The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

  Athos met d’Artagnan’s eyes.

  “Shortly after I left and rejoined the main road to come here,” the priest continued, “I passed a large company of armed men headed this way. It was dark, and I gave them a wide berth. I doubt they took much notice of me. Once I was safely past them, I rode like the devil himself to get here.”

  “They were on foot?” de Tréville asked.

  “Mostly, yes. A few were mounted. They were moving slowly and will be a couple of hours behind me, at least.”

  “Hmm. That can’t be a coincidence,” Aramis said with false lightness.

  “Certainly not,” de Tréville agreed. “What do you think, Édouard? Could they be some of ours?”

  M. Rougeux grunted, sounding skeptical. “How many men would you say there were, Father?”

  The priest shook his head and replied, “You must understand, it was quite dark. I would say more than two hundred, easily. Perhaps three hundred.”

  “I dunno, Jean-Armand,” M. Rougeux said. “So far they’ve been straggling in by twos and threes, not dozens and hundreds. That seems far too many on such short notice for them to be on our side.”

  “I concur. Well, at least we have warning, and a couple of hours to plan,” de Tréville said. “Thank you for that, Father.”

  Mme Rougeux bustled in before the priest could respond. “Oh, thank goodness!” she said. “You’re just in time, Father. The baby is about to come.”

  “Yes, of course.” Father Julien looked down and started rummaging in the bag slung over his shoulder, pulling out a large book of parish records. “Do you have ink and a quill?”

  “Yes, everything is ready,” Mme Rougeux said. “And M. de Tréville? Her Majesty is asking for you.”

  “I’ll be right there,” de Tréville said, causing the priest to look up from his fumbling, just as a long cry of pain drifted from down the hall.

  “In the birthing room?” the cleric asked. “That seems highly unusual...”

  De Tréville squared up to the man, bringing himself to his full height. “I am ever Her Majesty’s servant, Father. When she calls upon me, I will be there.” He turned to the others. “You three—join the patrols outside. Have someone saddle all of the horses and ready them for use; we may need them quickly. I’ll send word as soon as the baby is born.”

  Athos began pulling on clothing, his movements weak but determined. “Get me a sword and a pistol, and help me down the hall. I will guard the door to the room, even if I have to do so from a chair.”

  De Tréville gave him an assessing look before nodding curt agreement. Even weakened as he was, Athos with a weapon in his hand was a dangerous opponent for anyone. Athos strapped on the weapons belt that Porthos handed him and allowed the captain to support him with an arm across his shoulders as everyone departed for their various duties.

  Half an hour later, d’Artagnan was checking his section of the perimeter for the fifth time, and inwardly cursing the vagaries of childbirth, military tactics, and cloudy nights. Why did it have to be so dark? And why did the birthing process have to be so nerve-racking and protracted? Every tiny noise from the bushes seemed to herald the descent of troops upon them, even though d’Artagnan knew that in reality, they were not due for a little while yet.

  One of the village boys hurried up, but instead of taking his report and passing on the all clear from the others, he came to a breathless halt and said in a rush, “M. d’Artagnan? Milady says go to the stables right away! The captain will meet you and the others there.”

  D’Artagnan thanked him and practically ran to the stableyard, so desperate was he for news. From the looks of Porthos and Aramis when he arrived, they were every bit as eager as he. De Tréville strode in a few moments later, all signs of fatigue replaced by blade-sharp single-mindedness.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I am pleased to report that His Most Holy Majesty Henry V of France was born at four thirty a.m. this day, Friday the eleventh of July, 1631.”

  Porthos released a sigh of relief, and Aramis closed his eyes and crossed himself. D’Artagnan felt a wave of excitement at the news, knowing that it meant all they had gone through to get to this point had not been in vain.

  “How is the child?” Aramis asked.

  “He is small and weak, but alive,” de Tréville said. “There is no sign of deformity or defect, and he was able to suckle.”

  “And the Queen?” d’Artagnan asked, thinking of the screams of pain that had filled the house for hours.

  “Weary, but in good health,” the captain replied, allowing a faint smile to lift one corner of his mouth briefly. “And, God willing, one step closer to coming into her power. Now, to our plans. Troops are moving on La Croix-du-Perche. I propose to meet them at the edge of the town with some of our forces, leaving the remainder of the men here to protect the house.”

  The rest of them nodded in understanding, the grim reality of their situation immediately overcoming the brief flush of excitement and relief at the birth of the King.

  “Aramis, you will coordinate the local lads guarding the perimeter of the property,” de Tréville ordered. “Porthos, you will join Athos and Milady inside the house. You three, along with M. and Mme Rougeux, will be the last line of defense for Their Majesties.”

  “No one will touch mother or child without climbing over our lifeless bodies first, Captain,” Porthos vowed solemnly.

  De Tréville nodded in acknowledgement. “I would have expected nothing less from such fine and loyal guards. D’Artagnan, you will come with me to gather the men who are staying at the chapel and confront the troops at the edge of town. We are completely outnumbered regardless of what strategy we employ, but I do have a trick or two remaining that might help to throw things into confusion before they can reach this property.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help, sir,” d’Artagnan said, feeling the thrum of excitement and the anticipation of battle push the weariness from his body.

  “Gather all of the horses except the fastest one into two strings that we can lead to the chapel,” de Tréville said. “We’ll leave the fastest horse in case someone here needs to get a message out for some reason. Otherwise, I want the biggest show of strength we can manage, and that means men on horseback.”

  “One horse is lame,” d’Artagnan said, thinking of Grimaud’s mare. “Do you still want her?”

  “Yes, but we’ll keep her at the back of the group where she won’t be as noticeable. We’re not going far, and this is more an exercise in making a particular impression than anything else. Choose a good horse for yourself—you will be acting as my lieutenant and should be mounted as such.”

  “Take Rosita,” Aramis said. “And leave Porthos’ gelding here for us. He’s the fleetest of foot should we need to send out a messenger.”

  “If that’s settled,” said de Tréville, “get ready and I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes. I need to retrieve some items before we leave.”

  “Yes, sir,” d’Artagnan said.

  De Tréville met Aramis’ and Porthos’ eyes in turn, offering each of them a nod of acknowledgement that they returned with respect, touching the wide brims of their hats. The older man turned with precision and strode away toward the house, leaving the three musketeers alone in the yard.

  D’Artagnan looked at Porthos and Aramis, feeling a sudden, painful awareness that this might well be the last time he saw them.

  “My friends,” Aramis said, “we all have our assigned duties. May God watch over us and lend our hearts courage and our blades strength. I will see both of you soon, either in this life, or the next.”

  He stretched out his hand, and d’Artagnan grasped it firmly. A moment later, both of their hands were enveloped in Porthos’ own large one.

  “This life, or the next,” Porthos echoed.

  D’Artagnan smiled, feeling his regard for these men who had made a place for him expand to fill him from head to foot. “This life or the next,” he agreed. “Porthos, tell Athos...
tell him I could not ask for a better mentor, and that I particularly valued the lesson he gave to me in Latin.”

  “I will,” Porthos said, and the three let their hands fall back to their sides.

  Unable to bear the moment any further, d’Artagnan turned and headed toward the stables, but stopped after only a few steps as a thought hit him.

  “Aramis?” he called back.

  “Yes?” said the other man, peering at him curiously through the darkness.

  “It just occurred to me... if we are to meet in the next life, should I be aiming for Heaven or Hell?”

  He was rewarded by Porthos’ rumbling laugh, and a fond look from Aramis, who replied, “Heaven, of course, you wicked boy. Are we not on the side of the righteous?”

  Porthos clapped Aramis on the back and said, “Oh, come now, Aramis! In my experience, all of the interesting people go to Hell...”

  Aramis opened his mouth to refute Porthos’ outrageous statement, feigning offense. D’Artagnan took a last look before turning away, wanting to remember them exactly as they were at that moment.

  Chapter 34

  It was strange how little fear d’Artagnan felt now that he himself was heading to almost certain death. He had opened his heart as he’d vowed he never would again, leaving himself vulnerable to yet more loss.

  But, somehow, this was different.

  Just as Porthos had vowed that no enemy would reach the baby without first killing all of them, d’Artagnan vowed to himself that no enemy would reach his friends here without first having to scramble over his own cooling corpse. He would lay down his life to protect this innocent newborn babe, whom others would see dead merely because of the name of his father and mother, but, equally, he would do so to protect the strange, mismatched family that had accepted him so readily and completely as one of their own.

  With a deep, centering breath, he entered the stable and counted the horses, all standing saddled and tied to the wall. In addition to the eight animals owned by the original group from the castle in Blois, there were two belonging to M. Rougeux and half a dozen that apparently belonged to some of the villagers who had sent their sons along to help with the cause. D’Artagnan gathered the first group of six horses into a string, taking a brief moment to rest his forehead against his father’s pony’s neck and scratch underneath the pale mane, before feeding Grimaud’s mare the crust of bread that he had, out of habit, thrust into his pocket for her during his meal in the house earlier.

  He gathered seven more animals into a second string, leaving only Rosita, de Tréville’s horse, and Porthos’ horse. The old soldier returned as d’Artagnan was mounting Rosita, holding the rope connected to the lead horse of the larger string in his left hand.

  “Good,” de Tréville approved, looking over the arrangements. “Now, I have four bombs in my possession. I want you to take two of them. Have you ever used one before?”

  D’Artagnan shook his head, and said, “I’d never even been around one until the attack in Blois, sir.”

  “No matter. Put them in your saddlebag. Do you have match cord to light it?”

  “Yes,” d’Artagnan replied. “There’s a length of it on my musket.”

  “Good,” said de Tréville. “Keep it lit and smoldering at all times. On my order, be ready to light the fuses on the bombs and throw them as far into the mass of opposing forces as you can. If it comes to that, I will attempt to take out the leaders of the group with my two bombs, while you cause as much damage and confusion within the ranks as possible with yours.”

  “I understand, sir,” d’Artagnan said, once again impressed with de Tréville’s seemingly endless supply of cunning and resourcefulness. “Do you think that will turn the battle in our favor?”

  “I think there’s only one way to find out,” de Tréville answered.

  The older man handed him the ugly metal spheres one at a time, and d’Artagnan stowed them where he could reach them easily. De Tréville mounted his horse, holding the reins in his teeth as he organized everything one-handed and took the rope for the second string of horses from the stable boy, looping it once around the pommel and tucking the free end between his thigh and the saddle so that his good arm would be free for other things.

  The pair rode out side by side, leading the horses behind them down the driveway and onto the main road. D’Artagnan ran an eye over the animals, pleased to see that Grimaud’s mare was noticeably less lame than when he and Athos had arrived the day before. The sky was just beginning to lighten in the east. They rode in silence. D’Artagnan’s nerves began to flutter as his focus drifted forward to what they would soon encounter, and his right leg jiggled lightly in the stirrup in anticipation.

  It took only a few minutes to reach the chapel. Fires and lanterns blazed around the building, with men gathered in small groups around braziers, talking in low rumbles. Most of them looked up and quieted as d’Artagnan and de Tréville approached.

  “My friends,” the captain said in a voice resonating with authority. “We have important news. Are there others inside?”

  “Yes, some are sleeping,” one of the men called back.

  “Wake them and bring them outside as quickly as possible, if you would be so good,” de Tréville said.

  Several of the men disappeared into the chapel in response, giving d’Artagnan a few moments to look over the remaining group. They were a motley bunch, ranging in age from slender lads barely out of boyhood to grizzled men older than de Tréville. All carried weapons of some sort—mostly swords and daggers, but also a smattering of clubs and axes, along with a handful of firearms that appeared old and outdated.

  The murmuring started up again as the predawn silence dragged on, but within a few minutes, men began to come out of the chapel in various states of dress and wakefulness. When all was said and done, perhaps three dozen stood in a rough semi-circle around d’Artagnan and de Tréville.

  “Gentlemen, I am Captain Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville of the Queen’s Musketeer Guard.” De Tréville’s voice filled the open space of the churchyard, drawing every eye to him and holding it there. “I have the honor of informing you all of the birth this very night of your true King, His Majesty Henry V of France, son of Louis XIII and Queen Anne of Austria.”

  A ragged cheer went up through the small crowd, several of the men patting each other on the back and raising their fists in the air. De Tréville let the excitement carry for a bit before raising his voice again into the night.

  “Henry may be King by right and by blood, but this night he needs your protection. An unidentified force of men is approaching the town from the east. Your neighbors—your friends and brothers and sons—stand ready at M. Rougeux’s chateau to protect the infant and his mother... with their lives, if necessary. Our goal is to see to it that they do not have to, by confronting this troop of men before they enter the town and sending them back from whence they came.”

  The men in front of them began to speak among themselves again, looking at each other uneasily.

  “Is there leadership among you?” de Tréville asked, and after a short pause, two men stepped forward. One was a gray-haired man with wide shoulders and a scar down his cheek; the other was younger and taller, with clothing and weapons of better quality than most of the others.

  “I am Grégoire Tolbert,” said the older man. “I organized the contingent from Argenvilliers.”

  “And I am Théophile Patenaude,” said the other, “second cousin of the late Comte de Thimerais. I brought men from Montigny-le-Chartif and Combres.”

  D’Artagnan’s ears perked at the mention of the unfortunate Comte, in whose barn Athos had been so sorely tested.

  “Then you have another reason to join with us, M. Patenaude,” said de Tréville. “The forces allied against the King are also responsible for burning your cousin’s manor house near Illiers-Combray.”

  “If more reason is needed, I will certainly take that into account,” said Patenaude.

  “Rea
dy your troops, gentlemen, and coordinate with M. d’Artagnan of the Queen’s Guard to get as many as possible of them mounted. The group we are to meet is a large one, but they are mostly on foot, and we are armed with bombs, which should help us to even the odds if it comes to that. I also have extra powder and shot to be distributed amongst those with firearms.”

  “Very good, Captain,” Patenaude said, as Tolbert touched the brim of his hat.

  “Oi, Tristan! Yves!” Tolbert called. “Get up here and take these horses from the Captain and his man!”

  Two youngsters hurried forward and relieved de Tréville and d’Artagnan of the strings of animals. Thus unencumbered, de Tréville dismounted and moved to circulate among the men, getting a feel for the fighters he would shortly be leading. D’Artagnan stepped down from the saddle to join Tolbert and Patenaude, mindful that the captain had indicated he should organize the mounted men.

  “We have fifteen horses of varying quality,” he said without preamble. “The captain’s intention is to present as strong a front as possible. To me, that means mounting the best riders and arming them heavily. What are your thoughts on the matter?”

  “Tolbert,” Patenaude said, ceding gracefully to the older man, “you’re the former soldier, here.”

  “It’s been a long time since I was in the wars, lad,” Tolbert said, addressing d’Artagnan, “but I’d say that sounds about right. Form everyone up into ranks, so it’s harder to make out numbers from the front. From the looks of it, you’ve got plenty of good horseflesh here, along with some that’s more suited to the plough than the battlefield. Put the mounted men five abreast, with the best horses in front and the worst behind. Hide the men on foot in narrow ranks behind the horses.”

  D’Artagnan nodded. “That sounds like the best approach. How many firearms among your men, and what types?”

  “Three pistols, four ancient calivers of dubious provenance, and a musket,” said Patenaude.

  “With the guns that the captain and I brought, that means we could arm the first row on horseback with swords and a pistol each,” d’Artagnan said. “Are any of these men good enough shots from horseback to justify giving them an arquebus or caliver?”