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I observe about me dying throngs of both young and old, and nowhere is there a refuge. No haven beckons in any part of the globe, nor can any hope of longed for salvation be seen.
~Francesco Petrarca, recounting an outbreak of the Black Death, 1348
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"I DON'T LIKE IT, Jean-Armand," said Milady. Her chin was cupped in her hand, elbow resting on the small table—now covered in maps—which had been dragged into the room for an impromptu council of war.
"I don't like it either," de Tréville replied sharply. "So if you have an alternate suggestion, please do share it with the rest of us."
"The kind of hard riding you're describing will be dangerous to Ana's pregnancy," Milady said. "A carriage or even a wagon would be better."
"Too slow," said de Tréville dismissively. "Too conspicuous."
"Would you rather she lose the baby?"
"I'd rather Her Majesty wasn't caught by assassins and killed outright."
D'Artagnan's gaze darted rhythmically back and forth between the pair as they snapped at each other. He was reminded of the way his eyes had followed the ball at the tennis match his father took him to see once when he was a little boy, and found himself wishing for a handful of roasted chestnuts or some sweetmeats to nibble on while he watched their conversational volleys from across the room, propped up on his sickbed.
Earlier that morning, after d'Artagnan balked at returning to his own lonely quarters, Porthos and Grimaud had dragged a second bed into the large chamber where Aramis lay sleeping and swathed in bandages. After that, the makeshift sick room seemed to become, by default, the place where everyone gathered to discuss their plans. Or argue about their plans. Or bemoan the fact that none of their plans were very good ones.
After the attack on the castle and attempted assassination, everyone agreed that Her Majesty—d'Artagnan could no longer think of her as Ana María—needed to flee before word of her continued survival could reach those in power. Beyond that, however, there was little accord. Tempers were fraying—especially Milady's and de Tréville's.
"We have the promise of support from the Benedictines in the congregation of St Maur at Thiron Abbey," Athos interjected. "It's barely thirty leagues from here, and would make an ideal hiding place until after the baby is born. It needs less than four days to get there."
Milady let her fist fall to the table with a soft thump. "It needs less than four days for you or I to get there, Olivier. But it will take a woman who is mere weeks away from giving birth at least twice that long. I'm not sure what else I can say to make this concept any clearer to all of you."
The object of their discussion spoke softly from her seat near the doorway.
"I will ride as far as I must, as fast as I must to keep this child safe," said the Queen, and d'Artagnan felt his admiration for her bravery swell.
Milady softened her voice, but not her words, speaking directly to the other woman. "No one here doubts that, Ana. But you have had a miscarriage once before. Four days of hard riding would endanger the baby as much as any assassin."
At the bald mention of the miscarriage, de Tréville's face grew thunderous, and Athos hissed "Anne!" in warning. Even Porthos, who had thus far kept himself out of the conversation for the most part, looked up in surprise from his position at Aramis' bedside.
Her Majesty paled at the mention of her previous loss, but quickly waved off the men's anger.
"Stay, both of you," she commanded, looking pointedly from Athos to de Tréville. "We are all adults here, and hiding the truth behind veils of propriety does nothing to help our situation. Milady, you are surely correct about the risk of hard travel by horseback. However, de Tréville is correct that a carriage or other slow transport would make far too easy a target. Rather than continue to debate the matter fruitlessly, we must find a third option."
The germ of an idea had been forming in d'Artagnan's thoughts as they argued, and he spoke tentatively into the silence that followed the Queen's pronouncement.
"May I... make a suggestion?"
Suddenly d'Artagnan found himself the centre of attention, and his tongue stumbled over the words even as the gunshot wound in his side seemed to seize and hold the breath in his lungs. "I could... that is, you could perhaps use my..."
Porthos was looking at him from Aramis' bedside, and d'Artagnan saw an expression of understanding flood his battered face.
"Are you offerin' Her Majesty the use of your pony, d'Artagnan?" he said, adding to the others, "It's an ambler. Gentle, too."
Relieved, d'Artagnan nodded. He turned back to the others—to the Queen—unsure what the reception would be. "I realize it wouldn't be what Your Majesty was used to," he began.
Athos and de Tréville looked surprised, and Milady regarded him thoughtfully.
"No. No, that could work," she said. "You say the pony ambles?"
D'Artagnan nodded. "Yes, he is very smooth to ride as long as you don't try to gallop him. He has a broken gait that can easily keep pace with another horse's steady trot. He is old, though."
"Not necessarily a detriment if age has made him quiet and staid," Milady replied.
"Assuming the beast is sound, of course." This from de Tréville.
"He is," d'Artagnan assured. "Both sound and quiet, I mean. I've ridden him since I was a child, and my father swore by his ability to cover eight leagues per day, no matter the conditions. I have found his claim to be consistently true in my own recent travels from Gascony."
"It's decided, then," the Queen decreed firmly. "Once again, your generosity of spirit does you credit, d'Artagnan. Now tell me, does this mount of which you and your father speak so highly have a name?"
D'Artagnan was taken aback at hearing his late father spoken of so matter-of-factly, and stumbled over his reply. "Not... really, Your Majesty—"
"'Course he does," Porthos interrupted, throwing d'Artagnan a smile and a quick wink of his uninjured eye. "His name's Buttercup. Isn't that right, d'Artagnan?"
D'Artagnan opened his mouth to retort angrily that his mount's name was most certainly not anything so ridiculous as Buttercup, but he was beaten to the punch by the Queen, who exclaimed, "How charming! 'Buttercup', indeed. I am sure we will become fast friends, your little Buttercup and I."
Upon seeing the small smile gracing Her Majesty's face—a countenance which had been far too pale and wan ever since he'd arrived—d'Artagnan felt his indignation deflate. He slumped back against the headboard, murmuring some vague expression of agreement. As soon as the others looked away, though, he leveled a glare at Porthos, who only smiled wider and shook his head with suppressed mirth.
They were distracted by Grimaud's entrance, bearing a tray with a flagon of wine, a pot of broth, a loaf of bread, and some cheese. After clearing space on the table for his burdens, the tall, stooped servant pottered quietly around the room filling cups and bowls for everyone.
"Are we agreed then?" Athos spoke into the silence. "Her Majesty will be mounted on this pony, and will make for Thiron Abbey in the company of de Tréville, Porthos, and Grimaud?"
"As long as they travel slowly and stop often, then yes, we're agreed," said Milady.
"Very well, unless we're pursued," de Tréville replied in a gruff voice. "In which case we will travel very fast."
"Try not to be pursued, then," Milady said dryly, and de Tréville shook his head in apparent disgust at the flippancy.
"We need a contingency plan, in case things go wrong," said a weak, pained voice from the other bed.
"Aramis!" Porthos exclaimed. "You're awake, then?"
"I think so, yes," Aramis replied hoarsely. "Either that, or I'm having an extremely vexing dream."
D'Artagnan smiled; then sobered. "Dreaming or not, he's got a good point, doesn't he? If something does go wrong and you can't stay at Thiron Abbey for whatever reason, how will the rest of us be able to find you when we follow on in a few weeks?"
"That's true," de Tréville said, absently rubbing at the stump of his missing arm as he thought. After a moment he reached forward and pulled one of the maps closer, beckoning Athos forward with a jerk of his chin as he pointed at something on the parchment. "Here. I have an old friend—a comrade-in-arms from my younger days as a guardsman. His name is M. Rougeux, and he lives with his wife in La Croix-du-Perche."
"He is loyal?" Athos asked.
"Yes," de Tréville said. "To me, and to the true monarchy of France. We have exchanged letters regularly over the years. He would not hesitate to shelter us. Should our plans need to be changed, we will go to M. Rougeux and you will meet us there, just off of the main road at the north end of the town."
The others nodded.
"Very well," said the old captain. "It's decided. We will leave after dark tomorrow. I suggest that we all get as much rest as possible before then. We can plan the details of the route and pack the provisions in the morning."
The small gathering broke up quickly after that. Athos sent Porthos to his bed with assurances that he would stay with Aramis and d'Artagnan for a few hours. D'Artagnan swallowed the urge to protest that he didn't need a nurse, knowing that it was mostly for Aramis' benefit that Athos was staying. Thankfully, the injured man had awoken naturally several times throughout the day despite the severity of the wound to his chest. Though weak, his wits seemed unaffected, but d'Artagnan knew the others still feared for him.
As Athos hobbled around, rearranging the chair next to the bed to his satisfaction and settling himself with his bandaged leg stretched out before him, d'Artagnan contemplated all of the questions he wanted to ask about their plans to return the Queen to Paris, and to the throne. Before he could organize his increasingly muddled thoughts, however, his own weakness and need for sleep overcame him, and he drifted off into darkness, his rest punctuated by odd, disturbing dreams.
* * *
When he jolted into awareness much later, with a faint gasp at the pain from his wounds, pale light was visible through the room's single window. His attention was caught by the murmur of voices coming from the corner of the room where Aramis lay, propped up slightly on the bed. Grimaud had replaced Athos on vigil sometime during the night. Both men's heads were bent over the crucifixes clutched in their hands, and their softly spoken words of prayer barely reached d'Artagnan's ears.
"...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.
