AN – Sorry for the long delay, I have been trying to incorporate various bits that have particularly struck me in PMs and reviews – one turned into a whole new chapter. There will be about 10 chapters in total. Hope you enjoy.

The sunlight was much too bright. Aramis had offered him a hat but he thought that it might actually hurt to wear it. D'Artagnan's head already felt like a hammer was pounding against the inside of his skull. He had a raging thirst but was wary of putting anything at all in his stomach. They had already had to stop once when just the smell of fresh baked bread had made him violently ill right there in the street. And that was only the half of it.

"I look like a scarecrow." He protested.

"Better than being on punishment for not passing muster," Aramis was pragmatic. "Your breeches are covered in mud and your shirt was stained with blood from that wound you are not supposed to have. We are already late. Trying to access the garrison to change would only attract Treville's attention."

"We are King's Musketeers but we can't manage to sneak into our own garrison so I can get a clean shirt?" d'Artagnan groused.

"We only try to sneak past Treville when it's a matter of life and death," Porthos looked much too cheerful in d'Artagnan's opinion, having drunk more brandy than him and Aramis put together. "And you already have a clean shirt."

"Aramis' shirt is too long on me," d'Artagnan, tried, unsuccessfully, to hitch it about to make it more comfortable. "The shoulders are in the wrong place and I can barely see my hands."

"But the cloak is quite dashing and covers a multitude of sins," Aramis assured him. "Granted it is not usually worn at morning muster but hopefully Treville will pass that off as the exuberance of youth."

"So, I'll just be a laughing stock then?" d'Artagnan gave him a sour look already imagining the plaudits and congratulations of yesterday turned to sniggers and outright taunting as the Gascon farm boy turned up dressed like some ridiculous mannequin.

"D'Artagnan," He was stopped by Aramis' hand on his shoulder as he spoke as seriously as d'Artagnan had ever seen. "This is our fault as much as it is yours. If we did not have other concerns we would have anticipated your need last night or woken earlier this morning. If there is any blame to be had it shall be equally shared, you understand?"

"What happened to "everyman for himself?" d'Artagnan teased.

"Rest assured any man who dares mock you shall answer to Porthos." Aramis said loftily.

"Porthos?"

"His disapproval always has such a lasting impact." Aramis grinned.

"You think you've got reason to feel embarrassed?" Porthos put a friendly arm around his shoulder. "Ask Aramis about the time he got into a spot of bother when we were on campaign. He ended up with barely a scrap of clothing to his name, and had to "acquire" a beautiful chemise and a lovely pair of breeches that were drying on the lavender hedges of a noble house."

"You stole them?" d'Artagnan's Gascon upbringing was torn between shock and amusement.

"Of course not," Aramis affected offence. "I paid the laundry maid in full with a kiss."

"The chemise had ruffles," Porthos grinned. "And these little blue ribbons threaded around the collar. And the breeches were crushed velvet. He cut quite the dash among all the mud and the muck. Even Athos struggled to keep a straight face."

"Necessity is the mother of invention," Aramis defended himself. "You would do well to remember that d'Artagnan if you want to be a successful musketeer."

"Right now I am just trying to work out how to walk without catching my sword in the folds of this cloak." D'Artagnan complained.

"We really do need to augment your wardrobe," Aramis decided. "That way you can keep a few items at our lodgings for this kind of eventuality. You need more shirts, maybe some darker coloured breeches and you are sorely in need of at least one other jacket."

"What's wrong with my jacket?"

"Nothing at all," Aramis soothed. "But no one item of clothing can suit every occasion. Remind me to introduce you to a young woman of my acquaintance."

"There's always a woman." Porthos shook his head.

"Mademoiselle Jeanette du Bois is an excellent seamstress and I can get you a very good price."

To say they made it in time would be a slight exaggeration but they did manage to fall in on the end of the third rank just before Treville reached them.

D'Artagnan stood as straight as he could and tried not to attract any undue attention. Garnon, who was two places to the left of him turned and gave him a hard stare. The Gascon tried to ignore him even as he hastily tucked in his too long shirt and pulled Aramis' cloak a little tighter around him to try to cover the mud stains on his breeches.

"D'Artagnan," Treville's sharp gaze raked over him missing nothing. "Did you lose a bet?"

"No sir," d'Artagnan flailed around for an idea. "It's just with the challenge and then change of lodgings I did not realise I had got behind with my laundry."

Behind him one of the men laughed and d'Artagnan could feel his face burning, even as he tried to stand up a little straighter.

Treville resisted the urge to scrub his good hand over his face. The boy had many good qualities but he was a terrible liar. No doubt the celebrations last night had got a little out of control. Treville had to acknowledge his own part in this, sending Athos away on the King's business, just when his young protégé was most in need of his guiding hand, rather than the somewhat more reckless encouragement of Aramis and Porthos.

"I expect my men to be more resourceful," He raised his voice so it would clearly carry across the ranks. "When we go on campaign there won't always be a washer woman on hand to launder your smalls."

D'Artagnan could feel his face burning and several of the men laughed, the sound hastily cut off by what d'Artagnan assumed was Porthos' glare.

"Yes sir."

Leaning in so that he breathe ghosted over d'Artagnan's ear Treville admired the way the young man held himself steady and tried not to flinch.

"There had better not be any repetition of this. I won't be so lenient a second time."

When the assignments for the day were handed out d'Artagnan inwardly groaned to find himself in a group including, Aramis and Garnon practicing with the various firearms from the armoury. His head was already pounding.

"The one day I would have welcomed a nice quiet ride in the countryside." He murmured to Aramis.

"Go and get changed," Aramis instructed. "You won't be able to shoot anything with your sleeves flapping around like that. I'll see if Serge will slip us something by way of breakfast. It will make you feel better, trust me."

He watched as d'Artagnan promptly went an unusual shade of green at the very thought of food and then winced in sympathy, as the younger man bent over and expelled everything left in his stomach.

"Although, that method is also quite effective." He observed.

Rather to d'Artagnan's surprise things did gradually improve. His headache began to recede and he even ate some of the bread and cheese Porthos thrust under his nose. With Aramis' patient tuition his shots became more consistent and got increasingly closer to the centre of the target.

As the morning wore on d'Artagnan was surprised to that Aramis had fallen into conversation with Garnon. He was a little too far away to hear what is being said but Garnon looked up at him with a predatory smirk on his face. When Aramis returned to his side he launched straight into the finer points of trajectory without offering any explanation.

"What was that about?" d'Artagnan asked at last, keeping his eyes on the target.

"What was what?" Aramis, did not look at him, moving around to adjust the placement of his hands.

"You. Garnon." D'Artagnan took his shot.

"A little to the right, try not to let the barrel drop," Aramis advised, before adding. "Just a little contest, nothing to worry about."

"A contest?"

"Don't you want a chance to defeat Garnon?"

Two targets were set up at the far end of the courtyard. All the other men stood to one side as they started taking bets on the outcome.

"The challenge is best of three," Aramis advised. "The distance is a little further than you have been used to but at least the targets don't shoot back."

"That's a comfort," "d'Artagnan looked at the targets. They did seem a little smaller from this distance. "I suppose I'll be standing you drinks all evening if lose?"

"Actually, I already made a small wager with Garnon," Aramis took a sudden interest in the sky. "My stallion against that dark bay he came riding in on."

At first d'Artagnan supposed he must have misheard him. But then Aramis just grinned at him with that mixture of glee and devilry that meant he was extremely pleased with himself and d'Artagnan's heart sank as he realised his friend was deadly serious.

"You bet your horse?"

"Of course not," Aramis shook his head. D'Artagnan's surge of relief was quickly dashed as his friend continued. "Rather, I have just arranged to acquire Garnon's horse. Which is a particularly handsome beast, not to mention having to purchase another will put him to a great deal of inconvenience."

"And what if I lose?"

"You're not going to lose, I am an excellent teacher." Aramis preened, patting his student's shoulder absently. "Just do exactly as I taught you."

"So, no pressure then?" d'Artagnan sighed.

"D'Artagnan you are young and you still have a good deal to learn. But you have never failed us when it counted," Aramis assured him. Then he grinned. "Did I mention that this has to count?"

Readying himself to face the target, d'Artagnan wished with all his heart that Aramis had not bet his beloved stallion. Still now he had no choice but to see this through. For the sake of Porthos' hurts and Athos betrayal over and above Aramis' love for his stallion.

D'Artagnan's first shot equalled Garnon's. His second hit the target dead centre, putting him ahead. Now all he had to do was make sure his third shot counted and he would be the overall winner.

He fired.

"He missed," Garnon crowed. "He missed."

"Wait, no there must be some mistake." Aramis exclaimed.

"Garnon wins," Treville confirmed from where he was inspecting the target. "See here, d'Artagnan only managed two hits."

A quick investigation found d'Artagnan's musket ball embedded in the wall behind the target and effectively settled the matter. Aramis had no choice but to hand over his stallion to a smirking Garnon.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan apologised to his friend. "They say he is going to put the horse up for public auction so he can further shame us. Maybe we can buy it back?"

"Perhaps," Aramis did not look confident. He himself had acquired the stallion as an extremely wild and unpromising youngster and schooled it with love and care into a fine beast. It would fetch a high price at auction. He patted d'Artagnan's shoulder kindly. "Never mind, you did your best. It was my own folly that I decided to bet."

Still d'Artagnan felt wretched. Aramis had put his faith in him and he had disappointed. Plus he could not help but notice the lingering doubt in the eyes of his fellow musketeers, as they clearly realised that if he could fail here on the practice ground, then perhaps one day he might fail them when it counted.

Taking refuge in the stables he leant up against the comforting flank of his mare and seriously wondered if perhaps he was getting in over his head given that he had only been a true musketeer for a single day. Picking up a brush he began to work out the tangles in her mane, an activity he had always found soothing.

Unfortunately, he rather forgot about the wound in his side and stretching up to comb behind her ears he rather over reached himself.

"Ouch."

"Is your side bothering you?" Treville's voice asked.

D'Artagnan froze. He knew he could lie. Invent some minor injury picked up whilst shooting. But his sense of honour would not allow him to lie to the Captain on his own behalf. And Treville would most likely insist the hurt was tended to and then Aramis's handiwork would be discovered and they would all be in trouble.

"No, sir," He looked Treville in the eye. "It's not bothering me at all."

He tried not to hold his breath. He knew he was taking a risk. He was stiff and a little bit sore but nothing in his mind that would actually interfere in the performance of his duties.

Treville regarded him steadily looking for any sign of weakness. His admiration for Athos's abilities as a leader had always been high. But it was increasing ten fold as he realised what a handful the young Gascon could be. He had chosen his ground well, as long as there was actual impediment the Captain was not required to punish him.

He always prided himself on encouraging initiative

"Good to know."

D'Artagnan looked visibly relieved. Treville made a mental note to get Athos to explain the concept of 'impassive' to him. However, he knew he would be doing the boy no favours if he continued to let his behaviour go completely unchecked.

"I told Aramis that I would bid for his stallion at the auction. The regiment is always in need of good horses and thanks to you he is in need of a mount."

D'Artagnan felt his guilt about that abate slightly. But then Treville stepped closer.

"The situation would not be so easily rectified if your error had cost him his life."

By the time Treville had finished with him d'Artagnan had a new appreciation of the Captain's extensive vocabulary, as well as several hours of extra duties to look forward to. D'Artagnan could cope with the drudgery but his punishment would be noted and remarked upon and that blow to his pride would be worst of all.

Almost

"Athos is going to kill me, he's only been gone a day and already I'm in trouble," He told his horse as he reached under to unbuckle her girth. For a moment he missed Athos so fiercely that tears stung behind his eyes and he was glad no-one could see him. "This isn't at all the way I wanted to begin but I have to keep going. I have to make him proud."

Straightening up he braced himself to remove the heavy saddle. Just because he wouldn't let the wound stop him didn't mean it didn't hurt. Taking its weight he needed a second to breathe through the pain. So, that he had his eyes closed and his arms full when he felt a hand press over his mouth and nose.

"Hello, little Gascon," Garnon hissed in his ear.