by R A Dodson
D’Artagnan forced himself to breathe in just a tiny bit, stopping when the horrible pain in his side began to swell and his ribcage started to push against the steady hand. It wasn’t enough—not nearly enough—but he did it again, and again, and again, and slowly the panic began to ebb.
“That’s it,” Athos said soothingly. “Well done, d’Artagnan. Keep going. You’ll be all right now.”
“Hurts...” d’Artagnan managed, hating how young his voice sounded.
“I imagine it does, considering you’ve been both shot and stabbed,” Athos said, not without sympathy. He turned to throw a look to his left and right, and d’Artagnan became aware of Porthos and Grimaud’s presence as Athos continued, “You can both let him go now.”
The hands gripping his arms and legs fell away, Porthos giving him a friendly pat on the thigh before straightening up. D’Artagnan struggled to focus, taking in the way that Porthos’ left eye was swollen shut—the flesh around it and down the side of his face grotesquely bruised and lumpy. Looking back to Athos, he could see that in addition to the shoulder sling, a new bandage circled the man’s right thigh; a small patch of red soaking through it on the front. Memory started to return, first in drips and drops, then in a torrent.
“The others?” he rasped, eyes wide and worried.
“Alive,” Athos replied. “Some more precariously than others, yourself included.”
“Ana and Milady?”
“My wife has a scratch on her cheek which may scar... a fact which seems to be making her unaccountably proud and smug,” Athos said in a long-suffering voice. He raised an eyebrow before continuing, “Her Majesty is unhurt, thanks in large part to your actions.”
“Her... Majesty?” d’Artagnan echoed uncomprehendingly, feeling slow and stupid.
Athos drew d’Artagnan’s attention to the doorway with a meaningful flick of his eyes. There, he saw Ana María entering with de Tréville. The young woman was holding the older man’s arm to steady him. Bandages swathed de Tréville’s head, and d’Artagnan remembered the vicious blow that had felled him. He looked back at Athos, still silently seeking answers to the confused questions circling in his mind.
“In fact,” Athos continued, “she has been waiting for you to wake up so she could thank you herself. D’Artagnan, may I present Ana María Mauricia... better known to you as Anne of Austria, the Mage Queen and—God willing—future Queen Mother of France and Navarre.”
D’Artagnan wheezed, having once again lost the ability to draw breath.
The Mage Queen? The disgraced daughter of Spain, whom many claimed would one day lead France out of the Curse laid by her Spanish brother and his war magni?
“Athos,” de Tréville said, sounding tired, “someday you and I are going to have a discussion about the application of tact. Breathe, son. Try to relax.”
Ana—Her Majesty—left de Tréville steadying himself against the back of a chair near the bed and crossed to d’Artagnan’s side, taking up his right hand in both of hers. Her grip was warm, and his skin tingled oddly beneath the touch.
“Your... Majesty?” d’Artagnan whispered, unable to keep the words from rising into a question.
“Brave d’Artagnan,” she said solemnly. “I owe you much. You were willing to give your life to protect a woman you barely knew. Would that things were different... that my husband Louis still lived and ruled this land, so we could bestow upon you the reward you deserve. Now, though, I fear I have nothing to give you but my gratitude, and the promise that should the child I carry be successfully restored to the throne, your sacrifice will not be forgotten.” She looked around at the others in the room. “None of your sacrifices will be forgotten.”
D’Artagnan looked up at her in awe. “I would do it all over again,” he managed. “No matter who you were.”
Queen Anne smiled sweetly at him. “I know you would,” she said, and bent down to place a chaste kiss on his forehead. “Now, de Tréville has a proposal for you, I believe, and then you must promise to get some rest. It pains me deeply to see you all injured when I can do nothing about it.”
D’Artagnan nodded his agreement quickly, still in awe. “Yes, of course, Your Majesty. Whatever you wish.”
With a final squeeze of his hand, the Mage Queen turned and left the room. D’Artagnan looked up at de Tréville, feeling weak and dizzy both from his wounds and from the revelations of the past few minutes.
“As you may have gathered,” the older man began, “King Louis XIII died of the Curse a few weeks ago. He had been in hiding since being deposed by the Duc d’Orléans’ forces three years ago, guarded by myself, along with a small force of loyal Musketeers. We were able to keep him hidden and protected from his enemies, but not, God forgive us, from that.”
D’Artagnan’s heart stuttered at the news.
“Until last night,” de Tréville continued, “we believed that we had successfully kept both the King’s death and the Queen’s pregnancy a secret. Sadly, it’s clear that’s no longer the case. Porthos, Grimaud, and I will be taking Her Majesty away from here as soon as possible, now that her presence has been discovered by those who would see her dead. The others will follow once you and Aramis have recovered sufficiently to travel.”
Still sorting through far too much shocking information in far too short a time, d’Artagnan’s mind latched onto something concrete and suddenly, terribly important.
“Aramis is hurt badly?” he asked, thinking of the many small kindnesses the man had offered him.
“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 I’d... been 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. Barring wound fever, you should heal eventually. No doubt the scar will be quite spectacular; perhaps you and my wife 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 res
t.
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 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.”
“Oh, yes?” Milady’s sleep-roughened voice cut in from her place curled around Athos on the floor. “And how is that approach suiting you tonight, 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.”
Part II
I observe about me dying throngs of both young and old, and nowhere is there a refuge. No haven beckons in any part of the globe, nor can any hope of longed for salvation be seen.
~Francesco Petrarca, recounting an outbreak of the Black Death, 1348
Chapter 9
“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 Saint 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 Mage 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 miscarriages before. Four days of hard riding would endanger the baby as much as any assassin’s pistol.”
At the bald mention of 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 losses, 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.”