Pondering the Captain’s orders seated on the bench just below his office window my muscular thighs astride of the bench. Brows knotted and pulled together wondering whether the Captain has taken leave of his senses! The letter firmly gripped between the fingers of my large hand orders are orders after all.

Porthos;

Use your contacts from the Court of Miracles and other such locations. Befriend as many pirates possible. We are going to aid them plunder the Spanish Main and thus weaken Spain’s economic growth! Do whatever you need to and secure their support. One name has been given to me as a possible willing supporter.

Minister of War Treville *and marked* Top secret

Shaking my head thinking of my little “Sis” the only one person this musketeer would trust in this mission, knowing her fear of returning to the Court of Miracle her loyalty will prevent her from saying no. Rolling massive shoulders the strain of constant training taking its toll, after  just putting my brute strength  to good use demolishing a target, young recruits in training frying in every direction,  Athos not amused scowls in bad humour .

The garrison resounds with the clash of swords, sweaty hairless faces of young recruits not ready to shave with the blade, the smell of testosterone infused with manly odours from musketeers hard in training many battles in war to come. The training area filled to capacity young boys under the rigid control of musketeer Athos including his sons Raoul and Rene.  Aramis showing the many disciplines required to be a King’s musketeer preparing for war.

Noticing the recruits are somewhat distracted, my attention turns to the main gate with a broad grin as the familiar figure of Iva sashays into the garrison, leading her horse behind her, jumping from the bench securing the captain’s letter inside my leather jacket, clapping hands together voice booming across the yard striding towards Iva, sliding a robust arm around Iva’s shoulders in a bear like hug with the usual greeting to my little sister. Iva laughs apparently pleased to see her brute of a brother, the beaming smile widens at the sound of her laughter. Placing a large robust arm around her tiny waist guiding her to the bench. unsure of her reaction to the captain’s orders. Sitting next to me Iva’s face turns pale while she listens, delivering my words short and to the point, been a man of few words. As predicted Iva is not happy stating she had vowed never to return to the slum. Laying my huge pallet like hand on her arm reassuring her quarms.  I would lay down my life to protect her, she had the promise not only of her brother but of a musketeer. Relaxing a little Iva starts reminiscing over the scams we pulled off as a formidable team, just to survive that hell hole, Iva agrees with reservations to return with me to the Court of Miracle.

Standing from the bench stretching to my full height towering above her, lifting Iva to her feet, like lifting a feather to a man of my proportions, making sure the captain’s letter is still secured safely. Giving Athos the usual nod, grinning at the assembled trainees, placing my hat on in a rocking movement securing it in place. Cocking my head indicating to Iva, striding with shoulders rolling over to the horses, now with a look of urgency glancing with concern for my little sister.  The court of miracles a place where we must act on instinct as the old days surviving on our wits.  Swinging up into the saddle, with ease for a large man of my massive frame, we ride out of the garrison. Only looking sideways with a glance at Iva who rides alongside, the fear of returning to the Court of Miracles etched on her features, a quick nod with no words spoken we ride in silence each with our own memories. The stench of death and human refuge to this day fills my nostrils; the wretched of humanity forced and degraded into poverty, begging for a crust to survive while thieves and murders would slit your  belly open for less, now we ride back to a place I crawled away from many years ago fighting to regain dignity to become an honorable soldier fighting with my brothers in arms.

Return from the frontline 

Fatigued I arrive at the musketeer garrison dismounting from my horses after many days of hard riding, throwing the reins of my horse to a stable boy, striding up the stairs bringing a report from the front  to Athos the regiment commander at the musketeer headquarters. Report given and ordered to rest, I descend the stairs into the courtyard below slumping onto the bench at the foot of the stairs. My muscular legs astride the bench bones wracked with pain from battle, my face drawn dresses in sweet and blood caked in dust, grateful for respite from the carnage of war. Reflecting on my luck thankful to be alive I burry my face in large gloved hands, elbows resting on leather breeches which are infused with the putrefying stench of war, horrific images of death etched in my brain, fighting hand to hand shoulder to shoulder as brave men fell their screams melded with the battle cries of brave men my brothers in arms, the aroma of death hangs like a putrid cloud as bodies left to rot where they fell the crows picking at the corpses. I Stand straightening and stretching a tense torso fists on hips, rolling my neck from side to side the stiffness easing, pulling robust arms bent at the elbow above my head clasping my wrists groaning with the pain as mighty shoulders click back into place, sword arm bearing the strain from clashing blades, my trusty sword serving me well. All a man can think off is soaking in a hot bath cleansing the body and soul from the mantle of death, respite from the horror that tares at the heart of France.