Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3

by R. A. Steffan

  D’Aumont explained that Francis was dead and Isabella under arrest, displaying Queen Anne’s seal on the orders. After an extended discussion that had Athos as near to fidgeting as d’Artagnan had ever seen the normally unflappable man, the governor accepted the validity of the change of regime, agreeing to imprison Isabella and free the prisoners she had sent the day before. The sun was sinking low in the sky beyond the thick walls when two prison guards led Isabella away. She stumbled forward between her captors as if in a daze, disappearing inside the gray stone walls.

  The governor himself led the way to M. de La Porte’s cell, where the old man was freed with a tumble of grateful words escaping his lips. From there, the little procession proceeded to Milady’s cell. The heavy door creaked open on its hinges, and Athos’ wife glanced up sharply from her seat on a bare bench along the opposite wall. Upon seeing them, she let out a small breath, barely audible, and d’Artagnan heard a matching exhalation of relief from the man standing next to him. Milady rose to her feet, meeting Athos halfway as he strode into the cell and crushed her to him, kissing her until they were both breathless. When they finally parted, foreheads pressed together and breathing each other’s air, Milady smiled.

  “I came as soon as I could,” Athos said, barely more than a whisper.

  “I know,” she said, pulling away far enough that she could look up at him. “I had complete faith that you would come for us, Olivier. We both did.”

  For a moment, d’Artagnan thought she was referring to herself and M. de La Porte, but she slid a hand down the front of her body, caressing her stomach, and he caught his breath in sudden understanding. Athos’ mouth fell open, and his hand covered hers.

  “Both?” he echoed faintly, looking at her with wonder.

  “Both,” she confirmed.

  Athos fell to his knees before her, his arms circling her waist and his eyes tightly closed. His cheek pressed against the tiny swell of his unborn child.

  Chapter XVI: October 17th, 1631

  WHEN CONSTANCE ARRIVED at the Louvre the following morning, she was flanked by guards and carrying the King of France cradled in her arms. Her eyes flew to d’Artagnan’s face as soon as she entered the room where he and the others had been conferring. Nonetheless, she dutifully presented Henry to the Queen with a deep curtsy, and waited to be dismissed before rushing away from her escorts and to his side. Her fists were clenched and her cheeks flushed. She glared up at him when he rose to meet her.

  “You tricked me!” she said, eyes flashing. “I was going to slap you for that as soon as I saw you, but...”

  Her fingers were trembling as she raised them to the stitches holding the wound on his cheek closed, tracing them with a butterfly touch. He caught her hand in his own and directed it to his lips instead.

  “I wish I could say I’m sorry,” he told her, “but I’d do it all over again. I had to keep you safe, Constance. I had to.”

  “It wasn’t your decision to make,” she said, but the next moment she was reaching up on tiptoes to kiss him. He took her in his arms gratefully, holding her tight and feeling her cling to him in return.

  A moment later, there was a discreet cough from across the large table that dominated the room, and they parted sheepishly. De Tréville was staring at d’Artagnan with an air of weary patience.

  “If we could perhaps continue?” the Captain asked, mock courteously.

  D’Artagnan felt a blush rise, even as the others around the table hid smiles. “Of course,” he said, and ushered Constance into his seat, standing behind her shoulder. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

  The Queen’s eyes were kind, and faintly amused. “I think we can overlook it this time. Which reminds me, I believe congratulations are in order?”

  D’Artagnan could not have kept the smile from his face if he’d tried. “Your Majesty’s choice of subterfuge proved prophetic,” he said, looking down to meet Constance’s eyes as she turned to him with her own smile. “We were married five days ago.”

  “I will admit I’d hoped for such an outcome,” said the Queen. “I am truly happy for both of you. It seems there is much to celebrate, today.” Her eyes flicked to Milady, who dipped her head in acknowledgement.

  “Oh, yes?” Constance asked, confused.

  “I am to be a father, it seems,” Athos replied from his seat next to Milady, still sounding ever so slightly dazed by the prospect.

  D’Artagnan was reminded yet again of the many reasons why he loved Constance when she immediately said, “Oh, Athos. Milady. That’s wonderful,” without a trace of the melancholy she must be feeling after her own recent loss coloring her tone. He placed a hand on her shoulder, tracing his thumb back and forth over her skin, and she smiled up at him with liquid eyes.

  “Indeed it is,” Queen Anne agreed, letting her gaze flit around the table. “And I don’t doubt that the child will be spoiled for choice when it comes to doting aunts and uncles.”

  Porthos’ deep laugh and the others’ more restrained chuckles echoed around the room for a long moment.

  “Now, though, I can see that Captain de Tréville is about to remind us once again of our true purpose here,” she continued mildly. “What is the latest news from the city?”

  De Tréville cleared his throat. “The announcement has been made that the price controls have been eliminated and the tax rates lowered on Your Majesty’s orders. Porthos?”

  Porthos looked up. “There are still people camped around the palace hoping to get a look at you or little Henry, Your Majesty, but for the most part they’ve gone back to their homes. There’s been quite a bit of property damage and a fair bit of loss of life during the rioting, as you might expect. That said, things are mostly quiet now.”

  “The violence and resulting losses are deeply regrettable,” said the Queen. “M. d’Aumont, we are eager to meet with representatives from Chartres about ways in which the strategies employed in your fair city might be applied to the rebuilding and revitalization of Paris.”

  “Indeed, Your Majesty,” d’Aumont said. “I will pen a letter to the mayor of Chartres this very day.”

  “As a final order of business,” de Tréville said, “Aramis has requested an assignment liaising with the Church in Paris, to see what can be done about the shortage of clergy in the area.”

  D’Artagnan glanced at Aramis, who sat quietly in his chair, watching the Queen with a serene expression.

  “That’s a splendid idea,” she said. “I can think of no one better for the job. And that brings me to another point. I have decided, upon extended reflection, to retain Cardinal Richelieu as one of my advisors.” She paused to let the expressions of shock and dismay quiet. “I am aware of your thoughts on the matter, but I feel it is important to have someone at my side with a view to the nation, rather than to the ruler. All of you are loyal to me, personally, and to my son. Cardinal Richelieu is loyal to France, first and foremost. Captain, I trust your ability to balance the Cardinal’s more cold-blooded tactics...”

  “If I don’t kill him first,” de Tréville muttered.

  The Queen raised an eyebrow. “That would indeed be unfortunate. As I was saying, I trust you to balance his more cold-blooded tactics, but I trust him to point out times when the government’s decisions are short-sighted or self-serving.”

  D’Artagnan thought of the Cardinal’s cold eyes as he informed Isabella of the assassination of her son, and shivered slightly. Queen Anne let the mutterings of displeasure run their course.

  “Your opinions are noted, my dearest friends,” she said, “but my mind is made up. Now, let us talk of other matters. I have written to Emmanuel de Crussol, Duc d’Uzès. I hope to hear back soon, so that the details of my husband’s interment and my son's coronation may be planned. I expect all of you to attend as guests of honor, of course.”

  Constance covered d’Artagnan’s hand with her own, squeezing tightly, and d’Artagnan could not help but feel her excitement at the upcoming culmination of all that they h
ad worked so hard to achieve transmitting itself to him as well.

  * * *

  During the forty days that followed Queen Anne’s triumphant entry into Paris, her trusted guards and advisors found themselves embroiled in a flurry of planning. The people of France craved the prospect of stability, and, perhaps even more, the promise of hope for the future. The old King was dead. The young Pretender was dead. The throne sat in limbo, for all that France’s Parliament and influential elite agreed in principle to the accession of Louis’ son and the installation of Anne as Queen Regent until the infant came of age.

  The people, though, needed reassurance that the monarchy still stood strong after being so sorely tested.

  To that end, plans for the royal funeral of King Louis XIII were quickly assembled. In the mean time, a public christening was held, where the baby was officially titled Henry V and—at the Queen’s insistence—gained the sponsorship of both Captain de Tréville and Cardinal Richelieu.

  The sad mortal remains of the former King lay in a vault at l’Église Saint-Nicolas in Blois, where he had died the previous April. A French king would once have been embalmed with bitter herbs and sealed in a lead shroud within his coffin to preserve his corpse for transportation and lying in state. As they lay in hiding with Louis’ plague-ravaged body, though, the best his allies could manage was to boil the cadaver until the bones separated from the flesh, making the skeletal remains safe to store in a plain wooden chest. There they remained, waiting to be returned to the Basilica of Saint-Denis and placed in the royal crypt.

  The time for that weighty event was fast approaching, and d’Artagnan found himself part of the honor guard sent to escort the coffin back to Paris where it would join the elaborate funeral procession as befitting a king. The trip was expected to take some nineteen days, thanks to the ponderous, four-wheeled chariot branlant that accompanied them, pulled by a team of five black horses. D’Artagnan personally couldn’t see the point of sending such an immense and vaguely ridiculous conveyance over sixty leagues of bad roads to carry back a simple wooden box full of bones, but Aramis—who also formed part of the honor guard—assured him it was a long-standing tradition and as such, very important.

  Fortunately, their somber errand went as smoothly as such a trip ever did, and they returned with the royal coffin in tow. D’Artagnan found the expedition vaguely surreal, as they revisited places that had previously played host to danger and intrigue, not such a very long time ago. Aramis was a stalwart presence beside him, practically radiating tranquility now that his self-appointed goal to see the new King on the throne before leaving to join the clergy was nearly a reality.

  The solemn company arrived back at Notre-Dame-des-Champs on the chilly evening of November twenty-first, where the coffin would be kept until the procession into Paris three days hence. At that point, a vast cortège of religious and political figures of note would march to Notre Dame de Paris on the Île de la Cité in the Seine with the coffin, along with a wax effigy of the King suitable for viewing. A public service would be held there, and the effigy would lie in state for a day before it, and the remains, continued on to the Basilica of Saint-Denis for a second service, and the interment.

  The Queen had requested the close presence of her loyal guards and advisors for this final ceremony, which would see her son officially ascend to the throne. Once again, d’Artagnan was hit with a sense of unreality at the prospect of a gentleman farmer’s son from Gascony finding himself in such circumstances—a sense that was only reinforced by the dazed looks Constance kept giving him as they discussed it in hushed tones the night before.

  The morning of the final procession to Saint-Denis dawned clear and cold. Constance donned the somber black dress that she had sewn for the occasion, and d’Artagnan put on the full uniform of the Musketeers of the Guard for the first time, along with the black sash signifying mourning.

  “Very handsome,” Constance approved, adjusting the cape and fleur-de-lys tabard with nervous fingers. Her eyes sought his, suddenly unsure. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”

  He caught her hand in his own, and kissed it. “If it’s a dream, it’s one we’re both dreaming.”

  Constance’s eyes crinkled slightly with an impish smile. “I suppose I can live with that,” she said.

  The streets were already filling with eager onlookers as they joined the others and began the journey to Île de la Cité, and Notre Dame. D’Artagnan was hard-pressed not to react to the grandeur of the old cathedral. Every time he thought he’d seen the most amazing building that France had to offer, he found himself stunned anew by the heights to which architecture could rise.

  Notre Dame might has well have been made from spun sugar for all its apparent solidity—he simply could not accept the idea that the delicate columns and spires were formed from anything as heavy and earthly as stone. Even upon entering, the overwhelming sensation was that of light, air, and color. It was by far the largest interior space d’Artagnan had ever seen, and his eyes could scarcely take in one statue or window or altar before another drew his attention away.

  Constance’s hand clasped his tightly, her own eyes very nearly as wide as his, even though she had far more experience of Paris’ great churches. The pair of them followed the others toward the familiar figure of de Tréville, standing uneasily next to the scarlet-robed form of Cardinal Richelieu. Behind them stood the simple wooden coffin containing the earthly remains of Louis XIII, resting on a catafalque. On the lid of the coffin lay the wax effigy of the deceased monarch, dressed in royal finery. Despite the warmth of the rich ermine and velvet clothing the figure, d’Artagnan felt himself shiver slightly at the sight of the painted, wide open eyes.

  “Good, you’re all here,” de Tréville said. “The procession is forming outside; it’s time we joined them.”

  Richelieu was eyeing Constance and Milady with a slightly peevish expression. “May I just say,” he said in a voice that sounded like he was swallowing something sour, “that Her Majesty’s insistence on including women among the coffin-bearers is extremely unorthodox.”

  “And yet, it is the Queen’s express desire that it be so,” de Tréville replied waspishly. The old captain reached behind the coffin for a large, folded length of embroidered cloth in royal purple shot through with threads of gold—the pall, as it had been explained to d’Artagnan, which would drape the coffin as they carried it through the streets.

  With a slight huff of disapproval, the Cardinal directed Porthos, Athos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan to lift the coffin carefully by its carrying poles until they could settle it on their shoulders with Porthos and d’Artagnan supporting the front corners, and Athos and Aramis, the back. De Tréville and the Cardinal draped the sweeping pall over the effigy and the coffin of bones beneath it. After a brief bit of fumbling to put the Captain on the left side in order to accommodate his missing arm, he and Richelieu held the front corners of the pall, while Milady and Constance took the back corners.

  In this way, the eight of them with their precious royal cargo exited the church with measured steps, joining the astonishing procession of horses, wagons, carriages, and people on foot waiting outside. With a shout from the front and a sounding of horns, the cavalcade began its slow, winding progress out from the center of the city.

  Crowds lined the streets, hooting and cheering as if the parade signified a festival rather than a funeral. The wall of people made the back of d’Artagnan’s neck prickle, thinking of the mobs and the rioting he had encountered in the lead-up to Isabella’s downfall. He wanted to check on Constance, but there was no way to do so without stumbling over his own feet under the weight of the carrying pole braced on his shoulder. He contented himself with the continued gentle rippling of the pall in the breeze, held steady by its four bearers as they kept pace with the coffin.

  D’Artagnan hardly knew Paris at all, beyond the tiny little slice of it around Rue Férou and the Louvre. While he understood in theory that it was a large city—far
larger than Chartres—he was nonetheless taken aback by the way it seemed to go on and on as the road slowly disappeared beneath their measured footsteps.

  While the coffin of bones was not a particularly heavy load for four strong men, it was still a significant burden over such a considerable distance. D’Artagnan’s shoulder began to ache under the pole as the sun was still climbing toward its zenith in the crisp, cloudless sky above, and by the time it was starting its slow descent through afternoon, every step caused his neck and back muscles to throb with strain. It was only pride and personal dislike that caused him to shake his head brusquely in negation when the Cardinal asked if he would like to trade places for a while. And if he derived any secret satisfaction when similar offers made to the others were summarily rebuffed as well, he kept it firmly to himself.

  Still, when the Basilica finally came into view through the gaps in between the buildings in front of them, he was deeply relieved. His feet were hot and blistered within his polished boots despite the cool autumn day, and his upper body felt as if it were developing a permanent, painful curve to the left under the weight of the royal burden resting on his shoulder.

  The crowds, which had thinned out during the latter part of the journey as they traveled further from the city center, were once again gathering shoulder to shoulder as people from Paris and the surrounding countryside came together near the end of the route in hopes of getting a glimpse inside the Basilica of Saint-Denis during the service.

  The final approach was lined with dozens of the Cardinal's guards, their swords held high in salute. The doors to the church had been thrown wide open, and as the escort of men on horseback peeled away, it left the path clear for the weary musketeers and pallbearers to bear the coffin inside the narthex. The long nave beyond was packed with people dressed in their best finery. At the front and slightly off to one side stood Queen Anne, with Henry cradled in her arms. A beam of sunlight from one of the western windows haloed the pair in gold.