Sarah D'Almeida - The Musketeer's Apprentice

He hesitated but one second, while the voice of his formidable father, to whom he’d been a late and unexpected son, boomed in his mind, telling him there were things a lord simply did not do, one of them being to break etiquette in such a crass way.

And then he plunged into the dark door, into the smell of blood and hay, into the sounds of horses and two men yelling at each other.

One look was all it took for Athos, the erstwhile Count de la Fere and owner of a fine stable in his own, abandoned domains, to understand what was happening and why. There was a beautiful chestnut mare, and there was a foal, which was lying on the hay, while the two men rubbed it with straw. Meanwhile, the mare had pinned her ears flat back and the skin at the corner of her mouth had wrinkled-a sure sign she intended to bite someone-which, Athos judged, occasioned the screaming.

That the men were screaming and rubbing the foal at the same time, and not getting out of the mare’s way, seemed to betray some disconnection between mind and body, of the sort Porthos often complained of. Athos plunged forward and grabbed at the two men, pulling them away, just as the mare bit at air where the older of the men had been.

The mare gave them something that sounded uncommonly like a warning hiss, then nuzzled at the foal, who stood and tottered over to her. It seemed at a loss for where to find the tit, looking for it in quite the wrong place.

The older of the men started towards it, but the younger said, “You may leave him to it, my lord. He’ll find the tit right enough.”

The older man hesitated, but finally nodded. Turning to Athos, he gave him the once over, head to toe, then said, “Pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Musketeer,” the man said, extending a bloodied hand to Athos. “I am Monsieur de Comeau. I believe you wish to see me?”

MONSIEUR de Comeau was a tall man, as tall as Athos, and as slim of body and refined of bones as Aramis. Unlike Athos, he had the olive skin that is common with dark hair. Unlike Aramis-who would never allow himself to be seen by anyone, not even his servant, in less than fashionable clothing-he was wearing a serviceable suit of undyed wool and he didn’t seem in the least embarrassed by his common and undistinguished attire.

He waved away his groom, telling him to mind the foal, then led Athos into the house, up a back staircase-from its look a servants’ staircase, dark, narrow and the wooden steps below foot quite unpolished, save where the feet of those running up and down had polished them.

“You’ll forgive me,” Monsieur de Comeau said, as he led Athos up the staircase. “But if we go in through the main staircase and track stable muck into the house my wife will never let me hear the end of it.”

The face that turned back to look at Athos over the gentleman’s shoulder, was a neat oval, punctuated by a wisp of moustache and beard excellently trimmed to shape. It was all unremarkable, from the well-shaped nose, to the neatly arched eyebrows. Only the eyes-brown and impish-lent it any dignity. They were the eyes of a school child getting away with a prank.

Athos nodded his condescension of this unusual reception, and presently they wound around the staircase, to arrive at a door, which the gentleman leaned over to open. Inside was a comfortable entrance room, the floor tiled in yellow.

There, through foresight or training, someone had left a basin and several pitchers of water, as well as towels for the hands, and various rags on the floor, presumably to clean their footwear. Two footmen waited, in a corner, but didn’t move to receive their lord, as he said, “You may clean yourself here. I must clean and change before going within, or my lady wife will have my head on a pike.”

Hoping it was metaphorical, Athos examined himself by the light of the broad window that took up most of the far wall in this room. To his surprise he found he had somehow got blood on his hands, and a slight stain on the cuff of his shirt.

Cleaning it was quick work, with the water provided, and he cleaned himself using a corner of a towel, dipped in water, to remove the spot of blood from his cuff. While he was doing so, the valets stepped forward and helped the Monsieur de Comeau out of his suit. It was all Athos could do not to smile, because the gentleman seemed as careless of undressing before a stranger as any musketeer, used to sharing quarters with his fellows, or any commoner who’d slept in a bed with many siblings. In fact, for lack of modesty or self-consciousness, the Monsieur de Comeau could easily rival Porthos.

He removed his suit, till he was left in his underwear, by which time Athos had finished using the basin. One of the valets threw the stained water out, and rinsed the basin, after which the gentleman proceeded to wash himself with remarkable thoroughness, and to use a comb in his, relatively short-barely touching his ears-black hair.

Even while he was combing his hair-and removing a wealth of straw from it-his men were dressing him, with the aplomb of those who had been trained to this and were used to performing their task without the least cooperation from their subject.

So it was that, as he finished combing himself, one of his valets was lacing the front of a splendid doublet in fawn-colored velvet, while the other one was contriving- to his lord’s considerable inattention-to get a pair of highly polished boots on the gentleman’s feet.

Athos made use of a rag in the corner to clean the main muck from his feet which wasn’t much, his having spent a very short time in the stables.

They were both presentable at the same time, when the gentleman smiled at Athos, “What did you mean to see me about?” He hesitated. “At least I assume you didn’t come to see the newborn foal?”

“No.” Athos said, mindful of the presence of the valets and not wishing to question the gentleman about what might be an embarrassing subject in front of them. “He seemed lively enough.”

“Aye, it’s a good bloodline. Part of the reason I might have been a bit foolish about it. Could have got myself bit. So… What did you wish to ask me?”

“It is,” Athos said, not meeting the man’s eyes. “A rather private matter.”

“Oh, so?” The gentleman’s eyebrows raised, but he nodded, and waved one of his valet’s away. “Francois, go to the kitchen and bring us a bottle of the red and… some cheese?” He looked over at Athos. “You’ll forgive me, but I missed my breakfast, dragged out of bed because the mare was giving birth. And while I doubt there’s anything ready and cooked now, since the kitchen will be preparing for lunch, there should be cheese and bread, if you don’t mind…”

Athos bowed.

“Very well, Francois, cheese and bread and a bottle of that red we got last week from my farm.”

Francois bowed and disappeared, and the gentleman opened a door bordered in gold trim, onto a room set in a far more opulent style. It was a man’s room-or at least it had been decorated by a woman with the intention that it should be a man’s room-with yellow silk curtains and straight-backed yellow silk upholstered chairs. Against a window, a small table had been pushed, which was piled high with documents, a welter of writing quills and a few pots of ink.

The gentleman led Athos away from that table and towards where two chairs sat almost side-by-side. He took one, and waved Athos onto the other.

“I don’t have the pleasure of your acquaintance,” he prompted.

Athos smiled. “I am a musketeer, and I am known as Athos.”

The eyebrows went up. “Ah. I have heard rumors, in fact… It matters not, but there are those who say that half of his Majesty’s corps of musketeers are noblemen in disguise. ”