Thank you again everyone! The reviews have been great and are truly appreciated! I'll try and post tomorrow but it won't be until late in the day. Hopefully, in the next couple of days I'll have time to thank you each personally.

In the meantime, here's the next chapter.

Chapter 4

Porthos held his breath, flattened his right hand on the table in the garrison's courtyard with his fingers spread wide and his elbow locked. He stood determined while leaning over the bench and waited. He could feel his teeth strain against the tightening of his jaw muscles and felt sweat bead his brow and roll in narrow droplets along the curves of his cheeks, lips, and into the beard on his chin. Porthos could hear the hushed sounds of voices around him, the encouraging words, the subtle jokes that were meant to break his concentration. Fear wasn't just a feeling. It wasn't just something that penetrated the minds of the weak, of the unjust, of the common people. Fear could shred its victim like the claws of a raging lion. It could freeze men in their tracks and cause screams of utter terror in the unsuspecting.

Fear, like love, could overwhelm and devastate its victims.

Porthos swallowed, looked at the pile of livres that continued to grow in a basket that sat near the far end of the table as wagers were placed. He exhaled slowly, closed his eyes, and looked again at the spider that was nearly the size of his hand. Its body — the size of his thumb — was carried by long jointed legs that tapped the surface of the table as it walked slowly and then would suddenly scamper across the surface. It could easily fit into the palm of Porthos' hand — if he would allow it.

The wager was simple: Who could tolerate the presence of the spider longer? And who would allow it to cross their hand?

Those who had tried, failed miserably.

Spiders in Paris were not uncommon, small ones at least. When Monsieur Dollioux opened his crate of wine, imported from southern France, he had fallen backward in a fit of fear that had caused several patrons to peek at the uninvited guest. It was subsequently captured by a King's Musketeer and taken to the garrison to be studied or kept as a pet. Amis had yet to decide. It wasn't venomous, but like most things, what looked dangerous often contrasted to the things that were. The spider, with its long legs, long fangs, and fat body, looked deadly to those unfamiliar.

Porthos felt his heart skip a beat when the spider drew near his hand. He had been eyeing a new blouse at the Little Wren's Sewing Boutique. Madame Badeau had woven the lace collar herself, and even suggested that the soft cream tone would enhance Porthos' handsome features and compliment the shades of brown of his doublet. It was much too expensive on a musketeer's salary, but — with a winning hand — he could afford such a luxury. He pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, and waited for the spider's touch.

The sounds of hooves echoed, but only a few men turned to watch Treville ride into the garrison. He looked questionably at his men, who huddled around the table, lined the steps to his office, and looked over the balcony at the table below. They stood watching with the attention Treville demanded during routine duty assignments. He looked at Athos, who leaned casually against the support beam near the stables with his arms crossed over his chest. Marcus and a few others stood beside him.

"What's happening?" Treville asked and walked toward the stables. He nodded to the stable boy, who took his horse's reins and led him away, and then looked toward the group of men. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and frowned when he looked between Athos and the crowd that hushed and suddenly grew overly quiet.

"Amis brought back a spider from a tavern by the docks —"

"It's the size of your head, Captain," Marcus interrupted Athos. He shifted his feet. With his arms crossed over his chest, he clutched tightly at his biceps. He stood nearly as tall as Athos, with thick, dark auburn hair that hung past his chin. He was broad through the shoulders with a narrow waist and long legs. Marcus was older than the others and carried himself like a gentleman. At this moment, however, with a wrinkled, worried brow, eyes that squinted as he stared at the table, and the frown upon his face that exaggerated the laugh lines on either side of his mouth, he looked much older than his fifty years.

Treville raised his eyebrows in surprise. "The size of my head?"

Athos inhaled deeply and swallowed. "Your head?" He shrugged with a look of reluctance. "No. But your hand," he said in a high-pitched voice and raised eyebrows. He extended his long fingers and looked at his palm. Athos winced and then returned his hand to his belt. His thick, dark hair waved around his ears and his bangs tapped his dark eyebrows. Large, green eyes peered past thick lashes as he looked from the crowd to Treville.

Treville whistled and looked back at the group. "Where are the others?"

Athos tilted his bearded chin toward the crowd. "Porthos is tempting fate."

Treville shifted his stance. "I had no idea he was afraid of spiders."

Athos rolled his eyes, looked skeptically at him, and said, "He's not."

Treville pursed his lips and exhaled with a groan. "The men should realize who they're dealing with."

"A spider the size of your head, Captain," Marcus said again. He watched the crowd intently, as though the spider would seek him out personally and attack. He looked like a man standing in a pile of ants whose feet were slowly being eaten.

Treville leaned forward slightly to look around Athos and at Marcus. "Not fond of the creatures?"

Marcus huffed. "I'll battle to the death in the sewers if needed," he clenched his jaw and pointed toward the backs of the men, "I will not go near…" he pointed toward the group, "that."

With a set jaw, Athos looked side-eyed at Treville, who looked questionably at him. "I know my limitations, Captain," Athos said with a shrug. "While I don't mind the small ones," he exhaled, "I would prefer not to engage with one of that particular size."

"Aramis and d'Artagnan?"

Marcus anxiously chewed his bottom lip but kept his eyes on the crowd.

Athos curled his lips into a subtle smile, which brightened his entire face and made him appear several years younger. "Aramis tempted fate. He screamed like a girl and exited the garrison at a healthy pace. D'Artagnan chased after him, fearing he might cross the channel before nightfall."

Treville laughed and looked toward the garrison's exit. Oh, how he wished he had seen it.

"Are there spiders in England?" Marcus asked, still refusing to divert his gaze.

Athos looked over his shoulder at Marcus, cocked an eyebrow, and ignored the question.

Treville rubbed his nose to hide his amusement at Marcus' insinuation of his journey northward and nodded. "Well, if he doesn't find himself in England by day's end," he clapped Athos on the shoulder and walked to the staircase leading to his office, "let him know I need to see him and the rest of you. The king has requested the four of you for two tasks." He stepped past several musketeers who stood on the balcony and peered toward the table below. Treville peeked, widened his eyes, and suddenly took a step back. He glanced at Athos, who tipped his head in understanding.

Big indeed.

Treville exhaled slowly and reminded himself to find out what happened to the spider after the wager was completed. An uninvited guest during late hours and darkness of night was not something he wanted to experience. Nor would he want his men to discover him standing on his desk as though it had suddenly become his only means of survival. He opened the door and pivoted when the men shouted, cheered, and clapped. Porthos might as well have been playing a game of cards with fools. Treville scratched at his head as he slipped his hat off and placed it on the rack next to the door. It was then followed by his cloak. He quickly ran a hand through his short auburn hair that was thinning near his hairline, and then over his mustache, mouth, and bearded chin. The window was open and allowed fresh air to fill the quarters as the summer heat warmed the space. The cheers from the courtyard continued.

Porthos laughed, collected his coins, and slipped them into the purse he kept attached to his belt. It was heavy, and he smiled. He could already feel the soft fabric against his skin, the dashing collar that would drape along the neckline of his doublet and compliment the variations of browns and the silver studs that lined the yoke.

Then suddenly, a shout and partial scream echoed and was followed by the sound of a heavy wooden slap. Everyone turned to find the garrison's cook, Serge, shaken and slightly perplexed. The old man, known for his talent of baking sweet breads, puddings, and dumplings, stood with his hand on the handle of his cutting board that now sat on the edge of the table. He stood as still as a Greek stone statue. Not a single strand of his wild gray hair moved. The bread that had donned the board was now scattered across the ground. Porthos watched Serge slowly pull on the handle of the wooden, elegantly crafted butcher-block, leaving a long streak of spider remains in its wake. The old cook exhaled slowly and looked toward the men. The curl of his long white eyebrows exaggerated the width of his eyes, and his broad pox-marked nose twitched as he curled his thin lips into a relieved smile.

"You're safe now, boys," Serge said. He looked at the back of his cutting board, and puckered his lips, and wrinkled his nose. "I'll warm you up some day-old rolls," he said, and shuffled himself back to the commissary.

Several men groaned; others sighed in relief. Amis growled and kicked a bucket while Marcus rested his head against the support beam. The imaginary ants eating at his feet were suddenly gone, and he relaxed with a long sigh.

Athos clapped his shoulder. "Hopefully it was a male spider," he said and walked toward the garrison's exit in search of a fleeing musketeer.

"Male?" Marcus said. "Why?"

"No babies," Athos responded over his shoulder.

Marcus groaned.