Chapter 3

The skyline of Paris came into view as the musketeers crested the horizon. The men looked at each other and smiled. They shifted in their saddles, knowing it was only a short distance before they put their horses to bed and once again greeted their families, their loved ones, and found comfort in their own beds. For others, they simply looked forward to returning to the garrison, standing beneath the awning and talking, or spending a few hours at the Wren, drinking, eating, and telling their tales as men of war. They would share their losses, grieve like brothers, and rejoice like old friends.

Smoke filtered from chimneys and drifted skyward. It blended and hovered like the puffy white clouds that shifted and hid and then gently exposed the sun. Spring had arrived. Grasses along the roads were slowly returning and the lush greens were emerging. The leaves of the trees were budding, and eventually, the wild flowers would bloom. The ground continued to absorb the moisture from the heavy rains of winter and the wagon wheels and hoof prints remained imprinted.

D'Artagnan shifted in his seat, unable to curtail his excitement, and looked in the garrison's direction. He couldn't see it, not yet, but the anticipation caused his chest to hurt and his hands to twitch. He heard Athos' command, but he didn't listen to him organize the men in such a manner than the majority would ride behind the garrison, unsaddle, and then reunite with their families. The Musketeers would not march through Paris. They would not disrupt the lives of those within the city. Instead, they would ride around and quietly resume their roles. Athos' voice rang across the grounds, and the men shifted into rows of three. The horses were suddenly on alert as their rider's postures changed.

The regiment was half the size it had been. Those they had lost were left behind, buried in the fields at Verdun. Those too injured to continue their duties would find work elsewhere, a few would return home to their estates, others would simply disappear, consumed with life, the war, and what their lives might have been like had the war not occurred.

Levi rode his horse forward, pulled back on the black's reins, and looked at Porthos for support and then at Athos for approval. "Marc and I can lead them home, Captain. It would be an honor to do so," he said. He looked younger, more refreshed, more alive than he had in months. Despite the wildness of his hair, the overgrowth of his beard, and the dirt that stained the collar of his shirt. He was simply happy to be home.

Athos, with a look of appreciation and gratitude, nodded. He pulled Kelpie to a stop and then backed him off the road. "Lead the way, Lieutenant." He glanced at Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan, who also shifted off the road to allow them to pass.

Levi nodded with a genuine smile and waved his hand forward. Marc rode beside him and the Musketeers followed. Those with hats tipped them, and those without saluted Athos and the others with a simple nod and subtle wave. A few spoke words of appreciation. Others, overcome with emotion, quietly bowed their heads in respect and wiped their eyes.

Athos leaned forward, rested the heel of his wrist on the pommel of the saddle, and held the reins loosely between relaxed fingers. He watched his men with admiration and sorrow. They had all worked hard, proven their worth on the battlefield, and proven themselves as King's Musketeers. They rode tall, honored those they had lost, and knew that their time in Paris would be short. They would go where the king ordered and serve him in the capacity he needed. Athos spotted several pauldrons tied to saddlebags, honorably displayed. One last salute to those they had lost. The leather insignias would be given to families, wives, mothers and fathers, and brothers. They would be cherished and kept safe in the hands of those who would care for them most.

"Are you alright?" Aramis asked and looked at Athos, who simply nodded.

As soon as the last man rode by, the horses were urged forward at a gallop, and Athos watched with an understanding smile as hats were waved, arms raised, and shouts of joy echoed. Gentry pulled his wagon to a stop, looked at Athos, and then turned and looked at the other wagons, following at a slower pace.

"Seems to me, Captain," Gentry said, and then cleared his throat and spat, "that maybe you boys should ride back to the garrison… might be a good idea before those women folk come looking for you. Me and the Fontaines can get the injured back to the garrison… we're close enough that trouble won't nip at our heels. And if it does," he laughed and slapped his thigh, "Walnut will just crush 'em."

"You're going to have a regiment to feed tonight," d'Artagnan said and watched Walnut pull his horses to a stop behind Gentry.

Gentry shook his head and smiled. "Nope… those boys," he pointed a crooked finger in the direction the regiment had ridden, "are headed to the Wren." He smiled and looked at Athos. "Paris is going to come alive tonight. You, sir, are going to have a late night."

Athos pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. "It's a good thing the musketeers have such a good cook, Gentry. We'll be needing some of your sobering soups and ale."

Gentry slapped the horses' rumps with the long reins and laughed. The wagon lurched, and the wheels creaked and moaned as they rolled forward. Walnut and Piers soon followed. The men in the wagons waved, and a few craned their necks to look toward Paris.

Athos nudged Kelpie's sides and followed at a brisk walk. The big black swished his tail, tossed his head, and chewed on the bit. The others moved in beside him and together they rode home.