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O death! Cruel, bitter, impious death! Which thus breaks the bonds of affection and divides father and mother, brother and sister, son and wife. Lamenting our misery, we feared to fly; yet we dared not remain.
~Gabriele de' Mussi, recounting an outbreak of the Black Death, 1348
MAY, 1631.
The road into Blois was overgrown and far too quiet, as most of France seemed to be these days after five long years of the plague. With so many dead, there were not enough riders or wagons passing over the route to discourage the creeping vegetation from encroaching, and certainly not enough manpower available to clear the way and level the ruts and potholes that threatened the unwary traveler.
D'Artagnan would have been happier about his current situation if the looming trees and underbrush were not blocking his line of sight so thoroughly. He still bore the bruises and scrapes from his encounter with bandits two days previously. A gang of five had descended from the crest of a wooded hill; they were upon him before he could aim a pistol, but he still managed to wound two of the brigands with his rapier before a third snapped his blade with a rusty sword-breaker, and the fourth knocked him unconscious with a club.
He awoke to deepening dusk, his purse and provisions gone. The thieves took his brace of pistols and his parrying dagger, but left his sword, now broken six inches below the point. It was a testament to the sorry state of his mount that the ewe-necked gelding—nineteen years old if he was a day, and a favorite of his late father’s—had not been spirited away. However, when d'Artagnan rolled into a sitting position, groaning as the half-healed whip marks on his back from his most recent round of self-flagellation pulled unpleasantly, it was to find the phlegmatic pony gazing at him with a decidedly unimpressed eye from a few feet away.
A half-full water bag still hung from the front of the saddle, but the saddlebags were gone, along with his bedroll. Clutching his aching head, d'Artagnan led the pony into the woods and spent a miserable night curled up under the saddle blanket, leaning against a tree.
Two days later, the ache in his head had subsided to a manageable dull throbbing, but it was replaced by the ache in his empty stomach, barely kept at bay with occasional handfuls of tart spring berries foraged from the roadside.
The gelding plodded on with its odd, ambling gait, head hanging level with its knees. One of the reasons his father used to offer to explain his fondness for the beast was its uncanny ability to cover eight leagues per day, rain or shine, despite perpetually appearing to have one foot in the grave. Given this universal constant, d'Artagnan estimated that he would reach Blois by midday, by which point he would hopefully have come up with a plan to replace his stolen money and provisions.
This preoccupation with his plight, combined with the twisting road and all-pervasive vegetation, prevented him from noticing the approaching rider until the two of them were practically upon each other. The other man's mount—a fine bay mare—spooked sideways to avoid d'Artagnan's gelding and stumbled alarmingly, nearly going to its knees before righting itself and lurching to a halt. The rider gasped out a curse as he was thrown forward in the saddle, rein hand moving instinctively toward his other shoulder, which d'Artagnan could see was heavily bandaged.
"Are you injured, monsieur?" d'Artagnan asked, once the pale, dour-faced man had straightened in the saddle.
"Hmm, let me see. Bandages... arm in a sling... yes, I'd say an injury of some sort seems a fair supposition," said the stranger in voice as dry as dust. "Tell me, young man, do you always ride on the wrong side of the road when approaching blind corners?"
"This road does not have 'sides' so much as a middle closely bordered by branches and wheel ruts, monsieur," d'Artagnan replied, irked. "Do you always ride a horse with hooves so long and unkempt that it stumbles at the slightest provocation?"
"In happier times, certainly not," said the man, pinning d'Artagnan with piercing gray eyes. "Unfortunately, the blacksmith in Blois is dead, as are the blacksmith's two apprentices, the former blacksmith, and the blacksmiths in the two closest towns." He raised an eyebrow before concluding, "You begin to see the problem."
D'Artagnan frowned, 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 shrewdly.
"You are quite impertinent for a traveler, monsieur," said the man, though d'Artagnan thought he detected a hint of amusement lurking around his face. "However, your offer is also timely, so I am willing to excuse your behavior on this occasion. Meet me in Blois at noon. The smithy lies abandoned; it should contain everything you require for the task. It is located near the north end of the Rue Chemonton. Do not be late."
"I'll see you there," d'Artagnan agreed, and the two parted ways.
D'Artagnan continued on his way, the sun climbing slowly in the sky. 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."
"Perhaps if yours weren't carrying its own weight in silver and cabochons..." d'Artagnan 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, "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 barely managed to stop himself from rising to the insult aimed at his father's favorite gelding, but he was working to a plan now, and he 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 at twelve-thirty, I will treat the abscess in 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. "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 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 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. 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 muck clinging in thick clumps to his boots.
"May I be of assistance?" d'Artagnan asked when the man noticed him.
"Not unless you happen to know how to shoe a horse," replied the chevalier. "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, 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 at midday today. If you will meet me there at one o'clock, 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 early—to see your skills practiced on a different horse before committing my own to your tender care."
"While I would prefer that you trusted my word on the matter, I have no objection," d'Artagnan 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, looking 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.
"At any rate, it was necessary for me to dismount in order to allow my horse 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."
"And did you retrieve the handkerchief successfully?" d'Artagnan asked, unable to help himself.
"Of course, monsieur," replied the chevalier, looking offended. "What sort of man do you take me for?"
D'Artagnan couldn't help the small grin that spread over his face as the two parted company. It was the first smile to grace his features in far too long.
