Book 1: The Queen's Musketeers, #1 Read online

  "...aspirando praeveni et adiuvando prosequere: ut cuncta nosta oratio et operatio a te semper incipiat et per ta coepta finiatur. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen."

  Grimaud hunched into himself further, touching the crucifix to his lips and forehead before letting it fall back on its thong to rest against his chest.

  "This whole venture is madness," the normally silent and stoic servant said under his breath. "It will all end in tears. But who cares for the thoughts of a lackey?"

  Even in profile, Aramis' face was pale and gray. When he answered, however, his voice was steady. "Be brave, Grimaud. Right now, your only job is to protect a pregnant widow and her unborn child. Surely that is just and right in the eyes of God." The injured man reached for a small amulet hanging around his neck and removed it gingerly with his left hand, mindful of his wound. "Here. Take my St Christopher. May it keep you safe on your journey—you, and those you are sworn to protect."

  Grimaud accepted the small token, clenching it tightly.

  "You're a good man, Aramis," he said. His eyes strayed to the window. "I should get breakfast started. I'll send one of the others back here directly."

  Grimaud left without waiting for a reply, and Aramis relaxed back, closing his eyes. D'Artagnan smiled at him fondly.

  "You should have been a priest after all," he said, and was cheered to find that it was a bit easier to speak, and to breathe, than it had been the day before.

  Aramis quirked a smile at him, but did not open his eyes. "Grimaud is a deeply religious man of the fire and brimstone persuasion. I'm afraid that in this household, his options for a sympathetic ear on the subject are somewhat limited. He makes do with me out of desperation, more than anything."

  "I think I can safely say that you're the most sympathetic ear I know, Aramis," d'Artagnan said.

  Aramis huffed a breath of laughter, which quickly gave way to a grunt of pain. "Argh. Don't make me laugh."

  "Sorry," d'Artagnan said. "How do you feel this morning?"

  "I fear that the thrashing I owe you will need to be put off a little longer yet," said the other man. "Now, remind me if you please; why is it I'm supposed to thrash you again?"

  "I woke up alone in the other room and came in here to find the rest of you."

  "Pfft. Athos must have been hit over the head during the fight," Aramis said. "That's not a thrashing offense."

  "I was injured," d'Artagnan explained. "I think he was angry that I got out of bed without permission."

  "Still not a thrashing offense," Aramis replied, his voice losing strength. "'S'just loyalty. An' maybe a smattering of youthful stupidity..."

  D'Artagnan opened his mouth to refute the second part, but closed it again when Aramis' muttering subsided into gentle snores. A few minutes later, Milady entered to take over the watch. Still ill at ease being alone in her company after having indiscreetly stumbled upon her carnal relations with her husband a few nights previously, d'Artagnan quickly closed his eyes, pretending sleep as she settled herself in.

  Before long, Aramis' light snoring, combined with the soothing sound of Milady turning the pages of the book she was reading, led d'Artagnan back down into unfeigned slumber.

  * * *

  The next time he woke, it was dark outside the window despite the fact that it seemed only moments ago that he'd fallen asleep. He blinked, disoriented in the flickering candlelight. His mouth was dry and tasted unpleasant. His head ached, his wounds ached, and he needed to use the chamber pot very badly.

  A blurry, unfamiliar face appeared in his field of vision and he raised his arm in an instinctive defensive gesture.

  "It's all right, monsieur," said a light, pleasant voice. "Do not concern yourself; all is well. You probably don't remember me. I am Christelle Prevette. You and your friends helped my sister and me a few days ago. We have come here along with our grandmother to help you, in turn."

  D'Artagnan blinked again, and the blurry visage in front of him sharpened into thin, pale features framed by honey-colored hair—a face he vaguely remembered as belonging to the older of the two sisters that he and the others had rescued from a band of men before the attack on the castle.

  "Oh," he said brilliantly, the word coming out hoarse and slow. "Right."

  Christelle looked amused—or perhaps just pitying—as she helped him into a more upright position and eased a cup of cool water to his lips.

  "Mémé told me to make sure you ate and drank something when you awoke, and help you use the chamber pot," she said. "She wants to see how your wounds are faring as well. She had us bring some herbs for a paste, to keep them from festering. Here, let me get the pot and help you sit up on the edge of the bed."

  D'Artagnan blushed to the roots of his hair as Christelle swept the blankets back, revealing his state of undress. Except for the bandages wrapping his shoulder and torso, he wore only a pair of threadbare linen braies.

  "That isn't... that won't be necessary," he stammered as she puttered around, setting the chamber pot on the floor just beyond the edge of the bed.

  She ignored him long enough to support him as he carefully struggled upright; then grinned and said, "Whatever you say. Can you get your laces untied?"

  "Yes," he answered quickly, head still spinning a bit.

  "I'll leave you to it, then... sorry, I don't know your name," she said.

  "It's d'Artagnan," he said, still blushing. "Forgive me; I don't always suffer from such a lack of manners. Thank you for your help."

  The smile moved from Christelle's mouth to her eyes, which crinkled at the corners. "You're welcome. I'll be back in a few minutes with Mémé, and some food."

  Once she'd gone, d'Artagnan fumbled one-handed with the laces of his smallclothes and released a heartfelt moan of relief as he freed his cock and aimed the stream of piss into the ceramic pot. When he'd finished, and after taking three times as long as usual to lace himself up again without the use of his left arm, he carefully leaned back against the headboard and twisted his neck to check on Aramis. The other man was quiet and still, presumably sleeping, but his bandages looked fresh and he seemed peaceful; not restless or feverish.

  As promised, Christelle returned shortly with a wizened old lady and a plate of food. The old woman still bore the bruises from her ill treatment by the gang that had kidnapped her granddaughters, and her left arm was bandaged below the elbow and strapped into a sling. Her eyes were bright and shrewd, however, as she approached the bed.

  "Mémé, this is d'Artagnan," Christelle said, placing the plate on the low table next to the bed.

  "It's a pleasure, young man," said Christelle's grandmother. "I am Mme Prevette."

  "The pleasure is mine, madame," d'Artagnan replied formally; his wits gradually returning as the haze of long sleep faded. "It was kind of you and your granddaughters to come and assist us."

  "I can see why you like this one, Christelle," Mme Prevette said with a smile, and it was Christelle's turn to blush. D'Artagnan took a moment to appreciate the way the color brightened her cheeks before returning his attention to her grandmother, who was looking at him with a knowing gleam in her eye. "Now, young man, sit up and eat something while Christelle removes your bandages so I can see what's what."

  Christelle took the chamber pot away while d'Artagnan carefully rearranged himself to sit at the edge of the bed and started in on the weak wine, fruit, and bread they had brought him, suddenly aware of the depth of his hunger and thirst. When the young woman returned and began to unwind his bandages, he focused intently on the ache in his head, and the way the cloth pulled at his wounds as she eased it away—anything but on her proximity and the gentleness of her hands. The small half-smile that dimpled her cheek as she straightened away from him with the rolls of dirty bandages in her grasp made him think that she knew exactly what he was doing.

  Mme Prevette moved him gently to and fro with her good hand, peering closely at the wounds as Christelle held a candle up so she could see. "This was obviously from a knife
, and I can see from the sorry state of your back that you are a flagellant, but what caused the large wound? A sword?"

  "A pistol shot," d'Artagnan corrected.

  "Hmm," she said absently. "Never actually seen a gunshot wound before. The ways men can contrive to damage each other beggars belief. Still, a wound is a wound, I suppose. The ball appears to have gone straight through, so that's good. Heaven help anyone who gets one of those horrible things trapped inside them.

  "There's a bit of pus draining at the bottom of the shoulder wound, but not too bad. The wound from the shot looks surprisingly clean. Oh, to be young and resilient again! At any rate, Christelle will flush out the knife wound, and we'll let them air while she makes some herbs into a paste to use as a poultice."

  D'Artagnan nodded, not that anyone seemed to be interested in his opinion. He gritted his teeth hard as first water and then strong spirits were poured over the angry wound in his shoulder. After the deep burn began to fade, he reached for the plate again and worked his way steadily through the rest of the food while Christelle wrapped clean bandages around his body. When she was nearly finished with the job, Milady entered the room. He felt another jolt of embarrassment, but it was weaker this time. Perhaps, he thought, he was already becoming inured to women walking in on his state of undress to peer and poke at him.

  "How are they?" Milady asked, her gaze raking over first d'Artagnan and then Aramis.

  "That one is very weak from blood loss, but there is no fever and the wound is not festering," said Mme Prevette. "The most important thing is to get enough fluids in him to rebalance the humors. Plain water, and broth with salt in it; nothing too rich for now."

  Milady nodded her understanding.

  "Young d'Artagnan here has a bit of pus coming from the shoulder wound, but I don't think it's serious—so far, at least," Mme Prevette continued. "From what I can see, he's been ridiculously lucky, all told. We'll try to keep the wounds clean, and he should get plenty of rest and eat simple, bland foods to keep his strength up."

  "Thank you, Osanne," Milady said graciously. "We are immensely grateful for your help. Without you and your granddaughters, I would have been forced to care for two bedridden men with the help of a husband who can barely hobble around on his own injury."

  "You're injured yourself, young woman," said Mme Prevette, indicating the angry cut running down the length of Milady's cheek.

  "A scratch," she replied dismissively. "I've kept it clean; it will be fine."

  D'Artagnan felt a slight jolt at the reminder of his failure to protect Milady at the end of the fight, followed by the now familiar unease with the idea of a woman who would pick up a rapier to engage an armed attacker in swordplay and who did not, in truth, either want or need his protection. Thoughts of the battle naturally led to thoughts of the aftermath, and their plans for protecting the Queen. He suddenly wondered what time it was, and how long it would be until that plan was enacted.

  Unsure, as he was, how much if anything the Prevette women knew, he merely asked, "Where is everyone else?"

  Milady's piercing eyes fell on him, and she replied, "Madeleine is with Olivier in the drawing room, and I must say I'm impressed by her fortitude in the face of his grouchiness. A lesser person would have bashed him over the head with the soup tureen by now."

  "And the others?" d'Artagnan asked.

  "Gone. They left about an hour ago."

  D'Artagnan felt an odd and very unpleasant void open up in his chest, which swallowed up whatever words he would have said next. Milady must have noticed his distress, because she added, "Porthos said to tell you Ana María fell in love with the pony at first sight. He said you might never get him back, the way she was gushing over him."

  His father's pony was gone. The last link—the very last possession that he had shared with his father—was at this moment disappearing into the distance down a dark road toward Chartres.

  "You should have seen them," Christelle said brightly into the silence. "It was quite comical, really. Grimaud and M. de Tréville were dressed up in women's cloaks like myself and Mémé, so it would look like Porthos was escorting us and Madeleine back to Blois, instead of taking the Queen away!"

  "Not, perhaps, the most elegant deception, but we thought it might confuse and delay anyone who happened to be watching," Milady added. "At the Prevette's residence, they will shed their disguises and head north under cover of darkness."

  D'Artagnan barely registered their words, still trapped as he was with his realizations. He was alone in the world, injured, reliant on the care of the others, and now, without even a horse to call his own. His eyes strayed to the impenetrable blackness beyond the room's single window; the voices of the others faded to a background drone.

  His back began to itch terribly.

  * * *

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  Other titles in this series:

  The Queen's Musketeers: Book 2

  The Queen's Musketeers: Book 3

  The Queen's Musketeers: Book 4

  The Queen's Musketeers: Book 0 (a prequel available exclusively to list members- sign up for access)

  Glossary of Period Terms

  Braies. Knee-length, linen undergarments worn by men; usually held closed with lacing at the top.

  Cat o' nine tails. A whip with nine slender lashes, designed to inflict pain and break the skin during corporal punishment.

  Main gauche. A dagger designed to be used in the left hand, in conjunction with a sword held in the right hand. Useful for attacking, parrying, and trapping an opponent's sword. Also called a parrying dagger.

  Mortuary sword. A two-edged sword with a straight blade and a half-basket hilt which became popular during the English Civil War.

  Parrying dagger. A dagger designed to be used in the left hand, in conjunction with a sword held in the right hand. Useful for attacking, parrying, and trapping an opponent's sword. Also called a main gauche.

  Rapier. A slender, long-bladed sword with a sharp point and an intricate hilt. Used mainly for thrusting attacks.

  Schiavona. A two-edged sword with a distinctive "cat's head" pommel and a basket hilt. Though broader and heavier than a rapier, it was still light enough to be used one handed, as both a cutting and thrusting weapon.

  Sword-breaker. A sturdy, short sword designed with deep slots near the base that could trap and potentially break an opponent's blade during a fight.