Book 2: The Queen's Musketeers, #2

by R. A. Steffan

  "You saved my granddaughters—you and your friends. Surely the world has not turned into so thankless a place that such an act deserves no gratitude," she said.

  "Where is Christelle, if I may ask?" d'Artagnan said. "I'd hoped to bid her farewell, along with you and Madeleine."

  Mme Prevette's expression turned wry. "Christelle gives her apologies. She was somewhat upset at the prospect of watching everyone go. She indicated that she had already said her goodbyes last night."

  D'Artagnan fought manfully to keep any trace of embarrassment off his face as he answered. "I see. Well, please tell her not to be sad, and not to worry about us. Also, tell her that I appreciate everything she has done for us, and that I will think fondly of her."

  A knowing smile quirked Mme Prevette's lips. "I will," she said. Turning her attention to the rest of the group, she addressed them all. "Go with God, my friends. May fortune favor all of your ventures, and keep you safe."

  "And you, Osanne," Milady answered. "As for us, I'm told our cause is just, so surely we have nothing to fear."

  Mme Prevette laughed gaily. "Indeed my dear. If only life were so straightforward. Go on then, off with you! The day isn't getting any younger."

  D'Artagnan cautiously mounted Grimaud's mare, snatching at the reins as the horse tried to scuttle sideways out from under him. Thwarted, the animal tossed her head and stomped a front foot irritably. The four riders wheeled, exiting the stable yard and heading down the overgrown drive toward the main road beyond. D'Artagnan looked over his shoulder to get a last glimpse of the tumbledown castle that had heralded such violent and unforeseen changes in his life, along with the two waving figures growing ever smaller in the distance.

  At first, Aramis kept up a running conversation as they rode, telling stories and trading quips with Milady and, occasionally, Athos. Before long, though, it became obvious that riding was paining his wound rather badly, and his conversation became more desultory before eventually ceasing altogether. The swaying motion of his own mount was making the mostly healed gunshot wound in d'Artagnan's side throb and ache, so he could only imagine how Aramis' more serious injury was feeling.

  He tried to keep half an eye on the older man without being obvious about it, and occasionally caught Athos doing the same.

  The road running north out of Blois was quiet, but in slightly better condition than the ones that d'Artagnan had travelled coming up from the south. Some of the fields they rode through were choked in weeds, but others near the city were still being tended. As they continued, though, the lands became wilder.

  The road meandered into a deserted hamlet, which Athos identified as Villebarou. D'Artagnan had always hated coming upon such places during his earlier travels from Gascony—seeing the brush and small trees growing up through the abandoned houses, branches twisting out of empty windows to reach the sun.

  "Be vigilant," Athos warned. "Such places are often home to bandits."

  D'Artagnan nodded, and the small company proceeded with hands resting on the butts of their side arms, eyes raking the derelict buildings. He tensed as he noticed figures watching them from inside a darkened doorway, and whistled softly to attract the attention of the others so he could indicate the watchers' position with a flick of his eyes.

  Thankfully, their hidden audience did not appear willing to confront a well-armed party of four, and they continued unmolested until the road opened up again. They rode on as the sun rose toward its zenith, meeting only the occasional peasant transporting hay or baskets of vegetables. These individuals gave them a wide berth, faces cast to the ground as if hoping to make themselves less noticeable.

  Athos called a halt at midday, his eyes flicking over Aramis' gray, sweat-sheened face. The four dismounted in an empty field with a stream running through it, hobbling the horses to allow them to graze and slake their thirst. Grimaud's mare aimed a half-hearted cow kick at d'Artagnan as he straightened from buckling the leather straps around her front legs, her hoof catching the leather of his breeches next to his right knee. He growled, his patience with the animal's antics rapidly wearing thin.

  Aramis was accepting Athos' support as he swung down painfully from the carthorse's broad back, and d'Artagnan hurried forward to lend a hand as well. The injured man shot him a forced smile as he eased a shoulder under Aramis' left arm and helped him over toward a large shade tree while Athos tended to the horse. After a few steps, Aramis shook him off and continued under his own power, walking stiffly.

  "We should have waited longer to travel," d'Artagnan said, worry suffusing his voice. "You're not ready."

  Aramis shot him an unimpressed look. "I said I was capable of riding seven or eight leagues per day, and I most certainly am. I didn't say anything about enjoying it, but I'll wager you're not having much fun either."

  D'Artagnan scowled, but the throbbing in his side and shoulder leant truth to Aramis' words.

  "I'd enjoy it more with a horse that didn't seem constantly bent on my destruction," he grumbled.

  "It's funny," Milady said as she passed them with an armload of provisions, "but I don't recall Grimaud ever having much trouble with the mare. Do you, Olivier?"

  "Not really, no," said the other man.

  "Seriously?" d'Artagnan said. "What's his secret?"

  "He mostly lets her do whatever she wants, as far as I've seen," Aramis said. "And fortunately, she wants to follow the other horses she's with, which works out well enough, generally speaking."

  "I'll keep that in mind," d’Artagnan said.

  The four ate a quickly prepared meal of bread, dried fruit and meat, accompanied by wine cut with water from the stream. By the time they were done, Aramis seemed to have regained his strength, and d'Artagnan's own aches had retreated to manageable levels. On a whim, he pocketed a couple of slices of dried apple. The first, he offered to the cranky mare as he crouched down to remove the hobbles. Her pinned ears pricked up in interest as the smell reached her nostrils, and she took the small treat from his palm, chewing thoughtfully and offering no further complaint as he unbuckled the straps.

  He reached forward and gave her the second one when he had scrambled up onto her back and wrestled her dancing feet to a halt. She twisted her neck around and eyed him uncertainly, but took the morsel from him all the same. Though it grated against everything he'd been taught about horses and riding, he sat slouched in the saddle with the reins hanging loose as the other three headed off to rejoin the road.

  "Well?" he asked, feeling slightly foolish even though the others were already moving out of earshot. "Aren't you going to follow them? Or were you planning on standing here all alone in a field until the wolves come to get us?"

  With a snort, the mare threw her head up and took off after the others at a bone-jarring trot. D'Artagnan gritted his teeth for the following couple of hours as she repeatedly lagged behind to nibble at grass growing by the roadside, only to suddenly rush off to catch up with the rest of the group, head in the air and mouth gaping as if in anticipation of a jerk on the reins that never came. Eventually, the horse seemed to accept that d'Artagnan was serious about leaving her alone. With a snort and a full-body shake that rattled her rider's teeth and set his side to aching even more fiercely, she settled down to follow the others at a more sedate pace. D’Artagnan unclenched his jaw and breathed a sigh of relief, finally able to relax.

  "Looks like you've finally come to a detente," said Milady, who had been watching off and on with amusement.

  "About time," d'Artagnan huffed, sore and cranky. "Why on earth does Grimaud keep this animal?"

  "He claims it saved his life once when he was attacked on the road," Athos replied. "I don't know the details."

  "I must confess I'm having trouble picturing it," d'Artagnan said. "Unless, perhaps, one of the bandits attempted to tighten the mare's girth during the attack and was kicked for his trouble."

  Athos shrugged, and the four continued north along the road until late afternoon, when the village of Oucques
—their destination for the day—appeared over the crest of a hill. The town still boasted a sufficient number of inhabitants to maintain an inn, a fact which, along with its position roughly one quarter of the distance between Blois and Thiron-Gardais, led Athos to choose it as their goal for the first day's ride.

  The muttering of voices in the taproom fell silent as d'Artagnan, Aramis, and Milady entered; Athos having stayed behind to guard the horses with their valuable cargo of gunpowder and shot. The innkeeper regarded them warily, but relaxed when Milady strode forward and favored him with a charming smile, enquiring about a room for the night, and feed for the horses. The two fell to haggling, Milady producing a small pouch of black powder, and d'Artagnan allowed his eyes to skim over the room and its scattering of occupants.

  As seemed to be the case everywhere these days, the people eating and drinking at the tables around him looked worn. Beaten down. That said, there were men and women of various ages present wearing decent clothes of reasonable cleanliness; even a couple of families with children. It was apparent that Oucques and its surroundings had fared better than some places in recent years.

  His musings were interrupted by Milady's return.

  "We have stabling for the horses, along with supper and breakfast, and a room with two beds—upstairs, second from the end on the left," she said.

  "I'll go and help Athos in the stables," d'Artagnan offered. The truth was, once he stopped moving and sat down, it seemed quite likely that he wouldn’t be able to get up again until morning. But if he was this exhausted and sore from a day in the saddle after weeks abed, how badly off must Aramis be?

  The man in question was lounging against one of the wooden beams holding up the ceiling—his cloak hiding the state of his right arm from casual eyes, and his nonchalant manner hiding the degree to which he was relying on the beam to remain upright.

  "Leaving me to Milady's tender mercies, d'Artagnan? Now I see how it is between us," Aramis said.

  "Oh, hush, Aramis," Milady said brusquely, before returning her attention to d'Artagnan. "I'll get this one settled, and see about bringing food up to the room."

  D'Artagnan nodded and made his way out to help Athos. When the horses were stabled with hay, oats, and fresh water, the two of them carried the valuable contents of their saddlebags up to the room, unwilling to leave them unattended in the barn overnight. It took three trips to transfer everything that might be of interest to thieves, and when they were finished, it was all d'Artagnan could do to collapse onto the edge of the bed he was sharing with Aramis and eat a bowl of the passable rabbit stew Milady had procured from the kitchen.

  Aramis was propped up where the bed met the wall, looking pale and exhausted. Athos put his empty bowl aside and rose from the low stool he'd been sitting on.

  "Come, my friend," he told Aramis. "Let us see how your wound fares now that you are no longer playing the invalid."

  "Playing?" Aramis quoted, pretending offense, but he shuffled forward to the edge of the bed to sit next to d'Artagnan nonetheless.

  Athos helped him remove the sling binding his right arm to his side, ease off his linen shirt, and unwrap the bandages swathing his chest. It was the first time d'Artagnan had seen the wound up close and uncovered. The early evening light coming through the room's single window illuminated the angry ridges of red scar tissue marking the entry and exit of the blade that had pierced his chest and slid along the rib, and he winced in sympathy.

  Athos peered closely at the injury, gently moving Aramis' upper arm to the side to inspect it thoroughly.

  "There's no blood or pus draining," he said, "and if a day in the saddle didn't open it again, then it's probably sound. I think we should start stretching it, before the muscle contracts any further."

  "Fine," Aramis said, nodding tightly. "You're probably right."

  He allowed Athos to assist him over to the stool. D'Artagnan stretched out on the bed and watched with interest as Athos kneaded the muscles in Aramis' shoulder and upper arm to loosen them. He could see that the right arm had become smaller and weaker than the left after weeks without use, and the damaged chest muscle was tight and misshapen around the wound.

  Aramis gritted his teeth as Athos supported his arm and methodically tested the range of motion, describing gradually increasing circles with the shoulder until Aramis grunted in pain and said, "There! That's far enough."

  "Very well," Athos said, holding the position. "Push against me."

  Aramis strained to move his arm forward against the light pressure Athos was maintaining against it, sweat popping out on his forehead.

  "Again," Athos said, moving the arm back to its starting point. "And again."

  "God in Heaven," Aramis cursed. "You are an evil, sadistic man, Athos, and I hate you. I don't know why I ever called you friend."

  "Mind your tongue," Athos retorted, mild amusement coloring his tone, "or I'll let Anne oversee your recovery."

  "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, still 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’Ar
tagnan 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 to find a scene of devastation.