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THE COLUMN OF SOLDIERS and royalty marched steadily northeast as the day progressed. After much discussion, it was agreed that they would travel north of Illiers-Combray in case enemy troops were still using the town as a base. While Porthos had argued vigorously that they should sweep through the area and root out any remaining enemy soldiers as they went, de Tréville pointed out that if even a single rider escaped to report to Isabella that they were on the move toward Chartres, it would speed the inevitable military response against them. The Queen agreed.
This suited d’Artagnan quite well, as Illiers-Combray was a place he never wanted to see again after having been captured there with Athos—forced to listen helplessly as the other man was tortured. Unfortunately, the alternate northern route did require them to travel through Chassant—a place Aramis had once described as “a village of ghosts”—along with several other small towns hit hard by the plague.
Whether Chassant had truly surrendered its last souls to abandonment and death, or whether those that still lived were frightened into hiding by the show of military might marching through their town, they saw no one as they passed. Still, a faint stench of decay hung in a pall over the area, and many of the soldiers tied kerchiefs over their faces out of fear that the miasma might sicken them as it had sickened the townsfolk.
Progress was slow, limited by the pace of the men on foot. De Tréville had insisted that they make for the small town of Bailleau-le-Pin as their stopping point on the first day, covering slightly more than eight of the fourteen leagues that separated La Croix-du-Perche from Chartres. In this way, they would arrive at their final destination the following day with some daylight left, and hopefully be able to speak with the city’s elders, gaining shelter within Chartres before nightfall.
It was quite a reasonable distance to cover for a rider, and not out of the question for someone on foot, but the sheer size of the retinue seemed to slow the pace to a near-crawl. D’Artagnan found himself surprised by Her Majesty’s fortitude and endurance while riding in heavy armor so soon after giving birth. However, he soon realized that she must have been riding and camping rough with de Tréville for weeks after the attack on the castle at Blois, trying to stay one step ahead of the assassins who would have seen her dead.
Today, it was Constance who was struggling. By her own admission, she seldom rode, for all that she seemed to have a magic touch with Grimaud’s cantankerous mare. Now, not only was she riding all day; she had the small, warm weight of Her Majesty’s son hanging across her chest and shoulder in his sling. D’Artagnan kept close to her, splitting his attention between watching her surreptitiously and scanning their surroundings for danger.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly when the troops stopped for a brief midday meal on a lonely stretch of road.
“I’ll manage,” Constance said gamely. “Here, take the baby so I can get down for a few minutes and stretch my legs.”
Before d’Artagnan could defer, Constance carefully handed the young King down to him, and he found himself with an arm full of wriggling infant. The sweet, milky smell of the baby unlocked long-forgotten memories of holding his baby sister when he was only a boy himself, and he instinctively moved to cradle the small form, supporting his head. One tiny arm that had freed itself from the swaddling waved around for moment before catching in his hair and tugging fitfully.
Clambering down stiffly from the saddle, Constance paused, looking at him. “Holding an infant is a good look for you, d’Artagnan,” she said. “I think I like it.”
Once again, d’Artagnan was thrown by her words. At that instant, though, the baby whimpered and began to cry. “I’m afraid it’s you he wants right now,” he said, relinquishing the hungry child back into his nurse’s arms and trying not to catch his breath as their hands brushed.
The moment was interrupted by the Queen’s approach, and they stepped apart.
“How is he, Constance?” asked Her Majesty.
“He wants feeding right now,” Constance said over the baby’s squalling, “but he’s been a joy to ride with, Your Majesty. I think he likes the motion of the horse.”
The Queen smiled. “I am not surprised. He comes from a long line of fine horsemen. His father was trained in equitation by de Pluvinel himself, after all. Come, Constance. There is shade by the side of the road, and I can see that you’re tired. Milady is procuring refreshment for us.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Constance dipped into a curtsy and followed the Queen, flashing d’Artagnan a quick smile over her shoulder as she left.
A moment later, an arm draped over d’Artagnan’s shoulder and a chunk of bread was pressed into his hand.
“They are truly remarkable, are they not?” Aramis said from beside him, his gaze moving over the three beautiful women settling themselves under a large tree next to the road.
“Yes, they are,” d’Artagnan said, unable to keep the faint note of wistfulness from his tone. Forcing his attention away from Constance, he tore a chunk from the bread and ate it, trying not to think too much on the soft look in Constance’s eyes as she’d watched him holding the baby.
* * *
The afternoon saw clouds move in, turning the sky slate gray. Rain showers pelted royalty, riders, infantrymen, and supply wagons alike, but there was nothing for it except to keep going. Her Majesty led, riding as tall and unconcerned in the saddle as if they were strolling through the grounds of the Louvre on a sunny day, while next to her, Constance hunched forward protectively over the young King with an oilskin cloak draped over both of them to keep off the worst of the rain. With the light fading early because of the low clouds, they were still a league or so shy of Bailleau-le-Pin when de Tréville finally called a halt. It was a dreary, dispirited company that quickly erected tents for a makeshift overnight camp in the deepening dusk, eating cold rations rather than fight to keep cooking fires burning in the intermittent drizzle.
D’Artagnan huddled inside a damp tent shared with Porthos, Aramis, and three other soldiers he didn’t know by name. The smell of steaming, unwashed bodies filled the small space. He was awakened from a fitful slumber by a hand shaking his shoulder.
“Get up. It’s time for your watch,” said Athos’ low voice in his ear.
Shaking the sleep from his head, d’Artagnan mumbled, “I’m up,” and clambered carefully over his comrades. Porthos stirred and grumbled in his sleep. D’Artagnan was unsurprised to see Aramis’ dark eyes on him as he buckled on his weapons—the other man gave him and Athos a small salute from where he lay curled up under his traveling cloak with his head resting on his saddlebags before turning over in an attempt to get back to sleep.
Milady was sharing the Queen’s tent along with Constance, so Athos removed his hat and sword, settling down in the space d’Artagnan had just vacated for his two hours of guard duty.
He was pleased to find that the rain had stopped while he slept, revealing patches of stars as the sky cleared. The moon, still obstructed by clouds, would have been a mere sliver even if visible, so the darkness was nearly complete. It was humid; the air seemed to congeal within d’Artagnan’s chest. Clammy sweat was already trickling down his back from even the slight exertion of walking around his assigned patrol area near the royal tent. He kept his senses turned outward, listening for anything that didn’t sound right from the outer reaches of the camp. The only thing that disturbed the night was the occasional sound of guards patrolling the perimeter as they called all-clears to each other in the dark.
The large number of men meant that guard shifts were short, and after a couple of boring hours in which absolutely nothing of import happened, the eastern sky began to lighten and d’Artagnan returned to his tent to wake the others. As was his habit, Aramis was already up, crouched over a pile of tinder, trying to raise a spark so they might have hot food for breakfast. From his expression, it wasn’t going terribly well.
An hour-and-a-half and a cold breakfast later, the company pulled out for a second day of travel that would, with luck, see them arrive at their destination. Tempers were short as the rain of the previous day gave way to exhausting heat and humidity, the sun steaming the moisture right back out of the ground. D’Artagnan found himself wishing for a cool stream in which to take a dip, but even if such a thing presented itself, he knew they could not stop. They were vulnerable on the road, and the senior officers agreed that Isabella might have been able to raise a large force against them by now. They would reach Chartres today, no matter how uncomfortable the heat.
As the day wore into afternoon, the unrelenting sun and humidity grew even worse, but they also encountered signs of life on the previously deserted road. The thoroughfare widened, showing signs of recent upkeep—an unusual sight these days. The farmers and tradesmen they met watched them with round, frightened eyes, giving the small army a wide berth. A few fell to their knees upon seeing the Queen at the head of the procession, and d’Artagnan wondered if they recognized her face or merely understood by her armor and retinue that she was a woman of power and consequence.
Finally, to everyone’s relief, they crested a hill and the fortifications of Chartres came into view in the distance, wavering in the intense heat like a mirage. D’Artagnan stared in amazement, never having seen the like. Farms and scatterings of small houses encircled the city itself, hidden behind protective walls and towers. D’Aumont had described for them the city’s strong defenses—after the plague, most of the remaining inhabitants had retreated within the walls built hundreds of years earlier, surrounded by ditches flooded with water from the Eure river and accessed by only four gates.
Arriving from the southwest as they were, the Her Majesty’s forces would attempt to gain entrance to the city via the Porte des Épars. D’Aumont assured them that the residents were sympathetic to the late King and Queen Anne, but d’Artagnan had heard Athos and de Tréville talking long into the night about a contingency plan, should d’Aumont’s influence with the city officials prove less than he claimed. As far as d’Artagnan was aware, they had come to no satisfactory conclusion. Everything hinged on their ability to gain access to the city peacefully—they were in no position to take it by force.
D’Aumont spoke quietly with one of his lieutenants, and the other man spurred his horse into a gallop, riding ahead to announce their arrival. Excitement and nervousness lent d’Artagnan a fresh burst of energy, and he had to forcibly stop himself fidgeting as they slowly covered the final distance to the gate with its narrow drawbridge. The column halted on the other side of the bridge from the city wall, waiting. A few minutes later, d’Aumont’s messenger crossed back to them.
“The city guard have sent for the mayor,” the man reported. “It’s M. Chauveau now; apparently M. Pétion died of a fever last week.”
“Hmm,” d’Aumont replied, his tone anything but pleased.
“Problem?” de Tréville asked tersely.
D’Aumont blew a breath out. “Hopefully not. Unfortunately, Mathurin Chauveau is not nearly such a close acquaintance of mine as the late M. Pétion was. He is a more cautious individual than the last mayor, but not irrational or prone to cowardice in my experience.”
“In that case, gentlemen,” said the Queen, “we will present our case and see what happens. There is little else we can do.”
M. Chauveau left them waiting for another half-hour while the brilliant sun slowly sank toward the western horizon. When he finally arrived at the gate, he was flanked by two dozen guards wearing swords and pistols. D’Aumont dismounted, handing his horse’s reins to his lieutenant. He walked across the bridge and approached M. Chauveau, shaking the mayor’s hand and immediately falling into earnest conversation with him.
From his position flanking the Queen, d’Artagnan could not hear what either of the men were saying, but Chauveau kept shooting glances in their direction, and he gestured several times back toward the city and at the farmland surrounding it. Eventually, d’Aumont turned and signaled de Tréville.
“Athos,” said the Captain, “you’re with us. The rest of you, stay here and guard the King.”
Her Majesty rode forward on d’Artagnan’s aged yellow pony, resplendent and composed in her gleaming armor despite the heat and the long hours on the road. De Tréville rode a step behind on her right side; Athos, on her left. Once they departed, Porthos, Aramis, Milady, and d’Artagnan arrayed themselves around Constance and the baby, who squalled and tugged at a ringlet of her sweat-damp hair.
“If they don’t let us in, this is going to get ugly,” Porthos said. “I don’t like it—too many things we can’t control.”
“Of course they’ll let us in!” replied Constance. “Most of us live here, after all. And M. d’Aumont is the richest and most powerful man for miles around. They wouldn’t dare turn him away.”
“I hope you’re right, Constance,” Porthos said. “Though I think you may be underestimating people’s fear of change and sense of self-preservation.”
The wait was agonizing. For more than an hour they stood watch, the sun beating mercilessly upon them from its position low in the sky. Behind them, d’Artagnan saw several of the soldiers grow faint with heat exhaustion; their comrades helping them to sit down at the side of the road and shading them as best they could with whatever blanket or piece of clothing was to hand. D’Artagnan’s own head began to pound in time with his heartbeat, and he forced himself to drink from his waterskin even though he did not feel thirsty. He glanced at Constance, noting her pallor and the slight gray tinge to her skin.
“Constance,” he said in concern, ”you need to drink something. Get down from your horse for a moment, and we’ll make some shade for you.”
She shook her head, looking a bit off-balance as she did so. “I’m fine,” she said stubbornly. “I have to mind the King.”
Milady and d’Artagnan were both off of their horses as soon as she spoke.
“Give me the baby for a few minutes,” Milady said in a tone brooking no opposition, reaching up to take the infant from the other woman’s arms. “D’Artagnan, help her down. She looks about ready to faint.”
“Step down, Constance,” d’Artagnan said, taking Milady’s place at the horse’s shoulder. “I’ve got you.”
“All this fuss,” Constance said, but she gingerly dismounted all the same. Anticipating that her legs wouldn’t hold her, d’Artagnan was there with an arm around her shoulder and a hand on her waist when her knees buckled. For a moment she sagged into him, a soft and trusting weight in his embrace, and he felt his heart speed up. He led her carefully away from the milling horses. As he was urging her down to sit in the grass at the edge of the road, she seemed to come back to herself somewhat.
“Oh!” she said, stiffening under his hands and pulling away. “I’m sorry! I must have been woozier than I thought.”
D’Artagnan gave her some space, trying to ignore the now-familiar sinking feeling in his chest as she once again shied away from his touch. Instead, he looked around for something to use for shade. “You, there!” he called to the man driving one of the weapons carts a little way behind them. “Bring me two of those musket-rests, please. And, Constance? Let me have your shoulder sling—I think that will work for a shade cloth.”
Constance nodded, and while she unwound the length of light material that had cradled the King against her breast on the ride, d’Artagnan accepted the fresh waterskin that Aramis handed down to him.
“Lean your head forward,” he told Constance when he returned to her. She did, and he let some of the water trickle over her head and shoulders. He gestured for the wrap, and handed her the waterskin in return. While she drank, he jammed the bases of the two musket rests into the loose soil of the verge and tied two corners of the soft material to the staves a couple of hand’s breadths above the ground, before flipping the rest of the loose cloth to drape over the forks at the tops of the rests so it would block the late afternoon sun.
Constance sighed in relief. “That’s much better, thank you.”
Milady rejoined them, and handed the baby back to Constance, who arranged him on her lap and looked him over carefully.
“He seems fine,” Milady reassured her. “You’ve been careful to shade him all day.”
“I guess it’s my turn to be pampered now,” Constance said, flashing d’Artagnan a weak but grateful smile. “I’m sorry to be such a burden.”
“Nonsense,” Milady said. “No one expects you to be accustomed to these sorts of conditions.”
“Look around,” d’Artagnan added. “Seasoned fighting men are practically dropping like flies back there. It’s nothing to be ashamed of—this heat is brutal, especially after the rain.”
“If you’d asked me yesterday when we were all soaking wet, I’d have said if I never saw rain again, it would be too soon,” Constance said. “I’m afraid I spoke in haste; it actually sounds pretty good, right about now.”
“I know what you mean,” d’Artagnan replied, only to be cut off by Porthos.
“Something’s happening,” called the big man.
In an instant, all eyes were on the royal party at the gate. Indeed, the representatives and guards from the city were retreating once more within the walls, while the Queen, de Tréville, and Athos wheeled their mounts and headed back toward the rest of the troops.
“Do you think they’ve agreed to the Queen’s request?” d’Artagnan asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other nervously.
“If they’re smart, they haven’t,” Milady said in a dry voice, “but if they’re greedy, they probably have.”
Constance frowned up at Milady from her spot in the shade. “You almost sound as though you disapprove. Surely you must want them to let us in.”
“Of course I do,” Milady said. “If we’re closed out, we’ll most likely be slaughtered on the road by Isabella’s troops. But I can hope for a result that’s in my own self-interest while simultaneously feeling contempt for a leader willing to risk his own people’s lives in return for the prospect of personal gain.”
“What would M. Chauveau hope to gain from this?” Constance asked.
“What does any such man hope for?” Milady asked cynically. “Wealth. Prestige. Political power within a new regime.”
“Surely the prospect of helping return the legitimate ruler to the throne would be enough to convince the mayor to help us,” Constance said, the frown still digging a furrow between her eyebrows, “as it would be for any good Frenchman.”
“I envy your idealism, Constance,” Milady said. “It must make the world a much simpler place.”
“Well, it looks like we’re about to find out one way or another,” said Porthos, who had been watching the exchange with half an eye. And, in fact, the Queen was just pulling up in front of them on d’Artagnan’s pony, the animal’s flanks damp with sweat.
“Gentlemen. Ladies,” the Queen said, immediately drawing all eyes. D’Artagnan held his breath as she continued. “M. Chauveau has opened the city to us, with the understanding that a wing of the Palais Épiscopal will be made available to the royal household and guards, while the rest of the troops must be billeted by those among our number who already live here.” There was a collective sigh of relief as she continued, “The first priority will be to gather supplies from the surrounding farms and bring them within the city walls, in expectation of an extended siege by Isabella’s forces. Our men will assist with that task. The second priority will be to send out more messengers to solicit support within the region.”
Antoine d’Aumont urged his horse forward a few steps. “Chartres welcomes the grandson of Henry IV—the true heir of France,” he said in a booming voice, to reach the soldiers standing in ranks behind them. “Her walls have stood firm against many attackers over the centuries, but she knelt before King Henry IV’s legitimate claim to the crown in 1591, and she kneels now before Henry V and the Queen Mother, Anne of Austria. Her battlements and moats will protect us from those who wish us harm. Come, all of you—follow your Queen into the city. Into your haven.”
A cheer rose up from the ranks and despite the heat, d’Artagnan felt the words inspire a lightness within him; a sense that now they had all come this far, surely nothing was out of their reach. He looked around at his friends: Aramis, who wore an expression of satisfaction; Porthos, who looked merely relieved; Athos, reserved as ever except for the brief rise of an eyebrow he shared with Milady as if to say, “Well, who would have guessed?” Constance, smiling back at him happily as she remounted her horse and once more secured her young charge against her body in his sling. De Tréville, ever watchful, flanking Her Majesty with pride in his eyes.
They’d made it. They weren’t alone in the wilderness any more.
* * *
Chartres was unlike any place d’Artagnan had ever visited before. The warren of streets bustled with carts and foot traffic that parted in front of them as they followed the mayor’s guardsmen deeper into the city. Their numbers dwindled as d’Aumont’s men melted away in twos and threes, returning to their homes with orders to report to the square in front of the Palais Épiscopal in the morning to help bring in supplies. D’Artagnan could barely tear his eyes from the spectacular sight of the city’s cathedral, its towering spires visible from practically any point within the walls.
“A transcendent vision, is it not?” Aramis asked from beside him, having noticed his preoccupation. “Truly, such a building channels the presence of the Almighty into the mundane world of men.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” d’Artagnan said. “I had no idea such things even existed.”
“It’s all good until someone asks you to clean the windows,” Porthos said, deadpan.
“Or tasks you with collecting the taxes and tribute to build the bloody thing in the first place,” Athos added.
Aramis sighed. “My friends,” he said, “you have no poetry whatsoever left in your souls.”
“Don’t think I ever had any to begin with, to be honest,” Porthos said. “It is a pretty building, though.”
“Pretty, he says,” Aramis echoed in mock disgust. “D’Artagnan, I see I must rely on you for proper appreciation of what man may accomplish when he opens himself to God’s will. As soon as we have time, I will take you to visit the cathedral.”
“I’d like that,” d’Artagnan replied, and the four fell into comfortable silence as they turned onto the Rue de l’Etroit Degré, running northwest of the massive church toward a much smaller—but still impressive—structure surrounded by a tall, wrought iron fence.
If Chartres was unlike any city d’Artagnan had visited before, the Palais Épiscopal was unlike any residence he’d ever seen. Past the iron gate decorated with filigree and finished with fine gold leaf, the view opened up, revealing a two-story brick and stone construction with several wings leading off the main structure. Some effort had been put into tending the gardens on the grounds, with flowers and hedges here and there amongst beds of herbs and vegetables.
There was evidence of recent repair to the stonework in places, and d’Artagnan had never seen so many unbroken glass windows in one place before. Suddenly self-conscious, he snapped his jaw shut and glanced around at the others, who seemed to find nothing very extraordinary about their surroundings. Feeling every inch an uncouth country lad, he forced himself to focus on d’Aumont, who was explaining the details of their accommodations. As they dismounted, several boys ran forward from the direction of the stables and took their horses away to be cared for.
The bishop, d’Aumont explained, was away at the moment, leaving only a skeleton staff of servants in his own wing of the palace. The rest of the building was abandoned, and by taking over the north wing, they would be assured of privacy and all the space they could possibly need. They would have to fend for themselves this evening, but tomorrow staff and servants would be procured for them.
It was enough to make d’Artagnan’s head spin. Servants? Staff? Had they not been huddled under tents in the rain less than a day ago? For the first time, he began to truly understand what it meant to be associated with royalty.
An hour later, that understanding was tempered with the realization that dust and grime inhabited empty palaces every bit as much as they inhabited a pauper’s hovel. Upon learning of the new arrivals and seeing the state of the north wing, the bishop’s secretary hurried to offer the Queen, her ladies, and her son use of the bishop’s suite until other rooms could be cleaned and aired. That offer, however, did not appear to extend to travel-stained soldiers, and d’Artagnan found himself sneezing repeatedly as he helped Porthos remove the dust sheets from ancient, moldering furniture while Athos and de Tréville threw open the windows, and Aramis went in search of a broom.
The five of them took it in shifts to guard Her Majesty’s rooms, and slept in bedrolls laid out on feather mattresses bare of sheets, but still softer than anything d’Artagnan had ever laid upon. The following morning dawned clear, promising another day of oppressive heat. The Queen’s forces gathered in the courtyard of the palace, the shadow of Notre Dame de Chartres looming over the grounds, blocking out the sun.
De Tréville stood on the steps leading up to the palace’s main entrance, addressing the men.
“With our very presence, we have brought danger to Chartres,” he began. “Even now, Isabella’s troops might be moving on the city. They could arrive at any time. Messengers have already been sent to nearby cities and towns to raise support and rally more troops. These troops will come to our aid, just as you came to Her Majesty’s aid in La Croix-du-Perche. In the mean time, however, we must do all we can to protect this city that many of you call home.”
“Hear, hear!” called several voices in the crowd, among the low rumble of discussion.
“To this end,” de Tréville continued, “we will utilize every able-bodied man and every cart, wagon, and coach we can find to gather food and fodder within the walls. M. Chauveau has opened Chartres to anyone from the surrounding countryside who wishes to shelter here until the conflict has passed. Isabella will be forced to adopt siege tactics, but she will find Chartres to be a prosperous and well-prepared target... and not such easy prey as she might think.”
Some cheers erupted among the gathered troops, but the muttering continued unabated as de Tréville, d’Aumont, Patenaude, and Tolbert began to move among the men, giving out assignments. D’Artagnan wondered how many of those who had marched to join them in La Croix-du-Perche had truly understood the potential consequences to Chartres... to their homes and families. Still, it was far too late now to turn back from the cause, and it was in everyone’s interest to do whatever was possible to ready the city for the coming siege.
That day, and the days that followed, fell into a sort of exhausting rhythm. D’Artagnan and the others alternated shifts of hauling wheat, oats, vegetables, and hay with shifts of guarding the palace. They seldom saw each other, except to relieve one another from guard duty or wish each other a brief good night before falling into bed for a few hours, exhausted. In their absence, the dusty rooms of the north wing were transformed by the newly hired servants into a residence more fit for royalty. Unfortunately, their decadent featherbeds did not see as much use as perhaps they might have wished them to, and the delicious meals prepared for the Queen and her retinue were largely ignored in favor of simple fare that could be eaten one-handed while transporting bags of flour to the city’s bakeries and wagons full of hay to the mews and stables dotted around Chartres.
D’Artagnan’s back ached with the manual labor, and after awhile his mind began to ache without the constant, steadying presence of his friends. He found himself becoming jittery and snappish toward his work-mates. Waiting for the siege to begin felt like standing on a mountainside under a heavy stone barely held in place by its neighbors—knowing that everything would eventually come crashing down on his head, but with no way of knowing when. He would rather fight a hundred battles against Isabella’s army, he decided, than bear this endless waiting for something to happen. He tried to distract himself with thoughts of Constance as he worked, but his pleasant fantasies always circled back to the feeling when she stiffened in his arms and pulled away as if his touch burned her.
Not for the first time, d’Artagnan thought longingly of his cat o’nine tails, and the release that it represented. The others would know if he used it, though... the others always knew. And, of course, he had promised de Tréville that he would not, on pain of losing his commission in the Queen’s guard.
Evidently, his growing agitation was visible to others, as he caught both Aramis and Porthos giving him worried looks during their brief interactions. On the third morning after their arrival in Chartres, de Tréville intercepted him on his way out to ready a wagon.
“You have new orders, d’Artagnan,” said the Captain. “Go and prepare your gelding for the Queen to ride. Her Majesty wishes to tour the city in hopes of boosting the residents’ morale. You and I will accompany her for an hour or two.”
“Yes, sir,” d’Artagnan replied, and hurried to the stable, pocketing a crust of bread from the table as he passed, since he lacked Constance’s uncanny rapport with the broom-tailed mare that he would be riding.
His father’s old pony was dozing in his stall when d’Artagnan entered, one bony hip cocked and his shaggy head hanging low. He snorted awake when d’Artagnan greeted him. One disinterested ear flicked back toward his master for a moment before the animal apparently decided that nothing was required of him for the moment, and picked up a mouthful of hay from the manger in front of him.
D’Artagnan curried clouds of dust from the sagging back, feeling his tension ebb with the familiar ritual and the gelding’s stalwart presence. Only when he brought in the studded bridle with its gleaming armored champron did the animal perk up, showing interest in the proceedings.
“Enjoying your new status as the mount of royalty, are you?” d’Artagnan asked, easing the bit into place and adjusting the cheek piece down a notch. One large, brown eye rolled around to peer at him disdainfully before the gelding sneezed, blowing a fine mist of snot across his jerkin. “Right. Silly question, apparently.”
The pony shook its head, setting armor and metal buckles to jingling.
Half an hour later, riding Grimaud’s mare on Her Majesty’s left while de Tréville flanked her right side and a dozen guards on foot trailed behind, d’Artagnan felt better than he had since they arrived here. The Queen toured the quiet neighborhoods around the cathedral and palace as well as the nearby business districts, bustling with both normal, day-to-day business and the laying in of supplies. Reaction to their presence ranged from obvious awe and adoration to skeptical reserve, but d’Artagnan was pleased to see no open hostility toward the Queen in the areas they visited.
Her Majesty approached everyone they met with the same grace and charm, thanking them for their hospitality and promising that Chartres and its brave citizens would figure prominently in the new regime. Upon their return to the palace, d’Artagnan rubbed down the sweaty horses and grabbed an apple and some cheese from the kitchens for a quick meal, still feeling lighter than he had in days as he headed out to join one of the crews transporting supplies for the rest of the afternoon. He ended up riding on a rickety cart hauled by an underweight draft horse with a club foot, driven by a taciturn farmer named Marc-René. He was partnered with a wiry, dark-skinned man with a noticeable accent who introduced himself as Paolo and who could lift twice as much weight as his slender frame suggested.
The afternoon passed as pleasantly as one could expect when doing hard labor—Paolo was an engaging companion, and taught him several songs from his native Portugal even though d’Artagnan couldn’t understand the words; laughing when d’Artagnan accidentally butchered them into something rude. The three of them were returning from their second trip to a granary northeast of the city, leading a loose caravan of five wagons toward the Eure river and the entrance at Porte Guillaume. Paolo was trying—with limited success—to teach Marc-René how to insult someone in Portuguese when a shout came from behind them.
“Soldiers! Soldiers coming this way!”
D’Artagnan and his companions craned around to look past the other wagons, and he heard Marc-René catch his breath on a curse. Hundreds. There were hundreds of riders behind them, bearing down on them at a full gallop.
