Chapter 12

D'Artagnan hunted for mushrooms and found several hidden at the base of the trees, between fallen branches and bark, and hidden within the confines of hollowed logs. He found several batches of wild garlic and pulled a handful of scapes and added it to his growing pile of food that included several cattails and wild onions. He could hear the crackling of fire as Porthos tended it. The tender ministrations from Athos as he unsaddled the horses, hobbled them near the water, and allowed them access to grass. D'Artagnan, with his shirt pulled from his britches and its front used as an apron that held his bounty, walked back to camp.

The fire blazed, surrounded with rounded, head-sized stones that had been shaped by the water and time. Porthos had positioned a washed flat-stone to the side of the flames that was readied for vegetables.

The swim had washed away several days of sweat, dust, and pollen. It had lifted their spirits and diluted their uncertainty. D'Artagnan placed his findings on a pewter plate that Porthos had readied for washing and then cutting. Porthos chuckled in the back of his throat and quickly sorted the vegetables, and then grabbed a knife. He looked up when Aramis stepped into camp with a smile that was stretched from ear-to-ear. He held to his side a stick speared with several fish that had been cleaned and their scales removed. Porthos whistled, impressed. Aramis had a talent that the rest of the lacked when it came to angling. He was patient, knew where to look, and he understood the complexities of a simplified task.

"I could have caught more, but I thought," Aramis raised his accomplishment higher, "why become a braggart when I'm known for my humility."

Athos snorted in the distance and then spit. He ran his hand over Roger's rump and then walked toward them.

They gathered around the fire as the fish and vegetables fried. Aramis, with his booted feet stretched before him, had crossed his legs at the ankles. He looked at the sky and admired the moon and the brightness of the stars. D'Artagnan sat with his raised knees spread, leaning forward and drawing into the sand with a crooked stick that forked at the end. His designs were intricacy etched, and the sands shifted with each passing of his instrument. When he was done, he used the edge of his hand to flatten the surface and start anew. Images ranged from horses to mountain scenes, to a farmhouse surrounded with fields, and though he did not pride himself as being skilled at drawing, he had tried several times to capture Constance's likeness. Athos had peered curiously over d'Artagnan's shoulder while seated on a boulder near his bedroll. The young man was heartbroken, and while he was gallantly trying to hide it, his struggle appeared in quiet moments. Porthos had taken it upon himself to cook the meal and he carefully tended the fish as it sizzled on the stone. He had kept a small tin of seasonings in his saddlebag, a remnant of his days on the battlefield before the musketeers, and he had pinched at the sides and sprinkled it over the meat as it cooked. The aroma wafted throughout camp causing stomachs to growl and mouths to water. Their trip, while uneventful, had been hot and long.

Porthos filled the plates while d'Artagnan once again handed them out.

Porthos grinned, raised the plate to his nose and inhaled while waving the scent toward his face. "It smells almost as good as the food from the palace." He tentatively pinched at the meat and the heat burned his fingertips. Inhaling deeply, Porthos licked the tips of his fingers, exhaled, and blew carefully across his dish to cool it enough to eat.

Athos used the tip of his blade, tested the flavor and temperature before he took a bite. He nodded, impressed, and said, "I doubt Monsieur Petre could do any better."

Aramis pinched at the meat, pulled his hand away, and sucked on his thumb. "At least it's cooler by the time it's served." He wiped his fingers on britches.

D'Artagnan snickered, rested back against the underside of his saddle, and waited for the food to cool. "Why would the king send us on a mission like this?" He frowned and looked at Athos, who used the tip of his knife to move the food around on his plate to cool. "If the jewels are so valuable… why wouldn't he send more than two men to pick it up?"

Porthos licked his lips, finished chewing, and said, "You're just askin' this now?" He raised his eyebrows and parted his lips before pulling a large pinch of fish while raising his plate to his chin and ate.

D'Artagnan shrugged, took a bite, and while he chewed around his food he said, "At least I'm asking."

Athos curled his lips into a subtle smile as he chewed. He frowned suddenly, and then pulled a fishbone from between his teeth and tossed it aside. He motioned toward the water and nodded in thanks when Aramis flung it at him. Athos caught it, removed the plug, and took a long drink. "It's not unusual," he said and then stabbed at a mushroom. "It's less conspicuous than sending an entire company of armed guards."

D'Artagnan shrugged, took another bite of his food, and looked at Porthos. "It's good," he smiled, "really good."

Porthos nodded, pulled a fishbone from the piece he was about to eat, and tossed it into the fire. "Slow and easy," he said proudly. "More flavor… less charcoal."

D'Artagnan laughed. "I tossed away the queen's attempt at cooking when she wasn't looking," he admitted.

"At least you were out of eyesight," Athos said and curled his lips into a frown.

Aramis grinned, poked at his fish, and said, "Not at all like Queen Anne's."

Athos winced.

D'Artagnan choked and shook his head vehemently. "It was awful—"

"It was worse than awful," Athos bitterly countered with a frown. "I'm still picking charcoal from beneath my fingernails."

Porthos groaned as he swallowed. "An' we would've 'ad a good meal — 'ad I been allowed to cook."

"I wasn't going to tell her she couldn't," Aramis said. "She's the queen."

Athos looked at Aramis with a tilt of his head and rolled his eyes.

Aramis shrugged. "How many musketeers, or," he raised a hand, his index finger pointed upward, to emphasize his point, "nobles, can say they've had a meal cooked by the Queen of France?" He raised his eyebrows in challenge.

"Thankfully, just the four of us," d'Artagnan said, "nobody should know how bad of a cook she is. Nobody. Empires have crumbled for less."

Aramis huffed, "It wasn't that bad." He took another bite and savored the flavors that blended and complimented each other. "I could have eaten more of her fine cooking —"

"Fine cookin'?" Porthos questioned. "Has your brain gone soft?"

"Food cooked with those delicate hands…" Aramis' words drifted and he ignored the look of disbelief from the others.

"You like the taste of soured cabbage — an' I think it's destroyed your sense of taste," Porthos said, and then helped himself to another fish. "All because of a girl." He looked at Athos and d'Artagnan. "He ate so much of it 'e retched on 'er shoes an' ended up passin' wind for days — wind so bad it could rival Mademoiselle Ramus."

"Cabbage," Aramis said with a wince and a look of acknowledgement. "Does not agree with me." He pursed his lips, closed his eyes and inhaled slowly before he said, "But the girl had hair the color of those flames —"

"And apparently her shoes," Athos said with a chuckle.

Porthos slapped his thigh and laughed while d'Artagnan snorted and then quickly wiped his lips and chin.

Aramis tried to stifle his smile, but the muscles of his cheeks burned. "Nobody can say that I do not at least try new things — unlike the rest of you who keep to your," he waved his hand toward their plates, "constant vittles."

"I ate a rat once," Porthos said with a shrug and then scooped a healthy pinch of food into his mouth. He chewed around a mushroom and then said, "It was big, ugly as sin," he swallowed, "an' it was gettin' into the food." He paused, licked his lips, and continued, "We 'adn't 'ad any meat for a while — most of us were starvin', an' those not starvin' were sickly —" It was a rare moment when he spoke about his time in the Court of Miracles and they allowed him the time he needed to tell his story. With a regretful wince, Porthos suddenly smiled to hide his grief. "Some friends 'elped me catch it an' we fried it up usin' pig fat an' onions."

Athos suddenly lost his appetite and lowered his plate to the ground by his feet. He wiped his mouth, grimaced, and looked at Aramis, who winced, but continued to eat, and at d'Artagnan, who seemed more interested in the story than the fish on his plate. Athos grabbed the water-skin and took another drink, wishing for wine.

"It was awful," Porthos laughed. He scooped more food into the pinch of his fingers, and said, "never eatin' one again." He snorted, leaned forward, and said, "Wasn't worth the effort — too little meat, an' too many bones." He took another bite and then pointed toward Athos' plate. "Are you goin' to finish that?"

Athos shook his head, picked up the plate and handed it to Porthos. "If we bypass Nevers, we could separate from here, take the lower roads to our destinations, and then meet back up here in two or three days."

"It would save us a few hours," Aramis said. He leaned back and sigh heavily. "And," he motioned with his chin, "this is a good location to meet back up."

D'Artagnan shrugged, continued to eat, and said, "Sounds fine to me."