Book 2: The Queen's Musketeers, #2

by R. A. Steffan

  D’Artagnan swallowed. "She was, yes. Will he live, then?"

  "I am right here in the room, d’Artagnan," Athos said from the bed, sounding deeply unimpressed by all the drama.

  "I’m afraid you’ve relinquished the right to have an opinion on the matter, my friend," Aramis said. "But, yes, d’Artagnan, he will likely survive to deliver inappropriate quips another day. Assuming, of course, that we’re not all slaughtered by enemy troops during the night."

  Hurried footsteps heralded Milady’s arrival, moments before she pushed past d’Artagnan and into the room. She made a noise of distress and dropped to her knees by Athos’ bedside, grabbing his hand in both of hers.

  "Olivier," she said.

  "Anne," he replied, burying his free hand in her hair and dragging her to him for a kiss.

  "There. You see?" Porthos said from his position lounging against the wall. "Now he has to recover, because his wife will kill him if he doesn’t."

  "Damn right I will," Milady said as she pulled back from the kiss, "and don’t you forget it."

  "How is Her Majesty?" Aramis asked.

  "The pains are coming closer together now, but I fear it will be a long labor nonetheless," Milady said. As if to punctuate her words, another cry of distress floated in from the back of the house, and she glanced at the door anxiously. "Olivier, I’m sorry, my love—I must get back to her."

  "Go," Athos said, sweeping a stray ringlet of hair behind her ear. "Don’t worry about me. I’m fine."

  She covered his hand with her own, pressing her cheek against his palm. "You’re an idiot, is what you are."

  "That’s what I keep trying to tell him," Aramis added helpfully.

  Milady looked up at Aramis, with none of her usual haughtiness or teasing.

  "Take care of him for me? Both of you?" Her gaze slid over to include Porthos as well.

  "You know we will," Porthos answered gruffly.

  "I know," she replied softly, dropping a final kiss on Athos’ forehead before rising and turning toward d’Artagnan. "And you—"

  D’Artagnan tensed and looked down, knowing he had failed utterly in his promise to look after Athos and stop him from doing anything foolish.

  "De Tréville told me what happened," Milady continued, crossing to stand in front of him by the door. "Thank you for bringing him home to me, d’Artagnan. To us."

  Startled, d’Artagnan looked up and met her eyes for a moment before dipping his head in a brief bow—only to be further surprised when Milady stretched forward to kiss him on the cheek. When he looked up again, she was gone.

  "D’Artagnan," Aramis said, "would you be willing to make more of that ointment you used? Assuming, of course, that Mme Rougeux has the ingredients on hand. Since it obviously helped before, I see no reason not to continue with that treatment."

  "Yes, certainly," d’Artagnan replied. "Shouldn’t someone be on guard outside, though?"

  "M. Rougeux is patrolling the perimeter with a dozen lads from the village," Porthos said. "He and de Tréville started organizing things this morning when the Queen went into labor. We’re not completely defenseless."

  "I see," d’Artagnan said, refraining from stating the obvious—that a few young men from the village would not stand a chance if Grimaud’s allies descended on them in force. They all knew it.

  Instead, he took his leave, finding Mme Rougeux in the kitchen and enlisting her help to brew up another batch of his mother’s salve. They were forced to use goat’s milk instead of cow’s milk and his hostess did not have any comfrey, but an hour later d’Artagnan thanked her politely and returned to the airy bedroom with a wooden bowl of golden-colored paste, along with a plate of bread and cheese and a mug of broth for Athos. Porthos raised a finger to his lips as d’Artagnan entered, gesturing toward the bed.

  "He’s asleep," the big man said softly, moving across the room to take some of the items from d’Artagnan. "C’mon and sit down. Aramis went out to check with M. Rougeux and the lads from the village, but he told me to grab you and get your wounds treated as soon as you came back with the salve."

  "Athos needs it more than I do," d’Artagnan said quietly, looking at the man on the bed.

  "Pfft. There’s plenty for both of you, and Mme Rougeux can always make some more if need be. Now take off your doublet and shirt so I can see your back properly."

  D’Artagnan looked up at him, his brows drawing together in a frown. "Aramis told you about that?"

  "Keep your voice down," Porthos said kindly. "Yeah, of course he told me. Though it was pretty obvious from the way you were holding yourself that something was wrong with you. Don’t worry; he made me promise not to get after you about it. Now—shirt off, unless you want me to sit on you and do it myself."

  "That won’t be necessary," d’Artagnan mumbled, and gingerly removed the clothing, wincing a bit when his shirt pulled free from his back where the blood had dried and scabbed.

  "Merde, d’Artagnan," Porthos swore under his breath, before shaking his head and turning his attention to the filthy bandage wrapped around his left wrist. "All right. Let’s see the wrist as well. This happened about the same time as Athos got hurt, right?"

  D’Artagnan nodded and unwrapped the cloth covering the wound. "My wrists were tied behind me to an iron ring in the wall. There was a burr on the metal and I used it to saw through the bindings, but the rope dragging back and forth tore my wrist up pretty badly."

  Porthos lifted his arm and examined it closely. "Yeah, that’s a mess. Better than being dead though."

  "Precisely my thought at the time."

  "Hmm... looks like it’s starting to heal except where some of the rope fibers are still stuck under the scabs," Porthos said. "I think if we clean it out thoroughly, it’ll be right as rain except for a bit of scarring."

  He picked up a pair of tiny metal tweezers from the leather kit laid out on the table next to him, wielding them in his large hands with unexpected delicacy. D’Artagnan tried not to wince at the unpleasant tug and slide as Porthos patiently pulled the little threads of hemp loose from the flesh where they were trapped. Dots of pus oozed out where several of them had been, but when he was finished, the deep itching and irritation to which d’Artagnan had become accustomed over the past few days seemed much reduced.

  Porthos washed the wrist thoroughly with a clean rag dipped in spirits and indicated the pot of ointment with a gesture. "That’s good for all kinds of wounds, yes? Not just burns?"

  D’Artagnan nodded and replied, "My mother used it on everything."

  "Good," Porthos said, and applied a generous layer to the reddened flesh. When he was satisfied, he wrapped the injury with clean linen and indicated that d’Artagnan should turn around so his back was facing the light.

  D’Artagnan felt a deep sense of discomfort and vulnerability as Porthos carefully cleaned the whip marks, soaking the scabs until they loosened and he could flush out all of the areas with broken skin. True to his word, the big man was silent, but d’Artagnan imagined he could hear him gritting his teeth.

  "Look, Porthos," he said eventually. "It’s fine. You don’t have to—"

  "It’s not fine," Porthos interrupted, his voice a growl, "and I do have to. So be quiet and stop squirming."

  At that moment, footsteps in the hall heralded de Tréville’s appearance in the doorway. The older man’s single eye flickered over the scene, moving from Athos asleep on the bed to Porthos and d’Artagnan near the window. He frowned and crossed behind d’Artagnan to get a clear view of what Porthos was doing, and d’Artagnan heard a disgusted huff.

  "Not this again," he said.

  The weariness and disappointment in de Tréville’s tone made d’Artagnan flush with shame, only to flush brighter still an instant later with defensive anger. Why could they not simply leave him be? He had never asked for their interference or their opinions on this matter, and he was doing nothing wrong.

  De Tréville continued, "I realize that the Church takes a lenient stan
ce on this flagellation nonsense. However, I do not. You weaken yourself unnecessarily for no rational reason, and that weakness puts others at risk, not just yourself."

  D’Artagnan suppressed a flinch at the sharpness of the rebuke, and swallowed back the words that wanted to rise in his own defense.

  "As long as you are in the Queen’s service, d’Artagnan," de Tréville stated bluntly, "I forbid you to engage in this practice. Leave it for the monks holed up in their monasteries and the madmen proclaiming the coming apocalypse. It has no place in the life of a soldier."

  D’Artagnan’s breath was coming fast and shallow. He opened his mouth to say something unwise, only to feel Porthos’ hand squeeze an uninjured part of his shoulder in a supportive, grounding gesture with an undertone of warning.

  "Yes, sir," he said instead, not meeting de Tréville’s gaze.

  The older man sighed audibly. "I don’t enjoy seeing those under my command bleed, d’Artagnan." Out of the corner of his eye, d’Artagnan saw de Tréville divert his attention back to the still form on the bed. "It happens often enough as it is. I won’t stand by and watch a man bring it on himself."

  D’Artagnan nodded once, sharply, still without looking up. At that moment, it felt as though Porthos’ hand on him was the only thing keeping him from floating away into the sky like a leaf buffeted on the wind.

  "Still quiet outside?" Porthos asked, changing the subject—much to d’Artagnan’s relief.

  "Very," de Tréville said. "More men are trickling in from some of the nearby villages in response to the messengers M. Rougeux sent out. We’ve started directing them to the church for now."

  "Why are they coming here?" d’Artagnan asked, feeling his curiosity piqued despite himself. "What messages did you send out?"

  De Tréville hitched a hip onto the edge of the table by the window. "They are rallying to their rightful Queen, and, if God is with us, to the new King. With Her Majesty confined to the birthing bed, we have become more vulnerable than we’ve ever been. We cannot run now; if our enemies find us we will have to stand and fight. We need numbers."

  "The time for secrecy is over," Porthos said. "Couldn’t come soon enough for my taste, I have to say; I’ve had my fill of running scared."

  "If trained troops descend on a few dozen peasant boys who have never held a sword or pistol before today, it will be a bloodbath," d’Artagnan said.

  "We have righteousness on our side," de Tréville said with the air of a commander who had led forces against impossible odds before.

  "Then I hope righteousness is a decent shot with a musket," d’Artagnan muttered under his breath, drawing a rumbling laugh from Porthos behind him.

  "Have faith, d’Artagnan," de Tréville said tolerantly. "If we stay the course, things will come right in the end. And if not... well, unus pro omnibus, and all that. There are worse ways to go than dying with honor in the service of France."

  D’Artagnan’s eared perked up at hearing the same mysterious words that Athos had muttered after his collapse outside of Luigny, but he merely replied, "I’m afraid faith is more Aramis’ area, but I’m not going anywhere, sir."

  "Oh, dear—my ears appear to be burning," Aramis said from outside the door, having chosen that moment to return. "What have I missed?"

  "Nothing of import, Aramis," de Tréville said. "I will relieve M. Rougeux outside. Eat and rest now, gentlemen. We have a long night ahead of us."

  The others indicated their agreement and he took his leave. Porthos finished cleaning d’Artagnan’s back and covered it with salve, while Aramis checked on Athos once more. The three of them ate a bit and talked of light matters, quieting each time the Queen’s cries of pain reached their ears. As the day wore on into evening, they took it in turns to go outside and speak with de Tréville and the villagers.

  Athos woke from sleep as the sun was going down and Porthos was lighting the lamps in the room. After assuring him that everything was still quiet, Porthos helped him take a bowl of broth with bread soaked in it, while Aramis uncovered his wounds and smeared d’Artagnan’s salve onto them. D’Artagnan was relieved that he appeared to have benefited from the hours of rest, sitting up against a pile of folded blankets and trading good-natured barbs with the others.

  During a lull in the conversation, d’Artagnan finally thought to ask a question he had been wondering about. "Athos, you said something in Latin when we were on the road that I didn’t understand. And earlier, when de Tréville was in here, he started to say the same thing. Un est pro...?"

  "Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno," Aramis said.

  "It means ‘One for all, all for one’," Porthos explained. "It was the unofficial motto of the Musketeers of the Guard, before King Louis was ousted."

  "No one left behind," Athos said. "No one abandoned. What affects one of us, affects all of us. You exemplified that, when you forced me to continue on after I thought my strength was exhausted, rather than leaving me to die."

  Unable to devise a response to that, d'Artagnan only nodded, not meeting the others’ eyes. The words resonated within his chest, expanding to fill the emptiness that had settled there earlier when de Tréville chastised him for succumbing to the siren call of the whip.

  All for one. One for all. No one left alone. No one left behind.

  Aramis’ expression was kind and too knowing as he said, "Get some sleep, d’Artagnan. You too, Athos. Porthos and I will check with the guards and see if there is any news from the birthing chamber. If there’s anything worth reporting, we’ll wake you."

  "I could go," d’Artagnan offered, feeling as though he’d been fairly useless since their arrival earlier in the day.

  "We’re rested, and you’ve been stuck on the road with Athos for days," Porthos said. "That’s exhausting enough all on its own."

  "Oh, to be surrounded by such wit," Athos drawled. "Stay, d’Artagnan, so that these two might leave me in peace, rather than alternately insulting me and fussing over me like a pair of old biddy hens with one chick."

  D’Artagnan couldn’t help the smile that twitched in one corner of his mouth. No matter how dire the circumstances, his soul seemed lighter when he was surrounded by these men.

  "Far be it from me to ignore the request of an injured man," he said magnanimously, bringing a smile to the others’ faces. Once they had exited to see to their errands, d’Artagnan turned down the lamps and removed his boots, placing them next to his doublet and weapons belt before climbing carefully into the low, wide bed next to Athos. The older man—still weak from his ordeal—was asleep within minutes, his breathing even and slow. D’Artagnan listened to it in the dark for a little while before his own exhaustion caused him to follow Athos into slumber.

  It was still dark when a low voice spoke his name.

  "D’Artagnan," Aramis said. "Wake up."

  He was awake in an instant, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and reaching clumsily for his boots and weapons, vaguely aware of Athos rousing himself to awareness next to him.

  "Rest easy, friends," the other man added quickly. "All is well. De Tréville is speaking with Milady, and we thought you two might want to hear the latest."

  D’Artagnan relaxed, but continued to pull on his boots. "Yes. Thank you for thinking of it. Everything is still quiet outside?"

  "It is," Porthos said, dropping into a chair across the room. "I’ve had a thought about that, actually."

  De Tréville entered, having evidently heard Porthos’ words. "I’d be interested to hear it, Porthos. First, though, Milady reports that Her Majesty’s birthing pains are coming quite close together now, and are strong. Mme Rougeux has joined them and they do not expect it will be much longer. We sent for the parish priest yesterday; if God is with us he will arrive shortly, in time to confirm and record the birth."

  "But the babe is arriving early, is it not?" Aramis said with a glance at de Tréville. "There are still concerns about its health."

  "There are always concerns," de Tréville said. "Howe
ver, you are correct, though I’m not certain how you could know such a thing. The baby was not due for another four weeks. That’s a significant period of time, but not necessarily catastrophic."

  Aramis shrugged. "There is no great mystery; I merely spoke about it with Milady. Who, by the way, concurs with your assessment of the child’s chances."

  "I see," de Tréville said. "As it happens, that brings me to another thing which I must speak with you all about. But first—Porthos, you said you’d had an idea about our mysteriously absent attackers."

  Porthos nodded. "It occurred to me that when they escaped, d’Artagnan and Athos killed the leader of the group that came after the Queen in Illiers-Combray. Possibly his lieutenants as well, assuming he wanted his best men with him during the interrogation. What if that was who Grimaud’s message was supposed to get to?"

  De Tréville and Athos looked thoughtful, and Aramis nodded.

  "If that were the case," Athos said, "it wouldn’t stop them, but it might slow them down while they reorganized."

  "It depends on how tightly organized the group was in the first place, but it could certainly explain a few days’ delay if more messages had to be sent to clarify the details and the new chain of command," de Tréville allowed. "I’m not sure we can rely on it, but you may well have something there, Porthos."

  Porthos looked pleased with the praise. "What else did you want to talk to us about, sir?" he asked.

  "To start with," de Tréville said, "I owe you an apology for doubting your loyalty, Porthos. I think you understand my reasons for doing what I did—and in fairness, I would do it again in the same circumstances—but I still wanted to deliver that apology in front of all of you."

  Porthos’ smile faded, leaving him looking uncomfortable. D’Artagnan cleared his throat.

  "I find it telling, sir, that you told Porthos you would be at a bustling inn, full of innocent people going about their business at all hours," he said, "while you told Grimaud that you would be at an abandoned property where an attack would harm no one except the mice. Almost as if you knew that no one would be at risk in Châteaudun."