NINE
When D'Artagnan awakened the next morning, he retrieved the satchel from the floor beneath his cloak and withdrew from it a pair of clean breeches and a clean shirt. First, he put on the breeches, then poured some water from the pitcher into the wash basin on the wash table, and with his razor he carefully scraped the two day old stubble from his cheeks and chin, something he had neglected to do the day before. He left in place the well-trimmed mustache and the small triangular patch of hair beneath his lower lip that had become signature features of his countenance. Then, he rinsed off his face and dried it on the towel, and examined his reflection in the small mirror and decided that he was presentable. Last, he put on the clean shirt and his boots, and went downstairs.
Angelina was already in the kitchen getting breakfast started with another woman he had never seen before, presumably one of her sisters. He smiled pleasantly when he saw them. "Good morning, ladies."
"Good morning, Captain," Angelina replied, turning from the preparation table to smile at him.
"If anyone asks, I will be in the stable," he said as he proceeded through the kitchen toward the door.
"Yes, Monsieur," she responded.
As he stepped out the door into the dusky dawn just before sunrise, he nearly collided with a third woman who was struggling with a full bucket of water drawn from the well. She jumped back with a startled gasp, causing a small arc of water to slosh forward over the rim toward D'Artagnan, who quickly stepped backward to avoid being splashed. The arc splattered onto the hard ground, where it was quickly absorbed by the dry soil. The water in the bucket then sloshed backward onto the maid, soaking her apron and skirt.
The water was cold, and the woman uttered a small cry as it soaked through to the skin. D'Artagnan could not contain his amused smile at their near-collision. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"Forgive me, Monsieur!" the woman gasped, horrified. "I did not mean to – Please, it is my fault! I should have been --"
"It was an accident," he assured her. "I am dry, but it appears you have gotten wet," he added, observing the wetness that darkened the front of her apron and skirt.
"It will dry," she said, hastily. She glanced into his face, then quickly averted her eyes in a subservient manner. "Thank you for understanding, Monsieur."
He grasped the handle. "Here, let me take that for you," he offered.
"I can manage, Monsieur," she insisted.
"I will carry it," he said, his voice kind but firm.
She released the bucket to him, and he carried it inside and placed it on the countertop. Her body dipped in a quick curtsey. "Thank you, Monsieur. You are very kind."
"My pleasure," he responded with a pleasant smile as he returned to the door.
"Who is he?" he heard one of the women ask as he stepped outside again.
"That is D'Artagnan, captain of the king's Musketeer," Angelina replied. "Remember I told you he arrived from Paris two days ago. You did not get to see him because you did not come in to work yesterday."
She went to the window to watch as he strode toward the stable. "So, that is the famous D'Artagnan. Is he married?"
"I don't think so, but since when did that matter to you?"
The third sister joined the second at the window. "If I had known that there was yet another handsome man in the house, I would have come in yesterday! I nearly splashed water on him, yet he did not get angry, like most men of rank. And did you see how blue his eyes are?"
D'Artagnan moved out of hearing range and resisted the urge to look behind him. To do that would encourage the belief that he was interested in them, so he ignored them, even though he could feel the women's eyes on his back. An amused smile turned up the corners of his lips, remembering Aramis's comments regarding the three sisters and Porthos. All at once!
The horses in the stable whinnied a chorus of greetings to him as he stepped through the wide double doors, eager for their morning feed. They hung their heads over the doors of their roomy box stalls, ears pricked tautly forward, and pawed impatiently at the ground. Some were large, muscular horses of draft blood, suitable for the heavy hauling and long hours required for farm work. Others were coach horses, lighter of build and adequately coordinated in color and size to work as matched teams of two or four.
It was cool inside the stone stable, and as he walked between the rows of stalls, he inhaled the musky odor of horses, straw, grain, and hay that every horseman found pleasant. He paused at some of the stalls to observe particular horses that caught his eye, interested in their quality and confirmation. As captain of the Musketeers, he rarely had time to simply stroll through a stable filled with horses. All he had to do was summon his mount from one of his subordinates, and it was promptly brought to him.
He found the black gelding near the end of the first aisle, and it nickered softly through its nostrils when it saw him approaching.
"How are we feeling today?" he asked as he patted the gracefully arched neck.
Unlatching the stall door, he stepped inside and pulled it closed behind him. The horse stepped back to make room for him, and nuzzled at his sleeve. Kneeling beside it, he ran his hands down the troublesome foreleg again, and was extremely pleased with the result.
"Well, old fellow, I think we are both improving," he said, softly. Reaching up, he patted the muscled shoulder.
"How is he?" asked a voice outside the stall.
D'Artagnan leaned back to see around the horse's head, and found Philippe standing there, nibbling on a slice of bread and butter. Curiously, the horse stretched its muzzle toward the bread. "Very well, actually," he replied. "The swelling has been reduced significantly. I think he may be suitable for you to ride soon, possibly within a few days."
"I look forward to it," the boy said, eagerly.
"You are up early," D'Artagnan said as he rose to his feet. "The sun is not even up yet."
"I came downstairs right after you, and Angelina told me that you were out here in the stable, so I knew I would find you checking up on the horse," Philippe explained. After a brief pause, he asked, "May I take him down to the river again?"
"Another soaking in the river would be beneficial, I think," he replied. "However, Athos will be wanting you to work with the sword. I do not think I can delay your training for another day."
"Then I will do so now, before Athos gets up."
"What about breakfast? The women have already started cooking."
He held up the thick slice of bread. "Angelina cut me a slice of bread. This will be my breakfast."
D'Artagnan shook his head, mildly amused. "You are certainly easy to please. Louis demands the best of everything at a time that suits him alone."
Philippe felt a twinge of jealousy at the reference to his brother. "I have never had the fine things that Louis is accustomed to."
D'Artagnan saw the expression that flickered across Philippe's face, and recognized it for what it was. The boy had not even met his brother, and already he felt as though he was competing for his father's attention. He made a mental note to refrain from making such comments.
Reaching over the stall door, he placed an affectionate hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed it firmly, as if to drive home a point. "Philippe, I am new at this concept of openly being a father, so I hope you do not think that I am judging you against Louis when I say these things, but sometimes I cannot help but marvel at the differences between you. It astonishes me that two young men who look so much alike can be so different. I respect the fact that you are two separate individuals, and I do not expect you to become him, even if you accept the throne. In public, you must act like him at first, but in private, around your mother and me, you may be Philippe."
Philippe nodded. "I understand."
D'Artagnan leaned out the door and removed the halter and rope from the peg, and placed them on the horse. Then he opened the door and passed the rope to Philippe. "Athos will be impatiently waiting for you, but I will tell him that you will work with him later." He shrugged. "Aramis is not going to like losing the time, but I will handle him, too. Being the parent has its privileges."
Philippe smiled. "Thank you, Father. I will see you shortly before lunch."
The boy led the horse out of the stall down the aisle toward the door. It followed him willingly, its hooves clopping on the hard ground.
D'Artagnan followed, and stopped in the stable yard, his hands on his hips, as he watched Philippe lead the horse down the road toward the river. Then he turned back toward the house.
Aramis was waiting just inside the door to the house, watching. "Where is Philippe going?" he asked. "It is important that he return to his training today."
"And he shall," D'Artagnan told him as they entered the kitchen together. "But first he wants to care for his horse."
"And how long will that take?" Aramis asked, growing rather agitated.
"He said he will return shortly before lunch, so I would assume from that that he intends to spend most of the morning with the horse."
"Lunch!" Aramis exclaimed. "We are going to lose the entire morning!"
"Do not worry, my friend. We still have plenty of time. Philippe knows how important his training is, but try to understand. He has never had anything of his own before, certainly nothing as valuable as a horse, and he is excited about it."
Aramis sighed, heavily, feeling overwhelmingly discouraged by the delays. "I suppose I am not a patient man," he admitted. "I must work on that. Very well, then. We will resume the lessons after lunch, but we must work harder than ever. There is so much to be done."
The women continued their work, stealing an occasional glance at the two men as they talked, both of whom ignored them. It seemed only Porthos was interested in them, and even that seemed to have waned since the collapse of the barn of a few nights earlier.
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About an hour after lunch, Athos entered the room and presented Philippe with a sword and a pair of gloves. "It's time."
Philippe nodded and stood up. As he tucked the gloves into the waistband of his breeches, he turned to his father, he asked, "Will you come with us?"
D'Artagnan glanced at Athos to gauge his reaction, but his face remained expressionless as slipped his left arm through the armbands of a round wooden shield with which to protect himself from any wild swipes from the boy's weapon. The older man made no comment one way or another. In fact, he acted as though he had not even heard.
Turning back to his son, D'Artagnan replied, "I had not intended to join you, because I feared it might make you feel self conscious, but if you wish me to be there, then I would like that very much."
"I would like to have you there," Philippe replied.
Aramis had followed Athos into the room, and he held out D'Artagnan's sword. "I thought perhaps it was time to return your weapons. Your musket is in your room, but you might need this in case you wanted to offer Philippe some pointers."
Athos gave the priest a sharp glance, but made no verbal objection. Everyone in the room, however, could see the annoyance written on his disapproving expression, but it was impossible to determine whether it was the return of the Musketeer's weapons which inspired the objection or the possibility that he might give unwanted interference in the lesson.
Without a word, he strode out the door and began walking down the street.
D'Artagnan shook his head slowly in response to his old friend's opposition to him. "I am beginning to wonder if he intends to hold me in contempt for the rest of my life."
"He will get over it," Aramis told him.
D'Artagnan wasn't so sure, but he voiced no more opinions. Draping his baldric over his right shoulder, so that the sword was positioned at his left hip, he followed the former Musketeer outside. He had worn the weapon against his side for so many years that it felt comfortable and familiar as he strode down the road behind Athos. Philippe walked swiftly alongside, but neither spoke.
Selecting a spot on a smooth grassy area outside the village wall, Athos pulled on his gloves and checked the shield to make certain it was properly situated on his arm. Philippe took up his position before him and hefted the sword that had been loaned to him by Aramis. He made several swipes and jabs into the air with it with youthful enthusiasm.
"Put on your gloves," Athos instructed in a toneless voice.
"Oh. Sorry," Philippe said. He withdrew his gloves from the waistband of his breeches, and placed the point of the sword on the ground in front of him, balancing the hilt against his abdomen as he put on his gloves. When they were on, his picked up the sword again.
D'Artagnan moved well to the side, away from the combatants where he could observe, but he had no intention of interfering, knowing that Athos would not welcome his input. Athos was the instructor, one of the finest swordsmen in France, trained as a youth by some of the best fencing masters, and he trusted him to teach the boy what he needed to know.
Athos was waiting silently while Philippe made several more swipes into the air with the sword. The ex-Musketeer was very much aware of D'Artagnan watching from a short distance away, but he deliberately avoided looking at him. "Don't play with your sword," he said, rather sharply. "It is a weapon, not a toy."
Philippe lowered the sword, looking slightly abashed. "I'm sorry. I was just getting accustomed to the weight."
Athos gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "All right, you remember the lesson we had the other day?"
Philippe nodded, and for D'Artagnan's benefit, he said, "We worked on proper footwork and the lunge."
"Today, we're going to practice the parry. It is one of the most important maneuvers, for it will save you from injury if you are attacked. You will pretend to attack me, but as you attack I want you to watch carefully while I show you the technique. We will do this several times, and then you will try it."
Philippe nodded again.
"A formal duel is always begun by crossing swords. It is the way of gentlemen." Athos raised his sword. "En Garde."
Philippe raised his sword and crossed the tip with Athos's sword. A thrill surged through him as the blades touched.
"Attack."
Philippe lunged at the older man, but with no aggression. The blow was easily knocked aside. Too easily, in Athos's opinion.
"You can do better than that," he scolded. "You're holding back."
Philippe glanced at D'Artagnan, as if for instruction, who nodded in agreement. "He's your instructor, Philippe," he said. "Do as he says."
Resentment burned in Athos's eyes that the boy had deferred to the Musketeer for advice, but he ignored him. To Philippe, he said, "En Garde."
They crossed swords again.
"Attack," Athos instructed.
Philippe lunged again, this time with more force, and felt surprised when his more aggressive thrust was quickly and effectively deflected with a lightning quick response from Athos's sword.
Athos was still displeased. "That was a little better, but you're still holding back."
"It is hard to attack a friend, Athos," Philippe said. "I am afraid I will hurt you."
"I have fought men who were far more dangerous than you, Philippe. Trust me: You are not going to hurt me. I cannot teach you what you need to know if you do not cooperate. I need you to thrust like you mean it!"
Again, the boy lunged at him, much harder than before, and finally Athos was forced to exert a little bit of effort to parry the thrust.
"Do you see how I'm doing that?" he asked, apparently satisfied with his student's attempt. "Do you see the motion I use to stop your attack? I want you to use that same movement. I am not going to attack yet; I just want to see you make the motion."
With his sword, Philippe made the same motion he had seen Athos make, swinging his sword as if to repel an attack.
Athos shook his head in disapproval. "No. That was a half-hearted attempt, and your wrist is weak, too weak to effectively repel an attack. Even a novice swordsman would easily break through. Tighten the wrist and do it again."
Philippe set his wrist and made the gesture again.
"Better. All right, I'm going to use my sword now. I won't thrust hard, though, but you must deflect my sword. En Guard."
They crossed swords, and this time it was Athos who lunged forward with his sword. As he saw the point of the sword coming at him, Philippe could not resist the urge to shrink away from the thrust, but at the same time, he used his sword to parry the attack. The blades clanged together, and he successfully managed to deflect Athos's attack, but just barely. As the blades connected with unexpected force, he felt his wrist give. At the same moment, his hand loosened its grip on the hilt, and for a moment, he feared his sword would go flying from his hand.
"That wasn't too bad for a first attempt," Athos said, encouragingly.
"It was awful," Philippe said, discouraged. "I tried to duck. I only remembered at the last second to block the strike."
"Reflex," Athos told him. "Self preservation is a natural instinct to seeing a sword coming directly at you. With practice, you will overcome the urge to dodge the blade. And you need to work on maintaining a firm grip on the hilt. You nearly lost your sword, didn't you?"
Philippe nodded. "Yes. I felt my wrist turn back when my sword struck yours."
"You must tighten that wrist. Try it again."
They crossed blades, and Athos lunged at the boy again. Again, Philippe cringed away from the blade as he used his own sword to strike Athos's sword away.
"A little better," Athos told him. "You must concentrate, Philippe. You are letting your mind wander. If you are ever in combat, you must be attentive to your opponent's actions. You must try to anticipate what he is going to do next, and react accordingly."
Philippe glanced at D'Artagnan again, and it became apparent to both men that the boy was distracted by him. Unreasonable anger surged through Athos, and he swung around to face the Musketeer, annoyed that their fencing maneuvers had positioned them so that D'Artagnan was now behind him.
Pointing his sword at him, he said fiercely, "I do not trust you to stand behind me! Move to the side, where I can see you."
D'Artagnan's anger boiled to the surface. "You speak to me of trust? You are not the one who was clubbed to the ground when your back was turned!"
Athos glared at him, and D'Artagnan glared back.
Athos's eyes dropped to the sword at D'Artagnan's hip, and he gave a belligerent flick of his weapon. "Maybe it is time we settled this matter once and for all," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "You will recall the day we met, we scheduled a duel that was never fought. Perhaps now is the time."
D'Artagnan's hand went to his sword on impulse and withdrew it halfway from the scabbard, but then he glanced at Philippe, who watched with a stunned expression as the two men he cared about most faced one another in anger. Reconsidering, he shoved the sword back into the scabbard and removed his hand from the hilt.
"No. I will not fight you."
"Coward," Athos spat, angrily.
"You know me better than that, Athos. However, my presence here seems to be unwelcome to you and distracting to Philippe, so I will leave you two alone."
Turning, he strode down the knoll toward the river.
Both Athos and Philippe watched him until he was out of sight, then Athos turned back to the boy, apparently satisfied that the distraction had been removed. "All right. We will try it again."
"No," Philippe said, angrily. "I will accept no more lessons from you until you apologize to him."
Athos was startled, and his expression hardened. "The training is important, Philippe. Even if you choose not to become king, you must know how to defend yourself."
Philippe shook his head, severely disillusioned with the former Musketeer. "No. That man you challenged to a fight just now is my father, my blood. However much you may blame him for something he had no control over, I will not stand here before you as if nothing has happened. Settle your differences in a civilized manner, or I will not train with you."
Athos's face darkened with anger. His eyes were harsh, and his voice cold as he said, "Fine. If that is your wish, then so be it." Reaching out, he snatched the sword roughly from the boy's hand, then strode back to the village.
Philippe looked after him, experiencing a sensation of having just lost something that was valuable to him. Athos had been the one to offer comfort and support when he needed it, and now he was walking away from him in anger. For a moment, Philippe considered going after him, but could not bring himself to do so. His loyalties were torn between them, but blood won out over friendship.
After a few moments, he turned toward the river, and followed the path that D'Artagnan had taken.