CHAPTER 33
The funeral was a quiet affair. Bern arrived back at the estate with his family in tow and three servants, which by the look of things, probably represented the majority of his household. Comte Vergy's staff were all in attendance and his neighbor to the east, who heard what happened from one of the servants, also arrived with his family. The three musketeers were there in full regalia, blue cloaks fluttering in the breeze, which was doing little to cool things off. Even though the sweat was running like a river down their spines, they stood straight and tall, honoring a good man who had died too soon.
After the last clod of earth was placed in the grave, everyone went back to the house for a simple meal. The servants retired to the kitchen and the rest of the guests ate in the dining area. Again, conversation was muted and interspersed with long periods of silence.
Porthos ate with his usual abandonment, while Athos concentrated on the wine bottle. When he went to refill his glass a third time, having yet to consume anything solid, Aramis made a point of moving the wine bottle out of reach and placing a plate of food under the swordsman's nose. The action was noted and frowned upon, but not totally ignored.
After the meal, the few guests departed and Bern and his family sat down with some of Jourdain's servants to discuss matters of the new household. The musketeers went out to the barn to check over their mounts and ready their packs to leave in the morning. Afterwards, they leaned on the fence and watched the mares and their foals frolic in the lush green pasture. In the evening, they spent a little time conversing with Bern and the head of the stables before turning in for the night.
They rode out the next morning quietly bidding farewell to Bern and a few members of the staff whom they'd come to know over the course of their visit. The four palominos for the King and Queen were presented to the departing musketeers. Their coats gleamed in the morning sun, white manes and tails tangle free and flowing like rivers of milk. Each musketeer took one lead rein except Porthos, who took a second. Flip, contrary to his name, was quiet, mild-mannered and easy going and having two horses trailing him wasn't going to cause more than an occasional ear flick.
They rode at a brisk, though reasonable pace. The four carriage horses were well conditioned and had no issues keeping up with the musketeer's horses who were used to traveling. The morning sun gave way to grey clouds and by the time they were ready to halt for the day and set up camp it was drizzling.
The drizzle kept up all night and, like a wet blanket, wrapped itself around them and seeped into their bones. The grey light of dawn saw the changeover to rain, which stayed with them for the rest of the journey. The roads became sodden, the dirt turning to mud and the once shiny horses for their Majesties were filthy. The musketeers realized their mounts were equally muddy, but their dark coats made it less obvious.
The rain was an unwelcome companion all day and by night they were praying they'd come to shelter of some kind. It didn't even have to be an inn, a decent overhang of any sort would have done, anything to get out of the rain, but it wasn't in the cards. They had a quick debate on whether to ride through the night, as it wouldn't be any more miserable than trying to sleep in the rain. But good sense won out. If they harmed the horses for their Majesties, they'd never be forgiven by the King, nor by the ghost of Jourdain, who'd probably come back to haunt them for harming his precious livestock.
By the end of the second day of rain, even the horses appeared dejected, plodding along, struggling on some patches of road to pull their filthy hooves out of the clingy mud. After another miserable night in the damp, they woke to see the sun rising and not a cloud in sight. At first this seemed like a blessed respite. However, as the sun rose, its heat turned the residual moisture into steam, making the French forest into a tropical locale. The mud on the horses dried to a crisp and flaked off, but the palominos were still a dingy grey from the dust that replaced the mud.
The small band of men and horses were a sorry sight as they stood on a small grassy knoll overlooking one of the gates of Paris proper.
"Home," declared Aramis with wistful breath.
Porthos, who was standing in his stirrups stretching, said, "Since when do you consider Paris home. I could, as I was born there. But you was born in the country. And he was," Porthos gazed over at Athos, "I don't know where he was born."
Of course, a more social person might pick up on the implied question and politely answer. But though Athos picked up on the subtle query, he ignored it. So, Aramis asked him point blank.
"And where were you born, Athos?"
The swordsman threw him an unreadable glance, but did answer. "France."
Porthos rolled his eyes and snorted at Athos' non-answer.
"Well thank our Lord for that piece of good news. For a moment I was worried you were an Englishman. I'm not sure how the King of France would like that fact."
"The King's sister is married to the King of England," Athos reminded him dryly.
"Family is to be tolerated. Personal guards, I suspect, are another matter."
Porthos plopped back into his saddle. "If you two are done, I'd like to get back to the garrison to food and a bed."
Without further ado, they began riding towards the gate and passed through with no issues. Once in the city proper, they shortened the lead reins on the palominos and began making their way through the narrow streets. As always when it got hot, the unpleasant smells of life in a crowded environment drifted to their noses. The four country-bred horses snorted a few times as if trying to clear the offensive smells from their nostrils.
"You'll get used to it," Paris-born Porthos chuckled as he heard the horses snorting.
When they were about a mile out from the Palace grounds, Athos reined his horse to a stop. The others pulled up too and looked expectantly at him. Slowly, Athos nudged Roger closer to Fidget and held out the lead rein, clearly expecting Aramis to take it, which he did with a puzzled glance.
"Is something wrong?" the marksman inquired as he quickly scanned Athos and Roger for some physical problem.
"You two deliver the horses to the Palace," Athos commanded, sounding every bit like a leader of men expecting his orders to followed without comment. That of course did not happen.
"You'll not be joining us? Surely this will do good for our reputation, bringing these beautiful horses to their Majesties," Aramis declared, though after he took a look at the palominos he added, "Well, they will be beautiful after they are groomed."
"Gonna take a lot of grooming to get 'em pretty," Porthos interjected with a toothy grin. "Those stable boys are going to be scrubbing their manes and tails for days to get 'em white again."
While Porthos has been adding his comment, Athos had turned Roger's head to the left preparing to depart.
Seeing Athos leaving, Aramis quickly asked, "And where are you going?"
Athos stopped and shifted to face the other musketeers. "The Comte's will had specific instructions. I swore to convey his wishes to the horseman in Paris."
Taking advantage of the subject being raised again, Aramis attempted to dig for more information. "It's fortunate you knew of this knowledgeable horseman." He paused, though not for long because he knew by now the swordsman would not accept the opening to converse further. So, he bluntly asked, "How is it you know of him?"
Aramis swore he saw an amused twinkle for a moment in the green eyes coolly surveying him. "I do know a few other people...besides you two."
Porthos, who was not without curiosity of his own, declared, "Yeah, like the other Comte. What was his name? The one that can have horses any time. De la something?"
Aramis, who did remember the name Jourdain mentioned, remained silent to see if Athos would answer and surprisingly, he did.
"De la Fére," Athos said in clipped tones.
"You know him? Or of him?" Aramis pried at the door that Athos had cracked opened.
He got that looked again from Athos. "You seem to assume, for some odd reason, that I am an acquaintance of all the nobility of France."
"You do speak with a certain distinction and are educated," Aramis pointed out.
It wasn't the first time it had been observed that his speech patterns were atypical. But Athos ignored that part of the sentence and commented on the latter. "Everyone with an education in this country is not nobility. You, yourself, are well educated, and yet are not one of the aristocracy."
With finality, Athos turned from his companions and headed off into the city. The remaining two musketeers watched for a few moments in silence before Aramis said, "Do you suppose he is nobility?"
"He's smart enough, well-spoken, and has that air about him. But if he is, why hide it?"
"Disagreement with his family? Perhaps the youngest born, kicked out for monetary reasons? Some sort of family disgrace? A dalliance with someone of the fairer set gone wrong."
Before Aramis could go on, Porthos cut him off. "Wondering is fine but it doesn't get these horses delivered or me to my food and bed. If he's got something to tell us he will or he won't."
With a grin, Aramis nodded his head. "Truer words were never spoken. Let's go deliver these horses and bask in the praise for a job well-done."