Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3

by R. A. Steffan

  “Where is Aramis, Captain?” Porthos asked unceremoniously.

  “Aramis is unwell,” de Tréville said, and d’Artagnan really didn't like the flat tone of his voice. “He wished to rest.”

  “He’s not in his room,” Porthos said.

  “He indicated a desire for privacy,” de Tréville said, still without expression. “No doubt he took himself off somewhere a bit quieter.”

  D’Artagnan felt a sick feeling begin to creep into his stomach.

  “This is Aramis we’re talking about, right?” Porthos said, his voice beginning to rise. “The man who needs an audience to complain to whenever he has so much as a sniffle?”

  “Unwell... how, exactly?” d’Artagnan asked, not at all certain he wanted to hear the answer.

  For the first time, de Tréville’s composure seemed to slip, leaving him looking suddenly much older. “Fever. Headache...” he said, before adding as if the words were being pulled from him against his will, “... swelling at the neck, armpit, and groin.”

  Porthos made a wordless noise of pain, and d’Artagnan swayed a bit as gray spots danced momentarily at the edges of his vision before retreating. Athos, standing between them, reached a hand out to each of their shoulders to steady them. Off to one side, Milady wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off a sudden chill.

  “Where is he?” Athos said, his voice icy.

  “I cannot tell you,” de Tréville said in a hoarse voice.

  “The hell you can’t,” Porthos said, stumbling forward half a step. “Sir.”

  De Tréville did not back down or break eye contact with the distraught man now looming over him. “I cannot tell you because Aramis would not tell me. He’s trying to protect you, Porthos. All of you.”

  Porthos whirled around and drove a fist into the wall next to the door. D’Artagnan focused on trying to drag breath into lungs that did not want to work properly.

  “We will find him,” Athos said, only to be interrupted when the door behind de Tréville opened, revealing the Queen, with Constance by her side.

  “We heard a disturbance,” said the Queen, her eyes taking in the group’s distressed appearance. “Is everything well, Captain?”

  De Tréville closed his eye for a moment, gathering himself. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. No, everything is not well. Aramis is ill. It appears to be the plague.”

  Constance’s hand flew to her mouth, a high-pitched noise of dismay escaping. The Queen breathed out once, audibly, before her natural reserve reasserted itself.

  “God have mercy on us,” she said, touching the crucifix she wore around her neck. “I had hoped that we were finished with that horrible scourge.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Milady, “both Captain de Tréville and I have survived the plague, and we tended to your late husband during his illness without becoming ill ourselves. We are the logical choices to care for Aramis, assuming we can even find the foolish idiot.”

  Athos’ eyes flew to his wife, his brows drawing together, and Porthos began to voice a protest, only to fall silent when the Queen spoke again.

  “I’m afraid I cannot spare the Captain under the current circumstances, Milady,” she said. “Whoever tends Aramis must stay segregated for the safety of my son, and the safety of the monarchy of France. We cannot allow personal concerns to override that, much as I might wish to.”

  “In that case, Your Majesty,” Milady said, “Athos and d’Artagnan are the next best choices. Both of them have had close exposure to the disease without becoming ill in the past.”

  D’Artagnan’s breath hitched. The idea of never seeing Aramis alive again was unendurable, but the idea of watching him gradually succumb to the plague was just as bad. He didn’t know if he was strong enough to face either one... but right now, Aramis needed him.

  “I’m going, too,” Porthos said.

  “Porthos, no,” de Tréville said. “You’ll die as well.”

  “He might not die,” Porthos forced out between gritted teeth, “and I don’t care.”

  “I can’t spare you,” said the Captain.

  Porthos went to his knees before the Queen. “Your Majesty, Captain—forgive me. But the only way you’ll stop me going to him is by shooting me through the heart. I’ll resign my commission if that’s what it takes. But I have to help Aramis.”

  The Queen’s eyes were as wet and shiny as d’Artagnan’s own when she stepped forward and rested a hand on Porthos’ bowed shoulder. “That won’t be necessary, Porthos. Captain, arrange to have some of d’Aumont’s men sent to guard these rooms. They’re already guarding the grounds of the palace, after all. While I would prefer to have my loyal musketeers outside these doors, it is that very loyalty which requires them to look after one of their own during his time of need.”

  De Tréville sighed, defeated. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Porthos whispered.

  “You will be in our prayers, gentlemen; Milady,” said the Queen, and drew Milady forward to kiss her cheek. Porthos rose, and the others stepped forward one-by-one to bow deeply over the Queen’s proffered hand. When d’Artagnan straightened and stepped back after his turn, he suddenly found himself with an armful of Constance. He froze in surprise as she reached up, her hands cradling his face and pulling him down until she could kiss his forehead.

  “Stay safe and well, d’Artagnan,” she said with tears in her eyes. “Please.”

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  She nodded and disentangled herself with a blush, as if only now realizing what she had done. “See that you do,” she replied, trying to cover the depth of her upset. “And the rest of you as well.”

  “Tell Aramis that I tried to keep you four half-wits safe,” de Tréville said gruffly.

  “We will. Assuming we can even find him, of course,” Athos said, and the four of them bowed a final time to the Queen and withdrew.

  “Where would he have gone?” d’Artagnan asked as they walked back toward their quarters to pack what they were likely to need.

  “If he’s ill, he surely could not have gone too far,” Milady said.

  “He wouldn’t have, anyway,” Porthos said with certainty. “He’d never put the citizens of Chartres at risk.”

  “Nor would he put the Queen and her child at risk,” said Athos.

  The answer came to d’Artagnan in a flash. “The south wing,” he and Milady said at almost the same time.

  “Makes sense,” Porthos said. “It’s completely empty. God, I’m going to kill him myself for this.”

  “That would probably be counterproductive,” said Athos, “but I can understand the sentiment.”

  Entering their rooms, they quickly threw together bedrolls, clean rags, and other supplies that might be useful for tending a sick man, along with food and wine from the kitchens. A few minutes later, they were trekking across the grounds to the back entrance of the south wing, on the assumption that Aramis would not have wanted to go through the main wing, potentially exposing the bishop’s staff. Mere steps inside the large door, the morning light slanting through the windows illuminated uneven boot prints in the dust coating the floor.

  “Subtle,” said Porthos. “That’s our Aramis.”

  The tracks led to the main stairwell and up. The pale marble floor on the second level was not as advantageous for picking out the trail, but the door to the first bedroom was firmly shut, where all the others stood open. Porthos strode forward and knocked on it.

  “Aramis?” he called.

  “Go away,” called a faint, hoarse voice from within.

  Athos looked at Milady. “Mystery solved, apparently,” he said. “Would you mind pinning a note on the door to the main wing, to let de Tréville know what’s happening and where to leave supplies if we need them?”

  “And miss the drama of the next few minutes?” Milady said, her voice laced with sarcasm. She paused. “Actually, you know what? On second thought, that sounds like an excellent idea. I�
�ll just go and do that.” She turned to d’Artagnan. “Don’t let them actually kill each other, please. That would be a rather embarrassing thing to have to explain.”

  D’Artagnan nodded dumbly, still too caught up in the horror of the thing to appreciate her attempt at lightening the mood. Porthos reached forward and twisted the handle, which was locked.

  “Open the door, Aramis,” Porthos said.

  No. Go away,” came the voice from within.

  “Yeah, right, because that’s really going to happen,” said Porthos. “Have you got the delirium already, mate?”

  “Fuck off,” said the voice, and d’Artagnan felt a momentary jolt of surprise at hearing the normally urbane Aramis speak so.

  “Fuck off, yourself,” said Porthos, and kicked the door in.

  The three of them piled into the room, only to be confronted with Aramis, pale and wan, pointing a pistol at them with a trembling hand. “That wasn’t a suggestion, mes amis,” he said. “Go. Away. I’m not going to let you in here.”

  Chapter VI: August 6th, 1631

  ATHOS SIGHED, AND STALKED forward toward the armed man on the bed with the air of someone whose patience had run dry some considerable time ago.

  “Stay back.” Athos ignored him. Aramis shimmied backward up the length of the mattress, trying to keep space between them, the shaking pistol still pointed at Athos’ heart. “Don’t... don’t touch me, Athos. Save yourselves. Don’t—” Athos reached forward and relieved Aramis of the weapon, un-cocking it and placing it calmly on the bedside table. Bereft of his final defense, Aramis seemed to collapse in on himself. “Why?” he asked, his voice pained.

  “You’re an idiot, Aramis,” said Athos.

  “Why do you think?” Porthos said, flopping down onto the bed next to Aramis and tangling a hand in his hair, cradling the back of his skull.

  “I seem to recall something about ‘all for one’,” d’Artagnan managed, dropping down to kneel beside the bed.

  “I was aiming for ‘one for all’,” Aramis said, sadness infusing his voice.

  “With the way your hands were shaking on that pistol, your aim’s evidently not that great right now,” said Porthos.

  “Oh, there were pistols involved?” Milady said from the doorway, having returned from her errand. “How wonderful. So sorry I missed it.”

  “You, as well, Milady?” Aramis said, defeated. “I would have expected you, at least, to have more sense.”

  “Any sense I might have had once upon a time fled long ago,” Milady said. “I put it down to the company I’ve been keeping of late. Nonetheless, I’m not the person you should be worrying about; I’ve survived the plague once, and it holds no further fears for me.”

  “Send the others away, then,” Aramis said, desperation in his raspy voice. “Perhaps it is not too late.”

  “Aramis, please,” Milady said dismissively. “If a gun in the face wasn’t effective, I doubt my own persuasive powers are up to the task.”

  “Sometimes I really do hate the whole lot of you,” Aramis said, slumping back against the headboard. “You know that, right?”

  “No, you don’t,” Athos said matter-of-factly. “Now get your shirt off; let’s have a look at you.”

  Aramis sighed, and tossed a questioning look at Milady, who raised an eyebrow and said, “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before; most recently in Blois when someone skewered you on a sword. This disease isn’t big on dignity, so you might as well get used to it.”

  “Oh, good,” Aramis said on a sigh, peeling off his loose, linen shirt. “Something else to look forward to.”

  D’Artagnan, who had kept mostly silent throughout, forced himself to look at Aramis closely. His complexion was pasty except for two high spots of color on his cheeks, and there was a fine sheen of sweat over his forehead and chest. Angry swellings nestled under the left side of his jaw and his left armpit, and d’Artagnan swallowed. At least he couldn’t see any black spots developing yet on the flesh, though there was a scattering of little red pustules at the junction of Aramis’ neck and shoulder, close to the place where the kitten in M. Rougeux’s barn had scratched him.

  “Are you coughing?” Porthos voiced the question no one had wanted to ask. Once a person with buboes started coughing blood, they would be dead by the following morning without fail. D’Artagnan held his breath.

  “A bit, but it’s dry—no blood or phlegm,” Aramis replied, and d’Artagnan exhaled quietly. “I’m weak; I feel feverish. My joints hurt, and I have a pounding headache which, I should note, has not been improved by your intrusion. And, of course...” He trailed off, gesturing at his neck and armpit.

  “We could send for a doctor,” d’Artagnan said.

  “No doctors,” Aramis replied immediately. “If doctors could cure the plague then it wouldn’t have killed two-thirds of France. And I won’t expose the people of Chartres.”

  “All right, Aramis—no doctors,” Porthos said. His expression fell as he continued, “It was traveling through Chassant that did this, sure as anything. You could smell the miasma hanging over the place. I knew we should have gone south instead, through Illiers-Combray.”

  There was nothing to say to that. As many unpleasant memories as Illiers-Combray held for d’Artagnan, he would have willingly braved them and fought any of Isabella’s troops remaining there, if it meant Aramis would not have fallen ill.

  “You might as well make yourself comfortable while we clean and air out the room, Aramis,” said Milady, ever practical. “Can you eat something?”

  Aramis shook his head. “I have no appetite.”

  “Try to take some watered wine, at least,” Milady urged, and bustled about, mixing a cup for him. Aramis accepted and took a sip or two before setting it aside, next to his discarded pistol.

  As if that was the signal to free the others from their paralysis, they rose and began to divide up the tasks of making the abandoned room livable while Aramis fell into an uncomfortable doze, stirring now and then to curse at them half-heartedly when the banging of furniture being moved or the flap of a rug being shaken out at the open window disturbed him.

  By early evening, their surroundings were up to the standards of a group of soldiers, and even of a former comte and comtesse now accustomed to living as such. Aramis woke from an hour’s deep sleep, wracked by chills despite the sultry summer air and the heat radiating from his fevered skin. Porthos hurried to wrap him in a thick blanket and mopped the clammy sweat from his face with a cloth. Milady plied him with a bit more to drink, and after awhile he drifted off again, occasional shivers still chasing themselves through his body.

  As the light at the window faded, Athos spoke from the chair he had claimed across the room. “If we’re not to exhaust ourselves, we’ll need to take this in shifts.”

  “I’m not tired,” d’Artagnan said immediately, though it would have been more accurate to say that he dreaded the images his mind was sure to supply him with if he were to close his eyes. “You three should get some rest.”

  Athos nodded. “Anne and I will take the room next door. Porthos?”

  “I’ll sleep in here, on the settle,” he said, pointing to the low, wooden construction in the corner. Had d’Artagnan not known from experience that Porthos was capable of sleeping absolutely anywhere, under any conditions, he would have suggested somewhere more comfortable.

  “I want to stay up for a bit and pen a more informative report for de Tréville and the others,” said Milady. “I’ll check whether they found the note I pinned on the door to the main wing, and I might see what state the kitchens in this wing are in, as well.” She rose, and kissed Athos briefly before turning to depart. “I’ll be along in a while.”

  When she disappeared through the door, Athos rose as well and crossed to stand with them near the bed. He laid a hand on Porthos' shoulder, and squeezed the back of d’Artagnan’s neck briefly. D’Artagnan looked up at the familiar face of his mentor, marred now with an ugly burn scar under his right
eye, a memento of his torture in Illiers-Combray.

  “You’ll wake us immediately if you need anything, or if there’s any change,” Athos said, not phrasing it as a question, and d’Artagnan nodded.

  He puttered around, lighting a single candle while Athos headed to the room next door and Porthos made himself a nest of blankets on the settle and curled up to sleep. Sitting in the chair by the bed, d’Artagnan allowed himself a twinge of envy as, a few minutes later, the sounds of heavy snoring began to emanate from the corner. He had a feeling it would be a very long time before he himself next slept.

  Time crept by like cooling treacle, marked only by the candle’s slow drip. D’Artagnan was startled free of the demons in his mind by a soft moan as Aramis awakened. He leaned across and picked up a rag, dampening it and mopping Aramis’ brow as the sick man blinked into awareness.

  “How do you feel?” he asked when Aramis’ eyes settled on him with apparent lucidity.

  “About the same, to be perfectly honest. Though I’d like a word or two with the tiny man who keeps driving a dull axe into my skull every few seconds. Help me sit up, please.”

  D’Artagnan eased Aramis into a sitting position against the ornate headboard, propping him up with some of the dusty embroidered pillows they’d found earlier in one of the other rooms. He accepted the cup that d’Artagnan handed him, but made a face after a single sip and set it aside. A particularly loud snore came from Porthos’ direction, drawing Aramis’ attention to the sleeping man.

  “Taking it in shifts, are you?” he said, his voice weak and hoarse.

  “Yes,” d’Artagnan replied simply. “Do you need anything?”

  “Distraction would be good,” Aramis said. “I find I am not yet ready to contemplate weighty matters of faith and mortality, so let us speak of something else.”

  “What should we talk about?” d’Artagnan asked, since his mind seemed to have seized up like a rusty wagon wheel ever since learning of Aramis’ illness that morning, leaving it stubbornly blank and slow.