by R A Dodson
The Mage Queen
Her Majesty’s Musketeers, Book 1
By R. A. Dodson
Copyright 2020 by OtherLove Publishing, LLC
Cover by Deranged Doctor Design
Table of Contents
Map
Introduction
Dedication
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part II
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Part III
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Epilogue
Introduction
A version of this book was previously published as The Queen’s Musketeers, Books 1 - 3 under a different pen name. The story has been extensively revised and rewritten with new elements.
Dedication
With my sincerest apologies to Alexandre Dumas. You can blame Adrian Hodges for this, if you like.
Part I
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
Chapter 1
The road leading north toward the town of Blois was overgrown and far too quiet, as much of France seemed to be after five long years under the Curse. D’Artagnan lay on his back, blinking up at the mottled pattern of sun and shadows cast by the rustling leaves above him. His head ached. His ribs ached. The half-healed whip marks on his back from his latest round of flagellation ached.
A gang of five brigands had descended on horseback from the crest of a wooded hill. They were upon him before he could aim a pistol, but he’d still managed to wound two of the ruffians with his rapier before the third snapped his blade with a rusty sword-breaker, and the fourth knocked him unconscious with a club.
As memory filtered back in, so did practical considerations. Still lying flat on the ground, he fumbled at the place where his sword belt had previously hung. His coin purse was gone. His brace of pistols was missing. So was his parrying dagger. With a sick feeling, he struggled into a sitting position and looked around. His eyes caught on a glint of light on metal in the grass nearby. His sword lay on the ground, abandoned—broken six inches from the tip.
Dizziness assailed him as he staggered to his feet, leaning a hand against the nearest tree trunk for balance. He breathed through it, waiting until the vertigo subsided before moving to the sword and scooping it up by the hilt. His heart beat painfully against the cage of his ribs as a sense of utter solitude overcame him.
His pony.
The ewe-necked creature was the last real connection he had with his dead family, and he couldn’t see the gelding anywhere. In a daze, he wandered farther into the forest. Had the brigands spirited the animal away? Surely the aged creature had little value to anyone but him. Nineteen years old if it was a day, the pony had been alive for longer that d’Artagnan, and had been a favorite of his late father’s.
The sad excuse for a road fell away behind him, blocked from sight by trees and brush. Something rustled in the underbrush to his right. Holding his breath, he pushed past a wall of branches and caught sight of a distinctive flash of pale yellow. The air rushed from his lungs in relief so abruptly that his lightheadedness returned.
“Whoa, there,” he called, fighting his way through the choking vegetation.
The phlegmatic pony pricked its ears, gazing at him with a decidedly unimpressed eye. One front leg was held awkwardly in front of the animal, the leather reins tangled around it. D’Artagnan crashed into the small clearing and stumbled to the gelding’s side, resting a hand on its shaggy shoulder. The horse shoved its nose into his hip, clearly conveying its lack of patience with its current predicament.
With a huff, he gave the beast a soft pat and moved to its other side, lifting the bound front leg and unlooping the entangling leather. He ran an assessing eye over the animal and his remaining belongings. A half-full water bag and a pair of hobbles still hung from the front of his saddle, but his saddlebags were gone, along with his bedroll.
D’Artagnan swallowed against the dryness of his throat. While he’d been regaining his bearings and searching for his horse, the sun’s slant had deepened toward the west. It would be dusk soon. Blois was still two days away, and his head felt like someone had stuffed it full of felted wool and then set fire to it.
“Looks like we’re camping rough tonight, old boy,” he murmured, looking around the clearing critically.
The glade was sheltered and out of sight from the road. There was no water, meaning he would have to find a stream first thing in the morning so the pony could drink. Frankly, even if d’Artagnan mustered enough strength to ride on today, he knew it was unlikely he’d be able to find a better site before dark.
This would have to suffice.
On the positive side, there was at least some grass growing. After untacking the pony and hobbling him so he could graze, d’Artagnan drank a modest amount from the waterskin, and settled in for a chilly and miserable night curled up beneath the saddle blanket.
TWO DAYS LATER, THE pain in d’Artagnan’s head had subsided into a manageable dull throbbing, for the most part. Unfortunately, that diminishing ache at the back of his skull had gradually been replaced by the ache of his empty stomach.
At intervals, he stopped near groves of berry bushes hanging with hard, green fruits. There was no one around to see, so he cupped clusters of berries in his hand, closing his eyes and picturing them deep red, plump and sweet with juice. Moments later, he plucked and devoured the ripened drupes with ravenous enthusiasm.
In his weakened state, utilizing such low magic was a waste of his remaining strength. Unfortunately, the ability to influence plants was the only kind of magic he possessed—and even that was rare enough to find, these days. While the energy expended almost certainly exceeded what he might hope to gain from the humble meals, at least having something in his stomach eased the hunger pangs for a time.
Outside of their occasional stops for food and drink, 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 of equine predictability, 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. Upon regaining his balance, he hunched over with a grimace—favoring his right shoulder, which d’Artagnan could see was heavily bandaged.
“Are you injured, monsieur?” d’Artagnan asked with concern, once the pale, dour-faced man had recovered enough to straighten in the saddle.
The stranger was a few years older than d’Artagnan, with dark hair and a strong profile. When he spoke, his response was as dry as dust. “Hmm, let me see. Bandages... arm in a sling... yes, I’d say an injury of some sort seems a fair supposition. Tell me, young man, do you always ride on the wrong side of the road when approaching blind corners?”
D’Artagnan looked around in consternation, gesturing at their surroundings one-handed. “This road does not have ‘sides’ so much as a middle closely bordered by branches and wheel ruts, monsieur,” he replied, irked. “Do you always ride a horse with hooves so long and unkempt that it stumbles at the slightest provocation?”
The man pinned d’Artagnan with piercing gray eyes, a frown pinching his brow. “In happier times, certainly not. Unfortunately, the blacksmith in Blois is dead of the Curse, as are the blacksmith’s two apprentices, the former blacksmith, and the blacksmiths in the two closest towns.” His voice grew heavy with irony, and he raised an eyebrow before concluding, “You begin to see the problem.”
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 cor
ners 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.”
“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.
