Bon Chance
An entry for the May Fête des Mousquetaires contest.
# 1 #
D'Artagnan was pinned to the chair, hands gripping the bottom of the seat, trying not to move, not to breathe, not to give any further sign of life. Hands had him pressed down, warm breath tickled his neck. Fists and swords were not going to get him out of this one he thought. His only hope now was rescue and his eyes darted frantically around the room looking for any one of three faces who might come to his aid. Almost immediately, his eyes locked on Aramis, and hope flared in D'Artagnan's bright young eyes. Aramis, however was engaged in a battle of his own.
"Collette," he laughed into the hair of the lovely blonde clinging to his left side, "you must leave me at least one hand free for Margarite!" He managed to slip his right hand from her clasp and grab an armful of the brunette draped on his other shoulder. "You ladies must learn to share," he chuckled as they giggled and ran their hands through his hair and over his chest.
"Aramis!" D'Artagnan hissed at his companion. The woman on top of him took this sign of life as a suggestion.
"Oh, Monsieur!" she cried, "Now I see! You wish your friend to come play too, then?" She flashed a flirty smile to Aramis who raised his eyebrows and shrugged in what could only be interpreted as a gesture of submission. "We will invite him next, but first, you owe me a kiss!" The woman snuggled further into D'Artagnan's lap and resumed nuzzling his neck.
"Aramis!" D'Artagnan called out now with urgency, "I do not wish to hurt a woman, but heaven help me I will if you don't help me!" D'Artagnan's eyes were panicked now – his sense of honor warring with his loyalty to Constance. Something in his desperate look finally moved Aramis. He stood up, depositing Collette on the bench beside Margarite, made a slight bow to them both, and crossed the small tavern to stand by his imprisoned friend.
"Mademoiselle," he cooed, "I have come to negotiate for the release of your hostage."
"My apologies, Monsieur, but he is mine to keep," she said, looking down at the young musketeer clenching the chair beneath her. "He has been drinking my wine all night, and now it is time for me to exact payment," her dark eyes smoldered and she pursed her lips. "I will have what I am owed," and she leaned forward aggressively, ready to kiss D'Artagnan whether he wanted to or not.
Truly panicked now, D'Artagnan tried to lean back, his feet pushing hard against the floor. The chair began to tip backwards just as Aramis leaned in to scoop the young lady off of D'Artagnan's lap. The chair and D'Artagnan crashed to the floor and Aramis laughed, still holding the struggling girl. "Look Mademoiselle, he has fallen for you after all" Aramis joked as he set the girl back on her feet. He looked down at her with one of his most charming smiles and was shocked to have his gaze met by rage. She slapped him across the face.
"How dare you lay your hands on me," she yelled at Aramis.
Surprised, he took a step backwards and offered a small bow. "My apologies," he said cautiously, not trusting her wild eyes. Instinctually, he found his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger and consciously bade himself to release it. There was no need for things to escalate to that, but Aramis could feel the tension suddenly thicken in the air.
The young lady smoothed back her black hair from her flushed face. "You soldiers are all alike," she growled, "flirting and begging one day and then gone the next. You," she yelled, pointing at Aramis, "think you can just grab me because your friend did? I don't want you. You have no right to me." Aramis nodded gently in agreement as the crowd at the tavern quieted at the commotion. "And you," she turned her wrath toward D'Artagnan, still laying on his back amidst the rubble of the ruined chair, "you are even worse!" the woman choked on tears, "flirting with me, teasing me, telling me you loved me!" the woman sobbed in anguish. D'Artagnan locked eyes with Aramis clearly confused. He shook his head lightly, denying the accusations.
"Milady," he offered gently, "it was never my intention to suggest . . . " D'Artagnan was cut off by her shouting.
"Liar!" she howled, "I'm tired of you and your kind. Tired of empty promises. Where is justice for women but in their own hands!" she cried and suddenly there was a flash of steel caught by the fire light as she raised a stiletto above her head. Even before Aramis could react the woman was enveloped by the arms of a great man and the dagger easily pulled from her grasp by cloaked figure who materialized as if from nowhere from the crowd. Porthos and Athos.
Porthos held the struggling woman easily and spoke to her gently like one might a frightened child. "Easy now. Easy. There's no one here to hurt you." But she thrashed and cried in his grasp, trying clumsily to get free.
"Hey!" a voice called from behind them, "let her go!" and three men pushed through the crowd that had gathered around the musketeers. By the look of their clothes they were Gitan, gypsies. "Release my sister!" the one at the front demanded.
"You sister just threatened to kill one of my musketeers," Athos responded quietly.
"What did he do to her, then," the man demanded, staring vengefully at Aramis.
Athos shot an accusatory look at Aramis who rolled his eyes at the wrongful accusation and gestured at D'Artagnan. Athos turned his stone gaze to the youngest musketeer.
"Nothing!" D'Artagnan shouted from the floor. "I did nothing but refuse her advances!" Aramis reached down and helped him to his feet. "Please," he continued, "we were only talking and suddenly, she was on top of me. I never meant . . . I never intended . . . ," he trailed off, not sure how to continue and still remain a gentleman. He stepped toward the woman still locked in Porthos's grip and gave a slight bow, "Truly, Mademoiselle, I'm sorry for . . ." he stopped short as her head snapped up and her black stare pierced his eyes.
"I curse you D'Artagnan of the Musketeers," she snarled darkly, "by the blood of my mothers and the souls of my sisters I curse your every day. May all your luck leave you. May all you love abandon you. And may you live out your days in misery," she pulled a necklace from where it was tucked in her bodice and held it up to D'Artagnan like she was brandishing a cross to a devil. Some of the crowd stepped back and Aramis crossed himself – the Evil Eye. " I curse you for a thousand times a thousand years after the breath has left your body and your bones are wasted to dust you shall find no solace in this life or the next," and with this last pronouncement, she spat in D'Artagnan's face.
There was no sound in the tavern save the crack of the fire as he words cast a pall over all assembled. For three long heartbeats no one moved. The woman in Porthos's arms suddenly lost her fire and as her brother stepped to her, Porthos released her to him. He and his friends looked ready for a fight, but with his distraught sister in his arms, now was not the time. Athos offered the stiletto, hilt first, to one of the men who snatched it from him quickly. The Gitans retreated from the inn casting wary glances back at the Musketeers as they left. The chatter picked back up and the tension seemed to clear as quickly as it came.
Porthos put a big hand on Athos's shoulder, smiling, "Didn't see that one coming did you?" he laughed, "who'd of thought the pup would be a heartbreaker?" He laughed and grinned.
"You owe me an ale for thinking it was me," Aramis quipped to Athos.
"It's always you, Aramis," Athos replied coolly, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Well this time, it was the young Gascon! Finally I think he's learning a thing or two," Aramis laughed and turned to clap a hand to the young man's shoulder. D'Artagnan still stood stock still, staring blankly at the place where the crazed woman had stood. "Here," Aramis said quietly, offering D'Artagnan a handkerchief, "clean yourself up." He gave him an encouraging pat on the back as D'Artagnan wiped the spittle from his face. "I've had much worse done to me for even less reason, D'Artagnan. Don't fret. We are returning you to your Constance with your honor intact." He smiled, but D'Artagnan said nothing, just looked at him with wide eyes, lost in his own thoughts.
"C'mon," Athos said, "we return to Paris at first light. Let's get some rest."
The musketeers made their way up the stairs, laughing as they began to already review the tale of the evening. D'Artagnan came last, no joy in his eyes, only fear.
# 2 #
D'Artagnan kept a restless night, plagued with dark dreams and a vision of the Evil Eye hanging behind his closed eyes. He tried to dispel it with thoughts of Constance, but all that his mind could conjure were visions of the sultry beauty who had seemed to turn mad in an instant. Her words played again and again her curse of misery for a thousand times a thousand years after his death. No peace ever in this lifetime or the next. He turned fitfully in the small bed yet again, bedclothes tangled and damp. The soft breaths and snores of his companions brought him no comfort. There was nothing for it, he was not to sleep this night.
He rose before the others, and crept from the small room the men shared, carrying his boots and sword belt so as not to wake them. He padded barefoot down the stairs, across the empty tavern and out to the cool air of the just breaking dawn. As he stepped from the doorway he felt a searing pain through the tender sole of his foot and tried unsuccessfully to stifle an anguished cry. He dropped his sword and belt and they crashed to the flagstones with a dissonant clang that echoed in the empty courtyard. D'Artagnan hobbled off the stair, his left foot in searing pain, but his right foot rolled on the hilt of his sword and he fell to the flagstone with a cry and thud. His right ankle throbbed, but his left foot was in agony. He sat where he had fallen and tried to inspect the foot. His fingers met with something long and hard imbedded in the sole, and his fingers felt wet and sticky from what he presumed was blood.
"Of all of the stupid things", he thought, "a splinter takes me down." Small as it might be compared to wounds of so many battles, the pain was maddening. He reached to pull it from his foot, but the angle was wrong and it snapped instead of sliding out easily. "No!" he moaned, and forgetting the blood, raked his hand through his hair to mop it from his eyes.
Three bleary-eyed, half-dressed Musketeers crowded out the door to the tavern, pistols drawn, to find their companion barefooted and blood streaked sitting on a pile of his own gear. Athos and Porthos immediately flanked his left and right looking for the threat, and Aramis fell to his knees at his side, taking his head in his hands to search for the wound.
"What happened," he said, his hands roaming over D'Artagnan's head, "where are you wounded."
"My foot," D'Artagnan said, brushing Aramis's hands away. "I got a splinter."
"Your foot?" Aramis huffed, "then why is the blood on your face? Who attacked you?"
"No one," D'Artagnan answered, "I stepped on something on my way out the door, then I dropped my gear, and then I fell on it . . . " he trailed off, embarrassed.
Athos and Porthos stood down, letting their arms with their pistols fall to their sides.
"You got a splinter?" Porthos growled. His voice lifted, "You made all that racket for a bloody splinter," Porthos advanced toward D'Artagnan but Athos laid a hand to his chest.
"Stop. You'll raise the whole inn," Athos said. Porthos halted, but glared at D'Artagnan with a face usually reserved for criminals or Spainards. "Porthos, holster you guns, see to the horses. Let's get out of here."
Athos shoved him gently toward the stables and Porthos left, muttering something unsavory about farm boys from Gascony. Athos gave D'Artagnan one of his classic, unemotional stares then shifted his gaze to Aramis without saying anything to D'Artagnan at all. "I'll gather the rest of our gear," he said coolly, "Tend the boy and get him dressed and on his horse." Athos spun on his heel and retreated inside the tavern. D'Artagnan felt his cheeks flushing.
Aramis raised an eyebrow at D'Artagnan and gestured to a stool beside the doorway. D'Artagnan stood and hobbled to the stool, wincing at the pain in his right foot. Aramis picked up his gear and boots and trailed after him.
"What else is wrong with you?" he asked quietly through a stifled yawn. D'Artagnan could see the displeasure in his eyes.
"Nothing," he said sheepishly, "Just I think something is still in my foot."
Aramis knelt down before him and took his foot in his hand. "Yes, there's something still there alright. Looks deep." He pulled a stiletto from the top of his boot. "This will not be pleasant," he said, looking sympathetically at the young Gascon.
"Just do it," D'Artagnan muttered.
Aramis was right, it felt like fire while he gouged at the soft sole of D'Artagnan's foot. D'Artagnan bit his lip, he'd be damned before he'd cry out again. It seemed to take the Musketeer a long time to pull a splinter, but in a few moments he had it – an inch-long sliver of wood, probably from the rotting step of the tavern.
"Well, that's a big one," Aramis grinned at him, holding up the bloody fragment. "Let's get this wrapped. Don't need an infection. It's deep." Aramis cleaned the wound and wrapped a bandage several turns around the foot. He handed D'Artagnan his dropped socks and after the boy had slipped those on, he gently helped him on with his boots. D'Artagnan was about to protest, but as soon as he flexed his left foot, he winced in pain again. He needed the help, so he just let himself be dressed like a child and given a leg up on his horse. He felt his face flush again. All of the time spent on gaining their trust and friendship only to have a splinter sabotage all of his effort. He could see it in all of their eyes as they mounted their horses in the clear dawn light. He had lost their respect.
# 3 #
About an hour out of Blaincourt, the sun was fully up as the Musketeers traveled south toward the forest trail that would be their fastest route back to Paris. It would a long day's ride, but they could make it back if they kept up a good pace. The dispatches in Athos's saddle bags were not urgent enough to force a gallop, but still they needed to be delivered to the Captain without undue delay. Athos had set a quick pace through the open farmlands, knowing they would slow down once they came to the forest. If they could make good time here, they could be home just after supper. So Athos was not at all pleased to hear a shout from behind to hold up. He pulled up the reins and wheeled his horse around to see Aramis doing the same and Porthos riding up to D'Artagnan's horse, the saddle empty. He rode hard back down the road.
Aramis was dismounting to help D'Artagnan up from the grass.
"What happened to him now?" Athos asked.
"Horse pulled up lame," D'Artagnan said, still trying to get his breath, "Threw me." Athos rolled his eyes and Porthos grunted something unintelligible as he dismounted to check on the lame horse. Aramis reached out a hand and hauled D'Artagnan to his feet. He managed to stand gingerly on his wounded left foot but when he took a step on his right foot, he collapsed with an anguished cry. Aramis was on his knees beside him in an instant while D'Artagnan grabbed his right ankle.
"So, what is wrong with this one, then?" Aramis asked sternly.
"I twisted in when I fell in the courtyard," D'Artagnan said through clenched teeth. "It didn't seem that bad at the time," he added sheepishly. Aramis ran his hands down D'Artagnan's leg and over his ankle.
"It's swollen in the boot," he said loudly enough for Athos to hear too, "if I take the boot off, it's not going back on. You might have broken it but I won't know until we get the boot off." He looked at D'Artagnan whose face was screwed up with pain. "It must have been hurting you while we were riding. No wonder you couldn't stay in the saddle when he pulled up on you," D'Artagnan said nothing but nodded, biting his lip. Aramis patted his leg comfortingly but Athos just stared down at him, unemotional and silent.
"Well, the horse is lame for sure," Porthos said, leading the animal by the reins. "He can make it home, but not carrying him." Porthos looked down at D'Artagnan with a wry look. "I don't suppose there is an inn or something we can leave him at?" he asked, looking up hopefully at Athos.
Aramis stood and grabbed the pommel of Athos's saddle. "The boy's likely got a broken ankle. There is not much between us and Paris. The only options are to head home or to go back to Blaincourt."
"We go on to Paris," Athos said.
"We can't keep a quick pace with two in the saddle and one horse lame you know," Aramis replied.
"I know," Athos said, "just get him on a horse and keep him on it. Let's go."
Aramis helped D'Artagnan to his feet for the second time that day, gave him a leg up to his mount, then swung up on the horse in front of D'Artagnan.
"Try to hold on, will you," he grinned over his shoulder.
D'Artagnan didn't answer, but slipped his arms around the waist of his friend.
Between ankle and foot, D'Artagnan was as lame as his horse. Nothing was going right today. No matter that none of this was anything but a series of accidents and mishaps he could see that Athos was angry at him, and losing faith in his abilities. The words from the tavern echoed back through his mind. May all you love abandon you. At this rate, D'Artagnan felt he'd be lucky to still be a Musketeer by supper.
# 4 #
At their slow pace it took till noon to reach the north edge of the forest. They stopped briefly to fill canteens and take some food. D'Artagnan was surprised that Porthos came to help him dismount. He would have been in the dirt again if it were not for the big man's strong grip. He looked up gratefully but Porthos snorted, "You've slowed us down enough today so I'm making sure nothing else happens to you." He helped him to hobble a few steps and set him down gently with his back to a tree. "I'll be back with something for you to eat," he muttered and stalked off.
D'Artagnan hung his head. The words stung and his breath caught in his chest. All they had been through and this was enough to break them? This was enough for them to cast him out? No, no, no. This was not right, it could not be happening. They had said they were brothers and now they cast him aside so lightly? May all you love abandon you. It was the curse. It had to be.
D'Artagnan shook his head trying to clear it. His foot was throbbing, his head ached. No, it's just a bad day. A very bad day. He closed his eyes against the sun but there it was still, the burning mark of the Evil Eye.
# 5 #
It became clear at dusk that they were not going to make it out of the forest before nightfall. Athos picked a spot off the road to camp and Porthos settled D'Artagnan next to yet another tree and went to see about supper. Aramis set camp while Athos filled the canteens and gathered fire wood. D'Artagnan was exhausted from riding for hours without the benefit of stirrups. But with the ache in his ankle and the throbbing fire in his foot he doubted he could have used them anyway. He was more than content to lay listlessly and forgotten against the tree, the bark scratchy but cool on the back of his neck. But he didn't have much time to sit idle, as Porthos strode up to him and unceremoniously dropped a pair of freshly killed rabbits in his lap.
"That was fast," D'Artagnan smiled up at him.
"Sometimes those things are so stupid it's like they are trying to die," Porthos muttered, "Now if you're done with your nap, how about you skin them so the rest of us who are doing all the work can have supper," and he stalked back into the woods to try and procure two more.
D'Artagnan felt the smile fade from his face. He sighed and stretched out the first rabbit. At least he could get this done. He reached for his small knife, but it wasn't in his pocket. He patted tried the other, and nothing. He searched through his coat, his pants, his coat again getting more agitated as he couldn't find the blade. And then considering more, he realized his small purse was gone too. Left behind in their room at the tavern or lost in the courtyard. He let out a growl of frustration and hurled his coat away from him, dropping his head to his hands.
Athos, as he often did, appeared from seemingly nowhere and looked down at D'Artagnan.
"What?" was all he said.
"My knife," D'Artagnan croaked, "and my purse. Gone." He picked up a rock and with a loud grunt hurled it at nothing.
"Here," Athos offered him his small knife. "Don't lose it."
D'Artagnan took it from his hand, unable to look him in the eye. Athos walked over to Aramis, tending the fire, and sat beside them. The two men talked conspiratorially, voices hushed so they would not carry past the fire. Porthos joined them for a moment, and then Aramis stood and brought the other two rabbits to D'Artagnan. He was still working on the first, having a lot more difficulty with the task than a farm boy from Gascony should.
"Here then," Aramis said, "why don't I do the other two?" and sat down companionably across from D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan looked up, eyes dark and brow sweating. A look between anger and fear played across his face. Aramis felt a nudge at his intuition. Something was wrong besides a lost purse. "D'Artagnan, hey," he said gently, "are you alright?" He reached out and placed a hand on the boy's cheek and D'Artagnan flinched away, but not before Aramis could notice his flesh was warm and damp. Fever. A slight one, but nonetheless Aramis knew what it meant.
"I think I should check the dressing on that foot," he said easily. Far too easily, but D'Artagnan was brooding and just shrugged. He allowed Aramis to pull off his boot. As he unwound the bandages, he could already see the bloody, pussy mess leaching through. He grunted in disgust. He should have checked it when they stopped for lunch but he hadn't thought about it. The puncture wound was infected. He would have to lance it.
"Let me have that," he took the flayed rabbit from D'Artagnan, along with the other three, and brought them back to the fire. He knelt down to put the rabbit on the spit and looked up at his friends. "We're going to have to lance that foot, and it's going to hurt." Porthos sighed. He knew what his job was, what it always was – holding the man down. He hated it. Even though he knew it was for their own good, he hated having to be the one to restrain a man while someone inflicted pain on him on. He hated it worse when it was one of his own.
Aramis was heating his slim stiletto in the fire. A Muslim physician from Persia had shown him this once on a battle field. He said men cured with instruments tempered in fire drew the strength of the fire into their blood. They did not get infections. Aramis wished he had thought to do it this morning, but he had been sleepy and frustrated and now his own inattention was going to hurt his friend worse than would have need been. He silently chastised himself at his own remiss.
Athos looked at his two friends, their dark humor spread openly across their faces. "He is not going to die, you know," he said quietly, putting his hand on Aramis's shoulder and looking up calmly into Porthos's eyes.
Aramis sighed, "No, he is probably not. But any time you stick a knife into a man, you really don't know what the end result will be."
"Stop this," he said, squeezing Aramis's shoulder. "He will be fine. Leave your black mood here." Athos set the rabbit to spit, then the three approached their sullen comrade.
D'Artagnan looked up as they approached, his eyes glassy and face grimly set. He had promised himself he would at least be brave when they told him they would be leaving him in the woods, but when he saw the knife in Aramis's hand he felt his eyes tear. Of course they couldn't just leave him here. He knew too much about the King, about the missions of the Musketeers. He was a liability. He knew, as Porthos moved behind him and pinned his arms to his sides, that his luck had just run out. May all you love abandon you.
He looked pleadingly at Athos, hoping in the end his friend and mentor would at least spare a kind word to him, but all he said was "hold still." Then he leaned with his full weight on D'Artagnan's legs while Aramis stabbed him with the hot stiletto. He screamed in agony just once, and then mercifully, passed out.
# 6 #
D'Artagnan's eyes fluttered open. He was still in Prothos's grasp, but this time gently cradled between his arms, his head resting easily against the big man's chest. Aramis was at his feet, securing a splint over his right boot. His other foot lay exposed, a fresh bandage wound around the sole. It was painful, but not the aching throb that had grown throughout the day. He could see Athos by the fire hovering over their dinner, which smelled delicious. Off to his left the horses whinnied and stamped, making enough of a ruckus to suggest a fox was near. Athos caught notice of the horses too, and he stood slowly, his head turned to that direction.
Aramis caught D'Artagnan's gaze and gave him a soft smile. "Welcome back," he said, "just in time for supper." He finished up with the dressing over the boot and gingerly slipped D'Artagnan's foot to the ground. "I decided not to take any chances with that one, seeing how much trouble the other one gave us," he smiled, but his eyes looked serious. He stood and moved to D'Artagnan's side, squatted next to him and took his hand. "I'm so sorry, my friend," he said, placing his forehead on D'Artagnan's hand, "this is all my fault."
D'Artagnan looked at Aramis's bowed head, and swallowed a lump in his throat. "I'm dying, aren't I?" he whispered.
Aramis's head snapped up and Porthos let out a laugh so deep D'Artagnan felt his head rattling against Porthos's chest.
"I'm not dying?" he asked, confused. Before Porthos could laugh again Athos yelled "To arms!" and the camp erupted into chaos. A dozen men scrambled out of the forest, swords and knives drawn, from all sides of the camp.
Porthos dropped D'Artagnan like a sack of potatoes and rose up to his feet, drawing his pistols and firing in the same fluid gesture. Two men fell, but two more rushed toward him.
Aramis dove for his sword and dagger, left abandoned by the fire, but was set upon before he could reach them. He did however manage to grab hold of the rabbits which he brandished like two flaming swords and drove his attackers back.
Athos shot twice and then drew blades to fend off three more. Two more came out of the woods, as Aramis finally reached his weapons. "Porthos!" he shouted, and the big man paused long enough from pummeling the man in his grasp to catch the sword Aramis threw to him. Then they were back at it, skirmishing back and forth across the camp fire, sparks flying from burning wood and striking steel.
D'Artagnan was practically helpless, literally without a leg to stand on. He rolled to his stomach and crawled toward the tree, hoping to get out of Porthos way so he wouldn't trip him. Despite the battle, Porthos seemed keenly aware of the man at his feet, and steered the fight past where D'Artagnan would be in harms way. D'Artagnan was frantic to help his comrades but knew a man who could not stand was a liability in battle. He managed to get to the tree, and began to slowly pull himself up, his booted ankle protesting in pain but his exposed left foot too tender to bear weight at all.
He looked around the campsite and it seemed he was not needed after all. Most of the attackers lay dead or wounded, while some tried to scuttle back into the forest they had come from. Suddenly D'Artagnan was shoved hard from behind and fell heavily to his knees. Someone grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, exposing his neck to a long blade pressed against his throat.
"Hold! Hold or he dies!" a woman's voice shouted. The men stopped in their tracks, turning as one to face D'Artagnan and his captor.
"Drop your weapons," she ordered. No one moved, so she yanked D'Artagnan's head back further pressing the blade more firmly against his throat. He let out a small groan and that was enough - The Musketeers' threw their blades to the ground. D'Artagnan looked up at the woman holding him. It was her! The woman from the tavern. A thousand thoughts tumbled in his mind but he couldn't piece together what she was doing here. Had she followed him to seek more immediate vengeance than the hatred of her curse?
"Let him go," Athos spoke calmly taking a slow step toward her, "you don't want to do this."
"Stop!" she yelled, "One more step and I slit his throat." Athos stopped moving, his hands outstretched in a gesture of supplication.
"Alright, you have us at your mercy," he said, giving a slight bow. As he raised his head, his eyes locked on D'Artagnan's. "There is no need to skin our one little rabbit," he said softly and his eyes glanced pointedly downward. D'Artagnan followed his gaze and there, right at his knees, was the knife Athos had given him earlier.
"Empty your pockets," she commanded, and D'Artagnan felt her grip loosen as his friends complied. Slowly he began to stretch his fingers to the knife. She watched them pile their small belongings together then ordered them to get down on their knees. She licked her lips as they slowly obeyed her, surprised and emboldened by the power she wielded over them with just the long blade at the boy's throat. D'Artagnan's hand grasped the knife and with a fluid motion whipped his hand behind her and slashed deeply across the back of her right calf. She screamed and fell back as the Musketeers raced forward, Aramis pulling D'Artagnan out from under her while Athos grabbed her blade and pinned her to the ground. Porthos had his blades in hand, and the few remaining men surrendered to the giant with murder in his eye.
# 7 #
There were quite the collection of prizes as the Musketeers broke camp the next morning. They had found the outlaw camp and rounded up the few that had gotten away, along with the treasures they had stolen from travelers and taverns in the area. All in all there were half a dozen men, three more horses, and six saddle bags full of money gold and trinkets.
Still, Athos was not pleased. Between the captives, the wounded and D'Artagnan's lame horse, their journey to Paris would still take another full day and bandits or no, he knew he would catch hell from the Captain for being late with the dispatches.
"Porthos, make sure the prisoners are secure! Aramis, get D'Artagnan on a horse!" he barked at them, "I'm ready to go home."
"Here," Aramis sat next to D'Artagnan, on the rock they had perched him to keep him out of the way, and held out his hand. D'Artagnan extended his hand and Aramis dropped a small coin purse and a hunting knife onto his outstretched palm.
"Where did you find these," D'Artagnan asked, incredulous.
"In with their things," Aramis said, cocking his head toward the prisoners. D'Artagnan looked at the woman, her leg bandaged and her hands tied to the pommel of the saddle. "She is a thief, D'Artagnan, not a crazy gitan. She would seduce some poor fellow, then start a row, screaming and cursing at him while her gang of thieves picked the crowd of their wallets. She stole your knife and your purse while she had you distracted. The curse was just her ruse to get the attention of the crowd."
D'Artagnan was grateful to have the objects back and tucked them carefully into his jacket. Athos and Porthos joined them then, Porthos sitting next to Aramis and Athos, standing behind D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan raised his head and Aramis clasped his head with both hands, peering into his clear eyes. He brushed a hand across D'Artagnan's forehead and slapped him lightly on the cheek. Aramis looked up at Athos, "No sign of fever, at least," he said. Aramis fished for something in his breast pocket.
"I thought you might want this too. A little souvenir," Aramis said and he extend his hand, the Evil Eye pendant dangling from its chain.
"I never want to see that again," D'Artagnan said, recoiling from Aramis's outstretched hand.
"What now"," Aramis said, his tone slightly mocking, "You can't tell me you believe in this? It was just dribble she invented to turn the attention of the crowd.
"But all of the terrible things that happened to me yesterday. The splinter, the broken ankle, infected foot. I lost my knife. I lost my purse. And I lost the respect of my friends," D'Artagnan hung his head and whispered into his chest, "that was the most unbearable of all."
"Well think of it this way," Aramis offered, " had you not gotten the splinter and twisted your ankle, had the horse not come up lame, we would have ridden straight through these woods and not stopped. Had we not stopped, and had we not had to lance your foot, you would have not cried out and we would never have attracted the bandits to our camp," Aramis smiled broadly, "You are not seriously injured, the bandits are captured, the dispatches will be delivered. All in all I'd say we had a pretty good day!" Porthos let out a laugh and clapped Aramis on the knee for his more cheery perspective, but the boy still hung his head over hunched shoulders.
"D'Artagnan, there is no such thing as bad or good luck for a Musketeer," Athos said, leaning over D'Artagnan's shoulder to look earnestly into his troubled face, "We make our own luck," he said, clasping his young friend's arm and giving it a companionable squeeze. ."Why do you say you lost our respect?" Athos asked quietly.
"Well, Porthos said . . ." D'Artagnan started but could not finish.
"I said what?" Porthos asked leaning forward to look at D'Artagnan, "I said I wanted to leave you behind, I told you not to fall off your horse, I complained about you all day?" D'Artagnan nodded. "You idiot. I say that stuff to you whenever I'm worried about you." He laughed and D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile, "It's when I start being nice to you that you better be concerned."
"But Aramis, you said . . ." and D'Artagnan was cut off by a wave of his hand.
"D'Artagnan, I said nothing but tended your wounds," Aramis replied, "I was angry with myself for not noticing you had other injuries and for being neglectful about the care I gave you because the hurt seemed so small. The world does not revolve around you, despite your wanting it to be so," Aramis said, patting the young man on the shoulder.
D'Artagnan turned to Athos. "You barely spoke to me all day."
"When do I ever speak to anyone?" Athos grumbled. He clasped his friend on the shoulder, "Your only curse, D'Artagnan, is that you are stuck with the Musketeers - for life" he gave his friends one of his rare warm smiles. "Now enough! Let's go. This time, we are getting to Paris by nightfall!" and Athos stormed off to mount his horse."
# fin #