Book 2: The Queen's Musketeers, #2

by R. A. Steffan

  Athos grunted and looked around in confusion. "Where—?"

  "We’re on the road from Blois to La Croix-du-Perche," he said, still in that strange, calm voice. "You collapsed and fell off your horse."

  D’Artagnan felt almost as if he was watching himself from outside. He could see that part of himself that wanted to grab Athos and weep into his shoulder with relief like a small child, but it was hidden behind the steady, steady voice and the odd sense of detachment.

  "How long?" Athos asked, urgency creeping into his tone.

  "I don’t know," d’Artagnan answered. "Most of the night, I think."

  Athos cursed once, sharply, and tried to rise. He was too weak, and fell back, panting. He looked up at d’Artagnan, meeting his eyes in the flickering firelight. "You must go on without me, d’Artagnan. Leave me here and don’t look back. The Queen’s life—our friends’ lives—are at stake."

  D’Artagnan shook his head and replied, "No. I will not leave you here to die. If you want me to continue on to la Croix-du-Perche, then you will have to get back on your horse and come with me."

  Again, the words came as if heard and seen from a slight remove, but d’Artagnan recognized the truth of them nonetheless.

  "Damn you, you insolent boy!" Athos said, before letting his head fall forward to rest on his chest and continuing in a low voice, as if to himself, "Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno. De Tréville chose wisely. And damn him for that, as well." He looked up, speaking to d’Artagnan again. "Ready the horses, then. You’ll have to tie me into the saddle."

  D’Artagnan nodded, and calmly pulled his shirt on over the lines of heat radiating across his back. He rose and looked to the east, where the sky was lightening in preparation for the break of dawn.

  Half an hour later, they were riding north once more as the sun slid slowly up from the horizon on their right. His little broom-tailed mare had been limping slightly on her right fore when d’Artagnan caught and saddled her in the predawn light, so he packed her with the light burden of supplies and rode Rosita instead, leading the lame horse on one side and Athos’ mare, with her weak and unsteady passenger lashed into the saddle with loops of rope, on the other.

  He was distantly surprised to come upon the familiar road into Luigny after less than an hour of riding, having had no idea that they were so close to their destination. The tree at the edge of town still bore the blood-colored plague cross, though the paint had flaked somewhat during the recent rainstorms.

  D’Artagnan led his strange little procession down the main street, past the house where Aramis had given the dying boy tincture of opium; past stinking bodies lying at the edge of the road to be carted away; past frightened, feral eyes peeking out at them from cracked doors and windows. Whenever emotion and memory started to creep up on him, he shifted his shoulders, feeling the welts on his back drag against the linen of his shirt, pulling a bit where they had bled and stuck to the cloth. The familiar pain calmed him, reminding him that he was weak and alone; unable to save anyone here from their fates... except, just maybe, Athos.

  Near the end of the street where the houses thinned out, a large man with sores on his face stepped into d’Artagnan’s path, wielding a club and eyeing their fat saddlebags with a combination of avarice and desperation. D’Artagnan pulled out his pistol and pointed it at the man’s heart, sighting down the barrel with dead eyes.

  "Don’t," he said in that distant, detached voice.

  The man snarled and leaned back, ready to swing the cudgel at Rosita’s head. D’Artagnan pulled the trigger before it could connect, and the would-be robber jerked and slumped to the ground. D’Artagnan led the horses around the body, riding out of Luigny without looking back.

  The final leg of the long, ill-favored journey was quiet enough, yet it seemed to take forever. Worries slowly began to pierce d’Artagnan’s unnatural calm, buzzing around his head like flies. The trip had taken far too long. Would they arrive to find everyone slaughtered by Grimaud’s allies? Was he delivering Athos back to the welcoming arms of their friends, or to the same enemies who had tortured him in the first place? Even if they were not too late and were able to flee with the Queen, how would they all succeed in escaping while transporting an injured man on the verge of collapse?

  By the time the little village of La Croix-du-Perche appeared in front of him, d’Artagnan was trembling lightly and covered with cold sweat despite the heat of the late morning sun. The sharp burn across his back—which had earlier wrapped his mind in a soft, gray cocoon—was now merely painful. He longed to kick Rosita into a gallop and bring the days of worry to an end, but with a lame horse on one side and a rider barely conscious in the saddle on the other, he was confined to the same plodding pace they had set all day.

  Slowly the houses and buildings grew closer, until finally—finally—they were at the edge of town. He wanted to ask the first person he saw whether anything had happened, but the streets were deserted. They trudged down the road until they passed the chapel. The road turned north, and the houses thinned out and grew larger. Then—at last—they were at M. Rougeux’s cobbled drive, the last on the right.

  With his heart in his throat and his hand on his sword, d’Artagnan turned the horses onto the property. Immediately, two young men in peasants’ clothes and wielding swords that were too large for them stepped forward to bar the way.

  "Who goes there?" one of them asked in a voice of youthful bravado.

  D’Artagnan’s heart sunk for an instant, sure that the chateau had been taken and he had delivered them both to their deaths. Before he could draw steel, however, his exhausted mind took note of the lads’ obvious youth and inexperience—the clumsy manner in which they held their inappropriate weapons and the nervousness in their eyes.

  Cautiously, he removed his hand from his own weapon.

  "Athos and d’Artagnan, to see M. de Tréville," he said, and waited to find out if they would live or die.

  The nervousness evaporated from the lads’ faces, and the taller one turned to one side and yelled, "M. Porthos! It’s them!"

  Only force of will kept d’Artagnan from slumping with relief as a familiar figure hurried forward from behind an outbuilding, a broad grin splitting his large face, which fell instantly into worry upon seeing the state of them.

  "Good Lord above," Porthos said. "The two of you look like death warmed up. What in heaven’s name has befallen you?"

  "Porthos, please," d’Artagnan said urgently, "he’s hurt. You must help him. We’re all in danger—I have to see de Tréville!"

  "All right, d’Artagnan," Porthos said in a calming voice, laying one large, reassuring hand on d’Artagnan’s thigh, and the other on Athos’ knee. "We’ve got you now. You did good. Let us take care of things from here." He turned to the young man who had called for him. "Run and get Aramis, then tell de Tréville that Athos and d’Artagnan are back and d’Artagnan needs to speak to him."

  The lad nodded and hared off, dropping his sword on the ground, much to Porthos’ obvious disgust at the lack of respect for his weapon. D’Artagnan choked on his own voice, swallowing a low noise of distress as relief warred with his urgency to relay his message to de Tréville. Porthos patted his leg one more time and said, "Come on; let’s get you both to the house."

  He led the horses down the driveway, bellowing for the boy to come and take Grimaud’s mare when they passed the stable. Hearing footsteps, d’Artagnan turned to see Aramis jogging toward them.

  "Aramis," he managed hoarsely, "please... Athos. He’s hurt. I tried, but I couldn’t... and now we’re all in danger. We have to leave before they get here!"

  Aramis took Rosita’s bridle and looked d’Artagnan and Athos over with an assessing glance before resuming their slow progress toward the house. "I’m afraid none of us are going anywhere at the moment. Now, d’Artagnan, I need you to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. That’s it. And again. Much better. You’ve done well to get Athos back here. Can you tell me how he was injured?"<
br />
  D’Artagnan breathed in and out as Aramis had ordered, trying to settle his thoughts into coherence. "He was tortured, Aramis. Branded. That was... five days ago, I think. No, maybe six. I’m not sure."

  Aramis nodded. "That’s close enough. Thank you."

  They arrived in front of the house; the lad who had run to get Aramis opened the door wide and moved forward to take the horses’ bridles. Porthos untied the sloppy loops of rope binding Athos’ dead weight to the saddle.

  "Are you with us, old friend?" he asked, giving Athos a small shake. Aramis joined him, adding a steadying hand to the injured man’s shoulder.

  Athos stirred and groaned.

  "Enough slacking, M. le Comte," Aramis said lightly. "You’ve gone and made young d’Artagnan do all the work. Whatever will Milady say?"

  "Porthos? Aramis?" Athos whispered in a voice like jagged glass.

  "The very same," Porthos said, a smile lighting up his face.

  "Thought I was dreaming you," Athos continued. He looked around in confusion, his view momentarily blocked by his horse as he was lifted carefully down from the saddle. "What about d’Artagnan? Is he all right?"

  "I’m here. I’m fine," d’Artagnan managed. "I’ll report to de Tréville."

  Athos met his eyes over his mare’s back as Porthos eased a shoulder underneath his arm to support him, and nodded. "Thank you."

  Allowing his worry to ease a notch or two now that Athos was being cared for, d’Artagnan swung down from the saddle and was shocked to discover that his legs would not support him. Before he could collapse into a heap on the ground, though, a pair of hands caught and steadied him against Rosita’s side. He looked around and met Aramis’ eyes.

  "Your injured arm is getting stronger," he said stupidly.

  Aramis rolled his eyes and flashed him a pinched smile. "Just in time to support my friends as they collapse one by one, it appears. Now... out with it. Where are you hurt?"

  D’Artagnan shook his head. "I’m not. Not like you’re thinking. Just my wrist. Rope burn from when we escaped capture."

  "And you’ve been looking after Athos since then?" Aramis asked astutely. He readjusted his grip, causing d’Artagnan to hiss out a surprised breath as the other man’s forearm pressed against his shoulders. Wincing, Aramis moved his arm and gently peeled d’Artagnan’s doublet away far enough to look at his upper back. Though he said nothing, d’Artagnan knew that the stripes of darkened shirt material where the blood had soaked through would be obvious.

  "I tried to help him," he replied in answer to Aramis’ question, not addressing the rest of it. "He wouldn’t let me near his wounds, though. I’m so sorry. I really did try."

  "Athos is an honorable and loyal man, d’Artagnan. Brave as a lion; crafty as a fox," Aramis said philosophically. "Unfortunately, he’s also a complete idiot. Try not to take it to heart."

  D’Artagnan opened his mouth and closed it again, not sure what to say in response.

  "Come," Aramis said, taking pity on him. "You must make your report to de Tréville, and then you should rest."

  "No," d’Artagnan said, balking. "We can’t rest. I told you, we must leave immediately."

  Aramis chivvied him into motion again. "And I told you, we can’t go anywhere just now. Come inside."

  The other man led him into the same cozy parlor where they had earlier been reunited with the Queen and indicated he should sit, but d’Artagnan shook his head, feeling his legs gain steadiness and his strength begin to rally now that he and Athos were back among friends.

  De Tréville appeared from an interior doorway a few moments later, looking as harried as d’Artagnan had ever seen him. Aramis flashed d’Artagnan an encouraging smile that did not quite reach his eyes, and excused himself to help deal with Athos.

  "D’Artagnan," de Tréville said, clasping d’Artagnan’s upper arm in a gesture that seemed almost paternal. "I am relieved that you and Athos have returned, even if a bit worse for wear. Porthos said I should get a report from you, given that Athos is indisposed."

  "Yes, sir," d’Artagnan began, rallying his wits, "Grimaud is dead, but he’d already realized that you tricked him. He deduced that you must be hiding here with Her Majesty and informed his contact before we reached Blois. A troop of men could arrive at any time to attack; I’m surprised they didn’t beat us here, to be perfectly honest."

  De Tréville nodded. "I see. And how came you by your injuries?"

  Forcing down frustration that his warning about an imminent attack seemed not to be taken seriously, he replied, "We arrived at Illiers-Combray to find that the Comte de Thimerais’ mansion had been burned to the ground. Several of the men responsible had remained behind to guard it, and they captured us. They tortured Athos for information about the Queen, but we escaped and made our way to Blois—where Athos killed Grimaud—and then back here."

  "Did Athos break under torture?" de Tréville asked, as if they were discussing the weather rather than the honor of a man who had sacrificed himself to protect d’Artagnan’s own worthless hide.

  "No, of course not!" he replied hotly. "He would never—"

  "Yeah, he did," Porthos interrupted from the doorway, and d’Artagnan wondered how long the man had been standing there. "Says no damage was done, though. He lied and told them we were at the inn at Châteaudun, but then he slipped up and gave them your name. Doesn’t matter—him and d’Artagnan here killed everyone who heard it when they escaped."

  "Good enough," de Tréville said, as if the matter was closed.

  "A bit better than that, actually," Porthos replied. "Athos also said one of the interrogators made a mistake of his own. Made reference to getting orders from ‘the Cardinal.’ And I think we can all guess which cardinal he meant..."

  As it happened, d’Artagnan couldn’t guess which cardinal he meant—though it was obvious that de Tréville could. The captain’s single eye widened in surprise before furious anger overtook his expression for a moment, only to be hidden once more behind a mask of detachment.

  "Interesting information, but not anything that’s useful to us at the moment," de Tréville said with tight control. He turned back to d’Artagnan and softened slightly. "Well done, d’Artagnan. You have acquitted yourself admirably."

  D’Artagnan looked from de Tréville to Porthos and back again in confusion. Well done? How was any of this well done? Athos had been tortured... armed assassins were descending on the Queen for a third time... why did no one seem to understand?

  "Sir," he said, "perhaps I have not made it clear. Another attack is coming at any moment. We must get Her Majesty to safety. We have to leave."

  From deeper in the house came a long, high-pitched female cry of pain. Porthos looked uncomfortable, and de Tréville’s brow furrowed. D’Artagnan snapped his jaw shut abruptly, the hair on the back of his neck rising. He had heard that sound once before, a long time ago, from his mother when he was still a young boy.

  It was the sound of a woman in labor.

  Chapter X: July 10th, 1631

  "SHE'S HAVING THE baby now?" d’Artagnan asked, the last word emerging as an undignified squeak.

  "Have some respect, lad," de Tréville said, though he mostly just sounded tired. "This is your future King we’re talking about."

  "At least, if it’s a boy it is," Porthos muttered, cracking a rather brittle looking smile at him. "If it’s a girl, we’re all going to look like a right bunch of idiots."

  "Porthos..." de Tréville said, squeezing the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb as if warding off a headache. "Go and take care of d’Artagnan. I’ll join the rest of you in a little while."

  "Right you are, sir," Porthos said agreeably, and gestured d’Artagnan to follow him down the hallway and into a generously sized bedroom. Athos was laid out on the bed, naked, with one arm thrown across his face. Aramis was leaning over him with a damp rag, attempting to clean his wounds. D’Artagnan froze in the doorway as he took in the full extent of the damage for the first
time.

  He’d seen the burn under Athos’ eye and the way the marks trailed down his neck and onto his chest, and he’d assumed that their captors had started on his torso and worked their way up to his face. He had not realized that Athos also had burns on the inside of his right knee, marching up the tender flesh of his inner thigh all the way to his groin. Suppurating, where they had chafed against the saddle until the blisters wept blood and pus.

  Athos had ridden for hours with these injuries. For days. D’Artagnan had put him on a horse like this and made him ride for days. His gorge rose, and he choked. Porthos frowned and grabbed for a chamber pot, thrusting it under d’Artagnan’s face just in time for him to vomit into it, clutching the doorframe for support. When he glanced up, Athos had removed his arm from his face and was looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

  "That bad?" he drawled.

  Porthos snorted a laugh. "Bad enough, you fool. Good thing you already killed the bastards that did this. Saves us having to go out and do it."

  "Athos, why didn’t you tell me?" d’Artagnan asked plaintively, forcing the words past a throat raw with bile.

  Athos shrugged. "What good would it have done? We still had to travel, either way."

  "I could have treated you!" d’Artagnan said, his voice rising.

  Athos looked at him in confusion. "You did. You made the salve."

  At this, Aramis looked up from his gruesome task with interest. "Salve, you say? Ah, I was wondering what that was. I could see that something had been applied to the burns. What was it made with, may I ask?"

  D’Artagnan dragged his mind forcibly back from the shock of the past few minutes, enough to explain the recipe to Aramis, quickly outlining the ingredients and the process. "My mother swore by it, but it doesn’t seem to have helped much in this case," he finished, somewhat bitterly.

  "On the contrary," Aramis said, "you may have saved Athos’ life. Given the circumstances, I would expect these burns to be festering badly. However, only two of them appear to be infected, and even those are not as bad as they could be. You know—honey and oil of turpentine have both been shown on the battlefield to protect wounds from going bad. Your mother must have been an exceptionally intelligent and knowledgeable woman, d’Artagnan."