CHAPTER 11

As expected, when Aramis and Porthos were shown into the drawing room where Jourdain and the other three musketeers were settled having a drink, Roudon questioned them about their missing third. As predicted, he expressed his opinion that Athos' absence was a good thing since there was wine present. He made it sound like Athos would imbibe every ounce of alcohol in the room, including that which was in their half-drunk glasses.

Jourdain was surprised by the undertones of revulsion in the Lieutenant's statements. If Athos was truly Olivier, Jourdain had a hard time believing the man was deserving of the picture being painted of him by Roudon. As for the rest of the musketeers in the room, he could see their opinions were spilt. Aramis and Porthos were doing a rather poor job of suppressing the anger flashing in their eyes as Roudon belittled Athos. Yet the other two, Pierre and Francis, clearly sided with Roudon. A house divided against itself cannot stand the horse breeder thought to himself.

From drinks, they moved to a simple dinner and then Jourdain offered to take them to the paddock to see the four matching horses they would be escorting to the palace tomorrow. It was a mild summer night, still light because of the season. As they passed by the barn, he noticed Athos stepping out of the shadows and joining them.

Moving up to the fence, Jourdain whistled and the four gorgeous golden horses with ivory manes and tails ghosted across the grass to where he and the musketeers waited. A murmur of appreciation ran through the musketeers at the unusual color and graceful movement of the animals. Bright of eye. Coats of gold. Flowing, creamy manes and tails. They were perfect and looked like Greek statues when they stopped.

"Two geldings. Two mares," Jourdain informed them.

Athos, who always had been an admirer of horse flesh, couldn't help himself and he climbed on the bottom rail of the fence to better study the horses. "They are amazingly well matched. Almost as if they were twins. The mares are big."

"And the geldings a bit small. You should see them when rigged to a carriage. They have a touch of showmanship in them. Heads highs. Tails flagging. Knee action that reaches the sky."

"I am sure the King paid handsomely for them," Roudon commented with a little sneer. "And it will do wonders for your estate's reputation. After seeing these beauties, the nobility will flock here for your horses and line your coffers with their coin."

"My horses are already on the finest estates in France," Jourdain responded mildly. "Many nobles come here to buy horses for their first-born sons. My father bred a line which is not as heavy as the horses of old that had to carry knights in substantial armor. Then you needed bulk and muscle. Today's cavalry horse is of finer bone, graceful, yet can go all day. Also, intelligent, for we ask much more of our warhorses of today. And when at peace, these horses are elegant and stylish. A perfect animal for those with discriminating taste."

"My father always said horses are a tool," Roudon declared brusquely as he turned away from the fence. "And should be treated as such."

Jourdain wanted to tell the man he was a fool, but he held his tongue. "I imagine you gentlemen will be wanting to make an early start in the morning. Shall I show you to your rooms?"

"That would be fine," Roudon answered for the group.

As they started to move off, Athos didn't follow, but stayed on the fence looking at the horses.

"Athos!" Roudon yelled when he saw the dawdling man.

"I'll be up shortly. My horse's leg felt a little hot earlier. I'd like to check it before turning in," he replied quietly as he stepped down to the ground.

Jourdain saw this as an opportunity to have a private talk with Athos, so turning to the musketeer he said, "I am very experienced with equine injuries. Let me accompany you and examine your horse's leg. Jacque has a wonderful liniment for muscle strains." Jourdain smiled at the rest of his guests. "If you will excuse me. I hate to see a horse suffering. If you head back to the house, Denice will show you to your rooms." Turning back towards Athos he inquired, "Shall we go?"

Athos knew what Jourdain was doing, but he was helpless to stop it. So, he tilted his head to the side and gave a little nod of acknowledgement. Aramis and Porthos were torn between staying with Athos and giving him his space, for that seemed to be what he wanted.

Aramis took a step towards the swordsman, then immediately saw that his presence was not appreciated. So, he simply said, "Remember, Athos. I want to check that wound."

That, unfortunately, got Roudon's attention, for he was unaware that anyone in his troop was hurt. "He is wounded?" The musketeer angrily rounded on Aramis. "Why is it I am unaware of his injury? When did this happen?"

"At the battle," Porthos rumbled. "When he was fighting for his life."

"Well he must not have fought very well if he was wounded. Why did Captain Treville burden me with an injured man?"

Aramis raised his hands in a placating gesture. "It is nothing to be worried about. A light flesh wound that in no way incapacitates him."

"Aramis is a worry-wart, that's all. He mother-hens us to death," Porthos said with a little grin which caused Aramis to roll his eyes.

Roudon looked from the marksman to the streetfighter, then turned and walked away, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances, then trailed after the group on its way to the house.

Jourdain looked at Athos, who simply turned on his heel and headed towards the barn. After they entered through the main doors, Athos started to head down the aisle when Jourdain stated, "There is nothing wrong Roger's fetlock, is there."

Athos stopped, turned and confessed. "No."

"Then let's go in the office and talk. It's more private. Something you seem to be cultivating." Jourdain walked through the doorway to the right and, after Athos came in, he shut the door behind him. "We won't be disturbed here. Unless the barn is burning down."

The horse breeder dropped into one chair and gestured Athos to take the other. "I'm sorry. I have no wine to offer you down here, though your leader thinks having you near alcohol is a poor idea. Is it really you, Olivier?"

"Olivier is dead. I am Athos," the musketeer stated in a flat tone as he lowered himself into the other chair.

"Athos, the musketeer." Jourdain paused for a moment, then decided to plunge in, for he and Olivier had been friends and he felt he could be blunt. "So, it is true. What they say of you, of the Comte de la Fére?"

"I suppose," Athos drawled as his eyes stared towards the high window in the room. "It depends on what they are saying."

"They are saying that your wife murdered your brother, you hanged her, shut down your estate and disappeared off the face of France," Jourdain replied frankly, but without malice or judgement.

Athos grimaced and looked away. "I would say that is mostly…accurate."

Jourdain sat back in his chair, sighing loudly. "Hell of a story, Olivier. I know how I felt when Marie died."

"At least you didn't have to hang your wife," Athos spat bitterly, then instantly regretted his harsh words. "I am sorry my friend. I know how much you loved Marie. It appears I have lost my manners along with everything else."

They sat in silence for a few minutes reflecting on their broken lives.

"And now you are a musketeer. You always were a superb horseman. I think my father would have adopted you in a heartbeat. And I never saw anyone best you with a sword. Still, from a Comte to a musketeer. Strange choice."

Athos laughed again, this time with irony, as he looked at Jourdain. "Choice is not exactly the word I would use to describe my induction into the musketeers. But it gives me...purpose…for now… I suppose."

Jourdain's eyes turned dark and his voice took on a hesitating cadence. "I also heard tales, of a superior swordsman, who drinks to excess and pick fights with no chance of winning."

"And yet, here I am," Athos retorted, with the hint of a smirk. "Very much alive and sober."

Jourdain noted that Athos did not deny it was him. "Yes. Yes, you are. And the musketeers. Do they know of your background? Your birthright?"

Shaking his head, Athos responded vehemently. "No. And I wish to keep it that way. I am simply Athos, the musketeer. Olivier is no more. I hope you can respect my decision."

Jourdain nodded his head slowly. "Your past is safe with me."

"Marie. I hadn't heard she had passed. My condolences," Athos offered up sincerely, knowing how much Jourdain had loved his wife.

"Yes. The sickness took her away. It was hard. I threw myself into my work to forget, I guess. But it never really goes away."

Athos nodded, knowing exactly what his friend meant. Anne forever haunted him, especially in his dreams. Alcohol could sometimes momentarily banish her, but she always came back.

Jourdain stretched his legs and flexed his feet. It was good to talk to his old friend. "So that was Roger. I wondered. Does he still have that disagreeable streak?"

"Let's just say he is not the favorite of the stable boys. But he has saved my life more than once," Athos said with a hint of a smile.

"As you saved his. My father was on the verge of gelding him and selling him to some farmer for plow work. Until you came along. And my father was a very patient man."

"Roger and I suit each other," Athos declared succinctly.

"Did your father ever come to see Roger's better qualities? As I recall, he was quite annoyed at my father for letting you purchase that horse."

"I gave your father no real choice but to sell me Roger." Athos exhaled sharply and leaned his head back in the chair. "And, no. It was simply another area in which my father and I…disagreed."

"Your relationship. With your father. It never got better?" Jourdain asked sympathetically. He had known the de la Fére family for years and on many occasions had opportunity to see the struggles of the father and the son to find a way to relate. He and his father had a mutual love and respect for each other despite their differing opinions on some things. He had always wished the same for his friend, who had such a troubled relationship with his own father.

"I never was able to live up to his standards. And, as it seems..." Athos declared, sweeping his hands over his uniform, "... he was right."

"Olivier…"

"It's Athos; I have let that ship sail. Let's not call her back to port. The past shall remain the past."

Jourdain could hear the silent plea in his friend's voice and he respected the unspoken request.

"You are always welcome here if you tire of the life of a soldier. You are very good with horses. You could do wonderful work with them." Even though he made the offer, Jourdain's gut told him it would never be accepted.

"Thank you, old friend, but I am no longer the man you knew. I am…" Athos voice trailed off and he paused for a moment in contemplation before he added, "I am content to serve my King and country until my death."

Jourdain tried hard to repress a shudder that wanted to rack his frame at the musketeer's bleak tone. "You make it sound so morbid. Is the life of a musketeer that dangerous?"

"I have pledged to defend my King and the musketeers with whom I serve, even at the expense of my own being. The life of a soldier is not his own," the swordsman declared with a small shake of his head.

"Well, Athos. My offer stands. You will always have sanctuary here. Now, I suppose we should go check Roger's leg, at least for appearance sake," the horse breeder said with a small grin.

They rose, left the room and walked down the dirt aisle towards the black stallion's stall. "Your Lieutenant, Roudon, doesn't seem to like you and some of the others."

Athos thought it was interesting that Jourdain had already picked up on that fact. "Roudon doesn't like anyone who is not of the nobility. He feels Captain Treville has…sullied the regiment by letting in the likes of the common man."

Jourdain gave him an incredulous look. "But you out rank him!"

"Something he won't ever know," Athos reminded his friend. "However, Captain Treville is an honest and fair man who judges people not on their social status, but on their worth." Athos paused a moment then added, "At least that is what I prefer to believe."

"Your Captain. Treville. I believe I have heard of him," Jourdain stated as they stopped outside the door to Roger's stall. "His family comes from a long line of soldiers, noblesse militaire. They have purchased horses from my family over the years. Good family my father always said."

With a nod, Athos agreed. "Captain Treville is a good man and a fair leader."

In that one short statement, Jourdain could hear Olivier's respect for the man, something he knew his friend did not give out lightly. "I'm surprised your Captain doesn't know of your background."

Athos opened the door, clearly uncomfortable by the direction the conversation had taken. "He does know. I couldn't part with my family sword and the Captain…found it. But he has sworn to keep my secret. When I was presented to the King for my commission, it was as Athos, the soldier, not Olivier, the Comte de la Fére. Olivier is dead," he repeated once more with finality.

Roger's ears pricked forward when he saw his owner enter the stall, then flattened when Jourdain stepped into view. He stamped an angry foot in warning until Athos gave him a light slap on the shoulder as a reprimand. With a snort, Roger's ears went back to half-mast.

Jourdain ran a practiced eye over the black stallion. He was one of his father's best breeding. Not too big, not too small. Strong and yet light on his feet. Except for his temperamental streak, a pleasing specimen. "He looks wonderful, Athos," Jourdain stated, reminding himself to use the correct name. Jourdain watched as Athos scratched the stallion's crest and he could see the mutual love and respect between man and beast.

"His hide, not unlike my own, has a few scars, but he is of sound mind and heart. He performed well in the battle last week. It was our first," Athos remarked with a small sigh.

Jourdain heard a touch of sorrow in Athos' voice. "Well, it appears you both survived. Though, Aramis is it? He said you were wounded. If you are in need of a doctor, I know…"

Athos held up his hand. "I am fine. It was a mere scratch and Aramis, who is a skilled field doctor, took care of it. Aramis tends to…fuss, sometimes."

"I'm glad you have friends who care for your well-being." Jourdain, who had learned to read the quiet boy known as Olivier, could see that Athos, the man, still struggled with the concept of self-worth. He touched Athos on the arm and said, "Friends are a good thing, Olivier."

Giving all appearances of not having heard Jourdain's last comment, Athos gave Roger a final pat, then walked out of the stall. Jourdain followed, securing the door behind him. "Can he still open his stall door?" Jourdain inquired as he firmly pushed down the latch.

A glint of amusement sparked in Athos' green eyes. "When he chooses. And if it is the right type. The garrison made a few changes to their latches after he arrived. Bars, such as you have on here, thwart his escape attempts."

"And he is why we have them," Jourdain said with a laugh. "Right after he left, we had a rash of escapees. As if Roger had taught them the trick of how to open their stall doors as a parting gift. Damn near drove my father nuts until he had the bars installed."

They walked in silence back to the main house and then Jourdain led him upstairs to where his housekeeper had made up rooms for the musketeers. He noted that she had placed Roudon, Pierre and Francis in separate rooms, but Aramis and Porthos in the same one.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen. I'm not sure why my housekeeper has you sharing a room. There is plenty of space for each of you to have his own room," Jourdain declared when he looked in the open door of the room that had been given to the three musketeers.

Aramis, who had been by the window, walked over. "No need for apologies. We asked for a large room we could share. Habit, I suppose, from being on the road. Safety in numbers. Always have someone watching your back."

"Well I can assure you, you are safe here," Jourdain replied lightly as he glanced at each man.

"No offence was meant," Athos said smoothly as he walked past Jourdain to his brother's side. "It is as Aramis said, merely a habit. The King's musketeers are not welcome in many places."

"As hard as that is to believe, for we really are charming people," Aramis said with a big smile.

"Well, if you are sure," Jourdain answered, skeptically.

"We are," Porthos stated firmly. "Now, if you happen to have any extra food, you'd like to send our way…"

"Porthos!" Aramis admonished. "You just ate!"

"I meant for him," the streetfighter whined in a hurt tone as he gestured towards Athos. "He hasn't eaten since midday."

Jourdain looked from man to man and then back to Athos. "I'll be happy to send up some food, enough for a few men. You really do take care of each other, don't you? Perhaps you did make the right choice, Athos." With that, Jourdain walked out of the room to arrange for food to be delivered.

Porthos closed the door, as Athos moved across the room and stripped off his gloves, tossing them on the table.

"What did he mean? You made the right choice, Athos?" Aramis asked he watched Athos begin to remove his jacket.

"From earlier. He was merely complementing Roger. Thought he was a fine horse," Athos lied smoothly as he undid his weapons belt, draping it over a chair.

"Yeah," Porthos challenged from the chair in which he was lounging. "Well he hasn't been bitten by that black devil while trying to groom him."

"Or been pushed in the river by the unruly beast," Aramis added ruefully. "Though I'm pretty sure that Roger didn't do that of his own accord."

"I was nowhere near him when that occurred," Athos defended himself as he unbuttoned his doublet and added it to the pile.

"You were close enough to give him a hand signal. And I know for a fact that beast knows some. Now strip off that shirt and let me see that wound."

"Mother hen," Athos muttered, as he pulled the linen garment over his head. "I should have slept in the stable."