The Spanish Lady Returns (A Three Musketeers Fanfiction)

Spain, 1626 Part 1

Summer, 1626

It was a night lit by a full moon. A cloaked man moved silently through the streets, relying on the bright moon for light. He slipped into a seedy tavern. The other men who chose to patronize this particular tavern didn't even look up at the newcomer. Curiosity could get a man killed in an instant in this section of Paris.

Moving to the bar, the man asked, "You have it?" He set five gold coins on top of the bar as he spoke.

Reaching under the bar, the bartender brought up a sealed letter. With one hand, he collected the coins, and with the other, he handed over the missive. Without a word, he turned away.

Tucking the letter out of sight beneath his cloak, the man also turned away. He wove his way through the crowded tables, making for the door. He heard a couple of drunks get up to leave at the same time, one of them loud and boisterous. Though they followed behind them, the cloaked man chose to ignore them.

It was to be his last mistake.

He had only gone a few steps when there was a blade at his throat. "The letter," a voice said calmly.

"It would be of no use to you, señor," the cloaked man responded, holding very, very still. "Even I do not know what it contains. I am simply a messenger."

"I will not ask again. The letter!"

The Spaniard shrugged and began to reach under his cloak. "If you insist."

He froze as the blade at his throat increased pressure ever so slightly. "Not a move, monsieur. Porthos. Relieve him of the letter."

A large man came around the Spaniard's left side. In a gesture of compliance, the Spaniard spread his arms out. "It seems like he's going to cooperate, Aramis," Porthos commented, searching the man's pockets.

"Ah, I know these names," the Spaniard remarked, his tone conversational. "Aramis and Porthos. Musketeers, yes? Loyal to your king and country. Where is the third member of your oh-so-famous trio?"

"You are remarkably well informed for being a simple messenger," Aramis remarked, ignoring the question.

As Porthos brought the letter into view, the Spaniard reacted. He threw himself backwards, away from Aramis' blade. He twisted around, drawing his own sword as he moved. His first slash caught the back of Porthos' hand, making the big man drop the letter.

"I have yet to fail in any of my deliveries, señores," the man informed them. He moved to stand over the letter where it lay on the ground. "I have no desire to tarnish that reputation now."

"I'm afraid you'll have to," Aramis responded, parrying the man's next attack.

Grimacing at the pain in his hand, Porthos drew his sword and joined the fight. The Spaniard skillfully met both men, blocking each blow, and proving he was not just a messenger, as he'd claimed. He'd had extensive training. He held his ground over the letter, not risking a move to pick up and not letting the musketeers near it at the same time.

Finally, Aramis managed to get in close enough to grab the man's wrist. He twisted it just enough to force the Spaniard to let go of his sword. "You will be coming with us," Aramis told him. "And you will answer our questions."

"I can tell you nothing!"

The moment those words left the man's lips, a gunshot echoed in the street. The Spaniard stiffened and fell onto his knees. Cursing, Porthos bolted down the street in the direction the shot had come from, in search of who had done it. Aramis knelt down by the injured Spaniard.

"Tell me what you know," Aramis demanded. "Who sent you for this letter? Who were you to have delivered it to? You can still leave this world with a clean conscience!"