Book 2: The Queen's Musketeers, #2

by R. A. Steffan

  Between his physical aches and whirling thoughts, d'Artagnan found himself utterly unable to sleep. After what seemed like an eternity of tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable, he gave up and dragged himself into a sitting position. Aramis met his eyes with a questioning look, and d'Artagnan shrugged helplessly.

  "You're going to regret it tomorrow if you don't get some rest now," said the other man quietly.

  "I would if I could," d'Artagnan replied in a low voice, so as not to wake Athos and Milady.

  Aramis nodded in understanding. "Well, in that case, perhaps you could assist me in stretching this damned wound. I completely forgot about it earlier."

  D'Artagnan nodded his consent and helped Aramis remove the sling and take his doublet off. He had watched Athos run through the series of exercises on multiple occasions now, so he wordlessly copied what he had seen the two of them do. He tried to read Aramis' grimaces and occasional hisses of pain, not wanting to push his friend too hard, but he was surprised and pleased at the strength with which Aramis was able to return his grip.

  "Your strength is returning quickly," he said approvingly.

  "Not quickly enough for me," Aramis replied through gritted teeth. They completed a final series of stretches, and he released a sigh of relief. "Still, perhaps it is far enough along that I might dispense with the sling. That will probably speed the process somewhat, and I will at least have some use of it."

  D'Artagnan nodded agreement, and the two sat quietly for a while side by side. Finally, he broke the silence with the question he had wanted to ask for hours.

  "You seem... upset by what we've found here," he began, before quickly backtracking. "I mean, everyone is upset, but for you it seems almost—I don't know—personal."

  Aramis was silent, and d'Artagnan found himself talking to fill the space. "I was just wondering, did you know someone here? Besides Porthos and the others, that is. Because if so—"

  "I didn't know any of the monks personally," the other man said, cutting off the flow of words. "It's not that."

  "Then what?" d'Artagnan persisted.

  Aramis added another charred plank to the fire. "Did you notice the annex attached to the west end of the basilica?" he asked eventually.

  D'Artagnan thought back to the structures behind the sacristy, picturing the devastation. Mapping it out in his mind. "It was almost completely destroyed, was it not? Even more so than the rest of the building."

  Aramis nodded. "It was. The fire there was fed by paper and parchment. That annex housed the abbey's library."

  D'Artagnan's eyebrows rose in surprise. "That entire wing contained books? It was huge!"

  "This abbey was given to the Congregation of St. Maur two years ago, to become their first college. Do you know of the Maurists?"

  "Not really," d'Artagnan said.

  "The movement was modeled on the reforms instituted by Dom Didier de la Cour at the Benedictine monasteries in Lorraine," Aramis said. "Their primary goal is to reverse the disorganization and laxity that had spread throughout the church, but they also promote scholarship at a level unseen in France in recent generations.

  "This abbey was a site of historical and literary research. A bastion of learning, one might almost say, in this day and age where most Frenchmen are concerned merely with surviving and putting food on the table. Many of the texts here were unique. Others represented brand new research performed within these very walls. And it was destroyed in a single night."

  "That's terrible," d'Artagnan whispered.

  "It is," Aramis agreed. "I fear that France will fall back into darkness and ignorance in the coming years, d'Artagnan. And I fear that I am not doing enough to try to stop it. As a boy, I was educated with an eye to entering the clergy. I can read and write; I have a good knowledge of Latin and some experience with both the literary and the healing arts. And yet I am a soldier, who contributes nothing to the legacy of France, or the Church."

  "That's not true!" d'Artagnan replied with some heat, barely remembering to keep his voice down. "You share your spirituality freely with those around you. You help the wounded whenever you can. If it hadn't been for you, Athos wouldn't have stayed to help the monks here."

  Aramis shook his head. "It's not enough. I should be doing more. I gave de Tréville my oath that I would support Her Majesty's return to power. But as soon as the Queen bears a healthy son, and that son gains the throne that is his birthright, I shall retire to the priesthood and attempt to remedy that lack of contribution. Because right now, my legacy—such as it is—stands as a libertine who is passingly good with a sword and musket. Nothing more."

  "You're more than that to me," d'Artagnan said quietly.

  Aramis quirked a kind smile at him in the firelight. "Then you're a simple, rustic lad from rural Gascony, and far too easily impressed."

  D'Artagnan pressed his lips together, ready to protest, but Aramis bumped his shoulder good-naturedly, and he let it go with a sigh.

  "Get some sleep, Aramis," he said instead. "I'm up, and I might as well start my watch early."

  Aramis nodded his agreement, and moved silently to his own bedroll.

  D'Artagnan sat by the fire, eyes and ears open for any unusual disturbance; mind pondering the wealth of human knowledge that must have resided within the abbey's walls. It didn't seem right that so much accumulated wisdom could be snuffed out so easily, in a flare of smoke and flame. He wondered if the surviving monks would start over, replacing as much as they could remember.

  Of course, Aramis had said that Brother Roland would never regain the use of his hands. He shuddered at the thought, and wondered if perhaps he could dictate the words for someone else to write.

  After a few hours, d'Artagnan woke Athos for his watch and was finally able to fall asleep. The following morning was clear and bright, chasing some of the cobwebs from his mind. They had intended an early start, but one thing seemed to lead to another as Aramis, Milady, and Brother Christophe once again examined and applied treatments to the wounded, and Brother Reynard presented them with breakfast.

  Much to Athos' irritation, the sun was climbing steadily higher by the time they finally saddled the horses and packed their saddlebags. Before they could mount, however, a new distraction arose when the pounding of hooves echoed through the entryway. Quickly grabbing weapons, the travelers hurried to confront the newcomer. A single rider made his way through the ruined gates, shading his eyes with one hand.

  "Hulloo!" called the figure, emerging from the shadows.

  Beside d'Artagnan, Aramis lowered the arquebus from his left shoulder and let it clatter to the ground before racing forward toward the newcomer with a cry of "Porthos!" on his lips.

  Chapter V: June 29th, 1631

  "ARAMIS!" PORTHOS CALLED in return, reining his horse to a stop and sliding down to the ground in time to catch the smaller man in a hearty embrace. He eased Aramis back by the shoulders to look at him as d'Artagnan jogged up to them; Athos and Milady following at a slightly more respectable pace. "You're looking very much better than the bedridden wraith I left in Blois, my friend."

  "And your own visage is much improved by the absence of bruises and swelling, I must say," Aramis replied with a smile.

  "Hello, Porthos," d'Artagnan said as the other man's attention turned to him.

  "Good to see you, whelp!" Porthos said, catching d'Artagnan in a rough hug as well. "You're doing much better, too, I see!"

  "Greetings, Porthos," Athos said. "Your presence here is certainly unexpected, but no less welcome for that."

  "Just so," Milady agreed.

  Porthos grinned and clasped Athos' right arm, forearm to forearm, before taking Milady's proffered hand and dropping a courtly kiss on her knuckles. "Athos. Milady. It's been a long five weeks without all of you."

  He straightened, sobering quickly as his gaze swept over the destruction surrounding them. "I'd ask what happened here, but I've got a pretty good idea already. God—I figured it would be bad; I just di
dn't realize how bad. Are the monks—?"

  Aramis answered. "Five survive, for now. Two are very badly injured."

  Porthos seemed to fold in on himself at the news, losing stature. "What about the boy who helped us to escape? Name of Reynard?"

  "He's unhurt," d'Artagnan said quickly. "He hid in the trees."

  Porthos nodded, still troubled. "That's something, I suppose. He seemed like a good lad."

  Milady drew their attention. "Forgive my brusqueness, Porthos, but what news of the Queen? After hearing an account of the attack, we hardly expected to see any of you back here. Is everyone well?"

  "We escaped without injury," Porthos said, his face clearly conveying how he felt about running away to leave unarmed monks facing dozens of paid mercenaries. "After we snuck out of Thiron-Gardais, de Tréville led us north for two days to the woods beyond Bretoncelles. We avoided the towns and major roads, and camped rough in the forest for more than a week while he figured out what we should do next."

  "But why send you after us?" Athos asked. "You're more valuable as a guard for Her Majesty than Grimaud is."

  "He sent both of us, Athos," Porthos said. "Me here, and Grimaud straight to Blois. Said it would be faster to find you that way."

  Athos' brow was creased in a frown, but he only said, "I see."

  "He must have had a good reason," Milady said, sounding unconvinced, "since he's leaving Ana virtually undefended."

  "Come now—don't discount the old war horse," Aramis defended. "He's the equal of any two-armed attacker."

  "That's true enough," d'Artagnan agreed, having fought side-by-side with de Tréville during the attack on the castle.

  "It sounds like his current plan relies more on hiding than fighting," Athos said. "Are you meant to lead us back to Bretoncelles, Porthos?"

  "No, see, that's the thing," Porthos replied. "They aren't there. We're to rendezvous with them in Châteaudun, at the inn there."

  "Châteaudun!" d'Artagnan exclaimed. "But we were through there only three days ago, and did not stop."

  Porthos shrugged. "They wouldn't have been there anyway. They should arrive tomorrow."

  "And it will take us two days if we leave right away," Athos said. "Which we ought to do, unless you need to rest first, Porthos."

  "Nah, I'm fighting fit and ready to go," Porthos insisted. "Would've made it here last night, but there's a bridge out north of Coudreceau."

  "We still need to tell someone about the needs of the Brothers here," Aramis reminded them.

  "Perhaps l'Eglise Saint-Lubin in Brou," Athos suggested. "It's farther than La Croix-du-Perche, but it's also a larger church with more resources."

  "Agreed," Aramis said reluctantly.

  After informing Brother Christophe of Porthos' arrival and the new plan, the five of them finished readying the horses and headed south, leaving the burned-out abbey behind. The smell of smoke still clung to d'Artagnan's clothes in the increasingly muggy air, and he wished it would disperse. As the hours passed, the aches left over from clearing debris at the abbey combined with aches from being in the saddle, not helped by the occasional fussing of Grimaud's fractious mare.

  Milady questioned Porthos about the details of the Queen's health, and he reassured her that Her Majesty had not suffered any ill effects from the hasty flight through the countryside as far as they could tell. He made a point to tease d'Artagnan about the likelihood of losing "his precious Buttercup" permanently to royal service, and d'Artagnan had to fight not to duck his head in response to the twin feelings of relief at hearing his father's pony had fared well since they parted, and embarrassed pleasure at the well-intentioned brotherly ribbing. With difficulty, he mustered a suitably cocky response, much to Porthos' amusement.

  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 and Châteaudun drew 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 "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 ea
sier 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 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 plague had not yet 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. "I believe this is the first evidence of active plague I've seen since we left Blois. Perhaps France will soon be free of its curse."