Thank you for the comments and for all the readers of the last chapter.
So, will Porthos and Aramis get any helpful information from the innkeeper. (Another chapter at just over 1000 words!)
CHAPTER 37
Aramis managed to get through the door before Porthos and moved with ease across the room towards the tavern keeper who was standing near their abandoned table and scratching his head, perplexed as to what to do with the bowls of hot stew he had set down for his latest guests. They had not walked out without paying as their wet cloaks had been spread out across the backs of the settles to dry.
The Musketeer did not break his stride as he reached the man, slid an arm around his shoulders, smiled as If a spider to a fly and steered him out of a rear door into the night air.
"Ssshhh!" he said, finger to his lips as the short innkeeper began to protest at being manoeuvred until his back was against the external wall. "We mean you no harm. You know that we are Musketeers, the King's elite regiment, and that we are honourable men -"
"We are as long as you tell us what we want to know," Porthos said menacingly, stepping forward and looming over the innkeeper who cowered before him and emitted a strange sound that resembled a terrified squeak.
Aramis extended a hand as if to hold Porthos back from any intended action.
"I repeat, we mean you no harm but we would like to know about that magnificent black stallion you have in your stable," Aramis said.
"Magnificent? That animal is a monster. Go anywhere near it an' it bites an' kicks," the inn keeper complained.
Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances and d'Artagnan, standing back so that he could watch proceedings, marvelled yet again at these men's ability to communicate silently and clearly in an instant just from their expressions.
"'E ain't 'appy," Porthos said, meaning the horse.
Aramis turned back to the innkeeper. "Is his owner nearby?" It was a vain hope but it was worth inquiring.
The innkeeper shook his head and scowled. "No, more's the pity. I don't want that beast here any longer than necessary, eatin' its way through everything." He suddenly brightened a little. "Fine horse for a soldier, like your good selves. He's for sale so if you make me a good offer, I'll ..." He broke off with a yelp.
Porthos' patience had finally given way when he heard about the animal being available for purchase; there was no way that Athos would have agreed to that so somehow, in some way, the horse had been taken from him. The situation was going from bad to worse.
Pushing Aramis aside, he grabbed the innkeeper by his grimy shirt front and hauled him upwards until they were almost nose to nose. The astonished man quivered in his grasp, his toes barely touching the ground as he was confronted by the furious Musketeer.
"Where'd you get the horse from? Answer me," he demanded, shaking the petrified man for good measure.
"Now, now, Porthos," Aramis said lightly as he intervened, easing Porthos' vice-like grip so that the innkeeper, finding his feet on firm ground once more, slumped back against the wall. "I'm sure that ..." He turned to the innkeeper and laughed. "I'm sorry. What did you say your name was?"
"Georges," the man stuttered, too frightened to realise that he had never had the opportunity to tell them his name. "Georges Dupuis."
"Nice to meet you, Georges. I'm Aramis," and he flashed a disarming smile at the quivering man, "and my grumpy friend here is Porthos. Say hello to Georges, Porthos."
"'Ello, Georges," Porthos growled and bared his teeth in a feral grin.
The innkeeper's eyes widened and he subconsciously moved closer to Aramis for protection. D'Artagnan turned his back on the scene, unable to conceal his amusement any longer; he knew what the two Musketeers were doing. Porthos was the bad one and Aramis was feigning a friendliness that he did not feel. At any moment, he could change to be just as deadly.
"Hello," Dupuis whispered.
Aramis patted the innkeeper on the shoulders and straightened the neck of the man's clothing as he continued speaking. "You must forgive Porthos if he appears a little short-tempered but we are concerned about a dear friend of ours, another Musketeer, who left Paris on the King's business fifteen days ago. He hasn't been seen since and that horse in your stable happens to be his horse. We would like to know how you came to have the stallion in your possession. Any information you could give us might help us in finding our friend."
Aramis casually laid a hand on the wall beside the man's head and seemingly relaxed, his weight transferring to that arm as he leaned forward, his other hand resting on his hip, the gesture deceptively bringing him in closer to the innkeeper. It was a subtly intimidating move.
"There's a small monastic house to the south of the village. No monks there now - they're all dead. Old age or the plague got 'em. They've never been replaced but there are four lay brothers who keep the place going and look after those of us left in the village. It hasn't been the same since the last outbreak of the sickness nearly two years ago. Lost my wife then, I did." He paused and looked from one Musketeer to the other as if in anticipation of sympathy.
It was not forthcoming.
"Yesterday morning, they sent me word they'd got a stallion an' they couldn't manage it. When I went to get it, they said a rider had arrived at their door late the night before. He was in a bad way -"
"How bad?" Aramis interrupted, his body tensing. "What had happened to him?"
"I don't know; I didn't ask," George's whined as he saw the expressions of the two Musketeers alter. "The lay brothers just said he wouldn't be needing the horse any more an' I could take it an' sell it."
D'Artagnan turned at his words and Porthos took another step closer.
"What did they mean about 'im not needin' the horse?" the big Musketeer growled.
Dupuis was frantic. "They didn't say more but I took it to mean that if your friend wasn't already dead, they didn't think he'd live much longer."