“And did you retrieve the handkerchief successfully?” d’Artagnan asked, curiosity pricking through the layer of numbness and old grief that surrounded him like a tattered cloak these days.
“Why, of course I did, monsieur,” replied the chevalier, looking offended. “What sort of man do you take me for?”
D’Artagnan couldn’t help the small grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he and the man parted company. It was the first smile to grace his features in far too long.
Chapter 2
The Smithy in Blois had not been abandoned long enough to become a complete ruin. The door was closed, but not locked, and while the remaining townsfolk had obviously helped themselves to items that were useful to them, they had by no means stripped the place bare.
D’Artagnan tied his gelding to the hitching post outside. He was busy stoking a fire in the forge and sorting through piles of tools when the pale nobleman with the injured shoulder arrived with his mare.
“I am almost ready for you, monsieur,” d’Artagnan said. “Bring your horse inside.”
The gentleman inclined his head wordlessly and stood the animal up in the empty workspace between two posts. D’Artagnan approached the animal’s shoulder, running a hand down its left front leg and picking up the hoof. Ignoring the feeling of light-headedness and the chafe of his shirt against the raw skin of his back as he bent over, he secured the horse’s foot between his knees and began to pare away the dead hoof with a curved knife.
“What’s it been? About three months since she was trimmed last?” he asked.
“A bit more,” the other man replied.
D’Artagnan reached for a pair of hinged hoof nippers to remove the ragged and overgrown hoof wall, pausing frequently to check the angle and evenness since he was somewhat out of practice.
“She’ll likely be tender-footed for a day or two after this, since I’m having to remove so much at once,” he said. “You’re lucky, though—the cracks don’t extend up into the live part of the hoof.”
“That’s as well,” said the mare’s owner, not offering more in the way of conversation as d’Artagnan continued to work steadily, rasping down the rough edges on the foot and moving on to the other legs in turn.
He was heating metal shoes in the forge when his other two customers arrived.
“Well, now!” exclaimed the big man as he entered. “Would you look who else is here? What are the odds of that, eh?”
“Ah—Porthos. And Aramis as well, I see,” the injured man said, a quirk of the eyebrow and faint uptick at the corner of his mouth the only sign that he was surprised and pleased to see the newcomers. “Goodness, my cup runneth over.”
The chevalier, now identified as Aramis, smiled widely. “Athos, my friend! I did not expect to see you until later. How fares your wound?”
The man called Athos shrugged his good shoulder. “An annoyance and a hindrance, as you see. On the positive side, wielding a sword in my off hand is probably good practice.”
The big man—Porthos—let loose with his deep, rumbling laugh. A devilish grin dimpled his broad cheeks.
“Looking on the bright side of things is not a trait I generally associate with you, Athos,” he said. “Though it was three against one in that fight, so I suppose things could have gone worse. You should have waited for us.”
“Still,” put in Aramis, “I’d rather go up against most swordsmen using their dominant hands than Athos using his off hand.”
“That’s true enough,” Porthos agreed, and though he said nothing in reply, the hint of a smile that had been playing around Athos’ lips moved upward to his eyes, as well.
D’Artagnan frowned and applied himself to the anvil, shaping the shoes as the three friends continued their lazy banter. The heat from the forge and the red-hot metal combined with his hunger and exhaustion to make him dizzy. His focus narrowed to the pounding of hammer against iron, the hiss of steam as hot shoe met hoof, the tap-tap-tap as he nailed the shoes in place and clinched the sharp nail-ends down securely.
“A workmanlike job,” said the nobleman named Athos when he was finished with the mare. “I am grateful.”
D’Artagnan only nodded brusquely and moved on to the gelding with the lame front foot. His general discomfort from heat, hunger, and half-healed wounds conspired with the melancholy surrounding his recent circumstances to make him feel more alone than ever, despite the evident camaraderie of the three friends.
He pared away the sole of the sore hoof, discovering a hoof abscess near the toe. Once it was drained, he packed the gap with wadding soaked in brandy from the owner’s flask. His mood worsened as he repeated the steps of trimming and shoeing, half-listening as the three men chatted in a roundabout manner about some recent undertaking, which had apparently taken Aramis and Porthos to Vendôme for some weeks.
The pair had just returned—Aramis riding ahead when Porthos’ horse went lame shortly before d’Artagnan had met them on the road. It was obvious that they did not wish to speak of any details in front of d’Artagnan, and he found himself becoming irrationally resentful of the easy verbal shorthand between the longtime friends.
Did they appreciate their own luck, he wondered, to have kept not merely one person, but two with whom they were so close, when so many had lost everything and everyone to the dark magic that cursed the land? Surely, he thought to himself, they would not be so casual in their bonhomie if they understood what a blessing they had received.
His second horse completed, d’Artagnan interrupted the men’s conversation abruptly, uncaring if he sounded churlish.
“Your gelding is finished,” he said, addressing Porthos but not meeting his eyes. “Pack the hoof abscess twice daily for a week with clean cloth dipped in spirits, and the animal should be sound enough for light work.”
He ignored Porthos’ words of thanks, and moved on to the gray mare belonging to Aramis, catching himself briefly against one of the pillars in the work area when the world tilted unexpectedly to the left for a moment. When he straightened, the chevalier was watching him with a critical eye.
“Are you quite all right, monsieur?” he asked in a solicitous voice that made d’Artagnan bristle unaccountably.
“Fine,” he said curtly. “Do not concern yourself.”
He applied himself to the mud-covered mare, but something about him must have caught Aramis’ attention—because a few minutes later, the man turned to him once more.
“So, stranger,” he said. “You have heard our names. Might we, in turn, learn the name of the man who has rescued us from the tedium of having to travel everywhere by foot?”
“D’Artagnan,” he replied curtly.
“A Gascon by the accent, I take it,” Aramis said.
D’Artagnan grunted an affirmative, not looking up from his task.
Evidently, this was not enough to discourage further conversation, since Aramis continued, “And what brings you north to Blois, young d’Artagnan? I’ve been to Gascony, you know—beautiful country. If I had a place there, I think I’d find it difficult to leave.”
D’Artagnan felt a flush rise to his cheeks, the pounding ache in his skull ratcheting up another notch for a moment before subsiding to its previous levels.