d'Artagnan spluttered. "When did I—when did I ever—"
Rochefort gave the tiniest shrug. "One could say that the inability to stop the capture itself was a failure."
"The King himself demanded the outing, with the express disapproval of the musketeers," Tréville cut in.
Rochefort raised an eyebrow in his direction. "Are you suggesting that the King was wrong in going out amongst his people?" he asked archly.
At this, Tréville knew that he had to back down. "I'm merely saying the musketeers expressed concern that they could not guarantee his safety in such circumstances." He glanced over at d'Artagnan, who was boiling fit to burst, but who, miraculously, understood the need for restraint at the moment.
Rochefort observed the looks exchanged by the two men, then declared, "Then perhaps His Majesty's mistake was in trusting musketeers. Certainly d'Artagnan's refusal to do his bidding by killing Bruno LeMaître could be construed as such."
"I'm not an executioner," d'Artagnan declared. "The King gave his word—"
"That is called 'military strategy,' my dear d'Artagnan. Something I would have thought musketeers were familiar with. The best way to ensure your success that day was to enlist the help of your enemy."
"But LeMaître accepted him at his word—he fought with his heart, believing—"
"Then the strategy was all the more successful. D'Artagnan, I shall return to the King and tell him that you are devoted but young and full of romantic notions. This may satisfy him for now. In the meantime, it has reached my ear that you are the one who killed the man responsible for setting you up for capture. Perhaps you should consider why it was so easy to kill him—and so hard to kill the man who made it possible to keep you in captivity. Especially when ordered to by our royal master."
D'Artagnan felt sick as Rochefort gave a sharp farewell to Tréville and swept out of the room. He barely noticed when the Captain turned to face him. "D'Artagnan."
D'Artagnan was still lost in a sea of emotions. He shook his head, staring at the floor. "D'Artagnan," Tréville repeated. "You did nothing wrong, lad. What you said to the King was correct: you are a soldier, not an executioner. What he was expecting of you was too much."
D'Artagnan raised his eyes to his Captain. "What a king asks of his musketeers is never too much," he replied, his mouth dry.
A small smile appeared on Tréville's lips. "And that statement, d'Artagnan, is why you are a fine musketeer. Between you and me, and I will deny it if you ever repeat it, the King was wrong. But only in expecting you to see killing LeMaître as a reward for your loyalty. Unfortunately, Rochefort is correct: although the King may have been frightened and spoke without thinking in order to enlist LeMaître's help at the time, it is certainly sound military strategy to fool an enemy into helping you win a battle. That does not make them any less an enemy when the battle is won."
D'Artagnan nodded numbly. "Yes, sir."
Tréville regarded the young musketeer critically. "You don't look rested, d'Artagnan. In all the excitement of the rescue and the pomp and circumstance of the Dauphin's christening, I fear we've let you fend for yourself."
"I'm fine, Captain," d'Artagnan answered.
"Athos, Porthos and Aramis have told me some about the final battle for your freedom. And that you yourself killed the publican who organized your capture, as Rochefort referred to."
"Yes, sir."
The Captain moved in until d'Artagnan felt compelled to look him in the eye. "It was personal," he surmised quietly. D'Artagnan nodded. What felt like shame emanated from the young musketeer in waves. "It may have been," Tréville acknowledged; "but that does not mean it was not necessary. You have nothing to regret."
"I know," d'Artagnan replied, without as much conviction as he tried to convey.
Tréville smiled. "Now go and have some breakfast. You will need to come back with the others in an hour. Rochefort didn't just come here to make you miserable; there is a directive from the King, one that despite his words to the contrary he would not entrust to anyone less than his best musketeers."
D'Artagnan nodded his thanks and offered a weak smile, which was replaced by a short, sharp gasp when Tréville clapped him strongly on the right arm in a gesture of support. The Captain frowned as d'Artagnan bit his lip and tried to school his expression to make it seem as though nothing had happened.
"Are you hurt?" Tréville asked, frowning as d'Artagnan's forehead broke out in a sweat.
"I'm fine, Captain," d'Artagnan repeated, pulling his arm in close.
"So you say, and yet I don't believe you," Tréville replied. "See that Aramis tends to you—and don't think I won't know if he doesn't. I'm surprised they haven't given you the once-over already."
"It was all very... busy yesterday, Captain."
Tréville smiled knowingly. "Indeed it was. If you are not well for this mission, d'Artagnan, you must tell me. You have certainly earned the rest if need be."
"I'll be fine, Captain," the Gascon said.
The Captain nodded. "I thought you'd say as much. Find Aramis, and I will let him decide."