The Musketeer's Apprentice

Where a Roadside Ambush Is Not In Fact a Roadside Ambush; The Effect of Country Air on Parisian Ruffians

THEY arrived to the hostelry late in the evening. D’Artagnan longed for nothing so much as a bed, and a respite from the continuous bounce of the saddle. While their servants took the horses to the stables, the four of them entered the inn.

The first impression D’Artagnan received was that it was full. Very full. Which struck him as odd since, on the way out, they’d found the place empty, its tables dusty and half its candles unlit, two of its three cooking hearths cold.

Now every table was occupied and not only the wenches who had helped serve them, but also three or four stable lads were circulating amid the tables carrying food and drink.

That was his first impression, and second upon it a more startling one. Half the people in the inn were dressed in good attire that yet bore no marks, no shield, no note of any particular house or patron. And the other half wore doublets and plumed hats of bright blaring red. D’Artagnan stepped back, straight into Athos, and said, “The guards of the Cardinal,” as he took his hand to his sword.

A look over his shoulder showed him that Athos was already drawing his out, and he jumped aside and drew his, even as Aramis stepped fully in, his demeanor as elegant and composed as ever, although his lips tightened in an expression of displeasure and his hand went to the pommel of the elaborate sword at his hip.

And at every table, the men were standing, drawing their swords.

Counting the opponents and passing thirty, D’Artagnan was aware of Aramis, composedly and with great aplomb, crossing himself. He knew, without looking, that Athos’s face would be composing itself into the mad expression of half resignation but mostly fury that distorted the noble features when Athos was sure that he must die, and took pleasure in the mayhem he would cause before death.

And D’Artagnan closed his eyes and opened them again. And all the men stood, hands on swords. Only, here was a saving grace, that there were two contingents of them-the red-attired one looking suspiciously at the secretive one- and the foes eyeing each other with as much animosity as they showed the three musketeers and D’Artagnan.

The lead of the guards spoke first-he was a tall man, with a scarred face, and it seemed to D’Artagnan they’d met before in the many skirmishes that marked the life of musketeers and their allies in Paris -bowing, and removing his hat. “You led us a good chase gentlemen, and I admit you do the Cardinal credit as foes, but if you think we are going to allow you, here and now, to mock us and confound all the Cardinal’s plans, you are very wrong. Give yourself up to us, now, and we shall go easy on you.”

“That is nonsense,” a pale-haired man with a vague foreign accent said, from the other side. “I’m sure these men had no more intention of doing the Cardinal a wrong than they had of anything else.” He looked at them all and fixed D’Artagnan earnestly. “Sir,” he said, “if you give me a few minutes of your time I’m sure that all will be solved to the mutual advantage of both us and our friends.”

D’Artagnan would very much have liked to believe him, only he remembered this same face all too well, and he remembered this man as one of the dark-attired attackers who had attacked him in Paris. Between these and the guards of the Cardinal there was little to choose and indeed, little certainty that they weren’t acting in concert.

D’Artagnan dared a look over his shoulder and to the side, to see Porthos looking aggrieved, Aramis looking mulish and Athos looking almost gleefully bellicose. There was no doubt in his mind that his friends, too, had recognized their attackers.

“I thank you for your kind words, sir,” D’Artagnan said. “But I find talking to people who have attacked me before, under cover of darkness, extremely distasteful. You will, therefore, do me the honor of crossing your sword with me. En garde!”

The fixed scene of the tavern broke into a panoply of violence. If both their enemies had converged on the musketeers and D’Artagnan, the four of them would have been quickly overwhelmed. But the two factions seemed as intent on fighting each other as on fighting the four of them.

It was not something that D’Artagnan had much time to understand as he found himself fighting, at once, the blond man with the foreign accent and the scarred man who was the leader of the guards of the Cardinal.

The guard-whom D’Artagnan remembered was called Remy-pressed D’Artagnan the hardest, pushing close, and speaking between his teeth, “Come, come, Monsieur D’Artagnan. You’re little more than a child and you can’t think you’ll survive getting involved in such dealings that far surpass your ability.”

D’Artagnan didn’t answer. He had no idea what Remy meant by dealings. He had some vague notion he had displeased the Cardinal and he was not quite sure how. Perhaps by escorting Constance Bonacieux to her mysterious rendezvous or perhaps by interfering with the Cardinal’s plan involving Guillaume and Porthos. In either case, he would fully agree with Remy that these plots surpassed his ability to comprehend. All of which meant nothing. He was honor bound and duty bound to defend his friends, and Remy attacking him like this, pressing him across the bar as he defended himself, crossing amid other duelers, didn’t predispose him to cooperate with whatever the Cardinal might want.

Across the bar, Porthos roared, a sound followed by the noise of breaking crockery and the scream of several people. Through the corner of his eye, D’Artagnan could see that Porthos had grabbed a tray full of drinks from one of the serving wenches and flung it in the face of several of his opponents, in what seemed to be an attempt to clear the path to the bar. What Porthos wanted with the bar, D’Artagnan could not say, except that, knowing how Porthos’s mind worked, he rather suspected that it had something to do with getting himself a drink.

Closer at hand, Athos jumped on top of a table, from which position he could more easily battle six determined opponents four of whom wore the red guards’ uniform.

And to the other side, Aramis was battling half a dozen opponents, all the while lecturing them. “It is an interesting theological question,” he said, between brilliant parries and fulminating lunges, “exactly how-and when-violence is allowed in defense of self, or of a cause deemed just. The very concept of just war, as exposed by St. Thomas de Aquinas in Summa Theologicae…” Aramis’s voice went on and on, and D’Artagnan was sure that if he paid attention to Aramis he would presently feel dizzy and be unable to continue defending himself. And, despite his long theory in fighting, he had never, in practice met two such seasoned fighters as these foes.

While the two leaders of the attackers didn’t cooperate, neither were they as foolish as their followers, that is, stupid enough to fight each other. Instead, they each pressed for advantage with him and might, occasionally, bare teeth at each other but without, ever, allowing their enmity to distract them from the task at hand.

He was having a hard time keeping his place, and guarding his back, in case either of the two got ideas.

Hearing Porthos yell from the corner of the room, nearest the counter, “Five roast chickens and four bottles of wine, host, now,” did not exactly make him feel better. Oh, Porthos was the best of friends and a man who had, countless times, helped D’Artagnan out of tight binds. But what could he mean by ordering dinner in the middle of this devilish situation?

D’Artagnan, fighting as hard, as fast, as cleverly as he’d ever fought, half expected to hear Aramis rebuke Porthos, as he often did in these situations. When Aramis’s voice didn’t sound, D’Artagnan wondered if the blond musketeer had perhaps died in this fray. A fine sweat beaded D’Artagnan’s forehead at the thought. Would any of them make it out of here alive?

“Athos, catch,” Porthos’s voice called and something- something white and large sailed over the heads of the combatants.

D’Artagnan, half turned away from the door where Athos was fighting, had the impression Athos had indeed caught whatever it was, but before he could think, Athos sounded out the call that so often resounded in Paris, “To me, Musketeers.”

Normally that call, sounded out by a musketeer who’d just been attacked on the streets of Paris, called to the victim any number of willing swords, ready to join the fray. Here, in the middle of nowhere, in a tavern filled with enemy combatants, the call could only mean one thing, and that was that Athos expected D’Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos to flock to him.

More by sound than by sight, particularly since by then most of the candle flames had been extinguished by the candles being used either as projectiles or weapons, he started retreating towards Athos. He was aware of Porthos’s progress in the same direction, from the other side of the room. As usual, the giant made use of whatever he could get hold of as weapons. In addition to the heavy blows of his nimble sword, his progress was marked by sounds of furniture breaking, crockery being flung, and always, the startled screams of those who were not ready for such unorthodox means of combat.

Aramis, on the other side, seemed to still be alive and also moving, in the same direction. At least, D’Artagnan could hear the polished voice of the musketeer who insisted he was practicing for the priesthood, calling out, “May God have mercy on your soul,” just before an opponent’s death scream.

D’Artagnan managed to wound Remy, and had only the blond man to contend with as he approached Athos. He heard Aramis ask Athos, “We retreat?”

“Against such odds,” Athos said. “Only rational option.”

“Besides,” Porthos said. “I want my dinner. Let’s hope that Mousqueton has the horses of Monsieur de Treville ready to go.”

D’Artagnan, still engaged in a fight with the blond man, felt Porthos drag him backwards through the door of the hostelry at speed. Outside, fire and smoke were thick in the air, as well as the screams of men and the terrified sounds of horses, many of whom appeared to be milling free in the yard, or running scared through the open gate of the hostelry and the streets below.

The cause was easy to see, as the stables, a vast edifice that used to be opposite the hostelry, across a well-appointed yard, were on fire, their red glow lighting up the area like the setting sun, and the heat from the conflagration making the late summer night feel like full summer day.

And coming towards them, at speed, were their servants, each of them leading a horse alongside the one on which they were mounted. Athos jumped onto the saddle of the horse led by Grimaud, while Porthos climbed onto the saddle of the horse that Mousqueton led, and Aramis mounted the horse led by Bazin.

Before D’Artagnan could do more than reach for the reins of the horse that Planchet led, there was a sharp pain at the back of his head, and darkness descended over him.

He woke up mounted, somehow, in the front of Athos’s horse, being firmly held. He felt seasick, and his stomach pulled, and there was a devilish weight on his eyelids that seemed to prevent them from climbing fully up.

Some inarticulate sound must have escaped his throat because Athos, whose arm was firmly around D’Artagnan’s middle, holding him in place, said, “Oh, you’re awake. Easy now. I will be very upset if you vomit. I don’t have a change of clothes just now. Easy. We’ll be stopping soon.”

And indeed, even as he spoke, there was a feeling of their turning down another road, and then a narrow path, all eight horses thundering as though through well-known territory.

That the territory was well known at least to one of them, became clear as they came to a stop and Porthos came to help D’Artagnan down from his horse. “We’ll be safe here,” he said. “It’s little enough known. A convent that got burned in the wars of religion in my father’s time. It was a ruin when I was young and I used to stop here, sometimes, overnight, when I was hunting away from home. But the path, though once a Roman road, is almost all overgrown, and those fools are unlikely to find us, at least in the dark of night. Not that I could hear any attempt at pursuing us, but you never know.”

“Easy with the boy,” Athos said, letting go of his hold on D’Artagnan, even as Porthos lifted D’Artagnan bodily and set him down, gently, upon a fallen stone which, from the way another stone had fallen across its back, made a perfect seat.

His eyes clearing, by the light of the moon, D’Artagnan could see they were in what remained of a ruined chamber, four walls remaining more or less intact and half the ceiling missing. The chamber was vast, and retained its stone floor as well as many conveniently disposed stones.

“You’ll be happy to know,” Aramis said, “that I delivered what might very well have been a killing blow to the dishonorable canaille who hit you from behind.”

D’Artagnan tried to swallow, but really felt very dizzy.

“Here, you’ll be the better for this,” Porthos said. He’d uncorked a bottle of wine, and pressed it against D’Artagnan’s lips.

D’Artagnan dimly remembered some lecture from his mother about wine being the worst possible thing to drink when one had been hit on the head. And yet, it seemed only logical and he was thirsty, so he drank. And miraculously, little by little, his head cleared.

Presently he became aware that the servants had lit a small fire and were tending to the horses, and that the musketeers were eating roast chicken and drinking wine. When they realized D’Artagnan was awake, Porthos pressed some chicken upon D’Artagnan saying, “I think this is the last of the money Aramis made selling that salve to de Termopillae, and since the salve is a Gascon recipe, surely you’re entitled to some of it.”

“Your cousin de Termopillae?” Athos asked.

“Devil take him,” Porthos said. “Truth be told I never knew much of my family. For you must know that my father managed to quarrel with all his sisters save the one that died in childhood. And that one, perhaps, too, except he no longer remembers it. So I don’t know any of my cousins.”

“He’s much younger than you, at any rate,” Athos said. “But I wonder if he’s concerned in this.”

“I don’t like wondering,” Porthos said. “Any more than I like wondering why the guards are so intent on being rid of us, or who the other agreeable gentlemen might be.”

“So, the ruffians of the country are feisty enough for you, Porthos?” Aramis asked, teasingly.

“Undoubtedly too feisty, Aramis. I can’t wait to get back to Paris, even if it must bring with it all the questions about Athenais’s husband and all the rest. I must warn you that if her husband is guilty, I mean to marry her as soon as I can.”

“Marrying is folly, but in this case it is the only thing you can do,” Athos said.

At this moment their servants came forward, to share in the chicken and the wine with remarkable equality that didn’t usually attend their relationships with their masters when in the capital.

They looked, D’Artagnan noted, embarrassed, as though they expected to be scolded for something. The musketeers, meanwhile, seemed to have no intention of scolding them. It wasn’t until they were seated and eating that Planchet ventured, “I’m sorry for the destruction we caused and for setting fire to the stable, but you see, we found that there were several men ready to ambush us, and we-”

“I don’t resent you for that at all, my good Planchet,” Porthos said. “The only thing I resent is that you didn’t somehow manage to find a few coins in the pockets of those you had to lie low with cudgel or tree branch in order to escape. Now the money of the Gascon pomade is gone, we’re going to be in devilish straights back in town.”

Mousqueton sighed. “As to that…” he said, and putting his hand inside his sleeve, he brought out a handful of leather purses.

“I suppose,” Athos said, a smile on his face. “You had to put them out of their misery?”

“I thought they owed it to us, monsieur. For putting us through such a devilish uprising.”

“Very just,” Porthos said. “And for all the trouble you’ve gone through in cutting these,” he said, turning the purses over onto his hand and counting coin, which he distributed to his friends, “you are very well entitled to the other five or six purses you’re keeping to yourself.”

Mousqueton blushed dark, and the musketeers-and their servants-laughed. All save Bazin who looked sour and shocked.

To D’Artagnan, perhaps because of the knock on his head, everything seemed foggy and dreamlike. It wasn’t till he was falling asleep, rolling in his cloak, upon a mass of grass and dried leaves which the servants had gathered, that he reached within his sleeve for the perfumed handkerchief of Madame Bonacieux. And found it gone.

“It’s gone,” he said, sitting up. “It’s gone.”

“What is gone?” Athos, who was sleeping nearest him asked, his hand on his sword.

“The handkerchief Madame Bonacieux gave me.”

Athos relaxed and let go of his sword. “Ah, that. She will undoubtedly give you another. I doubt you will be wise enough to have nothing to do with her?”

“It’s the first time a woman has given me her handkerchief, ” D’Artagnan said, feeling unaccountably bereft.

“Ah. And we must all learn from our own experiences.”