Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas.
This is rated M for many reasons, mainly gore and violence, with some disturbing imagery.
Heard some rather disturbing whispers about recently. Let's see how things work out.
Chapter 2
D'Artagnan, you… how could you do this to us? Athos quietly chided his dead comrade as he stared at that sad tableau before him. His tears had stopped for now. Aramis had his hands clasped and his lips moved silently, seeking solace in prayers. Porthos was sitting sullenly by the fire, absent-mindedly stroking a plump housecat which had settled in his lap. No one really felt like speaking. A brawny farmwife had brought them some watered wine and coarse bread paired with a soft cheese. Even though they had eaten nothing since noon, they barely touched their food. D'Artagnan's mother was inconsolable. The poor woman had her apron up to her face and was weeping softly into it while the other women tried to console her. D'Artagnan's father had taken to his bed. The shock of his only child's death proved too much for his heart.
Wolf attacks were not uncommon in the countryside. Several people have been killed by the beasts in the vicinity since the start of the year and that was enough for a petition to be sent to Paris. King Louis XIII replied by sending his royal huntsmen. Even the local comte was taking part in the hunt. So far, their efforts have come to nought.
It was not fair. D'Artagnan had everything to live for… And the manner in which he was taken from them… Torn to pieces by wild beasts… Athos felt his heart twist thinking of the terror which without a doubt filled the young man's last moments on earth. How could God allow this to happen?
Athos finally tore his eyes away from the coffin. Their young guide was sitting on a stool by the front door, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
"You better go to bed, boy…" Athos said gruffly. "It must be past your bedtime.
The boy scowled. "I'm not an infant, monsieur. And my name is Jean-Baptiste," he stuck out his chin in a manner which reminded Athos of D'Artagnan.
"I don't care if your name is Jean-Baptiste, Saint Francis or King Charles of England. You look barely a day past eight summers…"
"I'm ten! Just I'm a little small… OW!" the young boy rubbed his head where the farmwife had rapped him with a ladle.
"Forgive this little half-wit, sir. I'll teach him not to be rude to his betters," the woman apologised and seized the protesting boy by the ear. Before she could chide him further, the front door was all but torn from its hinges by the sudden entry of a party of men. Instinctively, the musketeers leapt to their feet, hands going to their swords. Then they saw the hounds clustering about the men's feet. They were huntsmen, some of whom wore the uniforms of royal huntsmen. Athos and his friends relaxed and let their hands drop to their sides. Jean-Baptiste made use of the distraction to flee from the country woman's grasp.
"No sign of hair or hide of the beasts!" one of the huntsmen flung his muddy cloak onto the floor in disgust. "You!" he snapped at Mrs D'Artagnan. "Quit your wailing there! Get us and our hounds some food!" He was a man whose face spoke of a foul temper. One hapless hound wandered too close to his boot and was dealt a kick in the ribs. Whimpering piteously, the hound scampered to join its fellows by the hearth. His beady eyes barely took in the mourners huddled against the far wall. Mrs D'Artagnan and another woman retreated to the kitchen.
"So this is the latest victim of those beasts…" he spat and strode over to the coffin. "Should've left him out there… Wolves always return to a kill… Perhaps there is still time to put him back out…"
"Gervaise, please! That's not Christian!" a farm woman protested but the hunter disregarded her. She gripped the ladle in her hand like a weapon.
The three musketeers tensed. If the man took one more step forward…
"Don't you dare touch my son!" The tone of authority in that voice was so much like de Treville's that the trio instinctively snapped to attention. The owner was standing at the top of a flight of stairs, leaning heavily on a walking stick. A young girl hastened forward to help him but D'Artagnan senior walked slowly down the stairs on his own. The resemblance was striking even with the creases and grey hair of age. The musketeers could see the determined light in the older man's eyes. It was the same light they had seen many times in the younger D'Artagnan's eyes.
Grevaise was much taller and bulkier than the bereaved father, but the elder D'Artagnan was not one to be daunted. He straightened up as much as he could and stepped between his dead son and the hunting party. The huntsman stepped forward a step. Silently, Porthos strode over to stand beside D'Artagnan's father. Aramis and Athos slipped over just as silently and faced Grevaise. The huntsman scowled. He had enough wits to know he was no match for three able-bodied men, even more so when his fellow hunters murmured darkly behind his back about his proposed plan to use the victim's corpse as bait. He was a proud man and the thought of conceding defeat to an old farmer did not appeal to him.
For a few heartbeats they stood thus in immobile silence. The sound of carriage wheels and hoof-beats came in through the window.
"The comte! Comte Reynald is here!" Jean-Baptiste bounded into the room. He was swiftly followed by a well-dressed nobleman. The peasants and huntsmen bowed. Even Grevaise was obliged to observe the necessary etiquette, being of lower rank. The comte calmly took in the scene before him. His gaze rested a fraction of a moment longer on Athos as a spark of recognition sank in. It has been years since they had last seen each other, back when Athos was still a youngster accompanying his father on visits to the households of other nobles.
Before either comte could speak, another figure entered the room.
"Lady Isabelle…" the whispers of surprise and awe rushed through the room like a soft breeze. The young lady was modestly dressed but her simple attire only served to better bring out her beauty. She lowered her hood back to reveal a wealth of dark tresses framing an angelic face. Her green eyes were intelligent as she assessed the situation before her.
"Monsieur Bertrand, my condolences on your loss…" the lady spoke and took hold of D'Artagnan senior's hands and held them between hers. "We will remember you in our prayers…"
"Thank you, my lady…" Bertrand wept softly, touched by the young woman's kindness.
"Where is the other? We hear that there is a living one…" Comte Reynald cut in.
"Poor Louise is at her grandmother's and grievously wounded," the farm woman with the ladle replied. The comte glared at the woman and then Bertnand.
"Monsieur, you will do well to exert more control over your servants." Bertrand tensed at that reprimand.
"Papa, we must call on the poor girl's family…" Lady Isabelle placed a dainty hand on her father's arm and coaxed. She turned to the huntsman. "Monsieur Grevaise, we really must insist that you and your men accept the hospitality of our chateau…"
"M-merci, my lady…" Grevaise had the look of a stunned schoolboy. Comte Reynald only snorted softly.
Bertnand expressed his profuse thanks to the musketeers once the hunting party and the comte's entourage took to the road for the chateau. "Georges has written much about you… He called you his best friends… Marianne, please prepare some rooms for our guests… we can't possibly let George's friends sleep in the kitchen." The farm wife who had defied Grevaise earlier hurried off to do her master's bidding.
They would like to sit up at the wake a bit longer, but the weariness of their day took their toll on them and they were so falling over with drowsiness. With great reluctance, they retired for the night.
Marianne had prepared two guest rooms upstairs. Porthos took the smaller of the two while Aramis and Athos took the other. Too exhausted to even undress for bed, they fell asleep in their clothes. Aramis awoke the next morning to find himself alone. Sounds of the household bustling about the morning chores drifted in through the window. Stretching and trying to smooth the creases in his clothes, he strode out into the hallway. Porthos had left his room door open and was still snoring softly. Aramis peered in and was amused to see that his large friend had his head and shoulders hanging off the end of the bed while his feet were draped over the bedstead.
"Athos?" The older musketeer was standing at the doorway of another bedroom. "Athos?" Aramis called again.
Athos did not seem to hear him, so he went to join his friend.
D'Artagnan. It was D'Artagnan's room they were looking at. Every inch of the room spoke of the dead man's presence. A rumpled shirt was carelessly tossed over the bed, which had been made. A book sat open on the sturdy table by the window, which had been left open a crack, allowing sunlight to spill into the room. Wordlessly, Athos strode over to the window and fastened the shutters.
"Abbe, come… we must go to the funeral…" Athos said quietly. "Before that, let's get Porthos out of bed."
"Jean-Baptiste! You get back here!" Marianne's voice shrieked as a small shadow darted past the stairs, barrelling into the musketeers coming down the stairs. The little imp squirmed free and ran out of the door.
"That boy will be the death of me!" the irate housekeeper wiped her hands on her apron. Her cap was askew and soot smeared her face and garments. She saw the guests. "Would you like some breakfast first, monsieur? There is still some time before the funeral…"
"We're not hungry," Athos replied curtly.
"Then go wash up. You can't possibly go to the church like that…" Marianne said. The three men glanced down at their clothes and swore when they saw the sooty marks left on them by the escaping Jean-Baptiste.
"One would think that child would be better behaved in such circumstances," Athos growled.
"Jean-Baptiste has always been a bit wild. He was so much better behaved with Master Georges and Old Monsieur Bertrand…" Marianne shrugged.
"Are Georges' friends awake?" a thin voice called out from above. It was D'Artagnan's mother. The poor woman's eyes were swollen from crying. She was dressed to go to church. Her husband supported her arm as they picked their way down the stairs.
"Marianne… Please prepare a basket. We will be calling on Louise and her grandmother after the funeral, and put in that jar of salve…" Mrs D'Artagnan managed to compose herself enough to instruct the housekeeper. "Get some turnips and carrots… We heard those hounds dug up their vegetable garden…"
"Trying time, ma'am," Marianne remarked dryly. "The king's own huntsmen and not one of them able to catch so much as a hare. I heard from old Pierre that his son came to blows with one of the hunters after their hounds got into the Bourdins' flock and killed a lamb. No shepherd or goatherd is risking going out to the pastures for fear of the beasts…"
"I don't see young Jean-Baptiste around… That boy hasn't gone into the woods again, has he?" Bertrand cut in. "It's not safe…"
"That boy just took off through that door…" Porthos replied.
"Don't worry too much about him, sirs," Marianne replied. "He's probably in the barn with Buttercup. Master Georges promised him that old mare after he got that young stallion."
"Wait, we're trusting a child with that devil-horse?" Athos winced at the thought of the many times that cranky mare had kicked and bit them. "Buttercup is harmless," Bertrand stressed but he did not sound too sure. The men hurried to the window. Jean-Baptiste was riding the piebald mare. He still had soot and grime on his face and clothes. Buttercup was snorting and pawing restlessly. Jean-Baptiste was riding bare-backed, even though a crude bridle had been rigged.
Both horse and rider galloped out the open gate and down the road.
Author's Notes:
I have read accounts of tiger-hunting in India during the British Raj. One way of luring a tiger into the open is to set up a hide over a tiger-kill and wait for the beast to return. Predators tend to cache what they cannot finish at one sitting for later. Normally, wolves tend to finish their kills if uninterrupted as they are pack animals.
Not sure what a typical farming household of the era would be like, but it is likely we have some household staff and farm-help. Since Bertrand and his wife are getting on in their years, they would need some help with running the farm. Marianne and Jean-Baptiste are that help.