Book 1: The Queen's Musketeers, #1

by R. A. Steffan

  "He was run through the breast," de Tréville said. "The sword scraped along a rib and exited under his right armpit without piercing the heart or lungs, so he may yet recover."

  D'Artagnan winced in sympathy.

  De Tréville huffed out a wry breath that was the closest thing to laughter he had yet seen from the man, before saying, "You ask about Aramis' wounds, but I notice you have not yet asked about your own."

  "Athos said 'stabbed and shot'," d'Artagnan replied, pausing for breath after every few words. "My memory agrees. If I'm going to die... there's not much... I can do about it."

  The older man shook his head in mock despair. "Oh, the bravado of youth," he said under his breath.

  Athos stepped in, matter-of-fact as always. "The knife wound was not terribly deep, but you may have some permanent weakness or numbness in the arm, depending on how it heals. The bullet passed through the fleshy part of your torso just below your ribcage, and didn't hit anything vital as far as we can tell. There is always the danger that it will fester, but Grimaud sewed it up, and barring that, you should heal eventually. No doubt the scar will be quite spectacular; perhaps you and Anne should compare notes."

  Despite the revelations of the last several minutes, d'Artagnan felt sleep beginning to pull at him, promising respite from the pain. Before he succumbed, however, there was one question remaining unanswered.

  "What was this proposal you had for me?”

  De Tréville spoke again. "You showed impressive bravery and loyalty in fighting to protect people you barely know, d'Artagnan. Should you wish it, the Queen has granted me the power to commission you as a member of her guard, along with Porthos, Aramis, and Athos. As she is deposed and in hiding, this appointment lacks the prestige and salary that it would otherwise have. However, it does mean that you would come with us wherever the quest to return the royal line to France's throne takes us, living and working alongside us as family. I will not hear your answer now, d'Artagnan. Take some time to rest and think about things, and you may give me your reply before I leave with the Queen tomorrow. For now, try to get some sleep. Grimaud will bring you some broth to drink when you awaken."

  D'Artagnan frowned, but eventually nodded and replied, "Very well."

  De Tréville inclined his head in acknowledgement and motioned to Porthos to help him from the room. Overwhelmed by everything he had been told, d'Artagnan settled back to try and rest.

  After sleeping for several more hours, taking some broth and watered wine, and sleeping again, d'Artagnan was no closer to deciding what he should do. The pain in his side was beginning to exhibit a different character, slightly duller than before and with more of a pulling sensation when he drew breath. When he carefully pushed the blanket down with his good arm to look, there were no fresh stains of red seeping through the bandage.

  He was alone, though the cup of wine and the small bowl of spring raspberries next to his bed spoke of a recent visitor. It was night, but several candles burned within the room, illuminating it sufficiently that d'Artagnan could make out the furnishings. Restless, needing to move, he cautiously inched himself into a more upright position, pausing at increments to feel out the pain it produced.

  He was pleased to find that as long as he went slowly and did not tense his stomach muscles, the tight bandages seemed to keep the wound stable. In fact, breathing became slightly easier once he was upright, though leaning against the headboard to support himself reminded him suddenly and painfully of the stab wound in his shoulder and the whip marks on his back.

  Determined to explore his limits, he carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed and placed weight on them. When that did not provoke any crisis, he braced against the bedpost with his good arm and levered himself to his feet. His head became very light at the change in altitude, and for a moment his body seemed oddly elastic and the floor, unnaturally far away.

  D’Artagnan continued to grip the bedpost until the sensation faded. Once he was reasonably sure that he would not faint, he began to shuffle along the wall on legs as weak and wobbly as a newborn calf's. Upon reaching the door, he looked to the left, where flickering candlelight spilled through the door of the next room.

  Drawn like a moth to the light, he continued to creep forward at an embarrassingly slow pace until he could look inside, where he saw Aramis, pale and still, lying on a bed. Porthos slumped in a chair next to him, one of Aramis' slender hands clasped in his larger one. Athos sat propped against the wall nearby in a nest of blankets with Milady curled half on his lap, both of them fast asleep.

  Almost immediately, Porthos' unswollen eye darted to the door and locked onto him, his eyebrow climbing in surprise.

  "D'Artagnan?" he said softly. "What in God's name are you doing out of bed?"

  Replacing Aramis' hand on the covers, Porthos rose and crossed quickly but quietly to the door, moving to support d'Artagnan as best he could without aggravating his injuries and guiding him to the chair he'd just vacated.

  "There," Porthos said, settling him into the seat carefully. "Sit down before you fall down, you young idiot."

  D'Artagnan looked at Aramis, noting the translucence of his skin and the blue-black smudges under his eyes. "How is he?"

  "Hurt," Porthos answered simply, grabbing another chair and placing it on the opposite side of the bed before dropping into it. "We'll know more when he wakes up."

  If he wakes up was unspoken, but d'Artagnan heard it nonetheless.

  "How do you do it, Porthos?" he asked, and Porthos frowned, making his battered face look even more forbidding.

  "Do what?"

  "Care, when the people you care about could die at any time," d'Artagnan said, still studying the wounded man.

  Porthos sat back, considering. "You can't stop yourself from loving people, d'Artagnan. If you're going to care about someone, you're going to care about them. It just happens. Besides, has not caring about anyone made you happy?"

  "No," d'Artagnan replied. "But I thought it had made me safe."

  "And how is that approach suiting you tonight?" Milady's sleep-roughened voice cut in from her place curled around Athos on the floor. "Now that you've staggered out of your sick bed to come check on the rest of us?"

  D'Artagnan couldn't answer, and was saved from trying by Athos' bone dry voice adding, "A questionable decision over which Aramis would thrash you himself if he were awake, I might add."

  "I'm awake," came a weak and slurred voice from the bed. "Someone'll have t' hold 'im down, though..."

  "Aramis!" Porthos immediately grabbed the injured man's hand and raised it to cradle against the undamaged side of his face. Even with the swelling and bruising, his broad smile was beautiful to see. Athos and Milady scrambled hastily to their feet, joining Porthos next to the bed.

  "It's good to see you awake, brother," Athos said solemnly.

  Milady leaned her chin on her husband's shoulder and smiled down at the man in the bed. "Hmm... I can't disagree, actually. Porthos' and Olivier's moping was starting to become unbearable," she teased.

  "Sorry to subject you to such a trial," Aramis told her hoarsely, looking from one to another of them with a heartfelt smile, which he finally turned on d'Artagnan. "And you... wake me up in a week or so and we'll see about that thrashing, eh?"

  D'Artagnan smiled back, feeling tears prickling unaccountably at his eyes and thinking yes, the answer is yes, this is what I want. Even if it only lasts a week or a month or a year, this is what I want.

  "Very well, my friend," he said. "I look forward to it."

  fin

  D'Artagnan's adventures continue in the full-length novel, The Queen's Musketeers: Book 2. Want a sneak peek at the first chapter? Keep reading!

  To receive access to the exclusive, unpublished prequel story, The Queen's Musketeers: Book 0, sign up for mailing list here.

  Visit us on the web at www.thequeensmusketeers.com.

  The Queen’s Musketeers: Book 2

  By R. A. Steffan

&n
bsp; Copyright 2015 by R. A. Steffan

  SAMPLE CHAPTER

  Chapter I: May 24th, 1631

  "I DON'T LIKE IT, Jean-Armand," said Milady. Her chin was cupped in her hand, elbow resting on the small table—now covered in maps—which had been dragged into the room for an impromptu council of war.

  "I don't like it either," de Tréville replied sharply. "So if you have an alternate suggestion, please do share it with the rest of us."

  "The kind of hard riding you're describing will be dangerous to Ana's pregnancy," Milady said. "A carriage or even a wagon would be better."

  "Too slow," said de Tréville dismissively. "Too conspicuous."

  "Would you rather she lose the baby?"

  "I'd rather Her Majesty wasn't caught by assassins and killed outright."

  D'Artagnan's gaze darted rhythmically back and forth between the pair as they snapped at each other. He was reminded of the way his eyes had followed the ball at the tennis match his father took him to see once when he was a little boy, and found himself wishing for a handful of roasted chestnuts or some sweetmeats to nibble on while he watched their conversational volleys from across the room, propped up on his sickbed.

  Earlier that morning, after d'Artagnan balked at returning to his own lonely quarters, Porthos and Grimaud had dragged a second bed into the large chamber where Aramis lay sleeping and swathed in bandages. After that, the makeshift sick room seemed to become, by default, the place where everyone gathered to discuss their plans. Or argue about their plans. Or bemoan the fact that none of their plans were very good ones.

  After the attack on the castle and attempted assassination, everyone agreed that Her Majesty—d'Artagnan could no longer think of her as Ana María—needed to flee before word of her continued survival could reach those in power. Beyond that, however, there was little accord. Tempers were fraying—especially Milady's and de Tréville's.

  "We have the promise of support from the Benedictines in the congregation of St Maur at Thiron Abbey," Athos interjected. "It's barely thirty leagues from here, and would make an ideal hiding place until after the baby is born. It needs less than four days to get there."

  Milady let her fist fall to the table with a soft thump. "It needs less than four days for you or I to get there, Olivier. But it will take a woman who is mere weeks away from giving birth at least twice that long. I'm not sure what else I can say to make this concept any clearer to all of you."

  The object of their discussion spoke softly from her seat near the doorway.

  "I will ride as far as I must, as fast as I must to keep this child safe," said the Queen, and d'Artagnan felt his admiration for her bravery swell.

  Milady softened her voice, but not her words, speaking directly to the other woman. "No one here doubts that, Ana. But you have had a miscarriage once before. Four days of hard riding would endanger the baby as much as any assassin."

  At the bald mention of the miscarriage, de Tréville's face grew thunderous, and Athos hissed "Anne!" in warning. Even Porthos, who had thus far kept himself out of the conversation for the most part, looked up in surprise from his position at Aramis' bedside.

  Her Majesty paled at the mention of her previous loss, but quickly waved off the men's anger.

  "Stay, both of you," she commanded, looking pointedly from Athos to de Tréville. "We are all adults here, and hiding the truth behind veils of propriety does nothing to help our situation. Milady, you are surely correct about the risk of hard travel by horseback. However, de Tréville is correct that a carriage or other slow transport would make far too easy a target. Rather than continue to debate the matter fruitlessly, we must find a third option."

  The germ of an idea had been forming in d'Artagnan's thoughts as they argued, and he spoke tentatively into the silence that followed the Queen's pronouncement.

  "May I... make a suggestion?"

  Suddenly d'Artagnan found himself the centre of attention, and his tongue stumbled over the words even as the gunshot wound in his side seemed to seize and hold the breath in his lungs. "I could... that is, you could perhaps use my..."

  Porthos was looking at him from Aramis' bedside, and d'Artagnan saw an expression of understanding flood his battered face.

  "Are you offerin' Her Majesty the use of your pony, d'Artagnan?" he said, adding to the others, "It's an ambler. Gentle, too."

  Relieved, d'Artagnan nodded. He turned back to the others—to the Queen—unsure what the reception would be. "I realize it wouldn't be what Your Majesty was used to," he began.

  Athos and de Tréville looked surprised, and Milady regarded him thoughtfully.

  "No. No, that could work," she said. "You say the pony ambles?"

  D'Artagnan nodded. "Yes, he is very smooth to ride as long as you don't try to gallop him. He has a broken gait that can easily keep pace with another horse's steady trot. He is old, though."

  "Not necessarily a detriment if age has made him quiet and staid," Milady replied.

  "Assuming the beast is sound, of course." This from de Tréville.

  "He is," d'Artagnan assured. "Both sound and quiet, I mean. I've ridden him since I was a child, and my father swore by his ability to cover eight leagues per day, no matter the conditions. I have found his claim to be consistently true in my own recent travels from Gascony."

  "It's decided, then," the Queen decreed firmly. "Once again, your generosity of spirit does you credit, d'Artagnan. Now tell me, does this mount of which you and your father speak so highly have a name?"

  D'Artagnan was taken aback at hearing his late father spoken of so matter-of-factly, and stumbled over his reply. "Not... really, Your Majesty—"

  "'Course he does," Porthos interrupted, throwing d'Artagnan a smile and a quick wink of his uninjured eye. "His name's Buttercup. Isn't that right, d'Artagnan?"

  D'Artagnan opened his mouth to retort angrily that his mount's name was most certainly not anything so ridiculous as Buttercup, but he was beaten to the punch by the Queen, who exclaimed, "How charming! 'Buttercup', indeed. I am sure we will become fast friends, your little Buttercup and I."

  Upon seeing the small smile gracing Her Majesty's face—a countenance which had been far too pale and wan ever since he'd arrived—d'Artagnan felt his indignation deflate. He slumped back against the headboard, murmuring some vague expression of agreement. As soon as the others looked away, though, he leveled a glare at Porthos, who only smiled wider and shook his head with suppressed mirth.

  They were distracted by Grimaud's entrance, bearing a tray with a flagon of wine, a pot of broth, a loaf of bread, and some cheese. After clearing space on the table for his burdens, the tall, stooped servant pottered quietly around the room filling cups and bowls for everyone.

  "Are we agreed then?" Athos spoke into the silence. "Her Majesty will be mounted on this pony, and will make for Thiron Abbey in the company of de Tréville, Porthos, and Grimaud?"

  "As long as they travel slowly and stop often, then yes, we're agreed," said Milady.

  "Very well, unless we're pursued," de Tréville replied in a gruff voice. "In which case we will travel very fast."

  "Try not to be pursued, then," Milady said dryly, and de Tréville shook his head in apparent disgust at the flippancy.

  "We need a contingency plan, in case things go wrong," said a weak, pained voice from the other bed.

  "Aramis!" Porthos exclaimed. "You're awake, then?"

  "I think so, yes," Aramis replied hoarsely. "Either that, or I'm having an extremely vexing dream."

  D'Artagnan smiled; then sobered. "Dreaming or not, he's got a good point, doesn't he? If something does go wrong and you can't stay at Thiron Abbey for whatever reason, how will the rest of us be able to find you when we follow on in a few weeks?"

  "That's true," de Tréville said, absently rubbing at the stump of his missing arm as he thought. After a moment he reached forward and pulled one of the maps closer, beckoning Athos forward with a jerk of his chin as he pointed at something on the parchment.
"Here. I have an old friend—a comrade-in-arms from my younger days as a guardsman. His name is M. Rougeux, and he lives with his wife in La Croix-du-Perche."

  "He is loyal?" Athos asked.

  "Yes," de Tréville said. "To me, and to the true monarchy of France. We have exchanged letters regularly over the years. He would not hesitate to shelter us. Should our plans need to be changed, we will go to M. Rougeux and you will meet us there, just off of the main road at the north end of the town."

  The others nodded.

  "Very well," said the old captain. "It's decided. We will leave after dark tomorrow. I suggest that we all get as much rest as possible before then. We can plan the details of the route and pack the provisions in the morning."

  The small gathering broke up quickly after that. Athos sent Porthos to his bed with assurances that he would stay with Aramis and d'Artagnan for a few hours. D'Artagnan swallowed the urge to protest that he didn't need a nurse, knowing that it was mostly for Aramis' benefit that Athos was staying. Thankfully, the injured man had awoken naturally several times throughout the day despite the severity of the wound to his chest. Though weak, his wits seemed unaffected, but d'Artagnan knew the others still feared for him.

  As Athos hobbled around, rearranging the chair next to the bed to his satisfaction and settling himself with his bandaged leg stretched out before him, d'Artagnan contemplated all of the questions he wanted to ask about their plans to return the Queen to Paris, and to the throne. Before he could organize his increasingly muddled thoughts, however, his own weakness and need for sleep overcame him, and he drifted off into darkness, his rest punctuated by odd, disturbing dreams.

  * * *

  When he jolted into awareness much later, with a faint gasp at the pain from his wounds, pale light was visible through the room's single window. His attention was caught by the murmur of voices coming from the corner of the room where Aramis lay, propped up slightly on the bed. Grimaud had replaced Athos on vigil sometime during the night. Both men's heads were bent over the crucifixes clutched in their hands, and their softly spoken words of prayer barely reached d'Artagnan's ears.