The Prize, Ch. 5
The men began arriving at daybreak. They set up their tents near the pavilion. The stables were soon over-crowded, and horses were tied up in a makeshift paddock or next to their master's tent. Nobles, their servants, and many from the village flowed onto the north pavilion to witness or participate in the King's tournament.
"Will you still not compete?" Athos asked, as yet another nobleman sauntered past them.
Aramis shook his head. "How can I compete in something she so abhors? What good would winning do her?"
"And worse yet, what if you lost?" D'Artagnan offered. He cowered under the violent glare the Spaniard threw his way.
"'Feel bad for her," said Porthos as they took their positions under the King's box. "She looks right miserable."
And indeed she did. Christine was pale and withdrawn where she sat next to the King who looked giddy as a schoolboy in comparison. The Queen, seeing her friend's discomfort as she took in the growing crowd, whispered something softly to her husband, who pouted, but nodded.
"Welcome gentlemen!" he called rising to his feet. The gathered men fell silent. "I am so pleased with the exceptional turnout at our short notice tournament, which I think speaks very highly of the esteem in which we hold our dear Comtesse," he said as Christine further paled. Marie and the Queen swiftly took her hands in support as the crowd roared.
"Now, a few housekeeping rules. As there are so many gathered here to vie for our prize, we have had to limit the number of qualified applicants. Only men aged from 25-40 will be permitted to compete. Each man may only compete for himself. Champions will not be permitted," he said which elicited several protests from the crowd. "Competition will be held with swords until first blood is drawn. Let the games begin!" cried Louis to the applause of the crowd and those qualified to compete.
The battlefield cleared of competitors save for one small voice.
"Your Majesty! Your Majesty!" cried a boy.
"Victor?" gasped Christine rising to her feet.
"What is it my dear boy?" asked the King, clearly amused.
"Please sire, I want to compete!" Victor pleaded.
"Compete?" asked the King, a broad grin on his face.
"Yes sire, I'm in love with her – the Comtesse, sire. She saved me from the streets of Paris. I love her sire, please."
The crowd roared its laughter and the boy went red. Christine glared at those laughing.
One boorish man stepped forward holding a whip.
"Come off it boy. Enough of your games," he said cruelly brandishing the whip at the boy. Victor flinched and fell back.
"Your majesty!" cried Christine as the whip lashed out again, but this time it was caught in mid-air. Aramis had stepped into the lash's path. His boot was pressed down on its end and winding the slack around his arm, he pulled the man from his feet so he fell face down into the dirt.
"You dare strike out at this boy?" he growled, casting the lash aside. "Come, I will play with you," Aramis said coldly. He turned to check on Victor as Athos and Treville made their way across the field. Porthos and D'Artagnan stood before the red-faced noble glaring daggers.
"That was very ungentlemanly," the King scolded the man.
"I'm sorry," said the noble. "I was only motivated by the Comtesse's beauty. I was overeager to prove myself," he said at which Christine's eyes glared with hatred at the vile man.
"Victor, are you alright?" Aramis asked from his knees before the thirteen-year-old stable boy.
"Yes," he said softly, staring at his feet.
"Victor," said Aramis, "I need to confess something to you...I too am in love with Christine. I love her truly, with every fibre of my being. I promise you, that I will let no harm come to her while my body draws breath. Do you trust me Victor? Will you allow me to compete?"
Victor nodded his head slowly and raised his head to face Aramis, his eyes burning. "Yes," he said, "I love her, but I know you do too, Aramis. Give them hell," he said passionately as Aramis smiled at him and helped him to his feet.
"That was a very brave thing you did," said Athos to the boy.
"Indeed," said Captain Treville. "As I understand it, you are quite happy as a stable hand here, but if one day, when you are older, and the Comtesse supports it, I think there may be a place for a man like you among the Musketeers," he said. The boy's eyes lit up at these words as he walked by the Captain's side to stand next to Porthos and D'Artagnan who clapped the lad on the shoulders when he joined them.
The ignorant noble stood at the far end of the battle ring, brandishing his sword sloppily.
"Remember," said Athos with a raised eyebrow, "it's only to first blood. No need to kill him."
Aramis responded with a devilish smirk, one that Athos knew well. For once Athos didn't roll his eyes, but met it with a devilish smirk of his own as he patted Aramis on the shoulder and exited the ring.
"Come now," called the noble as Aramis drew his rapier. "Let me teach you the lesson I should have taught that little mongrel," he hissed.
"That boy has more honour in a single hair on his head than you could ever hope to have," Aramis growled lowly.
"En garde!" the man shouted and went to make a wild overhead strike. Aramis easily sidestepped the blow. The man was carried forward by his own momentum and landed face first once more in the dirt. With a vicious swipe across the man's ample rump, Aramis split the man's breeches and scored the upper half of the back of his thighs with his blade. The man howled at the pain. Riding, sitting, standing and walking would be most uncomfortable for the next few days. A good lesson.
The crowd roared and the King stood clapping and laughing.
"I believe that justice was well served. Congratulations Aramis, you are through to the next round!"
oOo
As the competition continued, it was soon quite clear that Aramis and Marcello were by far the best swordsmen of the bunch.
D'Artagnan and Porthos drew close to Athos as Marcello fought one particular noble who was managing to offer a bit of competition.
"What do you think?" asked D'Artagnan, observing Marcello's unique fighting style.
"They will be well matched," said Athos. "The Italian nobility are required to serve, so The Duke is well honed in battle. His technique is exquisite. He fights in a style common to Southern Italy which uses the parrying dagger in his right hand as the more deadly of instruments, saving the rapier as a more defensive tool. It is most impressive," said Athos.
"And Aramis?" D'Artagnan prompted.
Athos sighed. "Aramis is one of the most inventive swordsmen I have ever met. Though his technique may not be as structured in the traditional sense as the Duke's, he is a marksman by nature – patient, but quick to react and recalculate his attack. Aramis has always had a sixth sense for danger which has served him well in many battles."
"So what do you reckon?" Porthos asked as Marcello defeated his opponent.
"Have you ever known Aramis to let anything stand in between him and the woman he loves?" Athos said with a raised eyebrow.
"But Marcello loves her too," said D'Artagnan worriedly.
Athos turned to the younger man and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I have never doubted the strength and power of Aramis' heart. Trust me, he will not lose."
oOo
A/N: Not sure if there is an "Italian Style" fencing technique...for the purposes of this story, let's pretend there is and it follows the description I laid out... ;-P