“Porthos and d’Artagnan,” Aramis said. “Don’t worry—I sent for them in secrecy. To any observers, they are merely joining an old friend for dinner. I think it’s quite evident, though, that the two of us are going to need some additional help with this situation.”
“You’ve placed them in an awkward situation, Aramis,” she said. “If Olivier is being held for murder...”
“Yes, I’m afraid I have, at that,” he agreed readily. “However, it's not the first time, and I doubt it will be the last. Besides, you know full well that they’d string me up by the mustache ends if they found out later that you and Charlotte needed help, and I hadn’t told them.”
It was true enough, she supposed. When Queen Anne had elevated de Tréville to the position of Secretary of State for War, and Olivier had accepted the title two years ago of Secretary of State of the Maison du Roi, Porthos had stepped in as captain of the revitalized Musketeers regiment with d’Artagnan as his lieutenant. While they were both passionately devoted to France and to the Crown, they had proven many times over that their greatest loyalty lay with their friends.
Aramis had already entered the priesthood by the time Porthos was promoted to the captaincy, having joined the faculty of the newly formed seminary of the Archdiocese of Paris—an institution in whose creation he’d played a significant part. His status as the second son of minor nobility, along with the prominent role he'd played in Anne's return to the throne, had gained Aramis several perks including the small set of private rooms in which Milady currently resided. Though the four former soldiers of the Queen’s Guard-in-Exile no longer lived in each other’s pockets, they were still closer than most brothers. This attack on Olivier—and, by extension, on her—would never go unpunished now that they knew of it.
By way of an answer, Milady handed Aramis the dress and allowed him to help her up and assist her into it.
“Forgive me,” he said when he had to pick a length of ribbon loose from the eyelets of her corset and re-lace it. “It appears I've become a bit rusty at this.”
“Out of practice, I take it? Chastity doesn’t suit you, Aramis,” she told him. “It never has.”
“Well, perhaps someone will petition our Heavenly Father at some point and get Him to loosen that particular restriction,” he said, giving the laces a small tug to underline the final word. “Until then, I’m afraid it’s part of the trade-off involved in becoming a member of the clergy.”
“Nonsense,” Milady huffed as the familiar squeeze of the corset compressed her ribcage. “Richelieu parades his mistresses at court as if they were prize trophies. He’s not unusual, either—your own archbishop has been seen disappearing into the private rooms of Mme Vichy on more than one occasion recently.”
“Ah, but you speak of bishops and cardinals, Milady, while I am but a humble priest. I will not say that ordination has miraculously removed all of the desires of the flesh,” Aramis continued, tying off the laces, “but I feel that I must at least make the attempt. Now, come speak with d’Artagnan and Porthos. The four of us have much to discuss.”
She allowed him to support her with an arm around her shoulders as they made their way slowly to the front room where, as promised, Aramis helped her into an undamaged chair. Porthos and d’Artagnan rose as she entered, a study in opposites—one tall and broad-featured, bulging with muscle but affable and stolid; the other, whippet-thin and intense, no longer the broken boy that had wandered into their lives almost a decade ago, but still prone to occasional recklessness and bursts of passion.
Her relief at seeing them was an unlooked-for weakness, but having them all here with her was honestly not too much different than having Olivier here. And... even if he were free, Olivier could not be here. She had realized immediately after her flashback of the attack that she could not possibly face him in person without first knowing Charlotte’s fate.
“Milady,” Porthos said in his rumbling voice, stepping forward to bestow a heartfelt kiss on her hand, “Thank God you’re safe. We feared the worst.”
“I think Athos has gone mad,” d’Artagnan said, looking like he wanted to fidget but restraining himself with some difficulty. No doubt Olivier’s inexplicable protestation of guilt was weighing heavily on the younger man, who still more or less worshipped the ground her husband walked on, even after all these years.
“Right now we must find out what has happened to Charlotte,” she said. “Olivier will have to wait.”
The three men shared a look that made Milady’s skin prickle with disquiet, but before she could pursue it, Aramis said, “You told me you’d remembered something new?”
For a moment, she was once again poised on the landing above the staircase, feeling her stomach drop as if she was the one tumbling down the stairs like a broken doll, not her husband. She swallowed, dragging herself back to the present.
“We were hosting the Flemish ambassador and his aides for dinner. Afterward, Olivier invited them up to his study for brandy. I was readying Charlotte for bed when half a dozen men broke into the house. There was fighting—when I ran out of Charlotte’s room, Olivier was taking on two armed men with a fireplace poker. Another of the intruders overpowered me; I saw Olivier fall down the stairs right before my assailant knocked me unconscious.”
“Two of the Cardinal’s guards went to the house the following day when the ambassador failed to arrive at the palace as expected,” Porthos said. “They found Athos just inside the front door with a broken leg. He must’ve crawled there from the bottom of the staircase and passed out from the pain before he could reach the door. Other than him, the house was empty expect for your servants and the Flemish delegation—all of them dead.”
She sucked in a sharp breath upon hearing of the deaths of their two young servants.
“How did they die?” Milady asked, forcing herself to focus on the facts that they had, rather than thinking of the light fading from Reinette and Frédéric’s eyes, or of Olivier pulling himself across the marble floor inch by inch, his twisted leg dragging behind him.
“Two had their throats cut,” d’Artagnan said. “All the others were run through.”
“The Cardinal’s got it into his head that Athos only invited the ambassador to dine with him so he could get him alone and kill him,” Porthos said, “which would be bad enough if Athos weren’t proclaiming to the skies that it happened exactly that way.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Milady. “The ambassador had four aides. Three of them were young, fit men. Was he supposed to have murdered them all single handedly—as well as his own servants—only to trip and break his leg attempting to flee the scene of the crime?”
“They’re saying he hired accomplices to help him, but they ran off afterward when he was injured,” Porthos said.
“No. The man who attacked me spoke Spanish,” Milady said. “This is part of a larger plot.”
All three of them appeared very interested indeed at this new revelation, once again exchanging looks that spoke volumes.
“I know you’re all hiding something,” she said, feeling exhaustion wash over her even though she’d only been awake for a few minutes. “You might as well tell me and get it over with.”
Porthos cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “As far as the outside world is concerned, the Flemish ambassador was just assassinated by Queen Anne’s Secretary of State of the Maison du Roi. Flanders is under Spanish control, so as you can imagine, King Philip isn’t taking it too well. France and Spain are teetering on the brink of war... a war that France is in no position to fight, or even to pay for.”
Of course. With her mind still so muddled, she hadn’t stopped to fully consider the wider consequences of Ambassador van Claes’ death. Her companions still seemed far too worried, however.
“And...?” she prompted.
D’Artagnan broke first, as she had suspected he would. “And... Spain is demanding Athos’ immediate and public execution as a traitor,” he said, all in a rush. “The Que
en is resisting, of course.”
Oh.
She realized that she had been staring at the three of them for several seconds without saying anything, as their expressions faded deeper into worry. She swallowed, trying to return some moisture to her throat.
“Well,” she said with admirable steadiness, “I did say there was a wider plot involved.”
* * *
Want to read more? The Queen’s Musketeers: Book 4 is available now!
Other titles in this series:
The Queen’s Musketeers: Book 1
The Queen’s Musketeers: Book 2
The Queen’s Musketeers: Book 4
The Queen’s Musketeers: Book 0 (Prequel available exclusively to email list members; sign up for immediate access)
Glossary of Period Terms
Arpent. A unit of measurement in pre-revolutionary France equivalent to approximately 72 meters or 78 yards.
Arquebus. A shoulder-fired gun with a medium barrel length, similar in size to a modern rifle.
Braies. Knee-length, linen undergarments worn by men; usually held closed with lacing at the top.
Bubo. A swollen lymph node that often resembles a large blister and usually occurs on the neck, armpits, or groin. Buboes are a symptom of several diseases including the Black Death, or bubonic plague.
Caliver. A shoulder-fired gun similar to an arquebus, but with a standardized bore diameter which allowed for standardized bullets.
Cat o' nine tails. A whip with nine slender lashes, designed to inflict pain and break the skin during corporal punishment.
Champron. A piece of armor used to cover and protect a horse's head.
Chariot branlant. A heavy carriage suspended over the wheels and axles with chains to provide a smoother ride.
Chasuble. A sleeveless outer vestment worn by a Catholic priest when saying Mass.
Cope. A cloak or mantle worn by a Catholic priest, open at the front and fastened at the chest with a band or clasp.
Cuirass. A piece of armor consisting of a breastplate and a backplate fastened together.
Doublet. A man's snug-fitting, buttoned jacket, usually waist or hip-length and worn over a loose linen shirt.
Jerkin. A short, close-fitting leather men's jacket without sleeves, worn over a doublet.
Main gauche. A dagger designed to be used in the left hand, in conjunction with a sword held in the right hand. Useful for attacking, parrying, and trapping an opponent's sword. Also called a parrying dagger.
Match cord. A slow-burning fuse made of twine or cord, used in the firing mechanism of matchlock weapons like muskets. Also called slow match.
Mattock. An instrument for loosening soil, resembling a pickaxe, but with a broad, chisel-like edge.
Musket rest. A tall fork used to brace the heavy barrel of the long, smooth-bore, muzzle-loaded firearm called a musket while firing it.
Palliasse. A straw mattress.
Rapier. A slender, long-bladed sword with a sharp point and an intricate hilt. Used mainly for thrusting attacks.
Schiavona. A two-edged sword with a distinctive "cat's head" pommel and a basket hilt. Though broader and heavier than a rapier, it was still light enough to be used one handed, as both a cutting and thrusting weapon.
Spaulder. A piece of armor used to cover and protect the shoulder area.
Vambrace. A piece of armor used to cover and protect the forearm.
Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3 Page 29
