Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3

by R. A. Steffan

  The rest of the afternoon was one of the longest d’Artagnan could remember. When he was finally relieved of his duties for the day, he could hardly contain his impatience as he hurried to meet Constance by the servants’ gate. Rather than risk letting free any of the questions that wanted to tumble from his mouth, he accompanied her back to their rooms in near silence. It was only when they were safe inside that he turned to her and blurted, “Well?”

  Constance looked nearly as excited as he was. “We’re to take this to Porthos,” she said, drawing a folded square of paper from her décolletage. They unfolded it in the dim evening light filtering through the window, and looked down in confusion.

  “It’s blank,” d’Artagnan said, stating the obvious.

  A frown marred Constance’s brow. “So it is. Well, you should take it to Porthos anyway. Perhaps he’ll know what it means.”

  * * *

  D’Artagnan swore he could feel the mysterious piece of paper burning a hole through the linen of his shirt, where he had tucked it inside his jerkin for the trip to the Leaping Bard. Porthos was engrossed in a game of dice with half a dozen other hard-looking men when he arrived at the tavern. The big man glanced up and met his eyes with a quick, sharp grin, but immediately returned his attention to the table and his opponents.

  Knowing how important it was not to draw unwanted attention, d’Artagnan stood back to watch the game, trying not to fidget with impatience. After several more minutes of back-and-forth, an emaciated old man with several missing teeth rolled an eleven, and there was a general cry of dismay from the other players. Porthos threw up his hands and slapped them down on the table in disgust before shoving a small pile of coins and jewelry into the larger pile in the center. With a gap-toothed grin, the old man swept his winnings into a cloth bag and saluted his opponents as he rose and took his leave.

  The other players dispersed, and d’Artagnan flopped down in an empty chair next to his friend. Porthos took one look at his face, and, in a voice too low to be heard by anyone else, asked, “News?”

  D’Artagnan tipped his chin in a bare hint of a nod.

  “Well,” Porthos said in a voice loud enough to carry to those nearby, “I just lost all my coin, so I can’t afford to buy drinks, and I know you’re poor as a church mouse. Come back to my place for a bit—I’ve a bottle of wine at home that we can share while we bemoan my ill fortune.”

  D’Artagnan readily agreed, and followed Porthos out of the noise and stink of the tavern into the noise and stink of the streets beyond.

  “I have something for you, but I don’t understand it,” d’Artagnan said, keeping his voice low.

  “Not here,” Porthos warned, and clapped a companionable arm across his shoulders.

  They had barely traveled thirty steps when a hoarse cry and a thump of flesh on flesh from an alley nearby caused them both to tense and turn toward the noise.

  “Trouble?” d’Artagnan asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  “All of Paris is trouble after dark, these days,” Porthos said, cracking his knuckles in anticipation, “but... yeah.”

  Their bodies blocked the flickering light of the street lamps as the pair entered the mouth of the alley, leaving the scene before them illuminated only by the faint moonlight filtering down through the buildings. D’Artagnan recognized the thin, slightly stooped form of the successful gambler from the tavern, his back pinned against the wall by a masked figure. A second attacker stood with his arm cocked, poised to land another vicious blow on the old man’s body.

  “Oi! You two,” Porthos growled. “Put down that old swindler and come get some of this instead!”

  He thumped his muscular chest with one clenched fist. Beside him, d’Artagnan silently slid his dagger from its sheath, adjusting his grip on the hilt in readiness. The thieves let go of the old man, who slid down the wall and landed in a heap. A quick look showed that the alley terminated in a dead end, and the two men turned back toward Porthos and d’Artagnan, reaching for weapons at their belts as they readied themselves to fight their way out.

  “I’ll take Knife; you take Chain,” Porthos said under his breath, and d’Artagnan nodded tightly in agreement, his blood pounding and singing in anticipation of the coming clash.

  The man with the heavy length of chain wrapped around his fist was perhaps half a head taller than d’Artagnan, and a bit broader through the shoulders. He charged forward with a yell, swinging the chain at d’Artagnan’s head. D’Artagnan ducked and feinted right, slashing up and in toward the man’s torso. The blade sliced through leather, but did not bite into flesh. At the same instant a bare-knuckled fist caught d’Artagnan’s temple, making his ears ring. He danced back out of range, shaking his head and risking a quick glance toward Porthos, who was locked in a tight clinch with his own opponent.

  The man standing across from d’Artagnan swung the chain in a slow circle, readying himself for another attack. Before he could think twice, d’Artagnan lunged in close and stabbed low, feeling the blade penetrate the man’s stomach even as the chain whipped around him, biting into his back and side with bruising force. His opponent’s cry of pain matched his own as the breath was forced from his lungs, but when they separated, d’Artagnan still stood tall while the would-be thief staggered back and fell to his knees, the chain slipping from his grasp as he clutched at his bleeding stomach.

  There was a grunt and a yell from behind him, and he quickly backed around until he could see both the injured man and Porthos, whose blade flashed down in the uncertain light, hamstringing his opponent and sending him tumbling to the ground. Porthos staggered back, quickly looking around to assess the situation before meeting d’Artagnan’s eyes with an acknowledging nod.

  With their opponents effectively neutralized, the two of them moved further into the alley, where the old man had regained his feet to lean against the filthy wall, wheezing and coughing.

  “You hurt bad, mate?” Porthos asked, stopping a step away and ducking his head to meet the man’s eyes.

  The man shook his head. “Just bruised, I think, young man,” he said, still breathless.

  “Still got your winnings?” Porthos asked, as d’Artagnan stepped up to join them.

  The old man nodded, pushing away from the wall and fumbling for the heavy purse at his belt. “Yes. Yes, thank you. Both of you.” he pulled out several coins and held his hand out toward them. “Here... take this. You deserve it, for helping an old man you don’t even know.”

  D’Artagnan closed his own hand around their would-be benefactor’s and pressed it back down by his side. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “but that’s not necessary.”

  The man nodded his thanks, peering at d’Artagnan and Porthos with rheumy eyes. “Very well. I am in your debt. What about... those two?”

  Porthos glanced at the groaning men near the mouth of the alley and shrugged. “They’re not going anywhere. If you can find a guard patrolling—and good luck to you on that—tell ‘em what happened and where to find the thieves. Otherwise, forget about ‘em. They won’t be preying on anyone else for quite some time.”

  “Well,” said the old man, “thank you again. You’re welcome at my table any time.”

  Porthos chuckled. “Not sure I can afford to sit at your table too often, you old cheat.”

  The man clapped Porthos on the shoulder with a wink and a shaky smile, before shaking d’Artagnan’s hand and limping off, giving the injured men on the ground a wide berth and disappearing into the Paris streets.

  Porthos sighed and winced. “You all right, whelp?” he asked.

  “I’ll have a lump on my temple and a chain-shaped bruise on my ribs for a few days, that’s all,” d’Artagnan said. Even now, the rush of battle was receding, leaving dull throbbing in its wake. “You?”

  “I’ll live. Though I sure could’ve used that reward that you just turned down,” he said, nudging d’Artagnan with his shoulder. “C’mon. If the guards do show up, I don’t particularly want to be here. Besides,
we’ve got other business to attend to.”

  D’Artagnan suddenly remembered the mysterious piece of paper with a jolt, and his hand flew to his jerkin to ensure that it still rested inside, next to his chest.

  “Right,” he said, and the two continued their interrupted journey toward Porthos’ lodgings.

  When they reached the next corner, though, d’Artagnan frowned up at his companion and grabbed his arm, steering him back toward Rue Férou.

  “What’re you doing?” Porthos asked.

  “I’m taking you to my rooms, where Constance and I can take a look at you. You’re hurt worse than you’re saying. That other one cut you, didn’t he?”

  “S’nothing,” Porthos muttered, but didn’t protest d’Artagnan’s manhandling.

  By the time they reached the apartments on Rue Férou, Porthos was visibly flagging.

  “Constance!” d’Artagnan called as he opened the door.

  “What is it?” she replied as she bustled into the room, only to gasp as she took in Porthos’ appearance.

  He helped the big man into the kitchen and onto a chair, only then taking in the wet bloodstain forming beneath a gash in Porthos’ leather jerkin, over his ribs.

  “You should have said something, Porthos,” d’Artagnan said tightly. He tweaked the edge of the jerkin. “Get this off. How bad is it?”

  “I don’t know, do I?” Porthos groused, making no move to unlace his clothing. “I haven’t seen it yet.”

  D’Artagnan huffed in irritation and reached for the laces himself, only to have Porthos close a large hand around his wrist.

  “I can take care of it,” Porthos said.

  “I’m sure you could,” replied d’Artagnan, “but luckily you don’t have to, because Constance and I are here to help you.”

  “I’ll get some water and clean rags,” Constance said, and bustled off.

  Porthos frowned up at d’Artagnan for a moment before his eyes slid down and away. “Fine.”

  It seemed an odd reaction for the man, and d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed. Still—at least Porthos let him go and started undoing the ruined jerkin, even if he was still avoiding eye contact. When it was unlaced and hanging, Porthos stood stiffly and let d’Artagnan help him get it off, exposing an ugly gash—still seeping blood—on his left side.

  He was just angling Porthos into the light of the lamp on the table and leaning down to get a better look when he heard a sharp intake of breath from the doorway. He straightened in surprise, throwing Constance a questioning look when she paused in the doorway, towels and water in hand. D’Artagnan would not have expected her to be horrified by the relatively clean cut, and besides, Porthos’ back was to her.

  “Porthos, are you hurt someplace else?” he asked, craning around to see his friend’s back.

  He was confronted with a twisted mess of scar tissue, as Porthos huffed out a noise that in no way resembled his usual rich laughter. “Not exactly,” Porthos said. “Sorry, Constance—I didn’t mean to give you a shock.”

  Whip marks. They were whip marks. Only... stretched. Distorted, as if the back they adorned had grown and filled out around them, over the years.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Constance said. “I’m sorry to be so rude. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

  D’Artagnan was slower to find his voice, and Porthos turned to him. “Now you know why I’m a bit sensitive about whipping,” he said.

  “What happened?” d’Artagnan asked quietly.

  “I wasn’t born a gentleman. You probably know that already,” Porthos said. “I was born poor. ’Course, we might’ve been less poor if my father hadn’t been a slave to the bottle, but that’s neither here nor there. There was never enough money, so when I was six, my mother gave me over as an apprentice to a baker down the street. He was a kind enough master, but any coins I brought home went to buy wine or spirits for my father.

  “That winter, there was no food for the table, so one day I stole some bread from the bakery and smuggled it home under my cloak. My mother was so relieved, she didn’t ask any questions. Two days later, I did the same thing again. Two days after that, the baker caught me and threw me out on my ear. When my father found out, he whipped me. I thought I’d die from it—I certainly wanted to die for awhile—but eventually, it healed.”

  Here, he shrugged. “Well, it sort of healed, anyway. The vicious old bastard died the next summer, and my mother supported us with mending and lace work for a few years. She died when I was thirteen. After that, I took jobs working as a dockhand, and eventually, a sailor. That’s where I got the tattoos.” He gestured at the symbols inked onto his chest and arms. “I joined the army when I was seventeen, and you more or less know the rest of it.”

  D’Artagnan sat down gracelessly on the nearest chair. “I’m surprised you didn’t punch me in the teeth the first time you caught me whipping myself,” he said mildly.

  A genuine smile slid over Porthos’ face, much to d’Artagnan’s surprise. “Nah,” he said. “I didn’t know you well enough, see. I did punch Aramis in the teeth when I caught him doing it, though.”

  That surprised a laugh out of d’Artagnan and a snort from Constance.

  “Did it help?” she asked.

  Porthos shrugged, and winced when it pulled on the wound. “Must’ve done. He never did it again, now did he?”

  “I’ll keep your methods in mind, should I ever need to convince him of anything,” d’Artagnan said. “For now, though, I feel compelled to point out that you’re still bleeding onto our floor. Sit down by the lamp and let us patch you up.”

  The slash was relatively shallow along most of its length, but they did end up putting two stitches in it, courtesy of Constance’s steady fingers. Once Porthos was sewn up and bandaged, d’Artagnan’s thoughts turned back to the original purpose of their meeting.

  “Do you feel well enough to look at this paper from Milady?” he asked.

  “Of course I do,” Porthos said. “Give it over; let’s have a look.”

  “It’s blank,” Constance said as d’Artagnan removed the folded paper from his jerkin and handed it to Porthos.

  Porthos only chuckled. “I sincerely doubt that,” he said. “Light a candle and bring it here.”

  Constance gave him a confused look, but did as he asked. Porthos held the paper above the flame, adjusting it higher and lower for a moment until he was satisfied, and then slowly moving it back and forth as the paper began to scorch.

  “She’s writing with diluted wine, or maybe vinegar,” he explained, keeping a careful eye on the message, where d’Artagnan could now see brown curls of handwriting beginning to appear. “It dries invisible, but when you heat it up, the ink starts to burn before the rest of the paper does, so you can read it again.”

  “What does it say?” Constance asked eagerly.

  Porthos set the revealed letter down by the lamp, and they all crowded around to read it.

  It has taken several days to arrange everything, but I am now installed as the Cardinal’s new mistress. His Eminence is a man of considerable intelligence and cunning; I believe the worst mistake we can make is to underestimate him. The mere fact that he has managed to ingratiate himself with Isabella after being so famously influential in Louis’ court serves only to highlight this fact.

  Before he will discuss current affairs with me in any detail, he requires of me a code word from your captain. Please acquire this code as quickly as possible, and send it to me through C. Do not write it down. In the mean time, continue your efforts to rally support for A among the people of Paris, and have D start to feel out the servants at the palace, though he must take care. My own position here is somewhat tenuous—I will be dealing by necessity only with the Cardinal, for now.

  M.

  “What does she mean about rallying support?” d’Artagnan asked Porthos.

  Porthos snorted. “You think I’ve been spending all my time baking bread? A lot more goes on in the back room of the Leaping Bard than crooke
d dice games.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” Constance asked. “Isabella is incredibly paranoid about uprisings and unrest. If she hears anything...”

  “Of course it’s dangerous,” Porthos said. “All of this is dangerous, Constance—we’re staging a coup, after all. But Paris is at the breaking point. The whole of France is at the breaking point, really. Something’s got to be done, and no one else is stepping forward to do it... so it’s down to us.” He paused, and grinned his devil-may-care grin at both of them. “Besides, you have to admit, it does help keep the boredom at bay...”

  Constance huffed a breath of laughter. “I suppose it does, at that.”

  “Easy for you two to say,” d’Artagnan grumbled. “You’re not the ones standing around by doorways for hours on end, wearing a ridiculous wig.”

  * * *

  If d’Artagnan was hoping for a quick resolution now that the lines of communication between Richelieu and de Tréville were open, he was sorely disappointed. It took four days for a courier riding fast to get from Paris to Chartres and back with Milady’s message and de Tréville’s response with the code word. After that, it was a slow game of back-and-forth between the Captain and the Cardinal.

  Porthos and Milady kept d’Artagnan and Constance apprised of the contents of the messages they were smuggling, and the third such missive—this one from de Tréville—contained a passage that made Porthos frown darkly.

  “The Captain finally revealed the details of his plan,” he told d’Artagnan. “He doesn’t think Isabella can raise a large enough force, at this point, to stop them getting into Paris. He wants to march on the Louvre, and in the confusion, you’re to snatch Isabella’s son and get him behind our lines, before his own guards can spirit him into hiding. He’ll be sent out of the country anonymously—just another child orphaned by the plague—leaving Isabella with no further claim to the throne.”

  D’Artagnan felt Constance tense beside him.

  “That’s a horrible plan,” she said. “The boy is guarded day and night. Isabella is convinced that plotters are hiding around every corner.”