CHAPTER 21

For four days, the three men surreptitiously followed the green wagon from Paris across the countryside. It was a tedious task, but not difficult, given the lackadaisical pace at which the team pulled the wagon. D'Artagnan wished he could ride up to the tall, bald man driving the wagon and ask him to hurry it up a bit. Aramis found he was reminding the boy that patience was a virtue, even though he too was being sorely tested by this slow journey.

The first night, hiding in the trees, they watched with great interest as the man, whose name was Corbett they had learned, unloaded some cargo from the wagon, namely the human kind. When the wagon stopped for the night, Corbett opened the flap in the back and two young women, and one middle aged man stepped out onto the forest floor. They were neither chained nor bound in any fashion, appeared to be in good spirits and in no way at odds with the man driving the wagon.

The Musketeers didn't dare make a fire, so they ate hard rations as they puzzled over what they had seen to date.

"They don't seem distressed do they?" Porthos said around a mouth full of dry biscuit. Of the three, he was the least fussy about what he ate just so long as he ate. Given how and where he had grown up, this was not surprising.

Aramis, on the other-hand was definitely the pickiest of them all and to boot had a sweet tooth. Porthos said his sweet tooth came from hanging around the ladies too much who plied him with dainties to get him to sleep with them. Aramis neither confirmed nor denied these allegations, even though he did seem to know the location of every confectionary in Paris, just as Athos knew every wine merchant and tavern.

Athos thoughts on food were blasé at best and dismissive at most. If food was available, he was likely to eat, though a reminder or sometimes a threat was necessary, especially if the man was determined to get drunk. Aramis, more than once, had reminded the man to eat first, drink second and had kept the wine bottle out of reach until obeyed. Given his background, Athos wasn't a stranger to well prepared food, but cared more about a good bottle of wine any day. However, even in his beverage choices, Athos wasn't a true snob; if he couldn't get the good stuff, he was content to get soused on whatever was available, as long as it sunk him into oblivion.

D'Artagnan, with his farmer's roots, enjoyed and was quite the consumer of fresh fruit and vegetables. He actually carried the traits of all his brothers when it came to food. He was always hungry like Porthos, but like Athos, would forget that fact if he were involved in something, and like Aramis, he didn't mind a sweet or two as his mother had been an accomplished baker.

Aramis gave his biscuit a hard glare, wishing it had a bit of honey on it. "They seem quite content with their whole situation," Aramis finally responded to Porthos question.

"You don't suppose," d'Artagnan said as he laid his biscuit on his leg, forgotten for the moment, "that Athos went with him willingly?"

Aramis shook his head. "That doesn't match the story Nicholas told. Besides, what reason would Athos have to disappear without a word?"

"It wouldn't exactly be the first time, and he was acting awfully moody, even for him in the week before he disappeared." Porthos pointed out as he reached for another biscuit.

"Eat, d'Artagnan," Aramis commanded, as the boy was lost in a world of his own. Picking up the food, d'Artagnan obediently took a bite and chewed.

The three ate in contemplative silence, each lost in their own thoughts. When they were done, they decided the watch rotation and Aramis, who drew the first shift, settled his back against the tree. He watched as his brothers tried to arrange themselves comfortably on the forest floor. Experienced told him that none of them would get any decent sleep tonight, as each of them worried what they would find at the end of this journey.

After four long days on the road, the green wagon finally pulled up in front of a large mansion, at least the size of the one Athos grew up in. Off to one side was a well-cared for stable and in the distant, another larger structure whose purpose the Musketeers could not determine from their vantage point in the trees.

A well-dressed man, probably the Lord of the manor, emerged from the house and walked out to greet Corbett. Snatches of conversation carried through the air to their ears and they learned the man they were gazing upon was the Marquis Lemione, not that his name meant anything to them. Athos was the one in the group that usually recognized the noblesse when they encountered them. Aramis only knew a few, whose wives he had slept with, and he was sure he had never been here.

As they watched, the three passengers were led away by another member of the household staff, and Corbett took the wagon around to the stable yard. Melting back into the trees, the men moved to where they wouldn't be detected to determine their next move.

"We need to search all the buildings for Athos," Porthos vehemently stated as he banged his tightly clenched fist into his thigh.

"We can't just knock on the front door and ask to ransack his house now can we?" Aramis countered.

Porthos apparently didn't agree with his brother's opinion. "Why not? We're King's Musketeers."

Aramis used his left hand to rub the bridge of his nose, trying to disperse his headache. "But we are not here on official business. No, we must find another way into the house."

This caused Porthos to scowl, not liking the fact that Aramis had shot down what he thought was a perfectly good idea.

D'Artagnan, who had remained quiet up to this point, spoke up. "So what we need is to be invited into the Marquis house."

Aramis stopped rubbing his face and steepled his fingers under his chin. "That would be nice."

The boy's face grew thoughtful as he worked on something in his mind. "What gets a nobleman to open his door?"

"The King. An Army? The tax collector. Another nobleman," Porthos helpfully supplied.

"None of which we have available at the moment." D'Artagnan sighed in frustration.

Aramis tilted his head slightly to the left as he rubbed his thumb across his lower lip. "Perhaps we do."

Porthos threw an exasperated glare at his brother. "I'm pretty sure I'd know if we had the King with us."

"Not him." Aramis dismissed the snide remark. "But perhaps a nobleman."

"None of us are nobleman; that's Athos' shtick." Porthos dropped his eyes to the ground, as a bit of moisture welled up in them. A melancholy silence draped over the group.

Finally, Aramis spoke in a slow and thoughtful manner. "Yes it was. But that doesn't mean one of us can't pretend, if it gets the Marquis to offer his hospitality."

D'Artagnan grew animated as he jumped on the band wagon. "It could work. One of us as the nobleman, the other two come along as, oh I don't know, guards I suppose. After all what nobleman would go traipsing about the countryside without a guard or two."

"Even more believable," Porthos got onboard, "is a nobleman, his guard and his servant. What nobleman travels without a servant to take care of his needs?"

D'Artagnan wasn't stupid and he had a feeling that if Porthos' scenario was chosen, he knew who would be playing the servant. "Athos doesn't travel with servants." He knew it was a stupid comment but he couldn't think of anything else.

"In this case, I don't think Athos is the nobleman after which we want to pattern ourselves. I love our brother dearly, but he does have some odd leanings."

Porthos seconded Aramis' sentiments. "Yeah, like giving up his lands and titles."

Aramis brushed the crumbs from the biscuit he had consumed off his pants. "No. We will go with the nobleman, the guard, and the servant." Gracefully rising from the log on which he had been sitting; he doffed his grey hat with a flourish. "Being the most experienced thespian I, of course, will play the role of the nobleman."

"Thespian? I don't know about that word but if you mean the biggest ham, you are the right person. I'm a natural for the role of the guard, of course." Porthos cracked his knuckles and displayed a most impressive scowl.

"Leaving the last role to d'Artagnan."

Now it was the youngest Musketeer's turn to scowl. "The servant. How nice."

"As this is your first role, it wouldn't do to give you one that you had to stretch to achieve," Aramis gently teased.

"Hey. This is not my first time at role playing." He shot to his feet and held up a finger to tick of his accomplishments. "I played a disillusioned Musketeer to Vadim..."

"And he saw through your scheme and nearly blew you up." Aramis reminded him.

D'Artagnan's enthusiasm sagged a moment before he rallied. "Milady. I convinced her and the Cardinal, that I killed Athos!"

Now it was Porthos turn to shoot him down. "Doesn't count."

Facing the large Musketeer, he demanded, "Why not?"

With the look and patience of a saint, Porthos explained. "Cause you weren't playing anyone. You were playing yourself. Anyone can do that."

Much to D'Artagnan chagrin, Aramis was shaking his head in concurrence. "Truer words were never spoken. No, you shall play the servant. It is decided."

Knowing he wasn't going to win, d'Artagnan mumbled something uncomplimentary under his breath, but ceased arguing, sat down, and listened as they moved on with the planning.

Aramis also retook his seat. "We will have to hide any affiliation with the Musketeers and..."

Porthos abruptly interrupted, moving off on his own tangent. "How is that," he waved towards Aramis' outfit, "ever gonna pass as something a nobleman would wear?"

Sitting up straighter and squaring his shoulders, Aramis gave Porthos a wounded look.

The big man felt a little bad. "Look, I'm not saying I don't like your clothes. I'm just saying they aren't fancy enough to be noble."

"Black leather and lace. How is that stylish?"Aramis muttered clearly offended that Porthos didn't like the way he dressed.

Before Porthos could open his mouth to retaliate, d'Artagnan intervened, not wanting to see this style of conversation prolonged. "You were set upon by bandits on the road. Your clothes were, ah soiled, and these are all you could find as replacement, there being no fine drapers in the woods."

Porthos squinted at Aramis. "He doesn't look like he got roughed up by no bandits."

D'Artagnan easily brushed off Porthos concern. "Something easily remedied."

The muscle man of the group cracked his knuckles again, and raised his eyebrows. "I'm liking the sound of that."

Aramis tried to play it cool, but quickly lost it. "You think I'm going to sit here and let you rough me up!"

"You're welcome to stand. But you might fall down," Porthos noted as he gave Aramis an evil grin.

D'Artagnan stared Aramis straight in the eye. "For the sake of authenticity, we all will have to make sacrifices for our roles."

Aramis didn't believe for a second that d'Artagnan's pious, angelic look was real, but unfortunately, the boy was correct. "Fine, but not too hard. After all, what will become of my love life if I am hideously scarred?"

"Knowing you, it will get busier." Porthos groused as he rose to his feet.

"It might at that." Aramis agreed as he joined him aloft. "After all, I am more than just a pretty face, you know."

Without warning, Porthos' fist lashed out, caught Aramis on the cheek, and knocked him flat onto his back. "Told you to stay sitting down." Leaning over, he examined his handy work. "That looks real convincing. Gonna bruise up nicely and look, there's even a little blood."

"Trust me, it feels real convincing too." Aramis gingerly rubbed his cheek with an exploratory finger. What he did for his brothers. But if it led to finding Athos, it was worth it.