by R A Dodson
Two of d’Aumont’s soldiers took custody of Isabella under their commander’s watchful eye and removed her from the throne room. Queen Anne, resplendent in her armor and crown, ascended the steps and turned, looking over all of the soldiers, palace guards, and the small knot of courtiers huddling in the corner like mice. With immense dignity, she sat down upon the throne, back straight and eyes clear.
D’Artagnan released a breath that he felt he’d been holding for weeks, a faint wave of dizziness washing over him as he did so. Immediately, Aramis and Porthos were at his side.
“I like the outfit, whelp,” Porthos said. “It’s cute.”
“Personally, I think it would benefit from a little less blood around the collar,” Aramis added cheerfully, taking his arm and turning d’Artagnan’s cheek so he could check the wound.
“Ouch,” d’Artagnan said weakly, in response to the prodding.
“That needs stitches,” Porthos said.
“Later,” d’Artagnan replied. “Where’s Constance?”
“She’s safe,” Porthos reassured him. “And angry as a hornet about it, too. I don’t really envy you when you see her next.”
Aramis cleared his throat. “Athos and I intend to have words with you about getting married when we weren’t there to witness it, by the way. And, speaking of wives—where exactly is Milady?”
D’Artagnan blinked. “Right. Yes. Milady. I almost forgot,” he said, his whirling mind suddenly remembering the previous day. “Athos?”
Athos, who had been speaking with de Tréville, turned at his name and approached.
“D’Artagnan,” he said, resting a hand briefly on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. A hint of warmth suffused his normally cool voice. “I am relieved to see you mostly in one piece after your adventures. But... my wife?”
“In the Bastille, along with Constance’s godfather. They were arrested yesterday,” d’Artagnan said. “I’m sorry—I promised you I would try to keep her safe...”
“We will go now, and retrieve her,” Athos said, and d’Artagnan would not have wanted to be someone trying to stand in his way.
Chapter 66
After a brief discussion, Athos and d’Artagnan took the place of Isabella’s guards to deliver her to the Bastille with M. d’Aumont’s assistance. A detachment of the Queen’s soldiers accompanied the carriage to protect it from the crowd still on the streets as they drove southeast along the river with the distraught woman, before turning left onto the Boulevard Henri IV. Eventually, they clattered through the great gates and into the grim courtyard of the former fortress, where they were met by the governor of the prison.
D’Aumont explained that Francis was dead and Isabella under arrest, displaying Queen Anne’s seal on the orders. After an extended discussion that had Athos as near to fidgeting as d’Artagnan had ever seen the normally unflappable man, the governor accepted the validity of the change of regime, agreeing to imprison Isabella and free the prisoners she had sent the day before. The sun was sinking low in the sky beyond the thick walls when two prison guards led Isabella away. She stumbled forward between her captors as if in a daze, disappearing inside the gray stone walls.
The governor himself led the way to M. de La Porte’s cell. The old man was freed—a tumble of grateful words escaping his lips upon learning that the Mage Queen had personally ordered his release and reinstatement in the palace.
From there, the little procession proceeded to Milady’s cell. The heavy door creaked open on its hinges, and Athos’ wife glanced up sharply from her seat on a bare bench along the opposite wall. Upon seeing them, she let out a small breath, barely audible, and d’Artagnan heard a matching exhalation of relief from the man standing next to him. Milady rose to her feet, meeting Athos halfway as he strode into the cell and crushed her to him, kissing her until they were both breathless. When they finally parted, foreheads pressed together and breathing each other’s air, Milady smiled.
“I came as soon as I could,” Athos said, barely more than a whisper.
“I know,” she said, pulling away far enough that she could look up at him. “I had complete faith that you would come for us, Olivier. We both did.”
For a moment, d’Artagnan thought she was referring to herself and M. de La Porte, but she slid a hand down the front of her body, caressing her stomach, and he caught his breath in sudden understanding. Athos’ mouth fell open, and his hand covered hers.
“Both?” he echoed faintly, looking at her with wonder.
“Both,” she confirmed.
Athos fell to his knees before her, his arms circling her waist and his eyes tightly closed. His cheek pressed against the tiny swell of his unborn child.
WHEN CONSTANCE ARRIVED at the Louvre the following morning, she was flanked by guards and carrying the King of France in her arms. With a small cry, she hurried to d’Artagnan’s side as soon as she entered the room where he and the others had been conferring. Her cheeks were flushed with anger, and she glared up at him when he rose to meet her.
“You tricked me!” she said, eyes flashing. “I was going to slap you for that as soon as I saw you, but...”
She cradled Henry in one arm, lifting trembling fingers to the stitches holding the wound on d’Artagnan’s cheek closed, and tracing them with a butterfly touch. He caught her hand in his own and directed it to his lips instead.
“I wish I could say I’m sorry,” he told her, “but I’d do it all over again. I had to keep you safe, Constance. I had to.”
“It wasn’t your decision to make,” she said, but the next moment she was reaching up on tiptoes to kiss him. Henry gave a little squall between them. D’Artagnan broke the kiss a bit sheepishly, looking down at the infant monarch. The baby made a gurgling noise and patted at the injured side of his face. He covered a flinch at the clumsy contact, but an instant later, tingling warmth bloomed where the pudgy fingers had touched him, followed closely by itching.
Constance gasped. “Your face! The cut, it’s—”
A discreet cough emanated from across the large table that dominated the room, and they turned. De Tréville was staring at d’Artagnan with an air of weary patience.
“If we could perhaps continue?” the Captain asked, with mock courtesy. But then, his single eye widened. “Extraordinary,” he murmured.
D’Artagnan lifted a hand to his cheek, his touch encountering only raised line of scar tissue rather than the painful scabs of a day-old wound.
The Queen held out her arms for her son, and Constance hurried to deliver him to his mother. Her lips were still parted in awe, her eyes darting between the baby, Queen Anne, and d’Artagnan’s miraculously healed cheek.
Anne settled Henry against her bosom, giving the others a look both kind and faintly amused. “My son is a prodigy, it seems. I suppose that bodes well for France’s future.”
D’Artagnan ushered Constance into his seat, standing behind her shoulder. “Indeed, Your Majesty. I am in my king’s debt.”
The Queen’s met his gaze. “Nonsense—I will hear no talk of debts within this room, unless it is the debt my son and I owe all of you. Now, Henry’s unexpected intercession aside, I believe congratulations are in order?”
D’Artagnan could not have kept the smile from his face if he’d tried. “Yes. It appears Your Majesty’s choice of subterfuge proved prophetic,” he said, looking down to meet Constance’s eyes as she turned to him with her own smile. “Constance and I were married five days ago.”
“I will admit I’d secretly hoped for such an outcome,” said the Queen. “I am truly happy for both of you. It appears there is much to celebrate today.” Her eyes flicked to Milady, who dipped her head in acknowledgement.
“Oh, yes?” Constance asked, confused.
“I am to be a father, it seems,” Athos replied from his seat next to Milady, still sounding ever so slightly dazed by the prospect.
D’Artagnan was reminded yet again of the many reasons why he loved Constance when she immediately said, “Oh,
Athos. Milady. That’s wonderful,” without a trace of the melancholy she must be feeling after her own recent loss of a child. He placed a hand on her shoulder, tracing his thumb back and forth over her skin, and she smiled up at him with liquid eyes.
“Indeed it is,” Queen Anne agreed, letting her gaze flit around the table. “And I don’t doubt that the child will be spoiled for choice when it comes to doting aunts and uncles.”
Porthos’ deep laugh and the others’ more restrained chuckles echoed around the room for a long moment.
“Now, though, I can see that Captain de Tréville is about to remind us once again of our true purpose here,” she continued mildly. “What is the latest news from the city?”
De Tréville cleared his throat. “An announcement was made that the price controls have been eliminated and the tax rates lowered on Your Majesty’s orders. Porthos?”
Porthos looked up. “There are still a few people camped around the palace hoping to get a look at you or little Henry, Your Majesty, but for the most part they’ve gone back to their homes. There’s been quite a bit of property damage and a sad loss of life during the rioting, as you might expect. That said, things are mostly quiet now.”
“The violence and resulting losses are deeply regrettable,” said the Queen. “M. d’Aumont, we are eager to meet with representatives from Chartres about ways in which the strategies employed in your fair city might be applied to the rebuilding and revitalization of Paris.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty,” d’Aumont said. “I will pen a letter to the mayor of Chartres this very day.”
“Before that, however,” the Queen continued, “I will be visiting an asylum in the outskirts of the city, overseen by the Daughters of Charity. The Curse still stalks Paris in the shadows, and I must show the citizens that their Mage Queen’s power against it is sound and true.”
“I can confirm that it is, Your Majesty,” Aramis said. “For which you have my sincerest thanks.”
“Mine, too,” Porthos agreed.
Milady lifted her chin, meeting the Queen’s gaze. “You wish to test your abilities with the help of a true magnus, using a larger group of the Cursed?”
“Just so,” the Queen agreed. “This will be the first step toward freeing France. Once my abilities are confirmed, I will begin traveling the land with as many magni as can be found, clearing the Curse wherever it can still be found.”
“I will ensure it’s arranged,” de Tréville said. “And as a final order of business, Aramis has requested an assignment liaising with the Church in Paris, to see what can be done about the shortage of clergy in the area.”
D’Artagnan glanced at Aramis, who sat quietly in his chair, watching the Queen with a serene expression.
“That’s a splendid idea,” she said. “I can think of no one better for the job. And that brings me to another point. I have decided, upon extended reflection, to retain Cardinal Richelieu as one of my advisors.” She paused to let the expressions of shock and dismay quiet. “I am aware of your thoughts on the matter, but he nonetheless remains the most powerful magnus in France. I also feel it is important to have someone at my side with a view to the nation, rather than to its ruler. All of you are loyal to me, personally, and to my son. Cardinal Richelieu is loyal to France, first and foremost. Captain, I trust your ability to balance the Cardinal’s more cold-blooded tactics...”
“If I don’t kill him first,” de Tréville muttered.
The Queen raised an eyebrow. “That would indeed be unfortunate, given that France still has need of him. As I was saying, I trust you to balance his more cold-blooded tactics, but I trust him to point out times when the government’s decisions are short-sighted or self-serving.”
D’Artagnan thought of the Cardinal’s cold eyes as he’d informed Isabella of the assassination of her son, and shivered slightly. Queen Anne let the mutterings of displeasure run their course.
“Your opinions are noted, my dearest friends,” she said, “but my mind is made up. Now, let us talk of other matters. I have written to Emmanuel de Crussol, Duc d’Uzès. I hope to hear back soon, so that the details of my husband’s interment and my son's coronation may be planned. I will expect all of you to attend as guests of honor, of course.”
Constance covered d’Artagnan’s hand with her own, squeezing tightly, and d’Artagnan could not help but feel her excitement at the upcoming culmination of all that they had worked so hard to achieve transmitting itself to him as well.
Chapter 67
A mere two days later, d’Artagnan rode out with Athos as part of the contingent of guards escorting Her Majesty to a converted estate that had been given over to the so-called Grey Sisters, an order of nuns commissioned during the height of the Curse to care for the sick and dying.
Despite everything d’Artagnan had seen and done in the past few months, he could not deny his sense of foreboding as the large, well armed group approached the gloomy property housing Parisian Curse victims who had no one else willing or able to care for them. Though he had been a witness—nay, a participant—in the Mage Queen’s miraculous healing of Aramis as the chevalier lay at death’s door, it was still hard for d’Artagnan to place his faith in her mysterious abilities as a panacea for the country at large.
Having such hope felt too much like an invitation for fate to swoop in and rip it away.
To his credit, upon hearing of the Queen’s intention, Richelieu had immediately volunteered to act as her magnus. That had surprised d’Artagnan—the Cardinal struck him as the type to slink in the background rather than leading from the front. Privately, he’d said as much to Athos, who merely raised an eyebrow at him in response.
“Then you would be mistaken,” said the older man. “The Cardinal personally commanded loyalist troops during the siege of La Rochelle. He trained in the military as a young man, before being appointed to the bishopric of Luçon by Henry IV.”
Though he would never forgive Richelieu for what had happened to Athos at Illiers-Combray, d’Artagnan looked at the Cardinal with new eyes, after that.
The Queen raised a hand, and they halted outside the heavy gates leading into the asylum. Within moments, the gates creaked open, pushed by four women in drab nun’s habits. Her Majesty turned to the guards.
“There is no reason for you to accompany us inside,” she said. “You may all wait here for our return.”
D’Artagnan exchanged a brief glance with Athos, who spoke immediately.
“D’Artagnan and I will accompany you nonetheless, Your Majesty,” he said. “As I’m certain you’re aware, the Curse holds no fear for us now.”
That was perhaps a slight exaggeration in d’Artagnan’s case, but he lifted his chin and nodded in agreement anyway.
“Such loyalty,” Richelieu murmured, and d’Artagnan honestly couldn’t tell if his tone held mockery or genuine surprise.
“As you wish, my faithful musketeers,” said the Mage Queen. “Come, then. Let us do what needs to be done.”
The nuns ushered them inside the gates and took their horses away to be cared for. They entered the converted building, and d’Artagnan couldn’t suppress a shiver as the woman who appeared to be in charge led them through a maze of wards filled with the dying. A number of those on the cots wore the same gray habits as the nuns caring for them, proving that many of the Daughters of Charity had themselves succumbed to the very Curse they were pledged to treat.
Clammy sweat broke out on d’Artagnan’s brow as they trudged past men, women, and children groaning in agony. Beside him, Athos was silent, his face set in stony lines. The Queen did not flinch from the suffering around them. Meanwhile, Richelieu seemed as unaffected as though they were strolling through his offices in the Palais-Cardinal, rather than a plague-house.
“This entire structure is thick with the miasma of my brother’s Curse,” Queen Anne observed. “The whole place will have to be cleared out if it is not to return the moment we leave.”
“Indeed,” the Cardinal r
eplied noncommittally.
D’Artagnan wondered what it must be like to see magic as an aura floating in the air. His own modest gifts were on a scale completely separate from the sort of power that could ruin a nation—or save it. Unconsciously, his knuckles lifted to brush against the fading scar left where the infant King had healed his wound.
“This ward contains those not expected to survive the night, Your Grace,” said the nun who’d been guiding them, as she gestured into the room in front of them.
The putrid smell of decay drifted to them from inside, and d’Artagnan nearly choked as memories of the past rose unbidden in his mind. It was all he could do to follow the Queen and the Cardinal inside as they swept in, Athos right behind them.
Queen Anne turned to Richelieu, tilting her head back to meet his eyes. “You must tell me if you begin to weaken.”
The Cardinal’s eyebrow quirked upward, as though she’d surprised him. “This is but one building, Your Majesty—and we have an entire nation to free. Come, if you are ready... let us begin.”
The Queen nodded gravely, and Richelieu placed his hands flat on a small table near one of the beds in the center of the room. His eyes closed, and he began to pray aloud in Latin. After a few moments, Queen Anne caught her breath sharply, looking around at something d’Artagnan could not see.
Without a word, she covered Richelieu’s hands with her delicate ones, closing her eyes as well. D’Artagnan held his breath, watching intently as her brow furrowed in concentration. Minutes passed, and even his meager talents were enough to allow him to sense a lightening of the atmosphere in the room.
The feeling rolled outward, overspilling the ward, like the feeling of airing out rooms that had long been closed up and abandoned. The sounds of agony echoing through the warren of galleries and corridors quieted, replaced by the soft breathing of sleep. Movement caught the corner of d’Artagnan’s eye, and he turned to see the head nun with her hands clasped to her lips in prayer, tears running freely down her cheeks.