Porthos blinked, and de Tréville looked surprised.
"I think you see the workings of my mind more clearly than I do myself, d’Artagnan," the older man said after a moment. Turning to Porthos, he continued, "Please understand that I never thought you a traitor, Porthos. But failure to be thorough in my investigation would have been an unthinkable dereliction of my duty to Her Majesty. You can see that?"
Porthos paused, and nodded slowly. "I can, sir. Our duty is to our Queen before all else. I do not think less of you for it."
"I’m glad of it," de Tréville said. "Because I owe Athos an apology as well."
Athos frowned. "As far as I am aware, you have offered me no insult, sir."
"You are not aware of it," de Tréville said, "which is why I am telling you now."
"I’m afraid I do not understand," Athos said, looking wary.
"My trap had one final aspect that you did not discern, Athos. You are correct that I did not seriously consider Porthos to be the traitor. When I sat down and contemplated who could have betrayed us to our enemies, two main possibilities presented themselves. I thought it must be either Grimaud... or your wife."
Athos straightened as suddenly as if someone had shoved a ramrod into his spine, the blood draining further from his already pale face.
"Explain yourself, if you please," he said.
"From the beginning, she has not exactly been reticent regarding her misgivings about our plans," de Tréville continued. "I began discreet enquiries about her background while we were still in Blois. Would you like me to tell you what I found?"
"I know very well what you found," Athos said tightly.
De Tréville glanced around the room, from Porthos and Aramis standing in uncomfortable silence, to d’Artagnan frozen in place, perched on the edge of the bed. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion in private?"
Athos seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment before coming to a silent decision. "These men are my brothers," he said. "You may say in front of them anything you care to say in front of me."
De Tréville nodded. "Very well. As I said, I had some of my contacts check into the comtesse’s background. And she is not who she claims to be. Anne de Breuil died in 1617; her gravestone lies in a churchyard in Tergnier. The woman you call Anne is an imposter and a criminal."
D’Artagnan was forcibly reminded of Athos’ final conversation with his treacherous servant in the kitchens of the castle at Blois.
You have been lost to me for years, Master, Grimaud had said, ever since you took that... that creature into your bed, and into your life. She has turned you weak and sinful, with her own wickedness! You know what she is.
Yes, Athos had replied. I do. I know exactly who and what she is.
Looking back and forth from de Tréville to Athos, d’Artagnan clamped his jaw tightly over any expression of shock that might have tried to escape. Aramis and Porthos kept their expressions admirably neutral, though their concern for Athos—who looked every bit as haggard now as when he had fainted and fallen from his horse—was palpable.
"You are correct," said the injured man on the bed. "She is. She was introduced to me at La Fère as the sister of a country curate, and we fell in love. My father had died years before, but my mother and brother disapproved of the match. However, I cared nothing for their opinions, and we were married."
"She was already far beneath you in status," de Tréville said.
"What care had I for status?" Athos scoffed. "We were happy... until the plague came to La Fère. Everyone in the household was sickened, except for Grimaud and myself. My brother died first. Then the other servants, followed by my mother. But by some miracle, Anne survived. It was while I was tending to her that I discovered a fleur-de-lys brand on her shoulder."
"The mark of a criminal," Porthos said, sounding deeply affected. "I’d wondered how you first found out."
Athos’ red-rimmed eyes flew to Porthos in surprise, silently questioning, and immediately to Aramis, who nodded.
"Yes, Athos. We both knew," Aramis said kindly. "You talk in your sleep when you’re drunk, my dear friend. We decided it was none of our business, so we never discussed it further."
Athos squeezed his eyes shut, and d’Artagnan’s throat ached in sympathy at the depth of feeling hidden behind that tightly controlled visage.
"Regardless of her past, she will always be Anne to me," Athos continued after a long pause, a faint tremor coloring his voice. "When she recovered from her illness enough to speak, she told me everything and threw herself upon my mercy. She had escaped from a convent when she was sixteen, with the aid of the priest who had been posing as her brother when we met. Of course, they were not truly siblings; they were lovers. They had survived by stealing and swindling their way across half of France, and by marrying her to a nobleman, they’d hoped to set themselves up for life."
Unable to contain himself any longer, d’Artagnan exclaimed, "But she loves you! That is clear to anyone!"
"Yes," Athos agreed. "She came to love me as deeply as I loved her. She broke things off with the curate, but continued to send him money to ensure his silence. When the Black Death came, though, he was one of the first to die. She must have thought at the time that her secret was finally safe. She hadn’t counted on becoming sick herself. I was bathing her—trying to cool her fever—when I found the criminal brand."
De Tréville looked deeply troubled. "The audacity of such a deception, Athos... perhaps it is not my place to judge, but I doubt I would have been as forgiving."
Athos’ eyes were burning when he turned them on de Tréville. D’Artagnan had never before seen such naked emotion from the normally reticent man.
"My mother and my brother had just died, and my wife nearly did," he said, each word delivered like the thrust of a blade. "I was alone in the world, but for her. What would you have had me do when I discovered the truth? Hang her from the nearest tree?"
De Tréville met that fiery gaze head on. "No," he said eventually. "Of course not. I merely wish that you had confided in me, given the delicate situation in which we are all enmeshed."
Athos dropped back against the headboard, exhausted. "It wasn’t my secret to tell."
De Tréville seemed to shake himself free of the moment, and the tension in the room subsided markedly. D’Artagnan let out the breath he had been holding, and Porthos and Aramis relaxed slightly from their positions of wary protectiveness.
"It’s moot now, in any event," de Tréville said. "As far as Milady was aware, if we could not stay at Thiron Abbey, we would come here. After the attack at Thiron-Gardais, I sent a message to M. Rougeux to take his family away and stay with relatives for a few days. Had Milady been the traitor, the attackers would have come here after failing to find us at the abbey. When that did not happen, it proved that she was not the source of information. Hence my desire to deliver an apology to you as well as Porthos."
"Were I not currently debating the merits of calling you out to a duel," Athos said from his position staring up at the ceiling, "I would no doubt be impressed by your cunning, sir. However, I am not certain that I am the one to whom you should be delivering the apology."
"I didn’t think she would appreciate the distraction, just now," de Tréville said. "Though I will certainly deliver it when the opportunity presents itself. Perhaps the duel can wait until then, eh? Or perhaps she will call me out herself, and save you the effort."
"Perhaps so," Athos said, sounding weary beyond measure.
A commotion at the front door pulled them from the aftermath of the little drama. Everyone except Athos, who was unarmed, reached for a weapon.
"Édouard?" de Tréville called from the doorway.
"Yes, it’s all right," M. Rougeux’s booming voice called back. "The priest has arrived!"
The musketeers relaxed with relief, and a moment later their host appeared in the company of a middle-aged man with black hair and bushy eyebrows, wearing a cassock and looking slightly disheve
led.
"This is Father Julien," M. Rougeux said. "Father, this is Captain Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville of the Queen’s Guard, and his men. Father Julien brings important news, Jean-Armand."
"Thank you for coming, Father," de Tréville said, bowing to the priest. "What news do you have?"
Father Julien sketched a shallow bow in return and met de Tréville’s gaze, his face serious. "Captain, your message eventually reached me in Illiers-Combray, where I had been called to deal with the aftermath of a disturbance south of the town involving a fire and several dead men."
Athos met d’Artagnan’s eyes.
"Shortly after I left and rejoined the main road to come here," the priest continued, "I passed a large company of armed men headed this way. It was dark and I gave them a wide berth; I doubt they took much notice of me. Once I was safely past them, I rode like the devil to get here."
"They were on foot?" de Tréville asked.
"Mostly, yes. A few were mounted. They were moving slowly and will be a couple of hours behind me, at least."
"That can’t be a coincidence," Aramis said with false lightness.
"Certainly not," de Tréville agreed. "What do you think, Édouard? Could they be some of ours?"
M. Rougeux grunted, sounding skeptical. "How many men would you say there were, Father?"
The priest shook his head and replied, "You must understand, it was quite dark. I would say more than two hundred, easily. Perhaps three hundred."
"I dunno, Jean-Armand," M. Rougeux said. "So far they’ve been straggling in by twos and threes, not dozens and hundreds. That seems far too many on such short notice for them to be on our side."
"I concur. Well, at least we have warning, and a couple of hours to plan," de Tréville said. "Thank you for that, Father."
Mme Rougeux bustled in before the priest could respond. "Oh, thank goodness!" she said. "You’re just in time, Father. The baby is about to come."
"Yes, of course." Father Julien looked down and started rummaging in the bag slung over his shoulder, pulling out a large book of parish records. "Do you have ink and a quill?"
"Yes, everything is ready," Mme Rougeux said. "And M. de Tréville? Her Majesty is asking for you."
"I’ll be right there," de Tréville said, causing the priest to look up from his fumbling, just as a long cry of pain drifted from down the hall.
"In the birthing room?" the cleric asked. "That seems highly unusual..."
De Tréville squared up to the man, bringing himself to his full height. "I am ever Her Majesty’s servant, Father. When she calls upon me, I will be there." He turned to the others. "You three—join the patrols outside. Have someone saddle all of the horses and ready them for use; we may need them quickly. I’ll send word as soon as the baby is born."
Athos was pulling on clothing, his movements weak but determined. "Get me a sword and a pistol, and help me down the hall. I will guard the door to the room, even if I have to do so from a chair."
De Tréville gave him an assessing look before nodding curt agreement; even weakened as he was, Athos with a weapon in his hand was a dangerous opponent for anyone. Athos strapped on the weapons belt that Porthos handed him and allowed the captain to support him with an arm across his shoulders as everyone departed for their various duties.
Half an hour later, d’Artagnan was checking his section of the perimeter for the fifth time, and inwardly cursing the vagaries of childbirth, military tactics, and cloudy nights. Why did it have to be so dark? And why did the birthing process have to be so nerve wracking and protracted? Every tiny noise from the bushes seemed to herald the descent of troops upon them, even though d’Artagnan new that in reality, they were not due for a little while yet.
One of the village boys hurried up, but instead of taking his report and passing on the all clear from the others, he came to a breathless halt and said in a rush, "M. d’Artagnan? Milady says go to the stables right away! The captain will meet you and the others there."
D’Artagnan thanked him and practically ran to the stable yard, so desperate was he for news. From the looks of Porthos and Aramis when he arrived, they were every bit as eager as he. De Tréville strode in a few moments later, all signs of fatigue replaced by blade-sharp single-mindedness.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I am pleased to report that His Most Holy Majesty Henry V of France was born at four thirty a.m. this day, Friday the eleventh of July, 1631."
Porthos released a sigh of relief, and Aramis closed his eyes and crossed himself. D’Artagnan felt a wave of excitement at the news, knowing that it meant all they had gone through to get to this point was not in vain.
"How is the child?" Aramis asked.
"He is small and weak, but alive," de Tréville said. "There is no sign of deformity or defect, and he was able to suckle."
"And the Queen?" d’Artagnan asked, thinking of the screams of pain that had filled the house for hours.
"Weary, but in good health," the captain replied, allowing a faint smile to lift one corner of his mouth briefly. "Now, our plans. Troops are moving on La Croix-du-Perche. I propose to meet them at the edge of the town with some of our forces, leaving the remainder of the men here to protect the house."
The rest of them nodded in understanding, the grim reality of their situation immediately overcoming the brief flush of excitement and relief at the birth of the King.
"Aramis, you will coordinate the local lads guarding the perimeter of the property," de Tréville ordered. "Porthos, you will join Athos and Milady inside the house. You three, along with M. and Mme Rougeux, will be the last line of defense for Their Majesties."
"No one will touch mother or child without climbing over our lifeless bodies first, Captain," Porthos vowed solemnly.
De Tréville nodded in acknowledgement. "I would have expected nothing less from such fine and loyal guards. D’Artagnan, you will come with me to gather the men who are staying at the chapel and confront the troops at the edge of town. We are completely outnumbered regardless of what strategy we employ, but I do have a trick or two remaining that might help to throw things into confusion before they can reach this property."
"I’ll do whatever I can to help, sir," d’Artagnan said, feeling the thrum of excitement and the anticipation of battle push the weariness from his body.
"Gather all of the horses, except the fastest one, together in two strings that we can lead to the chapel," de Tréville said. "We’ll leave one horse in case someone here needs to get a message out for some reason; otherwise, I want the biggest show of strength we can manage, and that means men on horseback."
"One horse is lame," d’Artagnan said, thinking of Grimaud’s mare. "Do you still want her?"
"Yes, but we’ll keep her at the back of the group where she won’t be as noticeable. We’re not going far, and this is more an exercise in making a particular impression than anything else. Choose a good horse for yourself; you will be acting as my lieutenant and should be mounted as such."
"Take Rosita," Aramis said. "And leave Porthos’ gelding here for us. He’s the fleetest of foot should we need to send out a messenger."
"If that’s settled," said de Tréville, "get ready and I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes. I need to retrieve some items before we leave."
"Yes, sir," d’Artagnan said.
De Tréville met Aramis’ and Porthos’ eyes in turn, offering each of them a nod of acknowledgement that they returned with respect, touching the wide brims of their hats. The older man turned with precision and strode away toward the house, leaving the three musketeers alone in the yard.
D’Artagnan looked at Porthos and Aramis, feeling a sudden, painful awareness that this might well be the last time he saw them.
"My friends," Aramis said, "we all have our assigned duties. May God watch over us and lend our hearts courage and our blades, strength. I will see both of you soon, either in this life, or the next."
He stretched out his hand, and d’Artagnan grasped it firmly. A
moment later, both of their hands were enveloped in Porthos’ own large one.
"This life, or the next," Porthos echoed.
D’Artagnan smiled, feeling his regard for these men who had made a place for him expand to fill him from head to foot. "This life or the next," he agreed. "Porthos, tell Athos... tell him I could not ask for a better mentor, and that I particularly valued the lesson he gave to me in Latin."
"I will," Porthos said, and the three let their hands fall back to their sides.
Unable to bear the moment any further, d’Artagnan turned and headed toward the stables, but stopped after only a few steps as a thought hit him.
"Aramis?" he called back.
"Yes?" said the other man, peering at him curiously through the darkness.
"It just occurred to me... if we are to meet in the next life, should I be aiming for Heaven or Hell?"
He was rewarded by Porthos’ rumbling laugh, and a fond look from Aramis, who replied, "Heaven, of course, you wicked boy. Are we not on the side of the righteous?"
Porthos clapped Aramis on the back and said, "Oh, come now, Aramis! In my experience, all of the interesting people go to Hell..."
Aramis opened his mouth to refute Porthos’ outrageous statement, feigning offense. D’Artagnan took a last look before turning away, wanting to remember the pair of them exactly as they were at that moment.
Chapter XI: July 11th, 1631
IT WAS STRANGE how little fear d’Artagnan felt now that he himself was heading to almost certain death. He had opened his heart as he’d vowed he never would again, leaving himself vulnerable to yet more loss.
But, somehow, this was different.
Just as Porthos had vowed that no enemy would reach the baby without first killing all of them, d’Artagnan vowed to himself that no enemy would reach his friends here without first having to scramble over his own cooling corpse. He would lay down his life to protect this innocent newborn babe, whom others would see dead merely because of the name of his father, but, equally, he would do so to protect the strange, mismatched family that had accepted him so readily and completely as one of their own.
Book 2: The Queen's Musketeers, #2 Page 18
