Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3

by R. A. Steffan

  The influx of fresh fighters seemed to finally turn the tide. Some of the city guard broke free of the fighting to barricade the damaged gate, trapping the remaining riders outside with Queen Anne’s approaching allies. Sensing imminent defeat, three riders managed to pierce the ranks of the defending soldiers and galloped toward d’Artagnan and Athos, attempting to head deeper into the city.

  Heart pounding, d’Artagnan smoothly flipped the arquebus he’d just finished reloading and pointed it at the man in the lead. Breathing out and steadying Rosita between his knees, he pulled the trigger and the man fell sideways from the saddle. An instant later, the sharp retort from Athos’ gun presaged the death of the second rider, who twisted and slid to the right, only to be dragged under his horse’s hooves when his foot slipped through the stirrup and jammed there.

  D’Artagnan released Athos’ mare, driving her out of the way with a shout. He tossed the empty arquebus to Athos and drew his rapier an instant before the final rider was upon him. Rosita reared and plunged forward. Steel clashed as the two heavy animals slammed into each other, and d’Artagnan felt a painful twist as his knee was briefly trapped between the beasts. He wrenched his enemy’s sword down and to the side with a yell, twisting his wrist to get his blade under the other man’s guard and slice up and into his stomach. The soldier screamed and dropped his sword, instinctively curling around the wound.

  D’Artagnan reined Rosita away to give himself space to maneuver if necessary, but a moment later a shot pierced the man’s heart and he fell to the ground, face up, eyes open. He was very, very young, and d’Artagnan shivered slightly. He turned to see Athos straightening from his firing position on the steps behind him, smoke curling from the barrel of his arquebus.

  “I don’t think we’ll see any organized incursion reaching farther into the city from this direction,” Athos said, gesturing toward the gate.

  D’Artagnan turned, and saw that the city guard and d’Aumont’s men had nearly succeeded in wiping out the enemy riders.

  “Are you hurt?” Athos asked.

  D’Artagnan bent and straightened his right knee experimentally, wincing at the soreness there. “Ask me again after I’ve dismounted back at the palace. He didn’t cut me, though.”

  “Very well,” Athos said, climbing down from his perch on the stairs to retrieve his horse, which had skittered away to the other end of the road to avoid the fighting. “We should return and give de Tréville a report.”

  The two of them rode back toward the palais épiscopal through streets that were now practically deserted.

  “This is it, isn’t it,” d’Artagnan said, feeling rising excitement at the idea of Isabella’s forces being well and truly beaten. “We’ll be marching to Paris next.”

  “I doubt it will be nearly as straightforward as that,” Athos said. “The final battle of this war will be fought largely behind the scenes, I would imagine.”

  D’Artagnan frowned. “How do you mean?” he asked, but Athos only shook his head and remained silent.

  When they approached the palace gates, Athos said, “I would strongly suggest putting your hands up unless you want Anne or Aramis to use you for target practice before they get a look at your face.”

  D’Artagnan mirrored him as the older man suited word to deed. When they were close enough to make out the glint of sunlight on a gun barrel, Athos lowered one hand and used it to doff his hat. Aramis’ head popped up from the cover of a parapet and returned a jaunty salute. The two returning riders lowered their hands and rode around the building toward the stable, where d’Artagnan dismounted slowly, placing weight on his bruised and twisted knee with some care. When it held his weight, he nodded in response to Athos’ questioning look and handed Rosita off to a stable boy.

  D’Artagnan accepted the support of Athos’ shoulder as they made their way inside and up the stairs, passing several of d’Aumont’s guards along the way. The door to the Queen’s rooms stood open, blocked by Porthos’ muscular bulk. The big man grinned as they approached, his eyes drawn to d’Artagnan’s noticeable limp.

  “‘Monitor the battle,’ wasn’t that what de Tréville said?” Porthos asked. “So, how’d that whole thing work out for you?”

  Athos glared at him without any real heat. “Perhaps on the next occasion that enemy soldiers break away from the battle to charge straight toward us, we’ll stand there like statues and allow them to run us through,” he said in a bone-dry voice. “Would that suit you better?”

  Porthos laughed aloud and stood aside to allow them entrance, clapping Athos’ shoulder as he passed. “Nah,” he said to their backs, “I’d miss you. Aramis isn’t nearly as much fun to tease as you two are.”

  Inside, the Queen was deep in conversation with de Tréville, d’Aumont, and several messengers d’Artagnan did not recognize.

  “Ah, good,” said d’Aumont upon noticing them. “How fares the Porte Des Épars?”

  “The gate was breached when we arrived,” said Athos. “Between three and four dozen riders gained entrance, but the situation was under control by the time we left. The gate has been barricaded, which should prevent any further incursion.”

  De Tréville looked pointedly at d’Artagnan’s leg. “Anything else to report?”

  D’Artagnan straightened self-consciously and cleared his throat. “We were forced to defend ourselves when three riders fleeing the main battle overran our position.”

  “Hurt badly?” de Tréville asked.

  “Just bruised, sir,” d’Artagnan said, and the older man nodded curtly.

  “If the Porte Des Épars is secure, gentlemen,” said the Queen, “then it appears Isabella’s attack has been successfully thwarted. “We must meet with the leaders of the newly arrived forces as soon as possible, to find out their numbers and discuss our next move.”

  “I have men on the battlements who will report as soon as the fighting outside is finished and the new troops approach,” d’Aumont said. “In the mean time, I will focus on coordinating the treatment of the injured and making sure the fires that were set inside Porte Guillaume are completely extinguished.”

  “We must also ensure that the gates are opened as soon as it is safe to do so,” said the Queen. “The people of Chartres have been trapped within these walls long enough.”

  * * *

  Much to his frustration, D’Artagnan was confined in his room, at the mercy of Constance’s tender care, when the meeting between the Queen and her new allies took place the following day.

  “It’s not that bad,” he groused as Constance packed his swollen knee with poultice and replaced the bandage to keep it in place.

  “Good,” she said, placing his foot on an ottoman next to the chair to keep the limb elevated. “In that case, rest it for the next day or so and it will be all better. Or you could keep trying to walk on it, making it worse... but don’t come crying to me afterward.”

  D’Artagnan huffed, but subsided. Constance rose and patted him on the thigh, and he took a moment to enjoy the casual way in which she touched him, platonic though it might have been. She gathered up the unused bandages and poultice, smiling at Porthos as she passed him on her way out.

  “Well? How did it go?” D’Artagnan asked, sitting up in his chair like a hunting dog scenting prey.

  “It’s good,” Porthos said. “Really good. More than twelve hundred men, up from Orléans and Nemours, mostly. There’s the promise of more coming soon, too. We should have nearly twenty-five hundred soldiers behind us within the next couple of weeks.”

  “Will we march on Paris now?” d’Artagnan asked eagerly. “Athos didn’t seem to think so, but with that kind of army, what’s to stop us?”

  “Another army, that’s what,” Porthos replied, his tone wry. “Don’t be in such a hurry to plunge France into a second civil war in the space of five years, d’Artagnan.”

  “Well, is there another plan?” d’Artagnan asked. “Sitting here in Chartres doesn’t help oust Isabella.”


  “That’s actually what I came here to talk to you about,” Porthos said. “The Queen and de Tréville want to meet with you and Constance after dinner.”

  “What about?” d’Artagnan asked, frowning. “Do you know?”

  “A little bit of espionage, as I understand it,” Porthos said. “Don’t be late.”

  * * *

  Leaning on a walking stick—at Constance’s insistence—d’Artagnan accompanied her down the hall to the Queen’s chambers. Athos was on guard duty at the door, looking, if possible, even grimmer than usual. He nodded at d’Artagnan and bowed slightly to Constance, ushering them inside. Queen Anne, de Tréville, Milady, and Porthos were seated around the large table. The Captain and Porthos rose in deference to Constance.

  When everyone had seated themselves, the Queen spoke.

  “Thank you for joining me, gentlemen... ladies. Your help in getting us to this point cannot be understated. Now, I fear I have another request for all of you,” she began. “As you may know, we have had a patron, of sorts, throughout this quest of ours.”

  “Our mysterious purveyor of ammunition and intelligence?” Milady asked, looking suddenly very interested.

  “Indeed,” said the Queen. “As his dealings have been largely with M. de Tréville, I will leave it to the Captain to explain the situation in more detail.”

  De Tréville drew in a silent breath, almost as if girding himself for the next few moments. “I have been very economical with the truth of this matter, I’m afraid,” he said. “Our contact resides in Isabella’s court, and is more highly placed than any of you have guessed. With his help, we have a very real chance of seizing power without causing a full-blown war, but there have been... questions... raised about his trustworthiness, after recent events. We need to determine, once and for all, where his loyalties lie before we make our final move.”

  “You might as well say his name,” Milady said, leaning forward—her eyes sharp as a hawk’s, “since I believe I’ve just realized who it must be.”

  “It is Cardinal Richelieu,” de Tréville said.

  “What!” Porthos exclaimed, surging to his feet; his chair screeching against the marble floor. “The Bloody Cardinal?”

  Beside d’Artagnan, Constance gasped. At the door, Athos stiffened and turned to look into the room as if he could not believe his ears. Milady leaned back in her chair, looking thoughtful.

  “Weren’t the men who captured Athos and myself in Illiers-Combray working for someone they called the Cardinal?” d’Artagnan asked slowly.

  “Indeed, that is the crux of the problem,” de Tréville said.

  “The crux of the—” Porthos began in a disbelieving voice, only to cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Even if he was on our side at the beginning—and I find that extremely hard to believe—he sold us out! His men tried to kill the Queen! They tortured Athos!”

  “And he has continued to send us gunpowder, bullets, and sensitive information the whole time,” de Tréville said in a monotone.

  “Porthos,” the Queen said gently, “sit down, please.”

  Porthos fell back into his chair with a thump, looking between his Queen and his captain as if the world had just gone mad. At the door, Athos returned to attention, looking out at the deserted hallway. His back was very, very stiff.

  “You intend to send a spy into Isabella’s court,” Milady said, looking at de Tréville, “to determine Richelieu’s true allegiance before making a move.”

  “I intend to send three spies,” de Tréville corrected, “and one go-between.”

  Milady raised an eyebrow.

  The Queen spoke. “Constance will use her connection with M. de la Porte to secure a position at court for herself and her... husband.” The Queen’s eyes flicked to d’Artagnan, who felt his throat go dry.

  Husband?

  “Milady will ingratiate herself with the Cardinal, who will be aware of her true identity as a confidante of mine,” the Queen continued.

  “By ‘ingratiate’, I assume you mean I will pose as his mistress,” Milady said without inflection. At the door, Athos’ already stiff back grew even stiffer.

  “And, Porthos,” de Tréville said, addressing the large man directly, “you will act as a go-between. I am aware that you have ties among the common people of Paris...”

  “All of my ‘ties’ in Paris are dead,” Porthos growled. “Captain.”

  “Nonetheless,” the Captain continued, “I am sure there are still people who remember you from your youth, or knew your family. You will establish yourself as a merchant or tradesman of some sort, and garner support for the Queen in secret among Paris’ citizens. You will also pass on messages from Milady, which you will receive via Constance and d’Artagnan.”

  “Though I should add,” said the Queen, “none of you are required to accept these roles. You are free to decline, and another will be found in your place.”

  “I’m in,” said Milady.

  “As am I,” Constance said. “The plan won’t work without me, anyway.”

  That decided things for d’Artagnan. “I am, as well.”

  Porthos made a noise of disgust. “I can’t very well let the rest of you walk into this alone, can I? But I still think you’d be better served putting one of Richelieu’s own bullets through his cold, black heart.”

  “I daresay that’s one reason why you’re not being installed at court,” Milady said.

  “Bloody idiots, the lot of you,” Porthos muttered, then blushed suddenly, looking down at the table. “No offense, Your Majesty.”

  * * *

  “So,” Constance said after they had left the meeting, skirting gingerly past the rigid figure of Athos and returning to d’Artagnan’s room, “we’re to be married, then.”

  “Not unless—that is to say, it’s only a—“ d’Artagnan stammered, still trying to digest everything. He took a deep breath. Let it out. “It’s only meant to be a ruse.”

  Constance laughed at him softly. “It’s all right, d’Artagnan. I’m not upset. And you’re very charming when you’re flustered.”

  “Thank you,” d’Artagnan said ruefully. “I think.”

  “I must pen a new letter to my godfather,” Constance said, looking thoughtful. “I wonder if we’ll need to get rooms elsewhere, or if we’ll be expected to stay at the castle.”

  D’Artagnan’s mind caught and stuttered at the idea of sharing rooms with Constance, whether they be at the palace or somewhere nearby in Paris—at actually living as man and wife. “Perhaps you should ask him when you write to him,” he managed eventually.

  “Hmm, yes... I will,” she replied. “There’s so much to plan! Which reminds me—you should take the Queen up on her offer of choosing a new horse. Lionne is a sweet mare, but you ought to have a horse you can ride into battle. She’s a little small for you, as well.”

  D’Artagnan frowned. “Wait... ‘Lionne’? You mean Grimaud’s mare?”

  “Well, you can’t keep calling her that forever,” Constance said, as if it was obvious. “Grimaud is dead, after all—she’s your mare now. Doesn’t she remind you a bit of a lioness? Both her color, and the way she growls and snaps at anything threatening.”

  “I... suppose?” d’Artagnan said. “But, yes, you’re right. If you are to ride... Lionne... then I will need another horse before we head to Paris. I’m afraid I’ve been putting it off to some extent.”

  Constance looked sympathetic. “I understand. It must be difficult, losing a horse that you’ve had for such a very long time.”

  D’Artagnan felt his eyes start to burn and cleared his throat. “Yes, but it’s time to move forward. Perhaps tomorrow? You could... come with me?”

  “If your knee is feeling better,” Constance said sternly, “then certainly—I’d love to.”

  After making sure he had everything he needed and would not have to move around too much, Constance left to write her letter and see to the King’s needs.

  Apparently, she told the Quee
n of d’Artagnan’s desire to choose a new horse, because the following morning a servant arrived to inform him that all of the captured enemy mounts would be brought to the stable behind the palace for his inspection at midday. Fortunately, d’Artagnan’s knee was much improved after another night’s rest and he was able to get around without too much pain, though Constance insisted that he continue to use the walking stick for now.

  They were met in the stable by Aramis—still slowly recovering from his long illness—and Athos, who looked, if possible, even more dour than usual.

  “A little bird told us you were choosing a new horse,” said Aramis, ignoring Athos’ obvious foul mood while simultaneously using the other man’s shoulder to steady himself. “We thought you might appreciate some outside opinions.”

  D’Artagnan debated asking where the others were, but Athos saved him the trouble.

  “Porthos and Anne would have been here, but they are discussing details of the mission,” he said, his voice absolutely level.

  “Do you prefer stallions, geldings, or mares, d’Artagnan?” Constance asked, deftly changing the subject.

  “Geldings are more predictable,” d’Artagnan said, “but I am not strictly opposed to the others.”

  “I firmly believe that the right mare can make a superlative mount,” Aramis said.

  “Certainly, both your mare and Athos’ are fine animals,” d’Artagnan agreed.

  “Well, let’s go see the choices,” Constance said eagerly.

  The animals were tethered along the rails lining the edges of the stable yard. Numbering about twenty, they consisted of the sound, uninjured horses captured during the attack in La Croix-du-Perche, the initial assault on Chartres, and the brief battle the previous day. It was a rather motley collection, ranging from short, scrubby animals of unremarkable breeding to a few fine specimens with arched necks and glossy coats.

  “What about that chestnut mare?” Constance asked, pointing.

  “She is badly sickle-hocked,” Athos said, and indeed, d’Artagnan could see that the animal stood with her hind feet tucked unnaturally far underneath her body, which would predispose her to lameness.