"So, the whip marks on your back are from your father?" Aramis inquired as Athos took a break in the story to refill his nearly empty glass.
After taking a large mouthful and realizing he was developing quite a buzz, Athos set the mug on the ground without imbibing any further. He still had to be able to finish his tale knowing his brothers would haunt him until he did.
"My father did on occasions use the rod, so to speak, as a form of discipline. He was good at it and could make it very…uncomfortable…to sit. But he never, not even once, hit me with a whip hard enough to break skin and draw blood. Bruised and sore, yes. But scars. No."
A scowl had formed on Porthos face a while ago and it was still there as he said, "I don't think I'm gonna like the ending to this story."
The corner of Athos' lip twitched even as he worked, somewhat unsuccessfully to quell the shiver that ran up his spine. "I don't think you will, my friend."
"But you will finish the story," Aramis prodded. He truly believed if Athos could let the demon memory out of the prison in which the swordsman had walled it, they, as a group, could banish it and lighten the load on Athos' soul.
Athos gave a brief nod and picked up the tale.
Olivier walked down the aisle of the stable until he reached the stalls where their wagon horses had been placed. Grabbing a brush from a nearby shelf, the young man let himself into the box with the straw-covered floor and began to groom the draft horse whose name was Gros, looking for something to distract his mind. He wasn't so sheltered that he didn't realize there were men, such as Dufort, who felt servants were to be treated the same as simple minded farm animals. But he hadn't realized until now their neighbor felt that way. He knew the Baron to the south was a stuck-up fool. But Olivier thought the man was trying to make up for an inferiority complex because he was only a Baron and not a full-fledged Comte. He believed the Baron jealous of the de la Fére's historically long, generational prominence, wealth, and connections.
Gros let out a nicker of disapproval when Olivier brushed him a bit too vigorously and he gave the gelding an apologetic pat on the shoulder. Instead of taking his aggravation out on the animal, Olivier used the rhythmic strokes of the brush to calm his mind. Eventually, Karl passed by, having finished his distasteful task and he was followed by the Comte who stopped at the stall where Olivier was now grooming the second horse, named Blaze for the white stripe down his face.
"What are you doing, boy? We have servants for that." The Comte snapped his fingers and a stable hand who had been cowering nearby instantly appeared. "What is the meaning of this; letting my guest care for his own beasts?"
Once again, Olivier realized he had erred and placed one of the Comte's servants at risk for their employer's wrath. Quickly, he exited the stall and shoved the brush into the stable boy's hand. "He did try to stop me, but I insisted. Gros and Blaze can be a bit…temperamental at times," he lied for the two draft horses were as gentle as kittens.
The Comte grunted, then motioned for Olivier to follow him. "You know, boy, you can't coddle the help. They are simpletons. They understand very little other than the whip."
"But surely you don't want your staff injured" Athos said, as they walked out of the stable.
Once again, the Comte made a rude noise. "How else will they learn? And servants are easy enough to come by. They breed like vermin. Better they learn how to do their work properly. If they can't and need punishment then it is God's will."
Olivier didn't think God had anything to do with it, but, as before, he held his tongue. He had no hopes of winning this discussion so it was better to let it drift off and hope the next one was better.
"You best go clean up before dinner. My wife," he said possessively, "will not appreciate the smell of horse at her table."
Personally, Olivier thought it would be better than the perfume with which the lady of the house and her daughters doused themselves. His mother always smelt faintly of lavender, which grew in abundance in the kitchen garden. He knew his mother's maids gathered it and made various toiletries, including soap. He remembered once he had grabbed a bar of his mother's lavender soap by mistake and didn't realize until he was fully lathered. Thomas had ribbed him terribly and his father had not been amused to find his eldest heir smelling like a Comtesse, not a Comte. After that, his mother had her maids experiment with making more 'masculine' smelling soaps and finally settled on a mint-based one for mint, like lavender, grew abundantly.
At the Dufort estate, dinner that night was as horrible as young Olivier imagined. As he predicted, the ladies of the household were doused in so much perfume that he found his head beginning to ache. Once again, the Comtesse alternated between bragging about her three daughters and questioning the boy about his family, his interests, his schooling, and his last trip to Paris, which he had accidentally mentioned. As was his style, even at this age, he tried to provide succinct answers in hopes the conversation would end at that point. But it didn't, and the Comtesse's incessant grilling and the doe-eyed daughters' simpers and giggles continued.
The inquisition was only derailed momentarily when each member of the Dufort household paused to berate one of the servants. From the serving girls, to the cook, to the housemaid and the butler, all were found to be at fault and the Dufort family was quick to bring them to task with harsh, cruel words and actions. It was an interesting self-filling prophecy, for the more the Dufort's took their servants to task, especially the younger ones, the more nervous the staff became, which caused them to make a greater number of mistakes.
When the serving girl was removing his half-finished bowl of soup that the Comtesse had declared unfit for consumption, the broth sloshed onto his sleeve. Olivier hadn't been surprised that the accident occurred, for the young girl's hands were quivering quite badly, clearly fearful of the Comtesse's ire. He shrugged off the minor spill, but the Comtesse carried on as if the entire soup tureen had been upended upon his head. The girl, a new addition to the household, was in tears by the time the Comtesse finished her tirade. Nothing Olivier tried to interject made it any better and if anything seemed only to inflame the situation. So, he finally bent his head down and prayed for a quick end to the meal.
Upon conclusion of the dinner from hell, Olivier was compelled, unwillingly, into the Comte Dufort's den. What an established Comte and a thirteen-year-old boy would talk about was a mystery to Olivier. Dufort, who was lower in standing than his father in the ranks of nobility, prattled on about the robust monetary aspects of his estate, the important people he knew and the great deeds he had done. He sprinkled in the deluded insinuation that once the two estates were joined, they would be one step below the monarchy in power and prestige. It was all Olivier could do to keep his faced schooled in what he hoped was an attentive manner. Olivier thought many things of his father, but he knew the man was shrewd enough to stay away from anything but business relations with the Duforts. Olivier thought he had managed to stay awake during the narcissistic discourse, but perhaps he was wrong. When the Comte had abruptly stood up and declared it time for them to retire, Olivier was caught off guard, though relieved.
Once in his room, Olivier stripped off his coat, before flopping on the bed. He had thoughts as to his mother's welfare, but sleep soon claimed him and he was out like a snuffed candle. His last conscious thought was he'd hoped Karl would be done soon so they could leave this horrid place. The sixth sense that in the future would save him more than once as a musketeer was niggling at the base of his brain but he wasn't experienced enough yet to pay attention. Nor was he disciplined enough to realize he hadn't locked the door. A mistake he would come to regret.