by R A Dodson
The Queen and de Tréville shared a brief, indecipherable look. “I think that would be unwise at the present moment, Antoine,” de Tréville said, after a slight pause. “The situation is... complicated.”
D’Aumont stared at de Tréville for a few beats, then shrugged. “As you please. I suppose his musket balls fly just as straight whether I know his name or not.” He turned to the Queen. “Your Majesty, your assessment of the current situation is quite correct. We have laid in supplies as best we are able, and my own troops working in conjunction with the city guard should be more than sufficient to hold the city, at least for now.”
“You will let us know if there is anything we can do to contribute, of course,” said the Queen.
“I will, Your Majesty,” said d’Aumont. “The walls are strong and thick, however. You need have no fear for your safety, or that of the young King.”
IF YOU’D ASKED D’ARTAGNAN as a lad to describe warfare, he might have used terms like danger, excitement, or glory. He would not, however, have used the word boring. Now though, it was the word foremost on his mind. Siege warfare was infernally, tortuously boring.
Unless you were assigned to the battlements, shooting at the enemy when they intermittently tested the city’s defenses, there was literally nothing to do except sit around and worry. Or stand around on guard duty at the palace and worry. Or watch Porthos and Aramis play endless rounds of cards while Athos drained bottles of wine... and worry.
On the positive side, he had the leisure to spend time with Constance when her duties to the infant King permitted. Of course, spending time with Constance brought its own brand of strain. D’Artagnan told himself firmly that he desired only her friendship, but the time spent in her presence was a special kind of torture. Despite what Aramis had said, he knew she did not desire him. He still desired her, however. Oh, how he desired her.
He awoke in the night, hard with desire for her, having mistaken the softness of the feather bed under his cheek for the softness of her bosom, full with the milk that fed the Queen's son. Once or twice, he gave into the ache, his hand moving swiftly beneath the bedclothes, as he muffled his cries by digging his teeth into the meat of his left hand. Lying there afterward in the dark, self-loathing overcame him at his own weakness—must he now pleasure himself over thoughts of a woman who did not want him? Had he truly been reduced to such a detestable level?
Then, to see her the following day—greeting him with innocent pleasure in their friendship—it was almost beyond bearing. His back itched and burned with the need for penance. On one such day, she watched him with worried eyes for awhile, before blurting, “Sometimes I can’t tell if you want to spend time with me or not. Are you angry with me, d’Artagnan? Because of... because of that kiss, the evening after we first met?”
D’Artagnan stared at her in shock. “No!” he exclaimed after a moment. “No, of course not! It is you who should be angry with me! If you only knew...”
He trailed off, words deserting him.
“I can’t know what you don’t tell me, d’Artagnan,” Constance said, staring at him as if hoping to peel back the layers of his skull and see what thoughts resided within.
D’Artagnan could only shake his head, certain that if she knew of his obsession, she would deprive him of her company completely... and rightly so. Afterward, he took himself off to the stable, seeking to dull the sharp edge of his frustration with the now-familiar ritual of grooming his father’s pony.
“What would you think of me now, Father?” he asked under his breath, letting his hands run over the buttercup-yellow coat that his father’s hands had also curried and brushed. “A soldier who sits on guard duty while a war rages at his doorstep, and a man who pines for a woman who rejected him at the first kiss. Could things get any worse?”
The pony yawned and passed wind, loud and long. D’Artagnan sighed, aware that he was being ridiculous and overly dramatic. Things could be so much worse, he reminded himself forcefully.
Four days later, Aramis disappeared.
Chapter 45
“Have you seen Aramis this morning?” Porthos asked, after poking his head into the room where d’Artagnan and Milady were eating a late breakfast.
“No,” said d’Artagnan. “Isn’t he in his room?”
“Nah,” Porthos said, shaking his head. “I checked there first when he didn’t show up to visit the bakery on the Rue au Lait with me.”
It was something of an open secret that Aramis had been spending time with the baker’s daughter in the days since the siege began—a young woman who had moved back to help with her parents’ business after the death of her fiancé. D’Artagnan frowned. It did seem unlike the man to miss such an assignation.
“Perhaps de Tréville gave him an assignment,” Milady suggested, and took another bite of the poached egg that she was eating.
“Maybe,” Porthos allowed. “Didn’t he seem a bit... off to you last night, though?”
D’Artagnan had been on guard duty the previous evening, but Milady shrugged and swallowed thoughtfully before replying, “I suppose he was a bit quiet and subdued, for Aramis. Still, you know him. He’s probably warming some pretty young thing’s bed and overslept. No cause for worry.”
“He’s scheduled for guard duty after Athos,” d’Artagnan offered. “He’ll have to show up then, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Porthos said. “I’ll just wait for him here. Got any more of those eggs?”
D’Artagnan sliced off a hunk of bread for him and gestured toward the covered plate on the sideboard.
Twenty minutes later, Athos entered the room, his shift for the morning completed.
“Where’s Aramis?” he asked. “He was next on the duty roster, but it was de Tréville who relieved me.”
A frown furrowed Milady’s forehead, and Porthos shared a worried look with d’Artagnan.
“He’s missing, and I’ll wager de Tréville knows something about it,” Porthos said, rising from the table. “Come on. I want answers.”
They trooped through the grand hallways to the entrance of the suite of rooms used by the Queen and her son, where de Tréville stood at attention in front of the closed door. His single eye raked over them, a disconcertingly haggard air to his expression.
“Where is Aramis, Captain?” Porthos asked unceremoniously.
“Aramis is unwell,” de Tréville said, and d’Artagnan really didn't like the flat tone of his voice. “He wished to rest.”
“He’s not in his room,” Porthos said.
“He indicated a desire for privacy,” de Tréville said, still without expression. “No doubt he took himself off somewhere a bit quieter.”
D’Artagnan felt a sick feeling begin to creep into his stomach.
“This is Aramis we’re talking about, right?” Porthos said, his voice beginning to rise. “The man who needs an audience to complain to whenever he has so much as a sniffle?”
“Unwell... how, exactly?” d’Artagnan asked, not at all certain he wanted to hear the answer.
For the first time, de Tréville’s composure seemed to slip, leaving him looking suddenly much older. “Fever. Headache...” he said, before adding as if the words were being pulled from him against his will, “... swelling at the neck, armpit, and groin.”
Porthos made a wordless noise of pain, and d’Artagnan swayed a bit as gray spots danced momentarily at the edges of his vision before retreating. Athos, standing between them, reached a hand out to each of their shoulders to steady them. Off to one side, Milady wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off a sudden chill.
“Where is he?” Athos said, his voice icy.
“I cannot tell you,” de Tréville said in a hoarse voice.
“The hell you can’t,” Porthos said, stumbling forward half a step. “Sir.”
De Tréville did not back down or break eye contact with the distraught man now looming over him. “I cannot tell you because Aramis would not tell me. He’s trying to protect y
ou from the Curse, Porthos. He’s trying to protect all of you.”
Porthos whirled around and drove a fist into the wall next to the door. D’Artagnan focused on trying to drag breath into lungs that did not want to work properly.
“We will find him,” Athos said, only to be interrupted when the door behind de Tréville opened, revealing the Queen, with Constance by her side.
“We heard a disturbance,” said the Queen, her eyes taking in the group’s distressed appearance. “Is everything well, Captain?”
De Tréville closed his eye for a moment, gathering himself. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. No, everything is not well. Aramis is ill. It appears to be the Curse.”
Constance’s hand flew to her mouth, a high-pitched noise of dismay escaping. The Queen breathed out once, audibly, before her natural reserve reasserted itself.
“God have mercy on us,” she said, touching the crucifix she wore around her neck. “I had hoped that that horrible scourge would not touch us until I was in a position to battle it.”
“Your Majesty,” said Milady, “both Captain de Tréville and I have survived the Curse, and we tended to your late husband during his illness without becoming ill ourselves. We are the logical choices to care for Aramis, assuming we can even find the foolish idiot.”
Athos’ eyes flew to his wife, his brows drawing together, and Porthos began to voice a protest, only to fall silent when the Queen spoke again.
“I’m afraid I cannot spare the Captain under the current circumstances, Milady,” she said. “We cannot allow personal concerns to override that, much as I might wish to.”
“In that case, Your Majesty,” Milady said, “Athos and d’Artagnan are the next best choices. Both of them have had close exposure to Cursed individuals without becoming ill in the past.”
D’Artagnan’s breath hitched. The idea of never seeing Aramis alive again was unendurable, but the idea of watching him gradually succumb to the Curse was just as bad. He didn’t know if he was strong enough to face either one... but right now, Aramis needed him.
“I’m going, too,” Porthos said.
“Porthos, no,” de Tréville said. “You’ll die as well.”
“Aramis might not die,” Porthos forced out between gritted teeth, “and I don’t care if it’s dangerous.”
“I can’t spare you,” said the Captain.
Porthos went to his knees before the Queen. “Your Majesty, Captain—forgive me. But the only way you’ll stop me going to him is by shooting me through the heart. I’ll resign my commission if that’s what it takes. But I have to help Aramis.”
The Queen’s eyes were as wet and shiny as d’Artagnan’s own when she stepped forward and rested a hand on Porthos’ bowed shoulder. “That won’t be necessary, Porthos. Captain, arrange to have some of d’Aumont’s men sent to guard these rooms. They’re already guarding the grounds of the Palais, after all. While I would prefer to have my loyal musketeers outside these doors, it is that very loyalty which requires them to look after one of their own during his time of need.”
De Tréville sighed, defeated. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Porthos whispered.
“You will be in our prayers, gentlemen; Milady,” said the Queen, and drew Milady forward to kiss her cheek. Porthos rose, and the others stepped forward one-by-one to bow deeply over the Queen’s proffered hand. When d’Artagnan straightened and stepped back after his turn, he suddenly found himself with an armful of Constance. He froze in surprise as she reached up, her hands cradling his face and pulling him down until she could kiss his forehead.
“Stay safe and well, d’Artagnan,” she said with tears in her eyes. “Please.”
“I’ll try,” he told her.
She nodded and disentangled herself with a blush, as if only now realizing what she had done. “See that you do,” she replied, trying to cover the depth of her upset. “And the rest of you as well.”
“Tell Aramis that I tried my best to keep you four half-wits safe,” de Tréville said gruffly.
“We will. Assuming we can even find him, of course,” Athos said, and the four of them bowed a final time to the Queen and withdrew.
“Where would he have gone?” d’Artagnan asked as they walked back toward their quarters to pack what they were likely to need.
“If he’s ill, he surely could not have gone too far,” Milady said.
“He wouldn’t have, anyway,” Porthos said with certainty. “He’d never put the citizens of Chartres at risk.”
“Nor would he put the Queen and her child at risk,” said Athos.
The answer came to d’Artagnan in a flash. “The south wing,” he and Milady said at almost the same time.
“Makes sense,” Porthos said. “It’s completely empty. God, I’m going to kill the bastard for this myself.”
“That would probably be counterproductive,” said Athos, “but I can understand the sentiment.”
Entering their rooms, they quickly threw together bedrolls, clean rags, and other supplies that might be useful for tending a sick man, along with food and wine from the kitchens. A few minutes later, they were trekking across the grounds to the back entrance of the south wing, on the assumption that Aramis would not have wanted to go through the main wing, potentially exposing the bishop’s staff. Mere steps inside the large door, the morning light slanting through the windows illuminated uneven boot prints in the dust coating the floor.
“Subtle,” said Porthos. “That’s our Aramis.”
The tracks led to the main stairwell and up. The pale marble floor on the second level was not as advantageous for picking out the trail, but the door to the first bedroom was firmly shut, where all the others stood open. Porthos strode forward and knocked on it.
“Aramis?” he called.
“Go away,” called a faint, hoarse voice from within.
Athos looked at Milady. “Mystery solved, apparently,” he said. “Would you mind pinning a note on the door to the main wing, to let de Tréville know what’s happening and where to leave supplies if we need them?”
“And miss the drama of the next few minutes?” Milady said, her voice laced with sarcasm. She paused. “Actually, you know what? On second thought, that sounds like an excellent idea. I’ll just go and do that.” She turned to d’Artagnan. “Don’t let them actually kill each other, please. That would be rather embarrassing to have to explain.”
D’Artagnan nodded dumbly, still too caught up in the horror of the thing to appreciate her attempt at lightening the mood. Porthos reached forward and twisted the door handle, which was locked.
“Open the door, Aramis,” Porthos said.
“No. Go away,” came the voice from within.
“Yeah, right, because that’s really going to happen,” said Porthos. “Have you got the delirium already, mate?”
“Fuck off,” said the voice, and d’Artagnan felt a momentary jolt of surprise at hearing the normally urbane Aramis speak so.
“Fuck off, yourself,” said Porthos, and kicked the door in.
The three of them piled into the room, only to be confronted with Aramis, pale and wan, pointing a pistol at them with a trembling hand. “That wasn’t a suggestion, my dearest friends,” he said. “Go. Away. I’m not going to let you in here.”
Chapter 46
Athos sighed, and stalked toward the armed man on the bed with the air of someone whose patience had run dry some considerable time ago.
Aramis cocked the pistol. “Stay back.”
Athos ignored him.
The Cursed man shimmied along the length of the mattress, trying to keep space between them, the shaking pistol still pointed at Athos’ heart. “Don’t... don’t touch me, Athos. Save yourselves. Don’t—”
Athos reached forward and relieved Aramis of the weapon, un-cocking it and placing it calmly on the bedside table. Bereft of his final defense, Aramis seemed to collapse in on himself. “Why?” he asked, his voice pained.
&nb
sp; “You’re an idiot, Aramis,” said Athos.
“Why do you think?” Porthos said, flopping down onto the bed next to Aramis and tangling a hand in his hair, cradling the back of his skull.
“I seem to recall something about ‘all for one’,” d’Artagnan managed, dropping down to kneel beside the bed.
“I was aiming for ‘one for all’,” Aramis said, sadness infusing his voice.
“Yeah? With the way your hands were shaking on that pistol, your aim’s evidently not that great right now,” said Porthos.
“Ooh, there were pistols involved?” Milady said from the doorway, having returned from her errand. “How wonderful. So sorry I missed it.”
“You, as well, Milady?” Aramis said, defeated. “I would have expected you, at least, to have more sense.”
“Any sense I might have had once upon a time fled long ago,” Milady said. “I put it down to the company I’ve been keeping of late. Nonetheless, I’m not the person you should be worrying about; I’ve survived the Curse once, and it holds no further fears for me.”
“Send the others away, then,” Aramis said, desperation in his raspy voice. “Perhaps it is not too late.”
“Aramis, please,” Milady said dismissively. “If a gun in the face wasn’t effective, I doubt my own persuasive powers are up to the task.”
“Sometimes I really do hate the whole lot of you,” Aramis said, slumping back against the headboard. “You know that, right?”
“No, you don’t,” Athos said matter-of-factly. “Now get your shirt off. Let’s have a look at you.”
Aramis sighed, and tossed a questioning look at Milady, who raised an eyebrow and said, “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before; most recently in Blois when someone skewered you with a sword. The Curse isn’t big on dignity, so you might as well get used to it.”
“Oh, good,” Aramis said on a sigh, peeling off his loose, linen shirt. “Something else to look forward to.”
D’Artagnan, who had kept mostly silent throughout, forced himself to look at Aramis closely. His complexion was pasty except for two high spots of color on his cheeks, and there was a fine sheen of sweat over his forehead and chest. Angry swellings nestled under his jaw and both armpits, and d’Artagnan swallowed. At least he couldn’t see any black spots developing yet on the flesh.