by R A Dodson
“Will he recover?”
“He’s weak and malnourished, but he should pull through all right. There’s an untreated head wound, though the skull is intact and it didn’t seem to be slowing him down much, earlier.”
“What happened to his back? Are those whip marks?”
“Yes, it seems so. Self-inflicted, judging by the pattern.”
“A flagellant, then? God. Are people still actually doing that?”
The buzzing grew louder, drowning out the conversation. Time passed in comfortable, warm blackness.
Later, the voices returned.
“What was the mood of the clergy in Vendôme, Aramis?”
That was one of the unfamiliar voices. Gruff. Older. Male.
“They are loyal, for the most part, but unwilling to tip their hand without certain assurances beforehand,” the chevalier replied.
“The townspeople are frustrated.” Porthos, this time. “Troops are enforcing the price controls ruthlessly, and nothing gets people riled up faster than reaching into their purses. ‘Specially now, when they feel like acquiring gold is the only happiness they can get...”
D’Artagnan drifted; more time passed. This time when he surfaced, the voices sounded clearer; more immediate. His fingers twitched, awareness of his body returning by degrees.
“... not sure exactly what you expect us to do, in that case,” said the gruff voice, irritation evident in the tone. “We can’t stay here forever.”
“I am merely pointing out that rushing ahead before we are sure of all the details is foolhardy.” The new voice was rich. Feminine. It pulled at d’Artagnan’s thoughts, making him want to open his eyes and see the speaker. A soft groan escaped him, and he sensed movement around him. The scent of rosewater teased his nostrils.
“He’s waking up,” said the low female voice, from close beside him.
His eyelids fluttered and opened, revealing a smear of light and dark hovering over him. He blinked rapidly until his vision cleared to reveal the most beautiful face he’d ever seen—pale skin, wide blue eyes, and ruby lips, topped by riots of curly hair swept into a loose chignon.
“Am I dead?” d’Artagnan croaked.
“Of course not,” said the vision hovering over him. “What would make you think such a thing? Are you feverish?”
A slender hand reached out to press against his forehead.
“I must be dead, though. Why else would I be met by an angel?” he told her, as though it were obvious.
A sharp brow rose in disbelief and wry humor, transforming the face in front of him from divine to something altogether more earthly.
“I’m overwhelmed,” said the very human angel in a voice dry with disdain.
“Acquiring yet another admirer, Milady?” came Aramis’ voice from somewhere behind d’Artagnan, out of his line of sight.
“Do shut up, Aramis,” said the woman.
A second face loomed over d’Artagnan.
“Now that you’re awake, I’ll thank you not to flirt with my wife,” said Athos in a scathing tone that matched the woman’s exactly.
D’Artagnan closed his eyes, and wondered if he could simply feign unconsciousness until everyone gave up and went away again.
THE HOUSEHOLD IN WHICH d’Artagnan found himself was an odd one, though he certainly couldn’t fault their hospitality as he rested and recovered his strength. In addition to Porthos, Aramis, Athos, and Athos’ angelically beautiful wife, there was also Grimaud, the silent and imposing servant; a demure young woman in widow’s weeds named Ana María, who was several months pregnant; and de Tréville, her battle-scarred, protective older relative—missing an arm and an eye, and the owner of the gruff, authoritative voice that had punctuated d’Artagnan’s unconscious dreams.
The estate belonged to the injured nobleman, Athos. Comprising a small castle along with twenty acres of crops, woods, and kitchen gardens, it adequately provided for the needs of the strange assortment of people currently calling it home.
They were currently gathered around the large dining table, enjoying several bottles of wine and a very passable coq au vin served by Grimaud. The hearty dish might as well have been ambrosia directly from Heaven as far as d’Artagnan’s empty belly was concerned.
Remembering his manners after the first bowl of stew had disappeared, he turned his attention to Athos and Aramis.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I should have asked earlier. How fares the girls’ grandmother?”
“She will survive,” Athos answered laconically.
“Though not without bruised ribs and a broken wrist, sadly,” Aramis added, his expression of distaste clearly showing what he thought of anyone who would inflict such injuries on an old woman.
D’Artagnan found himself slightly wrong-footed by the almost courtly attitudes of chivalry evident among his new acquaintances. They seemed more appropriate to the childhood fantasies of knights and nobles that he and his friends had played at as boys in happier times, than to the realities of the world around them.
He felt oddly drawn to these men and their lofty ideals, as evidenced by his actions the previous afternoon in Blois... Yet a strange little voice of fearful mistrust—one which had haunted him since the death of his family and the loss of his father’s farm—whispered that it must all be some sort of twisted ruse, designed to draw d’Artagnan in and make him look foolish. Such attitudes did not persist in today’s France. Today’s France was a place where the strong overtook the weak without mercy, and to pretend otherwise was the mark of naiveté at best, and stupidity at worst.
Recalling himself to the conversation, but unsure how exactly to respond, he hazarded, “The sisters will look after her, won’t they?”
“’Course they will,” Porthos said with assurance.
“God willing,” Ana María said in a soft, sweet voice, “one day soon, France will once again be a place where the law protects innocent people from such unconscionable crimes.”
“Can’t come too soon,” Porthos said, gesturing with a forkful of chicken. “As it stands, Isabella of Savoy seems a lot more interested in consolidating political power in support of her son than in actually governing the country.”
D’Artagnan perked up despite himself, listening intently. Discussion of politics had been a staple of his childhood in Gascony, where everyone seemed to have strong opinions on the way France was run. He had missed such talk, and his present company appeared to be well informed on the subject.
“Since the Duc d’Orléans got himself assassinated and left her a widow,” Porthos continued, “it seems like her only interest in the people lies in how much gold she can extract from them before the Curse turns France into one big graveyard.”
D’Artagnan covered a wince at the mental image.
“They say that the Duc was killed by Spanish agents,” he offered.
“Well, obviously,” Porthos replied. “I mean—Isabella is a cousin to the King of Spain, after all. The way I see it, Spain only needed the Duc alive long enough for him to oust his brother Louis from the throne. Once he took power and Isabella bore him a son, d’Orléans found himself surplus to requirements.”
“Spain has long sought to either control France or destroy it,” de Tréville interjected with a scowl. “As it stands, they are well on their way to doing both at once.”
“Is it true what some people are saying, then?” d’Artagnan asked. “That Spanish Mages are behind the Curse?”
“Almost certainly,” de Tréville replied grimly.
Porthos grunted agreement. “Louis’ brother was always a fool—forging alliances and breaking them on a whim; leaving a trail of enemies behind him. He was an idiot to let Spain get a foot in France’s door, thinking he could outsmart them for his own benefit. Seems to me that the Spanish simply double-crossed him before he could double-cross them. If the country wasn’t falling apart around us, there’d be a certain poetic justice to it, I suppose.”
D’Artagnan nodded thoughtfully, and
raised a point he’d been wondering about since news of King Louis’ ouster first reached Gascony. “Here’s what I don’t understand, though. King Louis’ wife is Spanish as well—closer to the ruling family than even Isabella of Savoy. If Spain wanted to gain influence in France, it seems to me they could have had it a lot more easily when he was on the throne. I mean—Queen Anne is the King of Spain’s own sister.”
Porthos looked strangely disquieted, and there was a beat of silence around the table before Ana spoke up once again.
“Since she had not produced an heir and come into her powers, I daresay the Mage Queen held little value to anyone in either France or Spain—not even her brother,” she said, absently smoothing a hand over her swollen belly before returning it to the table. “Evidently, Spain thought it more advantageous to encourage destabilization from behind the scenes, while simultaneously moving to destroy France with magic. A cowardly tactic... but it seems that honor is dead everywhere these days; not just in France.”
She looked so deeply downtrodden that d’Artagnan felt a wash of sympathy for her. Beside her, de Tréville set down his spoon and covered her small hand with his large, callused one. She glanced up at him with a faint, sad smile.
“Present company excepted, of course,” she added, letting her gaze flit around the table to include everyone seated there.
D’Artagnan cleared his throat, and said, “Well, if the goal was destabilization... I’ve travelled a long way these past weeks, and this land has become a harsh and ugly place.”
Athos shrugged his good shoulder. “When you remove the support from a structure, it crumbles into chaos. The old ways are gone—swept away by the Curse and political unrest. In a land where there are barely enough workers to produce food and clothing for the populace, it’s little surprise that no one can be spared to impose order and enforce the law.”
D’Artagnan nodded, focusing on his host. “Speaking of the old ways... Athos, may I ask you a personal question?”
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.
As he approached the lighted archway, his brow furrowed at the sound of soft weeping. Keeping himself to the shadows, he peeked in and saw Ana reclining on a chaise longue, her head resting in de Tréville’s lap. Tears flowed down her cheeks, the tracks reflected in the light of the single candle on the table next to them. De Tréville’s posture was weary; his single eye closed, but his hand stroked through the young woman’s hair in a gentle, comforting rhythm.
D’Artagnan was struck in the chest by a depth of feeling he did not expect, and he swallowed the harsh breath that might have given him away to the pair inside. Feeling like a thief in the night, he crossed to the far side of the shadowed corridor and crept past the archway, moving farther down the hall toward a brighter light coming from his left, where the hallway split into a T-shaped junction. The new hallway led into a different wing, and terminated in an entryway. Unlike those in the guest wing, this entrance was hung with large double doors. One of the doors was ajar by several inches, allowing enough light to spill into the corridor to indicate that the suite within was well illuminated with lamps and candles.
