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Chapter X: July 10th, 1631

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"SHE'S HAVING THE baby now?" d’Artagnan asked, the last word emerging as an undignified squeak.

"Have some respect, lad," de Tréville said, though he mostly just sounded tired. "This is your future King we’re talking about."

"At least, if it’s a boy it is," Porthos muttered, cracking a rather brittle looking smile at him. "If it’s a girl, we’re all going to look like a right bunch of idiots."

"Porthos..." de Tréville said, squeezing the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb as if warding off a headache. "Go and take care of d’Artagnan. I’ll join the rest of you in a little while."

"Right you are, sir," Porthos said agreeably, and gestured d’Artagnan to follow him down the hallway and into a generously sized bedroom. Athos was laid out on the bed, naked, with one arm thrown across his face. Aramis was leaning over him with a damp rag, attempting to clean his wounds. D’Artagnan froze in the doorway as he took in the full extent of the damage for the first time.

He’d seen the burn under Athos’ eye and the way the marks trailed down his neck and onto his chest, and he’d assumed that their captors had started on his torso and worked their way up to his face. He had not realized that Athos also had burns on the inside of his right knee, marching up the tender flesh of his inner thigh all the way to his groin. Suppurating, where they had chafed against the saddle until the blisters wept blood and pus.

Athos had ridden for hours with these injuries. For days. D’Artagnan had put him on a horse like this and made him ride for days. His gorge rose, and he choked. Porthos frowned and grabbed for a chamber pot, thrusting it under d’Artagnan’s face just in time for him to vomit into it, clutching the doorframe for support. When he glanced up, Athos had removed his arm from his face and was looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

"That bad?" he drawled.

Porthos snorted a laugh. "Bad enough, you fool. Good thing you already killed the bastards that did this. Saves us having to go out and do it."

"Athos, why didn’t you tell me?" d’Artagnan asked plaintively, forcing the words past a throat raw with bile.

Athos shrugged. "What good would it have done? We still had to travel, either way."

"I could have treated you!" d’Artagnan said, his voice rising.

Athos looked at him in confusion. "You did. You made the salve."

At this, Aramis looked up from his gruesome task with interest. "Salve, you say? Ah, I was wondering what that was. I could see that something had been applied to the burns. What was it made with, may I ask?"

D’Artagnan dragged his mind forcibly back from the shock of the past few minutes, enough to explain the recipe to Aramis, quickly outlining the ingredients and the process. "My mother swore by it, but it doesn’t seem to have helped much in this case," he finished, somewhat bitterly.

"On the contrary," Aramis said, "you may have saved Athos’ life. Given the circumstances, I would expect these burns to be festering badly. However, only two of them appear to be infected, and even those are not as bad as they could be. You know—honey and oil of turpentine have both been shown on the battlefield to protect wounds from going bad. Your mother must have been an exceptionally intelligent and knowledgeable woman, d’Artagnan."

D’Artagnan swallowed. "She was, yes. Will he live, then?"

"I am right here in the room, d’Artagnan," Athos said from the bed, sounding deeply unimpressed by all the drama.

"I’m afraid you’ve relinquished the right to have an opinion on the matter, my friend," Aramis said. "But, yes, d’Artagnan, he will likely survive to deliver inappropriate quips another day. Assuming, of course, that we’re not all slaughtered by enemy troops during the night."

Hurried footsteps heralded Milady’s arrival, moments before she pushed past d’Artagnan and into the room. She made a noise of distress and dropped to her knees by Athos’ bedside, grabbing his hand in both of hers.

"Olivier," she said.

"Anne," he replied, burying his free hand in her hair and dragging her to him for a kiss.

"There. You see?" Porthos said from his position lounging against the wall. "Now he has to recover, because his wife will kill him if he doesn’t."

"Damn right I will," Milady said as she pulled back from the kiss, "and don’t you forget it."

"How is Her Majesty?" Aramis asked.

"The pains are coming closer together now, but I fear it will be a long labor nonetheless," Milady said. As if to punctuate her words, another cry of distress floated in from the back of the house, and she glanced at the door anxiously. "Olivier, I’m sorry, my love—I must get back to her."

"Go," Athos said, sweeping a stray ringlet of hair behind her ear. "Don’t worry about me. I’m fine."

She covered his hand with her own, pressing her cheek against his palm. "You’re an idiot, is what you are."

"That’s what I keep trying to tell him," Aramis added helpfully.

Milady looked up at Aramis, with none of her usual haughtiness or teasing.

"Take care of him for me? Both of you?" Her gaze slid over to include Porthos as well.

"You know we will," Porthos answered gruffly.

"I know," she replied softly, dropping a final kiss on Athos’ forehead before rising and turning toward d’Artagnan. "And you—"

D’Artagnan tensed and looked down, knowing he had failed utterly in his promise to look after Athos and stop him from doing anything foolish.

"De Tréville told me what happened," Milady continued, crossing to stand in front of him by the door. "Thank you for bringing him home to me, d’Artagnan. To us."

Startled, d’Artagnan looked up and met her eyes for a moment before dipping his head in a brief bow—only to be further surprised when Milady stretched forward to kiss him on the cheek. When he looked up again, she was gone.

"D’Artagnan," Aramis said, "would you be willing to make more of that ointment you used? Assuming, of course, that Mme Rougeux has the ingredients on hand. Since it obviously helped before, I see no reason not to continue with that treatment."

"Yes, certainly," d’Artagnan replied. "Shouldn’t someone be on guard outside, though?"

"M. Rougeux is patrolling the perimeter with a dozen lads from the village," Porthos said. "He and de Tréville started organizing things this morning when the Queen went into labor. We’re not completely defenseless."

"I see," d’Artagnan said, refraining from stating the obvious—that a few young men from the village would not stand a chance if Grimaud’s allies descended on them in force. They all knew it.

Instead, he took his leave, finding Mme Rougeux in the kitchen and enlisting her help to brew up another batch of his mother’s salve. They were forced to use goat’s milk instead of cow’s milk and his hostess did not have any comfrey, but an hour later d’Artagnan thanked her politely and returned to the airy bedroom with a wooden bowl of golden-colored paste, along with a plate of bread and cheese and a mug of broth for Athos. Porthos raised a finger to his lips as d’Artagnan entered, gesturing toward the bed.

"He’s asleep," the big man said softly, moving across the room to take some of the items from d’Artagnan. "C’mon and sit down. Aramis went out to check with M. Rougeux and the lads from the village, but he told me to grab you and get your wounds treated as soon as you came back with the salve."

"Athos needs it more than I do," d’Artagnan said quietly, looking at the man on the bed.

"Pfft. There’s plenty for both of you, and Mme Rougeux can always make some more if need be. Now take off your doublet and shirt so I can see your back properly."

D’Artagnan looked up at him, his brows drawing together in a frown. "Aramis told you about that?"

"Keep your voice down," Porthos said kindly. "Yeah, of course he told me. Though it was pretty obvious from the way you were holding yourself that something was wrong with you. Don’t worry; he made me promise not to get after you about it. Now—shirt off, unless you want me to sit on you and do it myself."

"That won’t be necessary," d’Artagnan mumbled, and gingerly removed the clothing, wincing a bit when his shirt pulled free from his back where the blood had dried and scabbed.

"Merde, d’Artagnan," Porthos swore under his breath, before shaking his head and turning his attention to the filthy bandage wrapped around his left wrist. "All right. Let’s see the wrist as well. This happened about the same time as Athos got hurt, right?"

D’Artagnan nodded and unwrapped the cloth covering the wound. "My wrists were tied behind me to an iron ring in the wall. There was a burr on the metal and I used it to saw through the bindings, but the rope dragging back and forth tore my wrist up pretty badly."

Porthos lifted his arm and examined it closely. "Yeah, that’s a mess. Better than being dead though."

"Precisely my thought at the time."

"Hmm... looks like it’s starting to heal except where some of the rope fibers are still stuck under the scabs," Porthos said. "I think if we clean it out thoroughly, it’ll be right as rain except for a bit of scarring."

He picked up a pair of tiny metal tweezers from the leather kit laid out on the table next to him, wielding them in his large hands with unexpected delicacy. D’Artagnan tried not to wince at the unpleasant tug and slide as Porthos patiently pulled the little threads of hemp loose from the flesh where they were trapped. Dots of pus oozed out where several of them had been, but when he was finished, the deep itching and irritation to which d’Artagnan had become accustomed over the past few days seemed much reduced.

Porthos washed the wrist thoroughly with a clean rag dipped in spirits and indicated the pot of ointment with a gesture. "That’s good for all kinds of wounds, yes? Not just burns?"

D’Artagnan nodded and replied, "My mother used it on everything."

"Good," Porthos said, and applied a generous layer to the reddened flesh. When he was satisfied, he wrapped the injury with clean linen and indicated that d’Artagnan should turn around so his back was facing the light.

D’Artagnan felt a deep sense of discomfort and vulnerability as Porthos carefully cleaned the whip marks, soaking the scabs until they loosened and he could flush out all of the areas with broken skin. True to his word, the big man was silent, but d’Artagnan imagined he could hear him gritting his teeth.

"Look, Porthos," he said eventually. "It’s fine. You don’t have to—"

"It’s not fine," Porthos interrupted, his voice a growl, "and I do have to. So be quiet and stop squirming."

At that moment, footsteps in the hall heralded de Tréville’s appearance in the doorway. The older man’s single eye flickered over the scene, moving from Athos asleep on the bed to Porthos and d’Artagnan near the window. He frowned and crossed behind d’Artagnan to get a clear view of what Porthos was doing, and d’Artagnan heard a disgusted huff.

"Not this again," he said.

The weariness and disappointment in de Tréville’s tone made d’Artagnan flush with shame, only to flush brighter still an instant later with defensive anger. Why could they not simply leave him be? He had never asked for their interference or their opinions on this matter, and he was doing nothing wrong.

De Tréville continued, "I realize that the Church takes a lenient stance on this flagellation nonsense. However, I do not. You weaken yourself unnecessarily for no rational reason, and that weakness puts others at risk, not just yourself."

D’Artagnan suppressed a flinch at the sharpness of the rebuke, and swallowed back the words that wanted to rise in his own defense.

"As long as you are in the Queen’s service, d’Artagnan," de Tréville stated bluntly, "I forbid you to engage in this practice. Leave it for the monks holed up in their monasteries and the madmen proclaiming the coming apocalypse. It has no place in the life of a soldier."

D’Artagnan’s breath was coming fast and shallow. He opened his mouth to say something unwise, only to feel Porthos’ hand squeeze an uninjured part of his shoulder in a supportive, grounding gesture with an undertone of warning.

"Yes, sir," he said instead, not meeting de Tréville’s gaze.

The older man sighed audibly. "I don’t enjoy seeing those under my command bleed, d’Artagnan." Out of the corner of his eye, d’Artagnan saw de Tréville divert his attention back to the still form on the bed. "It happens often enough as it is. I won’t stand by and watch a man bring it on himself."

D’Artagnan nodded once, sharply, still without looking up. At that moment, it felt as though Porthos’ hand on him was the only thing keeping him from floating away into the sky like a leaf buffeted on the wind.

"Still quiet outside?" Porthos asked, changing the subject—much to d’Artagnan’s relief.

"Very," de Tréville said. "More men are trickling in from some of the nearby villages in response to the messengers M. Rougeux sent out. We’ve started directing them to the church for now."

"Why are they coming here?" d’Artagnan asked, feeling his curiosity piqued despite himself. "What messages did you send out?"

De Tréville hitched a hip onto the edge of the table by the window. "They are rallying to their rightful Queen, and, if God is with us, to the new King. With Her Majesty confined to the birthing bed, we have become more vulnerable than we’ve ever been. We cannot run now; if our enemies find us we will have to stand and fight. We need numbers."

"The time for secrecy is over," Porthos said. "Couldn’t come soon enough for my taste, I have to say; I’ve had my fill of running scared."

"If trained troops descend on a few dozen peasant boys who have never held a sword or pistol before today, it will be a bloodbath," d’Artagnan said.

"We have righteousness on our side," de Tréville said with the air of a commander who had led forces against impossible odds before.

"Then I hope righteousness is a decent shot with a musket," d’Artagnan muttered under his breath, drawing a rumbling laugh from Porthos behind him.

"Have faith, d’Artagnan," de Tréville said tolerantly. "If we stay the course, things will come right in the end. And if not... well, unus pro omnibus, and all that. There are worse ways to go than dying with honor in the service of France."

D’Artagnan’s eared perked up at hearing the same mysterious words that Athos had muttered after his collapse outside of Luigny, but he merely replied, "I’m afraid faith is more Aramis’ area, but I’m not going anywhere, sir."

"Oh, dear—my ears appear to be burning," Aramis said from outside the door, having chosen that moment to return. "What have I missed?"

"Nothing of import, Aramis," de Tréville said. "I will relieve M. Rougeux outside. Eat and rest now, gentlemen. We have a long night ahead of us."

The others indicated their agreement and he took his leave. Porthos finished cleaning d’Artagnan’s back and covered it with salve, while Aramis checked on Athos once more. The three of them ate a bit and talked of light matters, quieting each time the Queen’s cries of pain reached their ears. As the day wore on into evening, they took it in turns to go outside and speak with de Tréville and the villagers.

Athos woke from sleep as the sun was going down and Porthos was lighting the lamps in the room. After assuring him that everything was still quiet, Porthos helped him take a bowl of broth with bread soaked in it, while Aramis uncovered his wounds and smeared d’Artagnan’s salve onto them. D’Artagnan was relieved that he appeared to have benefited from the hours of rest, sitting up against a pile of folded blankets and trading good-natured barbs with the others.

During a lull in the conversation, d’Artagnan finally thought to ask a question he had been wondering about. "Athos, you said something in Latin when we were on the road that I didn’t understand. And earlier, when de Tréville was in here, he started to say the same thing. Un est pro...?"

"Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno," Aramis said.

"It means ‘One for all, all for one’," Porthos explained. "It was the unofficial motto of the Musketeers of the Guard, before King Louis was ousted."

"No one left behind," Athos said. "No one abandoned. What affects one of us, affects all of us. You exemplified that, when you forced me to continue on after I thought my strength was exhausted, rather than leaving me to die."

Unable to devise a response to that, d'Artagnan only nodded, not meeting the others’ eyes. The words resonated within his chest, expanding to fill the emptiness that had settled there earlier when de Tréville chastised him for succumbing to the siren call of the whip.

All for one. One for all. No one left alone. No one left behind.

Aramis’ expression was kind and too knowing as he said, "Get some sleep, d’Artagnan. You too, Athos. Porthos and I will check with the guards and see if there is any news from the birthing chamber. If there’s anything worth reporting, we’ll wake you."

"I could go," d’Artagnan offered, feeling as though he’d been fairly useless since their arrival earlier in the day.

"We’re rested, and you’ve been stuck on the road with Athos for days," Porthos said. "That’s exhausting enough all on its own."

"Oh, to be surrounded by such wit," Athos drawled. "Stay, d’Artagnan, so that these two might leave me in peace, rather than alternately insulting me and fussing over me like a pair of old biddy hens with one chick."

D’Artagnan couldn’t help the smile that twitched in one corner of his mouth. No matter how dire the circumstances, his soul seemed lighter when he was surrounded by these men.

"Far be it from me to ignore the request of an injured man," he said magnanimously, bringing a smile to the others’ faces. Once they had exited to see to their errands, d’Artagnan turned down the lamps and removed his boots, placing them next to his doublet and weapons belt before climbing carefully into the low, wide bed next to Athos. The older man—still weak from his ordeal—was asleep within minutes, his breathing even and slow. D’Artagnan listened to it in the dark for a little while before his own exhaustion caused him to follow Athos into slumber.

It was still dark when a low voice spoke his name.

"D’Artagnan," Aramis said. "Wake up."

He was awake in an instant, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and reaching clumsily for his boots and weapons, vaguely aware of Athos rousing himself to awareness next to him.

"Rest easy, friends," the other man added quickly. "All is well. De Tréville is speaking with Milady, and we thought you two might want to hear the latest."

D’Artagnan relaxed, but continued to pull on his boots. "Yes. Thank you for thinking of it. Everything is still quiet outside?"

"It is," Porthos said, dropping into a chair across the room. "I’ve had a thought about that, actually."

De Tréville entered, having evidently heard Porthos’ words. "I’d be interested to hear it, Porthos. First, though, Milady reports that Her Majesty’s birthing pains are coming quite close together now, and are strong. Mme Rougeux has joined them and they do not expect it will be much longer. We sent for the parish priest yesterday; if God is with us he will arrive shortly, in time to confirm and record the birth."

"But the babe is arriving early, is it not?" Aramis said with a glance at de Tréville. "There are still concerns about its health."

"There are always concerns," de Tréville said. "However, you are correct, though I’m not certain how you could know such a thing. The baby was not due for another four weeks. That’s a significant period of time, but not necessarily catastrophic."

Aramis shrugged. "There is no great mystery; I merely spoke about it with Milady. Who, by the way, concurs with your assessment of the child’s chances."

"I see," de Tréville said. "As it happens, that brings me to another thing which I must speak with you all about. But first—Porthos, you said you’d had an idea about our mysteriously absent attackers."

Porthos nodded. "It occurred to me that when they escaped, d’Artagnan and Athos killed the leader of the group that came after the Queen in Illiers-Combray. Possibly his lieutenants as well, assuming he wanted his best men with him during the interrogation. What if that was who Grimaud’s message was supposed to get to?"

De Tréville and Athos looked thoughtful, and Aramis nodded.

"If that were the case," Athos said, "it wouldn’t stop them, but it might slow them down while they reorganized."

"It depends on how tightly organized the group was in the first place, but it could certainly explain a few days’ delay if more messages had to be sent to clarify the details and the new chain of command," de Tréville allowed. "I’m not sure we can rely on it, but you may well have something there, Porthos."

Porthos looked pleased with the praise. "What else did you want to talk to us about, sir?" he asked.

"To start with," de Tréville said, "I owe you an apology for doubting your loyalty, Porthos. I think you understand my reasons for doing what I did—and in fairness, I would do it again in the same circumstances—but I still wanted to deliver that apology in front of all of you."

Porthos’ smile faded, leaving him looking uncomfortable. D’Artagnan cleared his throat.

"I find it telling, sir, that you told Porthos you would be at a bustling inn, full of innocent people going about their business at all hours," he said, "while you told Grimaud that you would be at an abandoned property where an attack would harm no one except the mice. Almost as if you knew that no one would be at risk in Châteaudun."

Porthos blinked, and de Tréville looked surprised.

"I think you see the workings of my mind more clearly than I do myself, d’Artagnan," the older man said after a moment. Turning to Porthos, he continued, "Please understand that I never thought you a traitor, Porthos. But failure to be thorough in my investigation would have been an unthinkable dereliction of my duty to Her Majesty. You can see that?"

Porthos paused, and nodded slowly. "I can, sir. Our duty is to our Queen before all else. I do not think less of you for it."

"I’m glad of it," de Tréville said. "Because I owe Athos an apology as well."

Athos frowned. "As far as I am aware, you have offered me no insult, sir."

"You are not aware of it," de Tréville said, "which is why I am telling you now."

"I’m afraid I do not understand," Athos said, looking wary.

"My trap had one final aspect that you did not discern, Athos. You are correct that I did not seriously consider Porthos to be the traitor. When I sat down and contemplated who could have betrayed us to our enemies, two main possibilities presented themselves. I thought it must be either Grimaud... or your wife."

Athos straightened as suddenly as if someone had shoved a ramrod into his spine, the blood draining further from his already pale face.

"Explain yourself, if you please," he said.

"From the beginning, she has not exactly been reticent regarding her misgivings about our plans," de Tréville continued. "I began discreet enquiries about her background while we were still in Blois. Would you like me to tell you what I found?"

"I know very well what you found," Athos said tightly.

De Tréville glanced around the room, from Porthos and Aramis standing in uncomfortable silence, to d’Artagnan frozen in place, perched on the edge of the bed. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion in private?"

Athos seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment before coming to a silent decision. "These men are my brothers," he said. "You may say in front of them anything you care to say in front of me."

De Tréville nodded. "Very well. As I said, I had some of my contacts check into the comtesse’s background. And she is not who she claims to be. Anne de Breuil died in 1617; her gravestone lies in a churchyard in Tergnier. The woman you call Anne is an imposter and a criminal."

D’Artagnan was forcibly reminded of Athos’ final conversation with his treacherous servant in the kitchens of the castle at Blois.

You have been lost to me for years, Master, Grimaud had said, ever since you took that... that creature into your bed, and into your life. She has turned you weak and sinful, with her own wickedness! You know what she is.

Yes, Athos had replied. I do. I know exactly who and what she is.

Looking back and forth from de Tréville to Athos, d’Artagnan clamped his jaw tightly over any expression of shock that might have tried to escape. Aramis and Porthos kept their expressions admirably neutral, though their concern for Athos—who looked every bit as haggard now as when he had fainted and fallen from his horse—was palpable.

"You are correct," said the injured man on the bed. "She is. She was introduced to me at La Fère as the sister of a country curate, and we fell in love. My father had died years before, but my mother and brother disapproved of the match. However, I cared nothing for their opinions, and we were married."

"She was already far beneath you in status," de Tréville said.

"What care had I for status?" Athos scoffed. "We were happy... until the plague came to La Fère. Everyone in the household was sickened, except for Grimaud and myself. My brother died first. Then the other servants, followed by my mother. But by some miracle, Anne survived. It was while I was tending to her that I discovered a fleur-de-lys brand on her shoulder."

"The mark of a criminal," Porthos said, sounding deeply affected. "I’d wondered how you first found out."

Athos’ red-rimmed eyes flew to Porthos in surprise, silently questioning, and immediately to Aramis, who nodded.

"Yes, Athos. We both knew," Aramis said kindly. "You talk in your sleep when you’re drunk, my dear friend. We decided it was none of our business, so we never discussed it further."

Athos squeezed his eyes shut, and d’Artagnan’s throat ached in sympathy at the depth of feeling hidden behind that tightly controlled visage.

"Regardless of her past, she will always be Anne to me," Athos continued after a long pause, a faint tremor coloring his voice. "When she recovered from her illness enough to speak, she told me everything and threw herself upon my mercy. She had escaped from a convent when she was sixteen, with the aid of the priest who had been posing as her brother when we met. Of course, they were not truly siblings; they were lovers. They had survived by stealing and swindling their way across half of France, and by marrying her to a nobleman, they’d hoped to set themselves up for life."

Unable to contain himself any longer, d’Artagnan exclaimed, "But she loves you! That is clear to anyone!"

"Yes," Athos agreed. "She came to love me as deeply as I loved her. She broke things off with the curate, but continued to send him money to ensure his silence. When the Black Death came, though, he was one of the first to die. She must have thought at the time that her secret was finally safe. She hadn’t counted on becoming sick herself. I was bathing her—trying to cool her fever—when I found the criminal brand."

De Tréville looked deeply troubled. "The audacity of such a deception, Athos... perhaps it is not my place to judge, but I doubt I would have been as forgiving."

Athos’ eyes were burning when he turned them on de Tréville. D’Artagnan had never before seen such naked emotion from the normally reticent man.

"My mother and my brother had just died, and my wife nearly did," he said, each word delivered like the thrust of a blade. "I was alone in the world, but for her. What would you have had me do when I discovered the truth? Hang her from the nearest tree?"

De Tréville met that fiery gaze head on. "No," he said eventually. "Of course not. I merely wish that you had confided in me, given the delicate situation in which we are all enmeshed."

Athos dropped back against the headboard, exhausted. "It wasn’t my secret to tell."

De Tréville seemed to shake himself free of the moment, and the tension in the room subsided markedly. D’Artagnan let out the breath he had been holding, and Porthos and Aramis relaxed slightly from their positions of wary protectiveness.

"It’s moot now, in any event," de Tréville said. "As far as Milady was aware, if we could not stay at Thiron Abbey, we would come here. After the attack at Thiron-Gardais, I sent a message to M. Rougeux to take his family away and stay with relatives for a few days. Had Milady been the traitor, the attackers would have come here after failing to find us at the abbey. When that did not happen, it proved that she was not the source of information. Hence my desire to deliver an apology to you as well as Porthos."

"Were I not currently debating the merits of calling you out to a duel," Athos said from his position staring up at the ceiling, "I would no doubt be impressed by your cunning, sir. However, I am not certain that I am the one to whom you should be delivering the apology."

"I didn’t think she would appreciate the distraction, just now," de Tréville said. "Though I will certainly deliver it when the opportunity presents itself. Perhaps the duel can wait until then, eh? Or perhaps she will call me out herself, and save you the effort."

"Perhaps so," Athos said, sounding weary beyond measure.

A commotion at the front door pulled them from the aftermath of the little drama. Everyone except Athos, who was unarmed, reached for a weapon.

"Édouard?" de Tréville called from the doorway.

"Yes, it’s all right," M. Rougeux’s booming voice called back. "The priest has arrived!"

The musketeers relaxed with relief, and a moment later their host appeared in the company of a middle-aged man with black hair and bushy eyebrows, wearing a cassock and looking slightly disheveled.

"This is Father Julien," M. Rougeux said. "Father, this is Captain Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville of the Queen’s Guard, and his men. Father Julien brings important news, Jean-Armand."

"Thank you for coming, Father," de Tréville said, bowing to the priest. "What news do you have?"

Father Julien sketched a shallow bow in return and met de Tréville’s gaze, his face serious. "Captain, your message eventually reached me in Illiers-Combray, where I had been called to deal with the aftermath of a disturbance south of the town involving a fire and several dead men."

Athos met d’Artagnan’s eyes.

"Shortly after I left and rejoined the main road to come here," the priest continued, "I passed a large company of armed men headed this way. It was dark and I gave them a wide berth; I doubt they took much notice of me. Once I was safely past them, I rode like the devil to get here."

"They were on foot?" de Tréville asked.

"Mostly, yes. A few were mounted. They were moving slowly and will be a couple of hours behind me, at least."

"That can’t be a coincidence," Aramis said with false lightness.

"Certainly not," de Tréville agreed. "What do you think, Édouard? Could they be some of ours?"

M. Rougeux grunted, sounding skeptical. "How many men would you say there were, Father?"

The priest shook his head and replied, "You must understand, it was quite dark. I would say more than two hundred, easily. Perhaps three hundred."

"I dunno, Jean-Armand," M. Rougeux said. "So far they’ve been straggling in by twos and threes, not dozens and hundreds. That seems far too many on such short notice for them to be on our side."

"I concur. Well, at least we have warning, and a couple of hours to plan," de Tréville said. "Thank you for that, Father."

Mme Rougeux bustled in before the priest could respond. "Oh, thank goodness!" she said. "You’re just in time, Father. The baby is about to come."

"Yes, of course." Father Julien looked down and started rummaging in the bag slung over his shoulder, pulling out a large book of parish records. "Do you have ink and a quill?"

"Yes, everything is ready," Mme Rougeux said. "And M. de Tréville? Her Majesty is asking for you."

"I’ll be right there," de Tréville said, causing the priest to look up from his fumbling, just as a long cry of pain drifted from down the hall.

"In the birthing room?" the cleric asked. "That seems highly unusual..."

De Tréville squared up to the man, bringing himself to his full height. "I am ever Her Majesty’s servant, Father. When she calls upon me, I will be there." He turned to the others. "You three—join the patrols outside. Have someone saddle all of the horses and ready them for use; we may need them quickly. I’ll send word as soon as the baby is born."

Athos was pulling on clothing, his movements weak but determined. "Get me a sword and a pistol, and help me down the hall. I will guard the door to the room, even if I have to do so from a chair."

De Tréville gave him an assessing look before nodding curt agreement; even weakened as he was, Athos with a weapon in his hand was a dangerous opponent for anyone. Athos strapped on the weapons belt that Porthos handed him and allowed the captain to support him with an arm across his shoulders as everyone departed for their various duties.

Half an hour later, d’Artagnan was checking his section of the perimeter for the fifth time, and inwardly cursing the vagaries of childbirth, military tactics, and cloudy nights. Why did it have to be so dark? And why did the birthing process have to be so nerve wracking and protracted? Every tiny noise from the bushes seemed to herald the descent of troops upon them, even though d’Artagnan new that in reality, they were not due for a little while yet.

One of the village boys hurried up, but instead of taking his report and passing on the all clear from the others, he came to a breathless halt and said in a rush, "M. d’Artagnan? Milady says go to the stables right away! The captain will meet you and the others there."

D’Artagnan thanked him and practically ran to the stable yard, so desperate was he for news. From the looks of Porthos and Aramis when he arrived, they were every bit as eager as he. De Tréville strode in a few moments later, all signs of fatigue replaced by blade-sharp single-mindedness.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I am pleased to report that His Most Holy Majesty Henry V of France was born at four thirty a.m. this day, Friday the eleventh of July, 1631."

Porthos released a sigh of relief, and Aramis closed his eyes and crossed himself. D’Artagnan felt a wave of excitement at the news, knowing that it meant all they had gone through to get to this point was not in vain.

"How is the child?" Aramis asked.

"He is small and weak, but alive," de Tréville said. "There is no sign of deformity or defect, and he was able to suckle."

"And the Queen?" d’Artagnan asked, thinking of the screams of pain that had filled the house for hours.

"Weary, but in good health," the captain replied, allowing a faint smile to lift one corner of his mouth briefly. "Now, our plans. Troops are moving on La Croix-du-Perche. I propose to meet them at the edge of the town with some of our forces, leaving the remainder of the men here to protect the house."

The rest of them nodded in understanding, the grim reality of their situation immediately overcoming the brief flush of excitement and relief at the birth of the King.

"Aramis, you will coordinate the local lads guarding the perimeter of the property," de Tréville ordered. "Porthos, you will join Athos and Milady inside the house. You three, along with M. and Mme Rougeux, will be the last line of defense for Their Majesties."

"No one will touch mother or child without climbing over our lifeless bodies first, Captain," Porthos vowed solemnly.

De Tréville nodded in acknowledgement. "I would have expected nothing less from such fine and loyal guards. D’Artagnan, you will come with me to gather the men who are staying at the chapel and confront the troops at the edge of town. We are completely outnumbered regardless of what strategy we employ, but I do have a trick or two remaining that might help to throw things into confusion before they can reach this property."

"I’ll do whatever I can to help, sir," d’Artagnan said, feeling the thrum of excitement and the anticipation of battle push the weariness from his body.

"Gather all of the horses, except the fastest one, together in two strings that we can lead to the chapel," de Tréville said. "We’ll leave one horse in case someone here needs to get a message out for some reason; otherwise, I want the biggest show of strength we can manage, and that means men on horseback."

"One horse is lame," d’Artagnan said, thinking of Grimaud’s mare. "Do you still want her?"

"Yes, but we’ll keep her at the back of the group where she won’t be as noticeable. We’re not going far, and this is more an exercise in making a particular impression than anything else. Choose a good horse for yourself; you will be acting as my lieutenant and should be mounted as such."

"Take Rosita," Aramis said. "And leave Porthos’ gelding here for us. He’s the fleetest of foot should we need to send out a messenger."

"If that’s settled," said de Tréville, "get ready and I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes. I need to retrieve some items before we leave."

"Yes, sir," d’Artagnan said.

De Tréville met Aramis’ and Porthos’ eyes in turn, offering each of them a nod of acknowledgement that they returned with respect, touching the wide brims of their hats. The older man turned with precision and strode away toward the house, leaving the three musketeers alone in the yard.

D’Artagnan looked at Porthos and Aramis, feeling a sudden, painful awareness that this might well be the last time he saw them.

"My friends," Aramis said, "we all have our assigned duties. May God watch over us and lend our hearts courage and our blades, strength. I will see both of you soon, either in this life, or the next."

He stretched out his hand, and d’Artagnan grasped it firmly. A moment later, both of their hands were enveloped in Porthos’ own large one.

"This life, or the next," Porthos echoed.

D’Artagnan smiled, feeling his regard for these men who had made a place for him expand to fill him from head to foot. "This life or the next," he agreed. "Porthos, tell Athos... tell him I could not ask for a better mentor, and that I particularly valued the lesson he gave to me in Latin."

"I will," Porthos said, and the three let their hands fall back to their sides.

Unable to bear the moment any further, d’Artagnan turned and headed toward the stables, but stopped after only a few steps as a thought hit him.

"Aramis?" he called back.

"Yes?" said the other man, peering at him curiously through the darkness.

"It just occurred to me... if we are to meet in the next life, should I be aiming for Heaven or Hell?"

He was rewarded by Porthos’ rumbling laugh, and a fond look from Aramis, who replied, "Heaven, of course, you wicked boy. Are we not on the side of the righteous?"

Porthos clapped Aramis on the back and said, "Oh, come now, Aramis! In my experience, all of the interesting people go to Hell..."

Aramis opened his mouth to refute Porthos’ outrageous statement, feigning offense. D’Artagnan took a last look before turning away, wanting to remember the pair of them exactly as they were at that moment.