Chapter 3

By the time they arrived at the inn, Aramis could barely keep his head up, the relentless ache doubled due to the constant motion of the horses. Slowly, he dismounted, ignoring Treville's look of concern, and followed the Captain into the small establishment, taking a seat at a table near the fire. Though it was a warm day, the clouds had moved in, blocking the sun and sending a chill through him. He dropped heavily into a chair and leaned forward, pressing his face against his folded arms on the table.

"Aramis?"

"I'm fine." His muffled voice lacked the normal tinge of respect it normally held when addressing his captain, but until the pain in his head tempered to a reasonable level, he couldn't find it within himself to care.

"So I see," Treville's response held a touch of amusement. Aramis felt as much as heard the Captain slide into the chair beside him.

"Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?"

The soft, feminine voice filtered through the pain and Aramis raised his head, smiling by force of habit before he even saw the owner of the lilting sound.

"Well hello there, handsome," the blonde barmaid smiled, one hand on her hip as her eyes lit up. "You decide the duck and poached pears were too temptin' to pass up?"

Aramis frowned. "Excuse me?"

The young woman shifted, tucking a stray blonde curl behind her ear nervously. "Um, you and your friends were here not two days ago? Had the stew? Said you didn't have time for anything else?" She lifted a brow suggestively, and Aramis grinned despite himself.

"You remember me and my friends?"

She laughed coyly. "Of course I do. Not likely to forget a face like yours. We don't get many Musketeers through here." She glanced at Treville, then looked around. "Just the two of you this time? Probably a good idea considering the trouble the big one caused last time you were here."

Aramis and Treville exchanged a look of perplexity.

"Trouble?" At Aramis' shrug, Treville leaned against the table and narrowed his eyes at the young woman. "What do you mean by trouble?"

She glanced from one to the other, her brows furrowing across her forehead. "The fight?" she let her eyes rest on Aramis, her confusion obvious. "You don't remember the fight?" …

… Aramis pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his sash, his dark eyes roaming around the busy inn, a pleasant smile on his face. There were at least a dozen men at the scattered tables, wine and ale flowing freely, bowls of stew and plates of bread, cheese and meats scattered about. It was an establishment like every other little tavern they'd rolled into, but he always found places like this intoxicating – especially when they came equipped with lovely young barmaids such as the vision currently approaching them.

"Evening, messieurs," the young woman smiled, revealing a row of reasonably straight white teeth. She tucked a tuft of gold hair that had escaped the loose bun she wore behind her ear. "We're full up for the night, but we can get you a hot meal and a bit of refreshment if you're of a mind."

Aramis stepped forward and bowed, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips graciously. "We are most certainly of a mind, mademoiselle." He grinned at her through his lashes, ignoring the moan and snicker from behind him. The barmaid giggled appreciatively and taking his arm, led them through the crowd to a large table tucked neatly into the corner. As she stepped back, allowing the others to pass, Aramis pulled her close, gazing into her eyes, grinning at the blush that crept across her pale cheeks.

"Perhaps you could bring us a bottle of the house's finest?"

She smiled and nodded immediately, sighing as he released her to join his friends at the table.

"You just can't 'elp yourself, can you?" Porthos shook his head. His stern admonishment tempered by the small smile that tugged the corner of his mouth.

"I was only being polite," Aramis countered. "And a bit of flattery is always conducive to getting the best of service, don't you agree?"

D'Artagnan nodded, an amenable smile on his face.

"See?" Aramis tilted his chin toward the younger man, his brows rising as he shifted his gaze to Porthos. "Even the lad agrees."

Porthos huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes at the merriment dancing in his friend's dark eyes. "Yeah, but the whelp doesn't know you well enough yet to understand what your kind of politeness can lead to."

"We shall hopefully be able to instill caution in him before he strives to follow in your footsteps," Athos concluded. A corner of his mouth twitched in what for him was a full out grin, and Aramis let his head drop back as he laughed aloud.

"Like I said before," the marksman clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder as they all took their seats round the table, "you could do far worse than emulate me, my young friend. At least I know how to have some fun."

The barmaid's return interrupted any retorts and she placed a bottle and four cups on the table. She smiled at Aramis, her cheeks coloring in a soft, rosy way that made them all grin. "We've got some good mutton stew," she offered, not taking her eyes from the Spaniard's. "Or I could 'ave the cook roast a duck with poached pears. Even got some fresh bread still warm from the hearth."

Aramis wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in, eliciting another charming giggle from the girl. "I absolutely adore pears," he smiled, "but we're on a mission and have little time to spare. If what you offer is as good as you boast, the stew and bread will do nicely."

She placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned down so their breaths mingled. "I promise you will not be disappointed with anything I have to offer, Monsieur."

Aramis' brows rose at the pointed reply. The barmaid ran a hand through his hair then pushed away, smiling demurely back over her shoulder as she made her way across the room to the kitchen.

Porthos chuckled, shaking his head fondly. "I'm pretty sure she wasn't talkin' about the stew."

"Ah," Aramis sighed, his eyes tracking the girl until she disappeared behind a brick wall. "If only I wasn't so dedicated to duty."

"Lucky for us, you are," Athos reminded him. "I suspect we should make it to Vendôme before sunset."

The others nodded, sobering as they were reminded of their mission.

"The Abbey of La Trinité is located a lieu east of the city," Aramis explained. "It would perhaps be prudent to take the road around instead of traversing through the city proper?"

Athos nodded his agreement. "It would save time and allow for less scrutiny. Musketeers aren't a normal sight so far from Paris."

"Don't seem to be a normal sight here, either," Porthos pointed out, his eyes on a table of rough looking men across the room. "We seem to 'ave drawn the interest of a few of the locals."

They turned as one toward what had captured Porthos' attention. There were four men seated at the table across the room, all of them slouched in their chairs, hands gripping tankards of ale, their eyes narrowed, focused on the soldiers.

"It seems we are quite popular," Aramis quipped, raising his cup in salute toward the men. "I am, at least accustomed to the admiration, but I could see why it might make the rest of you a bit uncomfortable." His gesture had the expected result on the observers; they turned away, mumbling quietly amongst themselves, just as it had the desired effect on his companions, making them chuckle and dismiss their apprehension.

As Musketeers, they were used to their pauldrons garnering attention wherever they traveled, but it never made the personal scrutiny any more warranted or welcome. Though Aramis sometimes relished the attention; acted as if having the eyes of everyone upon him was something he delighted in, his closest friends knew part of it was an act, a mask he wore out of necessity, a defense against the insecurities that had plagued him since being left alone to perish in the snowy forest of Savoy.

Porthos leaned closer, bumping a shoulder and Aramis smiled, acknowledging the gesture for what it was. He didn't have to pretend with these men, but the act was ingrained and sometimes difficult to repress.

The barmaid returned with a tray laden with bowls of rich, aromatic stew and bread, still steaming as promised. The smell of the food was intoxicating, as was the smile deferred upon them from the lovely mademoiselle.

"Here you are, messieurs," she leaned down to place the tray on the scarred tabletop. "The best in the region."

Porthos rubbed his hands together gleefully as she placed a heaping bowl of stew before him. He sniffed appreciatively and moaned as his face took on an almost reverent countenance.

Aramis laughed. "Forgive him his ill manners," he said to the barmaid, his eyes squinting with amusement as he watched his friend's utter delight. "Just take his tasteless noises as compliments and gratitude for this splendid repast."

She laughed openly. "I appreciate the enthusiasm, Monsieur."

"Those men," Athos asked, his voice low, his eyes darting toward the table across the room. "They seem to have taken a distinct interest in our uniforms. Do you know them?"

She glanced back across her shoulders and shook her head as she returned to the task of laying out the food on the table. "They're simply passing through, like yourselves. Their faces aren't familiar to me. Would you like me to alert the owner?"

Athos shook his head. "No. They've done nothing to warrant it." He gave the girl a cordial smile. "My apologies for concerning you."

The stew proved as delicious as promised, and the four men sat, satisfied, finishing the second bottle of fine burgundy the barmaid delivered with a wink and a smile. They were about to ask what they owed when they looked up to see two of the men from across the room approach their table.

The larger of the two stopped a few steps away, midway between Porthos and d'Artagnan. "Musketeers," he sneered, his eyes roving between the young Gascon and the darker skinned soldier. "Looks like they'll take any gutter rat or whelp that comes along, eh?"

His companion laughed, even as Porthos lowered his cup to the table in an exaggeratedly slow motion. He looked across the table to Athos who shook his head minutely.

"If you wish to solicit a commission, I would suggest a more cordial approach." Athos' voice remained level, but no one could mistake the steel beneath the tone.

The man spat upon the floor, the glob landing near Porthos' boot. "I wouldn't lower myself to that level."

Porthos looked down, shifting his boot away with a grunt of disgust. "Don't think you could get much lower," he said casually, as if commenting on the weather.

The man's face clouded in anger. "At least I'm not in the gutter with the likes of you."

"Gentleman," Aramis stood, placing a hand on Porthos' shoulder, exerting enough pressure to keep the larger man in his seat. He stepped away from the table, pressing the barmaid's arm. Gently shifting her to stand behind him. "We are not looking for any trouble. How about we settle this like gentlemen?"

The man looked Aramis up and down, snorting as if he found the soldier hardly worth his time. "You come in here, thinking you can smile and flash those swords and take whatever you want in the name of the King?"

"That is generally how it works," Athos intoned. He rose to stand also, coolly watching the other men as they joined their friends, fanning out around the table.

"You aren't in Paris."

"Yet we are still in France."

D'Artagnan and Porthos rose, pushing their chairs away, their hands on the hilts of their swords.

"Like my friend said," d'Artagnan warned. "We aren't looking for trouble."

"Well that's too bad, boy. Because trouble is exactly what you've found."

Aramis wasn't sure who threw the first punch, but before he could wade forward into the brawl, he sensed movement behind him and heard a sharp gasp from the young woman he'd been trying to keep safe. Quickly he turned, seeing one of the other men grab her arm and pull her away. He tipped his chair up with the toe of his boot, kicking it forward, placing it directly in the path of the attacker's footsteps. Unable to avoid the obstruction, the man tripped, losing his grip on the girl and falling hard onto the floor.

"Aramis!"

Portho's voice had him spinning back toward the main part of the room, only to see a projectile coming toward him from the corner of his eye. Unable to duck in time, the tankard caught him across the temple. As his vision grayed and the room spun, he felt himself begin to topple, thankful for the soft, yet strong arms that slowed his descent…

"Then the other man yelled 'Enough!' and everyone more or less froze." The barmaid's lilting voice brought him back to the present and Aramis blinked, surprised to see Treville watching him warily.

"Athos," Aramis said softly, his eyes losing focus for a moment. "It was Athos who called a halt to the fight." He rubbed his face wearily, taking over the narrative from the barmaid. "He reminded them that interfering with a Musketeer on a mission from the King was punishable by death."

The barmaid nodded. "That stopped 'em in their tracks," she said with a grin. "The man – Athos?" she looked to Aramis who nodded. "Athos told 'em they would overlook their previous indiscretions, but the next man who raised a hand to them would be dealt with swiftly and justly. He had his sword out and he looked like he knew how to use it."

"He does," Aramis conceded. "Quite well."

"Those men knew they were beat." She reached out and touched Aramis on the side of the head. "After you went down, that big friend of yours went crazy. Thought he was going to kill them all."

Aramis smiled and shrugged. "Porthos can be quite protective of those he considers friends."

"I'd say." She returned his smile.

"But you say there were no other injuries?" Treville asked. "Our men left here without further incident?" At her nod, he turned his attention to Aramis. "The blow to your head could be why you're having trouble remembering."

Aramis sighed. "Perhaps, but it was only a glancing strike, I didn't even lose consciousness." He looked to the barmaid for confirmation.

"You were stunned," she admitted. "But seemed steady enough once your friends picked you up out of my arms."

Aramis gave her a roguish grin. "I'm not sure whether to thank them or chastise them for the effort."

Treville grunted his opinion.

They ordered some food and drink, Aramis quiet as his memories of the incident played over and over in his head. His recollections were scattered, but he couldn't fathom whether it was because of his head injury now or then. Either way, he did remember them leaving without further incident, knowing they continued on their mission before his mind went dark and he could recall no more.

Treville ate his stew, his eyes straying to Aramis' contemplative expression as he chewed. The marksman took a few bites, but mostly just played with his food, his headache and his heartache dampening his appetite as well as his enthusiasm.

"Perhaps the men who challenged you followed?" Treville theorized. "Why did they confront you to begin with? It's not good form to attack the King's guard – especially with even numbers and in public."

Aramis shrugged wearily, moving his spoon around the bowl. "I have no idea. My memories are still suspect to say the least, but I can recall nothing that would incur their – or anyone else's – ire. We were simply stopping to eat before continuing on to Vendôme."

"And nobody did or said anything to provoke them?"

Aramis met his captain's eyes. "On my honor as a Musketeer, there was no provocation on our part for their aggression."

Treville nodded, convinced. "I suppose we cannot assume they left peacefully. Would you recognize them if you saw them again?"

Aramis gave up his pretense of eating and leaned an elbow on the table, wearily rubbing a hand across his eyes. He shrugged. "Perhaps. I don't know. If only this ache would stop long enough for me to think."

Treville pushed his bowl away and laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "We could stay the night. You need rest, Aramis. You'll do no one any good if you collapse halfway to our objective."

Aramis snorted and let his head drop, running a hand through his hair, idly pressing against the still sore bump on the back of his skull. "I appreciate the offer, Captain, but the only way I will be able to rest is to find out what happened to my friends. Until I know, I cannot allow myself to give in to my weariness."

Treville nodded and squeezed his shoulder before pushing himself from the table. "Very well then. Let us resume our journey without delay."

Aramis rose slowly, keeping a firm grasp on the edge of the table as the room tilted for a moment. The disorientation wasn't quite as bad as before, the rest and sustenance – meager as it had been – enough to restore some semblance of vigor to his aching body. With one arm protectively around his torso, he grabbed his hat from the table and followed Treville out the door, completely unaware of the two sets of eyes that tracked them.

TBC