Duel
"I'll go talk to her," Jacqueline announced, ignoring d'Artagnan's comment. She took a few steps towards Lauren's angrily closed door.
Siroc gave the barest glance up at her. "I just did. I think she just wants to be left alone for now." His hand continued to scribble furiously in a notebook.
The legend's son dared to open his mouth again. "Looks like a woman thing to me, Jacques. It's better to let her cool down, I think." The man had the nerve to look serious as he peered over at Siroc's current experiment.
Jacqueline, fuming at these men giving her advice on a woman, spun on him. "Oh, you think, do you? That's a surprise!" Her hands flew up in exasperation as she continued, "D'Artagnan, with the things you say, sometimes I just want to—" But she had to stop when he raised an eyebrow to remind her of the open door and the inventor's presence.
"What?" d'Artagnan baited, knowing she could not really reply. "Have a wrestling match?" A rakish grin stretched across his face.
The female musketeer's nose went into the air, and she sniffed. "I'd much rather cut off an appendage with a rapier." And she stormed out of the lab without another word. Although enjoying the view as she walked out, the musketeer did not know whether to laugh at or be afraid of her comment. Choosing to overlook it for now, d'Artagnan could not get another word out before a Spaniard burst in.
Ramon strode in theatrically with arms high in the air. "Amigos, the musketeers have a new recruit! Duval just accepted some upstart from the south—noble second son or some such thing."
D'Artagnan grinned as he stated, "New, eh? I'd better go welcome him properly." He stood, picking up his baldric and rapier where he had slung it over a chair back. Sliding it on over his shoulder, he called back to the other man in the room, "Coming, Siroc?"
"I wouldn't dare miss a chance to see you humiliate a recruit," the inventor answered perhaps a little sarcastically, but he was already taking off his apron and laying it out on a bench. Ramon grinned and led the way down.
Lauren sat on the windowsill of her room. She watched the few wispy clouds cross the autumn blue sky as she calmed from her 'moment,' but a bit of a commotion in the courtyard below drew her attention back down to earth. Duval strode out of the garrison door across the yard with a finely dressed young man, most likely noble as far as the time traveler could tell. The other musketeers stopped their exercises to gather round to introduce themselves and mess around with the new guy.
To the girl's amusement, Jacqueline waited on the outskirts of the crowd, studying the man from a distance. Lauren could see from her perch that the recruit was rather handsome—high cheekbones, impeccably groomed black hair, and light eyes, though she could not tell the exact color from so far away. She mused that he would have made a good model slash actor back home in the real world. Her thoughts trailed off as the action below sped up. Some of the musketeers had caught sight of Jacqueline and began calling for a duel—Jacques versus the new guy. Lauren snorted as the man gave the slight musketeer a once over and agreed. He has no idea what he's up against, she thought with a snicker, recalling the woman's easy defeat of two Guardsmen the day before.
Jacqueline and the man drew rapiers just as d'Artagnan showed up leading Ramon and Siroc. The three took up places to the side for a clear view of their friend's fight. The legend's son looked quite amused to see the woman thrashing someone other than himself; his eyes traced her every move, maybe taking notes on how to beat her next time, but most likely just admiring the view. All the musketeers smugly watched as Jacqueline drove the recruit all over the court; the men jumped aside whenever the pair got too close, occupied in their personal battle as they were. Assured of the female's victory, Lauren's eyes wandered around the crowd noticing some vaguely familiar faces from her rambles to the garrison kitchen—oh, she managed to get out without supervision often enough.
Then she found Gil in the crowd. To Lauren's considerable discomfort, he was staring straight at her through the window. Forcing a small smile, she gave a little wave to appear friendly and maybe make up for her brush off that morning. He did not see her efforts, however; his eyes had gone back to the fight. The girl in the window followed his line of sight and gasped.
Jacqueline had lost. It seemed unbelievable, but the girl's own eyes could not lie. There the female musketeer was, sprawled out on her back on the ground. How could I miss that? What happened? were the first questions that went through Lauren's mind. And then a scarier one—Why isn't she getting up? The loser had not stirred from her spot on the cobblestones. The victor had put away his rapier and pushed his way out of the crowd of uniformed musketeers who were pressing in to see their fallen comrade. D'Artagnan and Siroc rushed in, and the other men made room for the doctor and Jacques' best friend.
Lauren's eyes swept the crowd once again, trying to get a hint as to what happened. The men's expressions were unreadable from her height, but she did note that Gil had disappeared. With a small shudder, she pulled back from the window. This dream isn't so much fun after all…
Stress
Lauren opened her door to the lab when she heard the commotion coming closer. Standing in the doorway, she watched Ramon and d'Artagnan carry their fallen comrade in on a stretcher followed by an uncommonly anxious looking inventor. Duval and a crowd of musketeers had trailed them all the way from the courtyard. Jacqueline was gently laid out on the big table that had been hastily cleared by Siroc, and he murmured to the Spaniard beside him, "Ramon, get the spectators out of here please. And keep the door shut."
The tall musketeer nodded his assent and strode back to the door. "Jacques is in good hands, amigos. Let the doctor do his work—out! Out, out!" He shooed the babbling men back, closing the door behind himself so only the Captain lingered a moment. For the first time Lauren saw a tenderness in the man; he was truly afraid for the life of his soldier.
Siroc was at the hearth pouring hot water from the kettle into a shallow bowl, and he had d'Artagnan pulling strips of clean cloth from a laundry bag that had never been sorted. Leaning heavily on his cane, Duval came forward to the edge of the table, looking down at the Musketeer lying so still and quiet there. The inventor turned to carry the bowl over but paused when he saw the Captain standing there. D'Artagnan too was frozen; Jacqueline was utterly defenseless, her feminine features smooth and open for anyone to see. Duval's voice sounded a little gruffer than usual when he spoke. "Take care of him, Siroc—he's one of my best."
The blonde man nodded, approaching the table slowly. "I'll do my best," he said in a low rumble. "Let me do my work, sir."
The Captain shook his head slowly and left, closing the door gently behind him. Lauren let out the breath she had not even known she was holding. He didn't seem to notice. He was too blinded by grief. She recalled something Ramon had told her: the men here were brothers-in-arms, and it was only natural that the Captain became their father and they, his sons—or daughter as in Jacqueline's case.
But now Lauren was still puzzled as to the female musketeer's injury. No bone stuck oddly out of place, no blood from a cut or thrust soaked her uniform. Her question was only half answered when Siroc motioned for d'Artagnan to turn the patient on her side. Lauren saw matted blood in the hair on the back of her head. That would be from her head connecting with cobblestone, so what would cause her to fall? The others were apparently as confused as she. Siroc began to clean the wound out with hot water as d'Artagnan held her in place. Under his breath, the legend's son muttered, "I'm going to find that man and make him pay for what he's done to her…"
Keeping his voice low and meeting the musketeer's eyes briefly, the doctor replied, "The man did nothing—something else caused her to pass out under the stress of a duel, a previous condition."
"What? What would cause her to faint? She's always managed to beat me with no problem," he demanded bitterly.
"Any number of things—" Siroc rinsed out the bloodied cloth in the bowl, squeezing the tainted water out. "It could be overexertion, a wound that weakened her, maybe poison in her blood. Was she acting normal today? Anything strange you can recall from the last week?" Lauren noted that he called her a 'she,' the first time she had ever heard him acknowledge the female musketeer's sex.
Siroc had finished with Jacqueline's head and softly laid a clean cloth under it before rolling her gently on her back when d'Artagnan answered, "I don't know—I don't think she's done anything. But you know how secretive she is…"
"Come on, d'Artagnan," the inventor urged, wiping the blood from his hands with another rag. "You are the closest to her. Anything at all that's changed? Unexplained pains, a change in her diet, strange behavior…"
Gazing down at the motionless form on the table, d'Artagnan's brow furrowed. "Well, after we duel in the mornings, she doesn't eat breakfast anymore; she just disappears until it's time for patrol. She said she doesn't want to eat away all my money, but that was a week or two ago. Does that mean anything?"
"So she hasn't been eating…" Siroc mused. He followed his friend's line of sight down to her still face; dark smudges under her eyes stood out on pale skin and a line had formed on her forehead that neither had noticed until now.
A thought occurred to Lauren, and she called to them from her doorway. "She practices at all hours."
Siroc looked over at her, d'Artagnan spinning around to face her as well. The first asked softly, "What do you mean?"
The girl leaned a shoulder on the wall for support under their intense eyes. "Once I woke up in the middle of the night and saw her doing some sort of sword dance thing. She was out there for hours, and I saw it two other times. I think it was a nightly routine."
"So she's been running herself ragged—exhaustion it is," Siroc summarized concisely.
D'Artagnan visibly relaxed. "So Jacqueline just needs to rest up, and she'll be back on her feet in no time. Right?" He looked up at his friend for confirmation.
The doctor did not look relieved yet. "Her body will heal, yes, if she rests and eats—that's important—but what worries me is why she did this to herself." He gazed at the musketeer stretched out on the table in quiet slumber. "We must ask what drove her to push herself past the limit."
Lauren left Jacqueline's room that evening. The girl had volunteered for first nursing duty, waiting for the worn musketeer to wake so she could feed her broth. D'Artagnan had relieved her for the first half of the night, but a few hours sitting and staring out the window left Lauren antsy, far from sleepy.
Wandering through the halls, her feet took her where her head never would have allowed her to go. Standing before a thick wooden door, the girl knocked twice and waited. A muffled "Hold on!" came from the other side, and she nervously stoked the raised line on her palm, the slowly healing rapier cut. The door opened revealing Gil clad in his shirt and breeches. He looked surprised at his twilight visitor and half hid himself behind the door. "Bonsoir, Lauren. I thought you were busy with Jacques."
"I was, but it is d'Artagnan's turn right now. Are you busy?" She peered past his shoulder into his room. The musketeer's chamber was almost as bare as hers, but Gil did have a much larger bed and a full wardrobe instead of a small shelf. A single candle flickered on the bedside table, and Lauren could see a book lying on the bed. "I thought we could go somewhere."
Gil turned and glanced out his window. The sky was a darkening grey blue; an early fall sunset had already stolen the light. "Now?" he asked a little incredulously. Lauren thought she saw his eyes linger a moment on the open book.
"I promise I'll have you home before midnight," she told him sweetly, batting her eyes for extra effect. "Please? I'm so bored, stuck in this stuffy garrison all day."
"Let me get my jacket; come on in," he told her, leaving the door to find boots and coat. Lauren stepped in, curiously pacing the room and wondering why it was so clean, considering that a young man inhabited it. "You sure Siroc doesn't mind?" he asked a little defensively over his shoulder as he tugged on a second boot. As an afterthought, he grabbed his baldric and slid it over his shoulder.
"He won't mind—he's a little preoccupied, I think," Lauren answered with a grin. Gil smiled back.
"Shall we?" he asked. The boy ushered Lauren out the door and shut it behind them. The sudden breeze blew the candle out.