Swordplay
By JeanTre16
Chapter 1
Appearances
Chapter Description: Outward appearances are not always what they seem like.
Duval had been sitting at his desk reading the report on the Roget farm incident when that melon had come crashing through his office door. That day, Jacqueline Roget, alias Jacques Leponte, had entered his garrison only to make an immediate rivalry with the son of the legendary d'Artagnan. Roget had gotten off to a rough start all right. But, Duval prided himself with good judgment—his hunches usually paid off. He also prided himself with knowing all that went on in his province—large and small. He believed that quite often it was the seemingly insignificant criminal report that tied into the larger picture of evil doings. Captain Duval believed the peculiar looking nobleman's appearance was no exception. He suspected foul play at the Roget's residence by the Cardinal's men, and he suspected this "Jacques" was somehow connected.
Duval also believed it was no coincidence that he had just been consorting with his own past that very morning with his three unruly, but dear Musketeers—d'Artagnan, Ramon and Siroc. He had lectured them about how he believed the provocation of Cardinal Mazarin had left him with his "leg." Yes, the seasoned soldier believed there was a higher hand at work in the battle of good against evil, and he knew it was not the Cardinal's. He believed in God and he believed God was trying to show him something. All he had to do was pay attention to what he was being shown. And that morning, he had been paying attention as he laid eyes on the unusual looking enlistee.
If "Jacques Leponte" had come at any other time, he may have turned her in. It had not been like Duval to harbor fugitives. He believed in justice. If the woman had killed someone, she deserved to die for her crime. But just as he believed that Mazarin had been behind the attack on his own life, he believed that the Cardinal had been behind the attack on this "wanted" woman's family. He needed evidence, and he considered she may just lead him to it. No, the contemplating Musketeer resolved he would not turn her in, he would watch her closely. He resolved if she could keep her guise up as a soldier, he would have a dedicated foe of the Cardinal on his elite team. He had decided to let her stay.
That had been many months ago, and although much had transpired since then, one thing remained unchanged—Duval was still no closer to unveiling the Cardinal's connection with his alleged crimes. On the other hand, much had changed between the young lady who had posed as Jacques Leponte and his entrusted d'Artagnan.
A smartly dressed young woman entered the lounge of the Musketeer garrison to be greeted by several soldier's eyes rising up to see her. One man, a new recruit, stood to his feet to stop her from entering. "What is a woman doing unescorted in the garrison?" he demanded from her. At this point, all the eyes in the room shifted to watch.
The woman stopped and slowly turned to the recruit with a look of defiance on her face. Ramon, who was sitting in the back of the room, got up as if to say something, but one glint from the lady's eyes encouraged him to reclaim his seat. Fully attuned to the presumptuous male before her, she coolly entreated, "Are you challenging my presence here?"
Not expecting the response he received, he paused to draw a breath before answering. "Mademoiselle, I am just saying that this is no place for a lady to be. This is the Musketeer's garrison!" He landed his statement with confidence.
To this, several "oohs" were heard around the room.
She looked him over briefly, sizing him up. Responding with an air of disbelief she questioned, "What did you call me?" When he had no reply but a look of befuddlement she determined, "You are challenging me. Draw your weapon."
Unsure what to make of what the woman had just suggested, the enlistee retorted in an alarmed utterance, "Mademoiselle, it is not fitting for a man to engage a woman in swordfight! I refuse!"
From the other side of the room a lilted voice interrupted. "Then I will accept the challenge on your behalf. For this is not a mademoiselle." The Musketeer entered the room, casually putting his gloves on, and walked toward the woman. Looking her eye to eye, he beckoned the recruit to sit down by a wave of his hand. Drawing his sword from its sheath with a look of intrigued arrogance, he rallied her, "Shall we, then? Draw your weapon, or whatever it is you're hiding beneath that dress of yours." He followed her dress-line down with his eyes as if to ask her where her weapon was.
Ramon, now thoroughly enjoying the scene before him, shouted. "Now you've done it. You've got her mad now, Senor!"
This statement was enough to spur the woman into motion. She grabbed the hilt of the Musketeer's sword standing behind her, which happened to be Siroc's, and quickly thrust it toward her opponent. Meeting her sword with executed accuracy he deflected her parry. In sing-song movement, the couple flowed about the room as if engaged in some elegant dance. Jaws of the newer recruits dropped on two accounts: One, they had never witnessed such perfection in swordplay; and two, they had never witnessed one between a man and a woman!
With a sudden motion, the young man came down upon the form before him, barely avoiding her retaliating blade. Though the woman side-stepped his blow, her dress caught the end of his sword and tore. "You've torn my dress!" declared the woman.
Her accusation interrupted their bout just long enough for him to lower his eyes to see the gaping hole he placed in her dress. "I'll buy you another one," he smoothly replied with a teasing smile.
"That is no apology," she angrily responded as she renewed the fight.
Unfazed by her onslaught of aggression, he continued in his playful demeanor. "I finish my fights first, and then I see if I need to apologize or not." His speech and conduct insinuated he was enjoying the provocative banter.
As the fight commenced, Ramon made his way over to Siroc and asked, "Who do you put your money on? I'm placing my money on him. She'll never out-step him in that dress."
"I don't know," the reflective scientist replied. "I'd have to place my bet on her. She seems to be pretty upset."
"Si, she does." Ramon's light countenance changed to concern, as if worried about the bet he had just placed.
"Maybe—" reflected Siroc "—I could invent a light-weight, protective material that would withstand the everyday onslaught of swordplay."
"What?" Ramon questioned, not quite following his inventive friend.
"A material that moves with you and doesn't inhibit you," Siroc elaborated.
"Si." Ramon nodded as he caught on to what the inventor was up to. Joining in the spirit of his friend's inventiveness he added, "And it could have other uses, too."
Quite in his element, the blond-haired genius went on, "Perhaps it could even withstand wild animal attacks and carnivorous fish of the sea." Beginning to wander off in thought he continued, "Hm, maybe I could call it…"
Just then, the opponent's swords locked together, leaving them face to face. The woman struggled to loosen her blade from his, but before she realized what had happened, he dropped down and wrapped around the back of her to push her into the table. In doing so, the table cleared of on-looking Musketeers. But before he could rush in to take advantage of her compromised position, she spied a side-of-chicken left on Ramon's platter. She quickly stabbed it and flung it across the room at her opponent. The chicken missed its target and slammed against Captain Duval's office door. Distracted by the loud thump, the young man momentarily turned toward the captain's office. In that brief moment, the woman launched herself off the table and positioned her sword firmly between his legs. Realizing his familiar predicament, he cringed and handed over his sword in defeat.
"Thank you. Now apologize." The gallant young woman gleamed.
But before he could speak, their exchange was interrupted by Captain Duval's irritated voice. "D'Artagnan!"
In unison, both opponents turned to him and startled. "Huh?"
"In my office. The both of you!" Duval motioned to them with an annoyed look on his face.
Turning her attention again toward her bested challenger, and in an arrogance rivaling his own, she glanced at where her blade had been moments before and said, "Sir, I relieve you of your fate to preserve your posterity." In saying this, she retrieved her borrowed blade from his crotch and returned it to its rightful owner.
"Thank you, Madame." Siroc smiled and held his hand out toward an unhappy Ramon for payment on his bet.
Raising an eyebrow, the loser swished his sword and replaced it in its sheath. He turned toward the new recruits who stood there in awe of what had just transpired. "I told you this was no mademoiselle." He grinned. "Allow me the pleasure of introducing my wife—" he paused to gesture in her direction for dramatic effect "—Madame d'Artagnan." Smiling with pride, he yielded to his presented wife as they pressed past the captain to enter his office.
Captain Duval looked around the lounge at the surprised faces on his men and added, "Let that be a lesson to you new recruits. Appearances are not always what they seem to be. Quite often you will find a powerful friend in least likely places." He gestured toward the newly introduced Madame d'Artagnan. Then turning to look his men over seriously, he continued with gravity, "While a foe may be hiding in sheep's clothing." With that he entered his office behind the d'Artagnans and closed the door.
"I don't see why I actually have to learn how to use one of these," complained Louis to his mother with an agitated look on his face. Walking across the richly decorated palace great room, he rubbed a humiliating welt on his rump that the sword master had just placed on him. "I have my Musketeers to protect me." He vied for the right to end his practice session.
"I know, my dear, but it is the 'manly' thing to do," replied the disinterested Queen Anne as she pointed out her choice of fabric to the dressmaker. "I believe I'd like this one for my dinner gown. Thank you, that is all, you may go." Then she turned her attention toward Louis. "My dear son, there are a great many things we'd rather do in life, but that does not give us excuse to neglect the responsibilities that come with the privileges of being royals." Stepping back to gain a better view of her gangling son, she commanded, "Now, let me see how the handsome future king of France can play at swords." She motioned for him to face the master for another bout.
With a painful sigh of resignation, Louis took his stance against the sword master to appease his mother. "En garde," he waved his sword unenthusiastically. With an unspoken look from the queen, the master understood to lose that round with his opponent. After a few pivots and lunges, Louis jabbed for his opponent's side. Intentionally, the master recoiled in the wrong direction, giving Louis a direct hit to his padded heart. "It's a direct hit!" Louis cried. The exuberant teen was overcome with excitement at his win. "Mother, did you see that! I plunged the master right in the heart! Who's the winner this time, Monsieur Swordsman?" he taunted.
"Yes, yes. Now, that's more like it." The queen smiled, satisfied with her son's effort. "That will be all for today." She motioned toward the sword master and the other guards in the room to be dismissed. He and the others bowed and left the room, leaving Louis and Queen Anne alone.
"Mother." Louis pouted as he removed his protective gear, dropping them to the floor for the servant to pick up later. "He let me win. I'll never make a good swordsman will I?" The boy's countenance showed genuine doubt.
His mother sighed and in their privacy confided, "Louis, being an expert swordsman isn't everything. The important thing is that you try." She motioned for him to sit by her by patting the bench next to her. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she looked around and added in a hushed voice, "Besides, you never know when your Musketeers may not be around to save you." Concern swept over her lovely face that Louis had not seen before—a genuine look of fear and distrust of those around them.
At this, Louis's appearance became solemn as he asked what was truly at the heart of his uncertainty, "Do you really think I'll make a good king of France?" Although the young king to be had many tutors, it was his mother's opinion he felt he could wholly trust.
"Yes, I do." The queen nodded unhesitatingly, tapping her son on the knee in affectionate reply. Then thoughtfully she added with a mother's smile, "You are still young, but I have seen a keen sense of nobility in the way you conduct your affairs. Your ways are not always so obvious to the Cardinal and others, but I see deep intelligence in them. That is wise for a king—to remain unfathomed before those he rules." She touched his face lovingly and continued, "If you hold dear to that, you will do well as a king."
"But they have so much power. The politics makes my stomach tie up in knots." Louis whimpered in exaggeration with clenched fists. Sometimes he felt so helpless in the company of those so much older and more learned in the ways of governing.
"Remember, Louis, you are the king, not them," corrected his mother. She felt his turmoil. Her own struggles had not been easily won in the power plays of politics. "Do not allow them to think they have control over you. It is true that the Cardinal possesses a great deal of power, but he is not your superior. Doubt in private; command in public. Besides, if you must, there are always ways to rid yourself of them." With her last comment she trivialized her mood and tinkered with the folds in her dress.
"Oh, I do not wish to rid myself of my questionable subjects." He resolvedly shook his head. "Heaven knows, if I did, there would be heads rolling left and right." He gestured with his hands, making a disgusted face. "I detest such violence. That is not the kind of king I hope to be remembered as."
"No, I would not like my son to be remembered as such a tyrant," agreed the queen, once again giving her son her undivided attention.
Considering the advice of his mother he reflected, "But, I must keep a close eye out on these men." Louis squinted in a distant thoughtful stare. "I shall keep my friends close, and my enemies even closer," he conceded to no one in particular. Then, with his new-found kingly resolve, he faced the regent beside him. "Thank you, Mother."
Author's Note: This is my first post to this site. Some of you may have read my works elsewhere, but if you haven't, please let me know your're reading and what you think!
