The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

“Oh, yes, of course,” Milady said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “I can see it now. Clearly, you penned a message to your co-conspirators while you were delirious with wound fever, and snuck out of the castle under our very noses to deliver it.”

  “Despite the fact that you could barely walk twenty feet without fainting,” Athos put in.

  “And the fact that someone was sitting with us in the room practically around the clock,” Aramis added.

  “I could have done it later,” d’Artagnan said defensively, vaguely aware of the ridiculousness of trying to convince them of his own possible guilt. “The abbey was only attacked eleven days ago.”

  Athos shook his head. “No. It takes time to deliver such a message. It was almost certainly sent to someone in Paris—Isabella of Savoy has little support outside of the capital. Then, more time to organize a raiding party and send it across country. Brother Christophe said dozens of men. A force that large moves slowly. What do you think, Aramis?”

  “Five or six days to get the message to Paris. A day or two to organize the troops, and perhaps a week to move the forces to Thiron-Gardais,” Aramis replied.

  “That would mean the message was sent on about the third or fourth of June,” Milady said. “Which, probably by no coincidence, is about the time de Tréville and the others would have arrived here, give or take a day or two.”

  “What are you suggesting, Anne?” Athos asked in a tired voice.

  “Why, I’m suggesting that it’s Grimaud, my love,” Milady said. “Obviously.”

  Chapter 17

  “Grimaud has been in my service for more than a decade,” Athos replied flatly.

  “Well, it’s certainly not de Tréville,” Milady said. “He’d rather gouge out his other eye than see harm come to Ana. And Porthos would die before he’d betray you and Aramis in such a way. That leaves Grimaud.”

  “What possible motivation would he have?” Athos said, still sounding completely unconvinced.

  “I don’t know, Olivier,” she said. “Does being a miserable, mopey bastard constitute motivation?”

  “He’s deeply religious. A devout Catholic,” Aramis said quietly. “And the Bourbons do have a history of religious liberalism and tolerance for Protestants. I suppose... it could be construed as a sort of motive.”

  “Have you forgotten that when the Duc d’Orléans marched on Paris and took the throne, he had two thousand English Protestants under Walter Montagu supporting him?” Athos asked derisively.

  “Yes, but Gaston broke with the English afterwards to marry Isabella and forge a closer alliance with Spain. Now that he is dead, Isabella sits on the throne as Queen Regent to her young son—and she’s a granddaughter of Philip II of Spain. You don’t get much more Catholic than that,” Aramis said philosophically.

  “Also, the duc was killed by Spanish assassins, so even if Grimaud disapproved of his alliance with the English, he might still support Isabella and Francis,” d’Artagnan said, not wanting the others to think he was completely uneducated in matters of politics. Even as a youth, he had been fascinated by the glittering, faraway world of power and governance, though he would never have guessed he could find himself personally embroiled in it as he was now.

  Aramis nodded. “Half of Europe was scrambling to fill the power vacuum that Monsieur Le Prince opened when he deposed Louis, but it was always going to be either England or Spain in the end. Perhaps Grimaud wanted to help ensure that it was Spain.”

  “Perhaps he did, but I feel we are straying somewhat from the point,” Milady said. “What are we to do about him?”

  “If Grimaud has betrayed us—and I am not saying I’m convinced—then there is nothing we can do from here,” Athos said. “We have little choice but to ride for La Croix-du-Perche and try to meet up with de Tréville at his friend’s chateau.”

  “Won’t Grimaud—or whoever it is—” d’Artagnan added hastily when Athos’ eyes fell heavily on him, “won’t they have passed on the details of the backup plan to their contact as well?”

  “Oh yes—almost certainly,” said Aramis. “There’s nothing else for it, though. If they aren’t in La Croix-du-Perche, we have no other way of finding them at present.”

  “Agreed,” Athos said. “We’ll leave in the morning. Assuming no one has any objections?” He looked at Aramis, who frowned.

  Milady stepped in before the two could start arguing about the injured monks. “We should stop at the nearest church and acquire proper assistance for the survivors. They need help that we can’t provide—to recover the bodies from the basilica and send a message to the Congregation of Saint Maur, letting them know what has befallen their abbey.”

  “Yes,” Aramis said after a moment. “You’re right, of course.”

  Athos seemed to relax marginally. “Indeed. We will do so at the first opportunity. I do understand that this strikes close to your heart, my friend.”

  Aramis nodded briefly in acknowledgement before turning his gaze back to the fire.

  “Is there a church that’s still active between here and La Croix-du-Perche?” Milady asked.

  “Not that I’m aware,” Aramis said softly, not looking up. “There used to be one in Chassant, but Chassant is a village of ghosts now.”

  D’Artagnan shivered, though the night air was still balmy. Eager to distract himself from the image, he thought back to the maps he had studied before they left Blois. “La Croix-du-Perche is but half a day’s ride from here, is it not?”

  “Yes,” Athos said. “De Tréville says the town has fared relatively well, according to his friend M. Rougeux. We will gain help for the Brothers there. In the meantime, we should get some rest. Aramis, you will take the first watch. D’Artagnan can have the second, I will take the third, and Anne, the last.”

  The others nodded, and Athos, Milady, and d’Artagnan went about setting up bedrolls for the night. D’Artagnan settled close to Aramis on one side of the fire, giving Milady and her husband as much privacy as was possible in this open expanse of grass and rock.

  Between his physical aches and whirling thoughts, d’Artagnan found himself utterly unable to sleep. After what seemed like an eternity of tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable, he gave up and dragged himself into a sitting position. Aramis met his eyes with a questioning look, and d’Artagnan shrugged helplessly.

  “You’re going to regret it tomorrow if you don’t get some rest now,” said the other man quietly.

  “I would if I could,” d’Artagnan replied in a low voice, so as not to wake Athos and Milady.

  Aramis nodded in understanding. “Well, in that case, perhaps you could assist me in stretching this damned wound. I completely forgot about it earlier.”

  D’Artagnan nodded his consent and helped Aramis remove the sling and take his doublet off. He had watched Athos run through the series of exercises on multiple occasions now, so he wordlessly copied what he had seen the two of them do. He tried to read Aramis’ grimaces and occasional hisses of pain, not wanting to push his friend too hard, but he was surprised and pleased at the strength with which Aramis was able to return his grip.

  “Your strength is returning quickly,” he said approvingly.

  “Not quickly enough for me,” Aramis replied through gritted teeth. They completed a final series of stretches, and he released a sigh of relief. “Still, perhaps it is far enough along that I might dispense with the sling. That will probably speed the process somewhat, and I will at least have some use of it.”

  D’Artagnan nodded agreement, and the two sat quietly for a while side by side. Finally, he broke the silence with the question he had wanted to ask for hours.

  “You seem... upset by what we’ve found here,” he began, before quickly backtracking. “I mean, everyone is upset, but for you it seems almost—I don’t know—personal.”

  Aramis was silent, and d’Artagnan found himself talking to fill the space. “I was just wondering, did you know someone here? Besides Porthos and the others, of course. Bec
ause if so—”

  “I didn’t know any of the monks personally,” the other man said, cutting off the flow of words. “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?” d’Artagnan persisted.

  Aramis added another charred plank to the fire. “Did you notice the annex attached to the west end of the basilica?” he asked eventually.

  D’Artagnan thought back to the structures behind the sacristy, picturing the devastation. Mapping it out in his mind. “It was almost completely destroyed, was it not? Even more so than the rest of the building.”

  Aramis nodded. “It was. The fire there was fed by paper and parchment. That annex housed the abbey’s library.”

  D’Artagnan’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “That entire wing contained books? But it was huge!”

  “This abbey was given to the Congregation of Saint Maur two years ago, to become their first college. Do you know of the Maurists?”

  “Not really,” d’Artagnan said.

  “The movement was modeled on the reforms instituted by Dom Didier de la Cour at the Benedictine monasteries in Lorraine,” Aramis said. “Their primary goal is to reverse the disorganization and laxity that has spread throughout the church, but they also promote scholarship at a level unseen in France in recent generations.”

  D’Artagnan frowned. “So... this abbey—”

  “Was a site of historical and literary research. A bastion of learning, one might almost say, in this day and age where most Frenchmen are concerned merely with surviving and putting food on the table. Many of the texts here were unique. Others represented brand new research performed within these very walls. And it was destroyed in a single night.”

  “That’s terrible,” d’Artagnan whispered.

  “It is,” Aramis agreed. “I fear that France will fall back into darkness and ignorance in the coming years, d’Artagnan. And I fear that I am not doing enough to try to stop it. As a boy, I was educated with an eye to entering the clergy. I can read and write; I have a good knowledge of Latin and some experience with both the literary and the healing arts. And yet I am a soldier, who contributes nothing to the legacy of France, or the Church.”

  “But that’s not true!” d’Artagnan replied with some heat, barely remembering to keep his voice down. “You share your spirituality freely with those around you. You help the wounded whenever you can. If it hadn’t been for you, Athos wouldn’t have stayed behind to help the monks here.”

  Aramis shook his head. “It’s not enough. I should be doing more. I gave de Tréville my oath that I would support Her Majesty’s return to power. But as soon as the Queen bears a healthy son, and her son gains the throne that is his birthright, I shall retire to the priesthood and attempt to remedy that lack of contribution. Because right now, my legacy—such as it is—stands as a libertine who is passingly good with a sword and musket. Nothing more.”

  “You’re more than that to me,” d’Artagnan said quietly.

  Aramis quirked a kindly smile at him in the firelight. “Then you’re a simple, rustic lad from rural Gascony, and far too easily impressed.”

  D’Artagnan pressed his lips together, ready to protest, but Aramis bumped his shoulder good-naturedly, and he let it go with a sigh.

  “Get some sleep, Aramis,” he said instead. “I’m up, and I might as well start my watch early.”

  Aramis nodded his agreement, and moved silently to his own bedroll.

  D’Artagnan sat by the fire; his eyes and ears open for any unusual disturbance; mind pondering the wealth of human knowledge that must have resided within the abbey’s walls. It didn’t seem right that so much accumulated wisdom could be snuffed out so easily, in a flare of smoke and flame. He wondered if the surviving monks would start over, replacing as much as they could remember.

  Of course, Aramis had said that Brother Roland would never regain the use of his hands. He shuddered at the thought, and wondered if perhaps he could dictate the words for someone else to write.

  After a few hours, d’Artagnan woke Athos for his watch and was finally able to fall asleep. The following morning was clear and bright, chasing some of the cobwebs from his mind. They had intended an early start, but one thing seemed to lead to another as Aramis, Milady, and Brother Christophe once again examined and applied treatments to the wounded, and Brother Reynard presented them with breakfast.

  While they were so engaged, d’Artagnan snuck out to the gardens, seeking out plants that had been damaged during the attack, but not destroyed. With his meager magic, he healed and strengthened as many as he could before returning to the others.

  Much to Athos’ irritation, the sun was climbing steadily higher by the time they finally saddled the horses and packed their saddlebags. Before they could mount, however, a new distraction arose when the pounding of hooves echoed through the entryway. Quickly grabbing weapons, the travelers hurried to confront the newcomer. A single rider made his way through the ruined gates, shading his eyes with one hand.

  “Hulloo!” called the figure, emerging from the shadows.

  Beside d’Artagnan, Aramis lowered the arquebus from his left shoulder and let it clatter to the ground before racing forward toward the newcomer with a cry of “Porthos!” on his lips.

  Chapter 18

  “Aramis!” Porthos in return, reining his horse to a stop and sliding down to the ground in time to catch the smaller man in a hearty embrace. He eased Aramis back by the shoulders to look at him as d’Artagnan jogged up to them, Athos and Milady following at a slightly more respectable pace. “You’re looking very much better than the bedridden wraith I left in Blois, my friend.”

  “And your own visage is much improved by the absence of bruises and swelling, I must say,” Aramis replied with a smile.

  “Hello, Porthos,” d’Artagnan said as the other man’s attention turned to him.

  “Good to see you, whelp!” Porthos said, catching d’Artagnan in a rough hug as well. “You’re doing much better, too, it appears!”

  “Greetings, Porthos,” Athos said. “Your presence here is certainly unexpected, but no less welcome for that.”

  “Just so,” Milady agreed.

  Porthos grinned and clasped Athos’ right arm, forearm to forearm, before taking Milady’s proffered hand and dropping a courtly kiss on her knuckles. “Athos. Milady. It’s been a long few weeks without all of you.”

  He straightened, sobering quickly as his gaze swept over the destruction surrounding them. “I’d ask what happened here, but I’ve got a pretty good idea already. God—I figured it would be bad. I just didn’t realize how bad. Are the monks—?”

  Aramis answered. “Five survive, for now. Two are very badly injured.”

  Porthos seemed to fold in on himself at the news, losing stature. “What about the boy who helped us to escape? Name of Reynard?”

  “He’s unhurt,” d’Artagnan said quickly. “He hid in the trees.”

  Porthos nodded, still troubled. “That’s something, I suppose. He seemed like a good lad.”

  Milady drew their attention. “Forgive my brusqueness, Porthos, but what news of the Queen? After hearing an account of the attack, we hardly expected to see any of you back here. Is everyone well?”

  “We escaped without injury,” Porthos said, his face clearly conveying how he felt about running away to leave unarmed monks facing dozens of paid mercenaries. “After we snuck out of Thiron-Gardais, de Tréville led us north for two days to the woods beyond Bretoncelles. We avoided the towns and major roads, and camped rough in the forest for more than a week while he figured out what we should do next.”

  “But why send you after us?” Athos asked. “You’re more valuable as a guard for Her Majesty than Grimaud is.”

  “He sent both of us, Athos,” Porthos said. “Me here, and Grimaud straight to Blois. Said it would be faster to find you that way.”

  Athos’ brow was creased in a frown, but he only said, “I see.”

  “He must have had a good reason,” Milady said, sounding
unconvinced, “since he’s leaving Ana virtually undefended.”

  “Come now—don’t discount the old war horse,” Aramis defended. “He’s the equal of any two-armed attacker.”

  “That’s true enough,” d’Artagnan agreed, having fought side-by-side with de Tréville during the attack on the castle.

  “It sounds like his current plan relies more on hiding than fighting,” Athos said. “Are you meant to lead us back to La Croix-du-Perche, Porthos?”

  “No, see, that’s the thing,” Porthos replied. “They aren’t there. We’re to rendezvous with them in Châteaudun, at the inn there.”

  “Châteaudun!” d’Artagnan exclaimed. “But we were through there only three days ago, and did not stop.”

  Porthos shrugged. “They wouldn’t have been there anyway. They should arrive tomorrow.”

  “And it will take us two days if we leave right away,” Athos said. “Which we ought to do, unless you need to rest first, Porthos.”

  “Nah, I’m fighting fit and ready to go,” Porthos insisted. “Would’ve made it here last night, but there’s a bridge out north of Coudreceau.”

  “We still need to tell someone about the needs of the Brothers here,” Aramis reminded them.

  “Perhaps l’Eglise Saint-Lubin in Brou,” Athos suggested. “It’s farther than La Croix-du-Perche, but it’s also a larger church with more resources.”

  “Agreed,” Aramis said reluctantly.

  After informing Brother Christophe of Porthos’ arrival and the new plan, the five of them finished readying the horses and headed south, leaving the burned-out abbey behind. The smell of smoke still clung to d’Artagnan’s clothes in the increasingly muggy air, and he wished it would disperse. As the hours passed, the aches in his body left over from clearing debris at the abbey combined with aches from being in the saddle. None of it was helped by the occasional fussing of Grimaud’s fractious mare.

  Milady questioned Porthos about the details of the Queen’s health, and he reassured her that Her Majesty had not suffered any ill effects from the hasty flight through the countryside as far as they could tell. He made a point to tease d’Artagnan about the likelihood of losing “his precious Buttercup” permanently to royal service, and d’Artagnan had to fight not to duck his head in response to the twin feelings of relief at hearing his father’s pony had fared well since they parted, and embarrassed pleasure at the well-intentioned brotherly ribbing. With effort, he mustered a suitably cocky response, much to Porthos’ amusement.