Chapter 2

Late March 1634

The departure from Verdun has been bittersweet. Friendships had been born between the King's Musketeers, General Raboin's regiments, refugees, and men who had fought and died together. They had shared stories, meals, and losses. They had stood shoulder to shoulder and helped carry the burden of war. Refugees and soldiers had listened to singing, children's laughter, and had been ministered to by families who had lost everything. They had created a community bound by experience and compassion.

Porthos stood near the edge of the river and looked toward the early morning sun as it slowly crested the horizon. The bright orange glow reflected off the water that continued to run swiftly. Its comforting sounds as subtle waves met the bank, fish that jumped and splashed against the surface, and water that rolled over pebbles and boulders. Birds sang; their chirps and calls were soothing and hinted at the warm weather ahead. The trees appeared dark and cast long shadows on the water that looked like a mirrored, but blurred, reflection of the landscape across from him. He could still see his breath as he exhaled, and he pulled up the collar of his doublet as he watched a flock of birds fly across the river and land in the draped branches of the trees that thrived near the bank.

They were less than a day from Paris.

They were almost home.

Alice was at the forefront of his thoughts. He wanted to hear her voice, see her face, and lie beside her. He wanted to sit across from her, listen to her retell her stories of the rumors of Paris, of the antics he had missed while away. Porthos wanted to smell her hair as she walked past him in a hall or as she gently pulled back the sheets of their bed. He wanted to hold her, feel her skin against his, and he wanted to feel the love that only a woman could provide. He missed Paris, his life, the garrison, and the food. He missed walking the streets at night after a shift of duty at the palace, and he missed the anticipation of what the day next day would bring.

Porthos missed being home.

He could hear the rustling of the regiment behind him as meals were prepared, yawns and coughs and noses cleared, and horses that were readied. He listened to the wagons that were hitched and then slowly loaded with the men, unable to ride. Tents were folded, bedding stored, and fires extinguished. A few remained standing and others were slow to get moving. Gentry efficiently packed the food wagon, and the draft horses waited patiently for the click of his tongue and the slap of the reins. The men had been on the road for three weeks, traveling only as fast as the roads would allow. The rains and winds had felled trees which needed to be cleared, roads had washed out and had forced them to seek alternative paths, and when the men grew too weary, Athos pulled up and ordered the camp to be set.

Athos remained stoic despite his discomfort. The travels had hindered his healing, but his drive to return to Paris, to see his men reunited with their families, and the desire to sit with Treville and discuss the events had pushed him.

D'Artagnan stepped beside Porthos and then grabbed a flat stone. He rubbed his thumb across the smooth surface and then swung his arm to his side and flung it. He watched it skip several times across the water before finally disappearing below the surface.

The moment was quiet as they both looked across the water. D'Artagnan chuckled when a musketeer behind him belched. Not just any belch, but a long, deep, and thunderous roar that reminded them of a wild animal.

"Francois," d'Artagnan said without turning.

Porthos shook his head. "Germaine," he corrected. "Gentry made porridge — Germaine cannot manage 'is grains." He placed his hands on his hips and looked sideways at d'Artagnan, who turned and reluctantly nodded when Germaine received a slap of congratulations on his back.

"You've given him a few lessons?"

Porthos smiled and then nodded. "He's a good student."

They were quiet again when d'Artagnan picked up another flat stone and swung his arm toward the river. The rock skipped several times and, like its predecessor, disappeared beneath the surface.

"Oh shit," d'Artagnan said as he turned. He stretched his arms and then laced his fingers behind his head as he watched Kelpie gallop through the camp.

Kelpie clutched a hat between his teeth and it flapped against his muzzle and the side of his head. His reins slapped his neck and the saddle's stirrups slapped his sides. He held his head high, snorted, and turned suddenly when a musketeer tried to grab a loose rein.

Mathias ran behind. "Stop him!" He shouted. "The damn horse stole my hat!"

Porthos chuckled, pursed his lips, and then looked at d'Artagnan. "Where's Athos?" He crossed his arms over his chest and did not assist.

"Aramis is wrapping his ribs," d'Artagnan said. "I supposed we should help."

Porthos shook his head. "I think Mathias 'as it well under control."

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos in question. "Does he?"

Porthos rubbed his chin within the curve of his thumb and index finger. "Five sous that he catches him." He narrowed his eyes and watched Mathias continue to try and capture the runaway horse. For a moment it appeared the deed was done, but then in a sudden and unexpected move, Kelpie tossed his head and galloped between two tents, snagging the twine that kept them secure and pulling the left one from its position exposing Musketeer Adam who, in the process of dressing, shouted and stood stark naked as his clothing was caught in the flaps of the tent.

Porthos chuckled and said, "That's why you don't sleep naked during times of war."

D'Artagnan snorted and watched Adam slip into his boots and chase after his tent and his clothing. Several musketeers join in the effort, others remained to the side, laughing.

Mathias was a good horseman, he was patient, a balanced rider, and the horses responded well to his commands. Kelpie, however, was not just any horse.

"Ten that he won't," d'Artagnan said.

Porthos thought for a long moment before he finally nodded. "Agreed," he said and smiled when he watched Kelpie stop, drop the hat, and arch his neck and reach into the back of a wagon, where he snatched a bite of oats. He jumped suddenly when he spotted Mathias slowly approaching with a soft, comforting voice that promised sweet revenge. Adam charged. Kelpie perked his ears forward, and the grain slipped from his mouth as he chewed around his bit. The horse jumped and then quickly spun on his hooves and trotted toward back in the direction he had come.

D'Artagnan chuckled and watched several musketeers move to try and help. He slapped Porthos on the arm with the back of his hand and pointed toward Athos and Aramis as they exited the tent.

Athos frowned as his horse ran by, quickly followed by Mathias, and then Adam, wearing nothing but his boots.

Aramis snorted, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and shook his head when Kelpie headed for the river. "It's a wonder Adam hasn't frozen his ballocks off."

Athos clapped Aramis on the shoulder and said, "He's so angry right now, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he does." He paused and then smiled. "It makes me grateful that I'm not a physician."

Aramis muttered under his breath a string of curses, rushed back into Athos' tent and grabbed a blanket, and then chased after them.

Athos placed his hand on his side to protect his rib as he chuckled. He walked toward the food wagon and looked toward Gentry, who reached behind his seat and pulled a tin plate filled with porridge and cooked apples.

"Thought you might be hungry, Captain," Gentry said, as he leaned forward and handed the plate to Athos. "With the long ride ahead of us." Still leaning forward, with one elbow on his knee to steady himself, he pointed toward the chaos as Kelpie stood knee deep in the water. Mathias stood near the bank, trying to encourage the horse to step forward, while Adam stood a few feet behind him, wrapped in the blanket Aramis had tossed over his shoulders. "Makes me miss young Jacques… he had a way with the horses."

Athos nodded and said, "That he did." He took a bite of the porridge and then turned to look at Gentry as he swallowed. "Can you whistle?"

Gentry frowned and nodded. "Of course, Captain."

Athos took another bite, tilted his head toward his rogue horse, and the men trying to catch him.

Gentry chuckled, took a deep breath, and then slipped two fingers into his mouth and blew. The piercing sound of the whistle echoed throughout the camp. Athos ducked, surprised by the volume, but watched Kelpie perk his ears forward. He raised his nose, snorted when Mathias took a step toward him, and then jumped to the right to avoid capture. Kelpie galloped around the men, through the camp, and then came to a halt near the food wagon. He breathed heavily, sniffed at the porridge on Athos' plate, and then stole the remains of the apple.

Athos grasped the reins, handed his plate back to Gentry, who took it with a laugh. Athos ran his hand along Kelpie's neck, checked the cinch, and then with a grunt he slowly and carefully mounted. He paused for a moment, caught his breath as his rib protested, and then adjusted his feet in his stirrups.

Without being ordered, the regiment moved into action. Adam slipped into his clothes. The men took down the remaining tents, folded, and stored them on a wagon. The horses were mounted, and the men moved into formation within their companies.

Porthos urged his mount forward as Marc and Levi led the regiment. He rode next to Athos and looked over his shoulder at Aramis and d'Artagnan as they joined them and watched the men ride by. The wagons soon followed with Gentry taking up the rear, with Piers and Walnut behind him.

Athos nudged Kelpie's sides and followed. "Just a few hours," he said, and quirked his mouth into a half smile.

D'Artagnan shifted forward with a hint of excitement and smiled. "I can smell Paris already."

Porthos laughed. "I think that's 'orseshit!"