The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

  D’Artagnan nodded once, sharply, still without looking up. At that moment, it felt as though Porthos’ hand on him was the only thing keeping him from floating away into the sky like a leaf buffeted on the wind.

  “Still quiet outside?” Porthos asked, changing the subject—much to d’Artagnan’s relief.

  “Very,” de Tréville said. “More men are trickling in from some of the nearby villages in response to the messengers M. Rougeux sent out. We’ve started directing them to the church for now.”

  “Why are they coming here?” d’Artagnan asked, feeling his curiosity piqued despite himself. “What messages did you send out?”

  De Tréville hitched a hip onto the edge of the table by the window. “They are rallying to their rightful Queen, and, if God is with us, to the new King. With Her Majesty confined to the birthing bed, we have become more vulnerable than we’ve ever been. We cannot run now. If our enemies find us we will have to stand and fight. We need numbers.”

  “The time for secrecy is over,” Porthos said. “Couldn’t come soon enough for my taste, I have to say—I’ve had my fill of running scared.”

  “If trained troops descend on a few dozen peasant boys who have never held a sword or pistol before today, it will be a bloodbath,” d’Artagnan said.

  “We have righteousness on our side,” de Tréville said with the air of a commander who had led forces against impossible odds before.

  “Then I hope righteousness is a decent shot with a musket,” d’Artagnan muttered under his breath, drawing a rumbling laugh from Porthos behind him.

  “Have faith, d’Artagnan,” de Tréville said tolerantly. “If we stay the course, things will come right in the end. And if not... well, unus pro omnibus, and all that. There are worse ways to go than dying with honor in the service of France.”

  D’Artagnan’s eared perked up at hearing the same mysterious words that Athos had muttered after his collapse outside of Luigny, but he merely replied, “I’m afraid faith is more Aramis’ area, but I’m not going anywhere, sir.”

  “Oh, dear—my ears appear to be burning,” Aramis said from outside the door, having chosen that moment to return. “What have I missed?”

  “Nothing of import, Aramis,” de Tréville said. “I will relieve M. Rougeux outside. Eat and rest now, gentlemen. We have a long night ahead of us.”

  The others indicated their agreement and he took his leave. Porthos finished cleaning d’Artagnan’s back and covered it with salve, while Aramis checked on Athos once more. They ate a bit and talked of light matters, quieting each time the Queen’s cries of pain reached their ears. As the day wore on into evening, they took it in turns to go outside and speak with de Tréville and the villagers.

  Athos woke from sleep as the sun was going down and Porthos was lighting the lamps in the room. After assuring him that everything was still quiet, Porthos helped him take a bowl of broth with bread soaked in it, while Aramis uncovered his wounds and smeared d’Artagnan’s salve onto them. D’Artagnan was relieved that he appeared to have benefited from the hours of rest, sitting up against a pile of folded blankets and trading good-natured barbs with the others.

  During a lull in the conversation, d’Artagnan finally thought to ask a question he had been wondering about. “Athos, you said something in Latin when we were on the road that I didn’t understand. And earlier, when de Tréville was in here, he started to say the same thing. Un est pro...?”

  “Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno,” Aramis said.

  “It means ‘One for all, all for one’,” Porthos explained. “It was the unofficial motto of the Musketeers of the Guard, before King Louis was ousted.”

  “No one left behind,” Athos said. “No one abandoned. What affects one of us, affects all of us. You exemplified that, when you forced me to continue on after I thought my strength was exhausted, rather than leaving me to die.”

  Unable to devise a response to that, d’Artagnan only nodded, not meeting the others’ eyes. The words resonated within his chest, expanding to fill the emptiness that had settled there earlier when de Tréville chastised him for succumbing to the siren call of the whip.

  All for one. One for all. No one left alone. No one left behind.

  Aramis’ expression was kind and too knowing as he said, “Get some sleep, d’Artagnan. You too, Athos. Porthos and I will check with the guards and see if there is any news from the birthing chamber. If there’s anything worth reporting, we’ll wake you.”

  “I could go,” d’Artagnan offered, feeling as though he’d been fairly useless since their arrival earlier in the day.

  “We’re rested, and you’ve been stuck on the road with Athos for days,” Porthos said. “That’s exhausting enough all on its own.”

  “Oh, to be surrounded by such wit,” Athos drawled. “Stay, d’Artagnan, so that these two might leave me in peace, rather than alternately insulting me and fussing over me like a pair of old biddy hens with one chick.”

  D’Artagnan couldn’t help the smile that twitched in one corner of his mouth. No matter how dire the circumstances, his soul seemed lighter when he was surrounded by these men.

  “Far be it from me to ignore the request of an injured man,” he said magnanimously, bringing a smile to the others’ faces. Once they had exited to see to their errands, d’Artagnan turned down the lamps and removed his boots, placing them next to his doublet and weapons belt before climbing carefully into the low, wide bed next to Athos. The older man—still weak from his ordeal—was asleep within minutes, his breathing even and slow. D’Artagnan listened to it in the dark for a little while before his own exhaustion caused him to follow Athos into slumber.

  It was still dark when a low voice spoke his name.

  “D’Artagnan,” Aramis said. “Wake up.”

  He was awake in an instant, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and reaching clumsily for his boots and weapons, vaguely aware of Athos rousing himself to awareness next to him.

  “Rest easy, friends,” the other man added quickly. “All is well. De Tréville is speaking with Milady, and we thought you two might want to hear the latest.”

  D’Artagnan relaxed, but continued to pull on his boots. “Yes. Thank you for thinking of it. Everything is still quiet outside?”

  “It is,” Porthos said, dropping into a chair across the room. “I’ve had a thought about that, actually.”

  De Tréville entered, having evidently heard Porthos’ words. “I’d be interested to hear it, Porthos. First, though, Milady reports that Her Majesty’s birthing pains are coming quite close together now, and are strong. Mme Rougeux has joined them and they do not expect it will be much longer. We sent for the parish priest yesterday; if God is with us he will arrive shortly, in time to confirm and record the birth.”

  “But the babe is arriving early, is it not?” Aramis said with a glance at de Tréville. “There are still concerns about its health.”

  “There are always concerns,” de Tréville said. “However, you are correct, though I’m not certain how you could know such a thing. The baby was not due for another four weeks. That’s a significant period of time, but not necessarily catastrophic.”

  Aramis shrugged. “There is no great mystery; I merely spoke about it with Milady. Who, by the way, concurs with your assessment of the child’s chances.”

  “I see,” de Tréville said. “As it happens, that brings me to another thing which I must speak with you all about. But first—Porthos, you said you’d had an idea about our mysteriously absent attackers.”

  Porthos nodded. “It occurred to me that when they escaped, d’Artagnan and Athos killed the leader of the group that came after the Queen in Illiers-Combray. Possibly his lieutenants as well, assuming he wanted his best men with him during the interrogation. What if that was who Grimaud’s message was supposed to get to?”

  De Tréville and Athos looked thoughtful, and Aramis nodded.

  “If that were the case,” Athos said, “it wouldn’t st
op them, but it might slow them down while they reorganized.”

  “It depends on how tightly organized the group was in the first place, but it could certainly explain a few days’ delay if more messages had to be sent to clarify the details and the new chain of command,” de Tréville allowed. “I’m not sure we can rely on it, but you may well have something there, Porthos.”

  Porthos looked pleased with the praise. “What else did you want to talk to us about, sir?” he asked.

  “To start with,” de Tréville said, “I owe you an apology for doubting your loyalty, Porthos. I think you understand my reasons for doing what I did—and in fairness, I would do it again in the same circumstances—but I still wanted to deliver that apology in front of all of you.”

  Porthos’ smile faded, leaving him looking uncomfortable. D’Artagnan cleared his throat.

  “I find it telling, sir, that you told Porthos you would be at a bustling inn, full of innocent people going about their business at all hours,” he said, “while you told Grimaud that you would be at an abandoned property where an attack would harm no one except the mice. Almost as if you knew that no one would be at risk in Châteaudun.”

  Porthos blinked, and de Tréville looked surprised.

  “I think you see the workings of my mind more clearly than I do myself, d’Artagnan,” the older man said after a moment. Turning to Porthos, he continued, “Please understand that I never thought you a traitor, Porthos. But failure to be thorough in my investigation would have been an unthinkable dereliction of my duty to Her Majesty. You can see that?”

  Porthos paused, and nodded slowly. “I can, sir. Our duty is to our Queen before all else. I do not think less of you for it.”

  “I’m glad of it,” de Tréville said. “Because I owe Athos an apology as well.”

  Athos frowned. “As far as I am aware, you have offered me no insult, sir.”

  “You are not aware of it,” de Tréville said, “which is why I am telling you now.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Athos said, looking wary.

  “My trap had one final aspect that you did not discern, Athos. You are correct that I did not seriously consider Porthos to be the traitor. When I sat down and contemplated who could have betrayed us to our enemies, two main possibilities presented themselves. I thought it must be either Grimaud... or your wife.”

  Athos straightened as suddenly as if someone had shoved a ramrod into his spine, the blood draining further from his already pale face.

  “Explain yourself, if you please,” he said.

  “From the beginning, she has not exactly been reticent regarding her misgivings about our plans,” de Tréville continued. “I began discreet enquiries about her background while we were still in Blois. Would you like me to tell you what I found?”

  “I know very well what you found,” Athos said tightly.

  De Tréville glanced around the room, from Porthos and Aramis standing in uncomfortable silence, to d’Artagnan frozen in place, perched on the edge of the bed. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion in private?”

  Athos seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment before coming to a silent decision. “These men are my brothers,” he said. “You may say in front of them anything you care to say in front of me.”

  De Tréville nodded. “Very well. As I said, I had some of my contacts check into the comtesse’s background. And she is not who she claims to be. Anne de Breuil died in 1617; her gravestone lies in a churchyard in Tergnier. The woman you call Anne is an imposter and a criminal.”

  D’Artagnan was forcibly reminded of Athos’ final conversation with his treacherous servant in the kitchens of the castle at Blois.

  You have been lost to me for years, Master, Grimaud had said, ever since you took that... that creature into your bed, and into your life. She has turned you weak and sinful, with her own wickedness! You know what she is.

  Yes, Athos had replied. I do. I know exactly who and what she is.

  Looking back and forth from de Tréville to Athos, d’Artagnan clamped his jaw tightly over any expression of shock that might have tried to escape. Aramis and Porthos kept their expressions admirably neutral, though their concern for Athos—who looked every bit as haggard now as when he had fainted and fallen from his horse—was palpable.

  “You are correct,” said the injured man on the bed. “She is. She was introduced to me at La Fère as the sister of a country curate, and we fell in love. My father had died years before, but my mother and brother disapproved of the match. However, I cared nothing for their opinions, and we were married.”

  “She was already far beneath you in status,” de Tréville said.

  “What care had I for status?” Athos scoffed. “We were happy... until the Curse came to La Fère. Everyone in the household was sickened, except for Grimaud and myself. My brother died first—then the other servants, followed by my mother. But by some miracle, Anne survived. It was while I was bathing her with wet cloths that I discovered a fleur-de-lys brand on her shoulder, and realized the true reason behind her physical modesty. Before that, she had never allowed me to see her upper body bare.”

  “A fleur-de-lys. The mark of a criminal,” Porthos said, sounding deeply affected. “I’d wondered how you first found out.”

  Athos’ red-rimmed eyes flew to Porthos in surprise, silently questioning, and immediately to Aramis, who nodded.

  “Yes, Athos. We both knew,” Aramis said kindly. “You talk in your sleep when you’re drunk, my dearest friend. We decided it was none of our business, so we never discussed it further.”

  Athos squeezed his eyes shut, and d’Artagnan’s throat ached in sympathy at the depth of feeling hidden behind that tightly controlled visage.

  “Regardless of her past, she will always be Anne to me,” Athos continued after a long pause, a faint tremor coloring his voice. “When she recovered from her illness enough to speak, she told me everything and threw herself upon my mercy. She had escaped from a convent when she was sixteen, with the aid of the priest who had been posing as her brother when we met. Of course, they were not truly siblings; they were lovers. They had survived by stealing and swindling their way across half of France, and by marrying her to a nobleman, they’d hoped to set themselves up for life.”

  Unable to contain himself any longer, d’Artagnan exclaimed, “But she loves you! That is clear to anyone!”

  “Yes,” Athos agreed. “She came to love me as deeply as I loved her. She broke things off with the curate, but continued to send him money to ensure his silence. When the Curse came, though, he was one of the first to die. She must have thought at the time that her secret was finally safe. She hadn’t counted on becoming sick herself. I was bathing her—trying to cool her fever—when I found the criminal brand.”

  De Tréville looked deeply troubled. “The audacity of such a deception, Athos... perhaps it is not my place to judge, but I doubt I would have been as forgiving.”

  Athos’ eyes were burning when he turned them on de Tréville. D’Artagnan had never before seen such naked emotion from the normally reticent man.

  “My mother and my brother had just died, and my wife nearly did,” he said, each word delivered like the thrust of a blade. “I was alone in the world, but for her. What would you have had me do when I discovered the truth? Hang her from the nearest tree?”

  Chapter 33

  De Tréville met Athos’ fiery gaze head on. “No,” he said eventually. “Of course not. I merely wish that you had confided in me, given the delicate situation in which we are all enmeshed.”

  Athos dropped back against the headboard, exhausted. “It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

  De Tréville seemed to shake himself free of the moment, and the tension in the room subsided markedly. D’Artagnan let out the breath he had been holding, and Porthos and Aramis relaxed slightly from their positions of wary protectiveness.

  “It’s moot now, in any event,” de Tréville said. “As far as Milady w
as aware, if we could not stay at Thiron Abbey, we would come here. After the attack at Thiron-Gardais, I sent a message to M. Rougeux to take his family away and stay with relatives for a few days. Had Milady been the traitor, the attackers would have come here after failing to find us at the abbey. When that did not happen, it proved that she was not the source of information. Hence my desire to deliver an apology to you as well as Porthos.”

  “Were I not currently debating the merits of calling you out to a duel,” Athos said from his position staring up at the ceiling, “I would no doubt be impressed by your cunning, sir. However, I am not certain that I am the one to whom you should be delivering the apology.”

  “I didn’t think she would appreciate the distraction, just now,” de Tréville said. “Though I will certainly deliver it when the opportunity presents itself. Perhaps the duel can wait until then, eh? Or perhaps she will call me out herself, and save you the effort.”

  “Perhaps so,” Athos said, sounding weary beyond measure.

  A commotion at the front door pulled them from the aftermath of the little drama. Everyone except Athos, who was unarmed, reached for a weapon.

  “Édouard?” de Tréville called from the doorway.

  “Yes, it’s all right, Jean-Armand,” M. Rougeux’s booming voice called back. “The priest has arrived!”

  The musketeers relaxed with relief, and a moment later their host appeared in the company of a middle-aged man with black hair and bushy eyebrows, wearing a cassock and looking slightly disheveled.

  “This is Father Julien,” M. Rougeux said. “Father, this is Captain Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville of the Queen’s Guard, and his men. Father Julien brings important news.”

  “Thank you for coming, Father,” de Tréville said, bowing to the priest. “What news do you have?”

  Father Julien sketched a shallow bow in return and met de Tréville’s gaze, his face serious. “Captain, your message eventually reached me in Illiers-Combray, where I had been called to deal with the aftermath of a disturbance south of the town involving a fire and several dead men.”