The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

  The other two exchanged a glance.

  “Probably not,” Tolbert said. “Best give the shoulder-fired weapons and the muskets to the foot soldiers.”

  “Very well,” d’Artagnan said. “I leave it to you two to match up horses and riders while I report back to the captain. The broom-tailed mare is lame; put someone light on her if you can and keep her in the back row.”

  “Right you are, lad,” Tolbert said, turning to Patenaude. “Come on, Théophile. Point out your best shots with a pistol and we’ll get this sorted.”

  MIST WAS RISING IN the early gray light when forty-one men marched out of La Croix-du-Perche, arraying themselves at the edge of town on the road leading in from the east, purposely positioned at the front edge of a copse of trees so that shadows fell on the ranks of men standing behind the horses, obscuring their exact numbers from the casual observer.

  Rosita pawed and tossed her head, feeling her rider’s tension. D’Artagnan forced himself to take a deep breath and release it, unclenching his jaw and shifting his raw shoulders against the fabric of his shirt to calm himself.

  He glanced sideways at the calm, straight-backed figure of de Tréville sitting next to him on his imposing black stallion, mentally rehearsing for the twentieth time the battle plan that the captain had outlined for all of them before they rode away from the chapel. His musket had gone to a middle-aged man renowned for shooting game, and his arquebus to a lad barely old enough to have facial hair, but with a steady hand and a level gaze. He retained only his sword, pistol, main gauche, and a looped length of match cord tied to the front of his saddle, its slow-burning tip glowing orange in the predawn, ready to light the fuses of the two bombs nestled in the saddlebag behind his leg.

  The silence was so complete it seemed like a living thing. Perhaps that was why the sound of marching boots in the distance was so shocking, though they had been waiting for it for the better part of an hour. When the first of the approaching troops appeared around a wooded bend, far enough away that they formed only a dark, amorphous blur in the foggy morning, d’Artagnan’s heartbeat ratcheted up in anticipation.

  A faint murmur of disquiet began behind him as the sinuous beast in the distance continued to emerge, the column of men growing larger and longer, hinting at untold numbers bearing down on their small company.

  “Stand ready, men,” de Tréville said, his strong voice washing over them and quieting the mutters.

  The sound of distant feet growing ever closer was broken only by their own breathing—d’Artagnan could hear the soft, ragged sound of one of the younger lads near the back trying to hide tears.

  “Steady, lads,” Tolbert said stoutly from his place on de Tréville’s other side. “Remember—we fight for our infant King, and we fight for the man standing next to us.”

  D’Artagnan looked at the man next to him—a man who had protected his pregnant Queen despite all odds... despite having only one arm and one eye and a traitor hiding in the nest. A battle-hardened commander, who treated his men almost like sons and hated to see them bleed. He would fight for this man. He would fight for his friends—for his Queen and her newborn son. He checked the match cord one more time and reached back to touch the shape of the deadly metal spheres through the leather of his saddlebag.

  As soon as the front of the approaching column was within shouting distance, de Tréville rode forward a few paces, flanked by d’Artagnan and Tolbert, and roared, “Halt!”

  His voice rang out over the space between the two groups as if it would wrap around the approaching men and drag them into immobility by will alone. The column continued, but there was a commotion as a handful of riders on horseback skirted around the edges of the group to reach the front. Two of the figures conferred briefly before cantering toward them, leaving the other riders and foot soldiers behind. They stopped just out of easy pistol range.

  “What is your purpose in entering La Croix-du-Perche with armed troops?” de Tréville called across the intervening distance. “Identify yourselves!”

  Both men placed their hands on the butts of their pistols, and d’Artagnan tensed.

  “You first!” called the man on the right. “Who are you and why are your men blocking the road?”

  “I am Jean-Armand du Peyrer, Comte de Tréville and Captain of Her Majesty’s Musketeer Guard. Now, state your business!” said the captain, and d’Artagnan held his breath.

  “Ah, well, in that case, you are exactly the man we’re after!” called the man on the left. He gestured back to the main column, now only a short distance behind them. The rows of men came to a reasonably well-disciplined halt, just as the sun finally broke over the horizon, illuminating the same motley collection of clothing, weapons, and bodies that comprised their own company.

  “I am Antoine d’Aumont de Rochebaron, second son of Jacques Aumont. My grandfather fought for Henry IV at the Battle of Arques,” continued the man. “I have come with forces from Chartres to offer our support to Queen Anne of Austria. It appears, Captain... that we are all on the same side.”

  D’Artagnan felt momentarily light-headed at the revelation. Beside him, he was aware of de Tréville slumping slightly forward in the saddle.

  “So many,” the older man said in a hoarse whisper. “Dear God, can you really have sent us so many?”

  “Sir...” d’Artagnan said, and his voice seemed to bring de Tréville back to himself.

  He straightened in the saddle and cleared his throat, though emotion still choked his voice as he said, “You have answered our prayers, M. d’Aumont de Rochebaron. France has a new King, born this very morning, who needs our protection. Join us in the town, and accept what hospitality we can offer you. You and I have much to discuss.”

  Part III

  Call nothing yours which you can lose,

  Whatever the world gives, it intends to snatch away,

  Think on heavenly things, may your heart be in heaven,

  Happy is the one who will be able to despise the world.

  ~John Audelay, “Cur mundus militat sub vana gloria,” ca. 1426

  Chapter 35

  In the slanting light of the midsummer evening, the village of La Croix-du-Perche was transformed.

  Tents littered the village green like a vast herd of strange, sleeping animals, flaps fluttering lightly in the breeze. The buzz of voices and the clatter of pots being hung over cooking fires were punctuated by the occasional bark of raucous laughter as Antoine d’Aumont’s troops amused themselves with drinking and gambling.

  D’Artagnan moved among the tents and people, stopping here and there to introduce himself and inquire if the men’s needs were being met. He was still struck at odd moments by the surreal quality of his surroundings. After laboring for months against near-insurmountable odds, it was almost impossible to believe that deliverance had appeared so suddenly and unexpectedly for their small group.

  The Queen—still recovering from giving birth the night before—had smiled a radiant smile, a single tear sliding down her cheek when d’Artagnan and de Tréville returned to report that almost three hundred men had joined their cause. D’Aumont’s militia was no cobbled together force raised in a day. The nobleman, whose family had supported the House of Bourbon for generations, had been quietly gathering troops since the assassination of King Louis’ treacherous younger brother and the ascendancy of Isabella of Savoy’s infant son Francis III to the throne.

  Unlike the slow trickle of local men and boys from La Croix-du-Perche and the surrounding villages, d’Aumont’s forces were supported by a convoy overseen by dozens of camp followers—wives and sisters, boys too young to fight, and a smattering of old men. The wagons and carts of supplies had been trailing in throughout the day, laden with burlap sacks of grain, kegs of wine, piles of produce, cages of squawking chickens and geese; even the occasional fat pig.

  D’Artagnan was fascinated by the management and coordination involved in maintaining such a force at a time when many had difficulty merely pu
tting enough food on the table to feed their own families. He knew little of Chartres, but it was clearly a much larger city with greater resources than the towns near where he had grown up and through which he had traveled on his journey from Gascony. The one thing the small army lacked was horseflesh. Only d’Aumont and his lieutenants had been mounted; the rest of the men were on foot. And while there were a few draft horses pulling supply wagons, most of the motley collection of conveyances were hauled by asses or oxen.

  To be fair, additional horses would only have increased the need for heavy supplies like oats and hay. Again, d’Artagnan shook his head at all of the decisions involved in raising troops for battle. De Tréville had chosen him to act as a liaison with the new men, and he silently vowed to absorb as much information on the subject as he could from both his captain and d’Aumont, so that he could become more useful to the Queen’s cause.

  A hat with a familiar curled feather caught d’Artagnan’s attention across an open space to his left as he continued through the camp, and he turned to look. Aramis was seated with several other people in front of one of the larger tents, bottle of wine in hand, speaking to a handsome middle-aged couple. The woman was lithe and olive-skinned, with a simple braid of thick, dark hair trailing almost to her waist. The man was pale and muscular, with high cheekbones. Streaks of silver lined his sandy hair and meticulously trimmed beard. The casually possessive hand he rested on the woman’s lower back spoke of a husband and wife, or at least a man with his long-time mistress. Both of them laughed loudly at something the chevalier had said.

  Aramis looked up, his eyes sweeping around the area and catching on d’Artagnan’s. After the first instant of recognition, Aramis smirked and raised his bottle in salute. He winked, throwing the younger man a look that could only be described as devilish before returning his attention to his two companions. D’Artagnan shook his head in exasperation and continued on, wondering what sort of trouble his friend was courting now.

  As he resumed his slow circuit of the camp, a flustered, red-faced man stopped him to ask about getting more water buckets from the villagers, and d’Artagnan promised to see to it. Continuing on, he followed a path of trampled grass leading downhill to the edge of the Foussarde River, which demarcated the southern edge of the green.

  Several young women from the supply wagons were gathered there, chatting amongst themselves as they washed the men’s clothing in the babbling waterway. D’Artagnan’s gaze was caught by one of them when she laughed in delight at something her friend had said. She had dancing blue eyes, and her hair fell in dark ringlets over her shoulders—flashing with red highlights where the setting sun shone on it. Her nose turned up slightly, lending her face a pert aspect supported by the rosy bloom on her cheeks.

  After a moment, the woman looked up at him, a question in her eyes, and d’Artagnan realized with a start that he had been staring. His jaw clicked shut against the nonsensical apology that tried to rise to his tongue, and he hastily retreated. He was unable to stop himself looking back over his shoulder, though, and he hoped his expression was closer to a friendly smile than the foolish grin he suspected it was. The young woman was also smiling, and it broadened to crinkle the corners of her eyes when d’Artagnan—giving no thought to where he was treading—stumbled over a tuft of grass. Her light laughter, and that of her companions, followed him over the crest of the hill.

  Shaking his head and cursing himself for a dolt, he continued his rounds, skirting closer to the eastern edge of the camp as he headed back toward the church where his old gelding was tethered. This route took him past the tent where Aramis had been speaking with the handsome couple earlier. Noises were coming from within, and d’Artagnan heard the distinctive sound of Aramis' laughter. Apparently his friend had found some kindred spirits with whom to while away the evening.

  The sound of metal ringing against metal grew louder as d’Artagnan approached a corner of the camp that had been appropriated by workmen from d’Aumont’s group. A forge had been set up in an outbuilding at the edge of the church grounds, where a heavyset, strong-looking man labored over a large anvil, striking a sheet of metal with rhythmic strokes of his hammer. Though his own meager skills as a blacksmith had indirectly acquired him his current position in the Queen’s guard, d’Artagnan was more than happy to see that his services as a farrier to the group’s small stable of horses would no longer be required. The tough, muscular body of the individual before him suited the position far better than his own frame.

  Not wanting to interrupt, he stood quietly off to the side, the heat from the forge slowly baking one side of his face and neck while he waited until the smith reached a good stopping point in his work. The piece on the anvil was taking the distinctive shape of a cuirass, though to d’Artagnan’s eye, the breastplate would need an uncommonly petite, slender torso to wear it. Still, it was fine workmanship, and he was happy to watch the process for a few minutes until the metal cooled and the blacksmith straightened from his work, using a pair of long tongs to return it to the forge for reheating.

  “You need something?” the man said over his shoulder, not bothering to look at d’Artagnan directly.

  D’Artagnan cleared his throat. “Actually, I came here to ask you that very question. My name is Charles d’Artagnan; I am acting as liaison between Her Majesty’s guards and M. d’Aumont’s troops. Your forces seem well-supplied, but it’s my job to fill any needs that may remain.”

  The smith grunted an acknowledgement. “If the higher-ups want weapons and armor, someone needs to bring me firewood, and wet clay from the riverbank to build a charcoal kiln. Can’t work steel over a smoky little campfire made from unseasoned scrub wood, and I’m nearly out of what coal we brought with us.”

  “Of course,” d’Artagnan agreed. “I’ll arrange it as soon as possible. Do you need anything else?”

  “Couple of lads to tend the kiln,” the man said. “Also, see if the villagers have any scrap metal I can melt down. Got a feelin’ we’ll be needing all the blades we can get before long.”

  “I’ve got a feeling you’re absolutely right,” d’Artagnan said. “I’ll see to it.” He nodded at the tiny cuirass as the blacksmith lifted it from the blue and orange flames. “That’s an interesting piece you’re working on. I saw some young lads with the supply wagons, but I didn’t think they’d be joining the fighting.”

  The man arranged the cuirass over the horn of the anvil and hefted his hammer once more. “It’s not for a lad,” he said cryptically, before the metallic ring of hammer on steel cut off any further discussion.

  DARKNESS WAS FALLING by the time d’Artagnan managed to procure more water buckets and send them to where they were needed, as well as organizing some of the village boys to get firewood and dig clay to haul up to the blacksmith. Deciding that he would ask M. Rougeux about gathering scrap metal, he mounted his gelding and headed back to the house. The day had been a long, exhausting one, and d’Artagnan wanted nothing more than to check in with his friends, eat something, and fall into a bed somewhere.

  It was almost incomprehensible to think that a mere forty-eight hours ago, he’d been hunched over Athos' unconscious body by the uncertain light of a flickering campfire, trying to feed him sips of weak broth after the man succumbed to his injuries and collapsed on the road back from Blois. That night had been among the lowest points of d’Artagnan’s life, and yet, two days later, Athos was recovering amongst his friends, the Queen had given birth to a new King of France, and they had somehow managed to acquire an army. If his head were not already dizzy from weariness, thinking about it all would be enough to send his thoughts spinning.

  Turning his pony into M. Rougeux’s property, with a tired smile for the young men guarding the gates, he dismounted and led the old gelding into the stables, unsaddling him and efficiently seeing to the horse’s simple needs—glad to have had an excuse to ride him for a few hours. Grimaud’s little broom-tailed mare was still lame after the hard use she had seen on th
e road from Blois, and d’Artagnan took it as an excuse to ride his comfortable childhood mount for the first time since he had loaned the pony to the Queen, some weeks earlier. This small point of familiarity amongst all the turmoil settled him somewhat, and he gave the shaggy little beast a final fond pat before trudging back to the house.

  He acknowledged two of d’Aumont’s soldiers who were standing watch on either side of the doorway with a brisk nod and entered the Rougeux home quietly, moving down the stone-flagged hallway to the kitchen. Bread, cheese, and flagons of wine had been left out for the soldiers coming and going at odd hours. D’Artagnan ate with gusto, his weariness rising steadily even as his empty stomach filled.

  It remained only to speak to someone and share the latest news of the day, after which he would see if he could lay claim to a corner of the mattress in Athos’ sick room for a few hours. Though honestly, at this point, even the bare floor was beginning to look inviting. After a moment’s thought, he headed toward the back of the house to the Queen’s birthing room, where he knew someone would be awake and on guard.

  “It’s d’Artagnan,” he called softly as he turned the corner, not wanting to startle an armed man.

  Porthos looked up at him with a grin from his position flanking the closed door. “Done for the day, are you?”

  “I sincerely hope so. At the very least, the day seems to have done for me,” d’Artagnan replied fervently. “Is everything here going well?”

  “Everything’s right as rain. Athos is sleeping... Milady, too, as far as I know,” the big man replied, before indicating the room behind him with a nod of his head. “Her Majesty is up with the baby right now; de Tréville went in a while ago to check on them both. Oh, an’ Aramis went off duty earlier this evening. Said he was going to the camp for a few hours and see if he could find some trouble to get into.”