Unto Dumas: Pax, Disney and United Artists too

Give credit where credit is due,

I'd be writing something subtly different…

If not for all of you.

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Chapter 8: Departure

Jacqueline Roget stooped behind a stack of boxes near the pier and shed the maid's disguise for the more familiar one of Jacques le Pont. That finished, she stood up to better lace her trousers, and was startled half-out-of-her-wits.

"You there!" A shrill voice called, "What do you think you are doing!"

Louis slipped off the back of Siroc's saddle. "I dare say, that man is wearing MY Thursday wig, and its only Tuesday!" he exclaimed peevishly,

Jacques, relieved she hadn't been discovered in a more compromising situation hastily removed the offending item in a husky whisper 'he' admitted to the young king, "I've been incognito, like you sir. It was necessary to get you some of your things." A gentle tug on the reigns brought the singular brown mare, saddlebags bulging, into view.

The boy charged past the suddenly uninteresting musketeer to throw his arms around 'his steed' snuffling her sinuous neck in a very un-kingly manner. "Mine!" he murmured, into her mane tears shining in his eyes.

"My…my fly." The 10-year-old mumbled. For her part, the mare seemed just as excited to see him. She worried his short-cropped hair with her dexterous lips in the somewhat messy equine equivalent of a kiss. "She's coming with us isn't she?" Louis asked Siroc…eyes wide -- hopeful.

"Yes, she is. They both are." The inventor smiled…making eye contact with Jacques.

Le Pont raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Shouldn't we be boarding then? D'artagnan should arrive anytime now."

"Of course!" Ramón stuck two fingers to his lips and whistled… "Captain Porthos is quite accustomed to transporting horses…Have no fear for them."

At the Spaniard's signal a flock of…brightly sashed 'Sea Gypsies' descended on them. Louis frowned as he watched the sailors slip a hood over butterfly's head, going back as far as her withers… buttoning under the jaw bone and along the neck to the breast. There were no eyeholes but she did not seem to mind and remained calm as the men lead her to the waiting ship…Louis trailed nervously after her.

Siroc's mount was likewise equipped and led away. Ramon explained that horses for Jacque and D'artagnan and himself already occupied special stalls with protective slings beneath the ship's foredeck. With these precautions, the horses could travel in relative comfort and security.

-o-o-o-o-

Porthos' pleasure yacht was a two-masted schooner with slim lines and a shallow draft. Siroc's education included little beyond the scientific theory of the winds, mechanics of rigging a ship and tactics used in various naval battles. In the absence of evidence to the contrary, he could trust the captain to be a good judge of her seaworthiness and simply see the ship as being 'beautiful.'

The inventor leaned on the railing and watched the dancing lights of Quay de la Grenouillére reflected in the wine dark waters of the Seine.

"She's all settled in now." Louis explained joining him at the rail "the other horses told her not to be frightened…I think they've traveled this way before."

"That's good." Siroc nodded. Absently he tried to smooth down the boy's spiky blond fringe.

Louis looked at him strangely. It was unseemly for a commoner to touch the person of the king…he'd been told that all his life – for some reason he was reluctant to correct the young guardsman. 'What hurt will it be' he wondered, 'if I pretend just for a while that I'm not XIV and just be Lew for a while?' "You said I was your nephew." The boy said quietly.

Siroc nodded, "A necessary deception Majesty, "Bernard is not a nice man…he and his companions would have made things very dangerous for us if he recognized you. Still I could not permit him to think you a…Well it is enough to say that he attempted to insult not only myself but you and the entire musketeer corps."

"You sure showed him…I don't think I've ever seen anyone that mad before." The boy smiled shyly, "I believe I shall keep this disguise a while longer… You may refer to me as Lew…uncle."

The young inventor smiled back at him; gratified that he was taking so well to the situation.

Just then, a figure lurched out of the shadows and stumbled up the gangplank. Siroc reached for his blade ready to defend the boy with his life…but it was D'artagnan's hoarse voice that called out – set sail…NOW!

The cry was repeated from the pilothouse. "You heard 'im boys… Cast off… sweeps out!"

Siroc and young Lew struggled to keep their feet under them and out of the sailor's way. Men of all description swarmed the deck. Ropes off, the ship slid from her berth and crawled along on silent oars till they could furl the sails and then she flew like a bird before the wind.

When things settled a bit a bear-like figure vaulted over the railing of the pilothouse. Siroc imagined he could feel the deck shudder at the impact.

"Dart my boy," the captain called…and strode purposefully over to the dark cloaked figure leaning against a stack of barrels on deck… "You're hurt!"

"Hurt!" the declaration nearly made Siroc's heart stop. He rushed to his companion's side. Unwilling to leave the young king at the rail alone he dragged the boy unceremoniously after him. "What happened?"

"I'm alright… just a bit singed… that's all." The legend's son smiled weakly and coughed. Siroc could smell burnt hair and cloth… and it was clear his friend was favoring his right arm.

"What were you doing near the warehouse fire?"

"Warehouse? No, After I left my father… delivered the letter and was making my way out… someone noticed the Cardinal's wing was aflame…I got drafted for the bucket brigade…Sparks everywhere. Part of the balcony collapsed on me." He coughed again, "Would have been here long since… but thought it would look suspicious if I didn't help…someone might peg me for the arson."

"I've got some salve in my bag." Siroc said, Turning to the captain he suggested, "Help me get him to the cabin." Then added as an afterthought "Some light would be good too; I'll need to get a better look at those burns."

Lew trailed behind them in wonder – who would set Uncle Mazzie's apartments on fire? Everyone knew those rogues in the parliament didn't like him. Usually they were a timid lot, all bluff and bluster but what if Mother should need him? The boy bit his trembling lip. He'd never been away from her before.

-o-o-o-o-

Ramón and Jacques were playing cards in the cabin when they carried D'artagnan in. Siroc assumed both had traveled by ship enough times that the novelty, that had kept him at the rail, had worn off.

"What happened!" Jacques exclaimed…voice cracking like a first-year-cadet.

"I'm all right." The Gascon snapped curtly– he smiled at her though, so she would know he had been touched by her obvious concern.

Siroc and Ramón wrestled D'artagnan out of his soot-covered blouse…Porthos held the lamp so they could better examine the red and slightly blistered skin. Jacques rummaged through the bags to find some bandages and the bottle of Salve Siroc described.

"Not too bad." The ad hoc medic agreed. Siroc had seen (not to mention endured) similar injuries often enough to know they were more an inconvenience than anything else. If kept clean, salved, and wrapped they would heal well enough.

Clearly, the worst injuries were to the underside of D'artagnan's forearm, which had sustained cuts and bruises as well as burns.

"The balcony collapses and instead of running like a sensible being you cast your arms to the heavens to protect your pretty face hmm?" Ramon jabbed the patient's ribs playfully.

"Well, God knows it is one of my best assets." D'artagnan smirked back at him. Jacques rolled her eyes at them both.

Porthos' booming laugh filled the small cabin "Just like your pa… Don't you know you needn't be beautiful ta please the ladies! A queen is no different than a barmaid in the dark."

"Really!" Louis gasped eyes wide. Come to think of it, He had never seen his mother in the dark, and he'd never seen a barmaid at all…but he was sure such information could one day prove quite valuable.

"Well, some are more or less practiced in the art of massage." The captain thrust his thumbs behind his wide lapels and bragged: "I've been with Princesses, Queens, Tsarinas and Matriarchs…even a Sultana...none hold a candle to my Allie though. Best massage this side of…."

"Ah…Captain, this is…" Siroc tried to silence the verbose man before he launched into a colorful recitation unfit for the ears of a young king. But the boy hastily cut him off as well. "I'm Lew…Uncle Siroc said I could come." He held out his hand. The angle was a bit awkward… more appropriate to one that expected the proffered appendage to be kissed rather than shook.

The captain didn't seem to notice and engulfed the slim fingers in his ursine paw, careful not crush them.

"Welcome aboard lad." He smiled warmly; I hope you enjoy the adventure.

"Uncle Paulie," D'artagnan almost whined, "You know I always worry when YOU use that word 'ADVENTURE'."

"And just what would you call it my boy-o?" he grinned.

"Nice peaceful transport?" his nephew said hopefully.

"Ha! Well, we'll see. Once we reach the channel...we'll see." Porthos winked at him. "Well I'd best get back on deck. You lads try to get some rest now while you can." The large man suggested as he took his leave.

D'artagnan sighed forlornly "That doesn't sound encouraging…does it."

o-o-o-o

Many miles away, Emris de Ruse sat reading by the light of the fire. The Philippe had finally fallen asleep on the settee beside him. It had taken seasons of careful encouragement to get him to rest anywhere but wedged the little stone niche more appropriate for a closet.

In the beginning the frightened boy would start an even the smallest sound and cower eyes shining, animal like, in the darkness. Emris had seen a painting a Moorish prince once, wrapping the child's head with a towel in a similar fashion seemed the only way to ease his. Progress had been slow but there had been improvement.

"Poor child." The scholar breathed caressing the dark curls out of Philippe's face. When awake, the haunted prince still shunned most forms of physical contact, not so this evening. The sleeping boy smiled and nuzzled into Emris's hand. He murmured something in his sleep. The scholar was perplexed. It sounded like the boy had said, "Butterfly."

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Chapter 9: The Voyage: Is that Adventure I see on the horizon?

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