Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas pere.

It is official. I stink at writing fighting scenes.

Chapter 11

A disreputable section of Paris

D'Artagnan had called on the fencing school earlier only to find it deserted. He understood that his former captain had faced great difficulties trying to establish his school but to see how rundown the place had become since his last visit was a shock. It was only the fresh laundry flapping on the clothesline which convinced him that M. de Treville had not given up and gone back to the country. Hence he decided to call on him at a later hour. It was a few hours before sunset when he started out for St. Madeline's Court again.

His path led him through a once respectable part of Paris which had since fallen on hard times. The once grand houses of long-gone merchants on both sides of the narrow street leaned towards each other like tired whores. The pedestrians here walked in semi-twilight even on the sunniest days. The ladies of the night were out early and seeking custom. D'Artagnan waved one away when she approached. The disappointed girl slinked off into a side alley where she soon found a customer. She was probably a lot younger under all that makeup than he had initially believed.

It was then that he felt a chill run down his spine. He clapped his hand on the hilt of his sword. He scanned his surroundings. A scrawny cat tore into the carcass of what might have been a dead pig. A beggar shuffled deeper into the shadows of a doorway. Some sixth sense warned him of danger. D'Artagnan glanced round. There was nothing suspicious. He decided to leave the narrow streets for the river bank. However, it was to no avail. His shadow had caught on.

Rafael did not waste time with niceties. D'Artagnan drew his sword but not quickly enough. His opponent's blade sliced into his sword arm. The point would have caught him in the heart had he been a fraction of a second slower in turning. Blood flowing from his wounded arm, D'Artagnan struggled to keep his grip on his sword hilt. They duelled in an eerie silence broken only by the clash of steel on steel.

A bite of pain to his thigh announced to the former musketeer that he had received another wound even as he managed to slash open Rafael's cheek. D'Artagnan knew he was tiring, a combination of both his years and injury. His younger opponent was not showing any signs of tiring even though his breath came more heavily. His good eye fared poorly in the dimness and he often found himself misjudging his opponent's strikes and paying for it.

D'Artagnan's boot slid in the mud. He stumbled and his sword flew out of his grip and into the river. With a triumphant smirk, Rafael drove his blade into D'Artagnan's exposed chest as he fought to regain his footing. Blood spurted as D'Artagnan fell forward into the mud.

"Do try to stay dead this time," Rafael muttered mildly under his breath as he dealt the limp form a kick which sent it tumbling down the steep bank and into the river.

Feeling greatly cheered by his triumph, Rafael whistled an Italian tune from his childhood as he continued on his way. He paused to check the pretty glass bauble in his pocket he had bought for Philippe. He was pleased to find it had survived the duel intact. His joy was short-lived when a hearty thump on his shoulder jarred the bauble out of his hand. "Rafael! There you are!" The trinket shattered into a thousand pieces on hitting the cobblestones.

"Gabriel! You dolt!" Rafael hissed and punched the giant in the shoulder.

"Quit it," Michel warned. Rafael had gone off alone to purchase some of those poisons he was so fond of using to dispatch his opponents with. At least he did not stab Gabriel.

"What took you so long?" Gabriel asked.

"Oh, had to kill a stray cat… D'Artagnan."

"D'Artagnan? Did you make sure he's dead?" Michel asked warily. The Queen Mother's chief spy was a thorn in the Cardinal's side.

"Stabbed him in the chest and tossed him into the river," the small man shrugged.

"We better get back to Philippe before he gets worried," Michel added. Philippe was used to their odd hours but he did not like the idea of leaving him unattended after just having being reunited with him. His companions murmured their assent. The trio hastened off into the fading dusk.

If Rafael had not been so eager to return home, he would have noticed that at the very last moment, D'Artagnan had managed to deflect the point of his sword enough so that it gashed a path along his ribs instead of piercing his lung. Now spitting dirty river water, D'Artagnan dragged his sore body out of the river where the current had thrown him onto a sandy bank. He forced himself to stand and almost fell on his face. The pain of the wound in his side burned like fire and he was sure soaking in the river had done it no favours. The current had tossed him against a pier piling and he was certain he had cracked a rib. Blood loss from his arm was another thing he had to worry about. If he had severed an artery…

"Ah, ah, what has the cat dragged in?" a familiar called out. D'Artagnan glanced up and was surprised to see the friar who had saved his life earlier. He had washed up near some church or seminary.

"Good evening, abbe…" D'Artagnan managed a cocky grin as the friar helped him onto his feet. "Monsieur, come with me. You need a doctor…" Brother Martin urged.

"No- I have something I must d…" D'Artagnan pushed the friar's hand aside firmly. That was as far as he got before his battered body gave out and he fell in a heap at the friar's feet.

Stables near Porthos' house.

"Cher Ami, what should I do?" Toni stroked the nose of her pony. The pony nickered and butted her lightly in the shoulder. "I'm sure he is the man who attacked Papa… but he is Philippe's family and…" The naïve youngster looked up to Michel and thought the world of him. If anything untoward were to happen to Michel, the boy would be shattered. Failing to find words, she threw her arms around the grey pony's neck. To her surprise, the pony pulled away and turned from her.

"Cher Ami?" Toni then saw what had attracted her steed's attention. Raoul was leading his Bon-Bon into the stables. Cher Ami wasted no time in trotting up to the object of his affections, ignoring her irate owner.

"D'Artagnan! Your horse is harassing – OW!" Raoul yelped as Cher Ami brought a well-placed hoof down on his boot. "Damn that donkey!"

"He's not a donkey," Toni giggled helplessly behind her hand at the sight of the young man hopping about on his good foot. She burst out into laughter when Raoul hopped onto a half-hidden rake in the hay and the handle swung up and smacked him in the nose. Bon-Bon trotted coquettishly out of the stable with Cher Ami in amorous pursuit.

"I broke my nose…" Raoul whined and rubbed his nose. He sat down on a pile of hay nearby. He was having a slight nosebleed. Toni took out her handkerchief and approached him. She sat down on the sweet-smelling hay next to him.

"Don't look…" she firmly wiped the blood away before pinching his nose lightly. "I'm bleeding, right?" Raoul asked. Toni nodded. She would need to keep the pressure on his nose for a while. Thankfully, the bleeding soon stopped. Raoul would have a bruised nose for a while.

"You've been here since you ran off earlier? You didn't kill Philippe's guardian already, did you?" Raoul asked. "Shoved him in the Seine?"

"No," Toni glanced at her feet. She should have killed the murderer of her father by now.

"That's a relief," Raoul said. "Revenge is messy stuff. There's this play from England about revenge ruining everyone's life. I think it's called Hamlet. My mother brought me to watch the play once in London while we were visiting her relations." It was the nice chat he had with his maternal grandfather, an avid poet and secret playwright himself, afterwards which got him interested in the theatre. "Toni, even if Philippe's family did hurt your father, I really don't think…"

"Don't you have to act in the play this evening? Or are you joining Monsieur Porthos for a quick meal first?" Toni, eager to change the topic, asked. Raoul nodded sheepishly. "Yes, but I need to ask my godfather to help me out a bit…" He sounded like a little boy who had been caught stealing from the cider jug.

"How?"

"Well, my purse strings are a little tight recently…"

"Wait, you're here to borrow money?" Toni ran a critical eye over Raoul. "That's a new shirt, isn't it? And those boots…" They were brand-new, and that open collar showed off his chest exceedingly well… Toni felt her heart skip a beat or two. She forced herself to look at Raoul's face.

"You should have seen that cloak, the latest Italian fashion… I really have to have it and I'm a little short…" Raoul replied awkwardly. "Oh, come on! Stop looking at me like that! In Paris, the clothes make the man," he blustered. He knew his spending ways must appear awfully wasteful outside Paris, even his late mother had taken him to task over the constant loans he sought from her.

"True, true…" Porthos guffawed as he strode into the stable. "Here you go. Get yourself a new hat as well, one with a big feather!" the giant tossed Raoul a bulging coin pouch. "Oh, Toni, could you go help Planchet out in the yard? He is having some problems with your horse." The pained yells of the servant sounded from the small yard. Cher Ami definitely objected to poor servant butting in on his personal time with Bon-Bon. With a hasty apology, Toni hurried out to the man's aid.

He was on pilgrimage to see the holy relics and pray before them. This time, he swore he would not be distracted from his religious quest. Slowly and steadily, he mounted the steps of the grand church housing the saint's bones. They seemed to him to be endless. Finally he reached the church door. It was pitch dark within. He stood hesitant on the threshold. He fished out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Aramis?" a feminine voice called out softly. Aramis swallowed hard as he turned round. She was there. Josephine de Beauforte smiled at him the same way she smiled at him when they first met at the top of the church steps. She had tripped and sprained her ankle. He had escorted her back to her lodgings and ended up sharing her bed for a week. This time, he would step aside and let her tumble down the steps… No, he couldn't… He wrestled with himself.

Her hands closed on his arm and she pressed her breasts against him. He could smell her heady perfume. "Madame, we mustn't… Your husband…" the poor abbe protested and pulled away from her. She stepped back with a pout. Josephine had not told Aramis her husband's name, choosing to refer to him as that boor of a comte. It did not matter to Aramis then as they both knew it was only a fling and they would leave town with little chance of their paths crossing again.

"Here is your son," her twinkling voice mocked him. She produced from behind her a dark-haired boy which resembled a younger version of Aramis. "Aren't you going to acknowledge him and the rest of your bastards?" Josephine waved an arm over the church, on which all Aramis' past lovers had materialized accompanied by children who look alarmingly like the poor abbe.

"NO! Forgive me! God forgive me!"

"Aramis, wake up!"

Aramis felt hands shaking his shoulders roughly. Yes, it must be Athos killing him for seducing his wife. "Sorry, forgive me! Athos, I'm sorry!"

"WAKE UP!" Porthos bellowed. Aramis' eyes snapped open. He was lying in his bed at Porthos' house with his large friend looming over him. Concern was written all over his friend's face. "Nightmare? You were yelling fit to bring the roof down." Porthos asked mildly as he helped Aramis into a sitting position. "Care to tell me about it?" He was not surprised when Aramis shook his head.

"Sorry I disturbed you…"

"You woke Toni and Planchet. That idiot Planchet woke me up, right in the middle of a dream with two of Madame Esmeralda's girls… If anyone should be apologizing, it's him. I sent Toni back to bed already." There was no need to involve young Toni in this.

"Thanks, Porthos…"

"I'll get Planchet to warm some wine… help you to get back to sleep."

"No thanks," Aramis shook his head. Porthos laughed. "I suppose you dreamed of messing up on some mission and Athos getting mad at you. You know, back in the early days, I had few nightmares like that. I dreamed I got the details wrong and ruined the mission. Then there was that woman… Yes, I'm referring to Milady…" The chatter was a way of trying to get Aramis to relax but the poor man was still as tightly-wound as a spring. "She was a very beautiful woman and I can see why Athos was attracted to her. Hell, even I was attracted to her. Such a flirt, a very dangerous female… I thank my lucky stars I did not give in to temptation…"

"Or Athos would have killed you?" Aramis replied guardedly.

"Possibly. He was hopelessly in love with her back then. We have been friends for a very long time but where women are concerned," Porthos shrugged.

"Porthos, if you knew I was paying court to one of your women…" Aramis started out cautiously.

"Which one?" Porthos laughed. "If she was one of Madame Esmeralda's ladies, I'm sure we could work out an arrangement, maybe a threesome… If she was some woman I'm pursuing for a wife, then may the best man win. Besides, it will never happen. Your preferences differ from mine. I like my ladies plump and… wait- Don't tell me you got Widow Lombardo with child…"

"No! I don't know any widow named Lombardo," Aramis protested. "Are you intending to marry her?"

"I asked but she wouldn't have me," Porthos shrugged. "Said I was young enough to be her grandson. I thought she was younger. Such a beauty," Porthos' eyes took on a wistful look. "Guess guys like us aren't exactly husband material. What's all this coming from you? The next thing you'd be telling me you and Athos'-"

The poor abbe went grey in the face. "P-Porthos… maybe you should leave… I'm tired…" Aramis dove under the covers before he could incriminate himself further.

Author's Notes:

D'Artagnan goes for an unplanned swim again. At least he survived. He has as many lives as a cat but at the rate he is getting into danger and all, he might still run out.

More antics from the horses and poor Aramis has a nightmare. Porthos is getting really, really close to guessing the source of Aramis' distress.