CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Following the sound of the scream, Porthos skidded to a halt at the sight of man assaulting a young woman. From her dress, he recognised her as one of the ladies in waiting he had barricaded in their room earlier. The man had a hand around her throat and the other on her waist, his body pressed to hers, as she herself was pressed to the wall.
"What are you fleeing?" the man was snarling, seeing his chance of reconnecting with some of his men.
Seeing the girl in danger, Porthos held up his hands.
"Let her go," he growled.
The man swivelled toward him, dragging the woman with him. She cried out as the man's hand tightened on her throat and Porthos took a step back, raising his hands a little higher.
"You can't win," Porthos said, quieter now. "You're the last one standin'
He was bluffing of course. He had no idea how many assailants were in the Palace, but he knew that two were dead, the others pursued by his brothers - extremely capable Musketeers - and one of Richelieu's most dangerous assassins, driven by her own need to survive.
"You're lying," the man replied, turning fully toward him now.
"Go check for yourself," Porthos shrugged. "You'll trip over the bodies," he added, nodding his head in the general direction of the King's Receiving Room, where, not far away were the two dead men.
"Then I will add your corpse to the tally," the man snarled, suddenly levelling a pistol at Porthos's chest.
Porthos took a breath and straightened his shoulders, looking the man in the eyes.
Suddenly, a knife appeared at the man's throat, its owner standing behind him, shielded from view by the confection of the lady-in-waiting's dress.
The voice, when it came, made Porthos breathe a little easier; not something he would normally associate with her.
Milady de Winter herself.
"Drop it," she purred and the man had no choice but to comply.
He also let go of the woman and she sank to the ground in a near faint, much to Milady's disdain.
"Where is Dubois?" Milady said, pressing the blade deeper into the man's skin.
Her prisoner's eyes flicked to Porthos.
"Not all dead, then," the man smirked.
"Not yet," Porthos countered.
"Tell me," Milady ground out, "Or I will sever your spine through your throat."
"I'd do as she says," Porthos said, his voice dark. "Seen her do that."
Another bluff. The day was made for them.
The man drained of colour but he did not respond. However, the young woman on the floor behind him did.
"I heard the Musketeer Athos call him that," she gasped, drawing in much-needed air.
"They are together?" Milady asked, tersely, her hand tightening around the blade. She needed Athos alive, if the King was dead.
"They are fighting. In the Blue Room," the woman said, as she struggled to her feet.
"I told the King," she added, falling back against the window sill, her hand fluttering to her bruised throat.
"The King is alive?" Milady said, in some relief. Her life here was secured.
"He was with the two Musketeers, Aramis and d'Artagnan - back there," the woman pointed. "I told them they were fighting in the Blue Room."
The knife was withdrawn from the man's throat, but if he felt any relief, it was short lived. He dropped to his knees and was dead before his face hit the ground, the blade sunk between his shoulder blades.
"I 'aven't got any words," Porthos said, shaking his head.
Part of him admired her decisiveness, but the other part abhorred her destructive tendencies. She was as cold bloodied as a snake. A little prisoner-interrogation wouldn't have gone amiss, he thought, regretfully. It would be a waste of time voicing that, though.
"Just as well," she said, sweetly, wiping her blade on the man's leg.
"Thanks," Porthos muttered, as they stepped aside.
"I didn't do it for you," she replied, tersely.
"I know that," Porthos grunted. "Thanks anyway."
Milady looked at the young woman. There was no love lost between Milady and the Queen's women. They had sneered at her since the day she had arrived at Court. But Porthos was here and it would serve her to remain in his good graces. It always paid to have insurance and now that she had saved his life, she would have it. As much as she would have loved to slit this stupid woman's throat and ruin her ridiculous dress, she restrained herself.
As Porthos turned to help the young woman, Milady sheathed her blade, picked up her skirts, and ran.
She knew where the Blue Room was.
So did Porthos.
He quickly sent the young woman on her way and took off after Milady once more. He had angered her earlier and was now painfully aware that if she reached Athos, all their work in protecting their brother from emotional turmoil could come crashing down around them.
oOo
Porthos arrived at the Blue Room at almost the same time as the King, Aramis and d'Artagnan.
Milady was nowhere to be seen, a worry in itself.
Striding toward each other as they approached the open doors from each side of the corridor, they exchanged relieved looks to see each other unscathed.
"Three dead," Aramis said, looking at Porthos. d'Artagnan raised his hand at Porthos's raised eyebrows.
"Four," Porthos corrected, with a smile. "She's been busy."
"That leaves Dubois," he added. "I believe Athos is engagin' him."
"Dubois?" Aramis and d'Artagnan almost said together.
"One of Sarazin's thugs. Remember 'im?"
"How could we forget," d'Artagnan scowled, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. The man had almost been the death of Constance. He had taken great delight in ending him.
"Where is Milady?" Aramis said, as he and d'Artagnan looked around.
Porthos shrugged.
The King, oblivious to their brief conversation, was delighted to see his best swordsman fight. He had been hidden behind the curtains of his bed when these two had met earlier and he could only hear their encounter. Ahead of them, he strode into the room, only to be pulled gently back by Aramis.
"Sire, it is not safe."
They herded him back into the corner of the room, and turned their attention to the battle underway.
Aramis was not prepared for what he saw.
The dead woman, Marie, was on the floor in the middle of the room.
Athos and Dubois were fighting around her.
Their friend was swaying.
Blood soaked his leg from a cut to the knee. His sling was nowhere to be seen, and he held his arm stiff at his hip. His hand was bloody and there was a cut in his eyebrow, which sent a line of blood down the side of his face. Sweat dripped from his beard. His face was set in a mask of determination.
It was truly a matter of honour that kept him on his feet, Aramis saw.
Dubois was equally compromised. He had a cut to his neck and the sleeve of his jacket was bloodied in several places. There was a bruise on his cheek where their friend had obviously landed a punch. Aramis allowed himself a small smile. The latter was one of Porthos's many lessons. Athos had been reluctant to use such tactics when Porthos first began to instruct them in the failures of their fighting strategies, but had soon come around when he had been on the receiving end from some of the brigands they had encountered. Since then, he fought like a street rat when it was necessary, much to Porthos's delight.
Now though, he limped as he lunged and parried. Dubois was targetting his hurts, and the Comte was tiring, his face lined in pain.
He circled once more, before drawing strength from who know where and forging forward in a fast move of several steps, his blade clashing at shoulder height with Dubois's. Dubois pushed himself forward, aiming to make his opponent trip over the body of the dead woman. The Comte's instincts however, were sound, and he stepped over her and away, crossing himself quickly as he did so, in respect to the dead women. From his place across the room, Aramis did the same, whispering a small prayer for her soul.
Olivier was aware of others in the room now.
Making eye contact with Aramis, he held out his arm as a sign for him to hold back. Aramis stood in front of the King, in reply. They would respect his wishes and protect their Sovereign first, was the silent response.
As it should be.
The Comte nodded.
A final look to d'Artagnan kept him in place too, albeit reluctantly.
Turning back to Dubois, he took a breath, hoping he had the strength to finish him.
d'Artagnan stepped forward, but Porthos held him back.
Olivier dashed his closed fist against his eyebrow, wiping away a smear of blood that threatened his vision. As he did so, Dubois came at him again, finding a sudden burst of energy. His balance was waivering though and he sliced at thin air. Olivier countered, their blades meeting with a spark, but both were utterly spent now, and Aramis doubted either could raise a blade.
Waiting until they were at the other side of the room, Aramis crept forward and took hold of the dead woman gently under her arms, moving her across the floor and out of the way of the warring men. d'Artagnan remained at the King's side to protect him. Louis stepped aside, but kept his eyes on the fight.
Both men were using their blades to lean against, points in the polished floor. They had been fighting for a long time, and their muscles screamed. If will alone had given them strength, it had finally ebbed.
Then, with a roar, Dubois swung his blade low. It crashed into the Comte's blade at such an angle, that the blade snapped. He staggered back, broken sword in his hand as Dubois came at him, sluggish but hell bent.
He did not want them to help, but his brothers were not going to see him die in front of them. So Porthos drew his main gauche and yelled one word;
"Athos!"
The moment seemed to hang in the air, but then the Comte responded. Dropping his ruined sword, he spun around, caught Porthos's main gauche and turned, just at Dubois reached him.
The dagger held low, he turned the blade with his last ounce of strength, pushing Dubois's blade aside. As the man's momentum kept him coming, he drove the blade into his gut.
Dubois's eyes went wide, and his hand reached across, grasping Olivier's shoulder.
Olivier went white. His knees buckled at the sudden intense pain to his damaged shoulder.
Dubois kept coming, a corpse still standing, and Olivier was only saved from crashing to the ground beneath him by his three companions, who quickly surrounded him and pulled him away.
As Dubois's body hit the floor, the King applauded.
Steadying themselves, they made sure Dubois was in fact, dead, before clapping each other on the back, careful not to touch their noble friend, who was now bending over, pulling air into his lungs, his legs shaking. Aramis pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Olivier's face, pushing his face back gently to inspect the cut in his eyebrow.
As he did so, Olivier looked over Aramis's shoulder, toward the King.
Partially framed in the broken passage doorway beside the King, was a woman.
A woman in red.
Before the others could stop her, she stepped out, in full view.
"Ann?" Olivier whispered ...
To be continued ...