Chapter 16

D'Artagnan rubbed his belly as he sat back in his chair at their table. The windows were open and allowed the evening air to cause the drapes to flutter and the shutters to squeak. He looked at his plate of food; the slow roasted meat that begged to be pulled apart as it sat like an island in a sea of gravy. Mushrooms, turnips, carrots, and beets had been seasoned with spices he had never tasted before but caused his nose to tingle and his mouth to water. He wanted to taste it, savor the flavors, but his stomach was arguing with his head. D'Artagnan looked at Aramis, who dipped his hardened bread into the gravy, took a healthy bite and enjoyed the flavors. He moaned, sipped at his wine, and then pulled a piece of meat from the plate and watched it pull apart without any effort.

"Athos would have enjoyed this," Aramis said with a grin as he took a deep breath, patted his chest, and then covered his mouth to belch. "He always complains when the meat is cooked too quickly." He curled his lips into a smile, "Athos, the man who cannot cook complains about the way in which it is cooked. He's a contradiction." He looked at d'Artagnan who had not taken a single bite. "You're not going to eat?" He asked and then took another mouthful. "It's good," he said around his food.

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and winced. He had started to feel tired and rather nauseous the moment they sat down. He watched those around him enjoy their meals, talk quietly amongst themselves, and enjoy the inn for its food, the welcoming staff who served them, and the cleanliness of the room. It was simply decorated with pelts and a large painting that hung over the fireplace at the end of the grand hall. Lanterns hung at random intervals throughout the space and the flames danced and caused shadows to come alive. The sun had set and the moon's bright glow provided a warm haze through the windows.

Aramis suddenly teased and asked, "Too much candy?" He moved his plate across the hardwood table large enough for four. Its sanded, square edges, and oils covering the grains captured the candle's light.

D'Artagnan looked him in the eyes and nodded slowly. "It was so good… I just couldn't help myself. If Monsieur Ramus had not taken my remaining cannon ball and almonds… I would still be eating." He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and hung his head. "I feel sick."

"You realize that everything you purchased here can be purchased in Paris?"

D'Artagnan swallowed and rolled his eyes. "It tastes different in Paris… for some reason, it was better here."

Aramis wiped his plate and suddenly looked up at a woman with long black hair that was wrapped around the back of her head, and the strands too short to be bound dangled toward her shoulders and face. Large brown eyes, surrounded by thick lashes, looked at both of them and she spoke quietly as she stepped toward them.

"More wine?" She asked in an unfamiliar accent. She winked at Aramis, who smiled back at her, and he leaned back in his seat as she refilled his wineglass. Her modest yellow dress, cinched at the waist with a stained apron, accentuated her figure. Cream-colored lace peeked from beneath her sleeves and around her collar. She was petite, with an hourglass figure. She poured some wine for d'Artagnan, who had closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "Dessert?"

D'Artagnan groaned.

"Excuse my friend, this is his first time in Autun and the…" he paused and looked around as he leaned forward, "the environment has proven a bit more than what he could handle."

The woman held the port closer to her chest and giggled. "There is lots to see here… lots more to do." She brushed a stray strand of hair from her face with an elegant sweep of her hand. "Let me know if you need more wine." She curled her nose as she winked again and then turned from the table to return to the kitchens.

"The women here are beautiful," Aramis said.

"They're just as beautiful in Paris."

Aramis smirked. "They look different in Paris — more flesh — less substance."

D'Artagnan cocked his head and his left eyebrow. "That coming from a man who spends too much time with the wrong kind of women."

"Not all of us are fortunate enough to find a woman like Constance," Aramis quipped.

D'Artagnan groaned. "She doesn't want me," he said and then looked at the flames that flickered off the hide across from him and noticed how the light made the fur come alive.

"Give her time."

D'Artagnan shook his head with a frown, and said, "She's had time… I can't give her what she needs," he looked at Aramis. "Security… my name."

Aramis, with his elbows on either side of his plate, watched an older couple who sat quietly behind d'Artagnan. The man, with long gray hair that was tied with a leather string cut the meat on this wife's plate as she smiled and nodded in approval. He gently patted her arthritic hand, watched her pick up her utensil, and slowly take a bite. Her movements were awkward, and the grip she had on her fork reminded Aramis of a clamp. Her fingers, misshapen after years of milking cows, were a challenge, but she powered through and ate quietly with her husband, who looked at her with the eyes of a man madly in love. Aramis cleared his throat. He envied their relationship. He didn't know the details, but he could see years of dedication, devotion, and love expressed through the old man's gentleness and care. Aramis looked at d'Artagnan and asked, "Are you all right?"

"I want to lie down," he groaned and rubbed his brow. "I feel sick."

Aramis chuckled and then sipped at his wine. He took another piece of bread from the communal plate and ran it along the length of his dish, absorbing as much gravy as he could before he took another bite. "Wherever Athos and Porthos are at," he said as he chewed, "I hope they're having a good meal."

D'Artagnan huffed. "Porthos will find something. He's got the nose of a hound when it comes to food."