Gaston strode next to his father. He felt a mixture of pride and excitement. It was the first time his father had asked for his help since that day he had horribly failed him. His father had not so much asked for his help as indicated that he and his son would of course assist in the search.
The head groomsman, a man not much older than Gaston had appeared in the breakfast room a little earlier and after bowing politely explained that the villagers had found four horses. There was no sign of their riders. What was most significant was that the horses had tack that marked them out as military horses.
Musketeer horses no less.
The villagers quickly concluded that the unfortunate riders must have been caught in the storm the previous night. The villagers brought the horses to the stables owned by Comte Du Pont, Gaston's father, in the hope that he would see that they were looked after until their riders were found.
Gaston's father immediately offered to lead the search himself. Gaston was not surprised. His father was not the sort of landowner who sat in his stately home growing fat on the income from his tenants. No. Du Pont helped his tenants, he was always the first to assist in their time of need and never turned away a desperate villager.
'They must have been caught in the worst part of the storm,' said Du Pont as they walked to the stables. 'Pierre, did any of my tenants suffer?'
Pierre, the village elder and tavern keeper, shook his head, 'we were lucky, monsieur. The worst of the storm missed the village. I think a couple of the small holdings were hit, some of the lads are riding around to check on them.'
Du Pont nodded his thanks. The Comte's willingness to help those living on his land meant that all the tenants looked out for each other. Gaston wished all landowners were like his father.
'When we find them will you be able to accommodate them?' asked Du Pont. 'I can have them at the house, but they may be more comfortable with you. I know some soldiers are unable to relax around nobility.'
Pierre nodded, 'there is no one staying at The Fox at the moment. My wife is already preparing a room for them.'
'Gaston,' said Du Pont. 'Will you drive the cart?'
Gaston's pride threatened to overwhelm him. He had to stop himself from smiling enthusiastically. His father was always kind to him, but up until this point had not let him join in with his duties on the land. He wondered what was different this time.
Despite his father being kindly towards him there had been a distance between them for a while. It had not been the same since his mother died.
He clambered up to the front of the cart, taking the reins off the groomsman, who winked at him. He knew Gaston was being granted his first taste of leadership. Even if it was assisted leadership.
Du Pont settled next to him. Pierre and a couple of the footmen took up position in the back of the cart along with another couple of villagers.
'Where should we start?' asked Gaston as he urged the horses forward.
Du Pont twisted and looked behind. It was Pierre who answered.
'The horses came from the main road to the north.'
Gaston nodded and pulled at the reins to get the horses to turn in the appropriate direction. He was careful not to push the horses too hard. The ground was wet from the storm. The last thing they needed was for the horses to become distressed or for one of the cartwheels to get stuck in soft mud.
'Monsieur Du Pont,' said one of the footmen.
Du Pont nodded to him to speak.
'There's an old cottage along the road. It's still standing. I er… I used to hide there when I was a child.'
Du Pont chuckled, 'I know the one, Paul,' he said. 'I hid from my governor in that cottage a few times as a boy. You are right. If they found it they would shelter there.'
'The river burst its banks,' stated Pierre.
Gaston knew what that meant. It was not the first time the river had burst its banks. He knew about the cottage as well. He knew it was in the valley close to the river. A twist in the normal course of the river meant it was in the path of the water when it overflowed which was the reason for its abandonment.
Without being told Gaston turned the cart again and headed along the road that would reach the cottage quicker. He knew the road was narrower, but they were unlikely to meet anyone else.
His father leaned a little closer to him. He seemed worried. Gaston hoped he was not about to send him home.
'You will prepare yourself,' he said. 'They may be dead. Do you think you can handle that?'
Gaston stared ahead and blinked a couple of times before nodding.
The image of his mother, serene on her deathbed, flashed into his mind. She looked beautiful, but she was dead. The baby lay next to her, his skin waxen and almost blue, so still he did not look real.
For a long time after that day, Gaston had feared death. The only time his father had admonished him was when he refused to help him shoot a pony that was badly injured. They had been alone, a few miles from the house. The pony had fallen and broken a leg. She would not have survived. The only option was to shoot her. His father wanted him to soothe the beast in her last few seconds. But he had run away. His father had been disappointed with him. They barely spoke for weeks. Eventually, they sat together and talked. Neither of them were fully recovered from the death of the Comtesse. His father had lost his wife and new son. Gaston had lost his mother and new brother. Neither of them was ready to accept that she was gone and that they had to move on with their lives. They knew she would not want them to be sad and mourn forever.
And now Gaston was being trusted to deal with death again. He wondered if it would be easier to deal with the bodies of men he did not know.
However, he hoped he would not have to deal with any bodies at all. He did not want to see another body.
The cottage came into view. Gaston pulled the horses to a stop on the road. He knew they could not get any closer. The river water had gone down but it would be too muddy for the heavy horses and cart.
They approached the cottage on foot, squelching through the mud. Gaston could feel the cold water on his breeches. He hoped the soldiers had stayed dry.
Pierre pushed the door to the cottage open. They stepped inside, splashing through a couple of inches of water.
'It is alright, monsieur,' Pierre said.
The villager stopped suddenly, holding his hands out, fingers splayed. He was looking up. Gaston followed his gaze.
A young soldier was looking down from a platform over the living area of the cottage. He was holding a gun, aimed at them. He looked exhausted. The gun was wavering. Gaston doubted the man would be able to shoot anything even if he tried. But he might accidentally fire the gun.
Something caught Gaston's eye. A shadow further into the cottage. It looked odd, and out of place. He stared for a second before realising what it was.
'Papa,' he said and pointed.
Du Pont peered into the gloom. Gaston did not wait; he rushed forward.
A man was sitting in the window. On the sill. The window was open, he was half in and half out of the cottage. Gaston guessed he had been there for hours. He must have clambered up to escape the flood water.
'Monsieur?' he asked as he got closer.
Paul was next to him reaching out to the man. The man was shivering uncontrollably. He was clutching at the edge of the window frame. His eyes were open, but he did not seem to be focused.
'Let us help you, monsieur,' said Paul.
The man did not react.
The sound of splashing made Gaston turn. Luc, the other footman, handed him a blanket.
Behind them, Gaston could see his father and Pierre helping someone on the platform. A ladder had been brought in and raised to lean against the platform. The young man, who was peering over the top, looked haunted, as though he was trying to hide how upset he was about something.
It looked as though there was more than just the young man on the platform.
Paul wrapped the blanket around the shivering man in the window whilst encouraging him to step down. Gaston rested his hand over the man's, he looked him in the eyes.
'The storm is gone now,' he said. 'You're safe.'
The man looked at him, his eyes focused. He nodded slowly.
It took all three of them to help the man down. He was stiff from the cold despite the shivering and struggled to keep upright. He was soaked through. He looked up to the platform and took a few more stumbling steps forward. Paul and Luc were taking most of his weight.
Du Pont was climbing up the ladder, with one of the villagers holding it steady at the bottom. The haunted-looking young soldier stepped onto the ladder and with Du Pont's help clambered down a few steps, he was trying to see what was happening in the direction Gaston had found the man in the window, but he was not far enough down the ladder.
'Porthos?' said the young man, his question was filled with uncertainty and fear.
The young soldier was not expecting his friend to still be alive. Gaston was again reminded of his mother's death. He realised the men on the platform must have spent hours not knowing what had become of their friend who was only a few yards away the whole time.
The man Paul and Luc were holding tried to say something but lacked the strength.
'He's with us, monsieur,' said Gaston. 'He is very cold but he is with us.'
Porthos managed a pained smile to Gaston who nodded.
As the young soldier reached the ground he stepped closer to Porthos. He grabbed him in a firm embrace. Gaston could feel the relief from both men.
Above them, Gaston could hear shuffling and hissing. A man was being helped down the steps. He was struggling with every step, he did not seem capable of taking weight on his left leg. His breeches were ripped revealing a nasty bruise and cut. Gaston was not surprised the man was struggling.
As he reached the bottom of the ladder he looked up at Porthos. Gaston could see the relief in the man's eyes. Porthos looked relieved as well.
'They're fine,' said the injured man. 'Athos' head still ails him but he will be fine. D'Artagnan is cold and tired.'
Porthos nodded before wilting. He rallied after a few seconds.
'Get them to the cart,' said Du Pont. 'Gaston, stay with them whilst we help the last man down.'
Gaston again felt proud of the trust his father was putting in him. He took over helping Porthos who was walking almost normally, just slowly. Paul and Luc walked either side of the injured man supporting him as he hopped across the floor and out of the cottage. The young soldier remained in the cottage offering encouragement to the remaining man on the platform.
'We didn't know what had happened to Porthos,' said the man with the leg injury in between hops. 'He helped us all get onto that platform… I passed out. They didn't know what happened to him.'
'I'm fine,' Porthos said, although he still could not put power into his voice.
Gaston spoke for him, 'he says he's fine.'
The man ahead shook his head, 'none of us are fine, Porthos. You must be freezing.'
'You have rooms being prepared in the tavern, monsieur,' said Gaston. 'Monsieur Pierre and his wife will look after you.'
The man nodded, 'thank you.'
It took a bit of effort to help the two men onto the cart. Porthos was embraced warmly by the other man, who was called Aramis. Gaston sat in the back of the cart with them as Luc and Paul returned to the cottage.
'Your horses are in the village,' said Gaston, 'that's how they knew you were in trouble.'
Aramis smiled, 'our friend, Athos, was thrown from his horse, that's what started it all.'
'The storm started it,' said Porthos quietly.
Porthos was wrapped in two blankets. Aramis had managed to shuffle around enough to pull his friend closer. Gaston could not help a quizzical look.
'He's cold,' said Aramis. 'If we huddle together, my body warmth might help to warm him… Not that I'm much warmer.'
'Warmer than me,' said Porthos with a huff.
'Do you have a healer in the village?' asked Aramis.
Gaston shook his head. Aramis sighed.
'Why? None of you are badly injured.'
'I'm thinking about the pain Athos is in,' said Aramis. 'I lost my bag of herbs so I can't make up a painkiller.'
'What herbs do you need?' asked Gaston. 'I sometimes collect herbs from the kitchen garden.
Aramis smiled and nodded, he seemed to approve of the landowner's son having a knowledge of plants. He listed what he would need. Gaston knew where he could find all the things Aramis wanted and promised to bring them to the inn.
The two soldiers looked across to their friends who were walking across the wet ground. The young soldier, d'Artagnan, was ashen, blinking frequently. Gaston guessed he had not slept for many hours. Athos looked pale. Both men, like Aramis, looked cold, but none of them were suffering from the cold as much as Porthos, who had been exposed to the weather far more than them.
Gaston was about to jump off the cart but his father stopped him, 'stay with them. Make sure they have everything they need.'
'But Papa, monsieur Aramis needs herbs from our garden for a painkiller. I need to get that.'
Du Pont smiled, 'I will have Luc collect what you need and bring it to The Fox. Gaston, take charge of these men. See that they are looked after.'
Gaston nodded, 'yes, Papa.'
Gaston was once again filled with pride, his father was trusting him to take charge of the soldiers.
MMMM
The Fox was a large tavern. Pierre and his wife catered to weary travellers and hard-working locals. Gaston was allowed to take a drink there with his father when he visited. They did not visit often as Du Pont did not want to deprive his tenants of the chance to relax.
The four soldiers were helped into the large dormitory-style room at the back of the tavern that Pierre hired out to travellers who wanted to stay overnight. There were six beds. Suzette, Pierre's wife, was bustling around with blankets and hushed orders to the orphan boy they looked after to build up the fire in the room. The boy, covered in soot, smiled. Gaston guessed the boy was enjoying the trust being placed in him in much the same way that he was.
'I've heated some water so that you can wash,' said Suzette, 'there's plenty so don't worry. I have hot food as well. Just tell me when you want it. Please ask if you need anything.'
D'Artagnan nodded. Gaston could not work out which of the four soldiers was in charge. But he guessed that since d'Artagnan was the only one without an injury he had become their spokesman.
Porthos was sitting on the edge of one of the beds trying to pull off his wet doublet. Gaston could see he would not be able to, the man's fingers were not moving. He was too cold. Gaston indicated that he wanted to help, and Porthos nodded his thanks. Peeling the wet leather off the shivering man was difficult. Between them, they managed to strip off his wet clothes. Porthos pulled a couple of thick blankets over himself gratefully.
D'Artagnan, who had changed into dry clothes, was helping Aramis clean the cut to his leg and wrap a dressing around his thigh.
There was not much conversation. The soldiers did not seem to need to communicate. They seemed to know what each of them needed to do. Gaston was in awe.
A light knock at the door made all the soldiers look around. Gaston was aware of them all reaching for their weapons. Even Porthos tried to pull his gun from the weapons belt that lay on the small table beside the bed where he was resting.
'You're safe,' Gaston reassured them as he opened the door.
Paul peered into the room before recoiling slightly at the sight of the armed men. He held up a bag.
'The herbs,' he said. 'The Comte wanted an update, but I think I can safely say they will all recover.'
Gaston smiled and nodded. Paul retreated from the room.
'Please apologies to him on our behalf,' said d'Artagnan.
Gaston was not surprised the men were on edge. They had all faced death only hours before. They were all tired.
He held up the bag of herbs. Aramis smiled and looked across to Athos whose pained expression softened for a moment. Gaston suspected he was looking forward to any respite from the pain his head injury was giving him.
'You've got to have some as well,' said d'Artagnan, glaring at Aramis.
Aramis shrugged, 'for once I am happy to admit to being in pain.'
Gaston found the soldiers fascinating. They had all faced death. They had all faced the prospect of losing one of their friends. Two of them were injured. And yet they were teasing each other and being dismissive of their ailments.
He realised that different people dealt with traumatic incidents in different ways. He and his father had tried not to accept the death of the Comtesse. But these men were accepting of what happened to them. It was a little different but they were accepting of the dangers of their lives. Gaston knew that he would never forget his mother. But perhaps he could learn to accept the fact that she was gone.
'If I tell you what to do, will you make up the painkiller?' asked Aramis.
Gaston blinked back a couple of threatening tears and turned back to the soldiers. Aramis paused before he spoke again. Gaston wondered if he had noticed.
'It's not difficult,' he said, keeping his tone light, 'I've tried to teach them but they're not interested.'
Porthos huffed and shook his head.
'Chuck another blanket on him,' said Aramis, 'it might thaw him out a bit.'
D'Artagnan smirked but did as Aramis had suggested. Porthos did not begrudge the third blanket which he wrapped around his shoulders.
'Did you lose someone?' asked Aramis quietly.
Gaston paused as he pulled the herbs from the bag.
'My mother, but it was three years ago. I just felt sad thinking that you were all worried about each other.'
'Just because it was a while ago doesn't make it stop being difficult,' said d'Artagnan who placed a knife and small bowl on the little table where Gaston was working.
In between Aramis giving him instructions on how to make the painkiller Gaston told the soldiers about his mother. They told him about some of the people they had lost over the years. He could see the sadness in their eyes. He realised they were not being flippant about death. They were just more used to it than he was.
As he helped Athos to drink the painkiller the soldier patted his arm.
'Your father clearly thinks you are ready to do more now. Perhaps he was giving you time to grieve. Perhaps he was still grieving and did not trust himself to be a good father to you.'
Gaston shook his head, 'he's always been good to me.'
Athos smiled, 'he might not have realised that.'
Gaston was confused, he knew he still did not understand his elders, and he wondered if he ever would. The soldiers had a different outlook on life from his father and the people they were friends with. Gaston hoped that in time he and his father would recover from the death of the comtesse, but he also knew he did not have to try to pretend it had not happened. The soldiers did not. He would try to emulate them.
The End.
Whumpee(s): All four. Featuring: Original Characters.