CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Skirting a ridge, under darkening evening skies, Porthos and Aubin continued to circle. Porthos was getting hungry and considering where to camp for the evening. Dreaming of roasted rabbit, he continued his monologue;
"We might be the ones being tracked at some point. If that happens, we cover our tracks; we move in the rain if possible; we use rivers and streams to cover our tracks;
We walk on hard ground;
We move through villages to get lost in the villager's tracks;
As a last resort, we split up and circle back."
oOo
Searching, circling;
Filling up water skins in the streams;
Resting; refuelling;
Cleaning weapons and blades;
Brushing the horses down with clothes and dried grasses;
Porthos and Aubin worked on.
oOo
Some way behind them, on the road to Mantes, Athos and Aramis arrived at the Lion d'Or tavern. There in the tree was a piece of red twine. They looked at each other and smiled.
Inside, the Innkeeper was less than happy to see the two Musketeers, have only recently had to clean up the mess from the first one, and repair his window. On entering Room Number Two, he had also found the body of the second man, and had to set the room to rights and arrange for disposal of the two bodies. Compensation from the first Musketeer had covered everything, but the inconvenience and disquiet amongst his regulars had done nothing for business. Now he watched wearily as these two entered.
At least they bought ale and food, so before they could ask, he slipped Porthos's message across the table.
"He said you'd be coming," he muttered before retreating to relative safety behind the counter, where he chose not to make eye contact with these two formidable soldiers, although one seemed a bit more sociable than the other.
Aramis unfolded the paper and read it. Signs of five camped at the river, two now dead. Smiling he slid it over to Athos.
"Good news, at last," Aramis said. "Let us hope the two dead are from that group."
"Good news indeed," Athos intoned, ignoring the sarcasm.
"And the food is good," Aramis said. "You should try it," he added, seeing Athos favouring the ale over the stew.
"Yes, Maman," Athos replied sarcastically, but he did pick up the fork after a few moments.
Aramis insisted they rest then. Athos was looking pale and tired.
Although Aramis did not voice that.
Obviously.
oOo
As the sun began to set, leaving orange and purple streaks across the sky, Porthos began to make camp. Aubin had offered to hunt for their supper and had stealthily moved off into the trees. They would need a fire tonight, so wood was quickly gathered. Porthos had chosen a place with heavy overhead tree coverage so any smoke would be absorbed, but he could do nothing about the smell of wood smoke, or cooking meat; and so tonight after they had eaten, one of them would sleep while the other stood watch. They had yet to decide who would do what.
After starting the fire, Porthos had untied their bed rolls and set them out just as Aubin returned. Looking up hopefully, Porthos gave him a wide smile as he saw a brace of plump wood pigeons hanging from his hand.
Putting them down, Aubin reached into his pockets and with a flourish, produced a fine crop of wild mushrooms and a few wild strawberries.
Porthos was impressed at the veritable feast; his stomach had been growling for a while now.
Aubin got to work preparing the pigeons. Porthos stripped a branch, soaking it with water to use as a spit across the low fire. He had laid his weapons beside his bedroll so he had them readily to hand, and suggested Aubin do the same. With nothing else to do but wait for their food to be ready, their talk turned once more to the recent ambush; never far from Porthos's mind.
"When I saw that bastard wielding his sword at Athos, I thought he had taken his head," Porthos muttered, staring into the fire, lost in the memory.
Aubin turned the spit, keeping a keen eye on the pigeons. It would not do to burn them after he had provided them.
"And a fine trophy it would have been," Porthos added, darkly. "He cuts a noble figure, does our Athos."
"You should not joke about it," said Aubin suddenly, fiercely.
"Sometimes, it's all you 'ave," Porthos growled, not looking up.
"My parents were murdered when I was very young," Aubin replied quietly now. "I cannot take death lightly."
"You may 'ave to get used to that!" Porthos sighed.
After a few moments, Porthos looked up at him, regretting his words. He had only seen Aubin smiling, so the sullen face he presented now was new, even for a Red Guard.
"Who did it?" he finally asked.
"They never found out," Aubin replied, as he continued to carefully turn the pigeons.
Porthos frowned in confusion.
"I thought you said your father is a blacksmith?" he suddenly said.
oOo
He could not tell the soldiers his name, or how old he was.
Maman knew, but Maman was not there.
Papa was lying in a sticky red puddle on the road.
They had been en route to their new home, leaving the large town behind. The cart Papa drove held all their belongings.
Papa was going to get cows and pigs, and he had promised he could help him, and so he was excited and found it hard to keep still.
But the bad men had come out of the wood and shouted at Papa and Maman, wanting their furniture and their money.
Papa said no, and told him to run into the woods and hide.
He didn't want to, but he did as Papa asked; as fast as he could.
He had crouched down and watched as more men came, and one tried to climb up onto their cart, but Papa threw him off.
Then the man fired his gun and Papa fell out of the cart.
He had pressed his small hands over his ears then, because Maman was screaming.
He watched as she was pulled on to one of the men's horses and they rode off, leaving Papa asleep on the road.
The sticky red puddle was much bigger now.
No-one was there now to tell him to come out of the wood, but when the soldiers came in their bright uniforms and tall proud horses, he had stepped out and told them what had happened.
The soldiers had been kind and had put him on top of one of the horses. He watched as Papa was put on one of the others, covered up now in a blanket, so could not see his Papa's face.
He looked at the woods and wondered when Maman would come back.
The soldiers started to move back along the road and he turned his head and watched as the wood disappeared behind him.
Later, they passed through a small village, this troop of soldiers with a small boy on a tall horse. He was no more than four years old; his father's body borne respectfully behind, hidden from view.
They stopped at the village smithy for attention to one of the horses, which had shed a shoe.
It was there that Claudette had first set eyes on the boy, sitting straight on the tall horse, his eyes as wide as the saucers she had on her dresser. She fell in love with him at that moment; she and Pierre had been married for two years; both wanting a family but, as yet, were still childless.
Claudette had looked up at him on his lofty perch, and asked him in her soft voice where his mother was.
Silence.
She asked his name.
Again, silence.
So she asked him what his maman said to him when he was a good boy, thinking he would say his name that way.
The boy thought for a few moments before clapping his hands and saying in a sing song small voice;
"Oh Bien!"
Apparently he was a good boy, who pleased his mother often. She must have said this often, for him to remember.
They took the boy in at once; later, going to the Mayor to fill out forms and give him a proper, legal home.
They called him "Aubin" because it sounded like the only sound he remembered his maman saying to him.
Later, he would have two new brothers, and he enjoyed being a big brother when these babies arrived. But he was never treated differently because he was not theirs. He grew into a happy, smiling child. Later, as a young man, he craved adventure, and had a fascination for soldiers.
He never saw his maman again. She was never found.
But once a year on the day Claudette and Pierre first set eyes on their boy, they took him to the church and they laid flowers on the altar for his real maman and papa; giving thanks for the beautiful boy who had arrived one spring morning, sat upon a tall horse, his eyes as wide as the saucers she still had on her dresser.
oOo
Now, Aubin sat at the campfire, turning the pigeons and telling Porthos far more than he probably had intended of his first memories. He did not know this Braggarreur Musketeer, but he had a ready smile, now he was no longer angry at him, which Aubin appreciated after the hit and miss camaraderie of his fellow Red Guard.
Porthos did not volunteer any information about his own childhood, but he had felt the empathy the big man had silently shown him, and that was enough.
Aubin removed the cooked pigeons from the branch that held them over the fire. He was quiet while he pulled the meat off the bone.
To be continued ...