Evidently, his growing agitation was visible to others, as he caught both Aramis and Porthos giving him worried looks during their brief interactions. On the third morning after their arrival in Chartres, de Tréville intercepted him on his way out to ready a wagon.
“You have new orders, d’Artagnan,” said the Captain. “Go and prepare your gelding for the Queen to ride. Her Majesty wishes to tour the city in hopes of boosting the residents’ morale. You and I will accompany her for an hour or two.”
“Yes, sir,” d’Artagnan replied, and hurried to the stable, pocketing a crust of bread from the table as he passed, since he lacked Constance’s uncanny rapport with the broom-tailed mare that he would be riding.
His father’s old pony was dozing in his stall when d’Artagnan entered, one bony hip cocked and his shaggy head hanging low. He snorted awake when d’Artagnan greeted him. One disinterested ear flicked back toward his master for a moment before the animal apparently decided that nothing was required of him for the moment, and picked up a mouthful of hay from the manger in front of him.
D’Artagnan curried clouds of dust from the sagging back, feeling his tension ebb with the familiar ritual and the gelding’s stalwart presence. Only when he brought in the studded bridle with its gleaming armored champron did the animal perk up, showing interest in the proceedings.
“Enjoying your new status as the mount of royalty, are you?” d’Artagnan asked, easing the bit into place and adjusting the cheek piece down a notch. One large, brown eye rolled around to peer at him disdainfully before the gelding sneezed, blowing a fine mist of snot across his jerkin. “Right. Silly question, apparently.”
The pony shook its head, setting armor and metal buckles to jingling.
Half an hour later, riding Grimaud’s mare on Her Majesty’s left while de Tréville flanked her right side and a dozen guards on foot trailed behind, d’Artagnan felt better than he had since they arrived here. The Queen toured the quiet neighborhoods around the cathedral and palace as well as the nearby business districts, bustling with both normal, day-to-day business and the laying in of supplies. Reaction to their presence ranged from obvious awe and adoration to skeptical reserve, but d’Artagnan was pleased to see no open hostility toward the Queen in the areas they visited.
Her Majesty approached everyone they met with the same grace and charm, thanking them for their hospitality and promising that Chartres and its brave citizens would figure prominently in the new regime. Upon their return to the palace, d’Artagnan rubbed down the sweaty horses and grabbed an apple and some cheese from the kitchens for a quick meal, still feeling lighter than he had in days as he headed out to join one of the crews transporting supplies for the rest of the afternoon. He ended up riding on a rickety cart hauled by an underweight draft horse with a club foot, driven by a taciturn farmer named Marc-René. He was partnered with a wiry, dark-skinned man with a noticeable accent who introduced himself as Paolo and who could lift twice as much weight as his slender frame suggested.
The afternoon passed as pleasantly as one could expect when doing hard labor—Paolo was an engaging companion, and taught him several songs from his native Portugal even though d’Artagnan couldn’t understand the words; laughing when d’Artagnan accidentally butchered them into something rude. The three of them were returning from their second trip to a granary northeast of the city, leading a loose caravan of five wagons toward the Eure river and the entrance at Porte Guillaume. Paolo was trying—with limited success—to teach Marc-René how to insult someone in Portuguese when a shout came from behind them.
“Soldiers! Soldiers coming this way!”
D’Artagnan and his companions craned around to look past the other wagons, and he heard Marc-René catch his breath on a curse. Hundreds. There were hundreds of riders behind them, bearing down on them at a full gallop.
Chapter V: July 27th, 1631
ISABELLA’S FORCES had arrived.
“Make for the city!” Paolo cried. “Hurry!”
“If we’re caught outside when the gates close, we’ll be slaughtered,” d’Artagnan said grimly, checking his weapons.
Marc-René didn’t need to be told twice, his whip cracking over the old wreck of a draft horse pulling the cart. The beast lurched forward into an ungainly canter, jerking its passengers back against the seat and spilling bags of grain off of the edge of the cart. Behind them, the other drivers were following suit; the motley collection of conveyances rattling toward the protection of the city walls as fast as cart horses and donkeys could pull them.
They might as well have been crawling, compared to the horde of sleek animals bearing down on them from behind. Even so, the bridge across the Eure was growing larger in front of them, and d’Artagnan thought that their cart would probably make it. The sound of horns from the battlements flanking Porte Guillaume reached them faintly over the uneven thud of hooves on packed dirt and the creaking of the cart, followed moments later by the tolling of the bells of Notre Dame. Whether they made it or not, at least the lookouts had been alerted to the attack—the city would not be taken unawares.
The wagon that had been next in line behind them drew even with them, drawn by a pair of younger, faster horses, and d’Artagnan waved them past. By contrast, the two carts drawn by donkeys were lagging far behind, and with a sick feeling, d’Artagnan realized they would soon be overtaken. The wagon that had just passed them clattered onto the bridge, and d’Artagnan felt the cart lurch beneath him as they did the same. Clinging to the bench as they rattled over the cobbles, he swiveled again to look back. The next cart, pulled by a lanky pony, was perhaps three or four arpent behind them. Beyond it, the enemy troops had just overtaken one of the donkey carts, cutting down the passengers without mercy. D’Artagnan's wagon barreled through the city gate, cutting off his view just as soldiers reached the second donkey cart, but the screams of the unlucky men could be heard all the same.
“Pull up!” d’Artagnan shouted at Marc-René. “Pull up, damn you!”
Marc-René wrestled the panicked draft horse under control, and d’Artagnan leapt down before the cart had even stopped completely, vaguely aware of Paolo doing the same beside him. He charged back the way they had come, yelling, “Not yet! Hold the gate! Hold it!” at the men who were swinging the massive doors closed. The third wagon could be heard clattering toward the entrance, along with the hoof beats of the approaching soldiers, who were forced to slow down and ride two or three abreast to cross the narrow bridge.
“Stand ready!” d’Artagnan shouted. “Let the wagon through and close the gate after it! Attack any soldiers that get past—don’t let them further into the city!”
He drew his sword and a pistol, holding the firearm in his right hand and his rapier in his left. Beside him, Paolo drew a wickedly curved blade from his belt and dropped into a crouch. The pony galloped through the gate, the wheels of the wagon it pulled slewing past them, only inches from their toes as they pressed back against the stone walls of the battlements. Hard on its heels, half a dozen enemy riders burst through before the solid oak gates slammed into place, cutting them off from the rest of the army.
D’Artagnan took aim and shot one through the heart, seeing three more go down to the city guards’ pistols and calivers. Tossing his own spent pistol aside and transferring the rapier from his left hand to his right, he parried as another of the riders slashed at him. The man’s horse skidded on the slick cobbles as he jerked it around by the reins for a second attack. Sensing an opening, Paolo darted forward, blade in hand. The huge bay animal reared, one of its front feet striking Paolo in the temple and felling him instantly.
D’Artagnan cried out as Paolo fell under the animal’s crushing hooves, but another of the riders was upon him before he could do more than take a step toward the broken body. With a wordless yell, he ducked to the side and spun, driving the point of his sword into the man’s thigh. Two city guards dragged the man from his horse and slammed him face first into the ground, while anothe
r three overcame the soldier on the bay horse that had killed Paolo.
Remembering himself, d’Artagnan yelled, “Don’t kill them! Take them alive for questioning!”
Above him, the sound of gunfire from the battlements filled the air as the guards drove the forces massed outside the gate into retreat, and d’Artagnan could hear the fading hoof beats of their horses as they turned and fled out of range rather than face being picked off one by one on the narrow bridge. Around him, guards were catching the dead soldiers’ loose horses and dragging the prisoners away, while bystanders began moving forward to clear the bodies and tend to the wounded. In the midst of the commotion, d’Artagnan stood silently, just breathing. A hand descended on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Marc-René standing beside him.
“All right, lad?” asked the old farmer.
After a moment, d’Artagnan replied in a hoarse voice, “Yes. All right.” He stepped out from under the hand gripping his shoulder and began the long walk back to the Palais Épiscopal without looking back.
The siege of Chartres had begun.
* * *
Upon arriving back at the palace, d’Artagnan found himself enveloped in Porthos’ rough embrace.
“The others?” he asked, letting himself lean into the big man’s solid strength for a second or two before pushing back.
“Safe,” Porthos replied. “Well, mostly. Aramis’ foot got run over by a wagon wheel at the south gate. He says it’s only bruised. Shoulda moved quicker, though. We won’t be letting him live that one down anytime soon, that’s for certain.”
“I made the city guard keep the gate at Porte Guillaume open to let through one of our wagons that was about to be overrun,” d’Artagnan said, relief at knowing his friends were safe warring with doubt about his own decision. “Six enemy soldiers got in before it was closed. We killed four of them and captured two, but one man from the city died in the fighting, and three guards were injured.”
Porthos regarded him thoughtfully. “Well, to my mind you did right, but I’d maybe not mention the details to de Tréville in case he has a different opinion on the matter. Still, those two prisoners could be pretty valuable if they know anything about Isabella’s strategy.”
D’Artagnan nodded and allowed himself to be led inside to a large, echoing room in the north wing, where d’Aumont and de Tréville were deep in discussion with the Queen while Athos and Aramis—seated with one boot missing and his swollen foot resting on a hassock—looked on. Upon seeing d’Artagnan, Aramis flashed him a wry smile and Athos tipped his head in acknowledgement.
De Tréville looked up at the intrusion. “D’Artagnan. Good. Anything to report?”
“Two enemy soldiers were captured alive by the city guard at Porte Guillaume,” d’Artagnan replied, taking Porthos’ advice and omitting further details.
“Three were taken at the Porte S. Michel, as well,” d’Aumont said. “It’s unlikely they have any detailed knowledge of their commanders’ military tactics, but you never know.”
“If the messengers we sent out to other cities were not captured,” said the Queen, “then help will be coming. All we need do until then is make use of the city’s excellent fortifications to keep Isabella’s forces at bay.”
“How are our supplies of ammunition?” Athos asked.
De Tréville answered. “My supplier has been stockpiling powder and shot in Chartres for some time now. We cannot afford to be profligate, but I’ll wager we have considerably more firepower than our enemy does.”
“I confess myself intrigued by this mysterious supplier of yours, Jean-Armand,” said d’Aumont. “I don’t suppose you’d care to enlighten me as to his identity?”
The Queen and de Tréville shared a brief, indecipherable look. “I think that would be unwise at the present moment, Antoine,” de Tréville said after a slight pause. “The situation is... complicated.”
D’Aumont stared at de Tréville for a few beats, then shrugged. “As you please. I suppose his musket balls fly just as straight whether I know his name or not.” He turned to the Queen. “Your Majesty, your assessment of the current situation is quite correct. We have laid in supplies as best we are able, and my own troops working in conjunction with the city guard should be more than sufficient to hold the city, at least for now.”
“You will let us know if there is anything we can do to contribute, of course,” said the Queen.
“I will, Your Majesty,” said d’Aumont. “The walls are strong and thick, however. You need have no fear for your safety or that of the young King.”
* * *
If you had asked d’Artagnan as a lad to describe warfare, he might have used terms like danger, excitement, or glory. He would not, however, have used the word boring. Now though, it was the word foremost on his mind. Siege warfare was boring.
Unless you were on top of the battlements, shooting at the enemy when they intermittently tested the city’s defenses, there was literally nothing to do except sit around and worry. Or stand around on guard duty at the palace and worry. Or watch Porthos and Aramis play endless rounds of cards while Athos drained bottles of wine... and worry.
On the positive side, he had the leisure to spend time with Constance when her duties to the infant King permitted. Of course, spending time with Constance brought its own brand of strain. D’Artagnan told himself firmly that he desired only her friendship, but the time spent in her presence was a special kind of torture. Despite what Aramis had said, he knew she did not desire him. He still desired her, however. Oh, how he desired her.
He awoke in the night, hard with desire for her, having mistaken the softness of the feather bed under his cheek for the softness of her bosom, full with the milk that fed the Queen's son. Once or twice, he gave into the ache, his hand moving swiftly over his engorged prick until he spilled over the bedclothes, muffling his cries by digging his teeth into the meat of his left hand. Lying there afterward in the dark, self-loathing overcame him at his own weakness—must he now pleasure himself over thoughts of a woman who did not want him? Had he truly been reduced to such a detestable level?
Then, to see her the following day—greeting him with innocent pleasure in their friendship—it was almost beyond bearing. His back itched and burned with the need for penance. On one such day, she watched him with worried eyes for awhile, before blurting, “Sometimes I can’t tell if you want to spend time with me or not. Are you angry with me, d’Artagnan? Because of... because of that kiss, the evening after we first met?”
D’Artagnan stared at her in shock. “No!” he exclaimed after a moment. “No, of course not! It is you who should be angry with me! If you only knew...”
He trailed off, words deserting him.
“I can’t know what you don’t tell me, d’Artagnan,” Constance said, staring at him as if hoping to peel back the layers of his skull and see what thoughts resided within.
D’Artagnan could only shake his head, certain that if she knew of his obsession, she would deprive him of her company completely... and rightly so. Afterward, he took himself off to the stable, seeking to dull the sharp edge of his frustration with the now-familiar ritual of grooming his father’s pony.
“What would you think of me now, Father?” he asked under his breath, letting his hands run over the buttercup-yellow coat that his father’s hands had also curried and brushed. “A soldier who sits on guard duty while a war rages at his doorstep, and a man who pines for a woman who rejected him at the first kiss. Could things get any worse?”
The pony yawned and passed wind, loud and long. D’Artagnan sighed, aware that he was being ridiculous and overly dramatic.
Four days later, Aramis disappeared.
* * *
“Have you seen Aramis this morning?” Porthos asked after poking his head into the room where d’Artagnan and Milady were eating a late breakfast.
“No,” said d’Artagnan. “Isn’t he in his room?”
“Nah,” Porthos said, shaking his head. “I ch
ecked there first when he didn’t show up to visit the bakery on the Rue au Lait with me.”
It was something of an open secret that Aramis had been spending time with the baker’s daughter in the days since the siege began—a young woman who had moved back to help with her parents’ business after the death of her fiancé. D’Artagnan frowned; it did seem unlike the man to miss an assignation.
“Perhaps de Tréville gave him an assignment,” Milady suggested, and took another bite of the poached egg that she was eating.
“Maybe,” Porthos allowed. “Didn’t he seem a bit... off to you last night, though?”
D’Artagnan had been on guard duty the previous evening, but Milady shrugged and swallowed thoughtfully before replying, “I suppose he was a bit quiet and subdued, for Aramis. Still, you know him. He’s probably warming some pretty young thing’s bed and overslept. No cause for worry.”
“He’s scheduled for guard duty after Athos,” d’Artagnan offered. “He’ll have to show up then, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Porthos said. “I’ll just wait for him here. Got any more of those eggs?”
D’Artagnan sliced off a hunk of bread for him and gestured toward the covered plate on the sideboard.
Twenty minutes later, Athos entered the room, his shift for the morning completed.
“Where’s Aramis?” he asked. “He was next on the duty roster, but it was de Tréville who relieved me.”
A frown furrowed Milady’s forehead, and Porthos shared a worried look with d’Artagnan.
“He’s missing, and I’ll wager de Tréville knows something about it,” Porthos said, rising from the table. “Come on. I want answers.”
The four of them trooped through the grand hallways to the entrance of the suite of rooms used by the Queen and her son, where de Tréville stood at attention in front of the closed door. His single eye raked over them, a disconcertingly haggard air to his expression.
Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3 Page 8