“No!” Milady cried, struggling out from behind her husband. “Stop!”
Chapter XI: December 9th, 1640
CHARLOTTE WAS COWERING AMONG the English soldiers, her eyes wide and frightened.
“This was supposed to be a peaceable exchange,” she called, still in English, steeling herself to speak calmly. “There is no need for bloodshed.”
“Yes there is, you foreign bitch!” cried the youngster who had precipitated the standoff, gesturing at de Castres. “Look what you’ve done to him!”
“Corporal!” shouted the English leader. “That’s enough! You will stand down or you will face a court martial!”
“Then I will face a court martial, sir,” the soldier growled. “Because I will not stand for this outrage!”
Her heart pounding, Milady stepped forward into the space between the two companies. She felt more than saw Olivier twitch with the need to hold her back as she passed him, and hissed, “Let me do this.” He subsided reluctantly, his jaw clenched tight.
“Am I correct in thinking that this man’s actions are unsanctioned?” she asked the commander.
“They are,” the leader replied through gritted teeth.
“What is the nature of his complaint against us?” she asked. “Does he know the prisoner personally?”
The commander, to his credit, had not drawn a weapon during the initial scramble. Now, he grabbed the young soldier’s shoulder and dragged him around to face him. Their words were too low for her to make out, but the boy’s face was flushed with emotion. After a few moments, the commander cleared his throat and turned back to her as the rest of the French and English watched each other warily down the barrels of their weapons.
“You must believe that I knew nothing of this,” he said. “The corporal says his father was a French prisoner during the siege of La Rochelle. He was tortured for information by the French forces. When he was finally freed and returned to his family, he was barely the husk of a man, and died soon after.”
Milady nodded. “Just a moment,” she said, and relayed the information in French.
There was silence for a long moment, and then d’Artagnan straightened and replaced his pistol on his belt.
“I would like to propose a solution,” he said evenly. “I will offer the corporal a duel, so that he and I may resolve his grievance with us privately, like gentlemen.” His eyes flicked over the other members of their party, meeting each one briefly before he continued. “The rest of you might consider lowering your weapons, unless you intend to shoot while they’re still holding Charlotte among them.”
After a tense beat, Porthos lowered his pistol. “He’s right,” said the musketeer captain. “Pistols down.”
Milady explained d’Artagnan’s offer, and the English commander nodded. “Holster your damned weapons,” he snapped to his men, and all of them except the young corporal complied, albeit reluctantly.
The commander turned his attention to d’Artagnan, who met his gaze with head held high. “I thought dueling was illegal in France,” said the Englishman, and Milady translated a moment later.
D’Artagnan only raised an eyebrow. “I’m fairly sure that orchestrating murder, abduction, and framing an innocent man is illegal as well, monsieur,” he said, “but that did not appear to stop your superiors.”
Once Milady had passed on his words in English, the commander made a noise of dry amusement. “A fair point, well made,” he said, and turned back to glare down at the corporal. “Now, unless you want me to have you shot where you stand and your body tossed into the sea, you will accept the offer this Frenchman gave you and count yourself lucky.”
The young man’s face was beet red, and he practically shook with outrage. Charlotte, held by a soldier standing nearby, shrank away from the two angry men.
“Maman! Papa! I’m frightened!” she cried in a wavering voice. “I want to go home!”
“Be strong, Charlotte,” Olivier said, still bracing himself upright against the carriage.
“All will be well, ma petite,” Milady added, her heart aching with the need to have this done, and Charlotte safe in her arms.
The corporal, still flushed and angry, moved the wavering barrel of his pistol back and forth between Milady and Olivier. “What are they saying to each other?” he demanded.
The English commander grabbed him again, practically shouting in his face. “They are comforting their child, who is understandably frightened out of her wits, you dolt! Now give me that pistol, draw your sword, and finish this so we can all go back home!”
As if to underline his words, thunder rumbled, and a cold rain began to fall steadily from the heavy clouds that had plagued them all morning. The boy flinched, looking around and seeming to realize that he would receive no further support from his comrades. With an angry movement, he un-cocked his pistol and shoved it into the commander’s hand. As the rain began to come down in earnest, he jerked his arm free of the man’s grip, pulled his sword from its scabbard, and stalked forward to meet d’Artagnan in the space between the two groups.
The corporal was armed with a single-edged backsword, and d’Artagnan, a rapier. Milady moved back to join Olivier by the carriage, giving the combatants space. The wooden boards of the dock were already slick beneath her feet from the rain, and would make treacherous footing for a fight. D’Artagnan fell into an easy en garde position, allowing the English youth to come to him. The lad led with the point of his sword, his face set in an ugly snarl.
“I may not be able to kill all of you Catholic filth,” he growled, “but I’ll damn well see one of you dead!”
The tone must have been clear enough even without a translation, because d’Artagnan was ready for the boy when he lunged. The corporal had all the finesse of a charging bull, and was obviously aiming to gut his opponent like a fish. D’Artagnan parried twice, giving ground gracefully in order to assess the boy’s level of skill.
While it was apparent that he had been trained, and trained well, he was no match for d’Artagnan, who had been mentored for years by some of the finest swordsmen in France. D’Artagnan continued to allow himself to be put on the defensive, describing a broad arc around the edges of the space between the French and English contingents... drawing the corporal into more and more aggressive attacks.
Eventually... inevitably... the young Englishman overreached himself. Overextended on a lunge, he was unable to regain his balance over his back foot before d’Artagnan slipped in on his left side and trapped the boy’s sword under his arm. The backsword, with its blunt-topped, triangular blade, was no danger to d’Artagnan in that position, dressed as he was in heavy winter clothing. He tangled an ankle behind the corporal’s. The boy, still off-balance, toppled backward and hit the ground hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. D’Artagnan wrenched the hilt of his opponent’s sword from his hand as he fell, and it went clattering dully onto the wooden boards of the dock, just out of reach.
An instant later, the point of the musketeer’s rapier was resting over the hollow of the boy’s throat.
“Yield,” he said, not even out of breath, and Milady translated.
“Never,” wheezed the lad, glaring up through the rain that spattered his face. “Fuck you.”
D’Artagnan didn’t need a translation for that, either, and swiftly sliced open the fleshy upper part of the boy’s left arm. The corporal cried out, and d’Artagnan stepped back out of the way as he curled around the nonfatal injury.
“Honor is satisfied,” he said to the commander, who nodded his understanding and replied, “Oui,“ in heavily accented French.
The Englishman motioned two soldiers forward to deal with their wounded comrade.
“Let us complete what we are here to do,” said the commander, addressing Milady. “The child grows cold.”
“Yes,” she agreed with relief, and indicated Aramis with one hand. “This gentleman is a priest. He is unarmed. He will meet your man halfway with de Castres and make the exch
ange. This is acceptable?”
“It is,” replied the man.
Aramis had evidently been able to follow their meaning well enough, and took the Vicomte from Porthos with a few quick words in his ear. De Castres was still reluctant, but no longer terrified, and seemingly held no recognition toward the man now chivvying him forward along the rain-soaked dock.
Milady dug the fingernails of her left hand into her palm, watching as Charlotte’s guard urged her forward to meet them. Olivier was a tense figure beside her, not even breathing as the two pairs approached each other. When she was close enough, Charlotte silently held her arms out to Aramis, straining toward the familiar figure of her godfather. Aramis spoke quiet words of reassurance to her as he handed over his prisoner and immediately swept her up into his arms, nestling her under his cloak and pressing her face against the side of his neck as she began to cry.
“There, there, ma petite chou,” he said, already turning his back on the English and sweeping toward the carriage with long strides. “All safe now.”
At the sound of Charlotte’s soft sobs, Milady was off like a shot, meeting him halfway. As soon as she touched the dark, silky hair plastered to the girl’s skull, a broken breath of relief escaped her lungs.
“We have you now, beloved,” she said, her voice wavering as she pressed a kiss to her daughter’s head.
She did not try to remove the child from the protection of Aramis’ cloak, only nodding when he murmured, “Let me get her into the carriage.”
She followed alongside, one hand cupping Charlotte’s shoulder protectively. Olivier was waiting for them, his chest heaving with suppressed emotion.
“Charlotte,” he said hoarsely when they reached him, and Aramis stepped close so he could see her, touch her.
“Here’s your papa, Charlotte,” Aramis said. “She’s all right, Athos, but let me get her inside where it’s dry, mon frere.”
The others were keeping an eye on the English, and Milady was only peripherally aware as the soldiers boarded the docked merchantman and disappeared below decks. She was too busy shedding her dripping cloak and climbing into the carriage. The traveling rugs inside were blessedly dry, and she readied one in her lap as Aramis handed Charlotte up to her. The poor child was soaked, and she sacrificed the first as a towel to dry her off—at least somewhat—before wrapping her snugly in the second. Milady cursed silently as her injured hand refused to work, making her clumsy and slow.
A moment later, though, Olivier was being boosted up next to her. Like her, he had shed his traveling cloak, and once he had awkwardly shuffled his splinted leg out of the way, he lent his hands to get Charlotte swaddled up and settled between them, where their combined body heat began to combat the wet chill.
“Are you hurt, Charlotte? Did they injure you at all?” Olivier asked.
“I was scared, Papa,” Charlotte said in a tiny voice. “I didn’t know where I was and I couldn’t understand them when they talked.”
“We were scared, too, ma petite,” Milady said, her own voice unsteady. In a stronger tone, she continued, “But you are safe now. The safest child in France, with your mother and father, and a troop of musketeer uncles to protect you. I promise, beloved, when you are lost, we will always come for you. Always.“
“Just so,” agreed Aramis, who was blocking the rain from coming through the carriage door with his body. “Your Papa nearly started a war to protect you, Charlotte, and your mother fought like a tigress to reach you. She would not rest until she had found you.”
Porthos appeared behind Aramis’ shoulder, a relieved grin lighting his face as he peered into the carriage, despite the rain pouring off the brim of his hat. “Hello, princess. You’ve had quite an adventure, eh? What say we get you someplace warm and dry, and as soon as the rain stops, we’ll all head home.”
Charlotte nodded silently, her eyes wide. Another shiver wracked her slender body, and Milady curled around her even more closely. Porthos made way so that d’Artagnan and de Tréville could also confirm Charlotte’s safety with their own eyes.
“Are you three all right on your own until we get back to the inn?” de Tréville asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Milady said, barely looking up from the child wrapped in her arms.
Aramis smiled at the three of them and closed the door. Moments later, the carriage clattered off, heading back toward the modest hostelry where they’d spent the previous night. Charlotte clung to them, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Milady ran a hand rhythmically up and down her back, still drinking in the reality of having her here, having her safe. Olivier ran his fingers softly through her tousled curls, drying slowly in the puffs of chilly wind that crept through the edges of the carriage windows. When Milady's eyes followed the line of his arm up toward his face, it was to find him watching her.
“You did it,” he said quietly and stretched across Charlotte’s body to kiss her, soft and sure.
Milady closed her eyes and sank into the slow press of lips, even as her own circling thoughts continued to taunt her relentlessly. Too slow; too weak. How long was Charlotte left alone and frightened? What had their child endured while she slept safely in Aramis’ bed and toured the salons of Paris?
When she could stand it no more she pulled away, eyes still closed, and hid her face against his shoulder. The strong, callused hand that had been stroking Charlotte’s hair moved to her own head instead, and it was almost more than she could bear.
* * *
The journey back to Paris took two days longer than the journey to Le Havre, thanks to inclement weather that turned the roads to mud and slush. Charlotte’s nights were punctuated by nightmares that dragged her awake, pale and gasping, until either her mother’s or her father’s arms closed around her and she cried herself back to sleep. Milady was torn between demanding Charlotte tell them every last detail of what had happened to her and not wanting to know a single word of it. Olivier was silent and lost, wracked by the same guilt she was at his inability to keep his family safe.
The only saving grace on the long, uncomfortable, and frustrating journey was that Charlotte had always adored travel, even as an infant. While her nights were riddled with terrors, her days in the carriage often saw her sleeping peacefully for hours at a time. It didn’t take long before the others were taking it in turns to ride in the carriage with Charlotte curled up in the seat next to them, swaddled in blankets and fast asleep.
On the afternoon of the seventh day, she was tucked against d’Artagnan’s side, drooling slightly onto his doublet and utterly heedless of the rocking of the carriage as the wheels slewed through muddy ruts. Milady was half-dozing herself, the stress of worrying and getting up during the night to comfort Charlotte having eaten away at her already meager reserves of energy. When Olivier spoke into the silence, previously broken only by the creaking of the axles, she opened her eyes.
“I don’t know how to help her,” he said quietly.
He was leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, splinted leg stretched out in front of him. The words had been directed at d’Artagnan, who was watching him with dark, too-knowing eyes.
“You are helping her,” said the younger man. “Both of you are.”
“She hasn’t spoken of her abduction at all,” Olivier retorted, “yet it visits her in dreams every night.”
Perhaps Milady should have known that, attuned as they were, the same thoughts that were plaguing her would also be plaguing Olivier. She stayed silent, waiting for d’Artagnan’s reply.
Olivier’s former protégé was quiet for a moment, as if framing his words with care. “Perhaps... she merely does not wish to talk about it right now. Forgive me, Athos, but I cannot recall that you yourself have ever been quick to revisit and rehash traumatic events after the fact.”
“She is only a child,” Olivier replied.
D’Artagnan nodded, but rather than reply directly, he said, “Have I told you two the latest news about Bebette?”
Milady f
rowned. Bebette, along with Clémence and the twins, had accompanied Constance on a couple of occasions during the time when she and Olivier were awaiting the results of the Cardinal’s negotiations with the English. She had seemed healthy enough, but still distant and mentally un-tethered.
“What about her?” she asked.
“She started talking,” d’Artagnan said with a soft smile, and Milady blinked in surprise.
“Did she?” she asked. “I never heard her say anything while she was at the house.”
“She will only speak to Corinne, so far,” he said.
Corinne was the six-year-old twin girl that he and Constance had taken in along with her brother, Alexandre. She was a sweet child, gentle and friendly, but even so—
“I would have thought she would open up to Clémence, before anyone else,” she said.
D’Artagnan shrugged one shoulder, careful not to jostle Charlotte as she lay with her head resting on his chest. “Perhaps Clémence is too closely tied to her memories of the brothel. Who are we to judge which person she should open up to first? As long as she understands that if she chooses to talk to the rest of us, we will listen, then it is her choice to speak or not speak, is it not?”
Olivier studied him over steepled fingers for the space of several breaths before speaking. “Aramis is rubbing off on you, d’Artagnan.”
“Is that a compliment or a complaint?” d’Artagnan asked, though he could not hide the faint blush of pleasure that colored his cheeks.
“Merely an observation,” Olivier replied, a small smile tipping up one corner of his mouth.
“Perhaps we should let Charlotte spend as much time as possible with the other children, assuming she desires it,” Milady said.
Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4 Page 20
