The Queen’s Musketeers: Book 1
By R. A. Steffan
Copyright 2015 by R. A. Steffan
Other titles in this series:
The Queen's Musketeers: Book 2
The Queen's Musketeers: Book 3
The Queen's Musketeers: Book 4
The Queen's Musketeers: Book 0 (a prequel available exclusively to list members- sign up for access)
Based on the characters created by Alexandre Dumas.
This book contains graphic material including depictions of sex, violence, and descriptions of self-harm with religious undertones. It is intended for an adult audience.
Special thanks to deacertes, snowballjane, and asthenie_vd for cheerleading, proofreading, and the tireless hunt for plot holes. Without your help and support, this story would not exist.
Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Visit the Queen's Musketeers website
The Queen's Musketeers: Book 2 - SAMPLE CHAPTER
Other titles in this series
Glossary of Period Terms
Chapter I
O death! Cruel, bitter, impious death! Which thus breaks the bonds of affection and divides father and mother, brother and sister, son and wife. Lamenting our misery, we feared to fly; yet we dared not remain.
~Gabriele de' Mussi, recounting an outbreak of the Black Death, 1348
MAY, 1631.
The road into Blois was overgrown and far too quiet, as most of France seemed to be these days after five long years of the plague. With so many dead, there were not enough riders or wagons passing over the route to discourage the creeping vegetation from encroaching, and certainly not enough manpower available to clear the way and level the ruts and potholes that threatened the unwary traveler.
D'Artagnan would have been happier about his current situation if the looming trees and underbrush were not blocking his line of sight so thoroughly. He still bore the bruises and scrapes from his encounter with bandits two days previously. A gang of five had descended from the crest of a wooded hill; they were upon him before he could aim a pistol, but he still managed to wound two of the brigands with his rapier before a third snapped his blade with a rusty sword-breaker, and the fourth knocked him unconscious with a club.
He awoke to deepening dusk, his purse and provisions gone. The thieves took his brace of pistols and his parrying dagger, but left his sword, now broken six inches below the point. It was a testament to the sorry state of his mount that the ewe-necked gelding—nineteen years old if he was a day, and a favorite of his late father’s—had not been spirited away. However, when d'Artagnan rolled into a sitting position, groaning as the half-healed whip marks on his back from his most recent round of self-flagellation pulled unpleasantly, it was to find the phlegmatic pony gazing at him with a decidedly unimpressed eye from a few feet away.
A half-full water bag still hung from the front of the saddle, but the saddlebags were gone, along with his bedroll. Clutching his aching head, d'Artagnan led the pony into the woods and spent a miserable night curled up under the saddle blanket, leaning against a tree.
Two days later, the ache in his head had subsided to a manageable dull throbbing, but it was replaced by the ache in his empty stomach, barely kept at bay with occasional handfuls of tart spring berries foraged from the roadside.
The gelding plodded on with its odd, ambling gait, head hanging level with its knees. One of the reasons his father used to offer to explain his fondness for the beast was its uncanny ability to cover eight leagues per day, rain or shine, despite perpetually appearing to have one foot in the grave. Given this universal constant, d'Artagnan estimated that he would reach Blois by midday, by which point he would hopefully have come up with a plan to replace his stolen money and provisions.
This preoccupation with his plight, combined with the twisting road and all-pervasive vegetation, prevented him from noticing the approaching rider until the two of them were practically upon each other. The other man's mount—a fine bay mare—spooked sideways to avoid d'Artagnan's gelding and stumbled alarmingly, nearly going to its knees before righting itself and lurching to a halt. The rider gasped out a curse as he was thrown forward in the saddle, rein hand moving instinctively toward his other shoulder, which d'Artagnan could see was heavily bandaged.
"Are you injured, monsieur?" d'Artagnan asked, once the pale, dour-faced man had straightened in the saddle.
"Hmm, let me see. Bandages... arm in a sling... yes, I'd say an injury of some sort seems a fair supposition," said the stranger in voice as dry as dust. "Tell me, young man, do you always ride on the wrong side of the road when approaching blind corners?"
"This road does not have 'sides' so much as a middle closely bordered by branches and wheel ruts, monsieur," d'Artagnan replied, irked. "Do you always ride a horse with hooves so long and unkempt that it stumbles at the slightest provocation?"
"In happier times, certainly not," said the man, pinning d'Artagnan with piercing gray eyes. "Unfortunately, the blacksmith in Blois is dead, as are the blacksmith's two apprentices, the former blacksmith, and the blacksmiths in the two closest towns." He raised an eyebrow before concluding, "You begin to see the problem."
D'Artagnan frowned, suddenly struck by an idea. The person before him had the look of a gentleman; someone who still had money and resources... though not, apparently, resources that extended to a farrier. Perhaps this was his opportunity to improve his circumstances.
"I could shoe your horse for you, if you will provide tools, facilities, and a means of recompense for my time and labor," he said shrewdly.
"You are quite impertinent for a traveler, monsieur," said the man, though d'Artagnan thought he detected a hint of amusement lurking around his face. "However, your offer is also timely, so I am willing to excuse your behavior on this occasion. Meet me in Blois at noon. The smithy lies abandoned; it should contain everything you require for the task. It is located near the north end of the Rue Chemonton. Do not be late."
"I'll see you there," d'Artagnan agreed, and the two parted ways.
D'Artagnan continued on his way, the sun climbing slowly in the sky. The trees gradually began to recede from the roadway, and he could hear the rushing of the Loire river off to his right, out of sight.
Ahead of him, a hulking mountain of a man was leading his horse along the track. As d'Artagnan approached the slow moving pair from behind, he noticed the way the horse's head bobbed uncomfortably with every stride in an attempt to keep the weight off its sore front foot. Soon after, he could scarcely help noticing the rather staggering amount of decorative metalwork and gemstones adorning the creature's saddle and bridle.
"Can I help you, monsieur?" he asked as he pulled alongside.
The muscular man, who was clothed in attire almost as ostentatious as the horse's, threw him a disgruntled look.
"Not unless you're concealing a spare horse somewhere," said the man. "One that's not dead lame, preferably."
"Perhaps if yours weren't carrying its own weight in silver and cabochons..." d'Artagnan offered, unable to control himself.
A flush rose in the other man's face, and there was a growl in his voice as he replied, "Fine words from someone riding a half-dead pony with a hide the same color as a buttercup! I didn't know ponies came in that color... or that they could live to be as old as that one appears to be, for that matter."
D'Artagnan barely managed to stop himself from rising to the insult aimed at his father's favorite gelding, but he was working to a plan now, and he quickly realized that this could be
another opportunity for him.
Wresting his temper under control with difficulty, he replied, "My mount may be past his prime and a rather... unfortunate color, but at least he is sound and properly shod. If you will meet me at the abandoned smithy on the Rue Chemonton in Blois at twelve-thirty, I will treat the abscess in your gelding's forefoot and shoe him for you in return for fifteen livres, so that he, too, may be sound and properly shod."
"Fifteen livres!" the man exclaimed, his heavy brows drawing together. "That's highway robbery, that is!"
"It's less than the cost of a new horse," d'Artagnan pointed out, "and if there was someone around who would do it for less, I assume you would have had it done by now."
The man's thunderous face darkened further for a moment, before relaxing unexpectedly into a smile like the sun coming out. He let loose a deep rumble of laughter, shaking a finger at d'Artagnan.
"You know—I like you," he said. "You've got gall. Very well, stranger... I will meet you there, and we'll see if you have the skill to earn your fifteen livres."
"You need have no worries on that account, monsieur," d'Artagnan said. "I will return your gelding to rights."
The pair nodded to each other, and d'Artagnan allowed his pony to amble off, leaving the large man behind. He was feeling slightly better about his prospects as the town of Blois came into view over a hill. As he passed a side road, he met a third man. Like the previous one, this individual was leading his horse; however, both man and animal were coated in drying mud up to the knees.
As he approached, d'Artagnan heard the man crooning softly to the mare as he led her slowly onto the main road. He was a slender individual with sharp, handsome features and a meticulously trimmed beard; the very picture of a successful chevalier, with the exception of the muck clinging in thick clumps to his boots.
"May I be of assistance?" d'Artagnan asked when the man noticed him.
"Not unless you happen to know how to shoe a horse," replied the chevalier. "Until half an hour ago, I was the last of my compatriots to still have a horse with a full set of four shoes. Sadly, an ill-timed attempt at chivalry on my part has reduced that number to two, and I fear that the mare will soon become lame if nothing is done."
"No doubt you are correct," d'Artagnan agreed. "Fortunately, luck is with you today. I do, in fact, know how to shoe a horse, and I will be shoeing two other horses at the abandoned smithy on Rue Chemonton at midday today. If you will meet me there at one o'clock, I will trim and shoe your mare in return for fifteen livres."
Rather than reacting in anger, the chevalier only raised his eyebrows.
"Fifteen livres, is it?" he said, the corners of his lips tilting up in a smirk. "I see I am in the presence of a businessman as well as a farrier. Very well, stranger. In the absence of more affordable options, I will meet you there. However, I hope you will not be offended if I arrive a bit early—to see your skills practiced on a different horse before committing my own to your tender care."
"While I would prefer that you trusted my word on the matter, I have no objection," d'Artagnan replied. "I admit to some curiosity, though. What sort of chivalry necessitates wading through mud deep enough to make a horse pull two shoes?"
"Ah," said the man, looking faintly abashed. "There was a carriage stopped by the side of the road next to a fallow field. The young widow inside had just lost her handkerchief in a gust of wind as I rode past, and I offered—ill advisedly, as it turns out—to retrieve it for her. I'm afraid I did not realize how muddy the ground was until I had already, er, committed, so to speak.
"At any rate, it was necessary for me to dismount in order to allow my horse to extract herself from the mire. Hence my present condition." He gestured down at his ruined boots. "In my defense, though, I should point out that she was a very beautiful young widow."
"And did you retrieve the handkerchief successfully?" d'Artagnan asked, unable to help himself.
"Of course, monsieur," replied the chevalier, looking offended. "What sort of man do you take me for?"
D'Artagnan couldn't help the small grin that spread over his face as the two parted company. It was the first smile to grace his features in far too long.
Chapter II
THE SMITHY IN BLOIS had not been abandoned long enough to be a complete ruin. The door was closed, but not locked, and while the remaining townsfolk had obviously helped themselves to items that were useful to them, they had by no means stripped the place bare.
D'Artagnan tied his gelding to the hitching post outside, and was busy stoking a fire in the forge and sorting through piles of tools when the pale nobleman with the injured shoulder arrived with his mare.
"I am almost ready for you, monsieur," d'Artagnan said. "Bring the mare inside."
The gentleman inclined his head wordlessly and stood the horse up in the empty workspace between two posts. D'Artagnan approached the animal's shoulder, running a hand down its left front leg and picking up the hoof. Ignoring the feeling of light-headedness and the chafe of his shirt against the raw skin of his back as he bent over, he secured the horse's foot between his knees and began to pare away the dead hoof with a curved knife.
"What's it been? About three months since she was trimmed last?" he asked.
"A bit more," the other man replied.
D'Artagnan reached for a pair of hinged hoof nippers to remove the ragged and overgrown hoof wall, pausing frequently to check the angle and evenness since he was somewhat out of practice.
"She'll likely be tender-footed for a day or two after this, since I'm having to remove so much at once," he said. "You're lucky, though—the cracks don't extend up into the live part of the hoof."
"That's as well," said the mare's owner, not offering more in the way of conversation as d'Artagnan continued to work steadily, rasping down the rough edges on the foot and moving on to the other legs in turn.
He was heating metal shoes in the forge when his other two customers arrived.
"Well, now!" exclaimed the big man as he entered. "Would you look who else is here! What are the odds of that, eh?"
"Porthos... and Aramis as well, I see," the injured man said, a quirk of the eyebrow and faint uptick at the corner of his mouth the only sign that he was surprised and pleased to see the newcomers. "My cup runneth over."
"Athos, my friend!" said the chevalier, now identified as Aramis. "This is an unexpected pleasure indeed. How fares the shoulder?"
The man called Athos shrugged his good shoulder. "An annoyance and a hindrance, as you see. On the positive side, wielding a sword in my off hand is probably good practice."
The big man—Porthos—let loose with his deep, rumbling laugh. A smile dimpled his broad cheeks.
"Looking on the bright side of things is not a trait I generally associate with you, Athos," he said. "Though it was three against one in that fight, so I suppose things could have gone worse. You should have waited for us!"
"Still," put in Aramis, "I'd rather go up against most swordsmen using their dominant hands than Athos using his off hand."
"That's true enough," Porthos agreed, and though he said nothing in reply, the hint of a smile that had been playing around Athos' lips moved upward to his eyes, as well.
D'Artagnan frowned and applied himself to the anvil, shaping the shoes as the three friends continued their lazy banter. The heat from the forge and the red-hot metal combined with his hunger and exhaustion to make him dizzy; his focus narrowed to the pounding of hammer against iron, the hiss of steam as hot shoe met hoof, the tap-tap-tap as he nailed the shoes in place and clinched the sharp nail-ends down securely.
"A workmanlike job," said the nobleman named Athos when he was finished with the mare. "I am grateful."
D'Artagnan only nodded brusquely and moved on to the gelding with the lame front foot. His general discomfort from heat, hunger, and half-healed wounds conspired with the melancholy surrounding his recent circumstances to make him feel more alone than ever, despite the evident camaraderie of the t
hree friends.
He opened the hoof abscess and drained it, packing the gap with wadding soaked in brandy from the owner's flask. His mood worsened as he repeated the steps of trimming and shoeing, half-listening as the three men chatted in a roundabout manner about a recent undertaking which had taken Aramis and Porthos to Vendôme for some weeks. Apparently the two had just returned; Aramis riding ahead when Porthos' horse went lame shortly before d'Artagnan had met them. It was obvious that they did not wish to speak of any details in front of d'Artagnan, and he found himself becoming irrationally resentful of the easy verbal shorthand between the long-time friends.
Did they appreciate their own luck, he wondered, to have kept not one person, but two with whom they were so close, when so many had lost everything and everyone to the black plague that cursed the land? Surely, he thought to himself, they would not be so casual in their bonhomie if they understood what a blessing they had received.
Second horse completed, d'Artagnan interrupted the men's conversation abruptly, uncaring if he sounded churlish.
"Your gelding is finished," he said, addressing Porthos but not meeting his eyes. "Pack the hoof abscess twice daily for a week with clean cloth dipped in spirits, and the animal should be sound enough for light work."
He ignored Porthos' words of thanks, and moved on to the gray mare belonging to Aramis, catching himself briefly against one of the pillars in the work area when the world tilted unexpectedly to the left for a moment. When he straightened, the chevalier was looking at him with a critical eye.
"Are you quite all right, monsieur?" he asked in a solicitous voice that made d'Artagnan bristle unaccountably.
"Fine," he said curtly. "Do not concern yourself."
He applied himself to the mud-covered mare, but apparently something about him had caught Aramis' attention—for a few minutes later, the man turned to him once more.
"So, stranger," he said. "You have heard our names. Might we, in turn, learn the name of the man who has rescued us from the tedium of having to travel everywhere by foot?"
Book 1: The Queen's Musketeers, #1 Page 1
