by R A Dodson
A low sigh escaped the Queen’s lips, and her eyes opened. Her fingers slid away from Richelieu’s, and she straightened. A moment later, the Cardinal did the same. When he looked up, it was with the first genuine expression d’Artagnan had ever seen from the man—relief.
“It’s true, then,” Richelieu murmured. “You are the Mage Queen France was promised.”
Queen Anne smiled, soft and tremulous. “Our people are suffering, Cardinal. But with the help of France’s magni and the gift God has given me, we will ensure that they suffer no more.”
DURING THE FORTY DAYS that followed, Queen Anne’s trusted guards and advisors found themselves embroiled in a flurry of planning. The people of France were desperate for stability, and, perhaps even more, the promise of hope for the future. The old King was dead. The young Pretender was dead. The throne sat in limbo, for all that France’s Parliament and influential elite agreed in principle to the accession of Louis’ son and the installation of Anne as Queen Regent until the infant came of age.
The people, though, needed more than that. Even with Anne traveling throughout Paris and the surrounding towns to heal the sick and banish the miasma of the Curse’s dark magic, they craved reassurance that the institution of the monarchy itself still stood strong after being so sorely tested.
To that end, plans for the royal funeral of King Louis XIII were quickly assembled. In the meantime, a public christening was held, where the baby was officially titled Henry V and—at the Queen’s insistence—gained the sponsorship of both Captain de Tréville and Cardinal Richelieu.
The sad mortal remains of the former king lay in a vault at l’Église Saint-Nicolas in Blois, where he had died the previous April. A French king would once have been embalmed with bitter herbs and sealed in a lead shroud within his coffin to preserve his corpse for transportation and lying in state. As they lay in hiding with Louis’ Curse-ravaged body, though, the best his allies could manage was to boil the cadaver until the bones separated from the flesh, making the skeletal remains safe to store in a plain wooden chest. There they remained, waiting to be returned to the Basilica of Saint-Denis and placed in the royal crypt.
The time for that weighty event was fast approaching, and d’Artagnan found himself part of the honor guard sent to escort the coffin back to Paris where it would join the elaborate funeral procession befitting a monarch. The trip was expected to take some nineteen days, thanks to the ponderous, four-wheeled chariot branlant that accompanied them, pulled by a team of five black horses. D’Artagnan personally couldn’t see the point of sending such an immense and vaguely ridiculous conveyance over sixty leagues of bad roads to carry back a simple wooden box full of bones, but Aramis—who also formed part of the honor guard—assured him it was a long-standing tradition and as such, very important.
Fortunately, their somber errand went as smoothly as such a trip ever did, and they returned with the royal coffin in tow. D’Artagnan found the expedition vaguely surreal, as they revisited places that had previously played host to danger and intrigue, not such a very long time ago. Aramis was a stalwart presence beside him, practically radiating tranquility now that his self-appointed goal to see the new King on the throne before leaving to join the clergy was nearly a reality.
The solemn company arrived back at Notre-Dame-des-Champs on the chilly evening of November twenty-first, where the coffin would be kept until the procession into Paris three days hence. At that point, a vast cortège of religious and political figures of note would march to Notre Dame de Paris on the Île de la Cité in the Seine with the coffin, along with a wax effigy of the King suitable for viewing. A public service would be held there, and the effigy would lie in state for a day before it, and the remains, continued on to the Basilica of Saint-Denis for a second service, and the interment.
The Queen had requested the close presence of her loyal guards and advisors for this final ceremony, which would see her son officially ascend to the throne. Once again, d’Artagnan was hit with a sense of unreality at the prospect of a gentleman farmer’s son from Gascony finding himself in such circumstances—a sense that was only reinforced by the dazed looks Constance kept giving him as they discussed it in hushed tones the night before.
The morning of the final procession to Saint-Denis dawned clear and cold. Constance donned the somber black dress that she had sewn for the occasion, and d’Artagnan put on the full uniform of the Musketeers of the Guard for the first time, along with the black sash signifying mourning.
“Very handsome,” Constance approved, adjusting the cape and fleur-de-lys tabard with nervous fingers. Her eyes sought his, suddenly unsure. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”
He caught her hand in his own, and kissed it. “If it’s a dream, it’s one we’re both dreaming.”
Constance’s eyes crinkled slightly with an impish smile. “I suppose I can live with that.”
Epilogue
The streets were already filling with eager onlookers as they joined the others and began the journey to Île de la Cité, and Notre Dame. D’Artagnan was hard-pressed not to react to the grandeur of the old cathedral. Every time he thought he’d seen the most amazing building that France had to offer, he found himself stunned anew by the heights to which architecture could rise.
Notre Dame might as well have been made from spun sugar for all its apparent solidity—he simply could not accept the idea that the delicate columns and spires were formed from anything as heavy and earthly as stone. Even upon entering, the overwhelming sensation was that of light, air, and color. It was by far the largest interior space d’Artagnan had ever seen, and his eyes could scarcely take in one statue or window or altar before another drew his attention away.
Constance’s hand clasped his tightly, her own eyes very nearly as wide as his, even though she had far more experience of Paris’ great churches. The pair of them followed the others toward the familiar figure of de Tréville, standing uneasily next to the scarlet-robed form of Cardinal Richelieu. Behind them stood the simple wooden coffin containing the earthly remains of Louis XIII, resting on a catafalque. On the lid of the coffin lay the wax effigy of the deceased monarch, dressed in royal finery. Despite the warmth of the rich ermine and velvet clothing the figure, d’Artagnan felt himself shiver slightly at the sight of the painted, wide-open eyes.
“Good, you’re all here,” de Tréville said. “The procession is forming outside; it’s time we joined them.”
Richelieu was eyeing Constance and Milady with a slightly peevish expression. “May I just say,” he said in a voice that sounded like he was swallowing something sour, “that Her Majesty’s insistence on including women among the coffin-bearers is extremely unorthodox.”
“And yet, it is the Queen’s express desire that it be so,” de Tréville replied waspishly. The old captain reached behind the coffin for a large, folded length of embroidered cloth in royal purple shot through with threads of gold—the pall, as it had been explained to d’Artagnan, which would drape the coffin as they carried it through the streets.
With a slight huff of disapproval, the Cardinal directed Porthos, Athos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan to lift the coffin carefully by its carrying poles until they could settle it on their shoulders with Porthos and d’Artagnan supporting the front corners, and Athos and Aramis, the back. De Tréville and the Cardinal draped the sweeping pall over the effigy and the coffin of bones beneath it. After a brief bit of fumbling to put the Captain on the left side in order to accommodate his missing arm, he and Richelieu held the front corners of the pall, while Milady and Constance took the back corners.
In this way, the eight of them with their precious royal cargo exited the church with measured steps, joining the astonishing procession of horses, wagons, carriages, and people on foot waiting outside. With a shout from the front and a sounding of horns, the cavalcade began its slow, winding progress out from the center of the city.
Crowds lined the streets, hooting and cheering as if the parade signifi
ed a festival rather than a funeral. The wall of people made the back of d’Artagnan’s neck prickle, thinking of the mobs and the rioting he had encountered in the lead-up to Isabella’s downfall. He wanted to check on Constance, but there was no way to do so without stumbling over his own feet under the weight of the carrying pole braced on his shoulder. He contented himself with the continued gentle rippling of the pall in the breeze, held steady by its four bearers as they kept pace with the coffin.
D’Artagnan hardly knew Paris at all, beyond the tiny little slice of it around Rue Férou and the Louvre. While he understood in theory that it was a large city—far larger than Chartres—he was nonetheless taken aback by the way it seemed to go on and on as the road slowly disappeared beneath their measured footsteps.
While the coffin of bones was not a particularly heavy load for four strong men, it was still a significant burden over such a considerable distance. D’Artagnan’s shoulder began to ache under the pole as the sun was still climbing toward its zenith in the crisp, cloudless sky above, and by the time it was starting its slow descent through afternoon, every step caused his neck and back muscles to throb with strain. It was only pride and personal dislike that caused him to shake his head brusquely in negation when the Cardinal asked if he would like to trade places for a while. And if he derived any secret satisfaction when similar offers made to the others were summarily rebuffed as well, he kept it firmly to himself.
Still, when the Basilica finally came into view through the gaps in between the buildings in front of them, he was deeply relieved. His feet were hot and blistered within his polished boots despite the cool autumn day, and his upper body felt as though it were developing a permanent, painful curve to the left under the weight of the royal burden resting on his shoulder.
The crowds, which had thinned out during the latter part of the journey as they traveled farther from the city center, were once again gathering shoulder to shoulder as people from Paris and the surrounding countryside came together near the end of the route in hopes of getting a glimpse inside the Basilica of Saint-Denis during the service.
The final approach was lined with dozens of the Cardinal's guards, their swords held high in salute. The doors to the church had been thrown wide open, and as the escort of men on horseback peeled away, it left the path clear for the weary musketeers and pallbearers to bear the coffin inside the narthex. The long nave beyond was packed with people dressed in their best finery. At the front and slightly off to one side stood Queen Anne, with Henry cradled in her arms. A beam of sunlight from one of the western windows haloed the pair in gold.
D’Artagnan and the others carried the coffin to the catafalque in front of the high altar and carefully placed it onto the wooden supports, while the pallbearers removed the rich cloth covering and folded it into a manageable square without letting it brush the ground. Duties completed, all of them except Cardinal Richelieu walked slowly to the seats that had been reserved for them, in pride of place, at the front near the Queen and her son.
Richelieu, who was leading the service, stepped forward and raised his hands for silence. The echoing space fell instantly quiet. Several altar boys appeared and lit candles all around the coffin, which cast a flickering, yellow glow over the wax effigy resting on top. When they had retreated, the Cardinal raised his mellifluous voice in prayer. Though his Latin barely extended beyond unus pro omnibus, d’Artagnan thought he recognized the form of the Office of the Dead as Aramis quietly echoed the words beside him, his crucifix held to his lips.
After the final Requiem aeternam, Richelieu moved to the foot of the coffin. Two acolytes stepped forward to remove the scarlet chasuble from his shoulders and replace it with a black cope for the prayers of Absolution of the dead. The Cardinal was joined by a sub-deacon carrying the processional cross and two more acolytes standing at the head of the coffin. Richelieu continued the litany of Latin prayer as he slowly circled the catafalque, blessing it with holy water from a vial.
The Absolution completed, Richelieu addressed the congregation in French, causing a murmur to ripple through those gathered.
“The just perish,
and no one takes it to heart;
men of good faith are swept away, but no one cares,
the righteous are carried away before the onset of evil,
but they enter into peace;
they have run a straight course
and rest in their last beds.”
“Isaiah fifty-seven, verses one and two,” Aramis murmured next to him. “A surprising choice of passage from one such as His Eminence, but a good one nonetheless.”
The ceremony continued, using prayers and forms with which d’Artagnan was unfamiliar. Aramis tried to keep up a whispered running commentary, but d’Artagnan was ashamed to find that he was becoming bored, even though the others around him appeared engaged and attentive. Finally, the acolytes moved forward to lift the coffin onto their shoulders, and a richly dressed man d’Artagnan did not recognize rose from a seat near them and strode forward, holding a staff topped with gold.
“The Duc d’Uzès,” Aramis murmured. “He’s barely one step removed from being a prince of the royal blood.”
D’Artagnan remembered that Queen Anne had mentioned writing to the Duc. He took this to mean that the religious part of the ceremony was concluded, and they would now be moving to secular matters. Interest rekindled, he straightened in his seat.
“The throne of France is never empty,” said the Duc in a deep, booming voice. “A king is both a man and a monarch. Upon his death, the life of the man is ended. The monarchy, however, is never-ending and eternal, passing instantaneously to his heir.”
The acolytes bore the coffin solemnly toward the north transept, where a stone staircase descended to the crypt of kings, flanked by a dozen men dressed in purple, each holding a staff identical to the Duc’s.
“Upon the descent of the coffin into the vault of Saint-Denis,” the Duc d’Uzès continued, “we mourn the death of a man, but celebrate the birth of a new king.”
The coffin descended the staircase, borne by the acolytes. At the very moment it disappeared from sight, the wailing cry of a baby echoed around the near-silent church. D’Artagnan tore his eyes away from the entrance to the crypt, looking instead at Henry in his mother’s arms. The baby's voice rose in another cry, as though in grief over his father’s passing, and d’Artagnan heard Constance sniffle softly beside him.
The sudden crack of thirteen staves hitting the stone floor in unison jerked his attention back to the Duc and his retinue.
“The king is dead!” he proclaimed, and the staves hit the floor again. He indicated the crying babe with the sweep of one long arm. “Long live the king!”
“Long live the king!” echoed the congregation, in time with the rhythmic crack of the staves. D’Artagnan grasped Constance’s hand tightly as they raised their voices to join with their friends’, even as the cry was taken up by the crowds outside the church, where it would eventually echo throughout all of Paris and across France itself.
“Long live the king! Long live the king!”
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