Book 2: The Queen's Musketeers, #2

by R. A. Steffan

  "I have never killed another living soul," Grimaud said, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I’m not like you—with your blades, and your guns—taking lives as easily as reaping grain from the fields."

  "Then you’re a coward and a hypocrite, as well as a traitor," Athos said, "and you should know that the lives of thirty-five Benedictine monks—good, devout Catholics from the abbey at Thiron—are on your conscience. Burned alive by the army you sent after our friends and the woman we are pledged to protect."

  Grimaud’s face crumpled, and his voice was high and desperate as he said, "If they were knowingly harboring that woman, then they were not good Catholics! I heard her, you know. I heard her trying to convince her husband to give the Protestant scum equal rights as a bribe to gain their support against Isabella and her son! God punished Louis with the plague... but He left it to me to punish his temptress Eve, with her rotten apple."

  "God’s teeth! I will kill you for this treachery, Grimaud," Athos said.

  "Of course you will," Grimaud said, sounding defeated. "You have been lost to me for years, Master—ever since you took that... that creature you call your wife into your bed, and into your life. She has turned you weak and sinful with her own wickedness! You know what she is."

  D’Artagnan felt a shock behind his ribcage. Was Grimaud talking about Milady? He was unable to stop himself from glancing at Athos to see his reaction, but the older man’s face could have been carved from the mountain that was his chosen namesake.

  "Yes," Athos said. "I do. I know exactly who and what my wife is. And now I know what you are, as well."

  "Then know this," Grimaud said in a voice like a death-knell. "I finally figured out what de Tréville must have done to trick me, and sent word to my contact. Troops will descend on La Croix-du-Perche before you can possibly warn them. The deed will be done, and there is nothing you can do about it. You will all burn in Hell for your sins, while I go to sit at God’s right hand."

  D’Artagnan’s heart sank at the words. Athos’ lip curled into a snarl, and he tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword.

  "To Hell I may go, Grimaud," Athos said, "but no just God would accept such an inconstant servant as you into His embrace."

  A flicker of uncertainty crossed Grimaud’s features in the instant before Athos lunged forward and ran him through. The old servant’s body slid to the flagstones, blood gushing from the wound as the blade slipped free. Athos staggered sideways a step as if he, too, had been wounded, and d’Artagnan moved quickly to support him. The other man sagged for only a moment before dragging himself upright and shaking d’Artagnan off.

  "We must ride for La Croix-du-Perche as if the very Devil himself was behind us," Athos said in a voice made hoarse by strain and weakness. "Our friends’ lives depend upon it."

  Chapter IX: July 8th, 1631

  "GATHER SUPPLIES," Athos told him. "Bread, cheese, wine. Enough for two days; no more."

  "Right," d’Artagnan said, his mind flying over the logistics of what they needed to do as he swept around the kitchen, grabbing a cloth bag and rummaging for what they needed while avoiding the slowly spreading puddle of blood on the floor. "We should take all three horses. Aramis’ mare is the most worn down. We can load her with the supplies—it will be quite a bit less than the weight of a rider, and it will also ease the burden for the other two."

  "Good," Athos said. "Yes. That’s good. You have a tactical turn of mind, d’Artagnan. There isn’t enough money left to pay for fresh horses along the way, but perhaps we can rotate through the three we have. Let the weariest one carry the lighter burden of the supplies."

  They hurried out of the castle, leaving Grimaud’s body cooling slowly on the stone floor. D’Artagnan was alarmed to see that all of Athos’ newfound strength seemed to have died along with his faithless servant, and he staggered as if drunk, bracing himself on whatever wall or piece of furniture came to hand until d’Artagnan surreptitiously slid his right arm through Athos’ left to steady him.

  At the stables, he left Athos to arrange the supplies on Rosita while he saddled Athos’ fine bay mare, the only horse of the three that was rested and hale. In minutes, he was assisting Athos onto the animal; trying not to think about the clammy sweat on his companion’s face or the fine tremor he could feel beneath his supporting hands. He took Rosita’s reins in one hand and mounted Grimaud’s weedy little mare himself—well, Grimaud’s mare no longer, he supposed. The horse of a dead man.

  Their pace on the journey would be determined by the slowest of the three animals. Athos, however, was not going to let either his own weakness or the horses' hold them back at the start, and headed out of the yard at a steady canter. A small crowd seemed to be gathering near where they had spoken with Madeleine; d’Artagnan felt a pang as he recognized Christelle, her hand clasped in that of a rangy lad a few years younger than he was. She raised her other arm in a wave. Athos and d’Artagnan were too far away and moving too quickly to make communication possible, though d’Artagnan raised a hand in return.

  Within minutes, the familiar castle was once again fading into the distance behind them.

  * * *

  For d’Artagnan, the mad dash to reach La Croix-du-Perche was a gradual descent into hell. After reaching Oucques, Athos led them slightly northwest toward Cloyes-sur-le-Loir rather than straight north toward Châteaudun. Already, the evening darkness was nearly complete, and d’Artagnan was utterly unfamiliar with the route. Without the moon, waxing gibbous in the relatively clear night sky, travel would have been completely impossible. As it stood, it was still undoubtedly foolhardy.

  Athos explained that this route through Cloyes-sur-le-Loir and several smaller hamlets—most of them abandoned—was more direct than the route they had travelled back and forth from Thiron-Gardais and Illiers-Combray. The roads (if they could even be called that, d’Artagnan thought sourly) were smaller, barely used these days. While that seemed at first as if it would be a detriment to them, d’Artagnan quickly came to understand Athos’ reasoning. The grassy, overgrown tracks they were following had not been churned into mud after the previous night’s deluge. True, they were wet and slick, full of water-filled potholes. They were not, however, sucking at the horses’ legs with every step, slowing them down and sapping their strength.

  They rode through the night, stopping only to trade horses when one of the riders’ mounts tired more than the animal serving as their packhorse. Puddles still sufficed to keep the beasts watered, and d’Artagnan ate rations in the saddle during the periods when they slowed to let the horses regain their breath. He was painfully aware that Athos ate nothing.

  The older man appeared to be navigating by the stars, confirming the route by noting the abandoned villages they came across. D’Artagnan decided that his previous distaste for riding through these ghostly reminders of lives snuffed out by the plague was nothing compared to his dislike of doing so at night. In the moonlight, tattered curtains in gaping black windows seemed to glow faintly as they fluttered in the light breeze, in counterpoint to the scrabble and scratch of wild animals gradually reclaiming the area from the previous human inhabitants.

  As the night wore on, Athos began to flag visibly. D’Artagnan entreated him to at least eat and drink something, if he would not stop and rest.

  "Wine," Athos replied in a weak, croaking voice, and d’Artagnan handed him one of the skins. He could barely hold it up to his lips, but at least it was something.

  Morning saw them skirting slightly west of Cloyes-sur-le-Loir. Despite being nearly healed, the damaged muscles in d’Artagnan’s left shoulder were aching with the tension of remaining awake and upright on his horse. Athos was slumped in the saddle. His face was ghastly white, with gray, cracked lips and eyes nearly hidden in dark hollows.

  "Athos, we must rest," d’Artagnan said, shocked by his companion’s appearance in the dawning light. "Just for a few minutes. You can have more wine; perhaps try to eat something."

  Athos sh
ook his head slowly, as if even that small movement took all his energy. "I mustn’t. If I dismount, I’ll not be able to continue. Give me the wine, though."

  D’Artagnan reluctantly rode close, handing the wineskin over once more and steadying it with one outstretched hand as Athos drank. For the first time, he allowed himself to truly worry that Athos might not survive the trip, and felt the faint stirrings of panic lodge behind his ribs.

  They trekked on, Athos’ growing weakness and the horses’ mounting exhaustion slowing their pace by increments. D’Artagnan forced himself to eat and drink, knowing that were he to succumb to weakness as well, it would surely be the final straw for them. Athos clung stubbornly to the saddle, ignoring all attempts to inquire about his welfare, or to press him to eat and rest. Dawn slowly colored the sky as another deserted hamlet came and went, and another, and another.

  The sun was sliding like molasses toward the western horizon when Athos finally consented to a bit more wine, mixed with water d’Artagnan had added from a clean brook they’d passed two hours ago to replenish their supplies.

  Fifteen minutes later, all d’Artagnan’s fears were realized when the older man groaned and reined his mare to a halt, doubling over to vomit a thin stream of yellow bile down the animal’s sweaty shoulder. D’Artagnan cried out and jumped off his own horse before it had even come to a stop, but he was too late to prevent Athos from collapsing sideways and sliding to the ground in a heap.

  "Athos!" he cried, ignoring muscles cramped by long hours in the saddle as he rushed over and slid to his knees next to the unresponsive man.

  Athos was unconscious, his skin radiating dry heat and stretched tight over the planes of his face. D’Artagnan shook his shoulder and slapped him lightly on the cheeks, all to no effect. He looked around at the deserted landscape, trying to force his sluggish, sleep-deprived mind into action.

  The three horses stood around them, heads hanging low with exhaustion as they blew and snorted. After a moment, his little broom-tailed mare wandered over and began to pick at the grass on the verge next to them in a desultory manner. They had seen no other living souls, except for a single farmer with a rough cart pulled by an ass near Cloyes-sur-le-Loir, early that morning. It was exceedingly unlikely that anyone would find them here, either to help them or to rob them.

  The sun was only a few degrees above the horizon. Already, the humid evening was taking on that golden, dreamlike quality of sunset. They had just exited a copse of young trees when Athos’ strength failed him; a few had dead or broken branches hanging from them.

  I’ll make a fire, d’Artagnan told himself, still trying to come up with some semblance of a plan. I’ll make a fire so I can still see what I’m doing when the sun goes down. Then I’ll unsaddle the horses and put hobbles on them so they can rest and graze.

  That constituted a plan, did it not? He rose and gathered the horses, hooking their reins over a sturdy looking low branch. The dead wood was a bit damp, but there were plenty of smaller twigs that had dried well during the day. The flint and tinder were in the front corner of the left rear saddlebag. It took more attempts than it should have to strike a spark and start the fire, but he managed it eventually, and fed small twigs to the little flames until they grew strong enough to dry the larger wood, sending plumes of smoke into the air.

  He returned to Athos. The other man still did not respond to d’Artagnan’s attempts to wake him, so he dragged him closer to the fire and laid him carefully on his side with d’Artagnan’s rolled-up doublet under his cheek as a pillow to prevent him from choking if he vomited again.

  Next, he unsaddled the horses and laid their gear in a rough semicircle around the fire. He rubbed the animals down as best he could with a piece of folded burlap and hobbled them so they could move around and feed on the tall grass. Taking food from the saddlebags, he ate without tasting anything and washed it down with watered wine. Unable to distract himself any longer, he returned to Athos and crouched down next to him.

  The flickering firelight threw the older man’s sunken eyes into shadow. He still breathed, and a fast, thready beat pulsed beneath d’Artagnan’s fingers when he pressed them to Athos’ neck. Unsure what else he could do, d’Artagnan put some strips of dried meat in their little cooking pot, covered it with watered wine, and set it close enough to the fire to bring it to a low boil.

  It was becoming harder and harder to stay awake and focused. Though it seemed a useless pastime, he distracted himself while the broth was cooking by taking an inventory of their remaining supplies and repacking them. When he had finished, the meat in the pot was soft and the remaining liquid had taken on a rich brown color. He moved the container away from the fire with a rag wrapped around his hand to protect himself from the heat, and poured a bit more liquid in to cool it.

  The meat had been boiled to tastelessness, but he ate it anyway before dipping some of the broth out with a small wooden cup. He maneuvered Athos into a half-sitting position against his chest, feeling a moment of hope when the man moaned softly at the change. Still, there was no further response or indication of wakefulness. D’Artagnan picked up the cup in his right hand and supported Athos’ head with his left.

  "Athos, you must try to drink this," he said, knowing it was unlikely his companion could hear him or understand. Still, he brought the cup to Athos’ slack mouth and let a small amount flow past his lips. At first, it just dribbled out again, but when he poured a little more and cupped his hand under Athos’ chin to close his mouth, he felt a weak swallowing motion under his palm. Heartened by the tiny success, he continued to feed Athos sips of the broth until the cup was empty, some of which he swallowed and some of which now dampened the front of his clothing.

  When he was done, he resettled Athos on his side and sat down next to him, half reclining against one of the saddles and staring into the fire. He needed to stay awake and figure out what he should do. He could not afford to descend into panic, imagining over and over the moment when Athos’ breath would slow and stop, his heartbeat shuddering to a standstill the same way d’Artagnan’s father’s had, and his mother’s, and his beautiful little sister’s.

  Leaving him alone.

  No, he could definitely not afford to think of that, and he could not afford to sleep. There had to be something he could do. Some action that he could take to wrest Athos back from death’s grasp and get them both to La Croix-du-Perche. If only he weren’t so stupid and mired with fatigue.

  Dizzy with it.

  Aching with it.

  There had to be something. Something...

  * * *

  He jerked awake some unknown amount of time later from a nightmare, disoriented, finding himself slumped sideways against the saddle he’d been leaning on. The fire had nearly burned itself out; only the faint glow of embers remained. He remembered Athos with a heavy jolt, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest as he lunged toward the other man, placing his hand loosely over the lower half of his face and nearly sobbing with relief when a damp exhalation of breath tickled his fingers.

  "Thank you," he whispered to a deity whom he thought had abandoned him long ago. "Oh, God. Thank you. Thank you."

  The rush of gratitude was followed quickly by a wave of self-loathing so strong it caused his stomach to surge and cramp. Too weak. Not good enough to keep the people you care about alive. Trying to force himself back under control, d’Artagnan stirred up the fire and fed it more twigs and branches until it was crackling merrily in the darkness once more.

  He scooped more of the broth he’d made earlier into the wooden cup and repositioned Athos against his body. The other man did not groan or react, but it seemed that more of the liquid went into him this time, and less ended up down their fronts. Since Athos had successfully kept down the minuscule amount from earlier, d’Artagnan patiently fed him cup after cup until the small pot was empty. When he was done, he returned the other man to the ground, curling him onto his other side and making sure that the ugly burn on his chee
k was not pressing into the leather of his makeshift pillow.

  The moon had set while d’Artagnan slept, and the night was dark and endless. He stared at the fire; his mind turning tighter and tighter around the feelings of humiliation and failure. Drawing in and in on itself until it must by necessity turn outward into action. He scratched at his forearms unconsciously, his right hand working its way down until the nails pressed over the bandage on his left wrist and the inflamed flesh beneath it. The flush of pain sharpened his thoughts, giving them a new direction as they turned toward his right saddlebag, and what lay curled in the bottom of it.

  Five minutes later he was kneeling on the ground, shirtless, with the untried leather lash gripped in his hand and no real memory of having made the decision to retrieve it. His shoulder was still just stiff enough to make the muscles protest at the movement as he let the tails hiss over his shoulder and bite into the skin for the first time, but it gradually loosened as the steady, rhythmic motion continued.

  Hiss. Slap. Hiss. Slap. Hiss. Slap. Hiss. Slap. Hiss. Slap.

  The pain rose; crested. Rose higher, driving out the thoughts circling, vulture-like, in his mind until there was only simple, blessed stillness. Sensing that the turmoil still lay in wait for him, thwarted only temporarily, he continued his self-flagellation longer than he normally might have, letting the pleasant buzz behind his eyes build higher and higher until the fire in front of him seemed to waver and surge, dimmer then brighter in his vision with each stroke.

  He was brought back to himself by the sound of a cough followed by a moan, and the handle of the whip fell from nerveless fingers as he turned to Athos, as if in slow motion. The older man pushed himself clumsily to a sitting position, one hand rising to the side of his head as if it pained him.

  "Athos?" d’Artagnan said in an unnaturally steady voice.