Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3

by R. A. Steffan

  “I realize that you will not necessarily be in a position to fulfill my request of you,” the older man said, the words unusually indirect for such a normally curt and taciturn individual, “but if it is possible, I would like for you to... to attempt to...”

  In a flash, d’Artagnan understood. “Athos,” he interrupted, “I think Milady is perhaps the most capable of all of us of looking out for herself. That said, to the extent that it is within my power to do so, I will try to keep her safe.”

  Athos released the breath he’d been holding, almost imperceptibly. “Of course you will, d’Artagnan. I know that. I merely—”

  “I understand,” d’Artagnan said solemnly. “Keep everyone here safe as well, if you can.”

  “You have my word on it.”

  D’Artagnan extended a hand to grip his mentor’s upper arm, and received a firm, unwavering grip on his own arm in return.

  “Come,” said Athos, taking both women’s horses by the reins and leading them out into the yard. “You had best get an early start. It will be hot today for traveling.”

  D’Artagnan followed with his own horse. Outside, Aramis was saying his farewells to Constance and Milady, bestowing a courtly kiss on the right hand of each. He turned to d’Artagnan and pulled him into a warm embrace, which d’Artagnan returned.

  “Safe journey, little brother,” Aramis said. He flicked his eyes briefly to Constance and back again. “Remember that you carry your treasure with you.”

  “Some of it, yes,” d’Artagnan agreed, patting the other man on the back before withdrawing. “And I expect to see the rest of it again before too long.”

  Aramis smiled broadly and clasped his shoulder. “So you will.”

  De Tréville cleared his throat. “Her Majesty sends her well wishes for all of you, and you have mine as well. I have every confidence in your ability to succeed in this important mission.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” d’Artagnan said, and shook de Tréville’s hand firmly.

  Milady did not acknowledge de Tréville’s presence at all, but her eyes flickered across d’Artagnan and Constance. “I’ll see you soon,” she said. “Constance, give me a few days and I will speak to the Cardinal about making you my personal maid.”

  “That’s fine,” Constance replied. “I’ll need at least that long to settle in, I suspect.”

  D’Artagnan stepped forward to boost Constance into the saddle. When he turned around, it was to find that de Tréville had retired and Athos was kissing Milady goodbye. He jerked his attention away to give them some privacy, his gaze falling instinctively on Constance instead—only to find that she was watching the pair avidly, like someone trying to work out a puzzle. D’Artagnan mentally shook himself free of his thoughts and mounted his own horse, even as Athos and Milady parted. Athos helped his wife into the saddle.

  With a final wave, d’Artagnan and Constance headed for the north gate out of the city, while Milady made for the east gate. Chartres was quiet this early in the morning except for the occasional merchant setting up wares for the day. Ahead of them, the Porte Châtelet still showed slight signs of damage from Isabella’s final attack, though the bulk of the repairs were finished.

  “Did you get a chance to say your farewells to your brothers yesterday?” d’Artagnan asked.

  “I did,” Constance replied. “Between this and following the troops to La Croix-du-Perche, I believe they despair of my future. I’m certain I heard them discussing tying me up in the cellar for my own safety when my back was turned.”

  “You have my solemn word that I would ride to your rescue were they ever to attempt such a thing,” d’Artagnan said, hiding a smile.

  Constance laughed. “That’s good to know. Mind you, I only told them that my godfather secured me a place at court, and they still believe I was working as a wet nurse for a wealthy merchant’s wife, so they don’t even know the half of things.”

  The pair of them passed through the arched gates leading out of Chartres. They nodded at the guards, who offered respectful salutes in return.

  “I would like to meet them at some point,” d’Artagnan said.

  “I’m sure you will... at some point,” Constance hedged. “I’m afraid you may find them a bit overbearing. I certainly do. It’s why I took the first chance I could to get away from them, frankly. I may have been a child when I was married off and left home the first time, but I’m a grown woman now—a respectable widow—and I’m tired of other people trying to run my life for me.”

  “You’ve become wet nurse to a King and a spy for the Queen in the course of a single summer,” d’Artagnan said, unable to keep the grin off his face. “You seem to be quite capable of controlling your own destiny, from where I’m sitting.”

  Constance blushed, and he caught his breath as she sent him a look from underneath her dark eyelashes that set his blood to smoldering.

  “It took me awhile, but I’m doing my best,” she said, and her low, honeyed tone did nothing to calm his heart.

  He cleared his throat awkwardly, and changed the subject. “When we get to Paris, we’ll have to ask around for some affordable rooms nearby, I suppose. Do you know what the rents are like there?”

  She did not protest the conversational shift, though her cheeks remained pink and flushed even as they discussed a basic budget for their needs and debated how much they were likely to be paid, as servants. Their plan, in deference to the stifling heat and Constance’s relative lack of riding experience, was to reach Paris in four days, traveling between six and eight leagues per day and staying at inns every night. Today they would make for Éparnon, and with their early start, they could find some shade and rest during the midday hours if need be.

  Indeed, it was not long until the hazy humidity of the early morning gave way to a scorching yellow sun. D’Artagnan felt the sweat trickling down his back and chest before they’d ridden three hours, and beside him, Constance’s curls began to stick to her forehead and cheeks, a growing damp patch of perspiration soaking through her bodice and darkening the material. While d’Artagnan could and did remove his leather jerkin, riding in his linen shirtsleeves, modesty prevented Constance from doing anything more than twisting her hair up into a messy bun to get it off her neck and fanning herself one-handed with a lace fan that had been a last-minute gift from the Queen.

  When a copse of trees appeared in the distance with the sun beating down from overhead, they urged the sweat-lathered horses toward the shade eagerly. The little glade contained a muddy runnel—nothing more—but the horses drank thirstily from the cloudy water, and it was at least out of the glare of the unforgiving sunlight.

  “Ugh,” Constance said as she slid down to sit at the base of one of the larger trees, waterskin in hand. “There’s not even a hint of a breeze. I thought it was bad in Chartres, but at least the kitchens in the palace stayed cool most of the time.”

  D’Artagnan pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and dipped it in the little trickle of water until it was soaked. “Here,” he said, handing it to Constance. “Tie this around your neck. It’s not much, but it should help a bit.”

  Constance did as she was bade, and sighed in pleasure. “No, that’s really good, actually. Thank you.”

  They drank from the skins and d’Artagnan splashed a little water on his own neck and chest. It was too hot to nap, and d’Artagnan did not want to leave them unguarded in any case, so they merely sat quietly against their respective tree trunks, passing the time in a near stupor as the horses dozed and stamped at flies. Occasionally a cart or someone on foot would pass on the road beyond the trees, but no one disturbed them. The dappled light filtering through the trees and the buzz of insects lent an almost dreamlike quality to their surroundings, and d’Artagnan found himself watching Constance as she leaned back, eyes closed—comparing her to some fanciful forest nymph of legend.

  Eventually, she blinked her eyes open and caught him staring, but she only smiled and stared back for a while. After a shor
t time, she took a deep breath and released it in a sigh, breaking the moment as she stretched her arms and back.

  “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’m almost as hot and sticky here as I was out on the road. Honestly, I think I’d rather press on so we can get to Éparnon and be done with it. Are the horses doing all right?”

  D’Artagnan looked at the animals, standing with their heads down as they swished at insects with their tails. “They seem to be. Are you sure you’re ready to go on?”

  “Oh, yes,” Constance said. “I don’t feel sick at all like I did on the ride to Chartres. Just sweaty and uncomfortable.”

  “In that case, I’m all for getting someplace with ale and decent food as soon as possible,” d’Artagnan agreed. They both rose, and Constance made as if to give him back the kerchief that had been looped around her neck. He waved her off. “Keep it. You need it more than I do with those heavy skirts and layers.”

  “Fair enough—I won’t argue,” she said, and went to soak the square of linen again before tying it loosely in place once more.

  The two of them mounted and rejoined the road to Éparnon, speaking little as they let the horses choose the pace, keeping to the shade whenever there were trees near the verge. If the morning had been hot, the afternoon was positively brutal. They drank frequently from their ever-lighter waterskins, occasionally sacrificing a splash of water for their faces and necks.

  As mid-afternoon progressed, a larger line of trees appeared before them in the distance. The horses had been plodding along listlessly, but they suddenly perked up in interest and began to pick up the pace.

  “Isn’t there a small river between Chartres and Éparnon?” Constance asked, posting in the saddle to avoid being jolted by her mare’s hurried trot.

  “You’re right,” d’Artagnan said. “That must be it up ahead.”

  Both animals sped up to a steady canter as the smell of water grew stronger, and the trees grew closer until they could hear the sound of rushing water over the pounding of hooves.

  The River Voise was narrow and fast-moving where it met the road. A bridge made of half-rotted timbers spanned it, and d’Artagnan frowned, not liking the idea of trying to cross the untrustworthy-looking thing, especially on horseback. For now, though, it was a relief to let the horses stop on the muddy bank and plunge their muzzles deep into the cool water. Even looking at the rushing expanse seemed to make the humid air less stifling, and he heard Constance sigh in relief next to him as she looked around.

  She pointed downstream, standing in the stirrups to get a better view. “Look, it widens out downstream, and I think I can see a sandbar. Maybe we can cross there and avoid this terrifying excuse for a bridge. Let’s go see!”

  When the horses had drunk their fill, they picked their way along the tree-lined riverbank. Indeed, the mud gradually gave way to sand and pebbles, and the steep edge, to a gentle slope. Next to them, the water smoothed out, spreading over a wide swathe of the land, comparatively still and placid.

  “You’re right,” d’Artagnan said. “We should be able to ford this with no problem.”

  He urged his gelding to the edge to cross. The horse took one step into the shallow water, then another, before halting as if stuck in amber and snorting at the expanse before him. D’Artagnan, impatient, gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs with his heels, but rather than continue forward the gelding wrenched his neck to the side and lunged back for dry land.

  “Oh, you have got to be joking,” d’Artagnan said, righting himself in the saddle as Constance gave an unladylike snort beside him.

  “I believe you’ve just uncovered a slight issue with your new horse,” she said, ever so helpfully. “I could try leading the way with Lionne?”

  D’Artagnan gritted his teeth, feeling his pride rise to the foreground. “No, I’d best deal with this directly. A horse that won’t cross water is no fit mount.”

  Constance pressed her lips together and urged her mare back, out of the way. “Whatever you think best—you’re the horseman,” she said.

  Nodding his thanks, he turned the animal back toward the water. The big bay raised his head nervously, champing at the bit. D’Artagnan urged him forward. He balked at the edge and skittered backward. D’Artagnan thumped him in the sides with all his strength until he righted himself and re-approached, only to freeze, staring at the water as if it contained all the ocean’s sea monsters within. At his rider’s insistence, he stepped into the shallows once more, but this time he danced sideways as an evasion. D’Artagnan jerked his head around, keeping his nose pointed at the same small spot on the bank, allowing him to focus nowhere else.

  For fifteen minutes they parried back and forth in that manner, d’Artagnan’s jaw clenching ever tighter as his temper rose. Finally, he extracted a length of leather strapping from his saddlebag and wielded it as a lash over the animal’s haunches when he tried to back away from the river’s edge. The gelding reared under the sting of the strap, eyes rolling. D’Artagnan did not let up, and after a frozen moment, he felt the muscles underneath him gather. He gripped with his knees as the horse plunged forward in a mighty jump, as if attempting to cross the whole expanse of water in a single leap. Horse and rider landed on the shallow, pebbled bottom with a jolt that dislodged one of d’Artagnan’s feet from its stirrup. Before he could regain it, the gelding gathered himself to plunge forward again... and disappeared from beneath d’Artagnan completely as they were swallowed by a deep, watery hole made invisible by the shadows of the trees playing over the shimmering surface of the water.

  D’Artagnan let out an utterly undignified yelp and got a mouthful of river water for his troubles. There was a powerful commotion in the water next to him, and he reached out with one arm, grabbing the saddle as his horse plunged past him toward the surface. The pair broke through, snorting and gasping, and d’Artagnan let the animal tow him across the river with powerful strokes until they regained their footing on the other side. When the sound of splashing subsided, he became aware of a different gasping noise coming from a bit further downstream.

  He dashed the water from his eyes and looked toward the noise, which turned out to be coming from Constance—desperately attempting to stifle laughter as she and Lionne picked their way carefully around the hole further downstream, where the river was shallow all the way across.

  “Are you all right?” she called, trying unsuccessfully to disguise the telltale quaver of amusement in her voice.

  Now on the shore next to his soaking wet horse and belongings, d’Artagnan took a quick mental inventory and answered, “Yes. Fine.”

  The gelding took this as the cue to shake himself like a large dog, spraying d’Artagnan with even more water. This was evidently too much for Constance, who collapsed forward over the saddle with hysterical laughter. Her mare climbed out of the shallows and came to a stop next to the dripping pair, snorting once and eyeballing him with the sort of look generally reserved for very young children or simpletons.

  Constance was still laughing.

  D’Artagnan took a deep breath. Let it out.

  “I completely deserved that, didn’t I?” he asked.

  Constance wiped her eyes and tried to draw breath. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I just can’t help it. If you could only see yourself!” She collapsed into giggles again, before managing, “At least you’re not too hot anymore, are you?”

  “I should throw you into the river as well, for laughing at me,” he threatened, beginning to see the humor of the situation.

  She threw up her hands to ward him off, a grin still splitting her face. “Stop, stop! Let me get some of these clothes off, and I’ll come in on my own. We need to give your things a chance to dry out for a bit anyway, and this is too nice a swimming hole to pass up on a day like today—despite what your horse seemed to think!”

  The blood that had been staining d’Artagnan’s cheeks pink with embarrassment suddenly rushed someplace considerably lower, and he coughed. “Yes,�
� he croaked, “of course. You’re absolutely right.”

  Constance looked at him closely. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  D’Artagnan nodded, and kept nodding. “Oh, yes. It’s just, er, a bit of water that went down the wrong way.”

  “Well,” Constance said, effortlessly taking charge, “in that case, unsaddle that poor horse and strip down to your braies. There are some rocks over there where you can lay your things out to dry.”

  D’Artagnan finally stopped nodding his head up and down like an idiot, and hurried to do as she bid. Meanwhile, Constance pulled the saddle off her own horse and stood back as the little mare lowered herself to roll in the cool sand of the bank, grunting with pleasure as she scratched her sweaty, itchy back—all four legs waving in the air.

  They tied the horses to a sturdy tree branch, and d’Artagnan unpacked his saddlebags, placing everything to dry in the patchy sunlight shining through gaps in the trees. His own clothes joined the damp collection, and when he turned back to Constance, clad only in his smallclothes, she was looking at him with a steady gaze despite her red-stained cheeks.

  “Go on in and turn your back,” she said. “I’ll let you know when you can look.”

  D’Artagnan waded in without complaint, feeling his way forward to the edge of the hole. When he felt the pebbles under his feet start to drop away precipitously, he launched himself forward into the depths and began to tread water, keeping his back to Constance on the shore. The river was cool but not cold, and went some way toward reducing the physical manifestation of his sudden ardor. He had no idea just what Constance intended, but to be with her like this—to feel her eyes on his naked chest after he disrobed—was already far more than he had expected.

  After a few moments, the sound of splashing footsteps approached him from behind. A larger splash nearby pushed a small wave against his back, and Constance said, “You can look now.”

  D’Artagnan sculled his hands through the water, pivoting in place. Constance swam a few feet in front of him, submerged to the collarbone. She was wearing her gray linen underdress, which billowed around her arms and chest; the rest of her figure disappearing into invisibility in the murkier water below. She grinned at him impishly and shoved her hands forward, splashing him full in the face with a wave of water. D’Artagnan spluttered in surprise and dashed his eyes clear with one hand, his own smile growing.