Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4

by R. A. Steffan

  “Maman,” Charlotte moaned, hands clutching at Milady’s skirts. “Maman, what’s happening? I’m frightened...”

  “It’s all right, ma petite, be brave,” she said, struggling to keep her composure as the bag muffled her breathing. “I’m here. I will protect you.”

  When the jolting, nerve-wracking trip was completed, unseen hands wrenched the carriage door open and immediately snatched Charlotte from her arms. Her daughter screamed and clawed at her skirts, scrabbling for a handhold. Milady shrieked and flailed blindly at those who would dare try to separate her from her child, only to be backhanded across the face, sending her senses—already dizzy from the blackness and the bruise on her head—spinning.

  A cold circle of metal, unmistakably the barrel of a gun, jabbed painfully between her breasts, over her heart. She ignored it, still trying to hurl herself out of the open door after Charlotte, but someone grabbed the bag and used it to yank her backwards against the seat.

  “Charlotte!” she screamed.

  “Maman! Maman!” Charlotte’s frantic voice grew fainter as she was dragged away, and then the carriage door slammed shut and they were moving again.

  With a wordless howl of rage, Milady launched herself toward the door once more, only to be flung back again with a punch to the stomach that doubled her over for good measure. A hand grabbed the bag over her head once more, forcing her upright. She swung her bound hands like a club, but they bounced off her captor’s shoulder without effect in the lurching carriage.

  “Your little girl is being taken someplace far away, as insurance for your good behavior,” said the man holding her. “You want her to stay safe, you behave yourself. Comprende?“

  Milady collapsed back on the seat, breathing in frantic sobs as panic threatened to suffocate her, the rough cloth of the bag clinging to her mouth and nose, damp from spittle and her reflected breath.

  “Where are you taking her?” she gasped.

  “That is not for you to know, señora,” replied her captor.

  A surge of hatred bubbled up, giving her strength. In that moment, she vowed to kill the man sitting across from her, no matter the cost—her last act of atonement to Olivier and Charlotte, for failing them.

  Her chance did not come until days later. The carriage eventually disgorged Milady and her Spanish gaoler in front of a nondescript house on a nondescript street. She was bustled inside and placed in a locked room, the hood finally dragged from her head, allowing her to breathe deeply of the musty, stale air. Her hands remained tied, however.

  She was left alone in the dark with no candles, no food or water. A cautious circuit of the room revealed only a low bed with a bug-infested mattress and a single, ratty blanket. The morning saw chinks of weak light filtering through the boarded up window, revealing a room literally bare except for the bed and a stained old chamber pot. She pried at the boards over the window until her fingernails cracked and bled, to no avail.

  The guard entered three times a day with bread and water, warning her each time to stand in the center of the room, and entering with a pistol trained on her heart. Though she itched and burned with rage every passing hour that she was confined, unable to seek Charlotte, she forced herself to present the picture of a broken woman to her captor, meek and helpless.

  It was not until the fourth day of her captivity that the bored guard became careless. At breakfast, he called through the door for her to stand where he could see her, but did not bother to draw his gun when he entered. Hiding her excitement, she continued to act listless and unthreatening, and waited impatiently to see if he would do the same at lunch.

  When lunchtime also saw him enter without a gun, she made ready for an escape attempt at the evening meal. Her wrists were bruised and red-raw after days in the same dirty bindings, but she ignored the pain as she rubbed the cord determinedly back and forth across a rough edge on the wooden bed frame until the rope frayed and parted.

  Shaking and stretching the ache from her stiff, sore fingers as best she could, she grabbed the chamber pot from under the bed and emptied it into a corner, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Taking the heavy ceramic container with her, she positioned herself to one side of the door and settled down to wait.

  When footsteps in the hall heralded the approach of the guard, she silently rose and gripped the pot in both hands, at head height and cocked to swing. She did not respond when he called out in a bored tone for her to move to the room’s center... indeed, she barely breathed. The door opened on creaking hinges, and the man stepped forward, coming to a halt when she was not where he expected.

  His eyes darted to the left at the same instant she swung the chamber pot toward his surprised face, giving him just enough time to begin to duck. The pot struck a glancing blow against his temple and ear, sending him reeling but not felling him.

  Puta madre!“ he swore, and grabbed for her with one meaty hand.

  She concentrated on not losing her grip on the chamber pot as he slammed her against the wall, her abused skull impacting sharply against the plaster. The world turned red and gray and black around the edges. Fueled by her hatred and a mother’s rage, she screamed and lashed out blindly.

  When she regained consciousness, it was morning. Her vision swam. She dragged herself to her knees using the rough wood of the doorframe. Her stomach turned over, and she retched onto the filthy floor. Every convulsion drove a spike of pain through her head, threatening to send her right back down into blackness.

  When the vomiting finally subsided, she turned her head slowly, taking in the crumpled figure on the floor next to her. The Spaniard lay dead, his face pummeled to a bloody pulp of flesh and bone. Dried blood and hair clung to the broken pieces of the chamber pot next to him. Milady stared at him coldly for few moments, feeling nothing. She staggered to her feet, clinging to the wall for support.

  Her feet seemed unnaturally far away as she stumbled out of the room that had been her prison and into the main part of the abandoned house. Her guard had few possessions that she could see, but her wavering vision was drawn to a small desk with writing supplies and a candelabra. Most of the candles had burned down to nothing overnight, but one stub still flickered, guttering. Her attention had been caught by the reflection of the uncertain light off a small, shiny object, and she crossed unsteadily to it.

  A tarnished brass seal lay next to a stick of red sealing wax. She lifted it, trying to focus. The engraved design on the end swam before her face in blurry double vision, but appeared distinctive. Perhaps it would help her identify her abductors. She dropped it into her bodice, the cold metal nestling in her cleavage and warming slowly with her body heat.

  The guard’s ratty cloak hung by the outer door; she took it and wrapped it around herself. The morning was cold and the sky, a threatening slate gray that promised rain before the day was out. A small wooden pen lay behind the nondescript house, with a ewe-necked horse listlessly eating hay within. A saddle and bridle lay on a moldering barrel under the eaves.

  Fifteen minutes later she was crawling onto the beast’s back, using the fence as a mounting aid. She doubled over the poor animal’s neck, dry heaving as her head protested the change in elevation. Fortunately, the gelding was a quiet one, and walked forward as gingerly as if it understood how precarious was its rider’s balance.

  She stopped the first person she saw and asked, “Which way to the center of Paris?”

  She must have been a frightful sight, because the woman only looked at her in silent alarm and pointed back the way she’d come. Without a word, Milady turned the nag around and started the long ride home.

  * * *

  D’Artagnan was looking at her with something like awe.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” he said. “What an incredible tale.”

  Milady shifted, every muscle and sinew protesting the movement even as her hand throbbed and her stomach sloshed back and forth. “I’ll take your word for it,” she said, feeling anything but lucky. Her frustration and
fear bled through barriers made weak by injury and illness. “We are still no closer to rescuing Charlotte from men who would threaten to torture a little girl to death.”

  Suddenly d’Artagnan was leaning forward, his brown eyes and finely drawn features as intense as when she’d first met him, more than a decade ago.

  “How can you say that?” he asked. “We’re so close now... you’ve done so much. More than anyone else could have hoped to do.”

  “It’s not enough,” she said stubbornly, unwilling to hear his words. She looked up in surprise when he clasped her uninjured hand in both of his, the gesture unexpected. More than any of the others, he had always respected, or perhaps been intimidated by, her need to appear distant and untouchable.

  “Don’t lose faith now, Milady,” he entreated, meeting her eyes unflinchingly. “And please, please, let us take you to Athos. This is killing you both.”

  The sob was halfway up her throat before she managed to swallow it, as the sudden, desperate yearning to see Olivier—to throw herself in his arms and breathe in the scent of his skin—washed over her. All she could do was stare at d’Artagnan wordlessly, fear and longing swirling through her in equal measure.

  “We’ll all go together to get him out of the Bastille,” d’Artagnan said, “If you’re right about his reaction, the rest of us will knock some sense into him until he sees reason. But we won’t need to. We won’t. He only wants you safe.”

  “He wants Charlotte safe, too,” Milady murmured.

  “Of course he does. You both do,” he replied, still forcing her to hold his gaze. “We all do! And you’ve nearly killed yourself to make it happen! Milady... please. It’s torture for the rest of us to see you two like this.”

  She swallowed painfully, dragging her eyes away.

  “All right,” she whispered in a hoarse voice.

  D’Artagnan breathed out and bowed his head, pressing their joined hands briefly to his forehead in relief. He straightened a moment later.

  “Thank you,” he said, heartfelt. “Now, tell me—what do you need? Can I get you anything?”

  “More water,” she said, and accepted the cup again, allowing him to help her steady it.

  “You should probably try to rest,” d’Artagnan said when she was done. “The others will send word as soon as there is news.”

  She nodded, not bothering to explain that the opium withdrawal would make meaningful rest as good as impossible in the coming days. Instead, she merely lay back, trying to find the least uncomfortable position possible, and closed her eyes, letting the worry and hope and pain and fear swirl around inside her unhindered. After a few minutes, d’Artagnan left quietly for whatever other duties he had to attend to in addition to playing nursemaid.

  The darkness outside the window gave way to the weak light of morning as she lay in the bed of the man who had orchestrated the destruction of her family. D’Artagnan looked in on her regularly, nagging her to take food and drink until she eventually consented to some weak broth, which sat like lead in her stomach. He changed the bandages on her hand, and even insisted on checking the state of the bullet graze on her hip, though he blushed like a virgin bride the whole time.

  The patch of sunlight filtering through the light curtains marched across the floor at a painfully slow pace as she lay, exhausted but sleepless. Evening was closing in when voices heralded the arrival of news. Aramis knocked softly on the open door of her room and entered a moment later. He appeared tired and a bit worse for wear—his split lip still swollen and red, with a ring of bruises now decorating his neck to match her own.

  “Dear me, ” she said, “what must your Bishop think of you right now?”

  When he replied, though, his voce was strong and only a bit raspy. “As far as my Bishop is concerned, I was the victim of an unprovoked attack on the street. He was most sympathetic, as it happens,” he added, crossing to examine her critically. “More importantly, how are you feeling?”

  “About how you’d expect,” she retorted, already weary of this latest round of coddling.

  “Hmm... that bad, eh?” he asked with a raised brow. “I would point out that much of it is your own fault for drinking that blasted tea, but—”

  “But without that blasted tea, I probably wouldn’t have been able to function well enough to overpower de Castres after taking a knife through the hand,” she interrupted dryly.

  “Just so,” conceded Aramis, with a brief smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “At any rate, allow me to raise your spirits with some news. His Lordship, the Vicomte de Castres spent a very unpleasant morning with Cardinal Richelieu’s interrogators. He probably learned some things about the art of interrogation—I’m sure you’ll agree that his own techniques left a lot to be desired—but I think it’s safe to say that the Cardinal learned considerably more. When I left, His Eminence was arranging a pardon and release papers for Athos, and also drafting a communication with de Castres’ English handlers, offering a trade of prisoners.”

  Milady felt a stirring of hope in her breast. “You mean...?”

  Aramis nodded. “The Vicomte, in exchange for Charlotte.”

  “I never thought—” Milady paused, overcome.

  “It’s true that Charlotte is only a child, while de Castres is a potentially valuable political prisoner,” he said, “but the Cardinal is too savvy to wish to turn the Secretary of State for War, the Secretary of State of the Maison du Roi, and the whole of the Musketeer Guard against himself with a single stroke. And, of course, Her Majesty would never stand for it.”

  “Has the Queen been informed, then?” Milady asked, taken aback by how much had been accomplished while she lay listlessly in a borrowed bed.

  “Porthos saw to it, after sitting in on parts of the interrogation.” Aramis paused and looked at her closely. “D’Artagnan told me just now that you had regained your memories.”

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “Everything came flooding back with no warning when de Castres stabbed me.”

  Aramis nodded. “Well, the circumstances were certainly less than ideal, but I’m relieved for you nonetheless. D’Artagnan also said that you’d consented to come with us this evening when we go to retrieve Athos from the Bastille.”

  She looked away and nodded hesitantly, a wash of fear rising up in her stomach at the realization that this was happening tonight.

  “Thank heavens for that,” he said mildly. “Though I’m not sure what the world is coming to when we have to rely on d’Artagnan to talk sense into someone. Perhaps Constance’s influence is finally having a positive effect.”

  When she did not reply to his teasing, he sighed. “All will be well, Milady. You’ll see,” he said, his voice painfully gentle.

  “You can’t know that,” she managed.

  “I have faith,” he said simply. “Now, if you are well enough, let’s get you up and ready to travel. I can’t think you’re in a huge hurry to make use of the Vicomte’s hospitality for any longer than you have to.”

  Milady nodded her assent, and Aramis helped her rise, wash, and dress. He insisted on checking her hand yet again, declaring that it looked as good as could be expected. The base of her thumb and her last three fingers were paralyzed and completely numb to sensation, but he assured her that they might well improve as the injury gradually healed.

  At least it wasn’t her dominant hand.

  When she was as ready as she was likely to be, he forced more broth into her, blithely ignoring her protests of a sour stomach. Darkness had nearly fallen when she, Aramis, and d’Artagnan exited the Vicomte’s residence and stepped into a fine carriage marked with the Queen’s livery.

  “This might have been useful when we were traipsing around Paris on foot trying to pass for nouveau riche,” Milady pointed out dryly as the carriage rattled off toward the Bastille.

  “Yes, though the Bourbon crest on the doors would have raised a few eyebrows,” Aramis replied.

  “Will Porthos be joining us at the Bastille?” d
’Artagnan asked.

  “Of course,” Aramis said. “As if you could keep him away! He is to meet us there with the release papers.”

  The journey to the Bastille was not a terribly long one. As they approached the grim, gray structure, Milady was forcibly reminded of the last time she’d been here, some ten years earlier. The Cardinal had betrayed her to protect his own position in the days leading up to the coup against Isabella of Savoy. At the time, she’d been some three months pregnant, and when Olivier arrived with the others to free her after Queen Anne’s forces took control of the Louvre, she told him the news. In that moment, as he knelt with his arms around her waist and his cheek pressed against her belly, it no longer mattered that she had been shamelessly posing as the Cardinal’s mistress for the entire court to see. It no longer mattered that France was in chaos around them, or that the future was a dangerous and uncertain thing. His love for her—for their unborn child—had surrounded her like the strongest shield, and she vowed that she would never again allow politics or intrigue to threaten their family.

  Now, her heart pounded as the horses trotted into the cobbled courtyard and clattered to a halt. The three of them disembarked and were immediately hailed by Porthos, waiting for them in front of the imposing double doors. His broad, handsome face broke into a pleased grin when he saw her.

  “Milady! D’Artagnan managed to talk sense into you, then?” he said. “Well, thank goodness for that! I don’t like seeing you and Athos apart. ’Tisn’t natural.”

  She could not even muster the ghost of a smile for him, but he carried right on regardless.

  “Now, I’ve got the papers here, signed nice and proper by the Cardinal himself. So let’s do this, yeah?”

  The others nodded eagerly. Aramis steadied Milady with an unobtrusive hand on her upper arm as Porthos rapped the huge brass doorknocker. A few moments later, the doors creaked open, revealing two armed guards.

  “State your business,” said the man on the right, a muscular bald man with an impressive array of scars lining his face.