Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3

by R. A. Steffan

  Some unknown amount of time later, he heard noises coming from the other room—wet coughing, and the sound of a woman’s low voice. Alarmed, he struggled up from the bed, feeling strangely heavy and disconnected. Forcing his limbs to carry him, he crossed to the door and dragged it open. The hallway seemed to have grown in length, but he stumbled forward to the next room and grabbed the doorframe to steady himself as he took in the sight within.

  Aramis lay limp and still on the bed in a puddle of his own vomit. Porthos was bent over him, rocking silently back and forth with his back to the doorway. Across the room, Athos began coughing again, hunching forward in pain as he spat into a white linen handkerchief. When he straightened, d’Artagnan could see the stain on the cloth, scarlet in the candlelight.

  Unable to make a sound, d’Artagnan’s eyes flew to Milady, standing a few steps in front of her husband with a pistol clutched in each hand.

  “Do it. Do it now,” Athos rasped, and she raised the pistol in her left hand, shooting him through the heart.

  “No!” d’Artagnan cried as Athos crumpled to the floor without a sound.

  Milady turned to look at him. “I told you my life would have been nothing without Olivier,” she said, and raised the barrel of the second pistol to her lips, taking the cold metal into her mouth. Blood sprayed as she pulled the trigger, and d’Artagnan fell to his knees on the unforgiving marble even as her body hit the floor.

  “Porthos—“ the entreaty should have been a cry, but was barely a whisper as it passed d’Artagnan’s lips.

  The familiar figure by the bed coughed, shoulders shaking. When it turned, however, it was not Porthos, but d’Artagnan’s father who looked over at him with rivulets of frothy blood trailing down his chin to stain the front of his shirt.

  “Is this how you care for your friends, Charles?” his father asked. “No wonder you can’t save anyone you care about.”

  D’Artagnan jerked awake, gasping as if he had been running for his life. The darkness surrounding him was impenetrable and he flailed, falling off the mattress and onto the floor where he sat clutching the cool wooden bed frame, heart pounding, clammy sweat trickling down his forehead.

  It wasn’t real... it wasn’t real... it wasn’t real...

  But it was real—parts of it, at least. Aramis was sick. Aramis was almost certainly going to die. Porthos was at grave risk, and just because Athos and Milady had survived the plague at La Fére didn’t mean they would survive it a second time. Maybe he would die this time, too. That would surely be better than...

  He should go check on the others. He tried to listen for any noises in the next room, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, his breath wheezing, shallow and fast. He should go check... but what if he found part of his dream? Aramis fading, or even dead; the others succumbing to the sickness. In his present state he would shatter like spun glass. He needed to calm down first. He needed...

  It was the middle of the night. The stable would be deserted; he wouldn’t be putting anyone at risk. He could visit his father’s pony, lean against the sagging back for a few minutes. Bury his face in the shaggy mane and breathe in the familiar smell until his chest unlocked and his lungs started working properly. Just a short visit to get himself under control, and then he would check on the others. Only a few minutes, and he would be back without anyone knowing he’d left. Even if he dragged a little bit of the miasma of sickness with him to the stables, it was a big, airy building and it would disperse long before anyone else arrived. It would be all right.

  He rose on shaky legs and opened the door silently. Trying without success to keep his breathing measured and slow, he walked quietly down the hallway and descended the back staircase, clutching the banister to steady himself. The large door at the rear of the wing creaked slightly as he opened it just enough to slip through, and he paused, trying to pull in some of the humid night air against the constriction in his chest, hoping to clear his lungs.

  The stables were set across the grounds, no great distance from the south wing. D’Artagnan headed for the darker blur of the long, low building against the cloudy night sky. He could not rely on the cat o’ nine tails any longer, but this would do instead, he told himself. This would be enough. It had to be. He would visit his old gelding and reconnect with the memory of his father as he had been in life, kind and loving—not the angry specter from his dream.

  He entered the building, letting the low noises of animals breathing and rustling their hay and bedding wash over him, and felt his distress begin to ease. His gelding was near the north end of the row of stalls, stabled next to the broom-tailed mare. He lit one of the lanterns hanging near the entrance and picked it up, carrying it down the alleyway to hang on a hook near his horses’ stalls.

  His attention was drawn by the broom-tailed mare’s nervous snorting. Concerned that she was suffering from colic or had perhaps tangled herself in her rope somehow, he moved forward to check on her. His pony was apparently lying down, since he couldn’t see the animal’s back over the door. Not surprising; the old gelding often seemed to be sleeping when d’Artagnan came to see him these last few weeks.

  The mare, on the other hand, was up. She was not tangled, and rather than stamping her feet and snapping at her flanks as if her belly hurt, her attention was focused on the low wall that separated her stall from the pony’s—ears pricked, nostrils flared, and snorting out soft, distressed breaths.

  Brow furrowing, d’Artagnan moved to the gelding’s stall and looked in. The pony was, in fact, lying down—legs curled underneath his body, but... wrong. Too still. Head jammed awkwardly against the front wall. No slow rise and fall of breathing.

  Peaceful, but not asleep. The peace of a soul fled from an aged body.

  D’Artagnan pulled in a single sharp breath. Another. His mind began to make sense of the scene before him, almost against his will.

  He couldn’t...

  No. He...

  No.

  The world went soft and gray at the edges. It jerked back into focus for an instant as his back hit with the wall behind him, only to fade again. Time passed in a long, shapeless blur. With a flash of awareness he realized he was in the tack room, his hand on one of the whips hanging from a rack on the wall. Awareness fled once more.

  Outside. Gray pre-dawn light was streaking the eastern sky. A voice. Female. High-pitched. Nearby.

  “D’Artagnan? D’Artagnan! What is it? What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

  He ran. Left the voice behind.

  North wing. No. No... south wing. But... the others. They would stop him if they found out.

  Far end. Downstairs. Room... empty. Door... closed. Click of a lock.

  Gray blankness. How long? Cold flagstones under his knees. Painful. Unyielding. Shirt off. Whip in hand. Quickly, quickly.

  Noise at the door. Voices. Knocking.

  This whip was different from his old one. One tail; thin, braided leather. Balance—strange in his hand.

  The knocking became pounding. Voices. Shouting.

  He grasped the whip handle, ready to swing. So, so ready.

  The door crashed open. Porthos and Athos charged in.

  “I’m getting real tired of having to kick open locked doors, d’Artagnan,” Porthos said. “Just so you know.”

  “Put the whip down.” Athos, this time. “Whatever has upset you, this isn’t the way.”

  “Leave me alone.” Was that his voice? Something was wrong with it, if so—it sounded more like an animal growling. The gray fog was threatening to lift, leaving him at the mercy of cold, sharp reality.

  He raised the whip again, and Athos strode forward. D’Artagnan stumbled to his feet in response. Tried to back away, but his body was clumsy and slow, and Athos was in front of him, reaching for the whip. D’Artagnan jerked it away in desperation, and took a wild swing at Athos’ jaw with his left fist.

  Chapter VII: August 8th, 1631

  ATHOS GRABBED HIS WRIST, defl
ecting the blow with a grunt of effort and redirecting d'Artagnan's momentum forward, trapping him against Athos’ own body. A too-strong hand wrested the whip from his sweaty grip—Porthos. He heard it hit the wall with a dull thump and fall to the floor across the room where the big man threw it.

  Rage overcame d’Artagnan and he fought the arms trapping him, frantic to escape before the gray fog receded completely and he was lost. Before he had to feel—

  Oh, God.

  His father. His mother. His baby sister.

  Aramis.

  Oh, God. Oh, God.

  He writhed against Athos’ hold; cursed and spat and clawed at the leather jerkin under his hands, trying to free himself—not recognizing the embrace for what it was until he felt Porthos’ solid warmth settle against his back, pinning him even closer against Athos’ body. D’Artagnan froze, every muscle rigid. There was an agonizingly long pause, and finally an awful noise tore itself free of his chest, only to be repeated with the next choking breath, and the next, and the next.

  Porthos’ voice, low and rumbling. Warm breath against his ear. “Shht. There now... That’s it. Let it out. We’ve got you, whelp. This has been a long time coming. Let it out, now. We’re right here with you.”

  D’Artagnan keened his grief into Athos’ shoulder, his hands fisting in the other man’s clothing. His knees buckled, but strong arms kept him upright, pressed between two solid bodies. He couldn’t breathe with the force of his sobs... the thick snot and tears smothering him. It felt as though it went on for hours. He was absolutely certain he would never again be able to gather all the broken shards of himself together and mend them, but his friends wrapped him up tightly and did not let the shattered pieces scatter away on the wind.

  Finally, exhausted, his chest as sore from weeping as if he’d been kicked by a mule, d’Artagnan managed to draw a deep, unhindered breath, and then another.

  “Sorry...” he whispered into Athos’ collar, barely recognizing his own voice. “I’m s-sorry. Oh, God, I’m so sorry...”

  “Hush,” Athos said severely. His voice softened slightly as he continued, “How great a heart you must have, d’Artagnan, to grieve so. Would that I still had such tears within me.”

  Porthos eased him back a bit, away from Athos, slinging one of d’Artagnan’s arms over his shoulders and wrapping his own arm around d’Artagnan’s waist. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

  D’Artagnan let himself be led, feeling as though not an ounce of strength remained in his body. He was vaguely aware of steps leading upward... a hallway, and then they were entering Aramis’ sick room, where Milady rose to her feet upon seeing their strange procession. Aramis was awake, sitting up against the headboard. D’Artagnan pulled away from Porthos; stumbled to the bed and fell to his knees beside it, clasping one of Aramis’ hands between both of his own. Aramis looked at him, worry clouding his pale, haggard features; then looked at Athos and Porthos, a question in his fever-bright eyes.

  “Please don’t die. Please, Aramis,” d’Artagnan begged, bringing the sick man’s captured hand up to press it to the side of his tear-stained face. Aramis’ eyes flew back to his. Held for a moment. Softened. The hand cradled d’Artagnan’s cheek, thumb wiping at the wetness there. He could feel the fine tremor of fatigue and illness in the long, callused fingers.

  “I’ll do my very best,” Aramis vowed, his voice sober. “Now, though, come rest with me for awhile.” He looked at Porthos and Athos again. “Help him up on the bed.”

  Hands lifted d’Artagnan onto the bed and removed his boots. Aramis pulled him into a loose embrace. D’Artagnan could hear the older man’s heart beating with a steady thump under his ear. Darkness claimed him, and he knew no more.

  * * *

  When d’Artagnan next regained awareness, he was face-down on a pillow, his jaw damp from pressing into a wet stain of drool. He groaned and rolled onto his side. His head felt thick and sore, and his chest still hurt. The rest of him simply felt... empty.

  “Ah, good,” said a raspy voice to his side and slightly above him. “We were starting to worry. Perhaps I should remind you that I’m supposed to be the sick one, here.”

  “Aramis?” he croaked, and tried without success to clear his throat.

  “The very same,” Aramis replied, as Athos appeared in his field of vision, proffering a cup.

  D’Artagnan struggled into a sitting position and accepted the drink. The acidic tang of un-watered wine cut through the phlegm clogging his throat, and he drank greedily. When he was finished, Athos took the cup back and placed it on the table by the bed. Though he wasn’t tired any more, d’Artagnan wished for nothing more than to return to the dreamless oblivion from which he had just emerged... better that, than this feeling of being a wrung-out rag slapped carelessly over the edge of a dirty mop bucket.

  “How long?” he asked, knowing it would be expected of him.

  “You slept all day, and into the night,” Athos said. “It’s slightly after midnight.”

  “Oh,” d’Artagnan said.

  “We received another letter from de Tréville,” Athos continued. “We know about the death of your pony last night. I assume that’s why—?”

  “Yes,” d’Artagnan said.

  “Are you hungry?” Aramis asked. “You haven’t eaten in more than a day.”

  “No,” d’Artagnan said.

  “As you wish,” Aramis said. “You should know, though, that I have not forgotten my promise to you while you’ve been sleeping. To that end, I prevailed upon Porthos to make some gruel, and consumed a small amount over the course of yesterday afternoon with far more success than the unfortunate incident with the broth.”

  A small thread of interest pierced d’Artagnan’s lethargy. “Really?” he asked. “That’s good.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Aramis replied.

  Athos had made himself at home in a chair near the bed, and it was from there that he spoke. “We are all in agreement, then. Now, though, you should both try to rest some more. It is the middle of the night, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I’ve always said you were a born leader, Athos,” Aramis said. “And by ‘leader,’ I mean ‘tyrant,’ of course. That said, I do find myself slightly fatigued.”

  D’Artagnan was fairly sure he would not be able to rest anymore after having slept almost eighteen hours straight. Nonetheless, he lay back against the mattress, flipping the pillow over to get rid of the wet spot, and closed his eyes with a sigh.

  When he opened them again, it was light outside the window.

  “Wha—?” he slurred, drawing Aramis’ attention from the bowl resting in his lap.

  “Good morning,” Aramis said. “Apparently you really needed to catch up on your sleep.”

  Aramis returned to his breakfast, prompting d’Artagnan’s stomach to give a loud and thoroughly embarrassing growl. Porthos appeared at the bedside a moment later, shoving a similar bowl and spoon into d’Artagnan’s hands.

  “Here,” said the big man. “Eat.”

  D’Artagnan carefully squirmed into a sitting position, mindful of spilling gruel on the blanket. He dipped the spoon into the congealed gray mass and raised it to his lips. After rolling it around in his mouth and swallowing, he turned to Aramis.

  “This is absolutely disgusting,” he said, and promptly went back to eating.

  “Yes,” Aramis agreed thoughtfully. “It really rather is. But since it actually stays down when I eat it, I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “Told you that you should have let me put salt in it,” Porthos said. “That’s how we used to eat it at home.”

  Aramis made a face. “No offense, dear Porthos, but that sounds even worse.”

  “Huh,” Porthos huffed. “And here you are, always going on about your refined palate.”

  “I do not ‘go on’ about my palate,” Aramis replied.

  D’Artagnan ate his disgusting gruel and let the familiar bickering wash over him. H
e mentally poked at the empty space in his chest, the way one might poke at the gap left by a lost tooth. While he didn’t necessarily feel better after his embarrassing display, he did feel... different, he supposed. Fragile, perhaps. The thought bothered him, even if the others didn’t seem to be treating him any differently than before.

  Milady entered the room and d’Artagnan looked up, grateful for the distraction.

  “There’s another note from de Tréville this morning,” she said, “along with a letter specifically for you, d’Artagnan.”

  D’Artagnan’s brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued almost despite himself.

  “From Constance,” she clarified, and handed him the sealed rectangle of folded paper.

  Porthos crossed his arms, leaning a shoulder against the wall as he caught d’Artagnan’s eye.

  “You know, she came here yesterday morning, to let us know something was wrong. She didn’t come inside,” Porthos hastened to add, seeing d’Artagnan’s alarm at the idea that Constance might have endangered herself. “She stood outside and threw gravel at the window until Athos opened it. Said she couldn’t sleep and had been taking a turn around the grounds when you ran past her, carrying a whip and not even seeming to realize she was there. Told us which door you’d gone in, so we knew where to start looking.”

  “I heard someone call my name, but I didn’t recognize who it was,” d’Artagnan admitted, stricken.

  “She’s quite a woman,” Porthos said, “and she really cares for you, you know.”

  “I think I’m finally starting to understand that,” he said, his voice a bit shaky.

  Milady had been skimming de Tréville’s note, and said, “There’s a message here from the Queen regarding your pony, d’Artagnan. She says she was saddened to hear of the animal’s passing and will always think upon him kindly. She adds that the pony saved her life when she was hiding from her enemies, and she wishes you to choose any horse you desire from among the enemy’s captured mounts, in recompense for allowing her to use him.”

  D’Artagnan hadn’t even started to come to terms with the loss of the pony itself, and he was still struggling hard with the symbolic loss of the connection to his family. He was appalled to find tears flooding his eyes once more upon hearing the Queen’s kind words, and he hunched forward over his knees, hiding his face in his hands. Fingers carded through the fine hair at the base of his skull, settling in a firm grip on the back of his neck, for all that the hand still trembled slightly.