Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3

by R. A. Steffan

“Of course,” he replied, and the two of them mounted the stairs to rejoin the others, who were engaged in a happy reunion with de Tréville and the Queen.

  Aramis’ lack of stamina caught up with him fairly quickly, and the small party broke up to settle the sick man back in his own room and stow the belongings they’d brought with them. Constance excused herself to return to the baby, reiterating her promise to see d’Artagnan later.

  In the mean time, while Aramis rested, de Tréville briefed the rest of them on the current situation in more detail than his daily notes had contained. While the situation within Chartres’ walls was not yet desperate, unrest was beginning to grow. No one was starving, but most of the livestock within the walls had already been butchered as supplies of animal feed dwindled, and the people were losing patience with the disruption to their lives and livelihoods. It would only be a matter of time until the focus of that resentment came to rest upon the Queen, and fighting within the city itself between citizens and soldiers loyal to Her Majesty would be devastating.

  It was a sobering thought. Until now, d’Artagnan’s thoughts about the siege had largely been directed outward, focusing on Isabella’s troops. He hadn’t fully appreciated the potential threat from within, if conditions in the city got too bad.

  Chartres was one of the few places in France, it seemed, that had made real progress in recovering from the plague. Rather than allow the city to languish, its leaders had pulled back to a smaller, more manageable area within the centuries-old walls and refurbished them to protect the city from danger. Within, one could find flourishing tradesmen, industry, and even new construction, something virtually unheard of in France these days.

  It was deeply unsettling to contemplate the very real possibility that they would be responsible for plunging such a hopeful, forward-looking place back into chaos. Not for the first time, d’Artagnan found himself glad that he was only responsible for carrying out Her Majesty’s and de Tréville’s decisions... not making them.

  His walk with Constance later that day was a welcome diversion, albeit one that came with its own set of worries. For some reason, it seemed easier to write of weighty personal matters than address them in person, and he was nervous that he would end up offending or hurting her with a clumsy word. Fortunately, Constance appeared to have enough bravery in that regard for both of them, and d’Artagnan was surprised by her forthrightness as they began to talk of the past and future.

  She had taken his arm as they began to stroll among the greenery outside. While she did not attempt to meet his eyes as she began to speak, she didn’t hesitate with her words, either.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about my marriage lately,” she said. “I think that was where things began to go wrong for me. I was so very young when I married... young and naive. I had no older sisters to prepare me before my wedding, and my mother died when I was nine.”

  “I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan said. “That must have been hard.”

  “Jacques wasn’t a bad man. He could be thoughtless and impatient sometimes, but he wasn’t a bad husband,” she said.

  D’Artagnan halted, feeling anger rise and trying to tamp it down. “He hurt you.”

  Constance shrugged one shoulder, and tugged him forward by the arm to walk again. “I’m told it always hurts a woman at first. And it didn’t actually hurt, later on—not physically. I just hated it... even though I knew it was my duty as a wife. It used to make me feel sick to my stomach, lying there in the dark with his weight pinning me down, wanting to be anywhere else but in his bed, but knowing I didn’t have a choice in the matter.” This time she was the one who stopped and looked up into his eyes. “I care about you, d’Artagnan. In fact, I believe I’m falling in love with you. But I don’t ever want to find myself in your bed, looking up at you and feeling that kind of sick feeling. I—I don’t think I could do that again.”

  D’Artagnan’s heart ached in response to the pain in Constance’s voice. Without thinking, he stepped in front of her and took her shoulders firmly in his hands, only to jerk them away and take a step back when he felt her stiffen under his hold. He took a deep breath, silently cursing himself for the mistake.

  “Constance, I would never ask you do anything that would make you feel like that. I would rather go the rest of my life without touching you than see you undergo such a thing again.” He swallowed. “I might make mistakes... I will make mistakes, but I will always—always—listen to you when you tell me not to do something, and stop if I think that you don’t like what I’m doing.”

  “I believe you,” Constance said, but her expression was sad. “I just worry that I’m not good enough for you. That I’m too broken. You must have been with lots of women who weren’t damaged, like I am. Why would you want someone like me?”

  “Oh, Constance,” d’Artagnan said. “My broken pieces are every bit as jagged as yours, for all that they come from a different kind of hurt. And I haven’t been with so very many women... quite the opposite. But what I’ve experienced has shown me that physical love should be something given and received freely, out of caring and affection—a source of joy. Otherwise, I’ve no interest in it.”

  Constance bit her lip, and met his gaze head-on. “I want to try,” she said, and d’Artagnan’s heart lifted.

  “I do as well,” he said. “And I have a request. I don’t know how to help you, beyond trying not to make things worse. But I know someone who might.”

  “Who?” Constance said.

  “Milady,” d’Artagnan replied. “Would you consider talking to her?”

  Constance looked skeptical. “D’Artagnan, I don’t think Milady actually likes me very much. I doubt she’d want to talk to me about something so personal.”

  “It’s not that she doesn’t like you, Constance,” d’Artagnan said quickly. “Really—it isn’t. I think it’s more that you remind her of a part of her past that she would prefer not to dwell on. It’s up to you, of course, but please at least consider it.”

  The skepticism turned to uncertainty, but then Constance nodded. “I’ll try talking to her if she’s willing.”

  Relieved, d’Artagnan offered the crook of his arm and, when Constance took it, began walking again.

  “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” Constance asked.

  D’Artagnan huffed out a breath. “That we are. And I should probably warn you, Aramis and Porthos have been playing matchmaker for us since that very first evening at M. Rougeux’s house.”

  That startled a laugh from Constance. “Truly? Well, they’ve always struck me as intelligent men. If they think we’re destined for each other, I shan’t argue the matter.”

  “Nor I,” d’Artagnan said. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  * * *

  Three days later, d’Artagnan was on guard duty when de Tréville and d’Aumont demanded entrance to see the Queen, looking grim.

  “The others will be here soon, d’Artagnan,” said de Tréville. “I’ve just sent for them. Leave the door open so you can hear without leaving your post.”

  A few moments later, Athos, Milady, Porthos, and Aramis arrived; Athos was subtly supporting Aramis with a hand wrapped around his upper arm, but removed it as they entered the Queen’s suite. The Queen had seated herself at the head of the large table in the center of the room; d’Artagnan could see Constance standing in the doorway to Her Majesty’s bedchambers, the infant King in her arms.

  ”You have news,” said the Queen, not phrasing it as a question.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” d’Aumont replied. “Isabella’s troops are attacking the gates in force. They are taking heavy losses, but they have battering rams, and the city guard reports that the gates will not hold for much longer.”

  Chapter VIII: August 23rd, 1631

  THE QUEEN FROWNED. “That makes no sense. Why adopt such a tactic during a siege?”

  “There is more,” d’Aumont said. “Lookouts on the battlements report more troops arriving from the south. They appear to be attackin
g Isabella’s forces from behind.”

  “It must be the support sent in response to our messages asking for help,” de Tréville said. “Unfortunately, they’ve trapped Isabella’s forces between themselves and Chartres’ fortifications. If the enemy troops breach the gates and get a decent number of men inside the city, there will be carnage.”

  “And at that point, they can use the walls for their own defense,” the Queen concluded grimly.

  “I’ve sent detachments to each of the four entrances to the city, Your Majesty, but it remains to be seen if they will arrive before the gates fall to the assault,” said d’Aumont.

  “Do you want us here, or at the gates, Captain?” Athos asked.

  De Tréville thought for a moment. “Athos and d’Artagnan, head for the south gate and monitor the battle. That’s where they’ll be most desperate, since they’re pinned by the attack from the rear. Report back if the tide starts to turn in their favor. Porthos, you and I will coordinate the defense of the palace, should it come to that.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Porthos said.

  “Milady,” de Tréville continued, “Can you go up to the roof with a couple of arquebuses and keep an eye on the surroundings? It’s a good vantage point to pick off anyone approaching.”

  “Yes, of course,” Milady said.

  “Aramis,” de Tréville said after a barely noticeable pause, “I don’t think—“

  “If someone helps me up to the roof, I’m more than capable of resting a musket barrel on the edge of the parapet and pulling the trigger,” Aramis interrupted. “I may still be weak as a kitten, but my hands are steady as long as I don’t overexert myself.”

  He lifted one arm, displaying the rock-steady hand, and de Tréville nodded. “Very well. Porthos, make sure Milady and Aramis have everything they need, and report back to me here. M. d’Aumont has sent for the men who guarded the palace in your absence. Since they are already familiar with the grounds, they will be most useful for our last-ditch defense, should it come to that.”

  D’Aumont shook his head. “It won’t,” he said flatly. “I’ll make sure of it. Notre Dame and the Palais Épiscopal are in the heart of Chartres. To get this far, they’d have to fight house to house through the streets.”

  “Nonetheless,” de Tréville said, “I would be remiss if I didn’t plan for the worst. It’s all that’s gotten us this far.”

  “Indeed it has,” said the Queen, who had been following the conversation closely. “I have every confidence in Chartres’ defenses, M. d’Aumont, but it only makes sense to cover all possibilities. Now, let Captain de Tréville’s orders be carried out, and swiftly. Events are likely to move quickly from this point.”

  There was a distant clatter of boot heels up the main stairs. D’Artagnan and the others pulled pistols and swords, but a voice called, “We are d’Aumont’s loyal men, come to guard the palace!” D’Artagnan relaxed minutely, but did not sheath his weapons until the men appeared in the hallway, hands held carefully clear of their scabbards. D’Aumont motioned the new men forward and began to outline their orders.

  Meanwhile, Athos crossed to join d’Artagnan at the door. “We must ready two horses quickly, and ride for the gate. As it is, the battle may already be decided before we get there.”

  “Good luck,” Porthos called from within the room.

  “We’ll see you soon,” said Aramis.

  “Don’t get killed,” added Milady.

  “We’ll do our best,” d’Artagnan replied, and hurried after Athos, jogging toward the stables.

  It was the first time d’Artagnan had returned to the stables since the night he found his pony dead, and he was glad that the urgency of their mission did not truly allow him a chance to think about things.

  “Take Aramis’ horse,” Athos said. “I don’t like to think of you riding that broom-tailed nag into a fight.”

  Considering the fact that the broom-tailed nag in question had saved both of their lives not so very long ago, d’Artagnan didn’t think it would be all that bad, but he only asked, “Aramis won’t mind?”

  “Aramis wants you to be safe,” Athos said, grabbing a saddle and carrying it into his mare’s stall.

  D’Artagnan grabbed his own tack and entered Rosita’s stall. The mare greeted him with a whicker and began to paw one front foot restlessly—apparently she could already sense his rushing blood and mounting excitement at the prospect of a battle. He steadied her with a hand on her neck and placed the saddle on her back, reaching under her belly to grab the girth and cinch it into place. The breast collar came next, followed by the crupper, and finally the bridle.

  A stable lad ran in with four arquebuses, powder, and shot as he was leading the mare out of the stall and into the alleyway. D’Artagnan took two of the weapons, checking they were loaded properly, and Athos took the other two. Once they had stowed everything in saddlebags and holsters, they mounted and rode off quickly toward the palace gates and into the city beyond.

  Chartres was in turmoil. Word of the attack on the gates had obviously spread, and a sea of frightened people milled in the streets, forming a human tide attempting to reach the perceived safety of Notre Dame before the battle entered the city itself.

  Athos raised his voice in an attempt to be heard over the cacophony. “Go back inside!” he shouted. “Return to your homes—stay off the streets!”

  D’Artagnan added his voice to the call, but it was not obvious whether anyone responded. He knew it was good advice... being outside and in the way of an army fighting for its life was a surer way to death than huddling inside a building; even an unsecured one. But the mood in the city had been nervous and unsettled for days now. It was little wonder that the first hint of danger would set off a panic like a lit match cord hitting the flash pan full of gunpowder in a musket.

  The horses plowed a trail through the mass of people, heading toward the danger rather than fleeing it. They were careful not to trample anyone inadvertently, but the thick crowds slowed their progress to a crawl. Fortunately, things began to clear out as they got farther from the cathedral. Kicking the horses into a fast canter, they clattered down the cobbled roads toward the Porte des Épars. When they were still two streets away, the sound of gunfire and clashing metal began to overwhelm the shouts of frightened citizens.

  “Remember,” Athos said as they rounded the final corner that would give them a clear view of the gate, “Our orders are to watch the battle and report back if it looks to be going badly for us. Not to get ourselves injured or killed in the middle of the fighting.”

  “I understand,” d’Artagnan said, as the battle in question came into view. Once again, he was struck by the chaotic nature of warfare. When Isabella’s forces attacked the camp in La Croix-du-Perche, he’d had a slightly elevated lookout point from which to gaze down over the fighting. Now, he and Athos were at street level, though at least this time there was daylight rather than moonlight illuminating the scene.

  One of the large, oak gates was severely damaged and hung half-open from a single iron hinge. That a significant number of the enemy’s mounted forces had managed to gain entrance through such a small breach spoke to their desperation to escape the attack from behind by the approaching troops loyal to the Queen. As before, the longer d’Artagnan looked at the battle, the more sense emerged from what seemed at first to be random fighting. Again, Isabella’s troops were mounted, whereas the city guard and any of d’Aumont’s forces that had made their way here were not. There were also some city folk embroiled in the melee; tradespeople wielding whatever was to hand as a weapon—pitchforks, shovels... even brooms. D’Artagnan winced and grit his teeth as a gray-haired man with stoop shoulders tried to strike one of the riders with a stout walking stick and was cut down for his troubles.

  “How many riders, do you think?” Athos asked, and d’Artagnan got the sense that the other man was trying to distract him from the urge to gallop forward into the fighting.

  D’Artagnan forced himself
to count heads—a nearly impossible task within the ever-moving chaos. “Maybe thirty? Thirty-five?” he said eventually.

  “Agreed,” Athos said. “More are still getting in, though.”

  Indeed, with the city guard engaged in battling the riders already within the walls, the defense at the gate itself was nearly non-existent. Any riders that evaded the bullets fired down at them from atop the battlements could enter the city virtually unopposed.

  “That’s not good,” d’Artagnan said.

  “No, it really isn’t. How’s your aim with an arquebus over this distance?” Athos asked.

  “Inconsistent,” d’Artagnan said truthfully, even though it made his cheeks burn with the shame of not being good enough.

  “In that case, you can reload for me, and keep my horse from wandering off,” Athos said.

  “What was that part about not getting involved, again?” d’Artagnan couldn’t help asking.

  “I said we were not to get ourselves injured or killed in the middle of the fighting,” Athos replied with aplomb. “Right now, we are barely even on the outskirts of the fighting.”

  “Of course,” d’Artagnan said, unable to keep a sudden grin from splitting his face. “How silly of me.”

  Athos dismounted and handed his reins to d’Artagnan, who draped them across his left forearm. He climbed partway up a nearby stairwell leading up to the second story of a large building housing several shops, and d’Artagnan urged the horses close enough that he could reach out and hand Athos an arquebus. Athos settled himself with his elbows resting on the railing, sighting down the length of the barrel toward the gate.

  Whenever a new rider appeared, framed in the damaged entryway to the city, Athos squeezed off a shot and handed the discharged firearm down to d’Artagnan, who replaced it with a loaded one. He made his shots successfully more often than not, and the incursion of enemy soldiers slowed to a trickle as the ones already inside continued to fight the city guard. After about fifteen minutes of this, a commotion from the other direction drew d’Artagnan’s attention, and a large detachment of d’Aumont’s men appeared around the corner, hurrying past the two of them to join the fighting.