Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3

by R. A. Steffan

  “Your pony was a fine and valiant animal, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said. “He lived a long, rich life and carried the Queen of France on his back, riding at the head of her army. Also, he brought you to us, for which we are all very grateful.”

  D’Artagnan’s shoulders shook, and he held his breath, trying to bring himself back under control.

  “I don’t think you’re helping, Aramis,” Porthos said. “He’s right, though, d’Artagnan—Buttercup lived quite an amazing life for a strange-looking yellow pony of dubious parentage.”

  A completely inappropriate bubble of laughter rose inside d’Artagnan’s chest, and that turned out to be the thing that allowed him to wrestle his emotions back down. He scrubbed his hands over his face to clear the tears and mock-glared at Porthos, Aramis’ hand still resting on his neck. “My horse’s name was not Buttercup, Porthos.”

  Porthos grinned, completely unrepentant. “Well, the Queen herself named him, so I think you’ll find that it really was.”

  “You named him, you great—” he cut himself off, unable to think of a suitably cutting insult, but Porthos only continued to grin at him.

  “Really?” said the big man. “Strange, that’s not how I remember things at all.”

  Aramis snorted as he set aside his bowl of gruel. “Your memory can be shockingly selective in some areas, Porthos. D’Artagnan, pay him no mind. Go find yourself some privacy to read your letter from Constance. As for me, I believe I’ll try to sleep again.”

  D’Artagnan started to get out of bed, but frowned. “I should have asked earlier, Aramis,” he said. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  Aramis shrugged the shoulder that was not painfully swollen, and tried to smile at him. “The stomach cramps come and go. The rest of it is what it is. I haven’t forgotten my promise to you. Go read your letter. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

  D’Artagnan nodded in acknowledgement after a slight, troubled pause. He rose to his feet, taking a moment to steady himself against the bedpost after having been in bed for more than a day. The room on the far side of Athos and Milady’s was mostly empty except for a few items they had stored there to keep them out of the way. Rather than bother with a chamber pot, d’Artagnan relieved himself out the window, into the shrubbery below. With a deep sigh of relief, he laced up his breeches and seated himself at the room’s dusty desk and broke the seal on the letter, smoothing the page so he could read Constance’s light, curving hand.

  Dearest d’Artagnan,

  I wish you were here, so we could speak face-to-face. The Queen explained about your pony—how you had ridden him since you were a boy, and how he was one of the last connections you had to your family. I wasn’t sure what to do the other morning when I saw you and you seemed so distraught. I hope I was right to tell the others; I hope they found you and were able to help.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about things, these past few days. You’ve been so kind to me, but I know that I’ve disappointed you because I can’t seem to act like the other women that I see with their sweethearts. Kissing and giggling and sitting in their beaus’ laps. I don’t know why I’m so broken; why I can’t enjoy it like everyone else seems to... but, I’d like to try again. If you’ll have me, that is.

  The thrice-damned tears were returning again, and d’Artagnan blinked them back angrily, the words blurring on the page.

  I’m frightened for you, d’Artagnan. For all of you, of course, but for you, especially. I know you’ve lost so much already. You don’t like to talk about it, but I can tell. Maybe it’s because I have lost people as well. Please come back to me, when this is over. And in the mean time, write to me. I think that would help.

  Your loving friend,

  Constance

  Since there was no one present to see, d’Artagnan dropped his head onto his forearms for a few moments and let the tears come as they would. His heart was torn between hope at Constance’s words, and dread of what they faced in the next few days. It had been three-and-a-half days since Aramis fell ill, and it was generally the third or fourth day when those with the plague began the final descent into death—growing delirious, with their hands and feet blackening as the body died from the extremities inward.

  He could not allow his terror at what was to come show to the others. That would be sheer cruelty—they shared the same fears as he did, and chose to cloak them in banter and stoic bravery. There was no one he could turn to for solace as long as Aramis still lived... or perhaps there was. He raised his head, scrubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes, and looked down at the letter. The ink was smeared now in places where his tears had landed on the paper.

  He would write to Constance. He would try to share some of the broken places within himself with her, as she had shared hers with him. With new determination, d’Artagnan rose and folded the letter, placing it within his jerkin, next to his heart.

  He returned to Aramis’ room and washed his face and arms in the bowl of water on the table in the corner. Not wanting to wake Aramis or Porthos—who was dozing on the settle—he caught Milady’s attention and mimed writing with a quill. She nodded her understanding, gracing him with an approving twitch of one finely drawn eyebrow. Disappearing through the door, she returned silently a few moments later with paper, quill, ink, sand, and wax. D’Artagnan mouthed a thank you as he took the items and returned to the desk in the dusty storage room.

  The words came slowly, and with difficulty. Twice, he crumpled up the paper on which he was writing and started over from the beginning. He told Constance that any disappointment he had felt was because he thought that she was rejecting his advances outright and did not care for him. He told her the idea that she wanted to try again filled him with joy, and that he wished only to make her happy.

  He talked a bit about his family, trying to explain how their loss had made him want to wall up his grief so he would not have to feel it; how those walls seemed now to be crumbling, and how he feared to discover what would be left within the rubble when all was said and done. It helped, he told her, to think of her waiting for him, and to know that he could look forward to more letters from her. When he could think of nothing else to add, he signed it “Your devoted friend” and sprinkled the fine, powdery sand over the page to dry the ink before rolling it up and sealing it with a blob of melted wax.

  After delivering the missive to Milady to be added in with their usual daily report, d’Artagnan wandered down to the kitchen to make them a meal. De Tréville continued to supply them with food, but the selection was becoming less varied and it was apparent that the siege was starting to take its toll. He started a fire and set more grain to simmering for Aramis’ gruel, then stared at the basket, trying to think of something that could be made using turnips and onions. There was a bit of the chicken broth from the other day left in a pot, sitting in a cool, shadowed nook in the stone wall. A fine dusting of mold was growing on the yellow cap of congealed fat floating on top, but when he scooped the fat away and discarded it, the broth below was clear and smelled all right.

  It needed to be used anyway, so he set it next to the fire to boil while he chopped the root vegetables into thin slices. Throwing everything into the pot along with a bit of wine for flavoring, he pulled it away far enough that it would simmer, cooking the vegetables while the broth slowly reduced. The bread from yesterday was stale but not moldy. He crumbled up some of it and threw it into the pot as well, to thicken the broth. The rest, he sliced and toasted over the fire on a long metal fork while the other things cooked. A quick rummage uncovered a couple of wrinkly plums at the bottom of the basket, which he chopped into a juicy puree and added to the gruel. After a couple of seconds’ thought, he added a dash of wine to the gruel as well. When he tasted the resulting mush a few minutes later, it was disgusting with a hint of sweetness, which d’Artagnan decided to count as a victory.

  He ladled the gruel into a bowl and the cooked vegetables with their thickened sauce into a large dish, arranging t
he slices of toasted bread on top. Covering the dish, he balanced the bowl of gruel on the lid, grabbed a bottle of wine from their diminishing supply, and carefully made his way upstairs to the others.

  “I made food,” he announced, entering Aramis’ room to find everyone awake and gathered there.

  “Ah! I knew there was a reason I liked you!” Porthos said, rising to take the bowl of gruel for Aramis from him. “Smells good, too.”

  “Actually...” Aramis’ weak voice drew d’Artagnan’s attention to the bed, and to the sick man’s greenish complexion. “D’Artagnan, I’m so sorry... but could I prevail on you to take the rest of that next door? The smell is a bit much for me just now.”

  “Aramis, forgive me!” d’Artagnan apologized, feeling awful. “I didn’t think! I can take the gruel away, too, if it’s bothering you.”

  “No, no,” Aramis said with a wan smile. “Give me a few minutes, and I’m sure it will be fine. Take Porthos with you—he seems to be on the verge of starvation, based on the way his stomach is rumbling.”

  D’Artagnan nodded and exited the room, hearing one of the others cross and open the window to let in some air as he did so. Porthos followed him and took the bottle wine from his hand to open it.

  “Don’t feel bad. Like he said earlier, the stomach problems come and go,” Porthos said. “To be honest, I’m surprised it’s not worse after more than three days.”

  “Tonight will most likely be the turning point,” Athos said from the doorway as he entered.

  “That has been my experience as well,” d’Artagnan said. He paused, torn between not wanting to talk about it, and needing to know. “How did Milady’s illness progress?”

  “She reached the crisis point on the third day,” Athos replied, his voice carefully even. “She became delirious, and the skin of her feet began to blacken. But where everyone else died, she... did not. She lingered at death’s door for days, and on the seventh day she began to get better. It was weeks until she was able to leave her sickbed, and months before she was completely recovered... but she lived.”

  “I did lose the tips of two toes, though,” Milady said, joining them in the room. “Sometimes I still miss them.”

  “Enough of this talk,” Porthos said, sounding uncomfortable. “Let’s eat.”

  The others agreed, and took turns scooping soft vegetables and sauce onto the slices of golden bread.

  “This is really good, d’Artagnan,” Porthos said around a mouthful, and the others murmured agreement.

  “If there’s one thing Gascons are good at,” d’Artagnan said, “it’s food.”

  “Food, and stubbornness,” added Athos, who had ample reason to know.

  D’Artagnan silently toasted him with the bottle of wine, taking a swig before passing it around, since no one had thought to bring cups. Porthos finished his meal quickly, excusing himself to return to Aramis. The others lingered over the food and drink for a few more minutes before joining them.

  Aramis was just setting aside his half-finished bowl of gruel when they walked in. “Well, d’Artagnan,” he said. “I must say I’m impressed. Porthos, you should take notes on this—he’s managed to make gruel halfway palatable. I only wish I were in a condition to properly appreciate it.”

  D’Artagnan forced himself to smile. “Perhaps later,” he said.

  The rest of the day passed in desultory conversation and whatever distraction the five of them could muster. D’Artagnan slept a bit on the unforgiving wooden settle, jerking awake after a few hours, but unable to remember the contents of the dream which had disturbed his rest.

  The following morning, Aramis’ condition was roughly the same... as it was the morning after that, and the morning after that. On the seventh day, Porthos removed his hand from Aramis’ forehead and said, “Does it feel to you as though your fever is down a bit?”

  “My tongue doesn’t feel quite so dry and swollen today, I suppose,” Aramis said.

  “How are your joints?” Porthos asked.

  “They ache,” Aramis replied.

  “What about your head?”

  “It aches.”

  “Your stomach?”

  “Fine, at the moment.”

  “Fingers and toes?”

  Aramis kicked off the sheet and presented the appendages in question for inspection. “Still the right color,” he said.

  D’Artagnan watched the discussion carefully, wondering if it was too soon to start hoping.

  * * *

  At the end of the second week, Aramis was still weak and shaky, but his symptoms had improved considerably. The areas around his neck, armpit, and groin remained tender, but the swelling and redness had largely receded. Even the odd, blister-like pustules around the half-healed cat scratch on his shoulder had disappeared, and he was able to eat as long as he stuck to bland foods.

  The following morning, de Tréville threw open the door to the south wing and strode up the stairs to the set of rooms they’d been using, his footsteps echoing along the hallway.

  “Captain!” d’Artagnan said in surprise, scrambling to his feet from the chair in which he’d been slumped. Aramis snuffled awake, blinking sleep out of his eyes as de Tréville approached the bed.

  “If you were going to die, you’d have done it by now, son,” said the Captain, clasping Aramis’ shoulder. “You all might as well come back to the north wing. You’ll be more comfortable there, and I may have need of you before too long.”

  There was something about hearing de Tréville say the words that finally made it real in d’Artagnan’s mind. He’d known that Aramis was slowly getting better, but now, it was as if an unbearable weight was suddenly lifted from him, leaving him almost dizzy at the resulting sensation of lightness.

  “I would not like to think that I was putting Their Majesties at risk,” Aramis said cautiously.

  “Have any of the others gotten sick?” de Tréville asked.

  “No,” d’Artagnan answered for Aramis. “We haven’t.”

  “Then you’re not putting anyone at risk,” de Tréville said. “D’Artagnan, wake the others and pack everything up. I want you all back by mid-day.”

  “Yes, sir,” d’Artagnan replied, not sure he’d ever been so pleased to follow an order in his life.

  The rest of the morning was a flurry of activity as they gathered what belongings they had brought with them and picked up their meager food supplies from the kitchen—almost three weeks into the siege, food was not something to be wasted. Aramis balked at being carried on a stretcher, so they eventually contrived to walk him slowly down the back stairs supported between Porthos and Athos, an arm slung over each of their shoulders to keep him upright.

  They did not wish to alarm the bishop’s staff unnecessarily, so they crossed the grounds to reach the north wing rather than go through the main part of the building. A light drizzle was falling from the sultry midday sky, but the misty rain was not enough to dampen their spirits as they entered the large door and proceeded slowly toward the wide staircase leading up to the second floor. A figure emerged onto the landing at the top of the steps, and d’Artagnan’s heart gave an excited stutter when he recognized Constance grinning down at him radiantly.

  The two had continued to exchange letters during the course of Aramis’ slow recovery, and d’Artagnan felt that he was gradually starting to understand her better. In exchange, he had begun to uncover some of the damaged, shadowed parts of himself, exposing them to the light of day within his missives. For the first time in what felt like a very long time, he felt true hope for the future. The Queen and her musketeers had given his life meaning after the loss of his family and farm. With Constance he thought he might... just perhaps... find happiness as well.

  “D’Artagnan!” Constance called delightedly, and hurried down the stairs with light footsteps. She came to a stop half a step in front of him and looked up at him, cheeks flushed. The others continued on to meet de Tréville, who was descending more slowly—giving d’Artagnan
and Constance at least a pretense of privacy.

  “Constance,” he said with heartfelt happiness. “I’ve missed you more than I can say.”

  “I’ve been so scared for you,” Constance admitted. “And now, to see all of you back, safe and well... I could kiss you!”

  “Then it would please me greatly if you would do so, Constance,” d’Artagnan said, meaning every word.

  Constance bit her lip nervously. With a deep breath, she reached up to frame his face with her hands and direct him down so she could reach. D’Artagnan stayed utterly passive, though he was certain his eyes were expressing his feelings perfectly well without any assistance from the rest of him. He was fully expecting a kiss on the forehead or cheek, so a thrill coursed through his body when Constance’s lips touched the corner of his own, lingering for several seconds. Her eyes were bright when she released him and pulled away.

  “All right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. D’Artagnan could see her chewing the inside of her cheek, her thoughts evidently turned inward, before her radiant smile suddenly reappeared. “Better than all right. You’re home!”

  Unable to help himself, d’Artagnan gathered her hands in his and raised them to his lips, watching her carefully the whole time to make sure that it wasn’t too much. Her smile did not falter as he kissed her knuckles, and he felt his own lips turn up in an answering grin.

  “Will you walk with me in the grounds, later this afternoon?” he asked, his chest feeling light and free.

  “Happily,” she answered without hesitation. “Now, though, I want to say hello to Aramis and the others.”