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ISABELLA’S FORCES had arrived.
“Make for the city!” Paolo cried. “Hurry!”
“If we’re caught outside when the gates close, we’ll be slaughtered,” d’Artagnan said grimly, checking his weapons.
Marc-René didn’t need to be told twice, his whip cracking over the old wreck of a draft horse pulling the cart. The beast lurched forward into an ungainly canter, jerking its passengers back against the seat and spilling bags of grain off of the edge of the cart. Behind them, the other drivers were following suit; the motley collection of conveyances rattling toward the protection of the city walls as fast as cart horses and donkeys could pull them.
They might as well have been crawling, compared to the horde of sleek animals bearing down on them from behind. Even so, the bridge across the Eure was growing larger in front of them, and d’Artagnan thought that their cart would probably make it. The sound of horns from the battlements flanking Porte Guillaume reached them faintly over the uneven thud of hooves on packed dirt and the creaking of the cart, followed moments later by the tolling of the bells of Notre Dame. Whether they made it or not, at least the lookouts had been alerted to the attack—the city would not be taken unawares.
The wagon that had been next in line behind them drew even with them, drawn by a pair of younger, faster horses, and d’Artagnan waved them past. By contrast, the two carts drawn by donkeys were lagging far behind, and with a sick feeling, d’Artagnan realized they would soon be overtaken. The wagon that had just passed them clattered onto the bridge, and d’Artagnan felt the cart lurch beneath him as they did the same. Clinging to the bench as they rattled over the cobbles, he swiveled again to look back. The next cart, pulled by a lanky pony, was perhaps three or four arpent behind them. Beyond it, the enemy troops had just overtaken one of the donkey carts, cutting down the passengers without mercy. D’Artagnan's wagon barreled through the city gate, cutting off his view just as soldiers reached the second donkey cart, but the screams of the unlucky men could be heard all the same.
“Pull up!” d’Artagnan shouted at Marc-René. “Pull up, damn you!”
Marc-René wrestled the panicked draft horse under control, and d’Artagnan leapt down before the cart had even stopped completely, vaguely aware of Paolo doing the same beside him. He charged back the way they had come, yelling, “Not yet! Hold the gate! Hold it!” at the men who were swinging the massive doors closed. The third wagon could be heard clattering toward the entrance, along with the hoof beats of the approaching soldiers, who were forced to slow down and ride two or three abreast to cross the narrow bridge.
“Stand ready!” d’Artagnan shouted. “Let the wagon through and close the gate after it! Attack any soldiers that get past—don’t let them further into the city!”
He drew his sword and a pistol, holding the firearm in his right hand and his rapier in his left. Beside him, Paolo drew a wickedly curved blade from his belt and dropped into a crouch. The pony galloped through the gate, the wheels of the wagon it pulled slewing past them, only inches from their toes as they pressed back against the stone walls of the battlements. Hard on its heels, half a dozen enemy riders burst through before the solid oak gates slammed into place, cutting them off from the rest of the army.
D’Artagnan took aim and shot one through the heart, seeing three more go down to the city guards’ pistols and calivers. Tossing his own spent pistol aside and transferring the rapier from his left hand to his right, he parried as another of the riders slashed at him. The man’s horse skidded on the slick cobbles as he jerked it around by the reins for a second attack. Sensing an opening, Paolo darted forward, blade in hand. The huge bay animal reared, one of its front feet striking Paolo in the temple and felling him instantly.
D’Artagnan cried out as Paolo fell under the animal’s crushing hooves, but another of the riders was upon him before he could do more than take a step toward the broken body. With a wordless yell, he ducked to the side and spun, driving the point of his sword into the man’s thigh. Two city guards dragged the man from his horse and slammed him face first into the ground, while another three overcame the soldier on the bay horse that had killed Paolo.
Remembering himself, d’Artagnan yelled, “Don’t kill them! Take them alive for questioning!”
Above him, the sound of gunfire from the battlements filled the air as the guards drove the forces massed outside the gate into retreat, and d’Artagnan could hear the fading hoof beats of their horses as they turned and fled out of range rather than face being picked off one by one on the narrow bridge. Around him, guards were catching the dead soldiers’ loose horses and dragging the prisoners away, while bystanders began moving forward to clear the bodies and tend to the wounded. In the midst of the commotion, d’Artagnan stood silently, just breathing. A hand descended on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Marc-René standing beside him.
“All right, lad?” asked the old farmer.
After a moment, d’Artagnan replied in a hoarse voice, “Yes. All right.” He stepped out from under the hand gripping his shoulder and began the long walk back to the Palais Épiscopal without looking back.
The siege of Chartres had begun.
* * *
Upon arriving back at the palace, d’Artagnan found himself enveloped in Porthos’ rough embrace.
“The others?” he asked, letting himself lean into the big man’s solid strength for a second or two before pushing back.
“Safe,” Porthos replied. “Well, mostly. Aramis’ foot got run over by a wagon wheel at the south gate. He says it’s only bruised. Shoulda moved quicker, though. We won’t be letting him live that one down anytime soon, that’s for certain.”
“I made the city guard keep the gate at Porte Guillaume open to let through one of our wagons that was about to be overrun,” d’Artagnan said, relief at knowing his friends were safe warring with doubt about his own decision. “Six enemy soldiers got in before it was closed. We killed four of them and captured two, but one man from the city died in the fighting, and three guards were injured.”
Porthos regarded him thoughtfully. “Well, to my mind you did right, but I’d maybe not mention the details to de Tréville in case he has a different opinion on the matter. Still, those two prisoners could be pretty valuable if they know anything about Isabella’s strategy.”
D’Artagnan nodded and allowed himself to be led inside to a large, echoing room in the north wing, where d’Aumont and de Tréville were deep in discussion with the Queen while Athos and Aramis—seated with one boot missing and his swollen foot resting on a hassock—looked on. Upon seeing d’Artagnan, Aramis flashed him a wry smile and Athos tipped his head in acknowledgement.
De Tréville looked up at the intrusion. “D’Artagnan. Good. Anything to report?”
“Two enemy soldiers were captured alive by the city guard at Porte Guillaume,” d’Artagnan replied, taking Porthos’ advice and omitting further details.
“Three were taken at the Porte S. Michel, as well,” d’Aumont said. “It’s unlikely they have any detailed knowledge of their commanders’ military tactics, but you never know.”
“If the messengers we sent out to other cities were not captured,” said the Queen, “then help will be coming. All we need do until then is make use of the city’s excellent fortifications to keep Isabella’s forces at bay.”
“How are our supplies of ammunition?” Athos asked.
De Tréville answered. “My supplier has been stockpiling powder and shot in Chartres for some time now. We cannot afford to be profligate, but I’ll wager we have considerably more firepower than our enemy does.”
“I confess myself intrigued by this mysterious supplier of yours, Jean-Armand,” said d’Aumont. “I don’t suppose you’d care to enlighten me as to his identity?”
The Queen and de Tréville shared a brief, indecipherable look. “I think that would be unwise at the present moment, Antoine,” de Tréville said after a slight pause. “The situation is... complicated.”
D’Aumont stared at de Tréville for a few beats, then shrugged. “As you please. I suppose his musket balls fly just as straight whether I know his name or not.” He turned to the Queen. “Your Majesty, your assessment of the current situation is quite correct. We have laid in supplies as best we are able, and my own troops working in conjunction with the city guard should be more than sufficient to hold the city, at least for now.”
“You will let us know if there is anything we can do to contribute, of course,” said the Queen.
“I will, Your Majesty,” said d’Aumont. “The walls are strong and thick, however. You need have no fear for your safety or that of the young King.”
* * *
If you had asked d’Artagnan as a lad to describe warfare, he might have used terms like danger, excitement, or glory. He would not, however, have used the word boring. Now though, it was the word foremost on his mind. Siege warfare was boring.
Unless you were on top of the battlements, shooting at the enemy when they intermittently tested the city’s defenses, there was literally nothing to do except sit around and worry. Or stand around on guard duty at the palace and worry. Or watch Porthos and Aramis play endless rounds of cards while Athos drained bottles of wine... and worry.
On the positive side, he had the leisure to spend time with Constance when her duties to the infant King permitted. Of course, spending time with Constance brought its own brand of strain. D’Artagnan told himself firmly that he desired only her friendship, but the time spent in her presence was a special kind of torture. Despite what Aramis had said, he knew she did not desire him. He still desired her, however. Oh, how he desired her.
He awoke in the night, hard with desire for her, having mistaken the softness of the feather bed under his cheek for the softness of her bosom, full with the milk that fed the Queen's son. Once or twice, he gave into the ache, his hand moving swiftly over his engorged prick until he spilled over the bedclothes, muffling his cries by digging his teeth into the meat of his left hand. Lying there afterward in the dark, self-loathing overcame him at his own weakness—must he now pleasure himself over thoughts of a woman who did not want him? Had he truly been reduced to such a detestable level?
Then, to see her the following day—greeting him with innocent pleasure in their friendship—it was almost beyond bearing. His back itched and burned with the need for penance. On one such day, she watched him with worried eyes for awhile, before blurting, “Sometimes I can’t tell if you want to spend time with me or not. Are you angry with me, d’Artagnan? Because of... because of that kiss, the evening after we first met?”
D’Artagnan stared at her in shock. “No!” he exclaimed after a moment. “No, of course not! It is you who should be angry with me! If you only knew...”
He trailed off, words deserting him.
“I can’t know what you don’t tell me, d’Artagnan,” Constance said, staring at him as if hoping to peel back the layers of his skull and see what thoughts resided within.
D’Artagnan could only shake his head, certain that if she knew of his obsession, she would deprive him of her company completely... and rightly so. Afterward, he took himself off to the stable, seeking to dull the sharp edge of his frustration with the now-familiar ritual of grooming his father’s pony.
“What would you think of me now, Father?” he asked under his breath, letting his hands run over the buttercup-yellow coat that his father’s hands had also curried and brushed. “A soldier who sits on guard duty while a war rages at his doorstep, and a man who pines for a woman who rejected him at the first kiss. Could things get any worse?”
The pony yawned and passed wind, loud and long. D’Artagnan sighed, aware that he was being ridiculous and overly dramatic.
Four days later, Aramis disappeared.
* * *
“Have you seen Aramis this morning?” Porthos asked after poking his head into the room where d’Artagnan and Milady were eating a late breakfast.
“No,” said d’Artagnan. “Isn’t he in his room?”
“Nah,” Porthos said, shaking his head. “I checked there first when he didn’t show up to visit the bakery on the Rue au Lait with me.”
It was something of an open secret that Aramis had been spending time with the baker’s daughter in the days since the siege began—a young woman who had moved back to help with her parents’ business after the death of her fiancé. D’Artagnan frowned; it did seem unlike the man to miss an assignation.
“Perhaps de Tréville gave him an assignment,” Milady suggested, and took another bite of the poached egg that she was eating.
“Maybe,” Porthos allowed. “Didn’t he seem a bit... off to you last night, though?”
D’Artagnan had been on guard duty the previous evening, but Milady shrugged and swallowed thoughtfully before replying, “I suppose he was a bit quiet and subdued, for Aramis. Still, you know him. He’s probably warming some pretty young thing’s bed and overslept. No cause for worry.”
“He’s scheduled for guard duty after Athos,” d’Artagnan offered. “He’ll have to show up then, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Porthos said. “I’ll just wait for him here. Got any more of those eggs?”
D’Artagnan sliced off a hunk of bread for him and gestured toward the covered plate on the sideboard.
Twenty minutes later, Athos entered the room, his shift for the morning completed.
“Where’s Aramis?” he asked. “He was next on the duty roster, but it was de Tréville who relieved me.”
A frown furrowed Milady’s forehead, and Porthos shared a worried look with d’Artagnan.
“He’s missing, and I’ll wager de Tréville knows something about it,” Porthos said, rising from the table. “Come on. I want answers.”
The four of them trooped through the grand hallways to the entrance of the suite of rooms used by the Queen and her son, where de Tréville stood at attention in front of the closed door. His single eye raked over them, a disconcertingly haggard air to his expression.
“Where is Aramis, Captain?” Porthos asked unceremoniously.
“Aramis is unwell,” de Tréville said, and d’Artagnan really didn't like the flat tone of his voice. “He wished to rest.”
“He’s not in his room,” Porthos said.
“He indicated a desire for privacy,” de Tréville said, still without expression. “No doubt he took himself off somewhere a bit quieter.”
D’Artagnan felt a sick feeling begin to creep into his stomach.
“This is Aramis we’re talking about, right?” Porthos said, his voice beginning to rise. “The man who needs an audience to complain to whenever he has so much as a sniffle?”
“Unwell... how, exactly?” d’Artagnan asked, not at all certain he wanted to hear the answer.
For the first time, de Tréville’s composure seemed to slip, leaving him looking suddenly much older. “Fever. Headache...” he said, before adding as if the words were being pulled from him against his will, “... swelling at the neck, armpit, and groin.”
Porthos made a wordless noise of pain, and d’Artagnan swayed a bit as gray spots danced momentarily at the edges of his vision before retreating. Athos, standing between them, reached a hand out to each of their shoulders to steady them. Off to one side, Milady wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off a sudden chill.
“Where is he?” Athos said, his voice icy.
“I cannot tell you,” de Tréville said in a hoarse voice.
“The hell you can’t,” Porthos said, stumbling forward half a step. “Sir.”
De Tréville did not back down or break eye contact with the distraught man now looming over him. “I cannot tell you because Aramis would not tell me. He’s trying to protect you, Porthos. All of you.”
Porthos whirled around and drove a fist into the wall next to the door. D’Artagnan focused on trying to drag breath into lungs that did not want to work properly.
“We will find him,” Athos said, only to be interrupted when the door behind de Tréville opened, revealing the Queen, with Constance by her side.
“We heard a disturbance,” said the Queen, her eyes taking in the group’s distressed appearance. “Is everything well, Captain?”
De Tréville closed his eye for a moment, gathering himself. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. No, everything is not well. Aramis is ill. It appears to be the plague.”
Constance’s hand flew to her mouth, a high-pitched noise of dismay escaping. The Queen breathed out once, audibly, before her natural reserve reasserted itself.
“God have mercy on us,” she said, touching the crucifix she wore around her neck. “I had hoped that we were finished with that horrible scourge.”
“Your Majesty,” said Milady, “both Captain de Tréville and I have survived the plague, and we tended to your late husband during his illness without becoming ill ourselves. We are the logical choices to care for Aramis, assuming we can even find the foolish idiot.”
Athos’ eyes flew to his wife, his brows drawing together, and Porthos began to voice a protest, only to fall silent when the Queen spoke again.
“I’m afraid I cannot spare the Captain under the current circumstances, Milady,” she said. “Whoever tends Aramis must stay segregated for the safety of my son, and the safety of the monarchy of France. We cannot allow personal concerns to override that, much as I might wish to.”
“In that case, Your Majesty,” Milady said, “Athos and d’Artagnan are the next best choices. Both of them have had close exposure to the disease without becoming ill in the past.”
D’Artagnan’s breath hitched. The idea of never seeing Aramis alive again was unendurable, but the idea of watching him gradually succumb to the plague was just as bad. He didn’t know if he was strong enough to face either one... but right now, Aramis needed him.
“I’m going, too,” Porthos said.
“Porthos, no,” de Tréville said. “You’ll die as well.”
“He might not die,” Porthos forced out between gritted teeth, “and I don’t care.”
“I can’t spare you,” said the Captain.
Porthos went to his knees before the Queen. “Your Majesty, Captain—forgive me. But the only way you’ll stop me going to him is by shooting me through the heart. I’ll resign my commission if that’s what it takes. But I have to help Aramis.”
The Queen’s eyes were as wet and shiny as d’Artagnan’s own when she stepped forward and rested a hand on Porthos’ bowed shoulder. “That won’t be necessary, Porthos. Captain, arrange to have some of d’Aumont’s men sent to guard these rooms. They’re already guarding the grounds of the palace, after all. While I would prefer to have my loyal musketeers outside these doors, it is that very loyalty which requires them to look after one of their own during his time of need.”
De Tréville sighed, defeated. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Porthos whispered.
“You will be in our prayers, gentlemen; Milady,” said the Queen, and drew Milady forward to kiss her cheek. Porthos rose, and the others stepped forward one-by-one to bow deeply over the Queen’s proffered hand. When d’Artagnan straightened and stepped back after his turn, he suddenly found himself with an armful of Constance. He froze in surprise as she reached up, her hands cradling his face and pulling him down until she could kiss his forehead.
“Stay safe and well, d’Artagnan,” she said with tears in her eyes. “Please.”
“I’ll try,” he said.
She nodded and disentangled herself with a blush, as if only now realizing what she had done. “See that you do,” she replied, trying to cover the depth of her upset. “And the rest of you as well.”
“Tell Aramis that I tried to keep you four half-wits safe,” de Tréville said gruffly.
“We will. Assuming we can even find him, of course,” Athos said, and the four of them bowed a final time to the Queen and withdrew.
“Where would he have gone?” d’Artagnan asked as they walked back toward their quarters to pack what they were likely to need.
“If he’s ill, he surely could not have gone too far,” Milady said.
“He wouldn’t have, anyway,” Porthos said with certainty. “He’d never put the citizens of Chartres at risk.”
“Nor would he put the Queen and her child at risk,” said Athos.
The answer came to d’Artagnan in a flash. “The south wing,” he and Milady said at almost the same time.
“Makes sense,” Porthos said. “It’s completely empty. God, I’m going to kill him myself for this.”
“That would probably be counterproductive,” said Athos, “but I can understand the sentiment.”
Entering their rooms, they quickly threw together bedrolls, clean rags, and other supplies that might be useful for tending a sick man, along with food and wine from the kitchens. A few minutes later, they were trekking across the grounds to the back entrance of the south wing, on the assumption that Aramis would not have wanted to go through the main wing, potentially exposing the bishop’s staff. Mere steps inside the large door, the morning light slanting through the windows illuminated uneven boot prints in the dust coating the floor.
“Subtle,” said Porthos. “That’s our Aramis.”
The tracks led to the main stairwell and up. The pale marble floor on the second level was not as advantageous for picking out the trail, but the door to the first bedroom was firmly shut, where all the others stood open. Porthos strode forward and knocked on it.
“Aramis?” he called.
“Go away,” called a faint, hoarse voice from within.
Athos looked at Milady. “Mystery solved, apparently,” he said. “Would you mind pinning a note on the door to the main wing, to let de Tréville know what’s happening and where to leave supplies if we need them?”
“And miss the drama of the next few minutes?” Milady said, her voice laced with sarcasm. She paused. “Actually, you know what? On second thought, that sounds like an excellent idea. I’ll just go and do that.” She turned to d’Artagnan. “Don’t let them actually kill each other, please. That would be a rather embarrassing thing to have to explain.”
D’Artagnan nodded dumbly, still too caught up in the horror of the thing to appreciate her attempt at lightening the mood. Porthos reached forward and twisted the handle, which was locked.
“Open the door, Aramis,” Porthos said.
No. Go away,” came the voice from within.
“Yeah, right, because that’s really going to happen,” said Porthos. “Have you got the delirium already, mate?”
“Fuck off,” said the voice, and d’Artagnan felt a momentary jolt of surprise at hearing the normally urbane Aramis speak so.
“Fuck off, yourself,” said Porthos, and kicked the door in.
The three of them piled into the room, only to be confronted with Aramis, pale and wan, pointing a pistol at them with a trembling hand. “That wasn’t a suggestion, mes amis,” he said. “Go. Away. I’m not going to let you in here.”
