The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

  Relieved, d’Artagnan nodded. He turned back to the others—to the Queen—unsure what the reception would be. “I realize it wouldn’t be what Your Majesty was used to,” he began.

  Athos and de Tréville looked surprised, and Milady regarded him thoughtfully.

  “No. No, that could work,” she said. “You say the pony ambles?”

  D’Artagnan nodded. “Yes, he is very smooth to ride as long as you don’t try to gallop him. He has a broken gait that can easily keep pace with another horse’s steady trot. He is old, though.”

  “Not necessarily a detriment if age has made him quiet and staid,” Milady replied.

  “Assuming the beast is sound, of course.” This from de Tréville.

  “He is,” d’Artagnan assured. “Both sound and quiet, I mean. I’ve ridden him since I was a child, and my father swore by his ability to cover eight leagues per day, no matter the conditions. I have found his claim to be consistently true in my own recent travels from Gascony.”

  “It’s decided, then,” the Queen decreed firmly. “Once again, your generosity of spirit does you credit, d’Artagnan. Now tell me, does this mount of which you and your father speak so highly have a name?”

  D’Artagnan was taken aback at hearing his late father spoken of so matter-of-factly, and stumbled over his reply. “Not... really, Your Majesty—”

  “’Course he does,” Porthos interrupted, throwing d’Artagnan a smile and a quick wink of his uninjured eye. “His name’s Buttercup. Isn’t that right, d’Artagnan?”

  D’Artagnan opened his mouth to retort angrily that his mount’s name was most certainly not anything so ridiculous as Buttercup, but he was beaten to the punch by the Queen, who exclaimed, “How charming! ‘Buttercup,’ indeed. I am sure we will become fast friends, your little Buttercup and I.”

  Upon seeing the small smile gracing Her Majesty’s face—a countenance which had been far too pale and wan ever since he’d arrived—d’Artagnan felt his indignation deflate. He slumped back against the headboard, murmuring some vague expression of agreement. As soon as the others looked away, though, he leveled a glare at Porthos, who only smiled wider and shook his head with suppressed mirth.

  They were distracted by Grimaud’s entrance, bearing a tray with a flagon of wine, a pot of broth, a loaf of bread, and some cheese. After clearing space on the table for his burdens, the tall, stooped servant pottered quietly around the room filling cups and bowls for everyone.

  “Are we agreed then?” Athos spoke into the silence. “Her Majesty will be mounted on this pony, and will make for Thiron Abbey in the company of de Tréville, Porthos, and Grimaud?”

  “As long as they travel slowly and stop often, then yes, we’re agreed,” said Milady.

  “Very well, unless we’re pursued,” de Tréville replied in a gruff voice. “In which case we will travel very fast.”

  “Try not to be pursued, then,” Milady said dryly, and de Tréville shook his head in apparent disgust at the flippancy.

  “We need a contingency plan, in case things go wrong,” said a weak, pained voice from the other bed.

  “Aramis!” Porthos exclaimed. “You’re awake, then?”

  “I think so, yes,” Aramis replied hoarsely. “Either that, or I’m having an extremely vexing dream.”

  D’Artagnan smiled; then sobered. “Dreaming or not, he’s got a good point, doesn’t he? If something does go wrong and you can’t stay at Thiron Abbey for whatever reason, how will the rest of us be able to find you when we follow on in a few weeks?”

  “That’s true,” de Tréville said, absently rubbing at the stump of his missing arm as he thought. After a moment he reached forward and pulled one of the maps closer, beckoning Athos forward with a jerk of his chin as he pointed at something on the parchment. “Here. I have an old friend—a comrade-in-arms from my younger days as a guardsman. His name is M. Rougeux, and he lives with his wife in La Croix-du-Perche.”

  “He is loyal?” Athos asked.

  “Yes,” de Tréville said. “To me, and to the true monarchy of France. We have exchanged letters regularly over the years. He would not hesitate to shelter us. Should our plans need to be changed, we will go to M. Rougeux and you will meet us there, just off of the main road at the north end of the town.”

  The others nodded.

  “Very well, then,” said the old captain. “It’s decided. We will leave after dark tomorrow. I suggest that we all get as much rest as possible before then. We can plan the details of the route and pack the provisions in the morning.”

  The small gathering broke up quickly after that. Athos sent Porthos to his bed with assurances that he would stay with Aramis and d’Artagnan for a few hours. D’Artagnan swallowed the urge to protest that he didn’t need a nurse, knowing that it was mostly for Aramis’ benefit that Athos was staying. Thankfully, the injured man had awoken naturally several times throughout the day despite the severity of the wound to his chest. Though weak, his wits seemed unaffected, but d’Artagnan knew the others still feared for him.

  As Athos hobbled around, rearranging the chair next to the bed to his satisfaction and settling himself with his bandaged leg stretched out before him, d’Artagnan contemplated all of the questions he wanted to ask about their plans to return the Mage Queen to Paris, and to the throne. Before he could organize his increasingly muddled thoughts, however, his own weakness and need for sleep overcame him, and he drifted off into darkness, his rest punctuated by odd, disturbing dreams.

  WHEN D’ARTAGNAN JOLTED into awareness much later with a faint gasp at the pain from his wounds, pale light was visible through the room’s single window. His attention was caught by the murmur of voices coming from the corner of the room where Aramis lay, propped up slightly on the bed. Grimaud had replaced Athos on vigil sometime during the night. Both men’s heads were bent over the crucifixes clutched in their hands, and their softly spoken words of prayer barely reached d’Artagnan’s ears.

  “...aspirando praeveni et adiuvando prosequere: ut cuncta nosta oratio et operatio a te semper incipiat et per ta coepta finiatur. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.”

  Grimaud hunched into himself further, touching the crucifix to his lips and forehead before letting it fall back on its thong to rest against his chest.

  “This whole venture is madness,” the normally silent and stoic servant said under his breath. “It will all end in tears. But who cares for the thoughts of a lackey?”

  Even in profile, Aramis’ face was pale and gray. When he answered, however, his voice was steady. “Be brave, Grimaud. Right now, your only job is to protect a pregnant widow and her unborn child. Surely that is just and right in the eyes of God.” The injured man reached for a small amulet hanging around his neck and removed it gingerly with his left hand, mindful of his wound. “Here. Take my St Christopher. May it keep you safe on your journey—you, and those you are sworn to protect.”

  Grimaud accepted the small token, clenching it tightly.

  “You’re a good man, Aramis,” he said. His eyes strayed to the window. “A true Catholic. I should get breakfast started. I’ll send one of the others back here directly.”

  Grimaud left without waiting for a reply, and Aramis relaxed back, closing his eyes. D’Artagnan smiled at him fondly.

  “Perhaps you should have been a priest after all,” he said, and was cheered to find that it was a bit easier to speak, and to breathe, than it had been the day before.

  Aramis quirked a smile at him, but did not open his eyes. “Grimaud is a deeply spiritual man of the fire and brimstone persuasion. I’m afraid that in this household, his options for a sympathetic ear on the subject of the state of religion in France are somewhat limited. He makes do with me out of desperation, more than anything.”

  “I think I can safely say that you’re the most sympathetic ear I know, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said.

  Aramis huffed a breath of laughter, which quickly gave way to a grunt of pain. “Argh. Don’t make me laugh.�
��

  “Sorry,” d’Artagnan said. “How do you feel this morning?”

  “I fear that the thrashing I owe you will need to be put off a little longer yet,” said the other man. “Now, remind me if you please—why is it I’m supposed to thrash you again?”

  “I woke up alone in the other room and came in here to find the rest of you.”

  “Pfft. Athos must have been hit over the head during the fight,” Aramis said. “That’s not a thrashing offense.”

  “I was injured,” d’Artagnan explained. “I think he was angry that I got out of bed without permission.”

  “Still not a thrashing offense,” Aramis replied, his voice losing strength. “’S’just loyalty. An’ maybe a smattering of youthful stupidity...”

  D’Artagnan opened his mouth to refute the second part, but closed it again when Aramis’ muttering subsided into gentle snores. A few minutes later, Milady entered to take over the watch. Still ill at ease being alone in her company after having indiscreetly stumbled upon her carnal relations with her husband a few nights previously, d’Artagnan quickly closed his eyes, pretending sleep as she settled herself in.

  Before long, Aramis’ light snoring, combined with the soothing sound of Milady turning the pages of the book she was reading, led d’Artagnan back down into unfeigned slumber.

  Chapter 10

  The next time d’Artagnan woke, it was dark outside the window—despite the fact that it seemed only moments ago that he’d fallen asleep. He blinked, disoriented in the flickering candlelight. His mouth was dry and tasted unpleasant. His head ached, his wounds ached, and he needed to use the chamber pot very badly.

  A blurry, unfamiliar face appeared in his field of vision and he raised his arm in an instinctive defensive gesture.

  “It’s all right, monsieur,” said a light, pleasant voice. “Do not concern yourself. All is well. You probably don’t remember me. I am Christelle Prevette. You and your friends helped my sister and me a few days ago. We have come here along with our grandmother to help you, in turn.”

  D’Artagnan blinked again, and the blurry visage in front of him sharpened into thin, pale features framed by honey-colored hair—a face he vaguely remembered as belonging to the older of the two sisters that he and the others had rescued from a band of men before the attack on the castle.

  “Oh,” he said brilliantly, the word coming out hoarse and slow. “Right.”

  Christelle looked amused—or perhaps just pitying—as she helped him into a more upright position and eased a cup of cool water to his lips.

  “Mémé told me to make sure you ate and drank something when you awoke, and help you use the chamber pot,” she said. “She wants to see how your wounds are faring as well. She had us bring some herbs for a paste, to keep them from festering. Here, let me get the pot and help you sit up on the edge of the bed.”

  D’Artagnan blushed to the roots of his hair as Christelle swept the blankets back, revealing his state of undress. Except for the bandages wrapping his shoulder and torso, he wore only a pair of threadbare linen braies.

  “That isn’t... that won’t be necessary,” he stammered as she puttered around, setting the chamber pot on the floor just beyond the edge of the bed.

  She ignored him long enough to support him as he carefully struggled upright; then grinned and said, “Whatever you say. Can you get your laces untied?”

  “Yes,” he answered quickly, head still spinning a bit.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then... sorry, I don’t know your name,” she said.

  “It’s d’Artagnan,” he said, still blushing. “Forgive me, I don’t always suffer from such a lack of manners. Thank you for your help.”

  The smile moved from Christelle’s mouth to her eyes, which crinkled at the corners. “You’re welcome. I’ll be back in a few minutes with Mémé, and some food.”

  Once she’d gone, d’Artagnan fumbled one-handed with the laces of his smallclothes and released a heartfelt moan of relief as he freed his cock and aimed the stream of piss into the ceramic pot. When he’d finished, and after taking three times as long as usual to lace himself up again without the use of his left arm, he carefully leaned back against the headboard and twisted his neck to check on Aramis. The other man was quiet and still, presumably sleeping, but his bandages looked fresh and he seemed peaceful rather than restless or feverish.

  As promised, Christelle returned shortly with a wizened old lady and a plate of food. The old woman still bore the bruises from her ill treatment by the gang that had kidnapped her granddaughters. Her left arm was bandaged below the elbow and strapped into a sling. Her eyes, however, were bright and shrewd as she approached the bed.

  “Mémé, this is d’Artagnan,” Christelle said, placing the plate on the low table next to the bed.

  “It’s a pleasure, young man,” said Christelle’s grandmother. “I am Mme Prevette.”

  “The pleasure is mine, madame,” d’Artagnan replied formally; his wits gradually returning as the haze of long sleep faded. “It was kind of you and your granddaughters to come and assist us.”

  “Hmm... I can see why you like this one, Christelle,” Mme Prevette said with a smile, and it was Christelle’s turn to blush. D’Artagnan took a moment to appreciate the way the color brightened her cheeks before returning his attention to her grandmother, who was looking at him with a knowing gleam in her eye. “Now, young man, sit up and eat something while Christelle removes your bandages, so I can see what’s what.”

  Christelle took the chamber pot away while d’Artagnan carefully rearranged himself to sit at the edge of the bed and started in on the weak wine, fruit, and bread they had brought him, suddenly aware of the depth of his hunger and thirst. When the young woman returned and began to unwind his bandages, he focused intently on the ache in his head, and the way the cloth pulled at his wounds as she eased it away—anything but on her proximity and the gentleness of her hands. The small half-smile that dimpled her cheek as she straightened away from him with the rolls of dirty bandages in her grasp made him think that she knew exactly what he was doing.

  Mme Prevette moved him gently to and fro with her good hand, peering closely at the wounds as Christelle held a candle up so she could see. “This was obviously from a knife,” she said, “and I can see from the sorry state of your back that you are a flagellant, but what caused the large wound? A sword?”

  “A pistol shot,” d’Artagnan corrected.

  “Ahh,” she said absently. “Never actually seen a gunshot wound before. The ways men can contrive to damage each other beggars belief. Still, a wound is a wound, I suppose. The ball appears to have gone straight through, so that’s good. Heaven help anyone who gets one of those horrible things trapped inside them.”

  She urged him to turn once again, examining his shoulder.

  “There’s a bit of pus draining at the bottom of the shoulder wound. But the wound from the shot looks surprisingly clean. Oh, to be young and resilient again! At any rate, Christelle will flush out the knife wound, and we’ll let them both air while she makes some herbs into a paste to use as a poultice.”

  D’Artagnan nodded, not that anyone in the room seemed to be interested in his opinion on the matter. He gritted his teeth hard as first water and then strong spirits were poured over the angry wound in his shoulder. After the deep burn began to fade, he reached for the plate again and worked his way steadily through the rest of the food while Christelle went to make the poultice.

  He finished with his meal before the women finished with the herbal concoction, so he watched the process with interest. Thinking about his mother brought a sharp pang that had nothing to do with his wounds, but she had often made a similar salve to the one Mme Prevette was directing her granddaughter to mix.

  D’Artagnan frowned as the old woman held her hand palm-down above the mortar holding the concoction of herbs, murmuring low words as she did.

  “What are you doing?” he asked in surprise, unused to seeing someone
openly use magic in such a way.

  “Mémé is a hedgewitch,” Christelle said matter-of-factly. “She can’t heal people or animals, but she can strengthen the properties of the herbs in the poultice so it works better.”

  He was silent long enough that Christelle looked at him oddly.

  “Why are you staring like that? You’re not one of those Huguenots, are you?” she asked, suspicion coloring her tone.

  With a jerk of surprise, d’Artagnan realized that he was now in a part of France where magic was more accepted. In Gascony, where Protestantism held a solid foothold, anyone showing evidence of such power was greeted with suspicion at best and hostility at worst. Ever since he’d come into his abilities as a young man, his parents had been very clear that he should never use his modest skills openly.

  “No, mademoiselle,” he told her. “I’m a Catholic. It merely took me by surprise—magic is rare these days.”

  “And getting rarer with each new generation,” Mme Prevette said, straightening from the poultice. “There we are—that should help with the knife wound. Christelle?”

  The young woman accepted the bowl and slathered it over d’Artagnan’s injuries before wrapping clean bandages around his body. When she was nearly finished with the job, Milady entered the room. He felt another jolt of embarrassment, but it was weaker this time. Perhaps, he thought, he was already becoming inured to women walking in on his state of undress to peer and poke at him.

  “How are they doing?” Milady asked, her gaze raking over first d’Artagnan and then Aramis.

  “That one is very weak from blood loss, but there is no fever and the wound is not festering,” said Mme Prevette. “The most important thing is to get enough fluids in him to rebalance the humors. Plain water, and broth with salt in it; nothing too rich for now.”

  Milady nodded her understanding.

  “Young d’Artagnan here has a bit of pus coming from the shoulder wound, but with luck, it won’t progress to full wound fever,” Mme Prevette continued. “From what I can see, he’s been ridiculously lucky, all told. We’ll try to keep the wounds clean, and he should get plenty of rest and eat simple, bland foods to keep his strength up.”