Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4

by R. A. Steffan

  “And with His Majesty, in particular,” d’Artagnan suggested. “You know how Henry dotes on her.”

  Charlotte stirred in his embrace, and looked up at them sleepily. “We’re going to see Henry?” she asked with a hopeful expression.

  “We have to get you home first, princess,” d’Artagnan told her, “but I’m sure it can be arranged soon afterward.”

  “Good,” she said, her face lighting up with the first real smile she’d shown since Le Havre. Milady leaned across the space between the benches to place a kiss on her forehead, feeling slightly less at sea than she had been.

  * * *

  On the ninth day of the journey, de Tréville was riding with them in the carriage, his fearsome, one-eyed visage soft as he watched Charlotte—seated in the foot well between them —playing with the emerald clasp he used to hold his cloak closed, a gift given to him years earlier by the Queen.

  Out of the blue, she looked up at her parents, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. “I tried to get free and run away, but they were always watching me,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t do better.”

  Milady was lost for words, her heart trying to leap up into her throat and choke her. Olivier seemed equally shocked, but recovered first.

  “No one expected you to escape on your own, Charlotte,” he said.

  “Maman escaped,” Charlotte answered, a slightly sullen note entering her voice.

  De Tréville cleared his throat, gaining Charlotte’s attention. “Your Maman has had considerably more practice with such things,” he said. “Sometimes when the odds are against him, the best thing a soldier can do is stay where he is and wait for rescue. I’m willing to bet you stayed strong and told them nothing about France’s defenses, yes?”

  Charlotte straightened her spine, meeting de Tréville’s eye fearlessly. “I didn’t tell them anything,” she said with pride, heedless of the fact that her captors were unlikely to have looked to a little girl for information on military strategy.

  “Then you behaved bravely, and with honor,” de Tréville said. “No commander could have asked for more.”

  Charlotte seemed to ponder this for some time, before nodding decisively. At the inn that evening, she slept straight through the night for the first time since the abduction.

  * * *

  On the morning of the tenth day, Aramis took his leave from the group and rode ahead to ready the de La Fére house for their return, disappearing into the distance on his old Spanish mare. As the intermittent drizzle that had plagued them for much of the trip sharpened into sleet and then to light snow, Porthos climbed into the carriage and closed the door after himself.

  “Leaving poor d’Artagnan at the mercy of the weather?” Athos asked, even as Charlotte bounced up from her seat between her mother and father and all but flung herself into Porthos’ lap.

  “Privileges of rank,” Porthos replied with an unrepentant grin, before turning his attention to Charlotte. “Heya, princess. You about ready to be home? I mean, I know how much you like traveling, but ten days straight is surely enough for anyone.”

  “I suppose,” she said, a frown wrinkling her brow. “I wish Frédéric and Reinette were going to be there, though.”

  Porthos nodded his understanding. Rather than tell Charlotte that the young servants had been murdered by the same men who abducted her, Milady had merely said they had left after the attack. It was not a lie with which she was completely comfortable, yet she could not bring herself to pile even more horror onto her daughter’s shoulders.

  “Well,” said the big man, “at least your Uncle Aramis and Bazin will be there when you get home. That’s good, right?”

  Charlotte’s face cleared. “Yes. That will be good.”

  Porthos cuddled her against his shoulder and turned his attention back to her parents.

  “What about you two?” he asked. “How are you faring?”

  “I have my wife and child back,” Olivier said. “All else is unimportant.”

  Porthos raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? Hmm... then I suppose you won’t be interested in the fact that Aramis is picking up a pair of crutches for you on his way to the house, so you can get around on your own again.”

  Milady perked up at his words. “He may not be interested,” she said wryly, “but I definitely am. Has the break healed sufficiently for crutches?”

  Porthos shrugged and said, “Apparently. I’m sure Aramis knows better than to bring crutches into the house and then tell Athos not to use them.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Athos replied, his manner haughty. “I am always a model patient.”

  Charlotte, who had been following the grown-ups’ conversation with interest, giggled into Porthos’ neck.

  “You certainly should be, given how much practice you’ve had with it over the years,” Porthos said with a twinkle in his own eyes. “However, that doesn’t necessarily make it so.”

  “Ah, but that’s why he has me, you see,” Milady said, relaxing back into the seat and letting the banter wash over her. “Wife and part-time gaoler.”

  “And I couldn’t imagine being incarcerated by a more agreeable captor,” Olivier said, sending her a smoldering look.

  Porthos smirked at both of them. “Better you than me, mate,” he said softly.

  * * *

  It was mid-afternoon when the carriage finally pulled up in front of the old house near the Tuileries. The snow had started to come down in earnest as Bazin threw open the doors for them, but a merry fire was burning in the large fireplace in the front room, driving away the chill. Milady stepped inside, Charlotte’s right hand held in her left, and let out a deep sigh of satisfaction.

  Behind them, the others were helping Olivier into the residence and hauling in the luggage. A moment later, Aramis appeared from further inside the house, his sleeves rolled up and sweat beading upon his brow.

  “I took the liberty of preparing a hot bath,” he said, “and I believe Bazin has some stew ready for anyone who wants it.”

  Milady raised an eyebrow at him. “Why, Aramis,” she said, dry as paper, “how thoughtful. I do believe you’ve missed out on a successful career as a valet.”

  “Not really. It’s just that you all stink rather badly after so many days on the road,” Aramis said, all innocence.

  “Hmm... perhaps not valet material after all,” Olivier said. “Although if you give me the crutches I’ve been promised, I’m inclined to overlook your impudence.”

  “Fine words to someone who has spent the afternoon hauling buckets of water around for you, Monsieur le Comte,” Aramis said, though he ducked out of the room and produced the crutches all the same. Handing them over, he pointed a scolding finger at Olivier. “And I don’t want to hear about you overdoing it and aggravating that leg.”

  Olivier snatched the crutches away with a low growl and did not dignify him with a response.

  De Tréville and d’Artagnan gave their excuses soon afterward and took their leave. Porthos stayed and ate an early supper with them before sloping off to visit Mme Coquenard, too long neglected after their nearly three week journey to Le Havre and back. Aramis stayed to share a glass or two of wine with Olivier while Bazin cleaned up the remains of the meal and Milady bathed Charlotte.

  The water in the tub was still warm, and the addition of one of the two pails Aramis had left sitting by the fire made it steaming. Milady checked Charlotte carefully for injuries, despite having already done so multiple times at the inns where they’d stayed along the road.

  “Maman. I’m fine,” Charlotte said, taking Milady’s hand in her own and sounding strangely older than her years.

  Milady closed her eyes and made herself breathe. “Of course you are, ma petite,” she said. “Forgive me... I’m being silly.”

  Despite the early hour, by the time she was done in the bath, Charlotte was yawning, half-asleep. Milady sent her to say goodnight to Olivier and Aramis before leading her up to her bedroom and tucking her in. Sh
e had wondered if being back in the bed from which she had been abducted might cause a problem, but Charlotte was asleep within seconds of her head hitting the pillows. Milady stayed for twenty minutes or so, watching her sleep.

  When she made her way back downstairs, Aramis was helping Olivier bathe as he stood naked by the side of the copper tub, leaning on the edge for balance.

  “Getting him in and out with that leg seemed like more work than either of us were willing to take on at the moment,” Aramis said by way of explanation when he saw her hovering by the entrance.

  “That’s all right,” she said with a smirk. “The view is nicer this way.”

  “Careful, Anne,” Olivier said, sluicing water over himself and onto the flagstones below, “you’ll make our priest blush.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” she replied.

  “You’re both hopeless sinners, and I trust you’ll go to confession forthwith and cleanse your lustful souls,” Aramis said, not sounding particularly bothered as he handed Olivier a cloth to dry himself off.

  “You realize Porthos did actually tell me the details of your ploy with the Vicomtesse,” he said as Milady handed him a clean pair of braies and a shirt.

  “Ah,” said Aramis. “Yes. Quite. Well, I never said I wouldn’t be at confession right there next to you, did I now?”

  “Indeed not, old friend,” Olivier said. “I’d like to think that God will take your motivation into account when balancing your ledger books, as well.”

  “Hear, hear,” Milady said, meaning it.

  “We can but hope,” Aramis replied, flashing them a small, quick smile that did not reach his eyes. “Now, let me add another pail of hot water to the tub for you, Milady, and I’ll help Athos upstairs and leave you in peace. Do you wish either Bazin or myself to stay the night, or will you be all right on your own until Constance comes in the morning?”

  “We’ll be fine,” Milady told him. “Go home and get some rest... or whatever it is you do at night when normal people are sleeping.”

  “Translate the Bible into French, mostly,” Aramis said, and Milady let out a startled laugh.

  “That was you?” she asked. “Oh, but I should have realized.”

  “Do I even want to know?” asked Olivier, looking from one to the other of them.

  “You absolutely do,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you later.”

  Aramis sighed, long-suffering writ large across his handsome face. “If you’re both finished mocking me, I’ll help Athos get up the stairs. Bazin and I will show ourselves out and lock up behind us. I’ll be around to check on you in a day or two.”

  Milady stepped forward and stretched up, kissing him softly on the cheek. He stilled in surprise, looking down at her.

  “Thank you, Aramis,” she said with complete sincerity. “For everything.”

  “One need not thank family,” he replied carefully, including both her and Olivier in his gaze, “but you are very welcome, nonetheless.”

  She stepped back, allowing him space, and he flashed her another mercurial smile before taking Olivier’s arm over his shoulders and helping him from the room. When their halting, irregular footsteps had receded, she unlaced her clothes with awkward one-handed movements and let them slide to the floor. The bath was still steaming; she stepped into it and reclined with a sigh. Her hip was healed enough that the water did not sting, but she kept her bandaged right hand carefully dry as she slid down, only stopping when the water lapped at her chin.

  After a few minutes, she grabbed the sliver of soap from the floor and scoured herself clean as best she could. When she was finished, she lay back, waiting in vain for the warm water to perform its magic on the tension coiling in her neck and shoulders. Finally, she sank down under the surface and scrubbed at her face and hair, only emerging when her lungs started to burn. The bathwater was lukewarm and scummy when she finally stood and dried herself off.

  She pulled her linen shift over her head, not bothering to dress any further now that everyone had left. The strange unease that knotted her muscles was only getting worse, and it made her feel jittery. Why was this affecting her now? The crisis was over. They had prevailed, more or less. And yet, her mind insisted on flitting from one disturbing memory or might-have-been to the next.

  By the time she reached the base of the staircase—where Olivier had lain, his leg broken and the tip of a sword dimpling the skin of his throat—her heart was racing and she could barely seem to pull enough air into her lungs. This was ridiculous... this was...

  “Maman! Papa!” Charlotte cried, and Milady craned her head around frantically until she saw her struggling daughter being carried down the stairs by one of the intruders.

  “Charlotte!” Olivier called, his face deathly pale and his voice hoarse with pain.

  Milady clenched her eyes shut and shook her head to dislodge the ghostly images. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the banister with her good hand and mounted the stairs, trying to ignore the way her heart pounded against her ribs like a bird flinging itself against the bars of a cage.

  When she had reached the second to the last step, her vision went gray and she crumpled, her derriere landing with a painful thud on the top stair. She clapped her hand over her mouth and nose, trying to muffle her gasping breaths. They sounded like sobs, though her eyes were dry.

  Chapter XII: December 19th, 1640

  “ANNE?” THE FAMILIAR VOICE drifted to her, slightly muffled.

  A door creaked in the hallway behind her and closed with a soft thud. Charlotte’s room, she thought. I must see that the hinges are oiled. She tried to answer... to say that she was fine, but the noise that emerged was an unintelligible croak.

  “Anne...” The click of wooden crutches on bare floor approached too quickly, and then Olivier was lowering himself awkwardly to the floor next to her at the top of the staircase. She blinked away the memory of another man charging him, sending them both over the edge and down the stairs in a tangled heap.

  Her breath was still coming in great, uneven gasps. Olivier’s hands closed around her shoulders, easing her around so he could see her face in the flickering light of the hallway lamps.

  “I’m sorry.” She forced the words through the gaps in her fingers—a high, wavering whisper. “It’s fine... I’m sorry!”

  Olivier’s gray eyes were lit with a pain she did not understand. He released one of her shoulders and placed his palm flat against the space between her breasts, over her heart.

  “Try to calm your breathing,” he said. “It’s all right. Follow me.”

  His palm pressed down on her next frantic exhalation, and he led her with slow, deep breaths, in and out, in and out. It took several minutes before she could mirror him, the buzzing slowly receding from her ears and the gray fog from the edges of her vision.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, in a voice more like her own. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s not an uncommon occurrence on the field of battle, particularly after the battle itself is done,” he said, a frown marring his brow. “It is not, however, something I had ever hoped to see happen to my wife.”

  She shook her head and looked away, trying to dismiss it. He moved his hand to cradle her shoulder again.

  “You’re afraid to look at me,” he said in sudden realization. “Just as you were afraid to enter my cell in the Bastille.”

  She shook her head again, still not looking up at his face.

  “Fear does not suit you, Anne,” he continued.

  Now it was not fear, but anger that flooded her as she met his clear eyes with her burning ones.

  “How could I come to you when I’d let Charlotte be taken by men who threatened to torture and kill her?” she hissed. “How could I face you?”

  “Did you really think I could blame you for her abduction, when I was already leveling that same blame at myself?”

  “Is my place in your life not already one granted on sufferance?” she shot back, emotion mak
ing her spill the words which had gone too long unsaid.

  Olivier jerked back as if slapped. “What?” he asked after a stunned beat.

  “I lied and cheated my way into your affections, husband. Do you think I’ve so soon forgotten your rage when you found out the truth of things?” She reached up and dragged the sleeve of her chemise down, revealing the misshapen burn that had once been a fleur-de-lys before she’d laid the flat blade of a heated knife across it to obscure the scar. Something she should have done the day after she was branded, if only she’d been smarter... if only she’d been braver. How little that brief pain would have mattered when balanced against what came after.

  “I was distraught at the time,” Olivier said, still completely taken aback.

  “I saw your eyes when you first realized—you would have seen me dead to repay my betrayal,” she said, calmer now, but bitter. “But I loved you with all my heart, and when you forgave me, I vowed to myself that I would never again give you cause to doubt me. So how could I come to you after allowing our daughter to remain in mortal danger while I ran away and hid behind Aramis’ robes?”

  Olivier stared at her in clear dismay.

  “I am not the man I was before the plague,” he said eventually. His hand slid down to cup the ugly mark on her shoulder. “When I discovered your criminal’s brand... yes, I was angry. I had just lost the last of my family. You were sick. Dying, so I thought. I fully expected to sicken as well, and follow you into death soon afterward. It seemed at the time that every good thing in my life was fated to be ripped from my grasp in the course of a single week.”

  She swallowed a sob, forcing herself not to look away as he continued.

  “I thought, that first morning... maybe it would be easier to have done with it. To let you slip away, to put the barrel of my pistol in my mouth. Swallow a bullet, and let God sort out the whole mess on the other side.” He looked down at her hands, resting curled in her lap. “I couldn’t do it. I drank myself into a stupor, instead. When I emerged from the fugue, you were still alive, thank the heavens. I realized through my pounding headache and churning stomach that it didn’t matter... none of it mattered any more. What care had I whether you were a thief or a country curate’s sister? France was crumbling around us. All that mattered was that you were the woman I loved—“