The commissary was quiet as Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan sat alone at a table. Their plates were filled with untouched eggs, toasted breads, and a variety of cooked vegetables. Apparently, Gentry believed in the importance of pickled mushrooms and carrots. Although he was trying to satisfy the palates for a variety of men, his skills were best used for large quantities of simple recipes: soups, stews, and roasted vegetables. Thankfully, he had mastered the skill of recreating Serge's wassail. The warmed cider spiced with apples, wine, cinnamon, and spices wafted throughout the room and into the courtyard. And the men would often follow their noses inside the commissary, sit and drink while enjoying the warmth of the fire and good company.
All three musketeers looked up as several others entered the room, and in an orderly fashion, grabbed their plates, and dished themselves their morning meal. They spoke amongst themselves while standing in line. They whispered words and stories of their nightly jaunts and conquests. A few chuckled and rubbed their faces and others looked pathetic as the waking hour came too early. The men rubbed their eyes, covered their mouths as they yawned, and they shuffled their booted feet forward as the line moved.
Tables filled with men as they ate, a few stood next to the fireplace and warmed their backsides. And a few sought tea and cider before the thought of food entered their minds. The cool morning air had them wrapping their hands around the warmed cups and inhaling the steam that arose.
"You boys alright?" Marc asked. He took a seat beside Porthos, tapped his toasted bread on the edge of his plate and then dipped it into the yoke of the egg. It split and the yoke ran from the mound and across the cooked egg whites.
Aramis nodded, but kept quiet. D'Artagnan rubbed his forehead and pushed his plate away, and Porthos finally placed his eggs atop his bread and ate. His stomach grumbled, and the yoke broke apart as he took his first bite, and it drizzled down the right side of his mouth and into his beard.
"Good eggs this mornin'," Porthos said as he chewed. He wiped his mouth with his hand and then looked toward the kitchen as Gentry peeled and sliced apples and added them to his large pot of wassail.
Aramis pressed his thumbnail into the crack on the table that ran along its length. Wood-dust had collected beneath it and dirt and debris shifted along the edges. He didn't know what to say. And at the moment, they all felt numb. He looked toward Porthos, who finished his plate of food and then grabbed d'Artagnan's and ate.
"There's something going on," Remi said as he shifted at the end of the table while seated across from Marc, who nodded.
The door to the commissary banged against the wall, and its hinges squeaked.
"This about the war that's coming?" Marc asked. He rested his elbows on the table while he hung his half-eaten toast over his plate. "I heard we need to recruit more men…" he looked at Porthos and wiped his plate with the remainder of his toasted bread, "Do you think the king will send us to the front lines?"
Again, the door banged.
"I do," Porthos said. "The Dutch Republic needs 'elp an' France needs allies." He shrugged and shoved the rest of his bread into his mouth. "Wouldn't be surprised if we end up fightin' beside 'em," he said as he chewed around the toast.
"The king is growing his military…" Remi said. He shifted on his seat, rested his right elbow on the table, and then took a bite of his food. "I've heard the generals are complaining about it." He snickered and rolled his eyes. He glanced toward the door when it banged against the frame again.
"For mercy's sake!" Gentry shouted from the back of the room. "Come in or stay out!" He slammed a wooden spoon on the workstation.
Remi and Marc chuckled, and those at the table across from them looked toward the door. The men laughed and continued eating.
The scent of hot apple cider wafted through the room. The lanterns that hung from sconces against the walls flickered as the light of the sun slowly slipped past the clouds and entered through the windows. The door banged against the frame again, but this time, a young recruit stood and walked toward it.
"Maybe someone's too drunk to figure out how to use the door," Noa said. He was tall and slender with long blonde hair that was tied at the base of his neck. Clean shaven with bright blue eyes and a straight nose, his dimples made him look younger than his 24 years.
Aramis silently hoped it wasn't Athos, and he held his breath as he looked at d'Artagnan, who was thinking the same. They watched Noa open the door, and jump back as Athos' big black gelding stretched his neck, perked his ears forward, and then looked toward the kitchen. Kelpie stepped forward and down the single step and entered the commissary.
The men paused their meals. They held their forks mid-air, mouths rested agape, and they watched the big horse casually walk past them as though it were a normal day at the stables. He did not shy, or threaten to spook. He was not bothered by the narrow aisle, or the shifts of men as they turned and looked at him in awe.
Halter-less, Kelpie looked around the room and then stepped past the pantry shelves that separated the dining hall from the kitchen. He then walked past the table and stopped near the fireplace. He settled before Gentry, who stood with a shocked expression on his face, a knife in one hand, and a peeled apple in the other. Kelpie snatched the apple from his hand and ate it. Juice dripped and fell from between his lips, and he sniffed at the cauldron of simmering wassail, and then found the pile of sliced apples that were meant for cakes.
The room erupted in laughter. Aramis tried to stifle his chuckle as his shoulders trembled, and he casually leaned to his right, looked toward the kitchen, and covered his mouth with the back of his wrist. D'Artagnan smiled and looked at Porthos, who clapped and roared with laughter.
Kelpie looked toward the crowd in the room, and then casually continued to eat. Gentry continued to stand stunned, and watched as apple slices fell to the floor while others were consumed.
The front door was suddenly swung open, and Jacques entered with a lead and halter in hand. "I'm so sorry, Monsieur," he said as he maneuvered through the dining hall toward the kitchen. "He's escaped everything I've tried tying him with. And now he's learned how to remove the halter by looping his head beneath the lead and forcing the poll-strap over his ears."
"Horse is too smart for his own good!" Levi said and then raised his glass in cheer. "Definitely the captain's horse."
Jacques walked into the kitchen and haltered the big animal. He looked apologetically at Gentry, who stood with his jaw clenched and his fist tightened around the knife. Obviously not a horse person, he refrained from moving until the young stable hand led the horse from the kitchen. The big black followed, but stalled and arched his neck over Remi's shoulder and snatched his toasted bread.
"Hey!" Remi snapped and reached for stolen piece.
"Actually, it's toast," Marc said with a chuckle.
"I said hey, not hay."
The men watched Jacques yank on the lead and again pull the horse toward the door. He tried to reach for another piece of toast but the plate was quickly pushed out of reach and Jacques left the commissary with Kelpie.
The men laughed, resumed their meals, and Remi stood and returned to the kitchen, hoping to find another slice of bread. He found Gentry staring blankly at his half eaten pile of sliced apples. Slowly, he shrugged, grabbed a stool, and peeled another.
"Just make sure to lock the door, Gentry, when it's time to peel carrots," Remi said, and then ducked when the apple was thrown at him.