Chapter 11

Aramis wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His shirt clung to his shoulders and his back. He had tied his doublet to the back of his saddle when the heat of the afternoon sun grew too much to bear. D'Artagnan rode beside him, seemingly content and relatively unaffected. He still wore his doublet, but it was open at the front and the leather ties swayed with each step of his mount's hooves. Porthos groaned and swatted angrily at flies. With each kill, he awarded himself with a bite of the dried beef that the buzzing creatures worked feverishly to get at. And, as though proving his point, he slowly unwrapped the linen fabric to expose the brittle, brown strips seasoned over the hearth of a fire. The corners of Athos' mouth twitched and he watched Porthos, seemingly content in his own world, eating and swatting at flies. Sweat dripped from the lazy curls of Athos' dark hair and landed with subtle pats on his shoulders.

"Maybe it will rain," Aramis said, and raised his hand toward the sky. He looked upward, squinted, and then turned his head away from the sun.

"You might as well say it's going to snow," d'Artagnan countered. "It's been weeks since we've seen any rain." He pointed toward the fields. "Even the weeds are dying."

"Ah, snow," Aramis said. He closed his eyes, relaxed his shoulders, and allowed the movement of the horse's steps to rock him back and forth. "I love the subtle crunch it makes beneath my feet. Paris is like…" he paused and then suddenly smiled, "paradise." He raised his hand to motion the landscape and said, "Everything is white… and quiet." He looked at d'Artagnan, who looked at him questionably. "And the women," Aramis' smile increased in size, "love to cuddle when it's cold."

Athos rolled his eyes and curled his lips with a subtle shake of his head. He took off his hat, placed it against his thigh, and then ran his fingers through his damp hair. He could feel sweat trail down his back and soak his blouse. They had been riding for days, had left before the sun arose, trying to reach Nevers before nightfall. The heat of the sun, and the exhaustion that plagued the horses, had caused their delay. Sweat gathered along each of the animals' necks where the reins rested, beneath their saddle pads, and along their chests against the breast collars. Their normally vibrant energy had been reduced to slow walks on the dirt road that sent dust upward with each step. Even the ground protested.

Athos listened to the conversation between Aramis and d'Artagnan that failed to remain on topic but embraced the range of subjects that included Paris from a Gascon's point of view, horses, military history, and women's clothing from a libertine's perspective. The sudden diversions were always accompanied by a chuckle from Porthos, who then immediately swatted at a fly and celebrated with a muttered, "Take that, you bastard." Whether he hit any of them could be argued, but he didn't miss an opportunity to try.

Even the birds seemed subdued against the heat of the afternoon. The activity in the shady branches of trees had increased as their flights became less frequent. Squirrels chirped and Athos was sure they, too, were complaining about the sun and its persistence.

Athos pulled his horse to a stop, tilted his head to the right, and listened. Roger shifted beneath the tightness of his reins and perked his ears forward as his companions continued their journey. Athos wasn't sure what caught his attention, but as he focused, a slight smile curled the corners of his mouth. To the right of the thickly wooded path lined with thistles he could hear the slapping of water against the bank. To the left were expansive fields that were peppered with trees and bushes. Whether it was a scent of something, the feel of a cool breeze against his neck, or the sounds of water, Athos suddenly turned Roger to the right.

"Athos!" Aramis shouted and pulled his horse to a stop. With his right hand on the animal's rump, he sat twisted at the waist in the saddle, and shouted once more, "Athos!"

Porthos turned his horse and watched Athos look at them and then urge his horse into the trees.

"Now where's 'e goin'?" Porthos grumbled, and then swatted at another fly. He shoved the last piece of dried beef into his mouth, shrugged, and then followed Athos.

Aramis rolled his eyes, looked at d'Artagnan, and then followed. They ducked beneath the branches, pushed others out of the way, and carefully navigated the rocky terrain.

"Where in the 'ell is 'e goin'?" Porthos asked again. He leaned back as the slope of the hill grew steeper.

D'Artagnan followed, pushed a branch out of the way and listened to it snap behind him when it hit the trunk of a tree. The leaves fluttered and several birds flew from their hiding places within the cover of foliage.

All three took a deep breath and looked at the clearing, outlined by sycamore, oak, pine, and apple trees. The narrow beach was littered with branches and the trunk of an old tree that had fallen years prior. What kept their attention was the wide lake that flowed gently and slapped the banks of the beach. Athos stood next to Roger, who drank his fill, and then stretched his neck toward the patches of weeds and grass that grew near the beach.

Aramis looked at Porthos and smiled. They both turned and looked at Athos, who relaxed Roger's cinch, hobbled him, and then removed the bridle. Athos then removed his weapons belt and hooked it to the saddle. He unbuttoned his doublet, draped it over a dried, twisted branch that jutted from the downed tree's trunk. Then he removed his boots.

"What's he doing?" D'Artagnan asked and turned to look at Porthos and Aramis, who had dismounted, cared for their horses, and were removing their clothing.

"He's goin' for a swim," Porthos said and pointed toward the river.

"We're supposed to be on duty… we need to get to Nevers — we're already late," d'Artagnan said and rolled his eyes when he watched Athos reach behind his neck and tug on the collar of his blouse and pull it over his head.

Porthos laughed when Athos slipped out of his britches and then his braies. "The whitest ass in Paris," he said and pointed toward Athos, who walked into the water and then dived in.

Aramis chuckled and shook his head. "Not even close," he said and then pulled off his blouse. "I knew this red head once — she would make Athos look dark in comparison," he said as he kicked off his boots, placed them near the tree, and then shoved off his britches and braies. "If you want to get cool, d'Artagnan, now's the time to do it." He ran toward the river and dove in.

Porthos paused, looked at d'Artagnan and said, "You represent the king… arrivin' to pick up 'is package, lookin' like you do," he pursed his lips disapprovingly. "Go for a swim, clean yourself up, an' enjoy it." He pulled off the last of his clothes and ran for the water. He shouted in glee as he hit the cold chill and splashed unceremoniously. The water rolled behind him, sending waves in all directions, causing the surface to reflect the sun's rays and glitter like diamonds. Porthos couldn't swim, but he could wade, and float.

D'Artagnan dismounted, looked disapprovingly at the others, and then quickly took care of his horse, undressed, and joined them.

There was something about the feel of his muscles stretching, flexing, and repeating the same movement as he brought his left arm over his head and then his right, while he kicked his feet, and felt the rush of water against his skin and through his hair. The cool chill against his body that had spent too many hours trapped within the confines of hot leather beneath the beating heat of the sun. Athos soon found ground and sand slipped between his toes as he walked onto dry land. He sat on a boulder partially hidden beneath the water and allowed the sun to dry his skin while he looked across the water toward the others. He could see Porthos stretched out on a massive boulder that stood a man's height from shore. The waves slapped its sides and sent splashes upward. Aramis simply backstroked, while d'Artagnan dove beneath the surface, only to reappear, look at a stone and then toss it back and start anew.

They rarely had moments like these. When they could put their duty aside and relax without the threat of red guards, palace emergencies, or unexpected encounters with unhappy locals. When they could put their problems aside, their mistakes away, and enjoy the moment. They were closer to Nevers than Athos thought, and he had to curl his lips into a gentle smile. Their assignment, as challenging as it was while facing the heat day-after-day, would quickly end, and once again they would be back in Paris with another assignment, another duty as requested by the king. Athos scratched his grizzled jaw, took a deep breath, and pushed himself off the boulder. He walked back into the river and the water enveloped his knees, his thighs, his waist, and then his chest as he lunged forward. With long elegant strokes, he began his swim.

Porthos sat up, rested his right elbow on his knee and let his left foot tap the water. He stretched his toes, let the water slip between them, and tickle the arch of his foot. He watched Athos swim back across the lake and he relaxed his shoulders while the heat of sun warmed his back. Porthos smiled, watched d'Artagnan as he continued to collect a mound of smooth flat stones that he placed on the beach out of reach of the water's waves. And Aramis, who floated with his arms stretched at his sides, his head back, and his feet gently bobbing up and down.

"You're goin' to burn your pistol an' bollocks," Porthos said and then laughed. "You'll not be able to ride for a week." He slapped his thigh and then quickly covered his head with his arms when Aramis stood and splashed him.

"I have yet to ever burn," Aramis said. He allowed himself to fall beneath the water and then quickly stood and flung his head back, forcing the water to spray from the force. He ran his fingers through his hair and then cupped several handfuls to wash his face. The coolness felt good against his skin. "How Athos knew this place was here causes me to question how much he knows and doesn't share," Aramis said as he turned and watched Athos' return toward shore.

Porthos rubbed his nose and upper lip with the length of his index finger and shrugged. "I don't care," he said and closed his eyes. He turned his face toward the sun and allowed the heat to warm him once more. "I'm just glad he found it — don't care 'ow."

"We should stay here tonight," d'Artagnan said as he surfaced again with another flat, circular stone. "One of us could go upriver and catch a few fish — there's plenty for the horses to eat." He wiped his nose with the back of his wrist and then wiped his long bangs out of his eyes.

Both Porthos and Aramis turned to look at him.

"What about being on duty? Competing the assignment on time?" Aramis asked.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "We've made good time and Treville said he wouldn't expect us back for 15 days." He tossed his stone toward his growing pile.

"We've made terrible time, and when Treville says 15 days he really means 10 – which," Aramis smiled, "means," he shrugged, "we should make a gallant effort to be back in 15."

"Your logic, Aramis," Athos said as he slipped into his braies "is more concerning than your choice in women."

Porthos took the moment to pass wind and bubbles surfaced on the water around him. He pointed his finger at Aramis and said, "Not nearly as vile as Mademoiselle Ramus. How many times did you sleep with 'er?"

Aramis exhaled slowly and said, "Enough to know that moving the bed closer to the window did not alleviate the problem."