D’Artagnan was fairly certain that Richelieu would say whatever it took to stay in Isabella’s good graces, but it was still something else to worry about. Not for the first time, he wondered how much of a hand Porthos had in crafting the unrest outside, and how much control of it rested behind the scenes.
The morning dragged on unbearably. D’Artagnan’s thoughts circled from worry over Constance, to worry over his friends, to worry over his mission. It was only the weeks of practice he’d had as a servant and spy that kept his misgivings off his face. The strain evident among all those in the room, excepting Isabella and the Cardinal, grew so great over the course of the morning that it was almost a relief when a pageboy rushed in and, with no thought to propriety, blurted out his message.
“Anne of Austria’s troops are marching across the Pont Neuf!” he cried. “The mob is parting for them!”
There was an immediate babble within the room, and several courtiers exited hastily—whether to organize a response or attempt to flee the coming fighting, d’Artagnan knew not.
“What nonsense!” Isabella snapped. “The rabble has no reason to support Anne.”
“No matter, Your Majesty,” Richelieu said quickly. “The palace guard will not allow them to pass.”
“How many soldiers are with her?” asked a voice from the back of the room.
“The lookouts estimate nearly three thousand, sir,” said the messenger boy, eyes wide in his pale face.
The volume of conversation rose higher in response, and several more people hurried out. Making a decision, d’Artagnan used them as cover to duck out of the room himself. From this point on, he could gain more insight by looking out a window than listening to messages run back and forth.
If the mob truly was on Queen Anne’s side, the army would probably enter by way of the Jardin des Tuileries, using the crowd there to add weight and numbers to their attack. He desperately needed a second pair of eyes—someone to watch the troops’ progress while he made sure Francis was not spirited away. Since his own eyes were the only ones he had, however, he compromised by detouring to a convenient west-facing window for a quick look on his way to the nursery.
What he saw took his breath away.
A mounted spearhead was making its way steadily through the milling crowd, followed by rank upon rank of infantry. It was too far away to make out faces, but he could recognize, unmistakably, the gleam of the Queen’s armor on top of a snow white horse behind the mounted vanguard at the front of the approaching army. A tingle shivered up from his fingertips to the top of his head at the sight.
The forces were rapidly approaching the Cardinal's guards defending the Louvre, and d’Artagnan ached to stay and watch the outcome of the battle. He knew his duty, though, and right now he needed to prevent Francis being whisked away from under their noses. With a last, longing look at the distant forms of his Queen, his commander, and his closest friends, he tore himself away from the window and ran toward the nursery.
His haste fit in surprisingly well with the increasing panic in the hallways, so it was only when he reached the end of the corridor leading to Francis’ rooms that he forced himself to slow. His mind had been racing as fast as his feet, and his new strategy would be to watch the room rather than immediately trying to gain entrance.
With luck, Isabella’s apparent delusions regarding the safety of the palace would cause her to leave things too late for herself and her son to escape. As long as the boy wasn’t taken by someone else first, he could await the arrival of reinforcements before attempting to gain custody of the child. He took an inconspicuous position by a doorway down the hall, falling easily into the guise of a lowly footman.
He could just make out voices from within the nursery, but it seemed odd that there were no guards outside the door. Still, the palace guard was already stretched thin by the rioting, and there were undoubtedly guards inside the room. He only had to watch and listen.
His luck held for almost fifteen minutes before heavy footsteps echoed from the other direction, heralding the arrival of four huge, vicious-looking guards wearing red at the door to the nursery.
No, no, no, d’Artagnan thought as the one in the lead turned to the others.
“You two go get the boy and take care of him,” he said, pointing at two of his comrades before addressing the third. “You, stay here with me to guard the door.”
A feeling of absolute failure crashed over d’Artagnan even as he pulled out his pair of pathetic kitchen knives and charged the four armed guards in front of him, his ridiculous wig flying off as he ran. The guards turned in surprise at the shiny, powder-blue figure bearing down on them, and he screamed an unintelligible battle cry as he lunged for the nearest, stabbing the short blade of the knife in his right hand into the man’s unprotected neck.
Blood gushed and the shocked man fell to his knees and clutched at his throat, gurgling. Behind him came the rasp of three swords being drawn.
“Fourché,” snapped the leader, “take care of the boy! Leave this to us.”
The leader and the other guard blocked d’Artagnan as Fourché nodded and entered the nursery. His imminent failure staring him directly in the eye, d’Artagnan sucked in a breath and darted forward, desperate to stop them. He slashed low, at the leader’s stomach, but that brought him with sword range. The blade of a rapier flashed, and a line of fire exploded along d’Artagnan’s temple and cheek. He gasped and tried to spin back, out of reach, but a blow to the head from a sword pommel sent him crashing to the ground, and into darkness.
His last sight was of the nursery door closing behind the third guard.
Chapter XV: October 16th, 1631
WHEN HE CAME TO, blood was flowing into his eyes and there was screaming all around him.
“He’s dead!” cried someone from within the nursery, the noise echoing through his throbbing head like a thunderclap. “The governess and the guards, too!”
“This one’s alive,” said a much closer voice, and hands were closing on his arms, pulling him to his feet.
He staggered against the supporting hands as dizziness threatened to send him right back onto the floor, breathing deeply until the world stopped spinning and he could pull away to stand unaided. His face was still on fire, blood flowing sluggishly down his cheek.
“Who’s dead?” he asked, forcing his thick tongue to form the words. “The Cardinal's guards?”
“No, not the Cardinal's,” said the man next to him, a note of hysteria entering his voice. “The King’s private guards. Someone has broken in and assassinated the boy!”
D’Artagnan’s heart did something complicated and painful inside his chest, and he stumbled forward into the nursery, wiping blood out of his eyes until he could see properly and shoving his way past the other people blocking the view. Two guards with black uniforms and dark, Spanish features lay crumpled on the floor. The governess lay beyond, sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Almost against his will, d’Artagnan’s gaze moved to the ornate crib that formed the centerpiece of the room, and the still, broken form within. Nausea surged up to burn his throat, and he lurched over to the wall, bracing himself with one arm as he vomited on the floor. Gasping, he threw off the hands that tried to steady him and stumbled out of the room like a drunkard.
Francis was dead. The throne of France sat empty.
D’Artagnan’s mouth was sour with bile and his head pounded like a drum as he staggered as fast as he could back toward the throne room. Blood from the wound on his face dribbled down his neck, soaking his collar and gluing the heavy fabric to his neck. He was in all probability a grisly sight to behold. He looked down, surprised to find one of his knives still clutched in his right hand. He stuck it back into his left sleeve, and berated himself bitterly for not grabbing better weapons from one of the dead Spanish guards.
The throne room seemed twice as far away from the nursery as it had on his way there, but he knew that was where de Tréville would be heading, and
that was where he had to be. When he finally arrived, out of breath and light-headed, the hallway around the arched entrance was swarming with red-cloaked guards.
Seeing one that he vaguely recognized, he approached with his empty hands held in plain sight and said, “A message... please, I have a vital message for Queen Isabella and the Cardinal!”
The man looked him over and nodded curtly, opening the door and motioning him inside. Guards dressed in the Cardinal’s red and Isabella’s black lined the room, weapons drawn. The door closed behind him with a solid thump. Those courtiers who chose to gamble on the prospect of increased influence by showing their loyalty during the present crisis huddled at the far end of the room, on either side of the dais. Isabella still sat on her throne, her unnatural good humor finally having given way to pale features and tightly set lips. The Cardinal still stood at her right hand, his face emotionless as a statue’s, and Delacruz stood at her left.
Passing through the phalanx of guards, d’Artagnan crossed to the far end, his appearance drawing gasps from the courtiers as they noticed him. He marched up to the base of the dais, forcing his spine straight, looking Isabella and Richelieu directly in the eyes.
“I have a message—“ he began, only to be cut off by Delacruz, who stepped forward, eyes flashing.
“Kneel before your Queen, you ill-bred dog!” the Spaniard snapped. “How dare you!”
“This is not my Queen,” d’Artagnan returned, glaring at the pompous head servant. “As I said, I have a message. Isabella, your son is—“
Shouts erupted in the hallway outside. The clang of metal rang out. D’Artagnan sucked in a breath and whirled around. The army was here? Now? How long had he been unconscious?
The doors burst open. D’Artagnan melted off to the side of the room in case he was needed, wishing again that he’d stolen a proper sword from one of Francis’ guards. He fingered the handle of his ludicrous little kitchen knife and concentrated on breathing as de Tréville, d’Aumont, Athos, Aramis, and Porthos strode in, swords and pistols drawn, bracketing Anne of Austria in her battle armor among them.
Isabella rose from her throne, pointing a trembling finger at her cousin. “Kill this traitor!” she screamed shrilly to the guards. “Protect your Queen!”
D’Artagnan tensed. The Spanish guards rushed forward, even as the Cardinal's guards, shooting quick looks toward Richelieu, faded back, sheathing their weapons. More of d’Aumont’s troops were entering behind Queen Anne, quickly outnumbering the soldiers in black. D’Artagnan saw Aramis parry a lunge and drop his opponent with a slash so vicious it threw the unlucky guard backwards to the ground, blood erupting from his chest like a geyser.
Porthos, back in his familiar soldier’s leathers, grabbed a man by the scruff of his neck and slammed the pommel of his schiavona against his head, dropping him like a stone. Athos neatly trapped an opponent’s blade between his rapier and main gauche, jerking it free from its owner’s hand and smoothly spinning around to skewer the disarmed man through the heart.
De Tréville marched toward the dais like a man on a mission, shooting one guard through the heart before flipping the discharged pistol up and grabbing it by the barrel to knock a second man senseless with the handle. D’Aumont watched their surroundings carefully, darting in to engage anyone attempting to make it past their guard.
Within their protective spearhead, the Queen strode forward, tall and proud, eyes locked unblinkingly on Isabella.
When the last of Isabella’s private guard fell, eerie silence shrouded the room. D’Artagnan caught movement out of the corner of his eye and jerked his head around to see Delacruz pulling a pistol from his waistband and aiming it directly at Queen Anne. Time seemed to slow down as several things happened at once. D’Artagnan lunged forward and whipped the knife free from his sleeve, while Athos and de Tréville both leapt between the Queen and the muzzle of the loaded firearm. D’Artagnan’s left hand made contact with Delacruz’s gun arm, shoving it up and to the side as the pistol discharged with a deafening bang.
He let his weight slam into Delacruz, throwing him off balance and spinning him around until he could slash the blade of the knife across the Spaniard’s throat. Delacruz slid to the ground, jerking a few times before going still.
“Traitors!” Isabella screamed. “You may think you’ve won, but my son is safe and far away from here by now. You will never rule this land!”
“Your son is dead,” said Cardinal Richelieu, before d’Artagnan could open his mouth. “As is your claim to the throne. It’s over, Isabella.”
Isabella stared at him with her mouth open and her eyes wide. “No! It's not true,” she moaned.
“It is true,” d’Artagnan said. “I saw his body.”
The distraught mother hunched forward, hands curling into claws as if she would bodily attack the Cardinal. “You... you... how could you?” she spat.
“I work for the interests of France,” Richelieu said, “and you are not the future that France needs.”
With a low, keening sound of grief and rage, Isabella collapsed back onto the throne, curling around herself. Antoine d’Aumont stepped forward to cover her with a pistol. De Tréville, who along with Athos had shielded Her Majesty from Delacruz’s attempted attack, nodded to his men to close ranks around her and resumed stalking toward the dais, hooking his own empty pistol back on his belt. Without breaking stride, he marched up the low steps and crowded into the Cardinal, shoving the taller man backward, his good hand wrapped around the First Minister’s throat until Richelieu’s back thumped against the wall.
The sound of swords being drawn echoed around the room as the Cardinal's guards stepped forward, but Richelieu waved them back with one hand, making no move to defend himself from the furious man pinning him to the wall.
“Why?” de Tréville growled.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific, Captain,” Richelieu replied, for all the world as if he was making conversation over drinks rather than being assaulted by a soldier who looked mad enough to gut him like a fish. “Why is a very broad question.”
“You sent assassins after a pregnant woman,” hissed the Captain, “and now you’ve apparently ordered the death of an innocent boy—because I know my man sure as hell didn’t do it.”
Behind them, Isabella wailed with grief. Both men ignored her.
“Pfft,” said the Cardinal. “Don’t be ridiculous, de Tréville. I had every faith in your ability to thwart my clumsy attempts on the Queen's life.”
“Every faith—?” de Tréville echoed, his face red.
“I had to bide my time and stay in Isabella’s graces until I could be sure that Queen Anne would bear a healthy son, and be able to garner enough support for a viable coup,” Richelieu continued, unruffled. “As I said, my only concern is for France.”
During the confrontation, the Queen had moved forward to the dais, flanked by her guards.
“Captain. Cardinal. We will have time to discuss such matters at a later date. For now, there is much to be done.” Pressing his lips together, de Tréville jerked his hand away from Richelieu’s neck in disgust. He came back to the Queen’s side as she turned to Isabella—still crumpled on the throne, rocking back and forth—and continued. “Cousin, I mourn your loss. Please believe that it was none of my doing; no mother would order such a thing. You are family to me, however misguided. You will be taken to the Bastille and held there until arrangements can be made for your return to Spain. Now, however, I believe you are sitting on my chair.”
Two of d’Aumont’s soldiers took custody of Isabella under their commander’s watchful eye and removed her from the throne room. Queen Anne, resplendent in her armor and crown, ascended the steps and turned, looking over all of the soldiers, palace guards, and the small knot of courtiers huddling in the corner like mice. With immense dignity, she sat down upon the throne, back straight and eyes clear.
D’Artagnan released a breath that he felt as though he’d been holding for
weeks, a faint wave of dizziness washing over him as he did so. Immediately, Aramis and Porthos were at his side.
“I like the outfit, whelp,” Porthos said. “It’s cute.”
“Personally, I think it would benefit from a little less blood around the collar,” Aramis added cheerfully, taking his arm and turning d’Artagnan’s cheek so he could check the wound.
“Ouch,” d’Artagnan said weakly, in response to the prodding.
“That needs stitches,” Porthos said.
“Later,” d’Artagnan replied. “Where’s Constance?”
“She’s safe,” Porthos reassured him. “And angry as a hornet about it, too. I don’t really envy you when you see her next.”
Aramis cleared his throat. “Athos and I are going to have words with you about getting married when we weren’t there to witness it, by the way. And, speaking of wives—where exactly is Milady?”
D’Artagnan blinked. “Right. Yes. Milady. I almost forgot,” he said, his whirling mind suddenly remembering the previous day. “Athos?”
Athos, who had been speaking with de Tréville, turned at his name and approached.
“D’Artagnan,” he said, resting a hand briefly on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. A hint of warmth suffused his normally cool voice. “I am relieved to see you mostly in one piece after your adventures. But... Anne?”
“In the Bastille, along with Constance’s godfather. They were arrested yesterday,” d’Artagnan said. “I’m sorry—I promised you I would try to keep her safe...”
“We will go now, and retrieve her,” Athos said, and d’Artagnan would not have wanted to be someone trying to stand in his way.
* * *
After a brief discussion with the Queen, d’Aumont, and de Tréville, Athos and d’Artagnan took the place of Isabella’s guards to deliver her to the Bastille with M. d’Aumont’s assistance. A detachment of the Queen’s soldiers accompanied the carriage to protect it from the crowd still on the streets as they drove southeast along the river with the distraught woman, before turning left onto the Boulevard Henri IV. Eventually, they clattered through the great gates and into the grim courtyard of the former fortress, where they were met by the governor of the prison.
Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3 Page 26
