D’Artagnan blinked, suddenly struck by an idea. The person before him had the look of a gentleman—someone who still had money and resources... though not, apparently, resources that extended to a farrier. Perhaps this was his opportunity to improve his circumstances.
“I could shoe your horse for you, if you will provide tools, facilities, and a means of recompense for my time and labor,” he said in a shrewd tone.
“You are quite impertinent for a traveler, monsieur,” said the stranger, though d’Artagnan thought he detected a hint of amusement lurking around his eyes. “However,” he continued, “your offer is also timely, so I am willing to excuse your behavior on this occasion. I have business at the crossroads that cannot wait, but I will be returning to Blois immediately afterward. Meet me there this afternoon. The smithy lies abandoned; it should contain everything you require for the task. It is located near the north end of the Rue Chemonton. Be there when the sun disappears behind the cathedral’s bell tower.”
“I’ll see you then,” d’Artagnan agreed, and the two parted ways.
D’Artagnan continued on his way, the sun climbing slowly in the sky as the pony’s hooves ate up the distance. The trees gradually began to recede from the roadway, and he could hear the rushing of the Loire River off to his right, out of sight.
Ahead of him, a hulking mountain of a man was leading his horse along the track. As d’Artagnan approached the slow-moving pair from behind, he noticed the way the horse’s head bobbed uncomfortably with every stride in an attempt to keep the weight off its sore front foot. Soon after, he could scarcely help noticing the rather staggering amount of decorative metalwork and gemstones adorning the creature’s saddle and bridle.
“Can I help you, monsieur?” he asked as he pulled alongside.
The muscular man, who was clothed in attire almost as ostentatious as the horse’s, threw him a disgruntled look.
“Not unless you’re concealing a spare horse somewhere,” said the man. “One that’s not dead lame, preferably.”
D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow, letting his gaze settle on the sparkling saddle. “Perhaps if yours weren’t carrying its own weight in silver and cabochons...” he offered, unable to control himself.
A flush rose in the other man’s face, and there was a growl in his voice as he replied, “Huh. Fine words from someone riding a half-dead pony with a hide the same color as a buttercup! I didn’t know ponies came in that color... or that they could live to be as old as that one appears to be, for that matter.”
D’Artagnan was tired, hungry, sore, and in a foul temper after the attack on the road two days previously. Given all of those things, he barely managed to stop himself from rising to the insult aimed at his father’s favorite gelding. However, he was also working to a plan now, and he had quickly realized that this could be another opportunity for him.
Wresting his temper under control with difficulty, he replied, “My mount may be past his prime and a rather... unfortunate color, but at least he is sound and properly shod. If you will meet me at the abandoned smithy on the Rue Chemonton in Blois when the sun disappears behind the cathedral’s bell tower, I will treat your gelding’s forefoot and shoe him for you in return for fifteen livres, so that he, too, may be sound and properly shod.”
“Fifteen livres!” the man exclaimed, his heavy brows drawing together in disbelief. “That’s highway robbery, that is!”
“It’s less than the cost of a new horse,” d’Artagnan pointed out, “and if there was someone around who would do it for less, I assume you would have had it done by now.”
The man’s thunderous face darkened further for a moment, before relaxing unexpectedly into a smile like the sun coming out. He let loose a deep rumble of laughter, shaking a finger at d’Artagnan.
“You know—I think I like you,” he said. “You’ve got gall. Very well, stranger... I will meet you there, and we’ll see if you have the skill to earn your fifteen livres.”
“You need have no worries on that account, monsieur,” d’Artagnan said. “I will return your gelding to rights.”
The pair nodded warily to each other, and d’Artagnan allowed his pony to amble off, leaving the large man behind. He was feeling slightly better about his prospects as the town of Blois came into view over a hill, the plumes of smoke rising from many of the chimneys proclaiming that the town was not completely devoid of life.
As he passed a side road, he met a third man. Like the previous one, this individual was leading his horse; however, both man and animal were coated in drying mud up to the knees.
As he approached, d’Artagnan heard the man crooning softly to the mare as he led her slowly onto the main road. He was a slender individual with sharp, handsome features and a meticulously trimmed beard; the very picture of a successful chevalier, with the exception of the filthy muck clinging in thick clumps to his boots.
“Might I be of assistance?” d’Artagnan asked when the man noticed him.
“Not unless you happen to know how to shoe a horse,” the chevalier replied wryly. “Until half an hour ago, I was the last of my compatriots to still have a horse with a full set of four shoes. Sadly, an ill-timed attempt at chivalry on my part has reduced that number to two, and I fear that the mare will soon become lame if nothing is done.”
“No doubt you are correct,” d’Artagnan agreed. “Fortunately, it seems that luck is with you today. I do, in fact, know how to shoe a horse, and I will be shoeing two other horses at the abandoned smithy on Rue Chemonton this afternoon. If you will meet me there an hour or so after the sun dips behind the cathedral’s bell tower, I will trim and shoe your mare in return for fifteen livres.”
Rather than reacting in anger, the chevalier only raised his eyebrows.
“Fifteen livres, is it?” he said, the corners of his lips tilting up in a smirk. “I see I am in the presence of a businessman as well as a farrier. Very well, stranger. In the absence of more affordable options, I will meet you there. However, I hope you will not be offended if I arrive a bit earlier—to see your skills practiced on a different horse before committing my own to your tender care.”
D’Artagnan shrugged. “While I would prefer that you trusted my word on the matter, I have no objection,” he replied. “I admit to some curiosity, though. What sort of chivalry necessitates wading through mud deep enough to make a horse pull two shoes?”
“Ah,” said the man, appearing faintly abashed. “There was a carriage stopped by the side of the road next to a fallow field. The young widow inside had just lost her handkerchief in a gust of wind as I rode past, and I offered—ill advisedly, as it turns out—to retrieve it for her. I’m afraid I did not realize how muddy the ground was until I had already, er, committed, so to speak.”
D’Artagnan swallowed a snort, not wishing to offend his potential benefactor when the chevalier had so far been nothing but polite to him.
He continued, “At any rate, it was necessary for me to dismount in order to allow the mare to extract herself from the mire. Hence my present condition.” He gestured down at his ruined boots. “In my defense, though, I should point out that she was a very beautiful young widow.”