by R A Dodson
The late start hindered their progress, but Athos was insistent that they make Brou that evening and Aramis, eager to gain assistance for Thiron Abbey, supported him. Evening gave way to dusk, and thence to dark, while they were still winding their way along the narrow road. What conversation there was dried up as the light faded, leaving them all on edge. The horses’ eyes were keener than theirs and allowed them to keep their footing on the narrow, pockmarked track, but they were well aware that anyone could be hiding unseen in the trees, waiting to descend on the small party.
As it turned out, luck was with them, and they remained unmolested. But it was an exhausted and subdued group that entered the town nearly two hours later. The church was a hulking shadow as they rode down quiet streets barely lit by firelight peeking through windows of the houses they passed. They turned from the Rue Bisson onto the Rue de la Chevalerie.
Streetlights lit their way for the final stretch as they approached the large structure. Lanterns hung on either side of the massive doors, burning brightly. Athos and Aramis dismounted, handing their horses off to Porthos and d’Artagnan. The doors were unlocked, as one would expect of a place of worship, and opened smoothly for the two men, who disappeared inside.
The pair reappeared some twenty minutes later, their grim message delivered, and the travelers retraced their steps to the inn they had stayed at before, with its pleasant rooms and less than pleasant murky stew. They left early the next morning, and as the day progressed with Châteaudun drawing ever nearer, conversation turned to strategy.
“They’ll be staying at the inn under the names M. Sauvageau and Clémence Sauvageau,” Porthos said. “De Tréville warned us to keep a low profile when we arrived. Doesn’t want a lot of talk in town.”
“A group of four soldiers and a woman joining up with a man and his pregnant daughter would certainly cause gossip,” Aramis mused. “It’s not precisely what you’d call discreet.”
After further discussion, Milady suggested that she and d’Artagnan ride ahead and ask after the Sauvageaus, while the other three followed and pretended to have nothing to do with them. Seeing the way Athos’ lips pressed into a thin, white line, d’Artagnan spoke into the somewhat awkward silence.
“Surely it would be better if you and Athos rode ahead, Milady? I could follow with the others.”
Milady shook her head immediately and Athos’ expression closed off even further, while the other two suddenly found something of interest to stare at on the road beneath their mounts’ feet. “No, that won’t do at all. If de Tréville and Ana are not there, I may need to extract information from someone local. That’s far more easily accomplished as an adventurous woman traveling with her younger brother than as a wife with a glowering husband at her shoulder.”
D’Artagnan frowned, unsure if she could really be implying what it sounded like she was implying, but wisely nodded and kept his peace. After stopping for a brief and rather subdued repast at midday, d’Artagnan and Milady headed off together, with the understanding that the others would follow them after a quarter hour or so. In that way, they would come upon the pair fairly quickly should something befall them on the road, but a casual observer would not connect the two groups.
To be perfectly honest, d’Artagnan was still more than a little uncomfortable being alone with Athos’ rather intimidating and extremely beautiful wife. Fortunately, Milady was either not aware of this, or, more likely, did not care. Once they were back on the road, she immediately launched into the details of their deception. He would stay Charles d’Artagnan—and he could not miss the implication that she thought him too transparent to maintain a more complicated alias—while she would become his older sister Clarisse, sent by their father to meet his old friend M. Sauvageau and his pregnant, widowed daughter, whom they would escort back to their family home in Orléans.
D’Artagnan breathed deeply against the pang that lanced his chest when she said the word father, only to have that breath catch completely when she asked, “Did you have an older sister, d’Artagnan? Because you need to start looking at me more like the irritating girl who played tricks on you when you were a child, and less like you’re worried I might eat you.”
“Younger,” he eventually forced past the blockage in his throat. “I had a younger sister. Josette.”
“Would it be easier for me to take that name, rather than Clarisse?” Milady asked.
“No,” he managed after an uncomfortable pause. “It really wouldn’t.”
“Forgive me,” she said, regarding him closely. “I’ve upset you.”
“It’s fine,” he said, resolutely not picturing brown eyes, dark curls, and a sharp nose with a slight bend to the left where the donkey had kicked her when she was eight. Not picturing fingers and toes blackened with gangrene, a weak voice begging for water that would only come back up again moments later, tinged pink with blood. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Taking the hint, Milady began to regale him instead with embarrassing tales about Aramis’ and Porthos’ various misadventures. It was the first time that d’Artagnan had been subjected to the full force of Milady’s charm, as opposed to the bluntness laced with sarcasm she seemed to employ with people she knew well. He had to concede, it was staggeringly effective. Within an hour, d’Artagnan’s morbid recollections had been replaced by amusement at the absurd images she conjured, and—to his considerable surprise—he had even been coaxed into relating some of the funnier stories from his own childhood.
By the time Châteaudun’s buildings appeared in the distance, he felt more prepared to play his role as the hapless younger brother tasked with watching over an independent and adventurous older sister. Worryingly, though, as they approached the town, they passed a market cross and vinegar stone set up outside of the population centre so that the country folk would not have to come into the city to trade, or touch money from the townsfolk before it had been cleansed in the small pool of soured wine. Within the boundaries of Châteaudun itself, several houses along the main road were marked with red crosses painted on their doors.
The Curse had not released its grip here, and d’Artagnan shivered at the thought. Even so, the inn on the corner of the town’s central square was both larger and busier than the others they’d stayed at between Blois and Thiron-Gardais.
“Interesting,” Milady said. “It occurs to me that this is the first evidence of the Curse being active that I’ve seen since we left Blois. Perhaps France will eventually be free of it, even without shadowy prophecies of Mage Queens.”
“I admire your optimism,” d’Artagnan replied. “Though I can’t be said to share it.”
“Chin up, d’Artagnan,” she said as they dismounted and handed their horses off to be stabled by a boy no older than ten. “I gather you walked out of a Cursed house without succumbing, and I have already had the sickness and survived. Neither of us have anything left to fear from it, surely.”
D’Artagnan stared at her as if she had grown a second head. “You survived the sickness?”
“Well... yes. Not everyone dies of it, you know,” she said.
Chapter 19
D’Artagnan opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before replying, “Actually, in my experience, everyone does die of it. You are quite literally the first person I’ve ever met who has become ill with the Curse and lived.”
“As it happens, I’m the second person you’ve ever met. De Tréville had it as well. How do you think he lost his arm?”
“I assumed he had lost it in battle,” d’Artagnan said, still taken aback.
“No. He had the variety of the Curse that lodges in the blood and kills the flesh. His arm rotted with it, so he cut it off.” She paused for a beat before adding, “He did lose the eye in battle, though.”
“He cut it off?” d’Artagnan echoed, trying to envision such a thing.
Milady nodded, and then gestured impatiently. “Perhaps this is a story for another time. The others will be along shortly. We
should go inside and procure a room... little brother.”
It was probably fortunate that d’Artagnan’s role in their farce was essentially that of a useless appendage, because he was far too involved in his own thoughts to do much more than nod and mumble at appropriate intervals as Milady—Clarisse—spun their tale to the innkeeper.
“So you see, we are here to meet our father’s friend M. Sauvageau and his daughter,” Milady finished. “They should have arrived here yesterday. Could you perhaps tell us where to find them?”
The portly, bald innkeeper’s eyes were darting back and forth between Milady’s face and her décolletage in a way that made d’Artagnan bristle on Athos’ behalf—a reaction that was also in character for a brother, he supposed. Milady, however, merely blushed prettily and bit her lower lip in a coy gesture of modesty.
“No one here by that name, pretty lady,” said the man. “I hope you’ll still consider staying at our fine establishment tonight, though. May I say that your presence brightens the place up considerably?”
D’Artagnan felt himself deflate at the news that Her Majesty and de Tréville were not here, but hid it as best he could behind a look of ineffectual irritation as Milady preened under the clumsy flattery. She turned her attention to him, all pleading eyes and fluttering lashes.
“Oh, but surely we must stay, Charles? Perhaps M. Sauvageau and his daughter were merely detained. They might arrive tonight, or tomorrow. Say we can stay? It has been such a terribly long ride, and our host is so charming!”
D’Artagnan took a moment to admire her acting skills before offering a reluctant mutter of assent. Her smile in return was radiant, and the innkeeper flushed red as she turned it on him.
“So, young lady, will you and your brother be wanting one room or two?” the man asked.
D’Artagnan felt a moment of panic at the idea of spending the night in a room alone with Athos’ wife, but Milady smoothly stepped in. “Oh, two, if you please, sir. Charles snores so dreadfully at night, and it’s a rare treat to have a bit of privacy.”
She looked up through fluttering lashes as she uttered the words, and a slow grin spread over the bald man’s face. “Two rooms you shall have, in that case.” He made a show of looking at the entries in the large ledger behind the counter, tut-tutting to himself. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I don’t have two rooms together. However, I could put you on the first floor, at the back, and your brother off the second landing.”
D’Artagnan opened his mouth to protest, uncomfortable with the being so far separated, but his tongue was stilled by a small foot stepping firmly on his own.
“If that is all you have, I’m sure it will be fine,” she said.
“Yes, fine,” he echoed. Feeling it was past time to assert himself in the situation, he added, “We’ll need food as well. In fact, we’ll eat as soon as we’ve taken our things upstairs. Come, Clarisse.”
Milady took the time to send the innkeeper one last winsome smile, which was returned with what could only be described as a leer, as d’Artagnan ushered her away. He carried her saddlebags to her room and inspected it quickly to make sure it was safe, ignoring the way she rolled her eyes at him. Taking his own things up the back stairs to the little room under the eaves that had been assigned to him, he returned to the taproom to discover that Athos, Aramis, and Porthos had arrived and claimed a table in the corner for themselves.
Aramis and Porthos were playing cards, trading quips and laughter. Athos, by comparison, was the picture of gloom, his face in shadow beneath the brim of his hat as he drank steadily from a tankard of wine. The bottle sat at his elbow. Schooling himself to ignore them beyond a casual glance, d’Artagnan scanned the room for Milady and found her in spirited conversation with another table full of men, several of whom were eyeing her up like a prime rack of lamb.
Again, his natural instinct meshed seamlessly with the role he was meant to play, and he hurried over to the table, ushering ‘Clarisse’ away by the shoulders and glaring daggers at the men as she laughed softly at him. He was sure he heard a couple of guffaws behind his back, and reminded himself firmly that ineffectual little brothers did not engage in duels merely because someone laughed at them. Instead, he procured a table on the other side of the room for himself and his ‘sister,’ where a serving girl shortly arrived with wine and slices of meat pie.
The food was far better than anything they had eaten since they left Blois, and d’Artagnan dug in happily. Seeing Milady’s attention had been caught by something across the room, he followed her gaze just in time to see the innkeeper throw her a wink and a smile, which she responded to by smiling back and ducking her head shyly. D’Artagnan frowned, but forced his attention elsewhere. It was then that he noticed what the other patrons were eating—unidentifiable brown stew with coarse bread. He looked down at the rich meat and pastry on his own plate, and back at the innkeeper once more. The man, studiously bent over his ledger with quill and ink, did not look up.
D’Artagnan’s frown deepened.
The pair finished their meal in silence. When they had both set their plates aside, d’Artagnan heard a throat being cleared and looked up to find Aramis standing by the table.
“Good evening,” Aramis said, sweeping his hat off and dropping into a bow. “My friends and I could not help noticing the two of you sat over here all alone, and we wondered if you would care to join us for a drink or two.”
D’Artagnan froze, unsure what was expected of him, but Milady covered smoothly. “Oh, how charming! However, I fear I am quite exhausted from traveling all day and must decline. Charles, you should join the gentlemen for the evening and enjoy yourself. I believe I will retire early to my room, and I should hate to think I’d left you all alone with no one to talk to.”
“If you’re certain,” d’Artagnan said.
“Quite certain,” Milady said with a smile. “Enjoy your evening.”
“It will be our loss, mademoiselle,” Aramis said in an arch tone, holding his hat to his chest. “Sleep well, and may all your dreams be sweet ones.”
Milady raised an eyebrow, and a bit of her own vinegar slipped past the facade of wide-eyed Clarisse for a moment. “Too kind,” she said, and excused herself.
Aramis replaced his hat and led d’Artagnan over to their table by the elbow. He and Porthos made a show of introductions; though Athos remained silent and withdrawn, merely pouring himself a fresh tankard of wine with a slightly unsteady hand. D’Artagnan noted the level in the bottle—less than half—and the empty bottle next to it. He wondered if this was unusual for Athos, and if he should worry. His eyes automatically sought Milady, but she was already gone. His gaze flickered over to the front counter on a sudden suspicion.
The innkeeper had disappeared as well.
“Wait,” he said. “She’s not—”
He was cut off by a hearty kick to the shin delivered from Porthos’ general direction. Shooting a guilty glance at Athos from the corner of his eye, he subsided back in his chair.
“Join me in a hand of piquet,” said the big man. “I’m tired of playing with Aramis; he cheats.”
Aramis emitted an undignified squawk of outrage, but let the accusation go with a huff when Porthos grinned and winked at him. Reaching across the table, he nabbed Athos’ bottle and poured himself a drink, ignoring the man’s warning scowl. Meanwhile, Porthos shuffled the deck and d’Artagnan cut the high card, so he dealt the first hand.
While Porthos exchanged his cards, d’Artagnan let his eyes roam around the room once more, half-hoping that the innkeeper might reappear. The man was still absent, but the serving girl caught his eye when he looked toward the kitchens, smiling and winking at him brazenly. After a quick glance behind him to make sure he hadn’t mistaken a gesture meant for someone else, he smiled back hesitantly.
“She’s been mooning after you all evening,” Aramis said, “but I think you were too flustered by events to notice.”
“She has?” d’Artagnan asked, and Porthos ro
lled his eyes.
“Yes, you young idiot. She has,” he said. “Now see to your cards.”
D’Artagnan dragged his attention back to his hand and exchanged two cards, which left him with a run of three and a quatorze. Once he was satisfied, Porthos led the declarations. D’Artagnan was fairly sure that he had the better hand, and after all twelve tricks he was ahead on points.
The pair continued to play, with Athos a silent and foreboding presence in the corner, drinking steadily, and Aramis offering unsolicited advice and occasional bon mots. D’Artagnan was thoroughly distracted from strategy when the serving girl re-appeared during the fourth hand with another bottle of wine for Athos and a sunny smile for him, her fingers trailing unobtrusively across the bare skin of his neck as she left.
By the fifth hand, Porthos had drawn even on points, and he went on to win the partie after six hands.
“She’s still doing it, you know,” Aramis said.
D’Artagnan craned around to find the girl watching him from across the room. When she saw him looking, she caught her lower lip in her teeth and blushed becomingly.
“And what are you expecting me to do about it?” he whispered to Aramis out of the side of his mouth. “I can’t exactly—you know—when we’re supposed to be—you know...”
The twin looks Aramis and Porthos shot his way were pitying.
“D’Artagnan, nothing is happening tonight. The—people you were supposed to meet—aren’t here, and a friendly encounter with a pretty girl is exactly the sort of thing that might distract a younger brother from his duties to watch over his sister, if you take my meaning,” Aramis said, wincing slightly when the sound of a flagon being thumped against wood a bit too hard came from Athos’ end of the table.
