FOURTEEN

The morning of Philippe's first riding lesson dawned bright and sunny, with just a few wispy cirrus clouds drifting lazily across the pale blue sky. Both father and son had been looking forward to the experience, but the younger man had barely slept all night long in his excitement, and he glanced frequently at the older men during breakfast, wondering how they could be so casual. Indeed, no one except him seemed to be in a hurry to get to the paddock.

After breakfast, instead of immediately rising from the table to proceed to the stable, D'Artagnan and Athos remained seated for some time after everyone else left, speaking quietly together while Philippe paced from the door to the window, looking longingly toward the stable where his horse waited. Frequently, he glanced over his shoulder at the two men who seemed to have forgotten the milestone instruction that he had been so eagerly anticipating, and wondered if he should remind them.

Angelina and her sisters returned from the upstairs chambers, where they had been changing the sheets on the beds while their employers had breakfast, and began cleaning up the kitchen, working around the two men who barely noticed them. Philippe stepped back when Aramis entered the kitchen with a bucket of water freshly drawn from the well.

He glanced impatiently at the Musketeer again. Had he forgotten? "Father?" he said, hesitantly.

D'Artagnan and Athos both turned toward him.

He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm going out to the stable."

"I will be along shortly," the Musketeer replied, indication that he had not forgotten, but that he was in no hurry to join him, either. "While you are there, go into the paddock and remove any obstacles that might be in the way, like broken boards that may have fallen into the enclosure. Look also for horseshoes or nails, anything that should not be there. I want a nice clean surface for your lesson."

He did not add that it was in case the young man fell, but Philippe knew that was what he meant. At least that would give him something to do until D'Artagnan decided that it was time to begin.

"Remember, Philippe; patience is a virtue," Aramis said as he poured himself a glass of water while it was still cold.

D'Artagnan was smiling. "Patience is indeed a virtue, but some of us have more of it than others. Including certain priests."

Aramis looked at his friend with a smile. "Touché, D'Artagnan. Touché."

Philippe did not wait to hear any more of the friendly banter between comrades. Leaving the house, he crossed the wide street and proceeded directly to the stable, where he moved slowly past the open door, looking inside at the horses. Many of them were being removed from their stalls and taken to the fields or hitched to wagons for errands, but he knew that his black gelding was waiting for him in its stall farther down the row. First, however, he must clear the paddock as his father had instructed.

The paddock was located behind the stable, and was a large square enclosure for containing the animals for exercise when they were not released into the pastures. The gate was ajar, left open the previous evening by one of the stable workers, so he pushed it wider and stepped inside.

The ground was soft beneath his shoes, and he noticed that sand had been added to the soil to assist drainage and prevent the dirt from packing down. No doubt, many young boys had learned to ride in this very enclosure, instructed by their own fathers. Philippe knew he was older than the other boys had probably been; most of them had probably learned to ride almost before they could walk, but it did not diminish his enthusiasm. To the contrary, he was determined to learn as quickly as possible.

The paddock, he discovered, was well maintained. No broken boards or horseshoes littered the enclosure, but he did find a bent horseshoe nail that one of the animals had apparently lost, and there were several piles of dung, which he definitely did not want to fall in, so he found a shovel near the stable door, scooped them up, and carried them to the dung pile. When he returned, he found that his father was leaning on a post watching him, his expression unreadable.

Philippe instantly experienced a moment of self-doubt, wondering if he should have summoned one of the stable boys to clean out the dung. Ever since he had arrived at the village, he had been reminded by Aramis that he must behave as the king, and the king would surely never pick up a shovel to do barnyard work.

With a lame shrug, he approached the Musketeer. "I know I probably should have asked one of the stable hands to do that, but it was just faster and easier to do it myself. Besides, they have enough work to do," he added.

"A life of labor is difficult, but it is a life that most people in this world must endure," D'Artagnan said. "If you accept the position of king, it is a life you will leave behind, yet it is good that you willingly experience it for yourself while you are here, so that you may carry that knowledge with you to the palace. Understanding how the less fortunate live will help you to be a better ruler than your brother has been. Come; let us get your horse."

Turning, D'Artagnan walked toward the stable.

Philippe gazed after him for a moment, thinking about what had just happened. Aramis would have jumped on his physical labor like a duck on a beetle, reminding him that his place as king was not to serve but to be served by others, yet his actions seemed to have pleased his father. Warmth surged through his entire body, and he felt a youthful desire to continue to please him.

As he entered the stable, he placed the shovel where he had found it, and followed D'Artagnan to the gelding's stall, and he waited while the older man placed the halter and lead rope on the animal.

"You must wonder why I delayed," he said.

"Yes," Philippe replied.

"Working directly after eating is good for neither man nor beast. Always give yourself and your animals a rest before you work."

Now Philippe understood. "I will do that, Father," he promised.

D'Artagnan opened the stall door and passed the lead rope to his son. "Take the horse into the paddock. I will get the tack, and join you."

Philippe led the horse out of the stable and into the paddock. D'Artagnan joined him a few minutes later carrying the saddle and bridle.

As he watched the Musketeer prepare his mount, Philippe's stomach suddenly felt alive with butterflies. The man who stood before him was reputed to be the greatest horseman in France, and more than anything else in the world at that moment, he wanted to make his father proud. But what if he failed? What if he could not learn even the basics of riding skills?

D'Artagnan was a man who was clearly accustomed to being around horses, and was comfortable with them. His long, slender fingers worked the leather straps quickly and with ease as he inserted them into the buckles and pulled the girth tight. Next, halter was removed, the bit was inserted into the gelding's mouth, and the crown pulled behind its ears. The straps were adjusted for the animal's comfort.

When the horse was fully tacked, he turned toward his son. "All ready."

Philippe moved closer, unwilling to admit that his heart was pounding with nervousness. He rubbed his sweaty palms against his breeches to dry them. "How do I . . . " He paused, his face flushing with embarrassment at his lack of knowledge. Gesturing ambiguously toward the horse, he asked, "How do I get on?"

D'Artagnan did not appear surprised by the query, nor did he mock him for his ignorance. "It is good that you ask," he said, alleviating Philippe's embarrassment. "There is more to mounting a horse than just climbing onto its back. There are different methods that can be used, but you must mount the way Louis does. Fortunately, Louis employs a typical method that will be simple for you to duplicate. Watch while I demonstrate."

Philippe's eyes were riveted upon his father, watching while D'Artagnan passed the reins over the head of the horse and gathered them at the withers.

"Reins in your left hand," the Musketeer instructed. "Make sure they are even and that you have light contact with the horse's mouth. This will prevent him from walking off with you while you're mounting. If he does move, you can easily stop him. Left foot in the stirrup." Using his right hand to position the stirrup iron, he placed his booted foot in the stirrup. "For a beginner such as yourself, you may grasp a handful of mane in your left hand to steady yourself. Louis merely places his hand on the horse's neck, but if you wish you may close your fingers around some of the mane without attracting undo attention." Although it was unnecessary for him to use the mane for balance, he demonstrated the technique to Philippe by grasping a handful of mane in his left hand. "Next, place your right hand on the pommel." He demonstrated by placing his hand on the front of the saddle. "You can steady yourself with your hands, but use the muscle in your thigh to pull yourself up."

With the smooth elegance of an experienced horseman, D'Artagnan mounted the horse, swung his right leg over its back and settled into the saddle. The horse's head immediately came up in alert attention, and its ears turned back toward its rider, waiting for instructions.

Philippe nodded. "That looks simple enough."

"To dismount, you do everything in reverse." His dismount was equally as graceful and effortless as the mount had been, stepping back onto the ground as easily as if he had been stepping down from a stool. Before he turned the reins over to his son, he said, "Remember, Philippe, the horse is a servant, given to us by God to serve us loyally, and like all servants, they will respond more readily if treated with kindness. The horse will strive to please you, and kind words and a gentle touch will yield better results than the whip. I will break the whip over the head of any man I see beating a horse, and, king or no king, that includes you," he added with a smile.

Philippe nodded his understanding, but D'Artagnan needn't have worried. He would never treat his beautiful horse badly. "I would expect no less."

"All right. Let's see you try."

Philippe moved toward the horse. Remembering the instructions that D'Artagnan had given him, he took the reins in his left hand, positioned the stirrup, which suddenly seemed very high off the ground, and he placed his foot in it, noticing how the weak muscles in his legs stretched. Then he placed his right hand on the pommel. With his left hand, he grasped a handful of long black mane. But as he attempted to place his weight onto his left thigh to rise into the saddle, he came face to face with the reality of his long incarceration. The leg would not support his weight in that position, and he sank back to the ground after managing to pull himself only part way up.

He gripped the pommel tighter in his hand in frustration and self-consciousness at his lack of ability, and his face flushed bright red at his failure. Resting his forehead against the saddle in embarrassment, he murmured, "I'm sorry, I just –"

D'Artagnan gasped his arm, firmly, forcing him to look up. "There is no shame here, Philippe. You did everything right, exactly as I told you. You have been in prison for a long time, and muscles become weak when they are not used. You are getting stronger in your other lessons, but you have not had to use the muscles in your legs for something like this. Repetitions will strengthen them. Now, try again."

Philippe nodded, and turned to face the horse again. This time, struggling valiantly, he managed to slowly and awkwardly pull himself into the saddle. It was an accomplishment, considering the weakness of his leg, but it contained none of the polished beauty he had witnessed in his father's mount.

D'Artagnan's heart ached for his son as he watched his struggle, and resisted the urge to give him a boost into the saddle. "Better," he praised. Looking up at the young man on the horse, recognizing the discouraged expression, he said, "It will get easier, son, I promise. In time, your legs will get stronger."

A pleased smile formed on Philippe's lips at D'Artagnan's words, but it was one specific word that meant more to him than the encouragement. "You called me 'son'," he said, softly, his heart swelling with joy.

For a moment, father and son smiled at one another, then D'Artagnan patted the young man affectionately on the thigh. "Now, dismount."

If Philippe thought the dismount was going to be easier, he was sadly mistaken. Again, the culprit was his weak leg, which did not adequately support his weight as he stepped down toward the ground. His right foot landed on the ground much too quickly and clumsily and too far beneath the horse, which threw him off balance. He made several funny little backward hops on his right foot as he attempted to recover his balance and at the same time pull his left foot from the stirrup. When it finally came free, he stumbled backward and sat down very hard and very ungracefully in the soft dirt of the paddock.

Porthos roared with laughter from the other side of the fence. "You must write a song to go with that dance, Philippe!"

Philippe looked up, mortified to find that both Porthos and Athos had come out to watch, and were both leaning against the outside of the fence. It was obvious that both had seen his clumsy dismount. Porthos's face was flushed, and it was clear that he was desperately craving a drink, yet was enjoying this amusing distraction from his misery. Athos' lips turned up slightly, the first hint of a smile that anyone had seen from him since Raoul's death. Aramis was the only one not present, having elected to remain inside the house to do some paperwork. Even the horse turned its head to look at him with pricked ears, as if amused by his graceless tumble to the ground.

Philippe shifted his attention back to D'Artagnan, his face flaming with humiliation and resentment, and for the briefest moment he considered simply running away to escape his shame.

"At least you landed on your backside," his father told him, still smiling. "I landed on my face the first time I fell from a horse! I was just a child, and I got my foot hung up in the straps and flipped upside down." He extended his hand to assist him to his feet.

Porthos' laughter increased, and Philippe finally broke a smile and relaxed, understanding that D'Artagnan was shifting some of the ridicule onto himself. "Well, I guess that means that there is still hope for me to eventually get it right," he replied, reaching up to accept his father's hand.

D'Artagnan pulled his son to his feet. "You're doing well, Philippe. That was just an unfortunate accident. Let's try it again."

Philippe moved willingly toward the gelding once again, brushing the dust from the seat of his breeches with his hands, and repeated the process he had attempted before. It was no easier this time. He grunted, strained, and struggled before he managed to get himself into the saddle, and by the time he was in the saddle he was gasping and panting from the exertion.

D'Artagnan observed Philippe's struggle with sympathetic eyes, understanding that this was a direct result of the six year incarceration. Because of the difficulties he had endured, it was tempting to go easy on him, but he realized it would not benefit him in the long run. Philippe had a lot to learn in a short amount of time. He must work hard to accomplish it, and D'Artagnan knew he must drive him hard when necessary. With a twinge of guilt, he said, "Dismount."

Philippe's expression was one of surprise. Having managed with such great difficulty to get back into the saddle, it had never occurred to him that his father would make him repeat it yet again. With a sigh and only a brief hesitation, he dismounted, but managed to keep his feet under him this time.

"Much better," D'Artagnan said. Philippe barely had time to absorb the satisfaction of having succeeded when the Musketeer said, "Again."

Obediently, the young man struggled into the saddle again, and, to his dismay, as soon as he was on the horse's back, the Musketeer said, "Dismount."

Again, the young man dismounted, wondering if he was going to get to do anything in this lesson besides mount and dismount.

"Once more," D'Artagnan said.

Philippe offered no verbal objection, but he gave his father a resentful glance, which was ignored, and then mounted again. The muscle in his thigh knotted and trembled as he pulled himself into the saddle, and he felt discouraged when he finally made it aboard. "It's getting harder, not easier," he complained. "My leg is shaking."

D'Artagnan nodded, deciding that he had pushed him hard enough. "Very well. You will practice the mount later. But you must practice it," he added with emphasis. "And you must practice often. Louis mounts with ease, and you must do so as well. Pick up your stirrup with your other foot."

Leaning to his right, Philippe grasped the stirrup iron in his hand and positioned it so that he could slip his right foot into it. Then he turned his attention back to his father, who was patiently waiting.

"During public events when he will be observed by others, Louis typically holds both reins in his left hand, and places his right hand on his hip, as it is considered a stately position. However, when hunting or pleasure riding, he usually has one rein in each hand. The latter is the method we will start with. You want to have light contact with the horse's mouth. You're not pulling back on the reins; you just want to be able to feel his mouth. It is through the reins and with your legs that you communicate with your horse, and the horse understands this. I had one horse, a handsome black very much like this one, that would stretch his neck out if the reins were too loose so that he could feel the bit. He understood its purpose."

"I remember him," Porthos said. "That was one smart horse. Everyone in the platoon coveted him."

"What happened to him?" Philippe asked, curiously.

"I retired him to Porthos's estate. He's still there." D'Artagnan took one of the reins from his son and demonstrated the proper way to hold it. "Hold the reins one in each hand like so," he said, threading the rein between his ring finger and his little finger. "You can move your hands forward to give him his head, or pull straight back to stop him, but as soon as he has stopped, release him. Do not continue to pull back after he had done what you asked. To turn right, pull the right rein straight back toward your hip. To go left, pull the left rein back, same as before. Sit up straight."

Philippe straightened his back, surprised to discover that he had been slouching again. That was a habit that he was going to have to break, one that had been acquired through years of loneliness and hopelessness in the prison.

"Always make sure that the reins are even," D'Artagnan continued.

Taking up the reins in each hand as he had been instructed, he waited while his father adjusted them to the proper length.

D'Artagnan next placed his hands on Philippe's leg, the left hand at the knee, the right hand at the ankle. "Relax your leg," he instructed. When Philippe complied, he positioned the young man's leg properly. "Heels should be down, knees slightly bent. That's it." He stepped back to observe his position in the saddle. "Now, squeeze with your legs."

Philippe obeyed, and the gelding responded by moving forward at a walk. Unprepared for the movement, Philippe swayed in the saddle, and might have slid right off the horse's haunches had D'Artagnan not reached up lightning quick to place his hand protectively on the boy's back to steady him. When Philippe had sufficiently recovered his balance, the Musketeer released him, but continued to walk alongside, one hand on the rein to control the horse from the ground while Philippe became accustomed to the feel of the moving animal beneath him.

"Relax your lower body and let it move with the horse," D'Artagnan said, noticing the young man's rigid position. "You will become accustomed to that rocking motion."

The feeling of the living animal beneath him was a new and wondrous sensation. Philippe relaxed, allowing the natural movement of the horse to push his body gently back and forth as it walked, and he discovered that it was pleasant, even relaxing.

They circled the paddock several times, and then D'Artagnan released the rein and stepped back. "You have control," he said. The horse attempted to follow him, sensing his authority, and he said, "Turn him back to the rail."

Philippe pulled the right rein back toward his hip, as D'Artagnan had instructed, and the gelding moved back to the rail.

"That's it. You are doing well, son," D'Artagnan said as he moved into the center of the paddock where he could carefully watch Philippe's handling of the horse.

Philippe could not suppress his pleased smile in response to the praise, and especially his father referring to him as "son" once again. For a while, he watched the horse's head bobbing up and down as it walked. The gelding was slow and uncertain, obviously aware that an inexperienced rider was on its back, but plodded obediently. Its ears flicked frequently back toward its rider, then toward the man on the ground who continued to watch from the center of the paddock, as if uncertain who to take its commands from.

"Just continue to walk around the rail and get accustomed to the movement of the horse," D'Artagnan told him. "Balance is everything."

Porthos laughed again, and D'Artagnan smiled. Only Athos remained straight-faced. Philippe felt his cheeks heat up again with indignation. It seemed that they would not soon let him forget his blunder, but he made no comment.

"Now, pull on the left rein and move toward me. I want you to cut through the center of the paddock, then return to the rail going the other direction."

Philippe complied with his father's instructions, pulling back on the left rein so that the horse moved through the center of the paddock toward D'Artagnan. The Musketeer stepped back, allowing the horse to pass him, and Philippe shortened the right rein, turning the horse toward the rail again as they switched direction. A thrill of accomplishment went through him when the horse obeyed his commands, and he flashed a delighted grin at his father.

D'Artagnan could help but smile at the expression of rapture on his son's face. "Excellent, Philippe," he praised. "I think you and your horse are getting more comfortable with one another."

Philippe continued to ride the horse at a walk, occasionally cutting through the center of the paddock to change direction. The horse always pricked its ears at D'Artagnan as it passed him, but it now accepted its rider's commands without hesitation.

D'Artragnan watched from the center of the enclosure, pleased with his son's progress, and after a while he said, "Now, I want you to move through the paddock in a figure eight pattern," he said, using his finger to draw the figure in the air so that the young man understood.

Responding immediately, Philippe guided the horse into the pattern he had described, understanding that the lesson had progressed to getting him comfortable with using the reins.

After nearly an hour had passed from the start of the lesson, Aramis came out of the house, and joined his friends at the railing to watch as the young man rode slowly around the edge of the paddock. "He's coming along nicely," he said, approvingly, then smiled at D'Artagnan. "He appears to be his father's son."

"In more ways than one!" Porthos chuckled, winking at D'Artagnan.

He allowed the boy to circle the paddock several more times, then said, "I think he's had enough for the first day." He motioned to Philippe, and the young man approached, smiling.

"I'm feeling more comfortable, now," he said.

"That is good," the Musketeer replied. "We'll work some more on this tomorrow, but after lunch I will show you a way to help strengthen your legs. Expect to be sore in the morning," he added with a smile.

Stopping the horse near the gate, Philippe carefully dismounted, making certain that he alighted properly on the ground and did not make a fool of himself again.

"When you have rested up a bit, we must work on your penmanship some more," Aramis said as he started walking back toward the house. Then he stopped abruptly and turned around to face the paddock again. "D'Artagnan!"

Everyone at the paddock turned to face him.

The priest withdrew a coin from his pocket and held it up for them to see. Then, without a word, he tossed it onto the ground several yards away, and turned back to his friend, smiling.

D'Artagnan must have understood the significance of the curious gesture, for he heaved a heavy sigh and gave the priest a somewhat wilting glance. "Aramis, I haven't even attempted that in years."

"Oh, come on, D'Artagnan!" Porthos said, giving him a playful shove through the rails that sent him sprawling against the horse's shoulder. "You can still do it."

"You really want to see me make a fool out of myself, don't you?" he asked, righting himself once again. "I'm more likely to fall off and break my neck!"

Philippe looked curiously from one to the other, then approached Athos. "What are they talking about?" he asked.

"When he was young, D'Artagnan could pick up a coin from the ground at full gallop," he explained. "Not only must you be a skilled horseman, you must also have incredible eyesight to do such a thing. I could never even see the coin on the ground at that speed."

"Perhaps if I get a smaller horse?" D'Artagnan suggested. "A child's pony, perchance, so I won't have so far to fall?"

"This horse!" Aramis told him, laughing.

Accepting the challenge, D'Artagnan took the reins from Philippe, and mounted in one continuously fluid motion. He had stepped into the stirrup and onto the horse's back as easily as if stepping up on a footstool. He did not even need to bend over to place his right foot in the other stirrup; he merely maneuvered the stirrup with the toe of his boot until it was in position. Philippe was suitably impressed, and resolved that he would try that during his next lesson.

The gelding's demeanor immediately changed with the experienced rider on its back. Where it had been slow and tentative with the younger man, it came instantly to attention with D'Artagnan. Its head was carried high, its neck gracefully arched, and it took several quick, prancing steps, trying to anticipate what its rider expected. He wondered if the horse would ever look so magnificent with him on its back instead of the Musketeer.

Taking up the reins, D'Artagnan asked, "I don't suppose I can convince you that I am probably going to fall and hurt myself."

"You're too modest, D'Artagnan," Porthos scolded as he opened the paddock gate.

"I am a fool," he retorted with a slight smile as he guided the gelding through the gate at a walk, a much faster walk, Philippe noticed, than he had used in the paddock during his lesson.

He rode at a walk past the coin, pinpointing its location on the ground, then he nudged the horse's sides with his heels, and the gelding broke into a canter. He circled the yard a couple of times, getting the feel of the horse's stride after being out of the saddle for a few days, while the others watched. When he was ready, he urged his mount into full gallop.

As he neared the coin, he leaned low over the animal's neck. With his right hand, he gripped the reins and the pommel of the saddle as he shifted his weight off the left side of the horse, draping his right leg over the saddle, and reached down with his left hand to snatch the coin from the ground as he galloped past. With the coin in his hand, he shifted his weight back into the saddle, and slowed the horse. He cantered back to his friends, and tossed the coin into Aramis' hand.

Philippe's eyes were shining with passionate admiration for his father's ability, ample reward for D'Artagnan's trick.

"I told you, you could still do it!" Aramis praised.

D'Artagnan drew the horse to a stop at the paddock, and dismounted. He handed the reins to Philippe. "Your confidence exceeds mine," he said to the priest as he began to unfasten the girth on the saddle. "I was uncertain that I still had the skill. A lot of years have passed since I amused my comrades with that trick."

"We were always doing foolish things to amuse ourselves, weren't we?" Porthos asked. He sighed, heavily. "Those were good times."

"That they were, my friend," D'Artagnan said. "But there are good times yet to come."

Lifting the saddle from the horse's back, he slung it over the fence. He then took the reins and led the gelding back into the paddock, and slipped the bridle off. The horse walked away several steps, then lay down on the soft ground and rolled and rolled until the feeling of the saddle had been removed from its back. Then it stood up again and shook itself off. A cloud of dust drifted over the paddock.

The five men walked up to the house together and proceeded to the drawing room, where Aramis presented Philippe with a parchment and a quill. But the young man was too excited to even think about anything else at that moment.

"I've never seen anyone ride a horse like that!" he said enthusiastically as Angelina poured warm freshly made cider into cups for them. "I bet you learned to ride on the finest steeds in the country!"

D'Artagnan leaned back in his chair and smiled patiently. "I learned to ride as a child on my father's old plow horse while he tilled the sod behind me. The straps I got hung up in were the harness for the plow."

Philippe looked startled. "But . . . I thought your father was a Musketeer!"

"He was, for a time. A serious injury forced him to leave the service, so he returned to Gascony, married my mother, and started a family."

Philippe's surprise increased. "Returned to Gascony?"

"That is where I was raised."

"But I heard that people from Gascony are –" he broke off abruptly, embarrassed. Quickly, he averted his eyes, hoping he had not offended his father.

Everyone in the room looked at D'Artagnan, who in turn looked fondly at his son. "You can say the word, Philippe," he said without offense. "We were poor. I am not ashamed of that, for it is our past that shapes our future. Even as a small child, I worked in the fields alongside my father from dawn until dusk just so that we would have enough food on the table to last through the winter. Every night, I collapsed into bed so tired that it seemed I had barely closed my eyes when it was time to get up and repeat the process again. We were totally dependent on our crops and the livestock we raised, and following droughts or insect infestations, we would have to ration our food through the winter months, which meant that by spring we were going to bed hungry. I remember one year, Father had to slaughter the milk cow to sustain us, and Mother cried for days because they could not afford to replace her. They were difficult times, yet in some ways, they were the happiest days of my life. As I got older, times became easier, for I was able to work harder and longer, and our crops were larger. By the time I left home, we were selling portions of our crops for money. It was hard work, but very satisfying to provide your family with the fruit of your labor."

"Did you attend formal schooling?" Porthos asked.

"No. I was educated at the evening fireside by my mother, and I learned dedication and swordsmanship from my father. They shaped my life into who I am today, and I owe them a great debt."

Porthos took a sip of cider, and grimaced, finding the flavor was not to his liking. For a moment, he considered going to the kitchen for the keg of wine, but then caught a gentle smile from Angelina, and felt his resolve strengthen again. He had known it would not be easy when he had decided to give up the drink, and there was a great deal to gain by success. In an attempt to take his mind off his problems, he asked, "Tell me, D'Artagnan, did you really fall on your face in the dirt?"

Aramis looked up in surprise. "What is this? Did I miss something?"

"D'Artagnan was telling us that when he was learning how to ride, he fell from the horse on his face."

D'Artagan was smiling as he took a sip of the warm cider, then returned the cup to the table. "I did. Left a nice imprint of my features in the soft dirt, including my wide-open mouth, for I was yelling as I watched the ground rush up to meet my face!"

Aramis and Porthos laughed heartily, and D'Artagnan continued to smile, unoffended by their laughter. Even Athos was greatly amused, as evidenced by the crinkling at the corner of his eyes and the slight turning up of his lips. Although he could not help laughing with the rest, Philippe felt surprised that his father could actually make fun of himself.

"I would give half of my late wife's holdings to have seen that!" Porthos said, wistfully.

"My father joked that he wanted to find some mortar with which to make a cast of the imprint so that all might see his son's artistic creation! For once, I was glad we were too poor to afford the mortar. I would never have been able to show my face in the village again!"

Porthos roared with laughter and the quill and ink well jumped when he gleefully banged his fist on the tabletop. "The mortar cast would probably have been displayed for posterity in the town square!"

"It would have scared away all the pigeons, that is for certain," D'Artagnan quipped.

Again, the laughter was raucous. This time, even Athos could not suppress his chuckle of amusement, and everyone noticed and felt relief that their old friend was slowly returning to himself, but they did not wish to embarrass him by calling it to attention.

"You never told us about that," Aramis said, wiping his eyes when the laughter died down.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "To tell you the truth, I had forgotten about it until Philippe reminded me of it."

Philippe felt his cheeks heat up once again at the reminder of his own faux pas. Would they never let him forget that?

D'Artagnan saw his son's embarrassment, and said, "It is easy to laugh at others, Philippe, but it is more important that we be able to laugh at ourselves. We all do things at one time or another to humiliate ourselves, but they are not to be taken so seriously. Our stumbles and falls teach us humility, and the laughter of our friends should be enjoyed, even when we are the source of that laughter. One day, you will look back on this incident with fondness and wish that you could relive it, for it all goes by too quickly."

"Well said, D'Artagnan," Aramis agreed.

Philippe thought about that for a long time, and then nodded. "I suppose I am too serious, but I have had very little to laugh about in my life."

Aramis looked away, guiltily, and D'Artagnan's eyes were kind as he observed his son. "There will be no more hard times for you, my son. No matter what decision you make, whether you take command of your country or settle into a more private existence, I will promise you that much."

Philippe's eyes locked with those of his father, and felt the affection that bonded them together.

Aramis broke into the silence that had settled over the room. "Well, I think it's time you turned your attention to that piece of parchment before you and work on your script."

With a smile, Philippe dipped the quill in the ink well and applied it to the parchment.