The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

  “That winter, there was no food for the table, so one day I stole some bread from the bakery and smuggled it home under my cloak. My mother was so relieved, she didn’t ask any questions. Two days later, I did the same thing again. Two days after that, the baker caught me and threw me out on my ear. When my father found out, he whipped me. I thought I’d die from it—I certainly wanted to die for awhile—but eventually, it healed.”

  Here, he shrugged.

  “Well, it sort of healed, anyway. The vicious old bastard died the next summer, and my mother supported us with mending and lace work for a few years. She died when I was thirteen. After that, I took jobs working as a dockhand, and eventually, a sailor. That’s where I got the tattoos.” He gestured at the symbols inked onto his chest and arms. “I joined the army when I was seventeen, and you more or less know the rest of it.”

  D’Artagnan sat down gracelessly on the nearest chair. “I’m surprised you didn’t punch me in the teeth the first time you caught me whipping myself,” he said mildly.

  A genuine smile slid over Porthos’ face, much to d’Artagnan’s surprise. “Nah,” he said. “I didn’t know you well enough, see. I did punch Aramis in the teeth when I caught him doing it, though.”

  That surprised a laugh out of d’Artagnan and a snort from Constance.

  “Did it help?” she asked.

  Porthos shrugged, and winced when it pulled on the knife wound. “Must’ve done. He never did it again, now did he?”

  “I’ll keep your methods in mind, should I ever need to convince him of anything,” d’Artagnan said. “For now, though, I feel compelled to point out that you’re still bleeding onto our floor. Sit down by the lamp and let us patch you up.”

  The slash was relatively shallow along most of its length, but they did end up putting two stitches in it, courtesy of Constance’s steady fingers. Once Porthos was sewn up and bandaged, d’Artagnan’s thoughts turned back to the original purpose of their meeting.

  “Do you feel well enough to look at this paper from Milady?” he asked.

  “Of course I do,” Porthos said. “Give it over, and let’s have a look.”

  “It’s blank,” Constance said as d’Artagnan removed the folded paper from his jerkin and handed it to Porthos.

  Porthos only chuckled. “I sincerely doubt that,” he said. “Light a candle and bring it here.”

  Constance gave him a confused look, but did as he asked. Porthos held the paper above the flame, adjusting it higher and lower for a moment until he was satisfied, and then slowly moving it back and forth as the paper began to scorch.

  “She’s writing with diluted wine, or maybe vinegar,” he explained, keeping a careful eye on the message, where d’Artagnan could now see brown curls of handwriting beginning to appear. “It dries invisible, but when you heat it up, the ink starts to burn before the rest of the paper does, so you can read it again.”

  “What does it say?” Constance asked eagerly.

  Porthos set the revealed letter down by the lamp, and they all crowded around to read it.

  Chapter 60

  It has taken several days to arrange everything, the letter read, but I am now installed as the Cardinal’s new mistress. His Eminence is a man of considerable intelligence and cunning; I believe the worst mistake we can make is to underestimate him. The mere fact that he has managed to ingratiate himself with Isabella after being so famously influential in Louis’ court serves only to highlight this fact.

  Before he will discuss current affairs with me in any detail, he requires of me a code word from your captain. Please acquire this code as quickly as possible, and send it to me through C. Do not write it down. In the meantime, continue your efforts to rally support for A among the people of Paris, and have D start to feel out the servants at the palace, though he must take care. My own position here is somewhat tenuous—I will be dealing by necessity only with the Cardinal, for now.

  M.

  “WHAT DOES SHE MEAN about rallying support?” d’Artagnan asked Porthos.

  Porthos snorted. “You think I’ve been spending all my time baking bread? A lot more goes on in the back room of the Leaping Bard than crooked dice games.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” Constance asked. “Isabella is incredibly paranoid about uprisings and unrest. If she hears anything...”

  “Of course it’s dangerous,” Porthos said. “All of this is dangerous, Constance—we’re staging a coup, after all. But Paris is at the breaking point. The whole of France is at the breaking point, really. Something’s got to be done, and no one else is stepping forward to do it... so it’s down to us.” He paused, and grinned his devil-may-care grin at them. “Besides, you have to admit, it does help keep the boredom at bay.”

  Constance huffed a breath of surprised laughter. “I suppose it does, at that.”

  “Easy for you two to say,” d’Artagnan grumbled. “You’re not the ones standing around by doorways for hours on end, wearing a ridiculous wig.”

  IF D’ARTAGNAN WAS HOPING for a quick resolution now that the lines of communication between Richelieu and de Tréville were open, he was sorely disappointed. It took four days for a courier riding fast to get from Paris to Chartres and back with Milady’s message and de Tréville’s response with the code word. After that, it was a slow game of back-and-forth between the Captain and the Cardinal.

  Porthos and Milady kept d’Artagnan and Constance apprised of the contents of the messages they were smuggling, and the third such missive—this one from de Tréville—contained a passage that made Porthos frown darkly.

  “The Captain finally revealed the details of his plan,” he told d’Artagnan. “He doesn’t think Isabella can raise a large enough force, at this point, to stop them getting into Paris. He wants to march on the Louvre, and in the confusion, you’re to snatch the boy Francis and get him behind our lines, before his own guards can spirit him into hiding. He’ll be sent out of the country anonymously—just another child orphaned by the Curse—leaving Isabella isolated and with no further claim to the throne.”

  D’Artagnan felt Constance tense beside him.

  “That’s a horrible plan,” she said. “The boy is guarded day and night. Isabella is convinced that plotters are hiding around every corner.”

  “In her defense,” d’Artagnan couldn’t help pointing out, “she is actually right about that.”

  “Well,” said Constance, “I don’t like it.”

  The Cardinal didn’t like it either. Richelieu made his feelings clear in a scathing message delivered through Milady, which included a particularly memorable passage about ‘blood-soaked old soldiers too lily-livered to effectively remove the only obstacle in their path that matters.’

  “Milady says he thinks we should kill Francis and be done with it,” Constance said. Her face was pale and troubled.

  “De Tréville would sooner lose his other eye than order the death of a two-year-old baby,” Porthos said with complete certainty.

  “Is anyone else thinking that by opposing the kidnapping plan and suggesting another plan which he knows de Tréville won’t support, Richelieu could simply be stalling for time and keeping his true allegiances hidden?” d’Artagnan asked.

  “Yes,” said Constance and Porthos in unison.

  “What does Milady think?” he asked Constance.

  “She thinks he’s a brilliant man who is more than capable of running rings around the rest of us,” said Constance.

  “Wonderful,” d’Artagnan sighed. “Well. That’s certainly helpful.”

  WHILE STRATEGY AND intrigue was being mapped out over their heads, Constance and d’Artagnan continued to navigate the complexities of a court teetering on the edge of chaos. D’Artagnan made every effort to learn about the routines and procedures involved in guarding the young Francis, without inviting any suspicion from the other servants. What he discovered was daunting. To have even the remotest chance of successfully carrying out de Tréville’s orders, he was going to need acc
ess to weapons within the palace, and quite possibly additional inside help.

  To that end, he broadened his observations to include his fellow servants, hoping to discover whether any of them besides M. de La Porte might be sympathetic to Queen Anne’s cause. His quiet discussions with Constance’s godfather were not encouraging.

  “Most of them hate Isabella, but they fear her more,” said the old man. “I have been alone here for a very long time.”

  The never-ending stress of attempting to plan a coup while remaining completely above suspicion was exhausting, and d’Artagnan increasingly found himself looking forward to his Sunday mornings off with Constance. D’Artagnan had not been a church-going man since before his family in Gascony fell ill, but to be seen attending Sunday Mass was a good way to stay in Isabella’s very Catholic graces. More importantly, though, it seemed to be a comfort for Constance... and he had to admit that the stately, predictable service did help him relax and clear his mind somewhat.

  Aramis would be so proud of me, he thought with a wry twist of his lips.

  This particular Sunday—their fourth since arriving—the mood in the streets was different. As they walked the short distance from their rooms to l’Église Saint-Sulpice, the people they passed looked away nervously, eyes darting. It was hot—unseasonably so for late September, but slate gray clouds on the horizon promised storms before long. The air crackled with brittle energy.

  D’Artagnan could not seem to settle as the service began. Something prickled at the back of his neck, and he had to fight the urge to keep looking back at the church’s entrance. When screams and shouting erupted beyond the stately doors some half hour later, it was nearly a relief. Without thought, he was up from the pew and pelting down the aisle, Constance only a step behind him. At the altar, the priest’s voice stuttered to a halt, and the rest of the small congregation seemed frozen in place like rabbits. The heavy door creaked open on its hinges under d’Artagnan’s hands, revealing a growing mass of people in the street beyond.

  “What’s going on?” Constance asked. “Are they after someone?”

  “I’m not sure,” d’Artagnan said, trying to get closer.

  There were more screams from the front of the crowd, and he climbed up on the steps of a stone monument in the churchyard to get a better perspective. Ahead, where the Rue Palatine met the Rue Garancière, a knot of the Cardinal's guards with their scarlet tabards were hacking away at the leading edge of the mob, trying to keep from being overrun.

  “A mob has cornered some guards,” he told Constance, and hopped down, grabbing a man on the edges of the ever-swelling crowd. “You! What happened? What’s going on?”

  The man cursed and spat, a deep frown drawing his bushy eyebrows together. “Bloody Cardinal's guards tried to raid the tavern, didn’t they? Something about breaking the price control laws, and serving food to paying customers on a Sunday. It’s likely to be the last warrant those lads ever serve, and good riddance to the lot of ’em.”

  D’Artagnan exchanged a worried look with Constance. The man pulled away and disappeared into the crowd, which was still growing around them, threatening to swallow them up.

  “You don’t think Porthos—” Constance began, only to break off with a small cry of surprise when someone shoved into her from behind.

  Without noticing exactly when it had happened, d’Artagnan found that they had been surrounded by a wall of people. As he steadied Constance and turned to glare at the offender, a roar rose from the front of the mob and the mass of humanity around them surged forward, dragging them along with it.

  “I don’t like this,” Constance said in a high, frightened voice, clinging to him as they stumbled along.

  “Hold onto me!” he said above the noise. “Try to make for the edge of the crowd!”

  At that instant, a thin, high-pitched scream of “Maman!” came from a few feet farther in. Constance gasped and pulled away from him, diving toward it through the tiny gaps between people.

  “Constance!” d’Artagnan called, and tried to follow her. The gaps closed around him, and they were separated for a terrifying moment before he caught a glimpse of her curly hair. “Constance!”

  Constance was picking up a young girl who had fallen among the press of bodies, wrapping herself around the child and shouting in the face of anyone who came too near. Through an opening between two women, d’Artagnan saw her brandish the little dagger she kept in her boot with her free hand, making a small bubble of space around them. He shoved at the bodies separating him from the pair, ignoring the resulting shouts of anger. Elbows and fists jabbed against his ribs for his troubles.

  Finally, after a horrific few seconds, he barged past the last bodies blocking his way. Gluing himself to the child’s back, he pressed her between himself and Constance, taking the brunt of the crowd’s rush. Constance might as well have been a boulder sitting in the middle of a river as she snarled and threatened and forced the tide of people to go around them or risk being stabbed in the face. He could feel the child between them shuddering and sobbing with fear, and spoke to her in a reassuring counterpoint to Constance’s protective viciousness.

  “Easy,” he murmured. “Easy, there. We’ve got you.”

  Gradually, the mob passed them by, and the press of bodies eased until they were surrounded only by the curious and the stragglers. The girl’s sobs quieted. She looked up from where her face had been buried against Constance’s shoulder, and d’Artagnan let her go. Constance herself was shaking like a leaf in the wind despite the muggy heat, the knife still raised even though the threat had passed. D’Artagnan couldn’t fault her—to be perfectly honest, he didn’t feel all that steady himself.

  “Élise! Élise!” came a near-hysterical cry from nearby.

  The girl peered around through tear-stained eyes, as a slender woman with lank brown hair and a streak of blood running down her temple hurried toward them, favoring her right leg.

  “Maman!” the girl shrieked, and launched herself from Constance’s arms into the newcomer’s.

  “Oh, my precious Élise,” the woman said, holding the girl close. She looked up at them over the top of the child’s head with wet, shining eyes. “Thank you. She’s all I have left. Thank you.”

  D’Artagnan managed a nod of acknowledgement, and the woman led the girl away. Beside him, Constance lowered the knife and collapsed into an awkward sitting position on the filthy ground, breathing hard. D’Artagnan slid down next to her a moment later, staring at her flushed, sweaty face.

  “Marry me,” he said, because it was suddenly the most important thing in the world.

  Constance looked back at him as if his eyes held the answers to all the questions in the world.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  Chapter 61

  They were married in secret at a church some distance from their apartments and the palace, by a priest Porthos suggested who did not ask too many questions. Porthos himself acted as witness, and when d’Artagnan glanced over at him during the short service, he was somewhat taken aback to see tears sliding down the big man’s cheeks as he sniffled quietly into a large white handkerchief.

  Afterward, he hugged d’Artagnan tight—still sniffling—and then hugged Constance for good measure. D’Artagnan watched as she returned the embrace, pressing her cheek into the wide chest and squeezing her arms around Porthos’ broad shoulders; so different from the frightened woman in La Croix-du-Perche, who flinched away from any man's touch.

  “It’s real now,” she said with wonder, after they returned to their rooms on the Rue Férou and locked the door. There was nothing to do but kiss her.

  When they parted for air, d’Artagnan went to his knees in front of her and took her hands in his, looking up at her.

  “Tonight I am your willing slave,” he said, gratified when her eyes darkened with lust. “Command me as you desire, and I will do whatever you ask.”

  Constance swallowed, throat bobbing. “Take your clothes off,” she said,
her voice husky.

  D’Artagnan grinned up at her, and rose to his feet. He removed his clothing piece by piece, taking his time about it; relishing the slow burn of arousal spreading through his belly as he gradually bared himself to her gaze.

  “Touch yourself,” she said, “but don’t come.”

  A surprised huff of excitement escaped his chest, but he clasped a hand around his rapidly filling prick without comment, leaning back against the wall behind him and milking his flesh with lazy strokes. It was tempting to close his eyes and lose himself to the sensations, but he did not want to look away from Constance in her pale cream dress, with her hair piled on top of her head in complicated ringlets.

  He was rewarded a moment later, when she teasingly began to unlace her corset, sliding the ribbons from one pair of eyelets at a time. When her bodice and underdress slipped down, baring her nipples, he sucked in a sharp breath and slowed his rhythm even further. She continued to unfasten her clothing, her skirts sliding down her legs to pool at her feet. The loosened corset slid over her head and fell on the growing pile of clothing on the floor next to the bed. The chemise followed, leaving them both naked in the candlelight. The points of her breasts lifted as if straining toward d’Artagnan when she reached up to remove the pins holding her hair in place. Once it finally fell free around her shoulders, she walked forward, closing the distance between them.

  “You told me once when we were kissing that you fantasized about putting your mouth on me,” she said. “I think you should do that now.”

  D’Artagnan gasped and released his prick abruptly, lest he embarrass himself on his wedding night by coming all over his own hand like a callow boy. Without a word, he dropped into a crouch and guided Constance around until she was the one leaning back against the wall, legs spread slightly.