. . . “You will have to excuse our lack of manners, but we were not expecting visitors,” Aramis told the boy, then took the role of Athos making the introductions. He nodded to the blond haired man in the corner. “Allow me to introduce you to Athos, D’Artagnan and Porthos. And I am Aramis.”
She acknowledged the greetings formally. Athos looked at the boy and finally recognition dawned on his throbbing brain. From Langeac. “I didn’t expect to meet you in Marseilles,” she commented. “Does your father know you’re here?” Laurel didn’t answer, just blinked stupidly and remained silent. She blinked again as she tried to clear her suddenly dazed senses from her.
It was uncharacteristically hot here, and an incessant hum began to beat louder and louder behind his eyeballs. Why was the room spinning? She wobbled uneasily to her feet, wobbling half to the side. At that moment Athos noticed the crimson streak that stretched along his side.
With a lightning-quick move, he jumped to his feet to help.
“I’ll be fine,” Laurel insisted stubbornly. But her body betrayed her and she lost the last vestiges of her balance. Her last coherent thought was that her injury would have to be more serious than she thought.
Athos caught her as she fell forward and, with Porthos’s help, carefully carried her to the bed. The older musketeer stood over the young man and fixed his gaze on Porthos for a moment. Bring me that basin of water and some rags. I’ll see what I can do for the boy. Porthos retrieved the items and gave them to his companion. Typical of Athos to take command even when he wasn’t feeling well.
D’Artagnan froze, indecision tormented him. He had to say something before the situation got completely out of control. “Athos,” he finally said, and the musketeer stopped his preparations to look at d’Artagnan. “I really don’t think it’s wise for a crowd like that to be here. I could take care of it.”
“D’Artagnan, I have no time to argue with you.” This boy needs attention, and you don’t know anything about treating sword wounds. Not enough anyway,’ Athos replied dryly, turning his attention from himself to Laurel.
D’Artagnan took a step towards the bed and the motionless figure on it. His brow furrowed in an outward reflection of the confusion within. Athos, you don’t understand.
“I understand that this boy needs help now and not in five minutes,” Athos said as he began to rip the cloth from the wound.
“That’s right,” replied d’Artagnan, despite himself. “That’s not a boy you’re dealing with. Christophe is a woman. A lady.”
“That?” Athos looked at the young man in astonishment and saw that he was completely serious. Porthos, Aramis, perhaps you should leave. D’Artagnan and I will take care of this. Porthos and Aramis were quick to discuss the matter, simply leaving their companions to attend to the wounded man.
“Grab some more rags, come over here and give me a hand. I have to stop the bleeding,” Athos instructed as he tore the last cloth from the wound. It is better that the woman does not have an attack of modesty when she wakes up. By her own masquerade, the lady didn’t like her conventions very much, so she had no right to get hysterical because a strange man saw her naked body when she was tending a wound. And Athos really wasn’t in the mood for that.
“Water, please,” the patient croaked when she woke up. She immediately placed a glass in her hand, she drank it, and her eyes met Athos’s. “I guess I owe you all an explanation.”
“That could be very useful,” Athos replied. At least without a bout of modesty. It was not even mentioned who had served her. “Whenever you feel like it, we’re all waiting to hear.”
Laurel tried to sit up and her head whirled. “Take it easy,” Athos said as he helped her up against the bedpost.
“How long have I been here?” she suddenly asked and was informed that two days had passed. “I have to go”.
“ladysaid Athos, using the most formal address available to him. You will not go anywhere for at least several days. In any case, you are not leaving until you explain to me what brings you to Marseilles and why the deceit. They both looked up as the door opened and Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan entered. “Perhaps,” suggested Athos. “You could start by telling us who you really are.”
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes resignedly. She opened them again and looked from one man to the other. “My name is Laurel Christophe d’Anlass, daughter and heiress, more or less, of the Marquis de Langeac. As to why I am in Marseilles, suffice it to say that my home was no longer safe for me.”
“I suppose you’ll have to forgive me then,” Porthos informed Laurel. But it doesn’t seem like you’re safer in Marseille than in Langeac.
“That was just bad luck,” she replied with surprising energy. “Those men happened to stumble upon my horse and identified it as the property of the Marquis de Langeac when a dealer pointed me out as the young man he had last seen riding the animal. And, well, you know the rest.” Hopefully, Rebelle was still safe where the attackers had left him. Another thing to check when he was able to get out and move.
“With all due respect, ladyhow do we know he is telling us the truth now? – asked d’Artagnan, doing his best not to insult the lady, although she was making that goal quite difficult.
“Not you,” Laurel admitted, absently adding that lady it was not her proper title since she was not married. “There is no possible way I can convince you that I am who I pretend to be. I assure you that falsely stating that I am Laurel d’Anlass would be suicidal. So I place my life in your hands; you have already saved my life.” life twice by my calculations, so I hope they don’t kill me now trying to confirm my identity,” she told the musketeers, particularly d’Artagnan.
Athos gestured his three companions back and sat down next to the woman whose wound he had recently treated. “How could I kill you trying to confirm your identity?”
He lowered his eyes and winced as the wound nearly opened again. Silence filled the room, and no one moved for a few moments that seemed to go on forever.
“Promise me that what I tell you will not go beyond the four of you. It is not only my life that depends on the secret, but many others as well, including the king’s.” Somehow, his instincts favored believing his statement. One by one they gave her her words, and she proceeded to tell them about her past. She told them how her mother had died in childbirth and how her little brother had died a week later, then explained that her father decided that the best way to protect his only living child was to take her with him in their missions for the king. . . .