Thank you everyone for your comments and encouragement, much appreciated as always! To guests Debbie & Beeblegirl, I'm glad you liked resourceful d'Artagnan and his slingshot skills. Nice idea to give Colombe to the Spanish, Debbie, but I'm afraid he's got a bit more of a part to play first, as we will soon see ...

Chapter Five: Stick to Your Guns

Two days later came the news that part of the Spanish army was on the move, and the French were ordered to intercept.

With many men still suffering the after-effects of the food-poisoning, Athos took d'Artagnan to one side the evening before. "How do you feel about fighting tomorrow?"

d'Artagnan's eyes flickered, but he nodded, resolutely. "It's time I got back into it."

"You're fit? That cut is properly healed?"

"Etienne took the stitches out yesterday; it's looking good but he said to keep it bandaged a bit longer for protection."

Athos looked unsure, his blue-green eyes scrutinising d'Artagnan carefully. He'd heard from Guérin about the patrol d'Artagnan had intercepted at dawn, but d'Artagnan had yet to speak of it as far as he knew.

It was obvious that d'Artagnan was not yet back to his former self, and he knew it was likely he would never regain the youthful optimism and sheer bloody-minded determination which had blazed from his eyes from the very first moment they met. In some ways it was no bad thing, this new caution, but it didn't sit well with his natural character, and Athos was worried for him. That awful battle, soon after d'Artagnan's rescue from the Spanish when he'd hurled himself into the fray with something close to bloodlust, had shaken Athos deeply and he would be grateful if the youngster never showed that level of reckless abandon again. But the alternative – that he might be battle-shy – was equally worrying. Porthos had told him about d'Artagnan's nerves when they approached the Spanish camp on their patrol, just before the sickness overwhelmed the camp, and he was concerned. Any hesitation in battle could be fatal.

A silence stretched between them as he contemplated. d'Artagnan shifting restlessly and Athos knew it was only respect that kept him there. He decided on a direct approach. "Tell me about the two Spaniards you killed the other morning, whilst the rest of us were busy emptying our stomachs into buckets."

d'Artagnan answered slowly, but apparently frankly, to Athos' relief, no doubt understanding the reason behind his question. "I can't deny feeling nervous at being out of the camp again, but you have looked after me well, Athos." He was referring to the way Athos had arranged his rotas to ease him gently back into duty. "When I came across that patrol, I didn't think twice."

He paused, feeling uncomfortable under the persistent scrutiny of the all-seeing gaze. He was telling the truth, but was omitting more, not least his reaction after killing the two men. Outside of the numbing cloak of battle-fever, killing close at hand was an act of intimacy to which he did not yet feel inured, and there were other fears that disturbed his sleep repeatedly. But there was only one way to regain his former confidence, and if he could not do it, he might as well leave the Musketeers, so he squared his shoulders and went on resolutely.

"Athos, it's what we do. I'm ready!"

Athos nodded. "Come to my tent after tonight's muster. I'll go over the plans with you and Porthos."

d'Artagnan had spent an hour pouring over the maps, making sure he memorised the terrain, the planned ambush site, the alternative approaches and the rendezvous points. Then he spent the rest of the night with those same routes twisting around in his brain until he thought he'd go mad.

He'd slept better after the food-poisoning – probably through total exhaustion, as he'd missed the best part of two nights' sleep, although Porthos privately speculated to Athos that it was more because he'd had to stop fretting about whether he could still be a useful Musketeer and had just got on with it.

But tonight he was back to the old nightmares of his captivity, now mixed with the very real fear of things going horribly wrong tomorrow.

Eventually he gave up and slipped quietly out of the tent, any noise he made amply disguised by the sound of Porthos' steady snoring.

He headed out of camp, knowing it was against regulations but not really caring; he was just desperate for some peace, and the space to think. He climbed the low hill overlooking their end of the encampment and settled with his back to a tree-trunk, hugging his knees and staring at the hills beyond, one of which hid the Spanish forces. He was hoping for some clarity, some revelation that would give him the confidence to face his fears in the morning.

Instead he heard, with no real sense of surprise, a set of approaching footsteps that he recognised only too well. His supposedly snoring tent-mate, Porthos.

"I woke you." Statement, not question.

"Nah. Jus' couldn't hear you breathin'." Porthos settled on the ground beside him and started chucking pebbles at a skinny sapling a few paces away.

"Sorry."

"What's botherin' you, then?"

He didn't beat about the bush, reflected d'Artagnan. He cast about for a reason for being here that wouldn't make Porthos worry about him, and came up blank.

"Just first-fight nerves again, I suppose."

Porthos raised an eyebrow. d'Artagnan was tempted to wait him out, but realised that was childish. "Look, Porthos, I am fine. Just ... out of practice."

Porthos didn't take his eyes off him, meanwhile scoring a couple of impressive hits on the sapling without even looking. When it was obvious d'Artagnan wasn't planning on saying anything else, he nudged him. "Nothin' else?"

d'Artagnan looked to the heavens. Sometimes he wished his brothers didn't know him so well. He fought an internal battle for a while, then eventually gave in. "I'm... I'm..." Merde! He just couldn't say it.

"Afraid?" prompted Porthos.

"No!" Yes.

"I am."

"What - afraid?"

"Mm-hmm. Not all the time but sometimes. Sometimes I think I'm goin' to make a mistake and get myself killed. Or get someone else killed. Not sure which scares me most."

Porthos, scared? d'Artagnan looked at him with new respect mingled with sadness: respect, for admitting it, and sadness at the thought of his friend suffering such fears. There was a long silence, during which time d'Artagnan thought of a dozen things to say but discarded each.

"Ain't told no-one that before."

d'Artagnan leaned into him, feeling his breathing settle to join Porthos' rhythm. Suddenly it was very easily to say what was on his mind. "I'm afraid of being captured again."

He felt Porthos shift as he turned to look at d'Artagnan.

"Won't 'appen."

d'Artagnan couldn't look at Porthos. The instant denial of his deepest fear was gratifying, but it was not within Porthos' control. He dropped his head, his hair masking his face. "You sound very sure of that."

"Yeah, because I won't let it."

d'Artagnan smiled in spite of himself, shaking his head at Porthos' absolute certainty that he could make that happen. Or rather, not happen. "Porthos, I – "

"Just tol' you, whelp, I won't let it 'appen." Sounding fierce, now.

"Alright – I believe you!" Clearly this was what Porthos expected to hear.

"Good. Cos if we've got that sorted, I could use some more sleep. You comin'?"

d'Artagnan rose, feeling oddly discomforted by the conversation. In the dark it had been surprisingly easy to speak what was on his mind, but Porthos had effectively batted away his concerns. Damn him and his conviction that strength of will could make everything alright; d'Artagnan knew better now.

"Porthos?"

"Yes?" The big man was halfway down the slope already and d'Artagnan had to hurry to catch up.

"If something did go wrong – "

"Ain't goin to 'appen!"

"Porthos, listen!"

Porthos stopped and waited, looking impatient.

"If, just if... will you make sure I..." Oh, God, he couldn't articulate it. "I don't want..." He forced himself speak. "Make sure I don't get captured again. Please?"

Porthos was already nodding. "We covered that already, I told you – "

"No! I don't mean protect me. I mean if you can't get to me – if you can't do anything to help. Just don't let me get captured again." There was a catch in his voice that he couldn't control, and he couldn't seem to breathe properly. He couldn't say the words, but he desperately needed Porthos to understand what he couldn't articulate.

Porthos was staring at him and he could see the moment when his meaning finally sunk in: his eyes suddenly widened and he literally took a step backwards, already shaking his head. "If you're askin' me to – no, lad, no! You can't ask that."

d'Artagnan swallowed. It had taken every ounce of his courage to voice his shameful fear, and now he'd said it, he couldn't bear for Porthos to deny him the promise that would give him peace of mind. He knew it was a lot to ask, but ...

"Turn it around," he heard Porthos say quietly. "If I asked you – could you do that for me?"

d'Artagnan shut his eyes, blood thundering in his ears. Could he? He tried to imagine some circumstance where that could happen. Porthos, lying injured on the battlefield, d'Artagnan a hundred paces away, Spanish soldiers encircling Porthos ready to drag him off... Knowing what he would face, could he do it? Could he basically execute Porthos, put him down like an injured horse, in order to save him from death as a prisoner of war?

What if d'Artagnan's own experience was unique, and most prisoners were treated well? The captain of the group that captured him had sometimes treated him as a fellow human being, after all. Maybe Bautista was not representative... maybe he could survive being captured again?

It had seemed simple: he knew without hesitation that he would choose death on the battlefield than face Bautista, or anyone like him, once more. But Porthos didn't know what he'd gone through, after all. And maybe his experience of captivity was not typical...

He let out a long breath. "I'm not... I don't know."

Porthos nodded, looking relieved. "I would want to take my chances. I can understand how you feel about being captured again, but d'Artagnan, lad, I don't think I could do that."

d'Artagnan shut his eyes, swallowing, feeling that he couldn't breathe.

"I'm not saying no." Porthos, quietly, in his ear. "That's the best I can give you."

d'Artagnan dragged a few breaths into his reluctant lungs, then felt Porthos' arm around his shoulder.

"I won't let anyone hurt you, d'Artagnan. One way or another, I'll protect you. Best I can say, my friend; best I can promise."

Overwhelmed with emotion, d'Artagnan wrapped both arms around Porthos' chest, ducking his head into the solid shoulder, a feeling of deep peace settling around him for that one precious moment.

At muster in the morning, Athos's eyes scrutinised his men carefully as he always did before a major encounter. He still hadn't been sure, after speaking to d'Artagnan the night before, whether the Gascon was yet ready to fight again, but in the morning light the young Musketeer looked resolute and calm – if tired. He looked at Porthos, to his right, and saw his fractional nod.

Aware of a feeling of reluctance, he turned back to his men and named those who would fight today. Hoping, as he dismissed them, that he was not sending any of them into a massacre.

d'Artagnan remembered only snatches of the day. Most of it was a blur, lost in the noise, the dust, the knee-trembling effort of wielding his sword for hour after hour. He remembered running forward shoulder to shoulder with his brothers, holding his sword in front of him with hands that trembled with adrenaline and fear. He remembered reaching the first Spanish line and hesitating, eyes scanning the men confronting him, looking for one face, dreading the thought of finding him. He remembered the heart-stopping moment when he stumbled and found himself looking up at two opponents closing in on him, and he remembered a roar from his left and seeing Porthos there, sweat flying as he hacked and kicked his way through to d'Artagnan's side, staying there until he had found his feet and his rhythm again.

And when, late that evening around the campfire, Athos joined them and passed the rest of his bottle of brandy around the men who were recounting their day, he caught d'Artagnan's eye, raising his glass in a silent salute to the Gascon who, it seemed, had finally found his way back to them.

Unfortunately it seemed fate had another plan for him. Or rather, not Fate, but Lieutenant Colombe.

After the muster incident Colombe had stayed clear of the musketeers in general, but it seemed whenever d'Artagnan turned around he found the man watching him. With his slowly returning confidence, he decided not to worry about it. He'd shown him up in front of the men, but it wasn't his fault the man was a jerk.

They were soon fighting almost daily. d'Artagnan found the constant encounters drained his energy at around the same speed as his stamina returned, and he was just keeping his head above water. He still looked, almost without being aware, for a certain face with a hook-nose, but gradually his fears of seeing Bautista again faded and he was too exhausted at night to dream much.

The first indication of trouble came one evening when the exhausted soldiers were making their way back into camp after another reasonably successful day. He felt sweaty and heavy-limbed as he trudged towards his tent, intending to dump his weapons and wash away the battledust coating every inch of his skin before the evening meal, but suddenly he was aware of Colombe calling him over. Or at least, calling over someone called 'Dartigan' who, d'Artagnan suspected wearily, might mean him.

Ostentatiously checking behind him d'Artagnan slapped Guérin on the shoulder and walked over reluctantly. "Did you mean me, Sir?"

Colombe didn't bother answering, simply handed d'Artagnan a waterskin and barked "Fill that up and bring it to my tent." He turned before d'Artagnan could even open his mouth in surprise and stalked off towards the main camp, leaving d'Artagnan holding the waterskin in stunned silence.

Guérin, who'd been watching discretely, wandered over. "You going to do it?"

d'Artagnan sighed. "I can't really refuse – he is a senior officer – but still... Bloody cheek."

"If you do it, he'll keep asking you."

He shrugged. "He outranks me."

Guérin pursed his lips but didn't deny it. Technically d'Artagnan was right; he could be in trouble if he refused and Colombe chose to push it, although he was quite sure Athos would back him. Speaking of which: "Why don't you check with Athos? He'll know what to do."

d'Artagnan hesitated, then regretfully shook his head. "He's got too much to do to bother with something daft like this. I'll just do it – it won't take long." Promising to meet Guérin at the river – they'd taken to swimming together after each battle, as a way both of cleaning up and of relaxing – he headed off on the fool's errand.

Guérin was right: it didn't stop there. Every time d'Artagnan turned around Colombe seemed to be there with a new petty command. Eventually Guérin took matters into his own hand and talked to Athos, but the Captain simply scowled. "Not much I can do if an officer decides to be a prick," he commented.

Guérin backed off, sensing he'd picked a bad moment, but was pleased to find Athos talking to d'Artagnan later, telling him he wasn't going to undermine d'Artagnan by intervening on his behalf, but that he had carte blanche to plead a prior mission for Athos any time Colombe invented some ridiculous task for him. It was a brief conversation, as Athos was on his way to yet another planning meeting with the generals, but he did ask d'Artagnan: "Can you deal with it?" Happy to have Athos' tacit support, d'Artagnan nodded, sure that if he kept his head down Colombe would get bored with whatever game he was playing.

The next day however, Colombe changed tactics and d'Artagnan's life got a lot more complicated.

"Oy, you, come here!"

d'Artagnan, at the rear of a six-man patrol returning from escorting a group of Spanish prisoners to the holding camp at Pau, groaned inwardly. He recognised the voice, and had no doubt that he was the 'you' in question. Guérin shot him a sympathetic look. "I'll save you some supper" he hissed, as d'Artagnan slowed Nuit and turned back towards the gate. It had been a long day and the last thing d'Artagnan wanted was yet another ludicrous assignment. He'd been in the saddle since before dawn today – almost 12 hours ago – and all he wanted to do was eat and sleep.

"Dartigan! Are you deaf?"

d'Artagnan slid off Nuit and approached reluctantly. "It's d'Artagnan, Sir, not Dartigan. What can I do for you?" he asked, neutrally.

"This needs to go to General Fournier. Immediately!" he snapped, as d'Artagnan made no move to take the letter. d'Artagnan looked around: several of the Lieutenant's own men were standing nearby wearing mixed expressions – some apprehensive, some smirking – but no Musketeers. Damn.

"I'm sorry Sir but I have my own orders. I need to – "

"Are you refusing an order from a senior officer?"

Straight in, no messing about. d'Artagnan sighed. Fournier's camp was an hour's ride away and it was already nearly dark. "I can take it as soon as I've reported back to my Captain, Sir." Hoping the reminder that he took his orders from the Musketeer Captain who outranked Colombe might make him back down. No such luck.

"Unless I'm going blind there were five other musketeers on your patrol, all perfectly capable of reporting back, I'm sure." He thrust the letter out again and raised an eyebrow, daring d'Artagnan to refuse.

Reluctantly he took the letter and tucked it into his doublet. "I'll just change to a fresh horse." Still hoping to find a way to alert Athos so he could step in and rescue him.

"Nothing wrong with your bloody horse as far as I can see. Now get going before I report you for insolence."

"Sir." d'Artagnan remounted and turned Nuit back towards the gate.

"Report back to me when you return."

Great. Just what he needed. Nudging Nuit into a trot so he could get away from the obnoxious man more quickly, d'Artagnan headed up the track, missing the sympathetic look from the guards at the gate as he concentrated on finding new descriptions for the man that involved his ancestry, his personal hygiene and his sexual proclivities.

It was three hours before he made it back to camp and he was fuming. General Fournier hadn't even been at the camp, his aide informed d'Artagnan. He'd handed the letter to a Captain who'd ripped it open, tutted and asked d'Artagnan what on earth he was doing delivering such tat at this hour. When d'Artagnan looked blank, he read it out loud: it turned out to be a request for a farrier to be seconded to the Picardy regiment the following week. "So not exactly urgent, then," commented d'Artagnan slowly, trying not to snarl the words. Apart from being saddle-weary and starving, he'd just remembered he had guard duty tonight. He wouldn't even have time to eat, and unless he got a move on he would be in trouble for being late.

The Lieutenant regarded him sympathetically. "He's got a bit of a reputation, that one. You want to stay out of his sights if you can."

"Too late for that," d'Artagnan replied gloomily. The lieutenant took pity on him and penned a quick response, complimenting Colombe on his excellent choice of speedy and efficient messenger to deliver such an urgent and important request, reading it out loud to d'Artagnan as he sealed it. d'Artagnan chuckled appreciatively, but on the return journey he began to wonder if it wouldn't just make things worse.

Apparently Colombe didn't like being made fun of. As he'd feared, the man went bright red when he read the response, d'Artagnan standing respectfully to attention outside his tent. Crumpling the parchment and dropping it to the ground, he barrelled out of his tent straight into d'Artagnan, who had to take a quick step backwards to avoid being knocked over. Unfortunately the lieutenant simply pursued him, grabbing d'Artagnan by his shirt and driving him backwards around the back of his tent.

"Sir?" gasped d'Artagnan, scrambling to keep his feet and looking round desperately hoping for a witness – any witness would do, friend or not. Colombe didn't speak until d'Artagnan's back crashed against something solid – a tree trunk, he realised – and Colombe's forearm slammed into his throat.

"I've had just about enough of you, you bastard Gascon!" he hissed, every word punctuated by a jerk of his arm into d'Artagnan's windpipe until he was literally gagging. He kept his hands by his side, determined not to lay hands on the lieutenant which would lay him open to a possible charge of striking an officer, but if he didn't manage to take a breath soon...

"What's going on?" A well-known voice, approaching at a run. d'Artagnan closed his eyes in relief, both at the prospect of being rescued, and at the rush of air into his lungs as Colombe lifted his arm from his throat and turned to face Porthos. He coughed, leaning forwards and planting his hands on his knees, trying not to retch.

"Nothing that's any of your business, musketeer."

Putain, the man was living dangerously. Even if he didn't know Porthos' name, using the term musketeer in that tone of voice was nothing but insulting. He coughed again and straightened, knowing he had to divert Porthos before it ended in a fight. "Nothing to worry about, Lieutenant Porthos. I was a little short of breath and Lieutenant Colombe here was trying to help me."

Porthos narrowed his eyes. d'Artagnan never used his rank to address him, except if they were on parade, and anyway it was blatant lie. Fouchard had been watching out for d'Artagnan's return, worried that he was so late, and had gone straight to Porthos when he'd seen Colombe come steaming out of his tent and grab d'Artagnan. However, d'Artagnan was making it clear that he wanted Porthos to back down.

Reluctantly he nodded, seeing the relief cross d'Artagnan's face, and beckoned to him. "Captain Athos" (emphasising his rank - two could play at that game) "has been waiting for your report. Please don't hijack our men again, Lieutenant Colombe, without checking with our Captain."

With that he turned on his heel and d'Artagnan followed, feeling the lieutenant's eyes like daggers in his back all the way to the musketeer's campfire.

As soon as they were out of sight Porthos stopped d'Artagnan with a hand on his arm. "What was that all about?" he demanded.

d'Artagnan sighed. "He took a dislike to me the day I arrived in camp. I don't know why. There's a rumour that he was cheated on by a Gascon woman, or maybe he just likes bullying, but whatever the reason, he's on my back all the time. Thanks for rescuing me, by the way."

Porthos looked impatient. "Thank Fouchard – I had no idea what was going on. Why didn't you say anything?"

"You've got enough on your plate and I can handle it. I don't need looking after all the time." He sounded like a teenager, he realised, and Porthos may have thought so too because his lips twitched for a moment before he turned serious again.

"You can't win with his sort – I know the type. The only way to get him off your back is to stand up to him – and you can't do that here, or he'll have you."

"I know!" d'Artagnan knew he sounded tetchy but Porthos was treating him like an idiot, or a cadet, for goodness' sake. "Porthos, I'm grateful but just leave it. I've got guard duty now and I haven't eaten, so..."

Porthos exclaimed. "I nearly forgot, Guérin swopped with you. You've got his 6 am duty instead – he figured you wouldn't mind."

He did mind, actually. He knew he'd been a nervous wreck when he first returned from Paris, but the food-poisoning had somehow focussed his mind and shown him that he could still be a respected Musketeer: no one thought less of him because of how he reacted to his captivity. So the reminder that others still felt he needed molly-coddling* was unwelcome.

He tried not to show his irritation as he nodded his thanks and headed for the mess tent. Porthos stood watching him go, mind working furiously as he wondered what else he – and Athos – might have missed. Time to have a long chat with Fouchard, he thought.

He never had that chat. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, things came to a head a lot sooner than anyone could predict and, before the night was out, d'Artagnan found himself in serious trouble – and this time not even Porthos could help him out.

* In case anyone is unfamiliar with this term it means fussed over, treated gently, pampered, usually of an effeminate or ineffectual man (from "moll", old term for a prostitute, and the Latin "calder" meaning hot, which mutated into the old English "caudle", which was the giving of hot drinks to an invalid, which further mutated into the word coddle as in coddled eggs which are cooked gently in water as opposed to boiled. I'd heard of coddled eggs but never knew what they were! I looked it up in case the phrase was too modern to use here, and learned more than I expected, so I wanted to share it with you. I love how words transform over time but still reflect their origins.