Chapter 11
The palace gardens bustled with activity. Serving tables were filled with foods, wines, and desserts. A steer roasted over an open flame and the cook monitored it closely as he carefully and proudly applied seasoning with a heavy mop brush. Two men took turns cranking the spit and doing their best to avoid the heat. A quartet of musicians readied their instruments, placed their sheet music in order, and looked to their maestro for guidance. The Red Guards stood at attention in various locations around the gardens, the palace, and the entry. They would be on guard while the Musketeers celebrated with the king, members of nobility and society.
The crowd gathered, spoke amongst themselves, joked and laughed as the warm spring sun warmed their backs and glistened off the fountain that had finally thawed. Ladies stood together, holding their parasols and dabbing their lips with their embroidered napkins. A few children played and ran through the maze of box hedges.
Outside of the gardens, and near the side entry, stood the King's Musketeers in six rows of thirty men. Their lieutenants stood at the front of each line. Their cloaks had been cleaned, their boots polished, and their swords shined. Hats adorned with a plumed feather which rested neatly against the band of their hats and draped backward toward the back dip. A collection of noblemen from nobility, farmers, bridge builders, hoof trimmers, and merchants. Men with experiences that kept each other going when times grew tough and protected each other during times of battle. They ranged from short to tall, from dark to light-skinned, and from thin to stout. All of them had earned the right to stand alongside each other. All of them stood nobly before their captain, and each one of them had served France and her king well.
Athos swallowed as he looked proudly at the regiment. He nodded toward Levi, knowing this would be his last time in service to the king. Marc stood proudly before his company, a man of honor and conviction. He looked at Remi, who hadn't fought, but protected Paris, King Louis, and his queen while the rest of them were away. Athos looked at Aramis, who, with a single shot, had brought down a corrupt general and had trained soldiers, both musketeers and cavalry from other companies, how to shoot like musketeers. Athos looked at d'Artagnan, the young man who had led a company of soldiers and fought like hell despite illness, loss, and youth. And finally at Porthos, who led the regiment against the Spanish during unspeakable hours as fire rained down upon them.
Each one had their strengths and their weaknesses, but more importantly, they each had the strength, dedication, and honor of the king's elite guards.
Athos turned as Minister Treville walked toward him.
Treville clapped Athos on the shoulder, looked at the regiment, and smiled. "Ready?" He asked.
Athos nodded and turned. He and Treville took the lead while his lieutenants and the men followed. They moved in unison and then all six companies shifted elegantly into box formations before the palace steps. Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan's companies in the lead, and then the Levi, Marc, and Remi behind them. It was a display of organization, discipline, and collaboration. Each lieutenant stood before their company at attention and awaiting their orders. Athos and Treville stood to the side and waited for King Louis and Queen Anne's appearance.
Vases filled with flowers lined the steps and fanned toward the palace doors. Several Red Guards stood at attention at the top of the steps. The Musketeer flag waved just below the flag of France as a subtle gust of wind blew. Branches swayed and young leaves fluttered.
Constance, her son, and Alice stood with the families of the musketeers on the paths between the boxed hedges. They smiled and stood together, standing strong for each other and their husbands.
The moment King Louis appeared, the hand of his queen clutched at his elbow, and his son, carried by a nursemaid, the musketeers and guests, bowed. His long black hair was curled and in ringlets to his shoulders. He wore a dark blue doublet, with a blouse with a high laced collar that draped along his shoulders and down his chest. His blue britches were full around his thighs, and his white stockings gathered at his thin ankles and knees. Queen Anne stood proudly next to him. Her light blue embroidered gown, with a high-backed lace collar, accentuated her thin frame.
Anne looked for Aramis, caught his eyes, and smiled. She tightened her hand around Louis' elbow and walked in stride with him down the steps. His smile radiated as he looked at the guards he had created, the regiment he had organized with assistance from Cardinal Richelieu and — at the time — Captain Treville. The regiment that defined what it meant to be an elite guard.
Louis raised his hand, looked around the crowd and then at the men before him, and smiled. He stood proud next to his queen. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced. "The Musketeers," Louis said, and waved his hand in the direction of the regiment. "I have never been more proud and I stand before you humbled by your accomplishments. For keeping Paris safe. For keeping her people safe." He took a few more steps downward before he looked at the lieutenants. "People will write about you… history will look upon you with grace, admiration, and respect. Your performance in the field of battle represented everything a Musketeer should be, and I cannot be more proud of the work you have done."
Anne smiled, gripped Louis' arm tighter, and waved toward the crowd as they cheered. She looked at Aramis, watched him smile and stand proudly with his men. "Thank you," she mouthed, and then leaned toward Louis, who unabashedly kissed her cheek.
Aramis looked at her, knowing she would never be his. The moment they shared would have to last a lifetime, and as he watched her and admired her beauty, he realized he would have to let her go. She loved her husband; she loved her position, and she was what France needed. Who was he to think he could take that away? He was fortunate to be in a position to watch his son grow, to stand back and watch while his bloodline carried on. Aramis swallowed and looked toward Alice and Constance as they stood proudly with the wives and families of those he served with. He wanted that. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. He wanted to share a life with someone, and as he grasped at the cross and ring around his neck, he knew that whomever he chose would accept him for the man he was striving to be. He had time… lots of time.
D'Artagnan stood stronger, and pushed his shoulders back as he glanced side-eyed at Aramis, and then noticed the queen's lips move. He looked at Athos, who stood firm, unemotional, and honorable, and then at Porthos, who could not help but raise his chin higher and clutch his hands into fists. D'Artagnan then looked at Treville, who stood adorned in his new attire, the medallion around his neck, the sash across his chest, and the look of man who stood proud of what he helped create; the men he had fought for, fought with, and the men he looked on as sons.
D'Artangan then looked at Constance, who wiped her joyous tears, held their son, and waved toward them. It was a moment in time he wanted to remember: the smells, the sights, the feelings. He wanted to cherish this moment and one day tell his grandchildren about it.
"Commence with the feast!" King Louis announced and stepped onto the pavers of the garden. Several Red Guards walked behind him, but he made a point of greeting the men who had served France so well. He smiled, made small talk, and drank wine while his queen stood beside him and supported him.
Athos relaxed his shoulders and watched d'Artagnan walk toward Constance and embrace both her and their son. He picked up the boy, kissed his cheek, and held him close. Porthos had grabbed two glasses of wine and headed for Alice, who chuckled and then latched onto his arm and spoke with musketeers and several members of nobility with an air of confidence rarely seen in one so young.
Aramis walked toward Athos, nodded to Treville, and received a friendly grasp on his shoulder before the minister stepped away to meet briefly with the king. "This feels good," Aramis said with a smile. "Being acknowledged for what we did right rather than what we did wrong."
Athos chuckled and nodded. "Don't get used to it," he said, "but enjoy the moment."
Aramis crossed his arms over his chest and watched several young ladies surround d'Artagnan as he held his son. Constance giggled with Alice as they snacked on slices of beef that had been cut and placed on hard bread. "That baby is fat."
Athos looked toward Alexandre and then looked at Aramis. "He's well fed and healthy. Constance is a good mother."
"He looks like a roll of dough with black hair," Aramis said, and then suddenly smiled when d'Artagnan looked his way. Aramis waved awkwardly.
"This coming from the man whose ass was once mistaken for a fat man's jowls in a house of ill fame."
Aramis shrugged and nodded. "I should tell that story sometime," he smiled and then pulled at the tips of his mustache. "I won fifteen livres that day." He nodded proudly. "Nobody ever challenged me to stick my ass out a porthole again."
Athos chuckled, shook his head, and watched Porthos show his dagger to a man of nobility.
"What's next?" Aramis asked.
Athos took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "We wait for the king to decide." He raised his eyebrows and watched Louis as he expertly told a tale with the flamboyance he was known for. The men laughed, and the women giggled. "But until then… we enjoy being home." He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Aramis nodded and looked at the queen. He couldn't remember when she had looked more radiant, more beautiful, or more royal. He swallowed, shifted his stance, and placed his hands on his hips. "Do you think it's possible to move on?" He asked, glanced at Athos, and then looked at d'Artagnan as he held his son while Constance clung to his arm. They spoke with several musketeers and their families.
"Yes," Athos said, and curled his lips into a confident smile and shrugged. "I do now." He watched Porthos and Alice as they mingled, members of the Red Guards who stood at attention around the king and watched for threats. Athos then nodded respectfully to the captain of the red guards, who tipped his hat in his direction. "You have to, Aramis," he looked at Queen Anne, "if you continue to dwell on what you can't have… you'll never have anything at all." He grasped Aramis's shoulder and squeezed. "You gave her a part of yourself, and she is in a position where she cannot give anything back… Let her go, Aramis, and find someone who can give herself to you." He walked toward a group of young musketeers, who looked out of place amongst the extravagant decorations, nobility, and the attention.
Aramis gave a half smile as he cocked his head and watched the events around him. He pressed his hand to his chest and felt the ring and the cross under his doublet. Athos was right. Aramis looked at d'Artagnan, who held his son like a proud father, and at Porthos, who would eventually make a great one.