Chapter Eight: Headlong Rush
Charles de Batz d'Artagnan rode in sullen silence, pointedly trying to ignore the dark—cloaked man riding beside him. The king commanded that Aramis and do he this thing…but he had not stipulated that either of them had to like it. A tiny voice within the illustrious captain scoffed that he was being silly and childish, again.
The silent treatment was nothing to a scholar like Emris. He would be content alone with his thoughts for weeks at a time. In that he was much like Athos who could be as silent and implacable as a mountainside. Charles was only slightly less loquacious than Porthos, the most unconscionably exuberant of the foursome. The silence bothered him far more than it did the other man. In the conversation vacuum, uncomfortable thoughts bubbled to the surface of his mind. How many hundreds of times had he ridden along side Aramis like this? How many hundreds of patrols had Captain Tréville sent them on?
His mind drifted again to le Rochelle, St Gervais, Bell Isle, and even to England on occasion, not to mention countless other places. Athos, Porthos, Aramis and he were, after all, legends for just cause. For the four of them to have done all they had and still survive was an impressive feat. Eventually the tiny voice in Charles mind argued that he ought to form a temporary truce with Aramis, lest the enemy use their divisiveness against them. The annoying voice reminded him that there had been a time when they had been part of an unstoppable team…and they could be once again. D'Artagnan snorted derisively, and tightening his grip on the reigns, he urged his mighty bay past the piebald stallion.
Emris knew what d'Artagnan was doing, of course. He could read it in the other man's posture, how he set astride his steed with his chin jutting forward and his feathered cap set at a jaunty angle. The captain was itching for a fight. Though there were more lines on his face, the expression the Gascon wore was not so different from the one he had worn his first day in Paris.
Oh how Aramis had wanted to teach the young snip a lesson in manners THAT day. He smirked at the memory. The innocent country rube had been challenged to three duels in one afternoon. Athos and Porthos had prior claim. And then, the Cardinal's guards had spoiled things. Before any of them had known what was happening, it was the four of them against a half dozen red-guard. It had been a stunning victory, of course, but after that the insolent pup was considered one of them.
D'artagnan cast a glimpse sideways and saw that despite urging his steed forward his beast was still neck in neck matching pace exactly with that of the one time musketeer. Aramis's expression was unchanged; he seemed lost in thought, unflappable—but the slightest pressure of knee on flank compelled his stallion to match any move the bay made. It was a wordless challenge…and the legendary d'Artagnan had always had difficulty passing up a challenge.
Charles spurred his horse into a gallop, skirting the meadow mane and tail streaming like the shadow of a passing cloud. The captain bent over his mount's neck, racing the wind. But when he happened to glance to the left, there was Aramis, eyes forward, seemingly oblivious to his presence. But he was not. D'Artagnan recognized the sly smile flitting about the corner of his mouth.
Like two boys they raced across the countryside in the wake of Condé's greatly diminished forces. Most of the twelve thousand he had begun with were dead or scattered. Less than 300 had chosen to ride south with the Bourbon Prince. The one time companions had no difficulty following their trace.
It had likely been a heartrending decision for Louis to give up the chase, knowing his blade-bound could easily ride down the enemy and end the threat for good. But though he was king, Louis was a dutiful son first and foremost. Queen Anne was threatened and those that love her best would move heaven and earth to see her safe, as Charles knew well. That conflicting loyalty warred in his breast even now. He was the king's man and always would be, but the queen…his queen…his Anne…D'Artagnan swallowed hard wishing he was riding to her aid instead of tied by his loyalty to the king and to this…this…he sent Emris another icy glare and slowed his mount.
The scholar wasn't even breathing hard. D'Artagnan's bay had no more a chance of outdistancing the stallion than it did fleeing its own shadow. The captain would have ground his teeth in frustration, but he did not want to see that gleam of victory in Aramis's dark eyes.
It was easy to rile the legendary d'Artagnan…and there had been times it had been a bit of a hobby with Athos, Porthos and himself to twit the young Gascon…Emris had forgotten how much he missed it.
All sentimental thoughts fled, however, when they reached the apex of a small hill and came upon a sight of wanton destruction; a small community nestled in the wood had fallen prey to Condé's raiders. Houses burned. Livestock scattered or had been stolen, and bodies…Aramis shivered to think of them, young and old alike.
Carnage was expected in battle, but these had been loyal citizens of France…murdered by the noble who was supposed to serve and protect them. No conversation was necessary for the former musketeers to move as one and settle the matter—giving the peasants a decent burial. Their minds were numb as D'Artagnan did most of the digging and Aramis knelt and said the proper words to send the souls to their eternal rest.
It was near dusk when the task was finished. Both men were bone weary when they skipped back into their saddles: neither wanted to spend the night in such a place. They rode a good way into the forest until they came to a clear running stream to wash the grit and smell of smoke from their garments and hair before rolling up in their cloaks beneath the stars. As tired as they were, it was a long time before sleep claimed them.