by R A Dodson
“Don’t drag me into this,” Milady said without looking around from where she was tidying the dishes and covering the clay pot containing the uneaten remnants of the stew. “Although, d’Artagnan? You should probably stretch your injuries as well.”
D’Artagnan shook his head. “I’m too tired. I don’t think I can stay awake for another five minutes, to be honest—it can surely wait until morning.”
“Suit yourself,” Milady said, and d’Artagnan thought Athos and Aramis shared a look, but he was too focused on removing his boots and doublet and easing himself under the rough blanket to pay much attention.
He was vaguely aware of Aramis climbing in next to him a few minutes later, and soon after that, he was asleep. He jerked awake once during the night, the images from his dream dissipating even as he tried to control his breathing; leaving only a vague sense of being unmoored and lost on an endless sea. Aramis shifted, a warm weight at his back.
“All right, d’Artagnan?” the other man asked, sounding half-asleep himself.
After a moment, d’Artagnan nodded into the darkness. “All right,” he said, and relaxed back into the straw mattress as Aramis patted his shoulder clumsily with his good arm.
The following morning, d’Artagnan’s foolishness in ignoring Milady’s suggestion that he perform some stretches before going to bed became obvious, and he groaned as abused muscles protested the idea of movement. Vowing never to ignore such a suggestion again, he dragged himself out of bed and through his morning routine, trying not to resent the cheery and extremely condescending smile Milady flashed him as he limped down to join the others in the tavern for breakfast.
The four only tarried as long as it took to trade more of their powder and shot for provisions from the innkeeper. Within an hour, they were on their way. The second leg of their journey was to be a little longer than the first, as Athos was hoping to reach the larger town of Châteaudun by nightfall, putting them just over halfway to Thiron Abbey.
Unfortunately, the first day of riding had taken such a toll on Aramis and d’Artagnan that they were forced to stop several times to rest. With darkness and rain closing in and Châteaudun still some distance away, they decided to seek shelter at a farmhouse along the route, relying once again on Milady’s charm and beauty—and the promise of handsome payment—to overcome the reluctance of the old man who lived there with his adolescent grandson.
The rain persisted into the following day, but they pressed on regardless, traveling cloaks carefully draped in such a way as to protect both the wearers and their precious saddlebags of black powder. No one felt like stopping when it would only prolong their discomfort, so a damp and miserable ride saw them make up the time lost the day before, arriving in the village of Brou just as the gray light was beginning to fade.
Another inn; the room nicer this time. The stew, considerably less so. D’Artagnan watched as Athos assisted Aramis once again with stretching and strengthening his chest and arm, and was pleased to note some slight improvement visible already. His damp outerwear steaming in front of the fireplace and his own stretching complete, d’Artagnan took to bed gratefully and was asleep in seconds.
The fourth morning found him more stiff than truly sore, though he was looking forward to the end of their journey later that day with eager anticipation. The sun was out, and as they continued to veer northwest, the land became drier; the grass and weeds in the abandoned fields turning golden in places, rather than green and lush. They were quiet for long stretches, each lost in contemplation of what they would find in Thiron-Gardais.
Aramis broke into a smile, pointing with his left arm as buildings became visible in the distance beyond a copse of trees.
“Almost there,” he said. “It will be good to see Porthos again. And the others, as well.”
“I wonder how Ana fared after so much traveling?” Milady fretted. “Perhaps I should have gone with her, rather than staying behind.”
As they passed the trees and approached the cluster of small, abandoned houses where the Rue de l’Abbaye took off from the main road, d’Artagnan sniffed deeply.
“Can anyone else smell that?” he asked.
Athos seemed to sharpen, leaning forward in the saddle. “Stale smoke? Aramis—”
Aramis reined in the carthorse. “Not chimney smoke, either. This was a big fire... and several days ago. Oh, no. No, no, no...”
With no further warning, he kicked the heavy draught animal into a gallop, charging down the road with the others in close pursuit. They careened onto the narrow road bordering the abbey, their view blocked by the high stone wall that encircled it. The road threaded its way between the abbey grounds on the left and a large lake on the right before veering west, still following the wall.
D’Artagnan’s side cramped and burned with every stride, his body still unused to riding flat out. The mare’s breathing came in rhythmic snorts; sweat lathering her neck under the reins. The large double gate was on the northwest corner of the grounds. One wooden door was open; the other hanging half off its heavy iron hinges. The smell of old smoke was almost overpowering.
They entered the abbey to find a scene of devastation.
Chapter 16
The buildings of the abbey had been put to the torch. The granary west of the gate had collapsed in on itself, the grain within still smoldering who-knew-how-many-days later. The stones around every window in the larger edifice nearby were blackened with soot. And the basilica—the roof of the massive church with its attached dormitories and refectory was partly collapsed, and the remains of the bell tower lay across the road in front of them, where it had fallen.
In a heartbeat, the sight and smell catapulted d’Artagnan back to Gascony—back to his burnt-out farmhouse—and he swallowed convulsively to stop himself emptying his stomach on the spot. The four continued farther into the grounds at a cautious pace, hands resting on weapons. As they skirted the debris in their path, a lone figure in monk’s robes emerged from a partially burned building to their left. The young man was limping, and as he approached, d’Artagnan could see burns over half his face. When he spoke, however, his voice was strong.
“We have nothing left worth stealing! The abbey has been destroyed, and we cannot offer you anything. Leave us in peace!”
Athos urged his stallion forward a few steps. “We are here to rejoin the party of M. de Tréville and Her Royal Majesty, Queen Anne. Tell me what has happened, and where they are.”
D’Artagnan held his breath, and felt Aramis and Milady tense on either side of him.
The monk seemed to slump a little bit. “I don’t know where they are, monsieur,” he said. “Men dressed in black came eleven days ago—dozens of them. They attacked the gates after dark. The Queen and her protectors fled into the orchards on horseback while they were still trying to get in. Brother Reynard led them to a damaged area in the outer wall. He said the big man—” Porthos, d’Artagnan thought, “—had the strength of a demon. He knocked a hole in the wall with a pickaxe. The four of them left the grounds and disappeared into the night.”
“They escaped, then?” Aramis asked, his voice tight. “You’re certain of this?”
“So far as I am aware. The men in black broke down the gate and forced their way inside, but there weren’t enough of them to watch the whole perimeter closely. Most of the men were within the confines of the abbey. They searched the buildings and rounded all of us up into the basilica. Well, all of us except Brother Reynard—he hid in the trees near the south wall after leading the Queen’s party away, and they did not find him, thank the Lord.”
“What happened then?” Athos asked, grim-faced.
“When the men couldn’t locate the Queen, they started interrogating us, but no one would speak.” The young man’s eyes fell to the ground and a tremor entered his voice. “Eventually they locked us inside and set fire to the buildings. They killed anyone who tried to escape the flames.”
Aramis spoke up, and d’Artagnan was struck by t
he cold anger in his demeanor. “How many survived this cowardly attack?”
The monk raised haunted eyes to meet his. “Our order numbered two score. Now, five of us remain alive. Only Brother Reynard and I are well enough to walk, and care for the others.”
“What can we do to help you, Brother...?” Aramis asked, ignoring Athos’ sharp glance.
“Brother Christophe,” said the monk. “We need medical supplies. The infirmary was badly damaged in the fire. Also, food. The entrance to the storage cellar is blocked with debris. The attackers trampled and destroyed many of the gardens, but some still contain living plants. However, with only two of us, and with the others’ injuries being so severe, it’s difficult to find the time to harvest the food and prepare it.”
Athos turned to the monk, his face stony. “Brother Christophe, we are deeply sorry for what has befallen your order. However, our first duty is to the Queen, and de Tréville. I’m afraid we must—”
“Athos.” Aramis’ voice was sharp, and d’Artagnan watched with unease as the two men squared off. “Her Majesty is already eleven days ahead of us, and our help is needed here. The horses are exhausted. We can leave tomorrow.”
“There is also an important conversation that the four of us need to have first, Olivier,” Milady added.
D’Artagnan understood that she must be referring to the idea of a traitor within the Queen’s party. Twice now, attacks had been carried out on hiding places that should have been kept under the strictest secrecy.
Athos sat tense in the saddle for several moments; then nodded once, tightly. “Very well. We will stay until tomorrow and offer what help we are able. You three assist the monks as best you can. I will ride out to barter for medical supplies. Brother Christophe—I will require a list of the things you need. Do you have any fresh horses?”
The monk shook his head. “The animals all perished when the stable burned. I will make the list. The closest town likely to have everything is Combres. It is less than an hour’s ride.”
“Anne,” Athos said, “your horse appears freshest.”
“Yes, take him,” Milady said, sliding down from the saddle. “You should leave immediately. You’ll be hard pressed to get back by dark, and there is no moon tonight.”
Brother Christophe disappeared into the small sacristy, which appeared to have fared better than most of the other buildings. Athos adjusted the stirrups and led Milady’s horse to drink from the small pond behind the remains of the main building. The monk returned a few minutes later with a scrap of paper. Athos looked it over and nodded his understanding before mounting.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said, wheeling Milady’s gelding and heading for the gates at a brisk trot.
“Right,” Aramis said, dismounting—his own injuries seemingly forgotten in the face of the monks’ need. “Tell us what needs doing.”
After unsaddling the remaining horses and turning them out in the orchard to graze, Milady, Aramis, and d’Artagnan were shown into the cramped sacristy to meet Brother Reynard and see the state of the injured.
Reynard was very young—younger than d’Artagnan by several years, from the look of it. His head snapped up in surprise and fear when the four entered the small building, but he relaxed when Brother Christophe introduced them and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The other three men were laid out on rough pallets. One was moaning deliriously, while another was either asleep or unconscious. The third watched them through quiet, pain-filled eyes.
All were badly burned—far worse than Brother Christophe—and d’Artagnan felt his gorge rise at the sight and smell. Christophe introduced them as Brothers Denis, Amaury, and Roland. Milady looked as ill as d’Artagnan felt, but she joined Aramis in examining the men’s wounds as Brother Christophe described what steps he and Brother Reynard had taken to try to make them comfortable. D’Artagnan forced himself to watch and listen as well, even though all he could think as the damaged flesh was revealed was that surely no man could sustain such injuries and live.
“There is little more to be done without medical supplies,” Aramis said after they had examined all the men. “Do you have any tincture of opium?”
“It was destroyed when the fire took the infirmary, but it’s on the list of supplies I made,” Brother Cristophe said.
Aramis nodded. “We must wait for Athos to return, in that case. In the meantime, show us the entrance to the cellar. Perhaps we can unblock it and gain access to the contents.”
“Brothers Christophe and Reynard can show d’Artagnan and myself, Aramis,” Milady said firmly. “You should stay here and watch over the injured. Your own wound prevents you from lifting and moving collapsed stone and timbers.”
Aramis pressed his lips together before nodding reluctant agreement and waving the others out. D’Artagnan was struck once again by the depth of anger his friend seemed to be experiencing over the attack on the abbey, above and beyond the outrage one would normally feel over the death of strangers. He resolved to talk to the other man later, in hopes of discovering what troubled him so deeply.
The entrance to the storage cellar had been at the base of the west wall of the horreum. The storehouse, unfortunately, had met the same fate as several of the other buildings when the roof collapsed, crushing much of the plaster and stonework as it went. That said, while the debris was obviously beyond the ability of an injured man and a youth to remove, the four of them together worked steadily to shift the pile of stone and timber.
By the time dusk began to fall, d’Artagnan’s shoulder and side were aching miserably. When the charred length of plank he was tugging at slid away to reveal a corner of the cellar door, however, he could not repress a shout of triumph. They quickly pulled away the remaining debris, and Milady tugged the door open with a screech of bent hinges. The light was fading, but enough illuminated the underground room to show the shelves and racks of food and wine, undamaged.
“See, little Brother?” Brother Christophe asked, clasping Reynard’s slender shoulder. “The Lord has not abandoned us entirely.”
Reynard ducked his head, and d’Artagnan realized that the boy had not spoken once since their arrival. Events had obviously weighed heavily on his thin frame; perhaps all the more since he was the only one to escape uninjured. He was glad the youth had Brother Christophe for support. D’Artagnan knew first-hand the feeling of being the last one left whole, trying to care for the sick and dying unaided.
Victorious, the four returned to the sacristy bearing food and drink in abundance to find Aramis praying over Brother Amaury, his rosary clutched in his left hand. Making the sign of the cross, he straightened, his features softening when he saw the provisions.
“Success, then?” he asked. “Well done. Now all we need is Athos back with the medical supplies.”
“It might be some time yet, I fear. My husband is, sadly, not the most efficient or gifted haggler,” Milady said. “The negotiation for my own dowry comes to mind.”
D’Artagnan’s ears perked up at what sounded like a very interesting story, but Milady seemed disinclined to expand upon her statement. Instead, Aramis directed him to build a fire in the improvised brazier that the monks had placed under the burnt-out corner of the sacristy’s roof. Forty-five minutes later, a cooking pot was boiling merrily over the flames, full of root vegetables and cured meat, when the clattering of hooves announced Athos’ return. After dropping off the saddlebags of herbs, bandages and medicine, the older man disappeared back into the darkness to care for Milady’s horse and put it with the others.
After Aramis, Milady, and Brother Christophe had seen to the monks’ burns and injuries as best they could by candlelight, they all partook of the hearty stew, giving broth to the two wounded men who could be roused to take it. When that was done, Athos beckoned to Aramis, Milady, and d’Artagnan. The four excused themselves from the monks’ presence, and took their bedrolls out of the cramped sacristy and into the clear, pleasant night outside.
Whe
n they had started a small campfire with charred wood from the collapsed basilica and settled around it, d’Artagnan spoke.
“Will they live?” he asked.
It was Aramis who answered. “Brothers Denis and Amaury have no chance of survival. Brother Roland might live, but he will be badly scarred and probably never regain the use of his hands. Brother Christophe is neglecting his own injuries in favor of caring for the others, but he has been lucky so far and they are slowly healing on their own.” He continued in a flat voice, staring into the fire. “Forty monks, engaged in peaceful study and research. Only three of them will walk away from this place. And for what?”
“They knew the dangers of supporting Queen Anne against Isabella of Savoy and her son, the Pretender King Francis,” Athos said.
Aramis clenched his fist so hard the knuckles turned white. “Damn it, Athos—you could at least act like you’re bothered by this!”
Athos raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You think I am not?” he asked mildly.
“Gentlemen,” Milady interrupted. “At the moment, I’m more concerned with the question that everyone is thinking and no one is asking. Who has betrayed Ana María to her enemies? Until the spy is dealt with, we’re all in peril.”
“We’ve been over this before,” Aramis said, sounding profoundly weary. “None of us would betray Her Majesty.”
“And yet, we see before us once again the evidence that someone has,” Athos drawled.
D’Artagnan felt a nauseating sense of inevitability wash over him. Surely this would be the moment when the fragile new world he was building for himself crumbled to dust and ruin. He looked around the fire, but none of the others met his eyes.
“Do you accuse me?” he asked Athos, thinking it best to take the bull by the horns, as it were.
The older man looked up at him, his brows drawing together in a frown. “What?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.
