The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

  It was a relief when, on the sixth day after their arrival, Constance met him at the servant’s entrance in the evening with a smile on her face.

  “I have news,” she said. “I’m to be the maid of a visiting lady, starting tomorrow.”

  D’Artagnan’s spirits rose immediately. “Oh, yes?” he asked, very aware of the bored-looking guard at the gate. “Anyone I would have heard of?”

  “I doubt it,” Constance replied airily. “Some obscure noblewoman, apparently. A widow, so I hear.”

  D’Artagnan barely managed to contain a snort. “Oh, is that so? How tragic.”

  Constance winked at him, and he smiled back as they left the palace grounds and headed for their little rooms on Rue Férou.

  Once they were safely locked away from prying eyes and listening ears, he turned to her eagerly. “So, have you seen her? Spoken with her?”

  Constance shook her head. “Not yet. Cardinal-Magnus Richelieu is presenting her at court tomorrow, apparently. Once she’s installed in rooms at the palace, I’ll be able to talk with her.”

  “What a relief,” d’Artagnan said. “Maybe now things will finally start to move forward.”

  As luck would have it, d’Artagnan was assigned to work in the reception chamber the following day, giving him his first glimpse of the man who was so central to all of their plans. After hearing the whispers about the Bloody Magnus—His Red Eminence—d’Artagnan wasn’t quite certain what he was expecting—perhaps some skeletal vision of Death in his cloak, or the Devil made incarnate, hiding hooves underneath his robes.

  The reality was somewhat more mundane, of course. The person who entered when the steward announced Cardinal-Magnus Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu was a slender man, somewhere between the age of forty and fifty; upright of bearing and gray of hair. His eyes were pale and piercing; his long, narrow face made even longer by the neatly trimmed point of his beard. He was dressed fashionably for court—his cloak and skullcap were, in fact, a bloody shade of scarlet, and a large, bejeweled crucifix hung around his neck. He bowed low to Isabella, and his voice, when he spoke, was mild and cultured.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “it is both an honor and a pleasure to appear before you today.”

  “Cardinal,” Isabella replied in her clumsy, heavily accented French, so different from Queen Anne’s soft, clear voice. “Your presence has been missed these past few days. I trust you had good reason to abandon us in such a way?”

  “Alas,” said the Cardinal, “I was called away for weighty matters of Church and State. As partial recompense for my absence, however, I am pleased to be able to present to Your Majesty the Comtesse de La Fère, who has traveled here to seek connections at court after the tragic death of her husband.”

  Richelieu stepped gracefully to the side, and indicated the doorway with an elegant gesture of one hand. D’Artagnan held his breath as Milady appeared, resplendent in a red dress trimmed with ermine and ostrich plumes. Her catlike eyes scanned the room, passing over d’Artagnan as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture. With a demure smile, she approached the throne and dipped into a deep curtsy.

  One of the nobles loitering near d’Artagnan snorted softly and leaned in close to his companion. “Weighty matters of Church and State, indeed,” he said under his breath. “I think we can all guess what has kept His Eminence occupied for the last few days.”

  D’Artagnan kept his face expressionless only with difficulty. While it was doubtless a good thing that Milady’s cover story seemed to be working so effectively, it still rankled. He wondered, idly, how much of Chartres’ supply of wine had been sacrificed to Athos’ need to forget, if only temporarily, where his wife was and what people were likely saying about her. Watching Milady as closely as he could without breaking his attentive servant’s stance, he also wondered what she thought of it—whether she cared about the sly asides and assumptions. If so, it did not show on her face, which was as smooth and cool as a mirror.

  “It is a great honor to be here, Your Majesty,” Milady said upon rising. “I have heard stories of the court at Paris and the wonders of the palace, but they did not do it justice. We have nothing to compare in the north.”

  “The north, you say?” Isabella asked, peering down at Milady from her seat on the dais. “La Fère, was it? I’m afraid I have not heard of it.”

  It was almost certainly intended as a slight, but Milady only dipped her chin in a shallow bow. “I am not surprised, Your Majesty. It is but a small estate, of little note or importance. It is only through the Cardinal’s patronage that I was able to travel to Paris since completing the mourning period after my beloved husband’s unexpected passing.”

  “Hmm,” Isabella said, clearly losing interest. “I suppose you’ll be looking for a new husband, then. Take care... there are those at court who would seek to take advantage of a woman alone, without allies.”

  Isabella’s final words were laced with bitterness, and Richelieu stepped in smoothly, before the exchange could descend further into awkwardness. “Tell me, Your Majesty. How fares our young King?”

  “Why do you ask?” Isabella said sharply, and a brief frown of consternation crossed Richelieu’s face, so quickly that d’Artagnan thought he might have imagined it.

  “Forgive me—it was merely out of my own curiosity and affection for our sovereign,” the Cardinal answered carefully. “The King celebrates his second birthday later this week, does he not?”

  Isabella’s face softened slightly. “Oh. Yes, that’s right. We have ordered a small celebration for the occasion. You are, of course, invited to attend, Cardinal.”

  Richelieu bowed. “I would not miss it, my Queen. Now, however, I must prepare a report on the most recent intelligence regarding the small uprising in Chartres, so that I may brief Your Majesty on the news this evening.”

  Small uprising? D’Artagnan could not help wondering what, in the Cardinal’s eyes, would constitute a large uprising.

  Isabella leaned forward with renewed interest, and d’Artagnan had to school himself not to do the same. “Yes, yes. Do that now, Cardinal. We would know the latest details of this cowardly act of rebellion as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” said Richelieu, bowing once again and backing away, ushering Milady out of the room ahead of him.

  The rest of the afternoon was one of the longest d’Artagnan could remember. When he was finally relieved of his duties for the day, he could hardly contain his impatience as he hurried to meet Constance by the servants’ gate. Rather than risk letting free any of the questions that wanted to tumble from his mouth, he accompanied her back to their rooms in near silence. It was only when they were safe inside that he turned to her and blurted, “Well?”

  Constance looked nearly as excited as he was. “We’re to take this to Porthos,” she said, drawing a folded square of paper from her décolletage. They unfolded it in the dim evening light filtering through the window, and looked down in confusion.

  “It’s blank,” d’Artagnan said, stating the obvious.

  A frown marred Constance’s brow. “So it is. Well, you should take it to Porthos anyway. Perhaps he’ll know what it means.”

  Chapter 59

  D’Artagnan swore he could feel the mysterious piece of paper burning a hole through the linen of his shirt, where he had tucked it inside his jerkin for the trip to the Leaping Bard. Porthos was engrossed in a game of dice with half a dozen other hard-looking men when he arrived at the tavern. The big man glanced up and met his eyes with a quick, sharp grin, but immediately returned his attention to the table and his opponents.

  Knowing how important it was not to draw unwanted attention, d’Artagnan stood back to watch the game, trying not to fidget with impatience. After several more minutes of back-and-forth, an emaciated old man with several missing teeth rolled an eleven, and there was a general cry of dismay from the other players. Porthos threw up his hands and slapped them down on the table in disgust before sho
ving a small pile of coins and jewelry into the larger pile in the center. With a gap-toothed grin, the old man swept his winnings into a cloth bag and saluted his opponents as he rose and took his leave.

  The other players dispersed, and d’Artagnan flopped down in an empty chair next to his friend. Porthos took one look at his face, and, in a voice too low to be heard by anyone else, asked, “News?”

  D’Artagnan tipped his chin in a bare hint of a nod.

  “Well,” Porthos said in a voice loud enough to carry to those nearby, “I just lost all my coin, so I can’t afford to buy drinks, and I know you’re poor as a church mouse. Come back to my place for a bit—I’ve a bottle of wine at home that we can share while we bemoan my ill fortune.”

  D’Artagnan readily agreed, and followed Porthos out of the noise and stink of the tavern into the noise and stink of the streets beyond.

  “I have something for you, but I don’t understand it,” d’Artagnan said, keeping his voice low.

  “Not here,” Porthos warned, and clapped a companionable arm across his shoulders.

  They had barely traveled thirty steps when a hoarse cry and a thump of flesh on flesh from an alley nearby caused them both to tense and turn toward the noise.

  “Trouble?” d’Artagnan asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  “All of Paris is trouble after dark, these days,” Porthos said, cracking his knuckles in anticipation, “but... yeah.”

  Their bodies blocked the flickering light of the street lamps as the pair entered the mouth of the alley, leaving the scene before them illuminated only by the faint moonlight filtering down through the buildings. D’Artagnan recognized the thin, slightly stooped form of the successful gambler from the tavern, his back pinned against the wall by a masked figure. A second attacker stood with his arm cocked, poised to land another vicious blow on the old man’s body.

  “Oi! You two,” Porthos growled. “Put down that old swindler and come get some of this instead!”

  He thumped his muscular chest with one clenched fist. Beside him, d’Artagnan silently slid his dagger from its sheath, adjusting his grip on the hilt in readiness. The thieves let go of the old man, who slid down the wall and landed in a heap. A quick look showed that the alley terminated in a dead end, and the two men turned back toward Porthos and d’Artagnan, reaching for weapons at their belts as they readied themselves to fight their way out.

  “I’ll take Knife. You take Chain,” Porthos said under his breath, and d’Artagnan nodded tightly in agreement, his blood pounding and singing in anticipation of the coming clash.

  The man with the heavy length of chain wrapped around his fist was perhaps half a head taller than d’Artagnan, and a bit broader through the shoulders. He charged forward with a yell, swinging the chain at d’Artagnan’s head. D’Artagnan ducked and feinted right, slashing up and in toward the man’s torso. The blade sliced through leather, but did not bite into flesh. At the same instant a bare-knuckled fist caught d’Artagnan’s temple, making his ears ring. He danced back out of range, shaking his head and risking a quick glance toward Porthos, who was locked in a tight clinch with his own opponent.

  The man standing across from d’Artagnan swung the chain in a slow circle, readying himself for another attack. Before he could think twice, d’Artagnan lunged in close and stabbed low, feeling the blade penetrate the man’s stomach even as the chain whipped around him, biting into his back and side with bruising force. His opponent’s cry of pain matched his own as the breath was forced from his lungs, but when they separated, d’Artagnan still stood tall while the would-be thief staggered back and fell to his knees, the chain slipping from his grasp as he clutched at his bleeding stomach.

  There was a grunt and a yell from behind him, and he quickly backed around until he could see both the injured man and Porthos, whose blade flashed down in the uncertain light, hamstringing his opponent and sending him tumbling to the ground. Porthos staggered back, quickly looking around to assess the situation before meeting d’Artagnan’s eyes with an acknowledging nod.

  With their opponents effectively neutralized, they moved farther into the alley, where the old man had regained his feet to lean against the filthy wall, wheezing and coughing.

  “You hurt bad, mate?” Porthos asked, stopping a step away and ducking his head to meet the man’s eyes.

  The man shook his head. “Just bruised, I think, young man,” he said, still breathless.

  “Still got your winnings?” Porthos asked, as d’Artagnan stepped up to join them.

  The old man nodded, pushing away from the wall and fumbling for the heavy purse at his belt. “Yes. Yes, thank you. Both of you.” he pulled out several coins and held his hand out toward them. “Here... take this. You deserve it, for helping an old man you don’t even know.”

  D’Artagnan closed his own hand around their would-be benefactor’s and pressed it back down by his side. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “but that’s not necessary.”

  The man nodded his thanks, peering at d’Artagnan and Porthos with rheumy eyes. “Very well. I am in your debt. What about... those two?”

  Porthos glanced at the groaning men near the mouth of the alley and shrugged. “They’re not going anywhere. If you can find a guard patrolling—and good luck to you on that—tell ‘em what happened and where to find the thieves. Otherwise, forget about ‘em. They won’t be preying on anyone else for quite some time.”

  “Well,” said the old man, “thank you again. You’re welcome at my table any time.”

  Porthos chuckled. “Not sure I can afford to sit at your table too often, you old cheat.”

  The man clapped Porthos on the shoulder with a wink and a shaky smile, before shaking d’Artagnan’s hand and limping off, giving the injured men on the ground a wide berth and disappearing into the Paris streets.

  Porthos sighed and winced. “You all right, whelp?” he asked.

  “I’ll have a lump on my temple and a chain-shaped bruise on my ribs for a few days, that’s all,” d’Artagnan said. Even now, the rush of battle was receding, leaving dull throbbing in its wake. “You?”

  “I’ll live. Though I sure could’ve used that reward that you just turned down,” he said, nudging d’Artagnan with his shoulder. “C’mon. If the guards do show up, I don’t particularly want to be here. Besides, we’ve got other business to attend to.”

  D’Artagnan suddenly remembered the mysterious piece of paper with a jolt, and his hand flew to his jerkin to ensure that it still rested inside, next to his chest.

  “Right,” he said, and the two continued their interrupted journey toward Porthos’ lodgings.

  When they reached the next corner, though, d’Artagnan frowned up at his companion and grabbed his arm, steering him back toward Rue Férou.

  “What’re you doing?” Porthos asked.

  “I’m taking you to my rooms, where Constance and I can take a look at you. You’re hurt worse than you’re saying. That other one cut you, didn’t he?”

  “S’nothing,” Porthos muttered, but didn’t protest d’Artagnan’s manhandling.

  By the time they reached the apartments on Rue Férou, Porthos was visibly flagging.

  “Constance!” d’Artagnan called as he opened the door.

  “What is it?” she replied as she bustled into the room, only to gasp as she took in Porthos’ appearance.

  He helped the big man into the kitchen and onto a chair, only then taking in the wet bloodstain forming beneath a gash in Porthos’ leather jerkin, over his ribs.

  “You should have said something, Porthos,” d’Artagnan said tightly. He tweaked the edge of the jerkin. “Get this off. How bad is it?”

  “I don’t know yet, do I?” Porthos groused, making no move to unlace his clothing. “I haven’t seen it.”

  D’Artagnan huffed in irritation and reached for the laces himself, only to have Porthos close a large hand around his wrist.

  “I can take care of it,” Porthos said.

  “I’m sure
you could,” replied d’Artagnan, “but luckily you don’t have to, because Constance and I are here to help you.”

  “I’ll get some water and clean rags,” Constance said, and bustled off.

  Porthos frowned up at d’Artagnan for a moment before his eyes slid down and away. “Fine.”

  It seemed an odd reaction for the man, and d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed. Still—at least Porthos let him go and started undoing the ruined jerkin, even if he was still avoiding eye contact. When it was unlaced and hanging, Porthos stood stiffly and let d’Artagnan help him get it off, exposing an ugly gash—still seeping blood—on his left side.

  He was just angling Porthos into the light of the lamp on the table and leaning down to get a better look when he heard a sharp intake of breath from the doorway. He straightened in surprise, throwing Constance a questioning look when she paused in the doorway, towels and water in hand. D’Artagnan would not have expected her to be horrified by the relatively clean cut, and besides, Porthos’ back was to her.

  “Porthos, are you hurt someplace else?” he asked, craning around to see his friend’s back.

  He was confronted with a twisted mess of scar tissue, as Porthos huffed out a noise that in no way resembled his usual rich laughter. “Not exactly,” Porthos said. “Sorry, Constance—I didn’t mean to give you a shock.”

  Whip marks. They were whip marks. Only... stretched. Distorted, as if the back they adorned had grown and filled out around them, over the years.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Constance said. “I’m sorry to be so rude. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

  D’Artagnan was slower to find his voice, and Porthos turned to him. “Now you know why I’m a bit sensitive about whipping,” he said.

  “What happened?” d’Artagnan asked quietly.

  “I wasn’t born a gentleman. You probably knew that already,” Porthos said. “I was born poor. ’Course, we might’ve been less poor if my father hadn’t been a slave to the bottle, but that’s neither here nor there. There was never enough money, so when I was six, my mother gave me over as an apprentice to a baker down the street. He was a kind enough master, but any coins I brought home went to buy wine or spirits for my father.