“The city guard have sent for the mayor,” the man reported. “It’s M. Chauveau now; apparently M. Pétion died of a fever last week.”
“Hmm,” d’Aumont replied, his tone anything but pleased.
“Problem?” de Tréville asked tersely.
D’Aumont blew a breath out. “Hopefully not. Unfortunately, Mathurin Chauveau is not nearly such a close acquaintance of mine as the late M. Pétion was. He is a more cautious individual than the last mayor, but not irrational or prone to cowardice in my experience.”
“In that case, gentlemen,” said the Queen, “we will present our case and see what happens. There is little else we can do.”
M. Chauveau left them waiting for another half-hour while the brilliant sun slowly sank toward the western horizon. When he finally arrived at the gate, he was flanked by two dozen guards wearing swords and pistols. D’Aumont dismounted, handing his horse’s reins to his lieutenant. He walked across the bridge and approached M. Chauveau, shaking the mayor’s hand and immediately falling into earnest conversation with him.
From his position flanking the Queen, d’Artagnan could not hear what either of the men were saying, but Chauveau kept shooting glances in their direction, and he gestured several times back toward the city and at the farmland surrounding it. Eventually, d’Aumont turned and signaled de Tréville.
“Athos,” said the Captain, “you’re with us. The rest of you, stay here and guard the King.”
Her Majesty rode forward on d’Artagnan’s aged yellow pony, resplendent and composed in her gleaming armor despite the heat and the long hours on the road. De Tréville rode a step behind on her right side; Athos, on her left. Once they departed, Porthos, Aramis, Milady, and d’Artagnan arrayed themselves around Constance and the baby, who squalled and tugged at a ringlet of her sweat-damp hair.
“If they don’t let us in, this is going to get ugly,” Porthos said. “I don’t like it—too many things we can’t control.”
“Of course they’ll let us in!” replied Constance. “Most of us live here, after all. And M. d’Aumont is the richest and most powerful man for miles around. They wouldn’t dare turn him away.”
“I hope you’re right, Constance,” Porthos said. “Though I think you may be underestimating people’s fear of change and sense of self-preservation.”
The wait was agonizing. For more than an hour they stood watch, the sun beating mercilessly upon them from its position low in the sky. Behind them, d’Artagnan saw several of the soldiers grow faint with heat exhaustion; their comrades helping them to sit down at the side of the road and shading them as best they could with whatever blanket or piece of clothing was to hand. D’Artagnan’s own head began to pound in time with his heartbeat, and he forced himself to drink from his waterskin even though he did not feel thirsty. He glanced at Constance, noting her pallor and the slight gray tinge to her skin.
“Constance,” he said in concern, ”you need to drink something. Get down from your horse for a moment, and we’ll make some shade for you.”
She shook her head, looking a bit off-balance as she did so. “I’m fine,” she said stubbornly. “I have to mind the King.”
Milady and d’Artagnan were both off of their horses as soon as she spoke.
“Give me the baby for a few minutes,” Milady said in a tone brooking no opposition, reaching up to take the infant from the other woman’s arms. “D’Artagnan, help her down. She looks about ready to faint.”
“Step down, Constance,” d’Artagnan said, taking Milady’s place at the horse’s shoulder. “I’ve got you.”
“All this fuss,” Constance said, but she gingerly dismounted all the same. Anticipating that her legs wouldn’t hold her, d’Artagnan was there with an arm around her shoulder and a hand on her waist when her knees buckled. For a moment she sagged into him, a soft and trusting weight in his embrace, and he felt his heart speed up. He led her carefully away from the milling horses. As he was urging her down to sit in the grass at the edge of the road, she seemed to come back to herself somewhat.
“Oh!” she said, stiffening under his hands and pulling away. “I’m sorry! I must have been woozier than I thought.”
D’Artagnan gave her some space, trying to ignore the now-familiar sinking feeling in his chest as she once again shied away from his touch. Instead, he looked around for something to use for shade. “You, there!” he called to the man driving one of the weapons carts a little way behind them. “Bring me two of those musket-rests, please. And, Constance? Let me have your shoulder sling—I think that will work for a shade cloth.”
Constance nodded, and while she unwound the length of light material that had cradled the King against her breast on the ride, d’Artagnan accepted the fresh waterskin that Aramis handed down to him.
“Lean your head forward,” he told Constance when he returned to her. She did, and he let some of the water trickle over her head and shoulders. He gestured for the wrap, and handed her the waterskin in return. While she drank, he jammed the bases of the two musket rests into the loose soil of the verge and tied two corners of the soft material to the staves a couple of hand’s breadths above the ground, before flipping the rest of the loose cloth to drape over the forks at the tops of the rests so it would block the late afternoon sun.
Constance sighed in relief. “That’s much better, thank you.”
Milady rejoined them, and handed the baby back to Constance, who arranged him on her lap and looked him over carefully.
“He seems fine,” Milady reassured her. “You’ve been careful to shade him all day.”
“I guess it’s my turn to be pampered now,” Constance said, flashing d’Artagnan a weak but grateful smile. “I’m sorry to be such a burden.”
“Nonsense,” Milady said. “No one expects you to be accustomed to these sorts of conditions.”
“Look around,” d’Artagnan added. “Seasoned fighting men are practically dropping like flies back there. It’s nothing to be ashamed of—this heat is brutal, especially after the rain.”
“If you’d asked me yesterday when we were all soaking wet, I’d have said if I never saw rain again, it would be too soon,” Constance said. “I’m afraid I spoke in haste; it actually sounds pretty good, right about now.”
“I know what you mean,” d’Artagnan replied, only to be cut off by Porthos.
“Something’s happening,” called the big man.
In an instant, all eyes were on the royal party at the gate. Indeed, the representatives and guards from the city were retreating once more within the walls, while the Queen, de Tréville, and Athos wheeled their mounts and headed back toward the rest of the troops.
“Do you think they’ve agreed to the Queen’s request?” d’Artagnan asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other nervously.
“If they’re smart, they haven’t,” Milady said in a dry voice, “but if they’re greedy, they probably have.”
Constance frowned up at Milady from her spot in the shade. “You almost sound as though you disapprove. Surely you must want them to let us in.”
“Of course I do,” Milady said. “If we’re closed out, we’ll most likely be slaughtered on the road by Isabella’s troops. But I can hope for a result that’s in my own self-interest while simultaneously feeling contempt for a leader willing to risk his own people’s lives in return for the prospect of personal gain.”
“What would M. Chauveau hope to gain from this?” Constance asked.
“What does any such man hope for?” Milady asked cynically. “Wealth. Prestige. Political power within a new regime.”
“Surely the prospect of helping return the legitimate ruler to the throne would be enough to convince the mayor to help us,” Constance said, the frown still digging a furrow between her eyebrows, “as it would be for any good Frenchman.”
“I envy your idealism, Constance,” Milady said. “It must make the world a much simpler place.”
“Well, it looks like we’re about t
o find out one way or another,” said Porthos, who had been watching the exchange with half an eye. And, in fact, the Queen was just pulling up in front of them on d’Artagnan’s pony, the animal’s flanks damp with sweat.
“Gentlemen. Ladies,” the Queen said, immediately drawing all eyes. D’Artagnan held his breath as she continued. “M. Chauveau has opened the city to us, with the understanding that a wing of the Palais Épiscopal will be made available to the royal household and guards, while the rest of the troops must be billeted by those among our number who already live here.” There was a collective sigh of relief as she continued, “The first priority will be to gather supplies from the surrounding farms and bring them within the city walls, in expectation of an extended siege by Isabella’s forces. Our men will assist with that task. The second priority will be to send out more messengers to solicit support within the region.”
Antoine d’Aumont urged his horse forward a few steps. “Chartres welcomes the grandson of Henry IV—the true heir of France,” he said in a booming voice, to reach the soldiers standing in ranks behind them. “Her walls have stood firm against many attackers over the centuries, but she knelt before King Henry IV’s legitimate claim to the crown in 1591, and she kneels now before Henry V and the Queen Mother, Anne of Austria. Her battlements and moats will protect us from those who wish us harm. Come, all of you—follow your Queen into the city. Into your haven.”
A cheer rose up from the ranks and despite the heat, d’Artagnan felt the words inspire a lightness within him; a sense that now they had all come this far, surely nothing was out of their reach. He looked around at his friends: Aramis, who wore an expression of satisfaction; Porthos, who looked merely relieved; Athos, reserved as ever except for the brief rise of an eyebrow he shared with Milady as if to say, “Well, who would have guessed?” Constance, smiling back at him happily as she remounted her horse and once more secured her young charge against her body in his sling. De Tréville, ever watchful, flanking Her Majesty with pride in his eyes.
They’d made it. They weren’t alone in the wilderness any more.
* * *
Chartres was unlike any place d’Artagnan had ever visited before. The warren of streets bustled with carts and foot traffic that parted in front of them as they followed the mayor’s guardsmen deeper into the city. Their numbers dwindled as d’Aumont’s men melted away in twos and threes, returning to their homes with orders to report to the square in front of the Palais Épiscopal in the morning to help bring in supplies. D’Artagnan could barely tear his eyes from the spectacular sight of the city’s cathedral, its towering spires visible from practically any point within the walls.
“A transcendent vision, is it not?” Aramis asked from beside him, having noticed his preoccupation. “Truly, such a building channels the presence of the Almighty into the mundane world of men.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” d’Artagnan said. “I had no idea such things even existed.”
“It’s all good until someone asks you to clean the windows,” Porthos said, deadpan.
“Or tasks you with collecting the taxes and tribute to build the bloody thing in the first place,” Athos added.
Aramis sighed. “My friends,” he said, “you have no poetry whatsoever left in your souls.”
“Don’t think I ever had any to begin with, to be honest,” Porthos said. “It is a pretty building, though.”
“Pretty, he says,” Aramis echoed in mock disgust. “D’Artagnan, I see I must rely on you for proper appreciation of what man may accomplish when he opens himself to God’s will. As soon as we have time, I will take you to visit the cathedral.”
“I’d like that,” d’Artagnan replied, and the four fell into comfortable silence as they turned onto the Rue de l’Etroit Degré, running northwest of the massive church toward a much smaller—but still impressive—structure surrounded by a tall, wrought iron fence.
If Chartres was unlike any city d’Artagnan had visited before, the Palais Épiscopal was unlike any residence he’d ever seen. Past the iron gate decorated with filigree and finished with fine gold leaf, the view opened up, revealing a two-story brick and stone construction with several wings leading off the main structure. Some effort had been put into tending the gardens on the grounds, with flowers and hedges here and there amongst beds of herbs and vegetables.
There was evidence of recent repair to the stonework in places, and d’Artagnan had never seen so many unbroken glass windows in one place before. Suddenly self-conscious, he snapped his jaw shut and glanced around at the others, who seemed to find nothing very extraordinary about their surroundings. Feeling every inch an uncouth country lad, he forced himself to focus on d’Aumont, who was explaining the details of their accommodations. As they dismounted, several boys ran forward from the direction of the stables and took their horses away to be cared for.
The bishop, d’Aumont explained, was away at the moment, leaving only a skeleton staff of servants in his own wing of the palace. The rest of the building was abandoned, and by taking over the north wing, they would be assured of privacy and all the space they could possibly need. They would have to fend for themselves this evening, but tomorrow staff and servants would be procured for them.
It was enough to make d’Artagnan’s head spin. Servants? Staff? Had they not been huddled under tents in the rain less than a day ago? For the first time, he began to truly understand what it meant to be associated with royalty.
An hour later, that understanding was tempered with the realization that dust and grime inhabited empty palaces every bit as much as they inhabited a pauper’s hovel. Upon learning of the new arrivals and seeing the state of the north wing, the bishop’s secretary hurried to offer the Queen, her ladies, and her son use of the bishop’s suite until other rooms could be cleaned and aired. That offer, however, did not appear to extend to travel-stained soldiers, and d’Artagnan found himself sneezing repeatedly as he helped Porthos remove the dust sheets from ancient, moldering furniture while Athos and de Tréville threw open the windows, and Aramis went in search of a broom.
The five of them took it in shifts to guard Her Majesty’s rooms, and slept in bedrolls laid out on feather mattresses bare of sheets, but still softer than anything d’Artagnan had ever laid upon. The following morning dawned clear, promising another day of oppressive heat. The Queen’s forces gathered in the courtyard of the palace, the shadow of Notre Dame de Chartres looming over the grounds, blocking out the sun.
De Tréville stood on the steps leading up to the palace’s main entrance, addressing the men.
“With our very presence, we have brought danger to Chartres,” he began. “Even now, Isabella’s troops might be moving on the city. They could arrive at any time. Messengers have already been sent to nearby cities and towns to raise support and rally more troops. These troops will come to our aid, just as you came to Her Majesty’s aid in La Croix-du-Perche. In the mean time, however, we must do all we can to protect this city that many of you call home.”
“Hear, hear!” called several voices in the crowd, among the low rumble of discussion.
“To this end,” de Tréville continued, “we will utilize every able-bodied man and every cart, wagon, and coach we can find to gather food and fodder within the walls. M. Chauveau has opened Chartres to anyone from the surrounding countryside who wishes to shelter here until the conflict has passed. Isabella will be forced to adopt siege tactics, but she will find Chartres to be a prosperous and well-prepared target... and not such easy prey as she might think.”
Some cheers erupted among the gathered troops, but the muttering continued unabated as de Tréville, d’Aumont, Patenaude, and Tolbert began to move among the men, giving out assignments. D’Artagnan wondered how many of those who had marched to join them in La Croix-du-Perche had truly understood the potential consequences to Chartres... to their homes and families. Still, it was far too late now to turn back from the cause, and it was in everyone’s interest to do what
ever was possible to ready the city for the coming siege.
That day, and the days that followed, fell into a sort of exhausting rhythm. D’Artagnan and the others alternated shifts of hauling wheat, oats, vegetables, and hay with shifts of guarding the palace. They seldom saw each other, except to relieve one another from guard duty or wish each other a brief good night before falling into bed for a few hours, exhausted. In their absence, the dusty rooms of the north wing were transformed by the newly hired servants into a residence more fit for royalty. Unfortunately, their decadent featherbeds did not see as much use as perhaps they might have wished them to, and the delicious meals prepared for the Queen and her retinue were largely ignored in favor of simple fare that could be eaten one-handed while transporting bags of flour to the city’s bakeries and wagons full of hay to the mews and stables dotted around Chartres.
D’Artagnan’s back ached with the manual labor, and after awhile his mind began to ache without the constant, steadying presence of his friends. He found himself becoming jittery and snappish toward his work-mates. Waiting for the siege to begin felt like standing on a mountainside under a heavy stone barely held in place by its neighbors—knowing that everything would eventually come crashing down on his head, but with no way of knowing when. He would rather fight a hundred battles against Isabella’s army, he decided, than bear this endless waiting for something to happen. He tried to distract himself with thoughts of Constance as he worked, but his pleasant fantasies always circled back to the feeling when she stiffened in his arms and pulled away as if his touch burned her.
Not for the first time, d’Artagnan thought longingly of his cat o’nine tails, and the release that it represented. The others would know if he used it, though... the others always knew. And, of course, he had promised de Tréville that he would not, on pain of losing his commission in the Queen’s guard.
Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3 Page 7