Sign of the Cross
By JeanTre16
Chapter 19
All for One
Sailing on seas of nothingness
Adrift on childhood dreams
Sword in hand, famed tales to lead
Heroine of destiny's themes
Cold ocean spray; truth's flay
Awakens me from my sleep
Sign of the Cross, d'Artagnan's loss
Bid me quit night's blissful keep
Jacqueline woke from a restless sleep to the chill of dawn. Huddled about her were dozens of motionless forms of sleeping, traumatized people. Those around her bore their private burdens due to fire. Her burdens were deep-rooted to her past and spanned into her questionable future that she'd now have to face without the man she loved.
She fingered the cold, metal crucifix about her neck, a reminder that her predicament was not imagined. If the clues of her past led to the royalty of France as they suggested, what sins had caused her to be placed in hiding? She recalled her brother, Gerard's words of the dying priest, 'His sins had caused him to flee. And Father Barsec had hoped that she, Jacqueline, would forgive him.'
A wave of pain flinched through her already tense features as she recalled her own crimes. Cardinal Mazarin's corrupt actions had certainly influenced her choices, but she alone bore the responsibility for her sins and for running from their consequences. The difference between her and the outwardly religious man was that she had responded to the conviction of God on her heart, confessed her wrongs and had turned from them; the evil-hearted Cardinal had his own agenda and would never admit to his crimes.
Thoughtfully, she felt the grooves of the Christ held in place to the transverse symbol of execution. One solitary person had sacrificed himself to take away the sin of the world and to offer forgiveness and life everlasting to anyone who would believe and receive his promise. God's invitation drew no social boundary; it had been extended to all no matter what their station in life—Cardinal or farm girl, queen or Musketeer. No matter how difficult it would be, she knew what she would have to do when she faced those who had taken part in her calamity. How could she do any less when her Savior had done so much for her?
Her thoughts trailed to another who had sacrificed for her. 'You have to be strong right now,' Jacqueline recalled d'Artagnan's words. He had told her that on the night they had fled from the garrison. She had been slipping into despair, feeling guilt over bringing condemnation on him for her actions. He had challenged her then to allow him to make his own decisions. And he had made a decision last night when he had turned himself in for her freedom.
"I love you," she whispered, feeling his presence so close to hers that she could almost touch him. A tear trickled down her already saline-streaked face. "I promise. I'll be strong for you."
ooooooo
"Your Eminence," a guard's voice announced, "these are for you." The red-coated man bowed, and then un-wrapped two glistening rapiers for his superior to see. "They were discovered on an English-bound ship off the coast of Calais. These match the port master's descriptions of the weapons used by the couple you are seeking. And, oh, this letter accompanies the delivery. It's from London." The red-clad man balanced the steel blades in one hand while fishing with his other into his pocket. He pulled out no ordinary parchment, but one that bore the royal insignia of England's king.
The Cardinal took the letter with piqued curiosity and broke the royal seal. His eyes opened brightly at the words, but he revealed nothing to his waiting guard. Pleased with the content, Mazarin took the swords from his henchman with only the acknowledgement of an intrigued, raised brow. "Good news. Very good news," he aired with a chilling smirk. "Gather the men in the sanctum. Tell them we have some rather gratifying news to discuss," he ordered as he reached out to relieve the guardsmen of the bulky evidence.
The Dark Order's pawn surrendered the two swords and left in a scurry to gather the secret society, per their leader's wishes.
Standing in his office, Mazarin held the rapiers up as though they were the very tools he'd use to skewer their owners with. And then a malicious grin encrusted his face. He laid them down across his desk, precisely where the young d'Artagnan had laid his deceased guard, Bernard's rapier some months ago. "We shall see how empty your threats are now, d'Artagnan," the hateful man spat his words.
ooooooo
Charles d'Artagnan and Ramon arrived with the sun at Calais. Their horses had barely set hoof into town, when the riders heard the port guards announce that a heavily loaded passenger vessel was on approach. Word was that London had suffered a sort of tragedy and that these poor souls were destitute.
The word of 'tragedy' struck the two men standing down their tired horses. Both of their faces clouded with concern. What sort of catastrophe could have possibly befallen these people, causing them to seek refuge in a foreign land? Handing his reins off to Ramon, the commanding Musketeer instructed, "Tend the horses." Frowning, he made his way through the gathering crowd to witness the arrival of this ship firsthand.
As he walked, his senses keenly absorbed the testimonies of fire and total disarray at the heart of England. By the time d'Artagnan had made his way forward to the dock, Jacqueline had made her way down the gangplank of the ship. It was she that spotted her father-in-law first and rushed to greet him. Without announcement, the cloaked, royally dressed woman flung her arms around her unsuspecting childhood hero and tightly clung to the man she now shared a name with.
Not seeing her approach, he barely had the time to register her presence and she was in his arms. His mouth hung agape, betraying a rare emotion of stun for the calloused soldier. Until then, to the legend, she had simply been Queen Anne's daughter, the infant he had lost, his son's love and his responsibility. But now, he began to realize that somewhere in the process he had also become much more than that to her. Slowly, the father in him surfaced to reciprocate the intensity of her embrace. He had held many women before, though never a daughter. The feeling was strange, but warming.
Jacqueline hugged him fiercely, sobbing with her relief of seeing a strong and familiar face. There weren't many she trusted or felt comfortable bearing her burdens with, but her father-in-law was one of those few. After all, he was the great d'Artagnan, and he was here for her when she needed him the most.
It was then that Charles realized that she was alone. "Where's my son?" he voiced his concern, and his eyes scanned the crowd for his relation.
A sense of urgency gripped her. As quickly as she had grabbed her father-in-law, she pushed herself back from his hold. Shaking her head and brushing back her tears with the back of her hands, she tried to bridle her emotions and find her strength. "We have to go back for him. He's being held against his will by King Charles, and he needs our help."
Registering her affluent attire for the first time, the stunned father winced as he began to grasp the gravity of their situation. He was no fool to the power ploys of royalty and immediately suspected England's monarch of foul-play. But before he had time to speak and question her further, he was approached by a man he did not know. "Monsieur d'Artagnan, I presume?" the stranger spoke with crispness.
Frowning quizzically at the unfamiliar face, d'Artagnan noticed a sealed letter in his hand and affirmed his identity with a slight nod.
The carrier handed him the correspondence and explained pleasantly, yet in a business-like tone, "I've been given strict instructions to see that you get this, personally. There is no need for compensation. It is my pleasure to see to this favor. Oh, and the author assured me that you would know who he was." Smiling, he dipped his hat courteously to each and dismissed himself. "Good-day, Monsieur. Madame."
As he watched the man walk off, the recipient wondered who would have known to address him here in Calais and how this man had found him in such a crowd. "Excuse me," he gently relayed to Jacqueline. He turned his attention to the letter, opened it and read:
Monsieur d'Artagnan, Calais' guards could be detained no longer. Paris has been warned. Having bought you all the time possible, we've gone ahead to London.
There was no signature, but there needn't be. He immediately recognized the handwriting of his old friend. Refolding the letter, he slipped it into his pocket. The legend was torn. He hadn't anticipated the two being separated—Jacqueline here and his son still abroad. This led to a new set of plans. He would not leave Anne's child again as he had before. And he would not risk her return to England in an attempt to rescue his son. D'Artagnan had no choice. He would have to leave his son's life in the hands of his comrades. Coldly, he turned to Jacqueline and gave his command. "We return to Paris." Then he walked off to find Ramon.
"What?!" a suddenly livid Jacqueline cried, following the man she had just held so tenderly. "We can't leave him in England!"
Without a word, he paused to hand her the letter and methodically returned to the business of scanning the crowd for the Spaniard.
Unfolding it, she devoured the words and asked without hesitation, "So what does this mean? There's no signature. Who wrote this?" The back of her hand questioningly tapped the paper, making a snapping sound that punctuated her irritation.
Turning toward her to recover the letter, he spoke no longer as her relation, but as her guardian. "All is being done for him that can be. It is adamant that you, young lady, get yourself back to Paris without delay." He diverted his attention from her, back to visually searching for Ramon. Thinking he had spotted the tall Musketeer, he set off after him with purpose.
"Why?" she asked, making long strides to match his pace. "Why is it so necessary for me to return to Paris? I'm a wanted criminal there!" she protested, being careful to keep her voice down at the mention of the words 'wanted criminal.' Her words brought their march to a dead halt.
Having his attention, he gave her a long hard look, and then glanced down at the cross she bore around her neck. "Much has transpired since you left, and I believe that there are those in Paris who have much to discuss with you."
His visual slip had not gone unnoticed by Jacqueline. Physically exhausted and mentally tired of avoiding the topic, she blurted, "Who has something to discuss with me? Cardinal Mazarin? Or does someone, who doesn't want me dead, finally have some answers for me regarding this crucifix and why it's so important?" She glared at him, insisting on an answer.
Alarmed by her tirade and the commotion it stirred in the crowds, he looked around to see several pairs of eyes fixed on them. With slight trepidation, he answered in a lowered and quickened voice, "I won't answer your last question, but I can assure you that no one will allow the Cardinal to lay a hand on you." Realizing that they were drawing attention, he locked his arm with hers in a gentlemanly manner. "Come, let's walk. We need to find Ramon and secure you a horse," he redirected their conversation and position away from the curious on-lookers.
After they had lost the interests of those who had been studying them, Jacqueline spoke again, more restrained, "I still refuse to believe anything in Paris is more important than going after your son."
Still leading her along, arm-in-arm, he reasoned, "He would understand and agree with my duty to see you safely back." It was the best he could do to separate his feelings from his obligations. His feelings rent him in half; as recourse, he welcomed his soldiering nature to take over.
She scoffed, rolling her eyes in disbelief. "You're as bad as he is," she accused, in the light of his father's secretive, arrogant and patronizing way of handling things. "Well, I'm not leaving him there—" She began again, heatedly.
"We aren't abandoning him," he snapped, agitated at her accusation. He had tried to use gentle firmness with her, but she had just hit on a sore spot. It was hard enough for him to make the decision without the one he was trying to protect fueling the guilt of choosing duty over his son, yet again. Quieting his air, he responded in a controlled tone, "He's in capable hands."
D'Artagnan looked at his daughter-in-law in silence as they continued walking for a time. There was so much of her mother in her; yet, she was as strong as her father. The legendary man could not deny that he had also seen greatness in her as the Musketeer Jacques Leponte—her former alias. She was smart as well as stubborn, and he knew he'd have to explain himself to her if she was going to return to Paris with him willingly. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and took in a short, deep breath, before he hastened on to reason with her intellect. "Ramon and Siroc are your comrades, are they not?"
"What?" Jacqueline scrunched her face, confused at the awkward shift in conversation.
He looked at her again to restate his point. "As a Musketeer, Siroc and Ramon are your fellow soldiers, right?"
She nodded and sighed heavily, still highly irritated at his lack of concern over his own son. But somehow, his addressing her as a soldier made her draw from her reserve of patience. Then, a tinge of intrigue washed over her face as it struck her how odd it was of him to be addressing her as a soldier. There she stood in her latest English apparel—cream layers with gold cord, purple bodice and matching accent down the length of her sleeves—and he had referred to her as a Musketeer. She might have questioned him further on that it she weren't so distressed over her spouse.
"Right now, where is Siroc?" he spoke in hushed tones to her ear and waited for her response.
The strangeness of how he saw her faded quickly at the thought of Siroc and his lowered voice. Her answer came back to him in an equally quieted delivery, "Last I was aware, he was working on uncovering Cardinal Mazarin's ploy to corrupt the king." She looked quizzically at him, wondering if he had any news. But still, she saw no relevance in his questions to her husband's situation.
"Yes!" he emphasized, patting her on the arm with his gloved hand, as if she had just answered a test question correctly.
"You just came from Paris. Has he found anything?" her words came out rushed.
He looked at his daughter-in-law and answered in a side-tracked manner, showing that he wasn't prepared to elaborate on that particular topic. "Captain Duval believes your friend has penetrated Cardinal Mazarin's lair—" Jacqueline let out a sound of relief only to be put in check by d'Artagnan's grave addition. "—but Duval hasn't heard from him in several days." Leaving her hanging on her brother-in-arm's progress, he progressed his argument, "My point is that you trust he is doing all he can to assure success. Correct?"
Once again, Jacqueline nodded without a word, impatiently waiting to see what he was getting at.
He lifted a brow as he drove his object lesson home. "My three comrades have my full confidence, just as Siroc and Ramon have yours." The corner of his mouth rose, displaying a characteristic d'Artagnan-like smile at his revelation.
Her chin rose as her face lit up in comprehension. "The letter!" she exclaimed, realizing who it had been from. With that, she also grasped what he was trying to relay to her. "Aramis, Athos and Porthos went to London after us," she whispered their names excitedly, her eyes darting to his for confirmation.
Pleased that he had gotten her to understand his decision, he released her arm. He clasped her shoulder and gave her a weak, disconcerted grin. "Don't think it's a light concern for me. I love him too," he confessed.
She could see the truth of his disclosure in his gaze. Crossing her arms, she frowned and grudgingly nodded an acknowledgement to his plea. She understood, but she didn't have to like it. No matter what this legendary Musketeer and father said, she still felt she was abandoning her husband.
ooooooo
King Charles II's prided city sat physically and spiritually in ruins. Charred, smoldering buildings saw-toothed the hazy skyline. Exhausted people littered the landscape, permitted to do so by the short-handed tower guards. Many of those who currently did not find employment drowned their woes at the makeshift pubs erected on the outskirts of town. In her state of depravity, the city hardly noticed the arrival of the three foreigners.
None of the Musketeers had ever seen the tower of London before. But they figured it was a run-of-the-mill prison. And prison breaks were nothing foreign to these men. Understandably then, they were hard pressed for inspiration when they confronted the formidable moat. A scaling-the-wall, old-fashioned jail break was definitely out.
There they stood—the three of them—lined up at the barrier's edge, stumped. Looking at the putrefying sight, their noses scrunched at its horrific smell of waste. With the entire sanitation system of the fortress dumping into the stagnant well, it was a breeding ground for diseases as well as its flagrant odor. Their quick-witted, gallant plans made on their Vestige journey sat spoiled before them.
Turning his head to look at the companion at his side, Aramis finally spoke up, "Got any other ideas?" Noticing the brawny man beside him pulling out an apple from his tunic, he cringed.
While reflecting, the soldier absently wiped the skin of the fruit on his sleeve and took a bite. Gradually aware of his companion's stare, he offered, "Want a bite?"
"Ugh! Now that's disgusting! How can you think of food, standing in front of this-this filthy, rotten…?" Aramis' vocabulary didn't hold a word for the slime that festered before them.
Glaring his repulsed friend in the eye to spite him, he crunched into his apple. Still chewing on a mouthful, he conjectured, "If we can't sneak in unnoticed, I say we enter through the front door."
Now the second joined the first to look at their comrade incredulously.
"And just walk out with what we came for," mocked Aramis, matter-of-factly. "And how do you suppose we do that?
"When the conventional sally fails, there's always the women," Porthos offered with a twinkle in his eye. "I say we woo some handmaidens to gain entry." He looked to the others with a grin.
Shaking his head in disapproval, Aramis critiqued, "You go right on ahead to the local tavern and find a French-speaking Mademoiselle who happens to have access to this fortress. I'll stick to something less lunatic."
Porthos dropped his core, indignantly. Forcing his large gloved hands upon his hips, he mocked, "As in wooing the local parson's daughter?" Thunderstruck by his own wit, he looked off with a face of enlightenment. "Perhaps that idea is not half a bad one," he rescinded.
"Both of you," a till-then-quiet Athos snapped, "if you'll stop your bickering and look, there to the rampart, you'll see our opportune moment has now arrived."
Aramis and Porthos turned in unison, as though a ball had just been volleyed at a tennis match. Approaching from the distance, three noblemen—obviously already to the tavern and back—loudly gave their disposition away. Drunk! Wet as three kittens, newly-born on wobbly legs, they returned to their apartments in the tower.
"I suggest a campaign to befriend our distinguished Englishmen as though we joined them from the pub. We walk with them arm-in-arm to their tower apartments. And while they take a long nap—aided, of course, by our persuasion—we borrow their unneeded apparel. In the process of assisting them to their bedchambers, we indirectly press them to reveal the location of our object." Having stunned his partners to silence by his sudden and fortified speech, the two men to his side stared blankly.
It was the priestly Musketeer who spoke first. "Athos, my comrade, you should speak more often. You'd save your friends much folly. It's a worthy plan. I'm in."
Where the large man's friends went, he quickly followed. Within a heartbeat, he added, "In!"
And the three Musketeers set stride for the oncoming troupe.
Merging their steps with and latching on to the three senseless drunks was no problem for the enactors. The English nobles were so devoid of presence of mind that they unquestioningly admitted the sturdy guidance of six more legs. Stumbling in mock stupor, the foreigners made their way across the bridge in the company of their new acquaintances, sparing themselves from the impassable moat below.
Approaching the guards, the three Frenchmen lowered their heads to avoid eye contact and to let their drunken partners act as a liaison for their entry. If their plan wasn't going to work, they would soon know.
As soon as that thought could be had, the English sentry stepped forward suspiciously. "You!" he demanded, lowering his spear in Porthos' direction.
The Frenchman's eyes widened, but he kept his head down. Being a man who habitually acted before he thought, without exception, he quickly bolted for the span's edge. Facing away from the others, inconspicuously in the lee of his large frame, he forced his fingers down his throat and wretched his half-digested apple into the murky waters below.
All present groaned and looked away, including the guards. The questioning sentry waved his horizontal spear, gesturing them along. "Get out of here, you drunks!" he growled in disgust. "All of you, go!" he supplemented the urgency of his order.
His deed done, Porthos wiped the trickle of saliva from his chin onto the back of his sleeve. He rejoined the group, bent over and head down in mock sickness to avoid another confrontation.
Safely past the guards, Aramis slipped a word of condolence to his comrade. "Remind me to get you another apple, my friend," he said and then patted him on the back, appreciative of his sacrifice.
They were in the compound, but they were still a long way from their objective. Fumbling their way along, the six men came to a fork just past the entry and shifted direction to the right. Before getting too far from their point of entry, the 'visitor's' awareness peaked, knowing that they had to get their bearings and locate the prison.
Occasionally raising a head over the numb-minded men's backs, the two shot questioning glances toward Athos as to what their next course of action would be. Unable to produce an effective suggestion, Porthos spoke forthright over Athos' hindrance, much to his careful companion's distaste. "Which way's the bloody tower?" he brayed, disturbing the assembly's labored walk.
"What? Are ye mad?" spewed one of the drunks, glaring at him as though he had just tossed a bucket of water in his face. Now standing upright on wobbly legs, he hissed, "No one goes near the tower!" The momentarily sobered man was joined by his two companions in shock as they eyed the man who had suggested such an absurdity.
Porthos stared back blankly and shrugged, thinking his comment undeserving of such criminal censure.
"Mad? On the contrary, my good fellow," Aramis defended, bluntly, "he's had too much to drink and wants to make sure that he doesn't end up there."
A brief silence preceded a bellow of laughter from all three Englishmen, followed in suit by the three relieved Frenchmen.
"Then wha'er ye do—" another drunk stopped and pointed a wavering hand down the corridor before them "—don't g-go that wa'."
"Much obliged, my capital friend. I'll be sure t' steer clear of that passageway," Porthos accented his reply, richly enjoying the role-play. He was truly a man that did nothing in part.
Athos rolled his eyes to dispel further boisterous conversation from his large friend, who in his opinion had much to learn of the English language and of self-control.
Porthos gave a short, false belch while dealing Athos a harsh jubilant glare. For the most part, he ignored the disapproval of his polished friend. He had taken a chance, and the dividend had paid off. He would receive no such reprimand from his scrutinizing comrade.
Slapping backs to disquiet his comrades' battle of wills, Aramis nervously joined the uproar and encouraged the three drunks to resume their discipline of walking. Braced upon one another for support, the six men made a sharp turn to their left and progressed toward the apartments. All three Musketeers visually marked their bearings.
Before long, one flight of stairs and several grand rooms later, the private suites of the three nobles were at hand. Shortly thereafter, all three ale-laden men were comfortably in their bedchambers, de-booted, de-frocked and debilitated. All had transpired just as Athos planned.
With hats pulled low on their brows, the three English imposters emerged from the rooms and backtracked to the forbidden passageway. A nobleman passed them from the opposite direction—apparently absorbed in a letter—and greeted them entirely by the familiarity of their attire, not having noted that the men in the costumes did not match the names he used.
Three grunts and further dipping of hats were their response. Porthos glared behind to follow the noble until he was out of sight. Satisfied that the Englishman had no intent to second-guess the identities of the three men he had just crossed paths with, the tall Musketeer ran to re-join his companions.
Meandering their way to the dreaded bloody tower, the three approached two guards stationed at the stairway leading to their desired destination. Unable to avoid the meeting, the trio proceeded. It was noted that each sentry—as their counterparts at the drawbridge—held a spear at their side and stood with such impeccable stillness that they would have shamed His Eminence's Guardsmen.
"What brings ye here? State your business," one of the guards inquired, unflinchingly.
Porthos was about to speak when his quick-thinking comrade, Athos, cut him off. "Legal matters," he answered, sedately. Being so close to their goal, he wasn't about to allow his manhandling comrade to ruin it now.
Not meaning to cause a distraction, but vexed at his companion's habit of disagreeing with his methods, Porthos balled his large fists to expel his annoyance, soundly cracking his knuckles.
Apparently, the guard interpreted Porthos' mannerism to suggest that their 'legal matters' meant 'interrogation.' Smirking, the guard moved his spear aside, mirrored by the second guard on the opposite side; thus, permitting the entry of the three men.
They were in! Now came the small matter of finding young d'Artagnan and somehow managing not to imprison themselves in the process.
ooooooo
Bored to tears and dead tired, d'Artagnan couldn't sleep. After a long night of attempted escapes, he lay curled up on his side, clutching a handful of blankets and wide awake in tormented thought. Staring off into the shadows of the poorly lit room, all he could think of was his wife in the arms of the hideous man who held him captive. Over and over the memory of what he had witnessed when he had walked into that small cabin in France played out in his mind. He saw Jacqueline's passionately aroused face and affected sigh when Charles left her presence. It wracked him.
D'Artagnan was not only jealous then, but was hot with jealousy now at what this manipulative and powerful man threatened to take back from him. The Frenchman had worked hard overcoming his promiscuous reputation to win the one woman he ever felt worthy of winning. And now to think that someone as unworthy as this presumptuous king would levy his power to steal her from him…it was more than he could lie still for and bear. He brusquely pushed the covers aside and sat up. But what could he do?
Quietly, the prisoner resigned his bed, knowing he would not find sleep. He made his way over to the window and stood in the stream of afternoon sunlight, looking to heaven. "What do you suppose I should do now?" he asked aloud. "I know if Jacqueline were here, she'd know what to say to you, but I guess you're stuck with me. Any suggestions?" He quirked his face as if expecting an answer and waited.
Gradually, from down the hall, the sound of approaching voices distracted his indulgence. Turning from the window and toward the door with growing curiosity, the Musketeer surmised the voices were headed in his direction.
"Check over there," d'Artagnan heard one man say. The prisoner pressed his ear to the door to listen to the lowered voices with better clarity. He pulled back abruptly and cringed when he heard a woman loudly squeal, "Out!" followed by the sound of dinnerware clanging noisily against the stone walls and floor.
Assessing that his door was next, d'Artagnan quickly planned on a little more than hurling dinnerware. Deciding to take advantage of the situation rather than just sit about, awaiting his execution, he gave one last glance back toward the window. "Sorry—" he spoke heavenward "—I guess I'm not the kind of guy to wait around for miracles." Grabbing a wooden chair, he stood off to the side of the door and anticipated the entry of whoever it was with the resolve to fight his way out, or die trying.
The door opened to admit its awaited victim as the readied assailant stood behind the panel, chair braced for delivery. Seeing the head appear from around the corner, the prisoner swung the piece of wooden furniture down heavily upon the unsuspecting man.
"Ouch!" Porthos wailed, raising his hand to the instant welt on his head. As he turned, both men recognized each other. "D'Artagnan?!" the aching man exclaimed. "Is that any way to greet your uncle?"
"Porthos?!" the assailant overlapped his surprise, still holding the remains of the broken chair. "What are you doing here?" Registering that there was no need for resistance, he tossed the splinters remaining in his hands to the floor.
"Rescuing you! What else?" the large man informed sarcastically, looking at the rubble about him and rubbing his throbbing head.
By then, the other two had joined them, pushing their way past their comrade and into the room. Confirming the positive identification of the person with the familiar voice they heard, warm smiles broke out on their faces.
"Athos, Aramis," the captive added happily. "I'm touched. All three of you came for me," d'Artagnan spoke in wide-eyed amusement at the appearance of his three uncles.
"Your father and I may have our differences, but when it comes to you…" Aramis clasped the younger d'Artagnan's shoulder affectionately, reciprocating the friendly teasing. "Well, you are as a son to all of us." He glanced around to see the affirming looks of his comrades.
"Here, here," resounded the remaining two.
Porthos clasped his longtime friend's son on the arm and quipped, "Well, you know our motto, son. 'All for one—'"
"Yes, yes, I've heard it before," the 'son' snorted, putting a halt to the oh-so-stale phrase while returning an endearing slap to the large Musketeer's arm. "Let's get going, shall we? I've already met the king, and I promise you, he's nothing to wait around for," he added with sarcasm. Eager to terminate his tower residency, he cocked his head toward the exit. "I suppose you've got a plan to get past the guards?" he questioned, brows raised, waiting to be filled in.
On his cue, all three men reached around the inside of their coats and pulled out various pieces of wardrobe—Athos a shirt and coat, Aramis a pair of trousers and Porthos a hat in bad need of reshaping.
"Here, put these on," Athos instructed, as he handed d'Artagnan the 'borrowed' clothes from one of the 'sleeping' noble's apartments.
Aramis slapped the hastily changing man on the back as he handed him his contribution to the new wardrobe. "Young man, God just gave you a miracle!" he quipped.
The priestly Musketeer's words stopped d'Artagnan momentarily, trouser leg half pulled up, as he considered the coincidence of his unpolished prayer uttered only a few moments ago. Was this a direct answer to his request? It was something he would have to think about later; this was a time for action. And they were a long way from being safely out of reach of the English king. He tucked the thought away and finished donning the rest of his slightly oversized clothes.
With the prisoner's assumed identity affixed, the four Musketeers were ready to disembark on their return trip to France. The mission was half accomplished, but still would be an utter failure if they managed to be captured before making it past the tower's formidable moat. Athos peeked out into the hallway and motioned to the others when the coast was clear.
Stealthily making their way back down the maze of hallways and stairs, they all pulled back at the last bend when they saw the two guards posted at the bottom. "Act normal," instructed Porthos to their young accomplice.
"Huh? Normal?" The young one drew back with a look of confusion on his face, wondering what Porthos deemed as 'normal' behavior. But, concluding that he'd figure it out shortly by following their lead, he breathed deeply and confidently stepped out with the group.
The statue-like guards' eyes moved to record the presence of the men descending the stairs. The orbs of one darted back in question a second time and his glaciered expressions formed furrowed ridges, registering his response. Stepping forward, he lowered his spear bringing the exit-bound men to a halt. "Weren't there just the three of you?" he questioned. The second guard also demonstrated a perplexing countenance.
The four English-clad, Frenchmen exchanged looks and were about to answer when the appearance of a half-dressed, unkempt man teetered into the adjoining corridor, drawing the assembly's attention. When his wavering stopped long enough to lock eyes on them, Aramis exclaimed in genuine surprise, "The devil! I thought that man would sleep until the second coming."
There was no time to think, which suited Porthos well. He reflexively back-handed the guard behind him who still hadn't had a chance to process the implications of the scene before him.
"Guards!" the sobering man yelled angrily from across the corridor. The picture made quite a sight with him standing there in his underwear and stockings, with a blanket draped over his shoulders. But the Musketeers had no time to stop and appreciate it. Not a moment was wasted when d'Artagnan was upon the rattling man.
"Merciful heaven, he's quick!" admired Aramis of young d'Artagnan's agility. "Ah, to be young," he casually added with a smile before aiding Athos in subduing the first guard.
It seemed that the Musketeers could not have had a successful campaign unless they included a brawl. And here they had it! As the two guards and one drunk were taken out, two more and then three others showed up for the fight.
"Run!" yelled d'Artagnan as he saw the men streaming in.
The three rescuers needed no further prompting. As their nephew had said, the king was not worth meeting, and they had no intention of sticking around to do so. In a flash, the foursome stretched the width of the corridor, making a spectacular line, and broke for the drawbridge.
"This way," Athos called. When they reached the final bend and scuttled around the corner, they escaped their pursuers only to be confronted by a team of five spear-holding, mean-spirited guards.
"Nice rescue job," d'Artagnan noted in his familiar nonchalant tone.
"Did anyone ever tell you, you're a lot like your father?" Aramis quipped back, annoyed.
Athos looked at the junior man and smirked, "Young d'Artagnan, you take two, that'll leave one for the rest."
"Why me, take two?" he asked, slightly affronted.
"We're getting too old for this stuff. But you—" he looked at d'Artagnan with a playful grin "—you're fit and trim, at your prime." Then seeing that young d'Artagnan did not share his amusement, he grumbled, "Musketeers these days, you're getting soft. Why, when I was your age—" But the French soldier had no time to finish his brag, for the men between them and freedom were upon them.
Author's note: The poem at the beginning wasn't supposed to have all those spaces in-between the lines. I'm not sure why it's doing that and I have no clue how to fix it. You'll have to use your imagination to glue them back together... Hope you enjoyed the original's appearance.