Book 2: The Queen's Musketeers, #2

by R. A. Steffan

  Athos pushed on until they had almost lost the light completely before indicating that they should stop and make camp. They had only managed a couple of leagues by d’Artagnan’s estimate; perhaps three. He wondered if Athos intended to make it all the way to Blois the following day, privately thinking that such a plan seemed untenable given their injuries and how heavily laden the horses were.

  Camp was basic, although compared to their night spent after fleeing Illiers-Combray, it seemed positively luxurious. The weather was in their favor—pleasant and calm, requiring no fire. They shared wine from their slowly dwindling reserve, which they had transferred to the waterskins d’Artagnan had purchased in Châteaudun. D’Artagnan ate a good meal of dried rations, aware that Athos was only picking at his own food. The worry that had been gnawing at him since their ordeal two nights ago ratcheted up another notch.

  "I’ll take the first watch and wake you in a few hours," Athos told him.

  D’Artagnan indicated his agreement and wrapped himself in his newly purchased woolen blanket, resting his neck and shoulders against the seat of his saddle where it lay on the ground, on top of the saddle blankets. The position felt almost comfortable, and he was relieved that his shoulders seemed to be healing well... even the left one.

  His left hand and wrist still pulsed with heat in tandem with his heartbeat, but it was bearable as long as he didn’t move it around too much. Still, worry about Athos’ injuries, what they might find in Blois, and what was happening back in La Croix-du-Perche spun his mind in fruitless circles that gradually grew tighter and tighter. His thoughts turned to the last purchase he had made from the leather smith—one that he had not mentioned to Athos—a thonged lash lying coiled at the bottom of his saddlebag, waiting to be used.

  Soon, he told himself firmly. Not tonight, but soon.

  Eventually, his mind quieted enough for him to fall asleep. It seemed as though only moments had elapsed when Athos woke him with a hand on his arm.

  "It’s going to rain," the other man said. "Help me put up the tent."

  D’Artagnan could indeed smell incipient rain, and the breeze was picking up. He rose wordlessly and helped Athos set a pole under some sturdy branches so they could drape the canvas tarpaulin in an upside down V-shape, fumbling slightly in the dark. Fat drops were just beginning to fall when they finished dragging their supplies inside and hunkered down in the small space.

  "Get some sleep, Athos," d’Artagnan said. "I’ll keep watch."

  Athos grunted and stiffly eased himself down between d’Artagnan and the supplies, while d’Artagnan wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and crouched down by the tent’s entrance. It was unlikely that anyone would be out looking for mischief tonight and stumble across them, but after falling asleep while on watch during the night of their escape, he was determined to stay alert. His mind seemed only too ready to return to earlier worries, and though the time passed grudgingly with rain pattering against the oiled cloth above his head, he did not doze.

  Daylight came slowly, the unrelenting drizzle casting everything in muted grays. When it was finally light enough to see, d’Artagnan woke Athos. The older man seemed to take an extra few moments to get his bearings, and d’Artagnan wondered if it was lack of sleep or his injuries that left him slow to return to awareness. When he had finally roused himself sufficiently, he reached back into the saddlebags and searched until he found their rations.

  "Eat," he told d’Artagnan. "Given the conditions and how much ground we have to cover, the day promises to be an unpleasant one."

  D’Artagnan noticed that again, Athos himself ate very little, instead dedicating himself single-mindedly to the wine once more. He pressed his lips together, certain that bringing it up would be pointless. When they had each partaken of their preferred form of sustenance, Athos checked d’Artagnan’s wrist, covering it with more ointment and bandaging it carefully.

  Aware that Athos seemed unwilling to let d’Artagnan see his injuries for some reason, the young man quickly suggested that he saddle and pack the horses while Athos used the salve on himself. Athos hesitated, but agreed when d’Artagnan added, "Please, Athos. The ointment will only last for a couple of days before it starts to go bad. There’s no point in having it here and not using it."

  Awkwardly navigating around each other in the cramped space, d’Artagnan took out his new traveling cloak and secured it around himself. He was thrilled to find that his left shoulder was noticeably better, and his right was more stiff than actively painful at this point. Wrapped up against the rain and damp, he left the shelter of the tent and began to ready their mounts. The animals appeared unhappy but resigned to the dismal weather.

  Athos emerged after a few minutes, and together they packed the things that would least benefit from getting wet on Rosita before taking down the tent and covering her saddlebags with the canvas to protect everything as much as possible. D’Artagnan assisted Athos into the saddle and mounted himself, thrilled anew to feel the strength and flexibility in his arms starting to return. The pair headed south at a faster pace than d’Artagnan would have chosen under these conditions, and he wondered if Athos truly thought to cover the remaining fifteen leagues to Blois in a single day.

  It seemed both unrealistic and foolhardy—two things that he did not generally associate with Athos. Still, all he could do was to keep up and watch the other man as closely as he could for signs that his strength was failing. Perhaps d’Artagnan would be able to persuade him to stop for a rest in Oucques, and cover the final leg of the journey tomorrow.

  The air was still warm and humid, but the rain itself was chilly where it trickled down the back of his neck, under his cloak. D’Artagnan cursed himself for not having bought them both wide brimmed hats, but it was too late now. Sometimes there was merely a slow drizzle, but other times it became heavier, turning the road to muddy slop under their mounts’ hooves and forcing the animals to work twice as hard to make progress, blowing with exertion.

  They should have made Oucques by early afternoon, but it was nearing evening when the two waterlogged travelers finally rode into the town. D’Artagnan had been distracting himself with thoughts of a dry room and the steaming rabbit stew they had enjoyed in the town’s inn on their earlier trip north, but when he shared the sentiment with his companion, Athos replied, "There is daylight left to us. We will press on for Blois."

  D’Artagnan looked at him steadily. "Athos, we will not reach Blois today."

  "Nonetheless, I, at least, will continue," Athos said. "If you wish to stay here overnight, you may join me in Blois tomorrow."

  D’Artagnan sighed internally at the man’s cursed stubbornness.

  "We shouldn’t separate. We’re both injured and we need each other’s assistance. I’ll stay with you."

  Athos nodded once in acknowledgment, dipping his chin sharply.

  They rode on. Oucques disappeared into the gray mist of rain behind them. The times when they were forced to slow the horses to a walk and let them rest came more frequently. The quality of the light changed slowly as the evening progressed, until a sudden darkening heralded the first true downpour they had faced that day. The wind came up; the temperature went down. The rain felt as though some giant was dousing them with water thrown from a huge bucket.

  It was absolutely miserable. Cloak or no, d’Artagnan was soaked right down to his skin within minutes. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he peered into the deluge in vague hopes of finding shelter, but could make out nothing beyond the dark shape of Athos hunched stoically in his saddle. There was nothing for it but to keep going, and try to stem the shivering that was slowly overtaking his body.

  What seemed like a small eternity later—but was probably only a few minutes—d’Artagnan felt his mare perk up her head and tug against the reins, moving forward into a brisk jog despite the sucking mud under her feet. Having had several reasons of late to trust the animal’s instincts, he turned back and shouted, "Athos! We have to get out of this sto
rm! I think there’s shelter ahead!"

  Athos indicated with a wave of his arm that he should lead on. D’Artagnan twisted to face forward again, searching the murk ahead for whatever had caught the mare’s attention. Moments later, the skeleton of an old barn loomed out of the encroaching dark. The little horse put on a burst of speed, skirting neatly through a gap in the wall between two bare timbers and heading without fail for a dry corner under part of the roof that had not yet fallen in. Rosita was only seconds behind.

  The sudden lack of rain was almost a shock in itself. After a beat, unable to help himself, d’Artagnan turned to Athos and asked in his driest voice, "I assume you’re amenable to stopping here for a bit?"

  To his credit, Athos only raised a self-deprecating eyebrow and said mildly, "It would seem to be prudent at this point, yes."

  D’Artagnan huffed, caught between irritation and perverse amusement at the ridiculous nature of their situation. He dismounted, shaking the water out of his eyes and taking inventory of their surroundings as best he could in the little light that remained to them.

  "I think there are enough loose boards in this dry area to make a decent fire, assuming the flint and tinder didn’t get soaked," he said.

  Athos had slithered unsteadily to the ground, and was leaning against Rosita’s steaming flank as he carefully untied the tent material and removed the oilcloth from over his saddlebags.

  "Damp, but not soaked," he said. "The inside is dry."

  "Well, thank heaven for that," d’Artagnan said with heartfelt relief.

  The pair shed their outer cloaks and quickly set to gathering materials for a fire. Seeing how unsteady Athos appeared, d’Artagnan indicated he should light the fire, and set himself to caring for the sodden, exhausted horses. A few minutes later, the first flames were licking at the splintered, half rotten wood they had torn from the building’s bones. Athos built the fire up until it was roaring, and d’Artagnan arranged their belongings around it, hung and draped as best he could manage to facilitate drying.

  "Get some sleep, d’Artagnan," Athos said when they were down to their shirts and smallclothes, the fire slowly roasting the chill from their bones. "No one will be out tonight in this weather."

  "Except, apparently, us," d’Artagnan said pointedly, though there was no heat behind his words. Athos silently toasted him with the wineskin he was holding, acknowledging the gentle dig.

  "Except us," the older man agreed. "Fear not. Tomorrow will see our errand completed. I, for one, have no wish to drag things out any longer than absolutely necessary."

  "No, indeed not," d’Artagnan replied, understanding how deeply Grimaud’s betrayal had pierced the other man’s heart.

  The two of them settled down next to the fire, listening to the crack and snap of burning wood and the occasional soft snuffling of the horses. D’Artagnan’s exhaustion warred with his continued worry about his companion, their mission, and the future, keeping him from all but the lightest of dozing. He heard Athos moving around periodically, and worried that the older man wasn’t getting much rest either, though he needed it even more than d’Artagnan did.

  It was hours later, the fire burned down to embers and the rain slowing to a stop, when the two men finally dropped into troubled sleep. When Athos roused d’Artagnan to wakefulness the next morning, there was a feverish glint to his eyes and two spots of color high on his otherwise ashen cheeks.

  "Come," he said. "It is past time to finish this."

  Sunlight was streaming through the cracks and gaps on the eastern side of the dilapidated structure in which they had sheltered, making a mockery of the previous night’s storm. D’Artagnan rose and ate quickly, wanting nothing more at this point than to see an end to Athos’ self-imposed mission so that the man might finally be cared for properly. Athos did not even make a pretense of eating this morning, but still insisted on treating d’Artagnan’s wrist once it was determined that the milk and egg whites in the remaining salve had not yet gone off. In return, d’Artagnan insisted that Athos use the rest of the ointment on himself, again offering to see to the horses in order to give the other man the privacy he seemed to need.

  They left in good time, stopping to let the horses drink from one of the deep puddles by the side of the road. The going was still heavy, but something about the blue sky seemed to give both horses and men a burst of energy, and they steadily ate up the remaining distance to Blois, until the first of its buildings appeared on the horizon shortly after the sun passed its zenith.

  "He will be at the castle," Athos said with certainty. "We will go there first."

  The castle was slightly west of Blois. It seemed impossible that it had been a mere two weeks since d’Artagnan had last seen the place. So much had happened in the intervening days that it felt more like a different lifetime. As they rode up the rocky drive leading to the gates, a familiar face looked up from a garden plot set back in the grounds.

  "Madeleine!" d’Artagnan exclaimed, feeling a smile split his face despite the grim nature of their errand.

  "M. d’Artagnan! M. Athos!" Madeleine called back, her own face lighting up with happiness. "We did not expect you back!"

  "How is Christelle? And your grandmother?" d’Artagnan asked as they approached and halted their horses in front of the girl.

  "Mémé is faring well," Madeleine said with a smile, "and Christelle is to be engaged to a very nice boy from down the road. Truly, our fortunes have finally turned, and much of it is thanks to you and your friends."

  At the news of Christelle, d’Artagnan felt his own smile fade, but he quickly covered his reaction and said, "That’s good to hear, indeed."

  "Madeleine," Athos said, a slight note of impatience coloring his voice, "we are here seeking Grimaud. Has he returned?"

  Madeleine’s brows drew together. "Yes, M. Athos. He arrived at the end of June, and has been living in the castle since then. He... has not seemed himself, to be perfectly honest, and he would not speak to us of the rest of you. We were beginning to think something horrible had happened."

  "I suppose you could say it has," Athos said grimly.

  Madeleine looked from Athos to d’Artagnan with a questioning expression.

  "Grimaud betrayed us, Madeleine," d’Artagnan explained. "He sent word of our location to the Queen’s enemies and brought them down on her—both here, and at Thiron-Gardais. We are here for justice."

  Madeleine’s shock was palpable. After a moment, she gathered herself and asked, "But Her Majesty still lives? Yes? And the rest of you?"

  "Yes," Athos said. "But it was a close-run thing."

  A frown marred the girl’s forehead. "And you are certain it was M. Grimaud?"

  "We have proof," d’Artagnan said gently. "De Tréville devised a trap to discover the traitor, and there can be no doubt."

  "Do you know where we can find him?" Athos asked.

  Madeleine’s face was troubled, but she answered without delay. "I believe he is in the kitchens, hanging herbs on the drying racks. I saw him only two hours ago."

  "Thank you," Athos said, and whirled his horse around, cantering toward the stables.

  D’Artagnan looked from Athos’ fast-retreating form to Madeleine. "I’d better go with him," he said, and Madeleine nodded her understanding, still frowning unhappily.

  Grimaud’s mare was eager to regain her old, familiar stable, and they caught up with Athos as he was dismounting. Athos and d’Artagnan put their horses in the stalls next to Athos’ own gelding, which he had loaned to Grimaud for the trip to Thiron-Gardais. They quickly secured feed and water for the tired animals, but did not unsaddle them.

  Athos seemed fired with new energy, steadier and more focused than d’Artagnan had seen him since before his torture outside of Illiers-Combray. His eyes burned and his face was flushed with heat, as if animated from within by the force of his righteous anger over Grimaud’s betrayal.

  D’Artagnan followed along in the older man’s wake as he swept into the castle, strid
ing over and around the debris left in the main hall after the bomb attack; taking the stairs down to the kitchens two at a time. Athos unsheathed his sword and stalked into the cool, echoing space where d’Artagnan could make out a stooped figure bent over a wooden frame in one corner.

  "Grimaud," Athos said, his voice a low growl that seemed to roll through the large room like distant thunder.

  The man straightened slowly, only to let his head fall forward again as if in resignation. Athos and d’Artagnan crossed the room side by side. Grimaud turned to meet them as they approached, his face gaunt and pale.

  "Why?" Athos asked, the word cracking like a musket shot.

  Grimaud’s expression slowly transformed from sick dread to a sort of twisted disbelief.

  "Why?" he echoed as if the word tasted bad on his tongue. "You can ask me that, after you have spit and trodden upon your family’s legacy? Would it not be more appropriate, sir, for me to ask you why you have thrown everything away to follow this reckless course, tilting at distant windmills like some addled hero in a romance?"

  Athos’ face was stone. "I am seeking to return the rightful heir to the throne of France, as any good Frenchman should, and to free the country from the tyranny of a Spanish puppet ruler."

  "You are consorting with a Protestant apologist, seeking to topple a good Catholic regent and bring chaos and confusion back to the land!" Grimaud nearly shouted, pressing forward as if unaware or uncaring of the blade leveled at his heart. "You are concerned with politics, while I am concerned with our immortal souls!"

  D’Artagnan stared at Grimaud. "If you wanted Her Majesty dead so badly, surely you could have poisoned her food or stabbed her in the breast a thousand times over. How the hell does sending armed soldiers and sell-swords after a pregnant woman not put a stain on this soul of yours that you seem so worried about?"