Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3

by R. A. Steffan

  “Tell me how things fare with the delightful Constance,” Aramis said.

  “I don’t understand her,” d’Artagnan said truthfully.

  “You’re a man,” Aramis said, “and a young one at that. Of course you don’t understand her. Did you talk to her as I suggested?”

  “Yes, but it didn’t help. I asked her how I had offended her, but she would only insist that I hadn’t offended her at all. When, obviously, I had. Else why would she stiffen and pull away from my touch when I kissed her?”

  Milady’s low voice came from the open door, where she had just reappeared from her various self-appointed tasks. “Interesting that you automatically assume her reaction must be all about you.”

  D’Artagnan and Aramis both looked to the doorway, startled.

  “What else would it be about?” d’Artagnan asked, genuinely puzzled.

  ”Pfft.” Milady made a small sound of disdain. “She has almost certainly been forced in the past. She was married at the age of fourteen to a man nearly thirty years her senior; it’s quite possible that being taken forcibly is the only way she’s ever known.”

  D’Artagnan felt his heart, which had received too many shocks already today, begin to pound against his ribcage in the ensuing dead silence.

  “Sorry,” Milady said, not sounding particularly sorry, “I’m sure this was meant to be a private conversation, but I heard voices as I was returning to the other room. Then, I heard what the voices were saying and decided that I had best step in and clarify matters before d’Artagnan pined himself into a permanent stupor.”

  D’Artagnan realized that his mouth had been hanging open and closed it, just as Porthos let out another stertorous snore from the corner.

  “That would explain quite a bit, to be sure,” Aramis said, sounding sad.

  “But... they were married,” d’Artagnan said. “Why would he hurt her? He was supposed to care for her. Protect her.”

  “You and Constance are surprisingly well-matched in terms of your innocence regarding the way the world works,” Milady said, and d’Artagnan bristled—how could she speak of innocence when he had buried his entire family—when Constance had buried a husband and an infant child? But she continued, “Picture it, though. A child bride with next to no idea what to expect on her wedding night... a husband eager to claim his young, attractive prize. The first time can be painful; she protests—tries to pull away. He ignores her pleas or, at best, tells her to be still and it will get better.”

  D’Artagnan felt anger and nausea rising in equal measure as he pictured the scene.

  “Because the first time was painful and frightening,” Milady continues, “the girl assumes that it will always be that way, and her fears become largely self-fulfilling. The husband, meanwhile, cares little as long as she submits to what he sees as her duty.”

  “I would kill any man who treated Constance in such a way,” d’Artagnan said, finding it hard to force the words past the thick lump in his throat.

  “He’s already dead,” Milady said, sounding impatient. “What good does your posturing do her now?”

  “Well, what then?” he snapped, barely remembering to keep his voice down as Porthos slumbered on across the room.

  “D’Artagnan.” Aramis' rough, weak voice cut across his frustration. “Milady only means that a woman who has been hurt by men in the past may not appreciate another man whose thoughts turn immediately to violence whenever his passions are aroused.”

  D’Artagnan subsided, forcing himself to think through their words. Seeing the sense in them. “I think I understand,” he said eventually. “I’m sorry for raising my voice, Milady—you’re perfectly correct that it is foolish to threaten a dead man.”

  Milady waved his apology aside with a curt gesture, and d’Artagnan got a sudden sense that she would prefer to be having nearly any other conversation than this one.

  “I appreciate you’re bringing the matter to my attention and helping me comprehend the situation more clearly,” d’Artagnan said. “Only... how do you know so much about it?”

  “I talked to Constance about her background,” Milady said. “More importantly, I listened to what she said in return. You might try that, if you wish to have any sort of future with her. Particularly the listening part.”

  “I will,” d’Artagnan said, still trying to fit this new information into the landscape of his interactions with Constance. “What I meant though, is how you know so much about the way a woman reacts. You’ve never been—”

  He cut himself off, seeing Aramis wince out of the corner of his eye at the same time his mind caught up to his mouth, and what he was implying. Milady’s expression had been cold before, but now it might as well have been cut from solid marble. “Forgive me,” he hurried to say. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “I understand that my sordid past has recently been laid bare in my absence for your curiosity and delectation,” she interrupted in a voice like winter wind. “Perhaps you did not think to ask yourself afterwards what reason my parents might have had for sending me off to a nunnery at the age of sixteen. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

  Without waiting for them to speak, Milady turned and retired to her husband’s bed in the room next door, leaving d’Artagnan feeling as if he’d just been struck across the cheek. He leaned his elbows on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands and scrubbing at it. Aramis’ shaky hand landed on his right forearm a moment later.

  “That will require an apology,” said the older man. “Not tonight, but promise me you will not leave it too long.”

  “Yes. Of course.” D’Artagnan gave his face a final rough swipe, thinking of the passionate, fearless woman who had just left the room. “But... Milady?”

  “Milady’s past is her own,” Aramis said, his tone harder than d’Artagnan was used to hearing it. “Though of late one would hardly know it. You would do better to concentrate on her advice regarding Constance, which was sound and true.”

  “I will. You’re right,” d’Artagnan said. “It’s just a lot to think about.”

  Aramis softened. “Then it’s as well you appear to have plenty of time on your hands. You have a good think, and I’ll try to rest again. Only a few minutes awake, and I already feel as though I’ve climbed two leagues up the side of a mountain.”

  D’Artagnan covered Aramis’ hand with his own and squeezed it. “You do that. The others will thrash me from here to Sunday if they find I’ve tired you out.”

  The sick man laid back and tried to find a comfortable position with his aches and pains. When he settled, d’Artagnan wrung the rag out once more and draped it over his forehead and eyes to cool the fever. He slumped in the chair, wondering how his mind could possibly contain all the worries currently whirling up a maelstrom within.

  He was still sitting there several hours later when faint light from the window began to overtake the flame from the guttering candle on the table, and Porthos awoke with a groan and a stretch of creaking joints.

  “Is it morning?” Porthos asked. “You should have woken me earlier.”

  “I wasn’t tired,” d’Artagnan replied, though in reality his eyes itched and burned with fatigue.

  “How’s Aramis?” said Porthos, rising to cross to the bed.

  “Sleeping,” d’Artagnan said. “He woke occasionally through the night, but seemed about the same as yesterday.”

  “And I might still be sleeping if it weren’t for you two louts,” Aramis rasped, rolling over with a groan to lie on his side.

  “How do you feel this morning?” Porthos asked, ignoring the insult.

  “I appear to have added stomach cramps to my already impressive array of symptoms,” Aramis said, curling around the affected area in obvious discomfort.

  D’Artagnan vacated the chair so Porthos could sit in it and reach a hand out to feel Aramis’ forehead. “You haven’t eaten and you’ve barely drunk anything in more than a day,” Porthos said, failing to completely hide his worry at the new
development. “Maybe that would help?”

  “The thought is utterly repulsive at the moment, mon ami,” said Aramis. “Perhaps later. For now, just sit with me and talk. Better yet, tell me a story, so I will not be expected to keep up my half of the conversation.”

  “Sure,” Porthos said. “I can do that. D’Artagnan, you probably haven’t heard the one about how I first met de Tréville, have you?”

  D’Artagnan shook his head, eager for anything that might distract him from the nauseating worry and dread swirling in his stomach.

  “Well, I was in the regular army at the time,” Porthos began. “The musketeer regiment had just been commissioned by the King, and de Tréville was visiting some of the other commanders to recruit from their ranks. I think he wanted to get some seasoned soldiers on the rolls, to balance out all of the second and third sons of noblemen who didn’t know a musket barrel from their own arses.

  “Anyway, the evening before, I’d taken a bet against this bloke called Duchesne that I never should have agreed to. So there I was in only my braies, with my right arm tied behind my back, taking wrestling challenges from all comers when this very stern, very proper officer comes marching up...”

  * * *

  The hours crept by, and d’Artagnan continued to ignore all suggestions that he get some sleep. Athos and Milady had arrived earlier, carrying a letter from de Tréville that had been attached to a basket of food left outside the door between the main wing and the south wing. They crowded around as Milady read it aloud, and even Aramis seemed to rouse himself from his aches and shivering to hear the latest news from outside their narrow little slice of the world.

  The news appeared to be that there was no news. The siege continued; supplies were holding so far, though shortages of some less common goods would no doubt start soon. The walls of Chartres still stymied Isabella’s forces, who could not approach across the narrow bridges without being picked off at the city guards’ leisure. Isabella might well be able to lay hands on more effective weapons now that her troops knew what they were facing, but moving large siege engines across country and into position would take time.

  The letter ended with well-wishes from Her Majesty, Constance, and de Tréville, along with a request that they write regular notes in return to share their own news.

  Porthos made a grab for the basket, which contained an assortment of simple food along with a cloth bag full of chicken bones for stock. “I’ll head down to the kitchen and see what I can make of this,” he said. “Milady, how’s the water from the old well behind the stables?”

  “A bit cloudy, but not too bad,” said Milady, who had used the abandoned well the previous night rather than risk meeting someone unexpectedly at the main well. “Do you have any messages that you’d like me to include in our reply?”

  “Tell them thanks for the chicken carcass and that everyone will be fine,” Porthos said firmly, and left to start a pot of stock simmering downstairs.

  “Anyone else?” Milady asked.

  Athos shook his head, and Aramis croaked, “Tell them I’m not dead yet, but between my head and my stomach it’s starting to sound like an increasingly restful option,” from the bed.

  D’Artagnan winced, his mind not currently in a place where he could appreciate the gallows humor. Drawn by the small movement, Milady’s eyes rested on him for a moment, her expression still cold after his faux pas of the previous evening. When he didn’t speak, she swept through the door, letter in hand. Complete silence descended on the room.

  After a few moments spent wrestling with his tired and embarrassed thoughts, d’Artagnan excused himself from the other two. “I’ve thought of a message for the letter after all,” he said.

  The door to Athos’ and Milady’s room was open, and inside, Milady was settling down at the desk in the corner with a sheet of paper and a quill. D’Artagnan knocked lightly on the door frame and her wary gaze jerked to the entryway.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “May I speak with you privately for a moment?” d’Artagnan asked.

  Milady let the silence hang for a moment or two before she put down the quill, rose from her chair, and said, “Come in and close the door.”

  He entered and pulled the door shut behind him, clearing his throat.

  “Go on, then,” Milady said impatiently.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said. “Two, in fact.”

  “Yes, you do,” she replied. “So good of you to notice.”

  “I should not have stayed to listen when the Captain confronted Athos about your past,” he said, “and I should not have spoken before I thought last night.”

  “No, you should not have,” Milady said. “I will pardon you for the second slight, because I know that you aren’t dealing with Aramis’ illness nearly so well as you would have us believe, and I think that you would not have said such a thing if you had your wits about you.”

  “I hope that’s true,” d’Artagnan said.

  “As for the first, it will take longer for me to forgive, as I told the others when they came to me afterward to apologize.”

  D’Artagnan felt even worse, if that was possible, upon hearing that he was the last who had thought to seek Milady’s forgiveness for impinging upon her privacy when she was not present to defend herself. However, he was also here for a second purpose, and even in his raw, exhausted state he would not allow himself to falter.

  “I understand your position,” he said. “Would it be crass of me, at this juncture, to humbly request a favor of you?”

  “Yes. Very,” Milady said without hesitation. “But don’t let that stop you.”

  “It’s not for me. At least, not directly. If we survive to leave this place and return to the others, I intend to speak with Constance. Properly, I mean. If she desires it, may I suggest that she seek your counsel about her experiences with her husband? If I may once again be crass, you have found love and fulfillment with Athos, despite the cruelties visited upon you in your youth. Perhaps she can find that sort of happiness as well.”

  Milady looked troubled, and sat back down in the chair by the desk rather abruptly. D’Artagnan, surprised, took a step toward her but stopped when she waved him off with one hand.

  “You’re a good person, d’Artagnan,” she said, looking up at him, “though still quite a young and impetuous one. I’m going to speak to you frankly, because as you point out, there’s quite a good chance that we will not all be leaving these rooms alive.” She paused, dropping eye contact to stare at the window instead. “When I look at Constance, I see the road I might have taken—flinching from physical touch; letting the past define the present. Giving power to the person who hurt me.”

  “Constance is stronger than you think,” d’Artagnan said, unable to hold his tongue.

  “She is,” Milady agreed easily, and met his eyes again. “After I was raped, I vowed that I would learn the ways of physical pleasure, and take as much of it for myself as I could. The priest that helped me escape the convent was a pervert and a criminal, but he was not cruel. I learned what I could from him, both how to give and take pleasure, and how to defend myself. But where Constance built up walls around her body to try to protect herself, I built up walls around my soul. Cynicism. Detachment. Resentment. Had I not found Olivier, my life would have been a sad and unfulfilled one, indeed.”

  “Then I am very glad that you did find each other,” d’Artagnan said sincerely.

  “If Constance wishes to speak with me, she may. I have kept her at arm’s length because she is an uncomfortable reminder to me of what might have been; however, that is neither her fault, nor yours. We are all of us damaged in one way or another, but if I can help you and Constance be happy together, then I will.”

  “Thank you—” d’Artagnan began.

  “Don’t make a fuss over it,” Milady interrupted. “Now, would you like me to write her a note or not?”

  “Yes,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Please tell her that I miss
her and look forward to seeing and speaking with her.”

  “I will,” said Milady. “Now go get some rest... or, failing that, at least go bother the others instead of me, so I can get this done.”

  * * *

  By the time the light began to fade that evening, Porthos had returned with a hearty vegetable soup for them to eat and a light broth for the reluctant Aramis.

  “You’ve got to eat something,” Porthos pleaded. “It’s been two days.”

  Aramis relented, but twenty minutes later he was vomiting up everything he’d managed to consume, and then some.

  “Mother of God,” he cursed when the retching finally subsided, leaning against Athos and clutching his aching stomach.

  D’Artagnan sat very quietly a few feet away, his mouth hidden behind a clenched fist, remembering. It was going to get even worse soon... it was going to get so much worse and he didn’t know if he could do it all again. He was so tired he could barely remain upright, and it was all becoming too much. Porthos glanced at him, and his gaze caught and narrowed.

  “D’Artagnan,” said the big man, “You need to go rest now. You’ve been awake for a day and a half. Get out of here for a bit; go take a nap in Athos and Milady’s room.”

  “I’m all right,” d’Artagnan said quickly.

  Athos glared at him from where he was easing Aramis back down onto his side on the bed. “D’Artagnan. Go. Sleep. Now. Or I’ll knock you out myself and you’ll sleep that way instead.”

  “Bedside manner, Athos,” Aramis chided weakly. “Please.”

  “He’s not in bed,” Athos growled, pinning d’Artagnan with a blatantly threatening look. “Yet.”

  D’Artagnan rose and slunk from the room without a word, defeated.

  The room next door had been cleaned and aired, but it was far too quiet. He sat on the bed, sinking down slightly into the soft mattress. Perhaps he could merely sit here and rest his eyes for a couple of hours before returning to the others, he thought as he leaned back against the sturdy headboard. That wouldn’t be too bad.

  As long as he didn’t sleep...