Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3

by R. A. Steffan

  When they were out of earshot, he turned to Constance and asked, “Is that sort of thing typical? The three men in front of us had more knives hidden on them than a dog has fleas.”

  Constance shrugged. “We’re obvious outsiders, and that makes us targets,” she said. “You get used to it.”

  D’Artagnan shook his head in disgust and let his attention drift to their surroundings.

  Paris was a rabbit warren of falling-down buildings and temporary repairs. Tents and lean-tos abounded, with skinny dogs roaming the street and grubby children clinging to bits of scaffolding, pointing and jeering. Lengths of hanging cloth took the place of missing walls and doors. It was like entering a different world. The mode of dress was outrageous to d’Artagnan’s eyes—skin was on display everywhere, and the women decorated themselves with feathers, fur, and gaudy jewels as if trying to outdo each other.

  The smell was nearly overpowering—unwashed bodies, rotting garbage, and sewage competed with the odor of baking bread and roasting meat, forming a miasma so thick it seemed that one should be able to scoop it from the air and pour it like a liquid. To d’Artagnan, who had barely become used to the smell in Chartres and was far more at home in the open countryside, it was stomach-turning. He shot a covert glance at Constance, who seemed largely unaffected by their surroundings.

  “Things have gotten even worse since I left,” she said. “I suppose it’s no surprise, really.”

  De Tréville had provided them with the address of the little bakery where Porthos would be based, and they made their way toward it as the evening light began to fade. They were to meet him after dark in the alley behind the building, where he would take their horses and d’Artagnan’s weapons for safekeeping. It would not do, after all, for d’Artagnan to show up for an interview to become a footman with all the accoutrements of a soldier in tow.

  D’Artagnan trusted to Constance’s familiarity with the city as they wended their way through the increasingly dense labyrinth of streets and alleys. The last of the day’s light gave way to the patchy illumination of smoking lanterns set along the roadway at intervals, and he was relieved that they had not arrived later. He had fully expected to have to wait for some time before their clandestine meeting; now, though, it was likely that it would be Porthos who found himself waiting on them.

  As the night deepened, the sounds of commerce gave way to the sounds of drunken carousing, keeping d’Artagnan on edge as he watched for threats in the unfamiliar, chaotic surroundings. Finally, they reached the appointed meeting place and dismounted, leading the horses cautiously into the near-blackness of the alley. D’Artagnan let out a short, sharp whistle—the same tone that Porthos had used months ago to catch his attention during a fight on the day they’d first met—and a shadow detached itself from a doorway a little further down.

  “Glad to see you both made it safe,” Porthos said, stepping into the sliver of light cast by the lantern beyond the mouth of the alley.

  D’Artagnan blinked. “You, too,” he said, taking in the tight leather jerkin that left Porthos’ muscular arms and barrel chest bared to the humid night air, exposing a complex pattern of tattoos he had never seen before. “When did you arrive?”

  “Early yesterday morning,” Porthos said.

  “You must have ridden hard,” said Constance, “to get here so fast.”

  Porthos shrugged one broad shoulder. “Didn’t see any point in loitering.”

  “Is everything all right?” d’Artagnan asked tentatively. “We missed you when we left Chartres.”

  “Yeah, fine,” Porthos replied. “S’just—this place brings back memories, is all. Not all of them good.”

  “I know what you mean,” Constance agreed. “Though I didn’t realize you were from here. Did you live in Paris long?”

  “Most of my life, until I left with... Ana María,” he said, wary of passersby who might overhear an indiscreet word.

  His tone did not encourage further discussion about his past, a state of affairs with which d’Artagnan could well sympathize. Rather than pursue it, d’Artagnan asked, “Do you have a place to keep the horses?”

  “Yeah,” said Porthos. “There’s a livery two streets over, on the Rue Cassette. I slipped the owner a little something extra—he’ll make sure they’re looked after and no one will ask any questions about ‘em.”

  “I’m not terribly pleased about handing over my weapons, after having had a look at some of the people around here,” d’Artagnan admitted, even as he started unbuckling his sword belt.

  Porthos shook his head. “You should both probably keep a dagger on you somewhere when you’re out and about, but honestly, you’ll attract more of the wrong kind of attention walking around Paris wearing the weapons of a gentleman.”

  “And my godfather says we mustn’t have any weapons on us when we go to the palace tomorrow,” Constance added. “We’ll probably be searched.”

  D’Artagnan let out a breath. “I know, I know. I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it... just that I don’t like it.”

  He handed the belt containing his rapier, main gauche, and pistols to Porthos.

  “You still got a knife, then?” Porthos asked, and d’Artagnan showed him the small dagger in its sheath at his waist, hidden by the fabric of his jerkin. Porthos nodded, his gaze turning to Constance. “How about you, Constance?”

  “There’s one hidden in my boot,” she said.

  “Good girl,” said the big man. “Well, then, let me have your horses and I’ll see you both at the bakery tomorrow. You got rooms yet?”

  “No, we just arrived,” Constance said.

  “For tonight, there’s an inn on the Rue du Vieux Colombier that’s not too dear... or too foul,” Porthos advised. “As far as permanent lodgings, talk to Mme Janvier who takes in laundry near the fishmonger’s stall. She’ll know of something suitable.”

  “Thank you, Porthos,” Constance said. “I can tell this isn’t easy for you.”

  D’Artagnan stepped forward to hand the horses’ reins to Porthos, and clapped him on the arm once he’d given them over. “Yes,” he said, “thank you. We’re both very glad that you’re here with us.”

  “Pfft,” said Porthos, making light of it, “you’ll do fine. I can see already that married life agrees with you.”

  Constance laughed, a light, clear sound. “Oh, yes—I’ll have him trained up to be the perfect husband in no time at all. Good night, Porthos.”

  “It sounds like I may need to start frequenting taverns with you in the evenings sooner rather than later, my friend,” d’Artagnan joked. “Good night, Porthos.”

  Porthos chuckled. “’Night, you two. Get some rest. Big day for you tomorrow.”

  The three parted company, d’Artagnan and Constance heading for the inn Porthos had recommended, and Porthos leaving to stable their horses with his own. The inn’s pustular proprietor looked them up and down as they stood across the grimy counter from him, and charged twice what the room was worth. Normally, d’Artagnan would have haggled, but it was late, they were both tired, and they were only staying for one night anyway. After sharing a quick glance with Constance, he shrugged and threw the coins down onto the sticky surface. The pair of them hoisted their meager packs of belongings and went upstairs to the second room from the end, eager to rest after their long journey.

  They ate the coarse bread and cheese that their host had provided them, and afterwards they lay on the bed together, kissing. Much to d’Artagnan’s delight, Constance asked him to touch her naked breasts as the she rubbed herself with lazy fingers, eventually shuddering through a silent climax. When she was sated, they joined hands around d’Artagnan’s cock, stroking together slowly until he followed her with a low groan.

  They fell asleep on the bed together soon afterward, but d’Artagnan awoke much later to find Constance battling a nightmare. He spoke softly to her, not touching her at all, until she seemed to slide back into a deeper sleep. Quietly, he eased out of the bed and laid his
bedroll on the floor, not wanting her to wake with him in the bed and feel trapped.

  Sleep did not return to him easily as he turned over the coming day’s events in his head, and he was only dozing when the gray dawn illuminated the room a couple of hours later. Constance yawned and stretched above him, and he watched intently as the blanket slipped from her bare chest. She smiled and blushed when she saw him watching, confusion marring her features when she realized that he had moved from the bed to the floor.

  “What are you doing down there?” she asked.

  “The state of that mattress is appalling,” he joked, straight-faced. “I’m amazed you could sleep on it, really.”

  She huffed at him. “Seriously, though.”

  “You were restless during the night,” he said. “I thought you might appreciate some space. I don’t mind, Constance.”

  “It won’t be like this forever,” she said softly, as if trying to convince herself.

  “Of course not,” he agreed. “This is very new for both of us. Though you should know that I will still love you just as much even if I have to sleep on the floor every night for the rest of our lives.”

  Constance looked troubled. “You’re a good man, d’Artagnan.”

  “Not especially,” he disagreed. “Merely one who is deeply in love with you.”

  “We should have breakfast and go to the palace before it gets any later,” she said, changing the subject.

  “Of course,” he said, and rose to kiss her briefly, relieved when she returned the gentle caress of lips with interest.

  They rose and dressed in clean clothes, descending into the taproom with their belongings. D’Artagnan was pleased to find that their gross overpayment for the room did at least include a rather good breakfast of fruit, bread, and cold meats. He wondered idly whether the bread came from Porthos’ bakery, only to shake his head at the idea of his friend kneading dough with his large hands, streaks of flour dusting his cheeks. For the life of him, he could not picture it.

  The inn was slightly more than a half hour’s walk from the Louvre. He and Constance were completely unarmed, as per M de La Porte’s instructions; a fact which made d’Artagnan feel decidedly jumpy. However, Paris in the early morning seemed quite a different place than Paris at night. While it was by no means deserted, what activity there was appeared to be much more inclined toward commerce and less toward mayhem. Whatever the case, no one molested them during their brief journey, and before d’Artagnan had quite prepared himself for it, they had crossed the bridge at Pont Neuf and arrived at the outskirts of the palace grounds.

  Chapter XI: September 6th, 1631

  THE LOUVRE WAS every bit as impressive as Notre Dame in Chartres, but in a completely different way. The palace was a sprawling quadrangular construction longer and wider than any building he had ever seen. Chartres’ Palais Épiscopal would barely have covered the gardens at the center of the courtyard. Armored, muscular guards flanked the front entrance to the grounds at regular intervals. When they stopped to explain their errand to one of them, the fierce looking man glanced at them disinterestedly and sneered.

  “What the hell do the likes of you think you’re doing at the front entrance?” he said. “Go round the back to the servants’ entrance by the river bank.”

  The admonition was accompanied by a vague gesture toward the older part of the palace to the south. D’Artagnan swallowed his irritation and apologized for the mistake; the two of them turned back and skirted the grounds, following the road that paralleled the stinking waters of the Seine. The building was still deeply impressive from this vantage point, but one could also see places where it had been damaged, presumably during Gaston’s coup four years ago. The fact that it had not been repaired in all that time seemed telling.

  Eventually, they reached the servants’ entrance, which consisted of a small stone gate with a guard post next to it. Again, they stated their business, and this time Constance handed over the letter from M de La Porte, inviting them to come to the palace and take jobs. The bored-looking guard read it over silently, mouthing some of the longer words, and handed it back with a shrug. He whistled, loud and sharp, and a few moments later a skinny pageboy with wide, blinking eyes ran up to them.

  “Take these two in to see de La Porte, boy,” he said.

  The boy nodded, and d’Artagnan and Constance made to follow him, but the guard slapped a hand down hard on d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

  “Not so fast, you,” he said. “Spread your arms and legs. I gotta search you first.”

  They had been warned to expect this, so d’Artagnan meekly complied, tamping down on his feelings of disgust as the guard groped at him, looking for hidden weapons. When he was satisfied, he gave d’Artagnan a careless shove that sent him stumbling forward a step.

  “You, too, little missy,” the guard said, beckoning to Constance.

  “Surely that’s not necessary,” d’Artagnan said, feeling his blood start to rise.

  Constance shook her head and threw him a quelling glance. “It’s fine, Charles. We’ve nothing to hide, after all.”

  She was pale, and her eyes grew glazed and far away when the guard leered and started to paw and squeeze at her through her clothing. D’Artagnan, meanwhile, flushed with anger, his fists clenching and unclenching with the desire to punch the man’s face until his teeth flew from his mouth like pearls from a broken necklace.

  He breathed deeply against the pounding of his heart in his chest, repeating over and over to himself the importance of their mission here. He was trembling by the time the guard backed away with a final careless pat to Constance’s backside and grinned at d’Artagnan’s impotent rage.

  “All clear,” he said with a broad wink, and waved them through. “I made sure to check everywhere.”

  If Constance had not started walking away, following the pageboy like someone in a daze, d’Artagnan wouldn’t have had the strength to control his temper. As it was, he glared at the guard for one instant longer and hurried after her. When they rounded a corner into a colonnaded walkway out of sight of the guard post, he stopped her with a hand on her arm, cursing himself when she flinched.

  “Constance,” he said. “Look at me.”

  She looked at him... or rather, through him.

  The pageboy shifted nervously from foot to foot, a few paces ahead. “Monsieur, Madame, I am supposed to take you inside. We should not tarry.”

  “We’ll go in a moment,” d’Artagnan snapped, and Constance flinched again. He groaned softly, and said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Constance. I need you to talk to me. Are you all right?”

  A small shudder ran through her frame. She blinked, and focused on him properly. “Yes, I... yes. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He frowned, watching her with concern. “Because that animal of a guard just mauled you, and I could do nothing to stop him.”

  She blinked again, and her gaze grew distant once more. “It doesn’t matter. We should go. My godfather will be expecting us.”

  “It matters to me,” he said, but he didn’t attempt to stop her when she gave him a wan smile and turned to follow the pale, impatient boy. They were shown into a large wing of rooms painted in dazzling white, with flowered wallpaper decorating the lower half of the walls, and expensive-looking furniture and art strewn about at intervals along the main hallway. As they went on, the surroundings became noticeably plainer, until the page stopped in front of a simple wooden door.

  The boy looked up at them. “What are your names?”

  “Charles and Constance d’Artagnan,” he said, and the boy nodded.

  The young page knocked on the door and opened it. “M. de La Porte,” he said self-importantly, “M. Charles d’Artagnan and Mme Constance d’Artagnan to see you.”

  “Show them in, lad,” said a tired voice from within.

  The pageboy ushered them inside and left them alone, closing the door behind him. A figure rose stiffly from a desk near the window and crossed to them. W
hile surely no older than de Tréville—possibly a few years younger—M. de La Porte had the bearing of a very elderly man, gaunt and stoop-shouldered.

  “Constance,” he said in a voice that was warm, but reedy and lacking strength. He held his hands out to his goddaughter and she clasped them tightly in her own. Her answering smile was genuine and affectionate.

  “Godfather,” she said, “It’s so wonderful to see you. How are Georgine and the children?”

  “Oh,” M. de La Porte said vaguely, “muddling along, my dear. Muddling along.”

  Constance released his hands and turned to introduce d’Artagnan. He was relieved to see that she seemed more like her normal self again. “Godfather, this is my... husband... Charles d’Artagnan. Charles, my godfather, M. de La Porte.”

  D’Artagnan nodded and shook hands with the man. His skin felt like cool parchment and his bones were fragile as a bird’s.

  “Please, Charles,” said M. de La Porte. “Call me Adrien, at least when we’re in private.”

  “Thank you, sir,” d’Artagnan said. “It’s an honor to meet you after hearing so much about you.”

  “Believe me, I’m happy to be of help,” said the older man, meeting his eyes meaningfully. “The palace could use some new blood.”

  It was the first hint from the old servant regarding his and Constance’s true mission here, but d’Artagnan did not fail to notice the careful wording.

  “We’ll do our best,” was all he said in reply. From the hopeful expression and nod he got in return, it was enough.

  Adrien turned to his goddaughter. “Constance, I was able to obtain you a position as a general maid. It will be hard work for little reward at first, but with luck, we’ll be able to advance you to the position of lady’s maid if a suitable lady comes to court.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Constance said, sending d’Artagnan a knowing glance.

  “Charles,” the old man went on, “I’m afraid you’ll have to interview with M. Delacruz for a position as footman, but given how difficult it is to find servants at all these days, I’m confident that things will work out. I told him of your arrival today, so if you’re ready, we can go to see him now.”