Athos raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. “You may ask,” he replied in a tone that suggested that receiving an answer was another thing entirely.
“The man in the street called you ‘Comte.’ Are you a member of the nobility?”
Aramis released an indelicate snort, breaking the rather melancholy atmosphere that had settled upon the room.
“That depends entirely on who you ask,” the chevalier muttered into his goblet, and d’Artagnan was once again thrown by the casual, teasing camaraderie on display; so different than what he had known these past long and lonely months.
Athos directed a quelling glare at his companion before replying, “To answer your question, d’Artagnan, I was once the Comte de la Fère. However, as we are no longer in La Fère, and as the social structure of France lies in tatters around us, now, I prefer to be known merely as Athos.”
Chapter 4
Athos’ wife smiled over her cup of wine, fluttering her eyelashes teasingly at him. “You may claim to have reinvented yourself and left your old life behind, husband, but you will always be Olivier to me,” she said in a velvet tone.
“As you will always be Anne to me,” Athos replied seriously, a glint of something unaccountably weighty in his eyes that d’Artagnan could not readily identify. D’Artagnan had noticed earlier that Athos called his wife Anne, while everyone else in the household called her Milady—apparently to minimize any confusion with Ana María. Aware that it would be the height of bad manners to pursue such an obviously private topic, d’Artagnan returned to the matter of Athos’ title.
“What of your castle here, though?” he asked the older man. “Surely this is still the estate of a nobleman.”
Athos shook his head. “Not really. This particular pile of brick and stone is merely a convenient inheritance from relatives who died in the first wave of the Curse, five years ago. There is no title associated with the land; it was a gift from Charles VII to a branch of the family that supported him against the English pretender Henry VI after the Treaty of Troyes. For services rendered, one might say.”
“And yet, the people here still know you as a comte,” d’Artagnan said, curious about what would make a man wish to leave such a life behind.
“Whatever his title or lack thereof, we are all very grateful to Athos for his hospitality in allowing us to stay here,” said de Tréville firmly.
“Indeed,” said Ana María quietly. “The generosity of our hosts extends further than you can imagine.”
Fighting a blush, d’Artagnan briefly lowered his eyes at the implied censure, and muttered, “Yes, of course.”
“That hospitality certainly extends to yourself, as well, d’Artagnan. You should stay here for a few days and recover from your recent trials,” Milady said, meeting his eyes with a sort of fearless frankness that d’Artagnan had never previously encountered in a woman. Her tone grew tart. “After all, who am I to turn away a young man who would set me among the heavenly host?”
Unable to completely suppress the heat that crawled up his neck to stain his face, d’Artagnan muttered, “Thank you, but I should continue toward Paris.”
“Nonsense,” said Aramis. “For one thing, you have yet to make good on our contract. You promised me a full set of shoes for my horse, and yet—thanks to the timing of that ugly little skirmish in the streets—rather than having four shoes or even two, she now has none at all.”
The flush rose higher at the realization that he had not, in fact, kept his word to the other man. “Forgive me,” he said. “I had certainly not intended to break my word. Obviously I will complete the job at once.”
Porthos rolled his eyes, and directed a pointed look across the table at Aramis. “He’s only teasing you. For God’s sake, d’Artagnan, relax and finish your chicken. Despite what Aramis thinks, his precious mare will keep until tomorrow.”
D’Artagnan nodded in understanding and lowered his eyes to his plate, applying himself to his meal as the others continued to speak of this and that. Darkness was fast approaching when the remains of the meal were finally cleared away and the others retired one by one. Athos led d’Artagnan to one of the spare bedrooms, lighting the way with a candle and making sure he had everything he needed before taking his leave with a wordless nod of the head.
The room was spartan, but what furnishings existed were of good quality. Apparently, whoever had examined and treated his wounds after he collapsed had also washed the travel dust from his body, so he merely rinsed his hands and splashed water from the basin sitting on a low table next to the wall over his face and neck before readying himself for bed and blowing out the candles.
As had become his habit while travelling, d’Artagnan only removed his boots and doublet before lying down on the bed, preferring to remain ready in case anything unexpected happened. He missed the presence under his pillow of the dagger that had been stolen from him on the road, but at least now he had an unbroken sword to lean against the wall by the bed, within easy reach.
With a sigh, he settled onto his side on the mattress, staring into the unfamiliar darkness of the room. A few minutes later, he rolled onto his back. The salve that had been placed on his wounds made them itch, and he rubbed back and forth with small motions, trying to gain friction against the bandages swathing his torso to ease the sensation.
The result was wholly unsatisfying.
After more long minutes of staring at nothing, it became apparent that spending most of a day unconscious had unfortunate consequences on one’s sleeping patterns. Feeling an itch that was now as much mental as physical, d’Artagnan rose and began to pace around the room restlessly, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness enough that the weak moonlight streaming in through the single window was sufficient to allow him to avoid stumbling into anything.
What was the story behind this strange collection of individuals? They seemed almost familial, and yet, with the exception of Athos and Milady’s marriage, and whatever bond connected Ana María to her battle-scarred guardian, d’Artagnan was almost certain there was no relation between them. How could such a diverse group become so close? They must have lost people... these days, everyone had. Why would they voluntarily cleave to others when more loss and heartbreak was inevitable?
It was as if they didn’t realize the danger... or were laughing in the face of it. D’Artagnan found it maddening—almost as though it were a personal affront to him—and he wasn’t quite sure why. He ceased his pacing, chewing on a fingernail instead.
Through the archway that opened into his room, he could hear the indistinct murmur of distant voices. The movement of a soft light caught his eye—perhaps a candle flame reflected off of walls in the hallway. Evidently, he was not the only one still awake this night.
Moved partly by curiosity, and partly by the desire for company to help quiet the chatter in his mind, he found himself easing out into the hall on stocking-clad feet without having truly made a decision to do so. The moving candle had already disappeared, but there was a faint, flickering light coming from a room several doors down from his. D’Artagnan crept toward it, not wanting to draw attention before gaining some insight into whether his presence was likely to be welcome.