Title: On the delights of parenthood
Rating: General
Disclaimer:
Synopsis: It is 1638, Blois. Athos, now 43, discovers that parenthood is not a party. Grimaud POV.

In the year of Our Lord 1638, August was a really hot month in our province, no man or beast could stand the heat wave but it did not seem to disturb my lord, Olivier de la Fère. That man has aged well, like a good wine, and he seemed in his mid thirties and has the energy and stamina of a man half his age. Placed in the saddle with a straight back, bended knees and relaxed arms he was the living picture of a young soldier. I like to see him that way, mostly because the exercise suits him, but more so now since this time he has the additional benefit of a prideful smile.

In front of his saddle, at the withers, the young master Raoul de Bragelonne mimicked all his father's postures, taking the mane as reins and seeming as the youngest soldier in the world.

I grew to love this child, who is almost completely the opposite of his father. I dreaded to say this aloud, as with most of my thoughts, because my master could fall into a rage if I, by chance, allude to the fact that the child has inherited something from his mother. The wound was still open and sometimes the memory of that night in Roche-l'Abeille haunted him. And I loved my master too much to inflict pain on him deliberately.

Today was Sunday morning and we had a pleasant trip to the château royal de Blois to which my master is frequently called, as his rank merited, to depart with Monseigeur Gaston d'Orléans, who was royally busied with the reconstruction of this old château. I am accustomed to long trips in the saddle, but this god-sent heat was draining my strength.

When we entered the big courtyard, the comte alighted and took his precious child, who was as happy as a kid could be after a horse ride, into his arms. My master took the small doublet and the new boots from the portmanteau and asked me to take care of the horses. I knew troubles are on the way.

"I do not want to wear this, pa...", I heard the young viscount whine while I returned from the stables.

I must clarify that the child is used to calling him pa at home, as my master and his young ward have reached an agreement between the child's needs of a father figure and my master's need of cuddles. It was an affectionate form of "parrain" that, with a little good will, could be mistaken for "papa".

"I don't want to either, but etiquette demands it," explained my master adjusting his child's doublet, in a vain attempt to hide the wrinkles in the cloth. "And, please, call me M. le comte."

"But… but…" stuttered the young viscount with wide pleading eyes, "at home I say pa..."

"At home I call you Raoul, M. le viscount, but we are not home."

"I am no viscount! I am RAOUL!" shouted the child, trying to tear the doublet away. "IT IS HOT AND I WANT TO GO HO...!"

I saw that M. le comte has detected the early signs of a tantrum and he rose his hand with a quick movement ending at his shoulder-height that cut short the wails like a charm.

"Raoul, I am as thrilled or less than you about this situation," he tried to explain to the sobbing, pouting child. "But we are to visit Monsieur Gaston and in Monsieur Gaston's home nobody is called by his Christian name: He is Monsieur, I am M. le comte and you are M. le viscount".

"And Grimaud?" asked the child. "Which title is for Grimaud?"

"Grimaud is just Grimaud." M. le comte stated almost at the end of his patience.

"Why can he keep his name and I CAN NOT?" the brat complained loudly.

An exasperated snort, one that I really seldom hear from my master, was my cue to be ready to intercede in behalf of Raoul, before the signal was more than a threat . M. le comte was getting fed up with the young master.

"For the same reason that he does not eat at Monsieur's table..."

"At home, he eats with us," Raoul protested between pouts.

"At home, I am lord and master!" I could see my master is trying to contain his awful temper. "Here, Monsieur calls the shots, Raoul..."

"I want to go home, pa…" He pleaded, still struggling with the doublet, almost tearful.

Nothing can bring my master to the brink of emotion like those childish tears. I saw him squat and placed his hands on the shoulders of Raoul to look him in the eye.

"Raoul, if Charlot orders you to do something when we are home," he started as he usually does when he tried to instill some sense into that young brain. "Do you obey him?"

"No..." he answered, but was a little hesitant.

"And if I order you to do something?"
Raoul did not need to think, he nodded.

"Well, I cannot disobey Monsieur, as much as you cannot disobey me."

"So?" he seemed impervious to the logic behind those questions.

"So, if Monsieur invites me to his table on Sunday, even if it is hot, even if I don't like my clothes, and even if I prefer to be somewhere else, I have to attend on Sunday!"

"May I go home?" asked the boy with humid eyes, "with Grimaud?"

"No, Raoul, you may not" he denies while hitting his own face with his palm and rising. "Firstly, because you are also expected; and, secondly because Grimaud cannot go home without me."

He looked at me over his shoulder and his expression was stern; but I could read clearly that it says: if you dare to contradict me, I will rip your skin off! I was fighting so hard against the mad laughter that was about to be unleashed when I realised that he was losing a fight with a four-year-old child. I just nodded.

"Besides…" my master continued after a couple of deep breaths, trying to keep a tight rein on his temper, "It makes me happy to see that you have an invitation to a place where your fine table manners and your politeness can be appreciated."

"Ohhhh..." the child whispered but he did not seem particular excited to me, "and... if I am not polite, I will not be invited again?"

I closed my fingers on the fine doublet of my master, just to remind him that he loves that boy and that they were still in the open view of the noble countrymen that keep coming into the courtyard. That touch seemed to cool the mounting rage that had started to seize him.

"No, Raoul. You will only achieve to get me to drill your manners at home, and I will not grant you permission to play outside with Blaisois until your behavior gives me complete satisfaction."

"I don't like to visit Monsieur..." young master Raoul knew that master Olivier was earnest. He vented his frustration on a pebble that was promptly kicked. "And I am hot..."

"That makes two of us, three if you count Grimaud, because we are standing out in the sun instead of entering the château where it is cool," my master replied nonchalantly. "Inside. Behave, and we'll see if I compensate you for this. Remember, M. le viscount, every action has consequences. March on!"

In a bad mood, but not daring to stall, the young master Raoul walked to the château. My master needed some moments to recover his calm, so I provided the much necessary delay by checking his attire and resetting the shoulders and retying some aglets on his sleeves.

"You are a saint!" he whispered heatedly, because I am placed at his back and I couldn't see his face. He usually did not need to speak his mind with me. "I know I used to be even worse than this brat."
I chortled without a sound, because I knew he was still worse than Raoul. He is un enfant gâté. I couldn't contain myself and placed a quick kiss at his nape.

"You are doing exceedingly well," I replied in low voice, trying not to arouse suspicion about us.

"Yes, I think we are, my good Grimaud," he murmured and then started off for the château.

Fin (1,377 words)

parrain / Godfather

un enfant gâté / a spoiled brat