Book 1: The Queen's Musketeers, #1

by R. A. Steffan

  "D'Artagnan."

  "A Gascon by the accent, I take it," Aramis said.

  D'Artagnan grunted an affirmative, not looking up from his task.

  Evidently, this was not enough to discourage further conversation, as Aramis continued, "And what brings you north to Blois? I've been to Gascony, you know—beautiful country. If I had a place there, I think I'd find it difficult to leave."

  D'Artagnan felt a flush rise to his cheeks, the pounding ache in his skull ratcheting up another notch for a moment before subsiding to its previous levels.

  "I may have had a place there once," he said in a flat tone, "but there is nothing and nobody left for me in Gascony now."

  Aramis' brow furrowed in understanding and sympathy, but before he could form a reply, a commotion erupted in the street in front of the smithy. A girl's scream pierced the air, and the three friends locked gazes for a bare instant before charging to the door, drawing rapiers and pistols.

  Without pausing for thought, d'Artagnan followed, the balance of his own broken blade feeling awkward and wrong in his sword hand. Outside, d'Artagnan counted seven armed, surly-looking men stalking down the main road. Two of them were dragging struggling girls with them. The young women—not yet eighteen years of age if d'Artagnan was any judge—had the appearance of sisters. The younger one was crying, and the older one cursed her captor loudly, hitting at his shoulder and arm with her free hand to little effect. Further up the street, several onlookers stood in a knot, pointing and speaking in low voices, but taking no other action.

  Athos stepped into the roadway, blocking the procession with a drawn sword.

  "What is the meaning of this?" he asked, voice snapping like a whip.

  The apparent leader—a tough, older man with a ragged scar running from temple to chin—stopped two paces in front of Athos, regarding him with a sneer.

  "Nothing that involves the likes of you," he spat. "Run along back to your castle, little Comte, before you and your friends end up with worse than a bandaged shoulder."

  Porthos and Aramis were at Athos' side before the man finished speaking, and without consciously deciding to do so, d'Artagnan found himself flanking the injured nobleman as well.

  "Please, messieurs!" called the younger girl. "We are being kidnapped! Please help us!"

  "Shut up!" said the young man holding her, punctuating the words with a slap across his victim’s face. She cried out, and the older girl snarled in anger and redoubled her efforts to get free from her own captor.

  "That's enough!" bellowed Porthos, crowding forward toward the gang of men.

  "Release the girls," Aramis said, his voice deceptively mild but for the steel running underneath. "Now. I guarantee you will not enjoy the consequences otherwise."

  "My sons are simply claiming their property," growled the older man, stabbing the air with a forefinger to emphasize his words. "These girls were promised to them by their father before he died of the plague. Now their harpy of a grandmother is trying to renege on the deal!"

  "She was trying to protect us from these animals you call sons!" shrieked the older sister. "And you broke down our door, knocked her down, and kicked her until she stopped moving—a defenseless old woman! I will see you dead for that, you swine!"

  "You will not pass until you free the girls," Athos reiterated.

  "Oh?" said the boys' father. "And how are you going to stop us?"

  He stepped back two paces, drawing a pistol and aiming it at Athos' chest.

  Before d'Artagnan could do more than tense in reaction, Porthos raised his own pistol and fired, moving faster than d'Artagnan would have thought possible for a man of his size. The other man fell to the ground with a grunt, his own pistol shot going wide; blood spraying from a wound in his thigh.

  With cries of rage, the four men who were not holding the girls captive surged forward, brandishing swords and clubs. D'Artagnan scanned the group, but saw no one else with a pistol. An instant later, he was set upon by a man half a head taller than him and twice as broad, wielding a heavy mortuary sword of the type favored by Englishmen.

  The heady rush of imminent death cleared every last ache and twinge from d'Artagnan's body, and he felt as if he could fly. The impact of the edged weapon against his own broken rapier reverberated up the length of his arm, but he held fast, wrenching his opponent's blade to the side and dancing around his guard.

  D'Artagnan tried to keep half an eye on his companions' progress, while also contemplating his own woes. Unlike his opponent's sharp-edged sword, his rapier was useless for slashing... and with the tip broken off, it was now fairly useless for thrusting as well. With his sword snapped and his dagger and pistols stolen, d'Artagnan lacked any useful offensive weapon, and was limited to dodging and parrying the other man's attacks.

  Normally, he would place more faith in his own endurance and ability to outlast a larger, heavier opponent, but he knew that his earlier weakness and dizziness did not bode well for him. Around him, he caught glimpses of Aramis battling a man with a wicked-looking club, darting and weaving as he tried to get close enough to use his sword. Porthos was swinging a huge schiavona almost gleefully, his opponent obviously outclassed. Athos, fencing left-handed, was holding his own against a man with a rapier, who obviously knew how to use it.

  Another blow of the mortuary sword jarred through d'Artagnan's shoulder. He kicked out at his enemy's knee as he spun away, but the blow was only a glancing one. Just then, a sharp whistle drew his attention to Porthos in time for d'Artagnan to catch the rapier—liberated from Porthos' downed opponent—that the big man tossed to him, pommel first.

  Throwing his own ruined sword to one side, d'Artagnan gripped the new blade and drove forward with renewed energy, ducking and slashing; driving the other man back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Porthos wade in to help Aramis against the man with the club, just as Athos lunged forward, running his opponent through.

  D'Artagnan narrowly avoided the heavy blade swinging toward his head, allowing his momentum to propel him into a forward roll. Coming to a crouch, he drove the pommel of his rapier into the side of the other man's knee with all the strength he could muster, feeling the crunch of bone and cartilage as his opponent collapsed with a yell. Blocking a wild sword swipe, d'Artagnan staggered to his feet and drove his blade through the man's heart.

  Seeing which way the tide had turned, the two sons holding the girls captive had begun to back away, trying to put space between themselves and the swordsmen. The older sister seemed to stumble for a moment, nearly going to her knees, but when she righted herself d'Artagnan saw a fist-sized chunk of stone from the roadway clutched in her free hand. He grinned in surprised admiration as she swung it at her attacker's head, catching him in the temple and causing him to stagger and lose his grip on her.

  Quick as a snake, she wrested the dagger from his belt and buried it between his ribs with a cry. The man collapsed to the ground, blood spurting from the wound, and the girl whirled to confront the only member of the group left standing—Aramis and Porthos having finally overcome their club-wielding assailant moments before.

  The boy holding the younger sister stared with wide, frightened eyes as the four men and the older sister converged on him. Fumbling for his own dagger, he pressed it to his sobbing captive's neck.

  "One step closer and I'll cut her throat!" he cried in a quavering voice as he pulled the girl backwards.

  "Aramis?" Athos said, sounding almost bored.

  Aramis stepped forward toward the pair. A moment later, his eyes went wide, staring at the empty space behind the boy's left shoulder.

  “Oh, look,” he said conversationally. “Are those large, armed men approaching us friends of yours?”

  The terrified boy craned around, trying to see what Aramis was looking at. The dagger wavered against the girl's skin, drawing a thin line of red and then falling away from her neck as he twisted his body. The instant it did so, Aramis calmly pulled his pistol and shot the boy through th
e temple.

  With a cry, the older girl swept forward and pulled her sister away from the boy’s fallen body, embracing her and rocking her back and forth as the younger girl clung to her.

  "Oh, Madeleine, thank God!" she said. "Thank God! You're not injured, are you?"

  Madeleine pulled back, wiping her eyes with a sleeve. "Just a scratch on my neck, where the knife caught me when he turned away. It's not too bad, is it, Christelle?"

  Christelle examined the cut and kissed Madeleine on the forehead with relief.

  "No, ma petite," she reassured. "It's barely bleeding. Stay back, now, and cover your eyes. Don't watch."

  With a final squeeze of her hand, Christelle turned and stalked toward the man that Porthos had shot in the leg, her stolen dagger clenched tightly in one hand.

  "Mademoiselle—“ Athos began, but allowed himself to be moved aside as the young woman brushed past him single-mindedly.

  She stopped and crouched in front of the boys' father, sneering at him as he writhed on the ground, clutching uselessly at his wound as blood continued to pulse through his fingers. He glared up at her, features twisted with hatred and pain.

  "I told you I would see you dead, Jean Paul," she said, and stabbed him through the heart. The man grunted, body jerking and twisting for several seconds before going limp. When the last glimmer of life had left his eyes, she turned back to Madeleine. "It's over now, little sister. You may look."

  Madeleine lowered the hand that had been covering her eyes uncertainly. D'Artagnan could see that tears once more spilled down her cheeks.

  Aramis stepped forward, hat in hand. "May we conduct you somewhere safe, mesdemoiselles?"

  "Please, messieurs," Madeleine said in a quavering voice, "Our grandmother was injured. Our house is only one street over—please help her!"

  "Of course," Athos said immediately. His eyes swept over the scene, resting a brief but assessing glance on d'Artagnan before he continued. "Aramis and I will escort the young ladies to their home and determine what help they need. Porthos? Stay here with d'Artagnan and keep an eye on the horses. You might also see about organizing someone to deal with this refuse." He gestured at the bodies littering the road.

  Now that the thrill of the fight was wearing off, d'Artagnan felt his earlier weakness coming back with a vengeance, but even through the wisps of gray fog crowding the edges of his vision, it seemed that Porthos' gaze, too, rested on him for a beat longer than necessary before he nodded to Athos and answered, "Right you are."

  The other two ushered the sisters away toward their home, and Porthos turned to d'Artagnan, clapping him on the shoulder companionably. D'Artagnan barely managed to suppress the wince as his back flared with pain.

  "Bet you never expected anything like this when you offered to shoe our horses, eh?" the big man asked. "Still, it was good of you to jump into the fray. These days, not too many would risk their own skin for strangers."

  D'Artagnan opened his mouth to ask Porthos why he was speaking from inside a tunnel, and frowned when no words came out. The gray fog swirled over his head in a rush as the ground swelled up to meet him, and he knew no more.

  * * *

  Awareness washed over d'Artagnan in waves. It was dark, but he could not summon the effort or ambition to drag open heavy eyelids. The dull buzzing in his ears resolved into voices, though they echoed oddly, as if heard underwater. Some he recognized; some he did not.

  Will he recover?

  He's weak and malnourished, but he should pull through all right. There's an untreated head wound, though the skull is intact and it didn't seem to be slowing him down much, earlier.

  What happened to his back? Are those whip marks?

  Yes, it seems so. Self-inflicted, judging by the pattern.

  A flagellant, then? God. Are people still actually doing that?

  The buzzing grew louder, drowning out the conversation. Time passed in comfortable, warm blackness.

  Later, the voices returned.

  What is the mood of the clergy in Vendôme, Aramis?

  That was one of the unfamiliar voices. Gruff. Older. Male.

  They are loyal, for the most part, but unwilling to tip their hand without certain assurances beforehand.

  The townspeople are frustrated. Porthos, this time. Troops are enforcing the price controls ruthlessly there, and nothing gets people riled up faster than reaching into their purses. 'Specially now, when they feel like acquiring gold is the only happiness they can get...

  D'Artagnan drifted; more time passed. This time when he surfaced, the voices sounded clearer; more immediate. His fingers twitched, awareness of his body returning by degrees.

  "... not sure exactly what you expect us to do, in that case," said the gruff voice, irritation evident in the tone.

  "I am merely pointing out that rushing ahead before we are sure of all the details is foolhardy." The new voice was rich; feminine. It pulled at d'Artagnan's thoughts, making him want to open his eyes and see the speaker. A soft groan escaped him, and he sensed movement around him; the scent of rosewater teased his nostrils.

  "He's waking up," said the low female voice from close beside him.

  His eyelids fluttered and opened, revealing a smear of white and dark hovering over him. He blinked rapidly until his vision cleared to reveal the most beautiful face he'd ever seen—pale skin, wide blue eyes, and ruby lips, topped by riots of curly hair swept into a loose chignon.

  "Am I dead?" d'Artagnan croaked.

  "Of course not," said the vision hovering over him. "What would make you think such a thing? Are you feverish?"

  A strong, slender hand reached out to press against his forehead.

  "Why else would I be met by an angel?" he asked, as if it were obvious.

  A sharp brow rose in disbelief and wry humor, transforming the face in front of him from divine to something altogether more earthly.

  "I'm overwhelmed," said the very human angel in a voice dry with disdain.

  "Acquiring yet another admirer, Milady?" came Aramis' voice from somewhere behind d'Artagnan, out of his line of sight.

  "Do shut up, Aramis," said the woman.

  A second face loomed over d'Artagnan.

  "Now that you're awake, I'll thank you not to flirt with my wife," said Athos in a scathing tone that matched the woman's exactly.

  D'Artagnan closed his eyes, and wondered if he could simply feign unconsciousness until everyone gave up and went away again.

  Chapter III

  THE HOUSEHOLD IN WHICH he found himself was an odd one, though d'Artagnan could not fault their hospitality as he rested and recovered his strength. In addition to Porthos, Aramis, Athos, and Athos' angelically beautiful wife, there was also Grimaud, the silent and imposing servant; a demure young woman in widow’s weeds named Ana María, who was several months pregnant; and de Tréville, her battle-scarred, protective older relative—missing an arm and an eye, and the owner of the gruff, authoritative voice that had punctuated d'Artagnan's unconscious dreams.

  The estate belonged to the injured nobleman, Athos. Comprising a small castle along with twenty acres of crops, woods, and kitchen gardens, it adequately provided for the needs of the strange assortment of people currently calling it home.

  Seven of them, including d'Artagnan, were currently gathered around the large dining table, enjoying several bottles of wine and a very passable coq au vin served by Grimaud, which might as well have been ambrosia directly from Heaven as far as d'Artagnan's empty belly was concerned.

  Remembering his manners after the first bowl of hearty stew had disappeared, he turned his attention to Athos and Aramis.

  "Forgive me," he said. "I should have asked earlier. How fares the girls' grandmother?"

  "She will survive," Athos answered laconically.

  "Though not without bruised ribs and a broken wrist, sadly," Aramis added, his expression of distaste clearly showing what he thought of anyone who would inflict such injuries on an old lady.

  D'Ar
tagnan found himself slightly wrong-footed by the almost courtly attitudes of chivalry evident among his new acquaintances. They seemed more appropriate to the childhood fantasies of knights and nobles that he and his friends had played at as boys in happier times, than to the realities of the world around them.

  He was oddly drawn to these men and their lofty ideals, as evidenced by his actions the previous afternoon in Blois... yet the strange little voice of fearful mistrust, which had haunted him since the death of his family and the loss of his father's farm to gangs of neighboring peasants, whispered that it must all be some sort of twisted ruse designed to draw d’Artagnan in and make him look foolish. Such things did not persist in today's France. Today's France was a place where the strong overtook the weak without mercy, and to pretend otherwise was the mark of naiveté at best, and stupidity at worst.

  Recalling himself to the conversation, but unsure how exactly to respond, he hazarded, "The sisters will look after her, won't they?"

  "'Course they will," Porthos said with assurance.

  “God willing,” Ana María said in a soft, sweet voice, “one day soon, France will once again be a place where the law protects innocent people from such unconscionable crimes.”

  “Isabella of Savoy certainly seems more interested in consolidating political power in support of her son than in actually governing the country,” Porthos said, gesturing with a forkful of chicken. “Since her husband, the Duc d’Orlèans, got himself assassinated, it seems like her only interest in the people lies in how much gold she can extract from them through taxation.”

  D’Artagnan listened intently. Discussion of politics had been a staple of his childhood in Gascony, where everyone seemed to have strong opinions on the way France was run. He had missed such talk, and his present company appeared to be well informed on the subject.

  “They say that the Duc was killed by Spanish agents,” he offered.

  “There’s little doubt of that,” Porthos replied. “Isabella is a cousin to the King of Spain, after all. The way I see it, Spain only needed the Duc long enough for him to oust his brother, King Louis, from the throne. Once he took power and married Isabella, and she bore a son, the Duc found himself surplus to requirements. Spain has wanted influence over French lands for years, and this was the perfect opportunity.