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When we left our valiant hero, his commanding officer had just declared his intentions of murdering him and Athos and returning to the French camp unemcumbered by musketeers, current or probationary.
D'Artagnan stared at his commander in amazement, feeling a hot blush of anger rising to his cheeks. The shock of this unexpected betrayal temporarily robbed him of speech. His hand grasped his sword hilt, but he did not draw; it would have done little good, with the barrel of the other man's pistol aimed at his heart. "You alone…" he spluttered. "But, our friends-"
"Are surely already slain." The lieutenant arched his eyebrows, looking bemused by d'Artagnan's surprise. "Come, you cannot have expected your treachery to go undetected."
"Treachery?" d'Artagnan repeated. Things were beginning to come clear now. The excitement of the skirmish with the Englishmen had driven all thoughts of Milady and the Duke of Buckingham out of his head, but now his expectations of an ambush, temporarily forgotten, leaped to the forefront of his mind again. "Yes, treachery indeed! How much did that fiend, Milady de Winter, pay you to assassinate us?"
"Pay me!" the lieutenant cried, his eyes flashing with anger, "She paid me nothing! I am loyal servant of France and of his Eminence the Cardinal, and I do not require bribes to fulfill my duties." His voice dwelt upon the word "bribes" with a wealth of disgust. "You and your silent friend there," he nodded at Athos, who was staring at him with a grim countenance, "thought to plot treason with our enemies, with the Queen and her lover, Buckingham. Do not try to deny it! I have been told all by one whose business it is to know, and who specially arranged this expedition in order to rid His Majesty's army of the two of you."
"You see, d'Artagnan," Athos said, a sad smile forming on his lips, "the vengeance of a women scorned is terrible." As he spoke, he looked significantly at d'Artagnan, nodding ever-so-slightly towards their captor. The lieutenant, carried away by the force of his words, had neglected to keep the pistols he held properly aimed at the two of them.
Seeing his opportunity, d'Artagnan lunged forward and made a grab for the nearer of the two pistols, snatching the weapon from the man's hand. At almost the same instant, Athos drew his sword and ran the lieutenant through the body. The remaining pistol discharged with a loud crack, the bullet narrowly missing Athos's skull, and the lieutenant collapsed from the saddle, blood spreading rapidly from the sword wound in his chest.
D’Artagnan and Athos dismounted and bent over the man. It was plain that he did not have long to live; his doublet was already saturated with blood, and a trickle of it issued forth from his lips.
“Should have listened to her.” The lieutenant coughed, expelling more blood. “She said...” another cough, “watch out for the quiet one.” He seemed about to say something more, but then his whole body seemed to shudder briefly, the breath leaving his lungs in a long sigh. He did not draw another.
Athos leaned down and used a corner of the dead man’s cloak to clean the blood off his sword, then returned it to its sheath. D’Artagnan, watching suppressed a shudder, not at the display of coldness toward a defeated enemy, but because the corpse was one more reminder of how far the Cardinal’s webs of influence extended, and how deadly they could be to himself and his friends now that a vengeful Milady was using them for her own purposes. He imagined her crouched in the middle of a network of spies and assassins like some lovely and poisonous spider, needing only to crook a finger and whisper in an ear in order to condemn a man miles away to death.
Their plans to prevent Buckingham’s assassination, which had seemed assured of success only days ago, now seemed the thinnest of shields, sure to fail at the first blow.
“I warned her not to try this sort of devilry,” Athos said softly. “I should have known she would not be deterred.”
“Yes,” d’Artagnan agreed. “It makes me more uneasy than ever about Constance—About Mme. Bonacieux,” he corrected himself. “There may be further plans for her. Even a convent may not be safe.”
“Indeed, the woman has no compunctions about attacking those we love, rather than meting out her revenge on its true targets.” Athos shrugged, and made to remount his horse. “But there is nothing to be done about that now. This expedition may have begun as one of her schemes, but those Englishmen and their boat were not of her making.” He swung himself up into the saddle, and gestured for d’Artagnan to mount himself as well. “There was one grain of truth in our would-be assassin’s words. By this time, Porthos and Aramis have either defeated their opponents, or been slain. If the one, they will certainly catch up to us on the way back to camp, if the other, well, they will not. Either way, it is out of our hands. There is nothing for us but to ride on and deliver our news.”
The truth of this observation was so plain that d’Artagnan quickly moved to comply, stopping first to relieve the dead lieutenant of his pistols, which he pocketed with the pragmatism that is so essential a part of the Gascon character.
The sun was bright overhead by this point, a cheerful contrast to the dark shadows that had cloaked d’Artagnan and his comrades as they had ridden out the previous night, but the sunlight did little to improve his dark mood. Once again, he was riding to deliver a message and leaving friends by the wayside in the process. It was becoming an uncomfortably familiar course of action.
*cue sad, melancholy music, and possibly close-ups of Athos brooding and d'Artagnan looking like a sad puppy*
D'Artagnan stared at his commander in amazement, feeling a hot blush of anger rising to his cheeks. The shock of this unexpected betrayal temporarily robbed him of speech. His hand grasped his sword hilt, but he did not draw; it would have done little good, with the barrel of the other man's pistol aimed at his heart. "You alone…" he spluttered. "But, our friends-"
"Are surely already slain." The lieutenant arched his eyebrows, looking bemused by d'Artagnan's surprise. "Come, you cannot have expected your treachery to go undetected."
"Treachery?" d'Artagnan repeated. Things were beginning to come clear now. The excitement of the skirmish with the Englishmen had driven all thoughts of Milady and the Duke of Buckingham out of his head, but now his expectations of an ambush, temporarily forgotten, leaped to the forefront of his mind again. "Yes, treachery indeed! How much did that fiend, Milady de Winter, pay you to assassinate us?"
"Pay me!" the lieutenant cried, his eyes flashing with anger, "She paid me nothing! I am loyal servant of France and of his Eminence the Cardinal, and I do not require bribes to fulfill my duties." His voice dwelt upon the word "bribes" with a wealth of disgust. "You and your silent friend there," he nodded at Athos, who was staring at him with a grim countenance, "thought to plot treason with our enemies, with the Queen and her lover, Buckingham. Do not try to deny it! I have been told all by one whose business it is to know, and who specially arranged this expedition in order to rid His Majesty's army of the two of you."
"You see, d'Artagnan," Athos said, a sad smile forming on his lips, "the vengeance of a women scorned is terrible." As he spoke, he looked significantly at d'Artagnan, nodding ever-so-slightly towards their captor. The lieutenant, carried away by the force of his words, had neglected to keep the pistols he held properly aimed at the two of them.
Seeing his opportunity, d'Artagnan lunged forward and made a grab for the nearer of the two pistols, snatching the weapon from the man's hand. At almost the same instant, Athos drew his sword and ran the lieutenant through the body. The remaining pistol discharged with a loud crack, the bullet narrowly missing Athos's skull, and the lieutenant collapsed from the saddle, blood spreading rapidly from the sword wound in his chest.
D’Artagnan and Athos dismounted and bent over the man. It was plain that he did not have long to live; his doublet was already saturated with blood, and a trickle of it issued forth from his lips.
“Should have listened to her.” The lieutenant coughed, expelling more blood. “She said...” another cough, “watch out for the quiet one.” He seemed about to say something more, but then his whole body seemed to shudder briefly, the breath leaving his lungs in a long sigh. He did not draw another.
Athos leaned down and used a corner of the dead man’s cloak to clean the blood off his sword, then returned it to its sheath. D’Artagnan, watching suppressed a shudder, not at the display of coldness toward a defeated enemy, but because the corpse was one more reminder of how far the Cardinal’s webs of influence extended, and how deadly they could be to himself and his friends now that a vengeful Milady was using them for her own purposes. He imagined her crouched in the middle of a network of spies and assassins like some lovely and poisonous spider, needing only to crook a finger and whisper in an ear in order to condemn a man miles away to death.
Their plans to prevent Buckingham’s assassination, which had seemed assured of success only days ago, now seemed the thinnest of shields, sure to fail at the first blow.
“I warned her not to try this sort of devilry,” Athos said softly. “I should have known she would not be deterred.”
“Yes,” d’Artagnan agreed. “It makes me more uneasy than ever about Constance—About Mme. Bonacieux,” he corrected himself. “There may be further plans for her. Even a convent may not be safe.”
“Indeed, the woman has no compunctions about attacking those we love, rather than meting out her revenge on its true targets.” Athos shrugged, and made to remount his horse. “But there is nothing to be done about that now. This expedition may have begun as one of her schemes, but those Englishmen and their boat were not of her making.” He swung himself up into the saddle, and gestured for d’Artagnan to mount himself as well. “There was one grain of truth in our would-be assassin’s words. By this time, Porthos and Aramis have either defeated their opponents, or been slain. If the one, they will certainly catch up to us on the way back to camp, if the other, well, they will not. Either way, it is out of our hands. There is nothing for us but to ride on and deliver our news.”
The truth of this observation was so plain that d’Artagnan quickly moved to comply, stopping first to relieve the dead lieutenant of his pistols, which he pocketed with the pragmatism that is so essential a part of the Gascon character.
The sun was bright overhead by this point, a cheerful contrast to the dark shadows that had cloaked d’Artagnan and his comrades as they had ridden out the previous night, but the sunlight did little to improve his dark mood. Once again, he was riding to deliver a message and leaving friends by the wayside in the process. It was becoming an uncomfortably familiar course of action.
*cue sad, melancholy music, and possibly close-ups of Athos brooding and d'Artagnan looking like a sad puppy*
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