by R A Dodson
Chapter 43
If Chartres was unlike any city d’Artagnan had visited before, the Palais Épiscopal was unlike any residence he’d ever seen. Past the iron gate decorated with filigree and finished in fine gold leaf, the view opened up, revealing a two-story brick and stone construction with several wings leading off the main structure. Some effort had been put into tending the gardens on the grounds, with flowers and hedges here and there amongst beds of herbs and vegetables.
There was evidence of recent repair to the stonework in places, and d’Artagnan had never seen so many glass windows in one place before. Suddenly self-conscious, he snapped his jaw shut and glanced around at the others, who seemed to find nothing very extraordinary about their surroundings. Feeling every inch an uncouth country lad, he forced himself to focus on d’Aumont, who was explaining the details of their accommodations. As they dismounted, several boys ran forward from the direction of the stables and took their horses away to be cared for.
The bishop was apparently away at the moment, leaving only a skeleton staff of servants in his wing of the palace. The rest of the building was abandoned, and by taking over the north wing, they would be assured of privacy and all the space they could possibly need. They would have to fend for themselves this evening, but tomorrow staff and servants would be procured for them.
It was enough to make d’Artagnan’s head spin. Servants? Staff? Had they not been huddled under tents in the rain less than a day ago? For the first time, he began to truly understand what it meant to be associated with royalty.
An hour later, that understanding was tempered with the realization that dust and grime inhabited empty palaces every bit as much as they inhabited paupers’ hovels. Upon learning of the new arrivals and seeing the state of the north wing, the bishop’s secretary hurried to offer the Queen, her ladies, and her son use of the bishop’s suite until other rooms could be cleaned and aired. That offer, however, did not appear to extend to travel-stained soldiers, and d’Artagnan found himself sneezing repeatedly as he helped Porthos remove the dust sheets from ancient, moldering furniture while Athos and de Tréville threw open the windows, and Aramis went in search of a broom.
The five of them took it in shifts to guard Her Majesty’s rooms, and slept in bedrolls laid out on feather mattresses—bare of sheets, but still softer than anything d’Artagnan had ever laid upon. The following morning dawned clear, promising another day of oppressive heat. The Queen’s forces gathered in the courtyard of the palace, the shadow of Notre Dame de Chartres looming over the grounds, blocking out the sun.
De Tréville stood on the steps leading up to the palace’s main entrance, addressing the men.
“With our very presence, we have brought danger to Chartres,” he began. “Even now, Isabella’s troops will be moving on the city. They could arrive at any time. Messengers have already been sent to nearby cities and towns to raise support and rally more troops. These troops will come to our aid, just as you came to Her Majesty’s aid in La Croix-du-Perche. In the meantime, however, we must do all we can to protect this city that many of you call home.”
“Hear, hear!” called several voices in the crowd, among the low rumble of discussion.
“To this end,” de Tréville continued, “we will utilize every able-bodied man and every cart, wagon, and coach we can find to gather food and fodder within the walls. M. Chauveau has opened Chartres to anyone from the surrounding countryside who wishes to shelter here until the conflict has passed. Isabella will be forced to adopt siege tactics, but she will find Chartres to be a prosperous and well-prepared target... and not such easy prey as she might think.”
Some cheers erupted among the gathered troops, but the muttering continued unabated as de Tréville, d’Aumont, Patenaude, and Tolbert began to move among the men, giving out assignments. D’Artagnan wondered how many of those who had marched to join them in La Croix-du-Perche had truly understood the potential consequences to Chartres... to their homes and families. Still, it was far too late now to turn back from the cause, and it was in everyone’s interest to do whatever was possible to ready the city for the coming siege.
That day, and the days that followed, fell into a sort of exhausting rhythm. D’Artagnan and the others alternated shifts of hauling wheat, oats, vegetables, and hay with shifts of guarding the palace. They seldom saw each other, except to relieve one another from guard duty or wish each other a brief good night before falling into bed for a few hours, exhausted. In their absence, the dusty rooms of the north wing were transformed by the newly hired servants into a residence more fit for royalty. Unfortunately, their decadent featherbeds did not see as much use as perhaps they might have wished them to, and the delicious meals prepared for the Queen and her retinue were largely ignored in favor of simple fare that could be eaten one-handed while transporting bags of flour to the city’s bakeries and wagons full of hay to the mews and stables dotted around Chartres.
D’Artagnan’s back ached with the manual labor, and after awhile his mind began to ache without the constant, steadying presence of his friends. He found himself becoming jittery and snappish toward his workmates. Waiting for the siege to begin felt like standing on a mountainside under a heavy stone barely held in place by its neighbors—knowing that everything would eventually come crashing down on his head, but with no way of knowing when. He would rather fight a hundred battles against Isabella’s army, he decided, than bear this endless waiting for something to happen. He tried to distract himself with thoughts of Constance as he worked, but his pleasant fantasies always circled back to the feeling when she stiffened in his arms and pulled away as if his touch burned her.
Not for the first time, d’Artagnan thought longingly of his cat o’nine tails, and the release that it represented. The others would know if he used it, though... the others always knew. And, of course, he had promised de Tréville that he would not, on pain of losing his commission in the Queen’s guard.
Evidently, his growing agitation was visible to others, as he caught both Aramis and Porthos giving him worried looks during their brief interactions. The following morning, de Tréville intercepted him on his way out to ready a wagon.
“You have new orders, d’Artagnan,” said the Captain. “Go and prepare your gelding for the Queen to ride. Her Majesty wishes to tour the city in hopes of boosting the residents’ morale. You and I will accompany her for an hour or two.”
“Yes, sir,” d’Artagnan replied, and hurried to the stable, pocketing a crust of bread from the table as he passed, since he lacked Constance’s uncanny rapport with the broom-tailed mare that he would be riding.
His father’s old pony was dozing in his stall when d’Artagnan entered, one bony hip cocked and his shaggy head hanging low. He snorted awake when d’Artagnan greeted him. One disinterested ear flicked back toward his master for a moment before the animal apparently decided that nothing was required of him for the moment, and picked up a mouthful of hay from the manger in front of him.
D’Artagnan curried clouds of dust from the sagging back, feeling his tension ebb with the familiar ritual and the gelding’s stalwart presence. Only when he brought in the studded bridle with its gleaming armored champron did the animal perk up, showing interest in the proceedings.
“Enjoying your new status as the mount of royalty, are you?” d’Artagnan asked, easing the bit into place and adjusting the cheek piece down a notch. One large, brown eye rolled around to peer at him disdainfully before the gelding sneezed, blowing a fine mist of snot across his jerkin. “Right. Silly question, apparently.”
The pony shook its head, setting armor and metal buckles to jingling.
Half an hour later, riding Grimaud’s mare on Her Majesty’s left while de Tréville flanked her right side and a dozen guards on foot trailed behind, d’Artagnan felt better than he had since they arrived here. The Queen toured the quiet neighborhoods around the cathedral and palace as well as the nearby business districts, bustling with both normal, day-to-da
y business and the laying in of supplies. Reaction to Her presence ranged from obvious awe and adoration to skeptical reserve, but d’Artagnan was pleased to see no open hostility toward the Queen in the areas they visited.
Her Majesty approached everyone they met with the same grace and charm, thanking them for their hospitality and promising that Chartres and its brave citizens would figure prominently in the new regime. Upon their return to the palace, d’Artagnan rubbed down the sweaty horses and grabbed an apple and some cheese from the kitchens for a quick meal, still feeling lighter than he had in days as he headed out to join one of the crews transporting supplies for the rest of the afternoon. He ended up riding on a rickety cart hauled by an underweight draft horse with a clubfoot, and driven by a taciturn farmer named Marc-René. He was partnered with a wiry, dark-skinned man with a noticeable accent who introduced himself as Paolo and who could lift twice as much weight as his slender frame suggested.
The afternoon passed as pleasantly as one could expect when doing hard labor—Paolo was an engaging companion, and taught him several songs from his native Portugal even though d’Artagnan couldn’t understand the words; laughing when d’Artagnan accidentally butchered them into something rude. The three of them were returning from their second trip to a granary northeast of the city, leading a loose caravan of five wagons toward the Eure River and the entrance at Porte Guillaume. Paolo was trying—with limited success—to teach Marc-René how to insult someone in Portuguese when a shout came from behind them.
“Soldiers! Soldiers coming this way!”
D’Artagnan and his companions craned around to look past the other wagons, and he heard Marc-René catch his breath on a curse.
Hundreds.
There were hundreds of riders behind them, bearing down on them at a full gallop.
Chapter 44
Isabella’s forces had arrived.
“Make for the city!” Paolo cried. “Hurry!”
“If we’re caught outside when the gates close, we’ll be slaughtered,” d’Artagnan said grimly, checking his weapons.
Marc-René didn’t need to be told twice, his whip cracking over the old wreck of a draft horse pulling the cart. The beast lurched forward into an ungainly canter, jerking its passengers back against the seat and spilling bags of grain off of the edge of the cart. Behind them, the other drivers were following suit; the motley collection of conveyances rattling toward the protection of the city walls as fast as cart horses and donkeys could pull them.
They might as well have been crawling, compared to the horde of sleek animals bearing down on them from behind. Even so, the bridge across the Eure was growing larger in front of them, and d’Artagnan thought that their cart would probably make it. The sound of horns from the battlements flanking Porte Guillaume reached them faintly over the uneven thud of hooves on packed dirt and the creaking of the cart, followed moments later by the tolling of the bells of Notre Dame. Whether they made it or not, at least the lookouts had been alerted to the attack—the city would not be taken unawares.
The wagon that had been next in line behind them drew even with them, drawn by a pair of younger, faster horses, and d’Artagnan waved them past. By contrast, the two carts drawn by donkeys were lagging far behind, and with a sick feeling, d’Artagnan realized they would soon be overtaken. The wagon that had just passed them clattered onto the bridge, and d’Artagnan felt the cart lurch beneath him as they did the same. Clinging to the bench as they rattled over the uneven surface, he swiveled again to look back. The next cart, pulled by a lanky pony, was perhaps three or four arpent behind them. Beyond it, the enemy troops had just overtaken one of the donkey carts, cutting down the passengers without mercy. D’Artagnan's wagon barreled through the city gate, cutting off his view just as soldiers reached the second donkey cart, but the screams of the unlucky men could be heard all the same.
“Pull up!” d’Artagnan shouted at Marc-René. “Pull up, damn you!”
Marc-René wrestled the panicked draft horse under control, and d’Artagnan leapt down before the cart had even stopped completely, vaguely aware of Paolo doing the same beside him. He charged back the way they had come, yelling, “Not yet! Hold the gate! Hold it!” at the men who were swinging the massive doors closed. The third wagon could be heard clattering toward the entrance, along with the hoof beats of the approaching soldiers, who were forced to slow down and ride two or three abreast to cross the narrow bridge.
“Stand ready!” d’Artagnan shouted. “Let the wagon through and close the gate after it! Attack any soldiers who get past—don’t let them farther into the city!”
He drew his sword and a pistol, holding the firearm in his right hand and his rapier in his left. Beside him, Paolo drew a wickedly curved blade from his belt and dropped into a crouch. The pony galloped through the gate, the wheels of the wagon it pulled slewing past them, only inches from their toes as they pressed back against the stone walls of the battlements. Hard on its heels, half a dozen enemy riders burst through before the solid oak gates slammed into place, cutting them off from the rest of the army.
D’Artagnan took aim and shot one through the heart, seeing three more go down to the city guards’ pistols and calivers. Replacing his spent pistol in his belt, he transferred the rapier from his left hand to his right and parried as another of the riders slashed at him. The man’s horse skidded on the slick cobbles as he jerked it around by the reins for a second attack. Sensing an opening, Paolo darted forward, blade in hand. The huge bay animal reared, one of its front feet striking Paolo in the temple and felling him instantly.
D’Artagnan cried out as Paolo crumpled beneath the animal’s crushing hooves, but another of the riders was upon him before he could do more than take a step toward the broken body. With a wordless yell, he ducked to the side and spun, driving the point of his sword into the man’s thigh. Two city guards dragged the man from his horse and slammed him face first into the ground, while another three overcame the soldier on the bay horse that had killed Paolo.
Remembering himself, d’Artagnan yelled, “Don’t kill them! Take them alive for questioning!”
Above him, the sound of gunfire from the battlements filled the air as the guards drove the forces massed outside the gate into retreat, and d’Artagnan could hear the fading hoof beats of their horses as they turned and fled out of range rather than face being picked off one by one on the narrow bridge. Around him, guards were catching the dead soldiers’ loose horses and dragging the prisoners away, while bystanders began moving forward to clear the bodies and tend to the wounded. In the midst of the commotion, d’Artagnan stood silently, just breathing. A hand descended on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Marc-René standing beside him.
“All right, lad?” asked the old farmer.
After a moment, d’Artagnan replied in a hoarse voice, “Yes. All right.” He stepped out from under the hand gripping his shoulder, and began the long walk back to the Palais Épiscopal without looking back.
The siege of Chartres had begun.
UPON ARRIVING BACK at the palace, d’Artagnan found himself enveloped in Porthos’ rough embrace. “You made it,” said the big man, relief in his tone.
“The others?” he asked, letting himself lean into his friend’s solid strength for a second or two before pushing back.
“Safe,” Porthos replied. “Well, mostly. Aramis’ foot got run over by a wagon wheel at the south gate. He says it’s only bruised. Shoulda moved quicker, though. We won’t be letting him live that one down anytime soon, that’s for certain.”
“I made the city guard keep the gate at Porte Guillaume open to let through one of our wagons that was about to be overrun,” d’Artagnan said, relief at knowing his friends were safe warring with doubt about his own decision. “Six enemy soldiers got in before it was closed. We killed four of them and captured two, but one man from the city died in the fighting, and three guards were injured.”
Porthos regarded him thoughtfully. “Well, to my mi
nd you did right, but I’d maybe not mention the details to de Tréville in case he has a different opinion on the matter. Still, those two prisoners could be pretty valuable if they know anything about Isabella’s strategy.”
D’Artagnan nodded and allowed himself to be led inside to a large, echoing room in the north wing, where d’Aumont and de Tréville were deep in discussion with the Queen while Athos and Aramis—seated with one boot missing and his swollen foot resting on a hassock—looked on. Upon seeing d’Artagnan, Aramis flashed him a wry smile and Athos tipped his head in acknowledgement.
De Tréville looked up at the intrusion. “D’Artagnan. Good. Anything to report?”
“Two enemy soldiers were captured alive by the city guard at Porte Guillaume,” d’Artagnan replied, taking Porthos’ advice and omitting further details.
“Three were taken at the Porte Saint Michel, as well,” d’Aumont said. “It’s unlikely they have any detailed knowledge of their commanders’ military tactics, but you never know.”
“If the messengers we sent out to other cities were not captured,” said the Queen, “then help will be coming. All we need do until then is make use of the city’s excellent fortifications to keep Isabella’s forces at bay.”
“How are our supplies of ammunition?” Athos asked.
De Tréville answered. “My supplier has been stockpiling powder and shot in Chartres for some time now. We cannot afford to be profligate, but I’ll wager we have considerably more firepower than our enemy does.”
“I confess myself intrigued by this mysterious supplier of yours, Jean-Armand,” said d’Aumont. “I don’t suppose you’d care to enlighten me as to his identity?”