Porthos swatted at yet another insect that was buzzing annoyingly around his face. All three men were hot in the unseasonably warm weather and, on horseback, there was no shade to be found. While the men normally shared stories and joked to pass the many hours spent on their mounts, today they were all focused on returning to Paris as quickly as possible. They all keenly felt the absence of their brother and knew that these feelings would be intensified for d'Artagnan since the three of them at least had each other's company. Even though Captain Treville had been generous with the time given for their mission, the Musketeers had done everything in their power to return as quickly as possible.
They had all hoped that their arrival in Rouen would prove the Noble's complaint unwarranted, but instead they found people cautious of strangers and living in fear. It seemed that the bandits had decided to practically hold the town and its citizen's hostage, freely partaking of food, wine and other necessities without offering any form of payment. Those who challenged them were found brutally beaten or, in several circumstances, lost their lives altogether as a warning to others who might fight against them. Fortunately, while brutal, the bandits were not particularly smart and made no attempt to hide who they were as they blatantly bullied the townspeople for whatever they desired. As such, the Musketeers had only to wait in the local tavern until dark when two of the outlaws appeared, demanding food and drink, and forcing themselves upon the hapless barmaid. The Musketeers observed the other men's actions for several minutes until the barmaid cried out, falling to the floor under the force of a blow that had been leveled at her by one of the men. The three friends had risen as one to go to the girl's aid, and Porthos and Athos easily dispatched the two men while Aramis checked on the barmaid.
After confirming that the girl would suffer no permanent ill effects, and providing her with several coins from Athos' purse, Aramis and Porthos hauled the alive, but unconscious attacker to the back of the tavern; his friend had not been as fortunate having met the end of Porthos' dagger.
Upon awakening, the bandit found himself slumped against a wall, trussed up hand and foot, and staring into the faces of three angry Musketeers. Little persuasion was required for the man to provide all of the details about his fellows, including the name of the group's leader and their location; unsurprisingly, no one at the tavern came to the man's aid while he was being questioned. After gagging and once again knocking the man unconscious, the Musketeers elicited a promise from the barkeeper to take care of the man, as well as the body of his dead friend, so that the Musketeers could focus their efforts on the remaining outlaws.
It turned out that the bandits had taken over a nearby manor house and, if the amount of noise coming from its walls was any indication, they were well on their way to consuming all of the wine in its cellar. Deciding that it would be easier to catch the men unaware and hung over in the morning, the Musketeers resorted to camping outside for the night, keeping the horses hidden in a small grove of trees and forgoing a fire so their location wasn't compromised.
When dawn arrived, they had armed themselves and ridden unchallenged into the courtyard of the once splendid house. Among the still passed out men the Musketeers had no difficulty capturing the group's leader, whose only protest was to empty his stomach onto his own boots after being hauled to his feet by Porthos.
Porthos had grimaced at the sight and smell, as he gingerly moved a step away from the now soiled bandit, while still maintaining a hold on the back of the man's dirty shirt. The remaining bandits, once roused from their stupor, had given up without a fight, and as the last of the men was having their hands bound in the courtyard, a large group of townspeople began to arrive. It seemed they wanted to exact justice on the outlaws and were prepared to take custody of the men.
The Musketeers communicated silently, agreeing that the group of bandits was too large for them to bring back to Paris, but at the same time, justice and not revenge needed to be meted out. As Athos drew breath to make this view known, a man separated from the townspeople and came forward to address the Musketeers.
"My name is Jacques Gallois. I represent the formal authority in Rouen, such as it is. You can trust that I will ensure these men are judged and punished fairly."
Athos looked at the man, and then motioned to his fellow Musketeers. "Athos, Porthos and Aramis of the King's Musketeers, at your service." He glanced again at his brothers to confirm that they were in agreement that Jacques' offer seemed sincere. "We would be grateful for your assistance in ensuring that justice is served and give them over to your custody."
At this, Jacques motioned several men forward who began collecting the bandits and helping them onto a wagon that would transport them back to town. "It is we who are grateful to you for ending the terror that these men have brought into our midst. If there is any way that we can repay this service?" Jacques' left his question hanging, looking at the three men.
"Well, I don't know about these two, but I could do with a good meal before we start back to Paris," Porthos stated, looking for confirmation from his friends. Aramis nodded while Athos looked like he was about to disagree, before he saw the logic in Porthos' suggestion.
"A meal and some provisions for the road would be welcome," the older man agreed.
The townspeople had provided a veritable feast for their rescuers and filled their saddlebags with wine, cheese and bread before bidding them a safe journey. Athos was relieved to finally be on their way home, feeling ill at ease for some reason, but unable to identify what exactly was bothering him.
"He'll be fine, you know." Aramis stated. Athos started, realizing that he'd been so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed that Aramis had moved his horse to walk beside him.
Athos huffed, "That boy could find trouble in a nunnery."
Porthos rode up, flanking Athos on his other side. "A nunnery, eh. Sounds like my kind of trouble," he stated lasciviously, a broad grin on his face.
Athos merely rolled his eyes and the three rode in silence for several minutes until Athos was ready to break it. "I admit to a certain fondness for the boy and was disquieted by the Captain's orders to leave him behind," at that, Porthos grunted, but Athos pointedly ignored him.
"Athos," Aramis reached over, placing a hand on the older man's thigh, "none of us were ready to be apart from each other after the events involving the Cardinal and your wife." He fell quiet, unsure of how to continue.
"It's a soldier's life – King and country and following orders no matter what." Porthos filled in.
"d'Artagnan is aware that we would not willingly leave him behind and, while he can frustrate even those with the patience of a saint, the boy has wits and will be better for the rest he's been allowed," Aramis finished.
Knowing that what his friends was saying was true, he nonetheless was unable to quell his feelings of anxiety at being away from the garrison. "Then let us make our best possible speed back to Paris so that can see what trouble d'Artagnan has managed to find for himself."
d'Artagnan turned his head to the side, spitting out blood from the gash inside his mouth. Andre's backhand had not been unexpected, but at the same time, the Gascon wished he had been better prepared to move away from the blow. As Andre stood hulking over him, his broad chest blocking out the sun, d'Artagnan pondered his next move. If he fought too well, the other man might become suspicious and his mission would fail. If he didn't fight well enough, Andre might believe him too weak to join their group of outlaws, resulting again in failure. d'Artagnan didn't like either of his options as he pushed himself off the ground where he had sprawled on his backside after being struck. Regaining his feet, he swiped a hand across his lips, removing the last traces of blood still covering them. He stood warily, watching his opponent, waiting for the man's next attack. d'Artagnan didn't have long to wait as the two men circled each other. With a quick feint to his left, Andre swiftly moved his weight back to the right, bringing his left arm across with a vicious roundhouse punch. The Gascon had anticipated the move and waited until the last possible moment to move out of the way, stumbling back a step to avoid being hit.
d'Artagnan could tell that Andre was becoming frustrated and, as his frustration grew, he became more careless, leaving less time between attacks and sacrificing technique for brute strength. This is the way he had always been, even during those times when, as children, their families had visited or found themselves together at market or at church. d'Artagnan knew he could use the other man's temper against him and, as Andre was off balance from the force of the missed strike, d'Artagnan lifted his leg in a straight kick at the larger man's chest. The hit forced the air out of his attacker's lungs and the Gascon pressed his advantage, knowing that if he didn't end things quickly now, Andre's rage would result in serious injury. Striding forward, d'Artagnan aimed a well-placed blow to Andre's left cheek, a cut splitting across the bone, followed a swipe of his leg that caused the dazed man to drop.
d'Artagnan stood panting, looking at the fallen man before him. "Had enough yet?"
Andre eyed him suspiciously, considering the question, before giving a short nod to indicate that their fight was over.
"Good," d'Artagnan breathed out, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees as worked to regain his breath. Standing tall, the Gascon watched the man who now sat on the ground, knees bent with an arm resting on each knee. "Was that seriously necessary?"
Andre raised a shoulder to shrug, "You never were much of a scrapper." d'Artagnan rolled his eyes at the comment. "Too scrawny to really be a threat to anyone, I'd wager." Andre continued. "Seems like that's changed while you were away in Paris. Why'd you come back?"
d'Artagnan had considered his answer carefully, knowing that his response would be crucial to his entry into the band of thieves. He shrugged, putting on an air of defiance mixed with desperation. "My father was killed on the road to Paris. I swore to avenge him only to find that the man named as his killer was a Musketeer. They tried him and found him innocent." d'Artagnan allowed a note of bitterness to color his next words. "Stick together, they do. Apparently justice applies only to us commoners, but not to the King's guard. They refused to do anything."
Andre nodded in understanding. "Still, your farm has been burned and you have no other family here."
"They caught the man who burned my farm, did you know that?" d'Artagnan asked. The look on Andre's face indicated that he was unaware of that fact. "They caught him but because he wouldn't confess his crimes, I didn't receive any compensation for my loss." d'Artagnan shrugged, "Paris is expensive and full of unsavory sorts. I did what I had to in order to survive, but I was feeling a little too exposed as of late, so I thought it a good idea to disappear for a while."
"Why Saint-Jean-de-Braye?" Andre questioned the boy's presence in the small town as he prepared to stand. d'Artagnan stepped forward and offered his hand, Andre grasping his forearm after a moment's hesitation, and with a quick pull, Andre was returned to his feet.
"It just happened to be the route I picked on my way to Lupiac," d'Artagnan admitted. "I thought I'd be able to earn some coin when I arrived in Orleans, before I continue on to Lupiac."
"And what will you do when you arrive home?" Andre wondered.
Another shrug answered him. "Not sure yet. I have skills, as you've seen, but the trick is to find someone who values them."
Andre nodded and brushed his hands on his pants. "Come to the tavern tonight. I have some friends you should meet." Not waiting for a reply he turned and walked away from the Gascon who had to bite the inside of his mouth to contain the grin that threatened to appear.