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Porthos: South

Porthos rode into the village of Étampes and down the dusty street toward the center church, Église Notre Dame du Fort. He glanced over the Gothic-style church with its massive belltower rising high above the village and paused. He shielded his eyes against the glaring sun as he gazed at the steeple of the belfry rising tall and to a sharpened point, as though pointing toward Heaven.

The large Musketeer shrugged and continued riding–one church looked the same as the next—and he wasn't one who cared about the style of architecture or the fancy stone carvings meant to impress the parishioners who entered its sacred walls to worship.

Porthos finally arrived at L'Hôtel de Ville, where he would stay the night before returning to Paris once he made his delivery in the morning. Next door was a tavern, instantly catching his eye and enticing the Musketeer to indulge his thirst. "L'Alibi," Porthos huffed, "'at's worth checkin' out. I could use a drink."

He sat at a corner table with his back to the wall then ordered ale with a bowl of stew from the barmaid. Before his food even arrived the Musketeer's interest was drawn to the noisy crowd gathered around a table where a game of lenturlu was well underway.

A rather heated debate began over the latest round with players and spectators alike, all yelling at the outcome of the game and who had rightly won. "Ace of spades always trumps the deck," one man yelled to cheers and jeers alike.

"Mm, not in lenturlu," Porthos corrected as he approached the dealer at the card table. "The Jack o' Clubs is Pam."

"What?"

"Pamphilus… Pam," Porthos explained to the confused crowd. "Pam means most beloved; in lenturlu it beats all other cards, including Ace of Spades."

"How do you know so much about this game?" the dealer asked.

"I've been playin' card games for years," Porthos bristled. "My reasons are my own."

"Alright, fair enough," the dealer nodded. "Why don't you pull up a chair and join us, maybe we'll learn a thing or two. I'll sweeten the deal and buy you an ale," the dealer added.

"Alright, let's play," Porthos said as he clapped his hands together eagerly. The large Musketeer pulled up a chair, nodded his greeting to everyone at the table, then sat on the dealer's left. He watched as the dealer dealt out the cards around the table, carefully observing the eyes of the men as they picked up their cards.

"I love this game!" Porthos took another swig of ale then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He laughed heartily at the mountain of chips growing in front of him, evoking grumbles from around the table.

"I forfeit," said one player.

"You're looed, my boy," said the dealer, "that's five more chips in the pot."

"Forfeit," the rest of the players said around the table until Porthos, who then fanned his cards out on the table. "Flush, I win!" he clapped his hands together with a triumphant laugh.

"You're a filthy cheater!" one player accused with a venomous tone.

"That's the second round you've won, Monsieur," the dealer glared suspiciously at the Musketeer.

"I told ya I was good a' the game," Porthos growled. "I didn't come in 'ere with a Jack o' Clubs up my sleeve, if 'at's what you're accusin'," he snarled sharply.

"Fair enough, let's test your card-playing skills further," the dealer challenged. "How about a game of Jeu Royal de la Guerre? I have my own pack of cards for the game—it's my way of ensuring no one cheats."

"Fine," Porthos accepted the challenge. "I'll start wit' two livre," he nodded to the dealer, throwing down his coins.

"Messieurs, you must place your bets before I can deal," the dealer waited with the deck of cards in hand. Players made their bets and the game was off to an exciting start—much to the delight of the growing crowd.

The pot in the trick-taking game grew sweeter as more bets were placed, causing tensions to run high at the table. An enthusiastic spectator ordered another round of ales to quench the tempers of the thirsty players—as well as having the underlying philosophy that the more the players drank, the longer they would play.

"You are now a Prisoner of War," the dealer said to one scruffy-looking man across from Porthos.

"Ah, the Death card," he said to another man, "you are out of the game."

"'At's the way it's done!" Porthos slapped his cards down, "my general just won the trick—I win the pot."

"How did you get to be so damn smart?" the scruffy-looking player muttered.

"Never said I was smart," Porthos replied. "Growin' up, I learned to get by on the streets by playin' cards—I've learned a trick or two in my day." The large Musketeer glared at the man, "you 'ave a problem with 'at?" he challenged.

"Save it boys," the dealer warned. "Let's play another round; place your bets, Messieurs."

"Five livre," Porthos said as he threw the coins into the middle of the table.

The game of tricks and high stakes went slowly on and, while some players were quite competent, none could match the street-smart prowess and skill of Porthos. Alas, the large Musketeer cheered as he won another round. "Army General wins," Porthos declared with subdued mirth.

"This man is cheating!" an angry player growled as he threw his cards on the table.

"I'm done!" Porthos finished his ale in one swallow then slammed his mug down on the table. "I've 'ad enough of bein' called a cheater," Porthos pocketed the coins from the middle. "I don't cheat," he stood to leave, "and I don't lie neither."

"Damn you, cheater, we want our money back!" The scruffy-looking player stood up then angrily swiped his arm across the table, sending chips, cards and mugs flying. "Empty your pockets, you filthy liar… you cheating wretch!"

"Come and try to empty my pockets," Porthos challenged. The large Musketeer stood his ground, steadying himself on both feet as he faced the angry players, daring them to make their move. "I'm waitin' gents…"

One player took a swing at Porthos, just as the scruffy man grabbed a knife and lashed out with unbridled rage. The man sliced the knife across the Musketeer's wrist, though the cut was not terribly deep, it still drew a fair amount of blood. Small drops of crimson smeared across Porthos's hand as he drew his main gauche and effortlessly fended off a second strike, blocking the knife as the scruffy man lunged again.

The large Musketeer whirled around as a third man attempted to grab the pistol from his weapons belt; Porthos punched the man and sent him flying across the table then subsequently falling to the floor in a mix of cards and ale. "Stay down, damn you!"

"Bloody hell," Porthos cursed as he took the brief respite to catch his breath. His eyes darted left and right, carefully watching the angry group to see who would strike next.

Quick as lightning, the scruffy man made another charge with the knife, plunging it into the middle of the large man's chest before the Musketeer could even react. The knife was slowed by the thick leather of Porthos's doublet and the many rows of silver hardware beading the upper portion of the jacket, diminishing the damage the weapon may have caused. The blade was finally stopped as it hit bone.

"Big mistake," the large Musketeer snarled. "You don't know who you're messin' wit'," he easily pulled the knife from his chest with a growl. Porthos lunged forward to grab the scruffy man around the throat just as he was pounded over the head with a bottle from behind. The Musketeer fell to the floor in an unconscious heap as a small puddle of blood pooled around his head and chest.

"Oi," Porthos groaned in pain. He groggily lifted his head then attempted to twist his body to lie down as he felt the room spin; he furrowed his brow, thoroughly confused at his inability to move. The Musketeer tugged at his arms but cursed angrily as they appeared stuck behind his back.

"What the hell hap'ned?" Porthos's mind was a myriad of spiderwebs—his confused thoughts were all discombobulated and jumbled. The Musketeer peeled open his brown eyes then blinked against the bright sunlight streaming in through the window. He shook his head with disappointment as he recognized nothing.

"Where the hell am I?" he grumbled as he looked blearily around the room. Porthos tried once again to move his arms but discovered that his wrists were bound together and tied behind the wooden beam he leaned against.

"Aw, bloody hell!" Porthos growled as he looked at his feet and found his ankles were also bound together with rope. Resigned, he slumped against the wood beam and closed his eyes as he tried to clear his head.

Porthos assumed it would be a futile attempt but checked the tightness of the rope binding his hands, only to yelp in pain as the rope chafed against his cut wrist. "Ow, dammit!" he cursed. The Musketeer's breath hissed sharply through clenched teeth as he blindly rearranged the rope so it no longer dug into his cut wrist.

"Wish you were here, 'Mis," he blew out a long breath at the stinging sensation emanating from the stab wound in his chest. Streams of sweat poured down Porthos's bronze skin and burned like fire as the salty wetness seeped into the open, bleeding wound.

Porthos squirmed as the sweat ran down his lower back then trickled underneath his braies, tickling his sensitive skin. "Argh, I can't stand this," he jumped at the tickling sensation, bumping his head lightly against the beam in the process.

"Diable!" Porthos griped as he discovered yet another injury on his very sore body. His head ached steadily from the earlier blow in the tavern, though he couldn't remember what happened. His thoughts halted as he suddenly became aware of something wet running from his scalp, tickling as it ran down his neck; he couldn't be sure if the wetness was sweat or blood.

"Those damn buggers, what else did they do to me?" Porthos took a mental inventory—of sorts—of his injuries and huffed with amazement at the lack of serious wounds. "Small favors," he blew out a relieved breath. "I'll be sure to thank 'em if I ever see 'em again… as I skewer 'em wit' my sword!"

"Oi, what would Athos say?" Porthos mused as his mind drifted to his three brothers. "And I thought the pup was accident-prone," he muttered as his hands tugged again on the rope.

"Hmm, what would d'Artagnan think of this?" Porthos huffed as he thought of his youngest brother. "He prob'ly delivered his package wit'out a hitch and is back at the garrison drinkin' ale… while I'm tied to this damn post!"

"How do I get out o' here?" Porthos yelled, losing his patience as he looked around the room for a means of escape. He stopped searching as his eyes fell on a shiny piece of glass glinting in the bright sunlight; the broken glass was near his feet but seemingly too distant. The Musketeer stretched out his long legs toward the glass but found it scarcely beyond his reach.

Porthos slid his body down the wooden beam until he was lying at an uncomfortable, odd angle across the floor. He then stretched out his legs toward the shiny object, his foot just barely touching the glass. The strong man flicked the toe of his boot to push the sharp object his way but it didn't move far due to his unnatural angle.

"Come on, damn you!" Porthos growled as he used his foot to slowly move the glass to where he was sitting previously. The Musketeer leaned heavily into the beam to push himself back up into a seated position when the glass was finally close enough to his elbows. By the time he was sitting up again the Musketeer was soaked with sweat, dizzy and panting heavily from exertion.

Porthos sat still to allow the wave of dizziness to pass before using his elbow to push the glass behind his back near his hands. Finally, his fingers found the elusive jagged shard; he curled them around the glass.

"Thank God," Porthos let out the breath he was holding then leaned his head against the beam to gather his strength. At last, when he was ready, he grasped the shard tightly between his fingers then turned the glass around until the sharp end faced toward the rope. Slowly and methodically, the Musketeer used the glass like a saw to cut away at the strands of rope binding his wrists.

"Argghh," he groaned in pain. Porthos winced as the sawing motion painfully chafed his cut wrist, causing it to bleed again, but even worse were the jagged edges of the glass slicing into his fingers as he sawed.

The Musketeer lost his grip on the glass as his bloodied fingers became slippery and too wet to hold the shard. "Dammit… no!" Porthos moaned as his fingers desperately fished around behind him in search of the sharp tool. Finding the shard at last, he wiped his bloody fingers on the floor then began the sawing anew, not stopping until the rope finally loosened.

Alas! the rope snapped apart just as the glass slipped from his bloodied grasp once again. Porthos leaned his head against the beam and let out a long breath as he closed his weary eyes in relief. The pain from his fingers stung like fire, prompting him to pull his rubbery arms around in front of him so that he could examine the damaged fingers.

"Holy bloody hell!" Porthos gasped as he stared at his bleeding fingers, sliced open with deep cuts criss-crossing the pads of nearly every digit. Ignoring the pain, he reached down with his trembling hands to untie his feet then tossed the bloodied rope aside.

"I better no' be on the second or third floor." Porthos grumbled as he made his way to the large window. "Hmm, 'bout time somethin' went right," he remarked at seeing that he was on the ground floor. Once out of the building, the Musketeer ran to the stable where Flip was munching away on fresh hay in his stall.

"Lad, I need my horse saddled righ' away," Porthos called to the stable boy now feeding the horse in the next stall. "I need to get out o' here, quickly!"

"Oui, Monsieur," the boy nodded but then then gasped as he looked at the bloodied Musketeer. "Are you alright, Monsieur?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Porthos replied as he ran to retrieve his saddle and tack to speed the boy up. "I'm in a hurry, boy!"

As Flip was finally saddled and ready to ride, Porthos mounted his horse then dropped several coins into the boy's hand. He kicked his horse into a run, leaving the village of Étampes far behind without ever looking back.

Musketeer Garrison:

An exhausted, sweaty and sore Porthos finally rode through the garrison gates just as the sun was setting in the purple western sky.

"I never thought I would be so damn happy to see the garrison again," he smiled weakly at his worried brothers and captain.

"Are you alright?" Captain Tréville asked, his eyes growing ever wider as he took in all the blood mixed with perspiration covering the large man's body.

"Porthos, what in the hell happened?" Aramis asked as the group of men helped the stiff and sore Musketeer down from his saddle.

"Oi, it's a long story," Porthos groaned tiredly.

"Nevermind what happened for the time being," Tréville ordered. "Get him to the infirmary to be checked out."

"Come on, mon ami, you can tell us all about your mishap as we get you cleaned up." d'Artagnan smiled as he helped his larger brother to the infirmary. "It certainly couldn't be any worse than what Aramis and I went through."

"You wanna bet on 'at?" Porthos huffed. "On second thought, forget the bet… think I've had enough of bettin' for a while."

Aramis hobbled along on his crutches, grinning sheepishly as Porthos stared at his wrapped foot. "I, um, encountered an angry husband and had to make a quick exit… out the second story window… in the dark," the medic explained.

"Again, 'Mis?" Porthos huffed as he shook his head. "And you" he turned to d'Artagnan, "wha' 'appened to your arm?"

"I tried to rescue a damsel in distress and was ambushed by her cohorts… er, partners in crime." d'Artagnan frowned, pursing his lips together angrily.

"I have to ask, Porthos," Captain Tréville sighed as he followed behind the trio. He guessed he already knew the answer but asked the question regardless, "what about the package? Did you deliver the package safely before… all this happened?" the captain waved his hand discouragingly in front of the injured Musketeer.

Porthos swallowed hard, his eyes darted nervously from Aramis to d'Artagnan, then finally to Tréville. "I, uh, I lost it, sir," he groaned. "They must've taken it after they knocked me out then tied me up."

"Knocked you out and tied you up?" Aramis repeated. "Explain to me exactly what happened to you," the medic looked at his friend with concern.

"Let us not worry about that right now," Tréville held up his hand. "Just let the doctor take care of him. Oh, and Porthos, I do expect a full report in the morning."

"Um, Cap'n, it might be hard for me to write," Porthos held up his hands. "Seeing 'at my fingers are sliced to shreds."

"Aw, Porthos," Captain Tréville sighed deeply. "Alright, you can tell me what happened as I write your report for the king."

"For the king?" Porthos repeated with surprise. "Oh no…"

"Oh yes," Captain Tréville countered. "The king is going to be very interested in hearing how each of his Musketeers managed to lose a package entrusted to them. Damn, how do I explain this to His Majesty?" he grumbled as he retreated to the quiet solitude of his office.

"Where is Athos?" Porthos quickly changed the subject as he looked around for his missing brother.

"He hasn't returned yet," d'Artagnan's answered glumly. "But if anyone can safely deliver his package without any mishaps, it's Athos," the Gascon encouraged.

"I'm not so sure," Aramis whispered softly yet loud enough for his friends to hear. "He's been out there the longest now; the longer he's out there, the more I worry for him. Look at us, dammit! I mean, it's almost like we were set up…" he paled. "Madre de Dios, it's like we were set up… to fail."

"Bloody hell, 'Mis, if they've set us up…"

"Aramis, you can't be serious about this," d'Artagnan protested. "Surely, the captain would not deliberately set us up knowing that we could get hurt. The captain wouldn't do that… would he?"

"Maybe the cap'n wouldn't," Porthos pursed his lips as he growled. "But who do you think is very willin' to set us up, no matter if we got hurt?"

"The king… or the cardinal?" d'Artagnan leaned over at the waist. "I think I'm going to be sick…"

"What was this, some kind of sick test?" the medic threw a bandage across the room. "Who knows what misadventures they have planned for our poor, unsuspecting Athos," Aramis seethed. "It also appears that each of us has returned with wounds more serious than the one before."

"Diable! I have a bad feeling about this," d'Artagnan whispered. "Please, let Athos be alright."

"Athos had better be alright," Aramis's features darkened as anger raged in his brown eyes. "Or, God help me, I'll find it hard to hold my tongue in front of His Majesty and His Eminence!"

A/N:

L'Alibi, in the 18th arrondissement of Paris, is a cute little corner tavern with a green store front. It has a cozy lounging area and mosaic floors and a chrome bar counter, but the best thing about the L'Alibi Paris bar is the friendly atmosphere.

17th Century Card Games:

Lenturlu (French spelling) or loo,
the French meaning for lenturlu is "fiddlesticks." The game is said to have originated in France and then made its way to England in the 1660's. Lenturlu is a trick-taking game in which one card is elevated above its normal rank, as is with the Jack of Clubs; this card is called "Pam" and ranks higher than the Ace trump card. The game is played by 3 to 8 players using a 52-card pack. The players bet and play for tricks, and in each round they may pass, play, or "miss."

Jeu Royal de la Guerre (Royal Game of War) is a French card game for two to twelve players, and is also a trick-taking game played with a dedicated war-themed 40-card pack based on the French-suited 36-card piquet pack. The piquet pack had 36 cards, along with 4 suitless cards. The suitless cards were Death, Force, Army General, and Prisoner of War. The remaining cards were Ace, King, Queen, Jack and 6–10 in each of the four French suits. The aces were styled as a cannoneer, a soldier with a drawn rapier, a battalion, and a squadron of horsemen.