“We need to leave before guards come to investigate the shots,” he said. “Porthos’ rooms are closer; we’ll go there.” He urged her forward a cautious step or two, and she hissed as the pain at her hip flared white-hot. Aramis paused, and asked, “Do I need to carry you?”
Milady shook her head determinedly, and took another step, and another. As they left the alley, she pulled the hood of her cloak up, covering her disheveled hair and bruised neck. To the casual observer, they would be a man helping his drunken mistress to her bed, or something equally mundane. She leaned on Aramis heavily, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
Her mind wandered back to her flight from prison with Father Gabriel, so many years ago. The way the fresh fleur-de-lys brand on her shoulder had burned and ached with every movement, pus seeping through the bandages hastily wrapped around it. She thought of Olivier, riding non-stop for days after being tortured half to death, to warn the Queen of an approaching attack.
She kept walking.
When Aramis came to a halt in front of Porthos’ door and pounded on it, it was almost a surprise. He growled in irritation when no one answered, and helped Milady prop herself against the doorframe so he could go rummaging behind a filthy old barrel sitting next to the entrance to the rooms. He came up a moment later holding the spare key and let them in, slamming the door behind himself.
Aramis helped Milady to the large table, sweeping the papers and other detritus covering it to the floor carelessly with his arm. He urged her to lie back, placing her rolled-up cloak behind her head to cushion it. Nausea swelled for a moment at the change in elevation, but she swallowed it down painfully.
“Of course I had to wait to get shot until after the fucking opium stopped working,” she croaked, pleased that her voice still worked, more or less.
“Hush,” Aramis said severely, lighting lamps and rummaging for supplies in Porthos’ pantry with the familiarity of long acquaintance.
He came back with a small blade and slit her skirts, exposing her injured hip. Milady spared a rueful thought for Constance and her admonition not to damage the borrowed dresses as Aramis dabbed at the blood with a rag and examined the wound beneath. A moment later, he straightened with a sigh of relief.
“Merely a graze,” he confirmed. “It’s left a furrow about a finger’s width wide and four fingers long, but it didn’t even reach the muscle. It’s already stopped bleeding for the most part. How is your throat?”
“How do you think it is? It feels like I’ve been strangled by a man twice my size,” Milady grated, fighting the urge to cough. “How’s your head?”
Aramis touched the back of his head. “Looks like I’ll have a lump to rival yours for awhile. It bled a bit, but it’s stopped now.”
At that moment, the front door flew open and a familiar voice roared, “Oy! Who’s in here?”
“Just us, mon ami,” Aramis called.
Porthos appeared in the entryway, pistol in hand. Looking disgruntled, he hung the pistol back on his weapons belt and came a little further into the room, taking in the scene.
“What the hell, Aramis,” he said, in the tired voice of someone who knew he had to ask, but wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Apparently, we managed to annoy Bebette’s client, the Marquis de Lavardin,” Aramis said.
“Yeah,” Porthos replied, and started pawing through a different cabinet. “Blackmailing a person tends to do that.” He pulled out a little clay jar and handed it to Aramis. “Here. I’ve got a bit of d’Artagnan’s salve left from when I got that little slice taken out of me last week. Put some of that on it before you bandage it. You gonna try to stitch it first?”
Aramis shook his head. “It will scar either way, and I think it will heal faster without stitches.”
“If the two of could refrain from speaking about me as if I were a piece of roast mutton...” Milady groused, the pain of her injuries making her short-tempered.
“Christ,” Porthos said, leaning over to examine her neck. “Someone tried to strangle you, as well? Aramis, where were you while all this was happening, exactly?”
“He was busy getting his head bashed in,” Milady said. Her voice was already growing hoarse and faint. “Now hurry up and do whatever you’re going to do with me. We need to talk.”
Porthos sighed and forced Aramis to look at him in the lamplight, checking the size of his pupils. When the big man started to run a hand through his hair, looking for the bruise, Aramis waved him off irritably. “It’s fine. Stop fussing,” he said, and returned to Milady’s injury.
She hissed as he applied salve to the angry furrow, but once the initial bright flare of agony passed, the concoction began to cool and soothe the damaged flesh. She relaxed back on the table and concentrated on breathing slowly through her nose as Aramis efficiently bandaged the bullet graze with clean linen and tied it off.
Porthos, meanwhile, was puttering around, warming a copper kettle in the fireplace and preparing something in a cup.
Once Aramis had helped her off of the table and settled her into a chair, Porthos handed the cup and placed an empty bowl on the table in front of her.
“Gargle with that,” he said. “It’s just salt water, but it’ll help. Spit it out when you’re done.”
She did so without argument, letting the briny water soothe her swollen throat. When she was done, he took the cup and placed a goblet of warm, watered wine mixed with honey in her hand, instead.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice coming a bit easier after the drink. “Porthos, someone will be sending a message to Viviénne in the morning, with instructions to get it to you. We need this message as soon as possible.”
Aramis raised an eyebrow. “You failed to mention that detail,” he chided.
Rather than point out that she had been a bit busy getting shot and strangled, she merely said, “It’s an invitation to a party hosted by the Vicomte de Castres, intended for Ninon. She is giving it to us, to use as we may.”
“The Vicomte is the owner of the mysterious brass seal,” Aramis clarified for Porthos, who nodded his understanding.
“Ninon suspected that we were not who we claimed,” Milady admitted. “I did not tell her our identities, but I told her of being abducted, and separated from Charlotte. She was sympathetic, and has no love for de Castres. She agreed to help.”
“Well,” Porthos said. “It sounds like you’ve made some real progress tonight, aside from both nearly getting killed. I’ll get the invitation into your hands as quick as I can tomorrow, but I’ll also thank you not to drag Mme Coquenard into these kind of schemes in the future.”
Milady nodded. Porthos’ reluctance to involve Viviénne in such things was perhaps not surprising. The musketeer captain doted on his widow, and was as protective of her as if they were already married.
“I’ll remember,” she promised him. “I was short on options tonight, and could think of no way in which doing this would put her at risk.”
“I know, Milady,” Porthos replied. “That’s why I’m talking and not yelling. You’ll get your invitation, don’t worry.”
Ever the amiable host, Porthos insisted they stay the night. Between her painful throat and the lingering effects of the poppy tea, Milady refused any food, but Aramis submitted meekly enough to being fed and having his head fussed over, now that Milady’s various hurts had been seen to.
Porthos’ bed, she could not help noticing, was considerably larger and more comfortable than Aramis’, Porthos presumably being unconstrained by the expectation of asceticism that came along with being a priest. Even so, Milady passed another restless night. Her discomfort combined with her excitement at the prospect of finally getting to the bottom of the mystery kept her tossing and turning into the small hours.
Finally, she fell into a light doze. In her dreams, she was inside a carriage, being jounced violently as the conveyance rattled over pitted roadways at great speed. Her hands were tied together in front
of her, but her fingers rested on Charlotte’s soft hair, her little girl sobbing softly in her lap.
A bag had been thrown over Milady’s head, plunging her into complete darkness and reflecting her own moist, stale breath back at her as she struggled to keep her composure.
“Maman,” Charlotte moaned, hands clutching at Milady’s skirts. “Maman, what’s happening? I’m frightened...”
Milady jerked awake with a cry, which immediately descended into a painful bout of coughing as her abused throat protested. What seemed mere seconds later, the door to the bedroom burst open. Porthos and Aramis charged in as if they expected to find her under attack by an intruder, rather than hunched over, half-tangled in the blankets as she coughed and choked.
“Water,” Aramis directed, and Porthos nodded, handing him the candle he was holding as he went to get her a drink to soothe her throat. Approaching slowly, Aramis put the candle down on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the mattress.
She sought his eyes in the flickering light, relieved that any wetness in her own could be put down to the choking fit. “I—” she croaked, and immediately fell to coughing again, clenching the blanket in frustration at her inability to speak.
Aramis placed a strong hand on her shoulder, bracing her. When she once again regained control and looked up, Porthos was back, handing her a cup of cool, clear water.
“Take it slowly,” he urged, and she nodded, raising the cup to her lips for a cautious sip.
Her chest and belly ached from the power of the previous convulsions, but the water felt like heaven as it slipped down her throat. When she was finished, she carefully cleared her throat.
“I’ve remembered something new,” she said, voice weak, but sounding more like herself.
Porthos and Aramis hovered over her, their expressions intent. She took a moment to contemplate the idea that two men looming over her as she sat huddled in bed could be reassuring to her rather than threatening, and to thank the fates that things in her life had aligned as they had, bringing these friends of Olivier's into her life. On her own, she would have no chance of success in her current quest.
“I was with Charlotte,” she said quietly, feeling the tears pressing at the back of her eyes. “We were inside a carriage, moving fast over bad roads. My hands were bound, and there was a bag over my head. Charlotte was frightened... crying. And then I woke up.”
There was murder in Porthos’ eyes, and compassion in Aramis’. She took strength from both, forcing composure upon herself.
“Was anyone else in the carriage with you?” Aramis asked.
“I think so,” she said, “though I could not tell you why I think so. Perhaps only because it would be foolish to leave prisoners unguarded.”
Aramis nodded. “Any distinctive sounds? Smells?”
Milady wracked her brain, but came up with nothing. “No. The carriage was loud as it jolted over the road, but that is all. The bag on my head was heavy... it was hard to breathe.”
“An’ we think this Vicomte de Castres character has something to do with it all?” Porthos asked. “Because if so, I’m going to need to have a word with him at some point.”
“I must have taken his seal for a reason when I escaped,” Milady said, feeling a new rush of self-hatred at the memory of Charlotte crying with fear and clutching at her. “And Ninon describes him as being something of a monster.”
“Right,” Porthos said. “I’ll send the invitation to Aramis’ rooms as soon as I can lay hands on it. It’s almost dawn. Can you walk, Milady? Or do you need to stay here for the day and recover a bit more?”
Milady flexed her injured hip and winced. However, to stay here put both Porthos and herself at risk—she was essentially a fugitive, and Porthos was the Captain of the Royal Guard.
“I can walk,” she said. “The injury seems much improved this morning.”
Aramis was watching her with an expression that said she was not as good a liar as she thought, but she trusted his own good sense to rule the day. As expected, he said nothing to contradict her.
There was little point in trying to sleep any more. They might as well take advantage of the early hour to leave undetected.
“Give me a few moments to dress,” she said. “And some more of that salt water and honeyed wine would not go amiss. Then we’ll leave.”
“Are you two likely to run into any more of Lavardin’s hired thugs?” Porthos asked, watching them both closely.
“Considering we left the last two dead in an alley, it seems unlikely,” Aramis said, his voice grim.
“Our friend the Marquis will be pissing himself, thinking we’re going to out him in retaliation,” Milady agreed. “I, for one, am content to leave him in that state for some time before finally putting him out of his misery.”
“Agreed,” Porthos rumbled.
The others left her to her privacy and she moved around the room stiffly, dressing and doing the bare minimum to put herself to rights for the journey back to the seminary. It was fortunate that she had a cloak to wear, otherwise her slashed and bloodied skirts might have raised eyebrows, even at this ungodly hour.
Porthos, secret peacock that he was, had a large, ornate looking glass hanging on the wall, and Milady used it to examine herself by candlelight. Purple bruises decorated her throat like a necklace, livid against the pale skin, and the dark circles under her bloodshot eyes made her complexion look even unhealthier than it already was. She was torn between hoping that the Vicomte’s party was a few days away so she could recover a bit first, and hoping that it was imminent so she could get one step closer to Charlotte.
With a sigh, she left the room to rejoin the others and start the painful trek back to Aramis’ rooms.
* * *
Once there, Aramis' level of mother-henning rivaled even Constance’s, as he changed Milady’s bandage and forced her to eat some grapes and soft cheese before plying her with valerian root tea. Afterward, he sent her back to bed with a promise that he would wake her as soon as the invitation arrived.
Some combination of the tea and her own exhaustion conspired to send her down into much-needed dreamless sleep for several hours. When she woke, it was to the sound of murmured Latin in the room beyond the bedroom door. Milady drank the cup of water that had been left on the table by the bed, successfully staving off a new round of coughing. Donning a dressing gown, she ventured out into the main room.
Aramis was kneeling in front of the small crucifix that hung in a corner, a plain wooden rosary clutched in his hand. His head was bowed in prayer. Uncharacteristically, he was so wrapped up in his devotions that he did not mark the opening of the bedroom door. Milady watched him for a moment, the picture of penitence.
“Are you praying for the immortal soul of the man who tried to strangle me?” she asked in a voice still hoarse from that very attempt. “Or your own?”
Aramis looked up and met her eyes unflinchingly. “Both, of course,” he said.
Crossing himself and touching his lips to the rosary, he rose to his feet and bowed before the cross.
“Can you eat a bit more?” he asked, neatly deflecting attention from matters of religion to matters of dreary mundanity.
She was saved from having to reply by a knock on the front door. At Aramis’ sharp look, she hobbled quickly back to the bedroom and closed the door, listening. A young voice spoke with Aramis, who thanked the child and sent him on his way. When she emerged from hiding, Aramis held a folded piece of paper up triumphantly.
“Let me see,” she said, limping forward and practically snatching the invitation from his hand. She laid it on the desk next to the small window and picked up the stolen brass seal, fitting the engraved end of the cylinder to the two halves of the broken wax seal on the invitation.
It fit perfectly.
"It appears that we do, in fact, have our man," Aramis said.
The invitation was nothing special, really. It requested the presence of Ninon de l’Enclos at a gathering at
the home of the Vicomte de Castres on the evening of the day after tomorrow. As far as Milady was concerned, it was both too long a time and too short.
"Can you forge something identical to this, only with our assumed names on it instead of Ninon's?" Aramis asked.
"I think so," Milady replied. She was by no means a master forger, but Father Gabriel had introduced her to the basics of copying styles of writing—a skill she had used on several occasions over the years.
“It’s too soon, though,” Aramis said. “You will not be sufficiently recovered.”
“I’ll have to be,” she said.
“You won’t be,” Aramis insisted. “Perhaps I could go alone...”
“No. Makeup will cover the bruising on my neck, and the bullet graze will merely be a nuisance by then.”
Aramis’ lips pressed together, his mouth forming an unhappy line. “And your voice?” he asked, his tone nearly accusing.
“I will... I’ll rest it between now and then,” she said after a moment. “And take more of Porthos’ salt water cure, several times a day, along with the warm wine with honey.”
Aramis shook his head. “Fine. I certainly know better after all these years than to try stopping you. I’ll bring paper and ink to put next to the bed, so you can communicate via writing when you need something. You should try to sleep as much as possible, and eat to keep your strength up. Would you like some more valerian tea?”
She nodded silently and sat down at the table, reaching for a bunch of grapes.
* * *
Milady dozed all through the afternoon while Aramis went off to teach his classes, leaving her in peace. Whenever she surfaced from her light sleep, she would spend a few minutes contemplating the next stage of their plan, and how best to implement it. By the time Aramis returned to his rooms—this time with d’Artagnan in tow—she had come to two conclusions, neither of which Aramis was going to like.
“Good evening, Milady,” d’Artagnan greeted when she emerged from the bedroom. Aramis had apparently warned him about her voice, because he continued on without waiting for a reply. “Constance sent me over with another batch of my mother’s salve. Porthos told us what happened, and she thought it might be useful. You should try putting some on your neck as well as on the bullet graze; it might speed the healing.”
Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4 Page 13