by Simon Hawke
She had inquired as to the whereabouts of the nearest tailor and the carriage took her to an exclusive little shop, patronized only by the wealthier citizens of Paris. The tailor had readily accepted her explanation that she was buying a surprise birthday present for her little brother, who was almost exactly the same size as herself. He had summoned a seamstress to measure her, telling Andre that when she presented the suit to her little brother, he would be more than happy to perform any necessary alterations free of charge. If the tailor or the seamstress were surprised at her unusual height and dimensions, they kept their comments to themselves. If the lady had arms and shoulders like a laborer's, that was no concern of theirs, especially since she didn't even remark upon the price.
The white silk shirt would feel good against her skin and the black brocade breeches would be infinitely more comfortable than skirts. The high leather boots would be a distinct improvement over her dainty little shoes. The doublet and cloak were also in rich black brocade, "the finest cloth available," the tailor had insisted. He had also insisted upon the "necessary lace adornments" about the collar, sleeves and boot tops, without which no proper gentleman could consider himself dressed. A dark red sash would complete the ensemble, along with an ornately plumed hat that would feel much more comfortable upon her head than that abominable wig. Attired in this manner, she would look like a dashing, well-to-do young cavalier. The tailor was ecstatic when she ordered two more suits, identical in nature. Still, he was not so ecstatic that his aesthetic sensibilities did not demand that he press upon her a change in color at the very least, if not in cloth. It made little difference to her, so she ordered one suit in burgundy and one in mauve. Delighted with himself, the tailor threw in several pairs of gauntlets in matching shades and two extra baldricks. "Oh, and a full complement of handkerchiefs, as well," he added, magnanimously. He thanked mademoiselle profusely for her business and promised that the clothes would be delivered to her hotel.
Andre spent the remainder of the morning driving around Paris. Hunter would be angry, but she didn't care. After all, it wasn't as though she was some pampered, helpless woman wandering about Paris alone and unprotected. She viewed the city from the safety of her carriage and she was perfectly capable of protecting herself if the need arose.
She didn't care for much of what she saw. Paris was dense and crowded and noisy beyond belief. How was it possible for people to live like this, like rabbits in a warren? If this was an example of what the future held in store for her, she wasn't at all certain that she wanted any part of it. Yet, on the other hand, there was a majesty to Paris, a beauty and elegance that far surpassed anything she had ever seen before. As the carriage passed the Louvre, she gasped. The Palais du Louvre was a far, far cry from the castle strongholds of her time. No builders of the 12th century would ever have been able to achieve such grandeur. Compared to Louis XIII, Prince John of Anjou was a peasant. The carriage took her along the Seine and she marveled at the Cathedral of Notre Dame, towering over all the other buildings on the Rue de la Cite. How had its builders been able to construct such a massive edifice; how had they built the majestic flying buttresses? If this was what the architects of the 17th century could achieve, what wonders awaited her in the 27th? She drove through the Marais, where the Knights Templar had once held their fief-a large, vast fortress of a temple built in 1107. That reminded her of one Templar in particular and, for a moment, there was a sinking feeling in her stomach as she recalled Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, the man who had murdered her brother, Marcel. She had avenged her brother's death, but it had not made the pain of her loss easier to bear. At present there was no trace of the temple. The Marais was now a residential area, the square filled with red brick and white stone buildings three stories high with window surrounds. On past la Place Royale, the carriage drove by the Bastille. The Bassin de Parsenal brought water from the Seine to the moat around the prison. Andre looked upon the massive stone walls and thought of the people rotting within them, never again to see the light of day. Hunter had told her a great deal about Paris, but seeing it for herself made her realize for the first time just how primitive she must seem to him, a man to whom this wondrous city would seem backward.
It was nearing noon and she decided it was time to turn back. There was still much more of the city that she had yet to see, but there was no point to trying to see it all in just one day. It would have been impossible, at any rate. As they passed the Carmes-Dechaux, Andre directed the coachman to stop for a while. Here was a small pocket of silence in the bustling city. She got out and walked slowly toward the convent, a large and windowless building surrounded by barren fields. Here, at least, there was something of the flavor of her time. She walked along the side of the building, running her hand along its wall. Curiously, although she had done nothing for the past several hours more strenuous than sitting in the carriage, she felt exhausted. She would just rest here for a moment in the peaceful silence of the courtyard of the nunnery. As she came to the corner of the building, almost to the inner courtyard, she heard the sound of running footsteps and hesitated. Foolishly, she had left her rapier behind in the carriage, along with her dagger. She was unarmed. She spun around quickly, but the footsteps were not coming from behind her. Cautiously, she peeked around the corner.
The running figure burst into the courtyard and paused a moment, out of breath. It was a young man, blond and bedraggled, wearing old and dusty clothes and a rapier that seemed far too long for him to handle. He glanced quickly around the courtyard and his gaze fell upon an older man, with a bandaged shoulder, dressed in the uniform of the king's musketeers, sitting casually atop a hitching post and picking at the mud upon his boots with his rapier.
"I trust I am not late, Monsieur?" said the blond youth.
The musketeer slowly raised his head, while he continued prodding at his boot absently. "No, you are quite punctual," he said. "I, myself, have only just arrived moments ago. I shall, however, have to beg your indulgence for a short while, as I have asked two friends of mine to be my seconds and, as you can see, they have not yet arrived."
"Ah," said the young man. "Ah. Well. I must confess that, since I am new to Paris, I have no seconds, Monsieur."
"What, none at all? Do you not know anyone in Paris?"
"Well, Monsieur de Treville…"
"Yes, well, he would hardly do, would he? The captain of the musketeers is hardly in a position to disobey the edict against dueling. Well, I must say, this is most irregular. Dueling with a youth who has no seconds, not good for appearances at all, I am afraid. I'll have the air of a boy-slayer."
"Not so much so," said D'Artagnan, bowing slightly. "After all, you do me the honor of drawing a sword against me while you still suffer from a wounded shoulder. I am afraid it is I who shall suffer from appearances, Monsieur, if I should kill a man whose wound prevented him from properly defending himself."
"Well spoken. However, I shall take the left hand," said the musketeer. "I usually do so in such circumstances. I use both hands equally well and a left-handed swordsman can be quite troublesome to one who is not used to it. I fear that the disadvantage will be yours, Monsieur. I regret that I did not inform you of it earlier."
"That's quite considerate of you, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said. "I hope my inadvertent collision with you earlier this day has not overly aggravated your condition."
"Well, you hurt me devilishly, but I'll survive. Thank you for your concern."
"If I may, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said, "my mother has given me a wondrous balsam with miraculous healing properties. I am certain that, in three days time, it would effect a cure upon your wound and then, when you are less inconvenienced, I would still be honored to cross swords with you."
"Well, that is a generous offer, indeed," said the musketeer, "not that I would accept it for a moment, but it savors of a gentleman a league off. It seems that you are not at all the ill-mannered lout I took you for. I'm almost sorry that I'm going to have to kill you. Merde.
Where are those two?"
Listening to this exchange of courtesies, Andre was pleased to note that chivalry still seemed alive in the 17th century. She decided to linger and watch the outcome of this meeting.
"If you are in haste, Monsieur, and anxious to dispatch me at once," D'Artagnan said, "pray do not inconvenience yourself. I stand ready."
"Well spoken once again," said the musketeer. "I'm rather beginning to like you, young man. No, I think we'll wait for my seconds to arrive, if you don't mind. It would be the proper thing to do. Ah, here comes one of them right now."
Andre saw a stout, swarthy-looking man dressed flamboyantly in a cerulean blue doublet, crimson velvet cloak and gold-worked baldrick strut into the courtyard. The young man seemed quite surprised at his appearance.
"What? Is your second Monsieur Porthos?" he asked the musketeer.
"Yes," said the musketeer. "Why, is that not acceptable to you?"
"Oh, no, not at all," D'Artagnan said. "I'm perfectly agreeable."
"And here comes-"
"Monsieur Aramis," D'Artagnan finished for him. A tall, handsome, slim man approached. He was dressed more simply, in dark hues, and he had a somewhat pale look about him. He wore a delicate, thin moustache and he moved with an air of graceful nonchalance.
"You know Aramis?" said Athos.
"Only in a manner of speaking," said D'Artagnan, weakly.
"What, Athos!" Porthos said. "Don't tell me this is the man you're going to fight?"
"Yes," said Athos, "he-"
"But he is the man I am to fight, as well!"
"But not until one o'clock," said D'Artagnan, somewhat sheepishly.
"But I am to fight him, also!" said Aramis.
D'Artagnan cleared his throat uneasily. "Ah, yes, at two o'clock, Monsieur."
Andre, watching from concealment, suppressed a chuckle.
Athos raised his eyebrows. "It seems you've had quite a busy morning, my friend," he said to D'Artagnan. "And to think, you've only just arrived in Paris."
"Well, now that you three gentlemen are here together," said D'Artagnan, "permit me to offer you my excuses."
Athos frowned. "See here, young man," he said, "this is a most serious matter. If you-"
"Oh, no, you misunderstand me," said D'Artagnan. "I only meant to offer my excuses in the event that I am killed before I can give all of you your satisfaction, for Monsieur Athos has the right to kill me first, you see, and then Monsieur Porthos would come second and you, Monsieur Aramis, would be the third. I merely wish to apologize in advance in case I do not last out the afternoon."
"Very nicely said," said Porthos. "See here, Athos, what is your quarrel with this lad?"
"To tell the truth, I'm not sure I recall," said Athos. "He hurt my shoulder, I think; it arose somehow out of that."
"And what is your quarrel with him?" Aramis asked Porthos.
"Why, it's… it's… Damn me, I've forgotten! But it is of no matter, whatever it was, we'll settle it between ourselves. And what of you?"
"Ah, well, it was a matter of some delicacy-"
"Come, come, gentlemen," said Athos, "we're wasting time. For all we know, this youngster has other appointments to keep, at three, four and five o'clock, no doubt."
"On the contrary, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said, with some slight embarrassment. "I am at your disposal for the remainder of the afternoon." He drew his sword. "And now, if you're quite ready…"
"Not now, not now," said Aramis. "The cardinal's guards, the cardinal's guards! Sheathe swords, gentlemen, quickly!"
Andre saw a company of red cloaked men-at-arms approaching quickly. At first, she was puzzled by the last remark she overheard, and then she recalled that the one named Athos had mentioned something about there being an edict against dueling. She felt disappointed. She had been looking forward to a display of swordsmanship, so that she might assess her own skills in relation to those of these men.
"Aha, what have we here?" said the leader of the guards. "Musketeers dueling then, is it? And what's become of the edicts, eh?"
"Peace, Jussac," Athos said. "We were merely about to settle some small private matters. I promise you, were our roles reversed, we would not interfere with you in your own business."
"But you would not have to answer to the cardinal, Monsieur Athos," Jussac said. "No, I am afraid that I cannot allow it. I will have to ask you to sheathe your swords and follow me."
"I'm afraid that would be impossible," said Athos.
"You refuse, then?"
"I'm afraid we must."
"I warn you, sir, if you refuse to go along peaceably, we will have to charge you."
"Five against three," said Porthos, dryly. "Hardly the best of odds, I would say."
"Five against four," D'Artagnan said, stepping closer to them. “That is, if you'll allow me.''
"We'll allow you, we'll allow you," Porthos said.
"Just one moment," Athos said. "He is not a musketeer. This is none of his affair, you know."
Aramis cleared his throat. "Uh, Athos, in case it has escaped your notice, there are five of them."
"But moments ago, we were to duel with him," said Athos.
"Just so," said Porthos. "We can kill him later, if you wish."
"Come, come, gentlemen," said Jussac. "What is it to be?"
"What is your name, young fellow?" Athos said.
"D'Artagnan."
"Well," he said, glancing at the oversized rapier, "I hope you know how to use that thing."
"But not too well," said Porthos, remembering their prior engagement.
The three musketeers drew their swords. "All for one," said Athos. The guards charged. "The hell with it," he said and sidestepped Jussac's rush.
Andre watched what followed with a great deal of interest and not a little amusement. The combatants used the Florentine style, meaning that one hand held the rapier while the other used a dagger, but to say that there was any style to their combat was to stretch all definitions of the term. There was none of the graceful intricacy which, according to Hunter, characterized the art of fencing. As he might have said it himself, instead of swash and buckle, it was more like slash and flail. Of all of them, only Jussac and Athos displayed some semblance of the finer points of swordsmanship. Jussac's manner of fighting was the closest to the classical form, whereas Athos fought with a minimum of motion and wasted effort, a sharp contrast to his comrades. Aramis moved like a dancer, using his footwork to compensate for his lack of strength. He played his opponent like a toreador working a bull, deflecting the guard's blade and moving gracefully sideways, causing the man's own forward momentum to carry him past, whereupon Aramis's blade would describe a lightning-quick series of overly flamboyant arabesques over the guard's exposed back and buttocks. Not one was a killing stroke, but the cumulative effect of all those pretty slashes would, if continued, result in his opponent bleeding to death.
Porthos was literally comical to watch. His movements were exaggerated, jerky, and he appeared to fight as though he were a man in abject panic. Yet, instead of fear, there was an expression of intense concentration on his face, forehead deeply furrowed, eyebrows knitted, tongue protruding slightly from his mouth. His footwork was that of a lumbering plough horse, ponderous and clumsy, and he looked as though at any moment he would trip over his own two feet. His thrusts and slashes were the most pronounced of all the fighters.
Athos, by contrast, appeared totally relaxed and insouciant. He was economy personified and he allowed his opponent to come to him, preferring to work close. Andre soon saw the reason why. At very close quarters, the bullish strength of the elder musketeer was a decisive advantage. He used his dagger sparingly, but when he did it was either to bludgeon his opponent with its blunt end or to attempt a stab into the upper torso. Curiously, he seemed unconcerned about his defense and, though he had avoided his opponent's rush at him and disposed of the next guard quickly, Andre saw how a skilled swordsman, wary of being lured in close, could take advantage
of his careless guard.
Of them all, the blond youth named D'Artagnan was the most interesting to watch. He, alone, disdained to use a dagger. In fact, he didn't seem to have one, though he did not seem to suffer from its absence. His style, if style it could be called, was the most peculiar, yet by the same token, it was the most effective. Quite obviously, the guards had never come across anyone who used his sword in quite the same manner as he did and they seemed at a loss to deal with him. He used his free hand to alternately take a two-handed grip upon his oversized rapier and to wrench his opponents about as though he were a wrestler. Andre had to chuckle as she saw him deal with two of the guards at once. He parried the thrust of the first with a vicious back-handed two-hand blow, using his rapier almost as though it were a quarterstaff. His parry almost spun the guard around completely and, as the second guard came at him, D'Artagnan stepped in close to the first, his hand darting out to grasp him by the throat. Unprepared for this unorthodox maneuver, the first guard was momentarily shocked, giving D'Artagnan just enough time to parry the thrust of the second guard, then slam a knee into the first guard's groin. The man sagged and D'Artagnan released him, to concentrate his attention upon the second guard. With a bizarre, two-handed circular parry, he brought the guard's rapier around and down to touch the ground. Then he stepped upon it and lunged in to smash the guard of his rapier into the man's face. A quick thrust and it was over; then he was rushing to help Porthos with his man.
Porthos gratefully relinquished his opponent to D'Artagnan, who attacked with exuberance and a boyish glee, grinning from ear to ear. In seconds, Jussac found himself sorely beset. Athos, having killed his man, joined Porthos, who was leaning against the hitching post and mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.
"Would that I could help him," Porthos said, breathing heavily, "but my breakfast still weighs heavily upon me and I fear that I am all worn out. Besides, he doesn't seem to require my assistance. God, did you see that? What a ghastly blow! I've never seen the like of it! He handles his sword as though it were a garden hoe!"
