Many thanks for all the reviews and favs and followers. I hope you are enjoying reading this as much as I am enjoying trying to get inside the character's heads. This is turning into a fairly epic tale so expect several more chapters! This time, Garnon reveals his true colours.
"Porthos," Garnon greeted him with disdain. "I thought for certain you would have hung by now as the criminal you were born to be. I would say it was a pleasure to see you again. But we both know that would be a lie."
As the man stepped into the room d'Artagnan was surprised to see that the focus of his friend's enmity had the unmistakable bearing of a man of breeding. Also, that he was dressed in the blue cloak of a Musketeer with the pauldron displayed prominently on his right arm.
"On second thoughts," Porthos gave a feral smile. "I am pretty happy to see you. I can't wait to smash your smarmy face in. Again.
"The nose does rather suit you," Aramis spoke, making a little gesture to indicate the slightly bulbous and obviously misshapen result of a well-placed fist. "It makes you look less like a son of the nobility and more like the back stabbing villain you truly are."
"Aramis," Garnon looked him up and down. "Still trying to play the gentleman I see. You always did have aspirations far above your rank."
"Remind me again how many older brothers you have?" Aramis enquired mildly. "Was it nine or ten? Still, at least you do not have to bear the weight of your father's expectations. I'll warrant he can barely remember your name."
Garnon narrowed his eyes and took a deliberate step forward, before he spat in Aramis' face.
Outraged at the insult to his friend, d'Artagnan's hand went straight to his sword hilt. Only to have his wrist encircled in Porthos' iron grip.
"Don't." He warned sotto voice.
"Didn't you see what he did?" d'Artagnan hissed. "We can't let him get away with insulting Aramis like that."
"I saw," Porthos nodded. "But this ain't the way."
Aramis simply reached into his pocket and pulled out a costly linen handkerchief. Never breaking eye contact with Garnon he carefully wiped his face, folded the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket.
"Is that really the best you can do?" He taunted lightly.
"Do not think I have forgiven or forgotten the least part of what you did," Garnon seethed. "Scum like you have no place wearing the uniform of a Musketeer."
"Why are we letting him say things like that?" d'Artagnan demanded to the room at large, not understanding when even this insult did not have his friends reaching for their swords. "He has insulted you both to your faces and called Athos a coward when he is not here to defend himself. Surely he must be made to answer for that?"
"I would take offence," Aramis looked pained. "But it is hard to care about the opinions of a man for whom I have absolutely no respect."
"What say you, Porthos? Do you let un-bearded boys fight your battles for you now?" Garnon tried to provoke.
Without so much as glancing at d'Artagnan Porthos easily blocked his impetuous surge forward with an arm across his chest. They had all rather quickly realised that the young Gascon was more than a little touchy about his inability to grow a full beard.
"Leave 'im out of it, Garnon."
"Oh, I have no personal quarrel with young d'Artagnan," Garnon assured smoothly, causing Aramis and Porthos to exchange an unreadable look. "Although, I much admit I am curious. Just how did an untried Gascon farm boy, with no source of income since the tragic loss of his family farm, afford the extensive costs associated with becoming a Musketeer? Especially since he is an orphan with no other family to call upon?"
Aramis sighed and bowed his head to the inevitable storm.
"Costs?" d'Artagnan lifted his chin defiantly. "I have paid my own way. My weapons are my own. I have given my service freely, my friends have done me the honour of sharing their training and I have received nothing from the regiment except those things which are necessary to do my duty."
"Supplies of ammunition from the armoury, three times daily victuals for your stomach, a new pair of boots from the cobbler, two new shirts to replace those damaged beyond repair, stabling for your horse, which alone required a new set of horse shoes, several warm bran mashes, a new blanket, a number of poultices and a whole sack of carrots." Garnon tipped his head on one side. "All items which must be settled by account, out of your stipend. Need I go on?"
"What?" d'Artagan blinked.
"There are certain allowances if you are a commissioned Musketeer, although even those are not without limits." Garnon allowed.
D'Artagnan visibly paled casting a stricken glance at his friends as he realised from their expressions that Garnon spoke the truth. Yet he had never paid a single one of those costs. He had been given a small purse by Treville after his defeat of Vadim, but when he had received no further income from his farm he had used that to pay his rent.
"Not to mention the coin that must change hands to pay for the lawyers to draw up the letters of commission, or the cost of outfitting a man with full dress uniform," Garnon looked at his fingernails in a show of unconcern, even though he had to be fully aware of the blows he was landing to d'Artagnan's pride. "Still I am certain that Athos feels his money is well spent. I have heard such stirring tales of you. How you came charging into the Garrison and challenged him to a duel, only to end up saving his miserable life, the way he and his fellow misfits here have taken you under their wing and together you have defeated the enemies of France and even protected the King himself. How the man Trevillle names as his best swordsman, quivered in the background like a nervous virgin, passing up his chance to defend the honour of the regiment, in favour of a boy who was not even a Musketeer. You must think a great deal of yourself."
To Garnon's evident surprise and Aramis and Porthos' obvious relief d'Artagnan simply smiled at this last. On that point, at least, he was sure of his ground. Athos had only ever participated in the trials in order to further the younger man's training. From the first he had been determined d'Artagnan should have the chance to finally earn his commission.
"You are a Musketeer in all but name."
"As you are so well informed you must also know it was Treville who named me as the Musketeers' champion." D'Artagnan was actually a little proud of his tone of utter disdain. Especially when he saw Porthos' lips quirk. Still he couldn't help being a little smug. "All I did was win."
"And now you are a fully-fledged member of the regiment," Garnon was not congratulating him. He stepped towards d'Artagnan as if advancing on some particularly desirable prey. Glancing in slight alarm at Aramis the quick shake of his friend's head warned him not to react. When he was so close that the younger man could feel his foul smelling breath, Garnon raised a hand and patted him condescendingly on the cheek. It took everything d'Artagnan had to remain still. "We shall have to see if you are equal to that challenge. It would be a shame to see your commission revoked before you even had time to break in the uniform."
"That sounds very much like a threat."
D'Artagnan felt the grin spreading across his face as he heard the ice cold fury in Athos' voice. He could not understand why Aramis and Porthos had allowed this man to act as he had without redress. He could only imagine that, given the bad blood between them, they were leaving the matter to Athos. Surely now, Garnon would be made to give satisfaction for his slurs? And he for one was more than looking forward to seeing it.
"You dare laugh in my face, boy?"
D'Artagnan only had a second to register the blur of movement as Garnon raised his fist and then to realise that in the confines of the small room that he had little chance of evading a blow from such close quarters, before Garnon's face, still merely inches from his own, twisted in pain.
He watched, as Athos used the powerful grip which had halted Garnon's fist in mid-descent, to twist the man's arm painfully behind his back so that they all clearly heard the 'pop' as his shoulder dislocated. Gaping like a fish as he tried to bear the pain, Garnon was forced to his knees, before Athos stepped in to loom over him, his tone so cold with suppressed fury, that d'Artagnan, who had heard him face down murders and criminals of the worst sort, barely recognised his voice.
"You will leave my friends alone. Do you understand?"
"Aragh." Garnon managed.
"I think you can take that as a 'yes'" Aramis allowed, as he put his hands behind his back and rocked back on his feet, with a satisfied look.
"Good," Athos was succinct. "Just one more thing."
He drew back his free hand and laid Garnon out cold with a single punch.
"It's usually my job to do the punching." Porthos was quick to complain. "I was looking forward to laying 'im out."
"My apologies," Athos gave his friend a little nod of contrition. "Although, I dare say you will have other chances. Garnon's word is hardly reliable."
"Will someone please tell me what is going on?" d'Artagnan demanded. "Who is this Garnon? Why is there such animosity between you and a fellow Musketeer? How could he be allowed to say such things? Any other man would have been forced to recant at the point of a sword!"
"We can explain," Porthos patted his shoulder soothingly. "But not where there are so many ears flapping."
"Let us retire to my rooms," Aramis decided. "We can have privacy there and space enough for us all to rest in comfort."
"I'm in." Porthos agreed readily.
"If that is what it will take to get some answers. What about him?" d'Artagnan looked at the still unconscious form of Garnon.
"Leave him, if we are lucky he may choke on his own vomit" Porthos sounded deadly serious.
"Shall we go?" Aramis suggested.
All three men looked at Athos, who had yet to respond to Aramis' suggestion.
"You should come," Aramis invited lightly, but with a thread of concern underlying his words. "None of us have eaten yet and I have a particularly good burgundy you would enjoy."
"Plus we'd feel better if we were watching your back." Porthos was blunt.
"Much as it pains me to refuse such a gracious invitation," Athos cast a fond look at his friends. "I actually came to tell you that Treville has need of my services. He was due to ride to meet the Abbot at Rouen on the King's business tomorrow but with his shoulder as it is I must go in his stead. I leave at first light."
"Come and eat with us, at least," Aramis pressed. "Then you can secure what little sleep you can. My rooms are closer to the Garrison that yours. It will save you time."
"I assume you are not going to take 'no' for an answer?" Athos arched a brow.
"No this time," Aramis smiled at him. "In my capacity as your personal physician I might even make it an order."
When they arrived at Aramis' lodgings, Porthos took charge of cooking something in a large pot over the fire, d'Artagnan was tasked with finding glasses and opening the wine, whilst Aramis insisted on taking Athos aside into his bed chamber to clean up his damaged knuckles once he realised one of them had split with the force of the blow used to render Garnon senseless.
Urging the other man to cast off his hat and his weapons, he settled him on the bed. As he set to work he recounted everything Garnon had revealed.
"He was only just returned to Paris, yet he knew everything about d'Artagnan," Aramis worried, as he used a cloth dipped in warm water to gently wipe away the drying blood. "It's clear he has been keeping an eye on your affairs."
"How did the boy take it?"
Aramis wasn't surprised that, despite the threat posed by Garnon, d'Artagnan was his friend's first concern. Athos had always been the type of leader who cared for his men, but from the first his connection with the young orphan, who was striving to make his way in the world with honour, despite having neither rank nor coin to support his ambitions, had been more familial.
"His pride was a little dented when he realised you had financed his training," Aramis surmised. "But I think more due to the fact that that he had been utterly oblivious than any offense."
"And Garnon?" Athos' undamaged fist clenched.
"Our young friend could not understand why we would not draw in the face of such insults," Aramis risked a glance at Athos expression. "He will need answers if he is to be sufficiently on his guard."
"I know." Athos sighed, looking unusually weary. "I had hoped this matter was behind us."
"Let us talk to him," Porthos entered, bearing a tray with a full plate, a glass and a freshly opened bottle of wine, which he set down beside the bed. "You need your rest if you are to have sufficient wits about you to represent Treville in the morning and this might take quite a while."
"It is my fault that he is now in danger." Athos shook his head stubbornly.
"As I recall we all had a hand in it the proceedings," Aramis simply took matters in to his own hands and began to remove Athos boots. Above he was aware that Porthos was doing likewise and easing their Lieutenant's leather jacket off his shoulders. "We can tell the tale as well as you."
"Better in fact," Aramis could hear the smile in Porthos' voice. "You're always too modest for your own good."
"And," Aramis sank back on his haunches and met Athos eyes, his tone deadly seriously. "You are too quick to torture yourself for failings which are not of your making. As your friends and brothers we simply cannot allow that. Not when it is in our power to ease your burden."
"What he said." Porthos vowed.
Athos was uncertain how to respond. Four years ago he had wondered exactly how he had deserved his friend's steadfast loyalty in the face of Garnon's betrayal. Now they were all closer than brothers. But even so, at times he was still somewhat overwhelmed by their determination to take his part, especially when he felt so undeserving.
"Make sure you eat," Aramis's understanding tone saved him from having to say anything at all. "The Bordeaux will go down all the smoother on a full stomach."
"And rest easy," Porthos reassured. "We've got d'Artagnan."