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fredbassettTitle : A Dangerous Delivery, Part 2 of 7
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 18
Characters : Athos/Treville, Porthos, Aramis, d’Artagnan, Anne, Louis, Richelieu
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 26,700 in seven approximately equal parts
Summary : When the Queen decides to visit a childhood friend in the country, the Musketeers are tasked with her safety.
By mid-afternoon on their third day of travel, the convey was hot, beset by insects, and becoming somewhat fractious. Athos’ throat was as dry as dust, sweat was running down his back in rivulets and even his normally stoic mount was lashing its tail furiously at the ever-present mosquitoes.
The Queen had borne the heat and the jolting of the carriage with reasonable fortitude, as had Françoise d’Hauteville, but Athos had reached the stage of wanting to drown the rest of her women in a particularly fetid pond, much like the one in the last village they’d passed through. He was thoroughly sick of having to assign his men to stand guard when one of the women was beset by a burning desire to relive herself in the woods. He’d even started to revise his opinion of the good sense of most of them, despite having had a hand in their choosing. Being the object of the ill-disguised infatuation of some of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting had become wearing for all of them, even through Athos had never thought he’d live to see the day when Aramis would actively avoid the company of attractive women, but after three long days on the road, on constant alert for trouble, a dalliance was clearly the last thing on his friend’s mind.
The sun was already past its height, and Athos hoped they would be at the gates of the Château de la Lune before the shadows of evening had started to draw in, but until they were safe inside its confines, none of them could afford to relax their guard.
The sound of a horse’s hooves approaching them along the track told him that Aramis had returned from scouting the next section of the route. His friend approached at a gentle trot, wheeled his horse in a tight circle, and fell into step beside the Queen’s carriage.
“I don’t like the look of the road ahead,” the musketeer said, with as little inflection in his voice as if he’d been remarking on the weather. “It runs through a narrow defile overlooked by a rocky precipice to the north. It’s where I’d choose for an ambush.”
“How far away?” Athos asked.
“Half a league.”
“What does Porthos think?”
“In general, he hates the countryside. In particular, he says he’s got a bad feeling but can’t put his finger on the reason. He’s waiting for us by a small stream. We can stop there to water the horses.”
“I have long since learned to trust Porthos’ instincts,” Treville said, keeping his voice too low to carry to the occupants of the Queen’s coach. “And I would set a sniper to catch a sniper. Aramis, if you think that is a place to spring a trap, then we will act on your observations. I would prefer not to take any chances where Her Majesty is concerned. Athos, how do you want to play this?”
Before answering, Athos took a moment to replay the last league of the journey in his mind. Nothing had sparked his concern. There had been birdsong, and even the sight of a hind and her young amidst the trees. No unusual silence, nothing to indicate they were under surveillance of any kind. An idea was forming in his mind, and providing there were no hostile eyes on them now, he was confident they could bring the Queen safely through the final stage of the journey. Speaking in the same undertone as the captain, he outlined his plan.
Treville heard him out and then nodded his approval. “I’ll speak to the Queen.”
* * * * *
Athos watched as Treville rode to the head of the column, his pistol drawn as he raised his voice to a parade ground shout, “Stay alert! We ride through here as fast as we can. Stop when I order you to and not before!”
“I wouldn’t want to argue with him when he sounds like that,” muttered Porthos.
“Well, maybe not to his face,” conceded Aramis.
“So why are we always being had up on charges of duelling?” D’Artagnan asked. Their newest recruit touched his heels to his horse’s side and it leaped forward, keeping pace with the Queen’s carriage.
“We’re not good at following orders when we are bored,” Athos told him, bringing his horse up to the window of the carriage. “Keep your head down, Your Majesty. This won’t take long, I can assure you…”
The sound of musket fire echoed off the pinnacle rocks that loomed over the deep, wooded defile. Splinters flew off the gilded coach and Athos felt a sharp pain in his right cheek. A second shot creased the flank of one of the coach-horses, but the coachman held the beast in check as the carriage careered along the rough track.
Unable to deploy long-range weapons from horseback, the musketeers concentrated on putting themselves between the attackers and the Queen, intent on acting as a shield, whilst holding off anyone foolish enough to launch a closer assault.
“The rocks!” shouted Treville, his voice cutting through the screams of the Queen’s ladies, the snorts of the horses, and the rattling of the carriage. “Four of you, get up there! The rest with me!”
Porthos and three of the Queen’s escort threw themselves off their horses and started to scramble up the slope.
Another volley of musket shots split the air, more splinters flew from the coach and a high pitched scream of terror, mingled with pain, came from the interior. The coachmen whipped the horses onwards, hoping to carry their precious burden out of the field of fire.
Athos stared around seeking out any threats closer than the snipers amidst the rocks, but it seemed their attackers had no intention of closing with them. A third salvo of shots hit the coach, this time knocking holes in the wood. The screaming from inside abruptly stopped and the silence was far more chilling than even the screaming had been.
Wondering how many weapons the snipers had at their disposal, Athos could do nothing more than keep pace with the coach as it bounced over the rutted track. Treville’s shouts were loud in the sudden silence and then Athos heard the sound of pistol fire. The musketeers had closed in on their quarry.
More shots and shouts added to the confusion, but the Queen’s coach and its escort held to Treville’s orders. This was not the time to stop and check for casualties. They needed to reach a place of safety before taking stock. Behind them the two carriages containing the Queen’s ladies and their attendants struggled to keep pace with the lead carriage, but Athos had no thought for them or their occupants. They were not his primary concern. At the rear of the convoy, the two baggage wagons were starting to fall behind, but no one paid them any heed.
Athos’ biggest concern was that the Queen’s coach would shed a wheel on the rough track. They’d lost anything resembling decent roads not long after leaving Fontainebleau and the current one was little more than a cart-track, baked hard by the summer sun, with the coach wheels running in deep ruts. It was only by the skill of the coachmen that the snorting carriage horses were being held to their course. Any deviation would result in a snapped axel.
After what seemed an age of reckless, headlong flight, Treville’s command brought the convoy to a halt. There had been no shots from above them in some while, and no attempt to bring the attack to close quarters. The musketeers closed around the Queen’s coach, weapons drawn, their mounts circling around as the coachmen steadied their snorting, stamping horses.
Athos jumped from the saddle and opened the door of the coach. “Your Majesty, are you injured?”
Matty Fournier, huddled on the floor behind a pile of trunks containing clothes and assorted accoutrements, grinned up at him. “What did you think of the screams?”
“Blood-curdling,” Athos said, grinning back at the boy.
Matty had played the part of a terrified woman to perfection and Athos was glad to see that apart from a shallow cut across his forehead, probably from banging against one of the boxes that had been shielding him from the musket balls, he’d taken no harm. Athos had been by no means certain of that, having heard Matty’s last, dramatic shriek abruptly choked off.
“Stay out of sight,” Athos instructed him. “I won’t be happy until we’re clear of these damned woods.” He put a hand up to his face and plucked out the splinter of wood that had embedded itself in his cheek. Another few inches higher and it would have taken out his eye.
While they waited for Porthos and the men he’d taken with him to return, Athos joined Treville in checking on the rest of their company. It seemed that the gunfire had been concentrated on the Queen’s coach, as they’d hoped and luckily, all had escaped serious injury.
The final baggage wagon trotting sedately into view as Athos reached the end of the line. The coachman’s hat was pulled low over his eyes, but as Athos approached, the hat was tipped back to reveal d’Artagnan’s wide smile.
“It worked!”
“Did you expect anything less?” Athos drawled. He threw back a corner of the cloth covering the various trunks and boxes piled high on the wagon. “Your Majesty, I would prefer it if you remained here until we are out of these woods.”
The Queen smiled up at him from amidst a bed of cloaks and cushions. She’d played her part bravely, accepting that for the ruse to work, the baggage wagon needed to look like it was the least of anyone’s concern.
Athos tipped his hat to her, covered the wagon over again, and left d’Artagnan in charge of their precious cargo.
* * * * *
The cavalcade that crested the final rise before the Château de la Lune was hot, dusty, beset by flies, and relieved to see the end of their journey in sight.
The Queen, riding in her own carriage again, had been effusive in her thanks to both her escort and her pageboy. Matty Fournier, very much the hero of the escapade, had blushed to the tips of his wide-set ears.
To Treville’s annoyance, Porthos had been unable to take any of the assassins alive. Three had been killed in the musketeer’s assault on their rocky stronghold, two others had got away. There had been nothing on the dead men to identify them, but Aramis was of the opinion that the muskets they’d seized had been of Spanish origin. The Queen had looked shocked to hear his words, but as Treville had pointed out, there was no reason to suspect a Spanish plot against her, and the weapons could just as easily have been planted to create suspicion.
Whatever the truth of the matter, Athos would simply be glad once they’d brought the Queen safely to her destination.
Below them, the Loire, wide and slow, shone in the sunlight and beyond it, on an arm of the opposite hillside, flung out towards the river, the Château de la Lune, summer home of the Comtesse de Beaune, cast an imposing shadow, even in the lingering heat of late afternoon.
From what Athos knew of the château’s history, it had originally been built some six hundred years ago by the Counts of Anjou and later enlarged by the Plantagenet King of England, Richard, famed throughout France for his fortifications. The position it occupied was reminiscent of the fortress at Château Gaillard, overlooking the Seine near Rouen, although the cliffs there were far higher. His soldier’s practised eyes made a rapid assessment of the château’s defensive capabilities and he was impressed by what he could see. Round towers with good fields of fire loomed over a perfect killing ground on the river valley below, and the approach from below led up a narrow roadway that would be the death of many an attacker. This was a castle that an enemy could throw a large force at to little good effect.
In comparison with the many flamboyant châteaux of the Loire Valley, the Château de la Lune was stark, dark and very, very defensible.
Athos shared a slight smile with Treville. Once within its walls, he might even have the opportunity to quench his aching thirst with something other than wine watered down to beggars’ piss.
* * * * *
The horses and carriages clattered into the courtyard, hooves ringing on the cobbles. A once-slender woman, now weighed down in the late stages of pregnancy, walked slowly down the steps from one of the towers, a wide smile on her face. She was no older than the Queen, with a mass of auburn ringlets artlessly piled around a naturally beautiful face free of any paint or powder.
The Queen’s own servants rushed to throw open the doors of her carriage, placing steps for her use. Anne stepped down onto the cobbles, her arms thrown wide at the site of her old friend. Hélène de Beaune attempted to sink into an off-balance curtsey, but the Queen’s hands steadied her and drew her instead into a tender embrace.
“You look radiant!” the Queen exclaimed, one slender hand stoking her friend’s cheek.
Hélène de Beaune stared in horror at the lumps gouged out of the gilded exterior of the coach. While the two women talked excitedly, Athos swung down from his horse and surrendered the reins to a nervous-looking stable lad. “Treat him well,” he ordered, adding, “but don’t approach him from behind.”
The warning did nothing to dispel the lad’s nervousness, but it was better than learning the hard way that surprising Roger was unwise in the extreme. The tall, heavy-set horse tossed his head and snorted, but allowed the boy to lead him away. Ignoring the noise and bustle in the yard, Athos and Treville flanked the Queen, leaving Aramis to check any possible vantage points that might present a threat, while Porthos and d’Artagnan concentrated on any dangers closer to the Queen.
Amongst the bustling press of servants, one stood apart: a hatched-faced woman with steel grey hair caught up under a white lace bonnet. She glared with ill-concealed and indiscriminate irritation at those around her. Catching her black gown up in her hands, she swept to the Comtesse’s side and said something in sharp undertone. Hélène de Beaune took on the aspect of a child called sharply to order by an adult, her shoulders drooping and her smile eclipsed as if a cloud had just covered the sun. The Queen’s retinue was swiftly ushered inside, away from the still-strong afternoon sun into the cool, dark of the interior.
Before following then, Athos’ eyes were drawn to a window in the tower overlooking the courtyard. Looking down on them, with a face like a thundercloud, was a dark-haired young man, staring down with no liking in his expression. His gaze fell on Athos then he moved swiftly back into the shadows.
Athos glanced around at his companions and received a nod from Aramis, signalling that he had not been the only one to note that their arrival was certainly not the cause of unalloyed celebration throughout the castle.
The suite of rooms set aside for the Queen was richly appointed, with pale green patterned paper on the walls, a large, gold-canopied bed and several chairs, embroidered in gold and green, set around a large fire place, heaped now with pine cones surrounding a bowl of dried lavender that gave off a fresh delicate scent.
Queen Anne exclaimed in delight at the view from the window that took in a wide sweep of the Loire and the fertile fields of the valley, its crops bleached by the sun. She settled down on the padded window seat with her old friend and gratefully accepted a glass of wine.
“My companions and I will require rooms close to the Queen’s,” Athos informed the black-gowned woman who had preceded them all into the chamber.
She shot him a sour look that put him in mid of a particularly irritable nurse who had forced him to eat all manner of unpalatable things in childhood. “There are rooms enough in this tower for whoever needs them. I will await your instruction.”
By the time Athos had finally reached an agreement with Françoise d’Hauteville about the accommodation, he was desperate for some respite from the demands of diplomacy. Under the guise of needing to speak to the captain, he took refuge in his own bedchamber. The room he was to share with Treville was adjacent to the one that would be occupied by his three companions in arms. Both rooms were close enough to the Queen’s suite to satisfy Athos’ need for himself and the others to be within earshot of the woman he was sworn to protect. The view over the river was as impressive as the one from the Queen’s own apartments, but Athos was more interested in the bottle of wine he’d stowed in his pack.
“Pour one for me,” Treville remarked from the doorway. “I feel like I’ve been chewing dust the entire day.” The captain pulled off his breastplate and dropped it on the floor with a look of disgust. “I hate that fucking thing.”
“Then why wear it?”
“Trying to set a good example to the rest of you.” Treville drained his glass even faster than Athos and held it out for a refill.
“You’re wasting your time. We hate them even more than you do. But I’ll admit there was a moment in that damned forest when I might have been glad of one. Some of those shots came closer than I was comfortable with.” Athos leaned against the wall by the window and drank his second glass rather more slowly. “Who was the lad glaring down at us in the courtyard when we arrived? If looks could kill, we’d all be leaving here in a cart.”
“Philippe de Beaune, son of the Comte by his first wife. His mother died in childbirth when he was ten.”
“Is it the current Comtesse he hates, or does he just have an aversion to visitors?”
“I have no idea, but I’m expecting Matty Fournier to garner all the gossip and tell us anything we need to know by tomorrow morning.”
Athos set his glass down on the window seat and helped Treville out of his thick leather jacket. “Good. Despite the Comtesse’s warm welcome, there’s a stifling atmosphere about this place that I don’t like. I’ll feel more comfortable when we have a better idea where the land lies.”
Treville nodded, his expression thoughtful, leaving Athos wondering if the Château de la Lune was quite the sanctuary he’d first thought.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 18
Characters : Athos/Treville, Porthos, Aramis, d’Artagnan, Anne, Louis, Richelieu
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 26,700 in seven approximately equal parts
Summary : When the Queen decides to visit a childhood friend in the country, the Musketeers are tasked with her safety.
By mid-afternoon on their third day of travel, the convey was hot, beset by insects, and becoming somewhat fractious. Athos’ throat was as dry as dust, sweat was running down his back in rivulets and even his normally stoic mount was lashing its tail furiously at the ever-present mosquitoes.
The Queen had borne the heat and the jolting of the carriage with reasonable fortitude, as had Françoise d’Hauteville, but Athos had reached the stage of wanting to drown the rest of her women in a particularly fetid pond, much like the one in the last village they’d passed through. He was thoroughly sick of having to assign his men to stand guard when one of the women was beset by a burning desire to relive herself in the woods. He’d even started to revise his opinion of the good sense of most of them, despite having had a hand in their choosing. Being the object of the ill-disguised infatuation of some of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting had become wearing for all of them, even through Athos had never thought he’d live to see the day when Aramis would actively avoid the company of attractive women, but after three long days on the road, on constant alert for trouble, a dalliance was clearly the last thing on his friend’s mind.
The sun was already past its height, and Athos hoped they would be at the gates of the Château de la Lune before the shadows of evening had started to draw in, but until they were safe inside its confines, none of them could afford to relax their guard.
The sound of a horse’s hooves approaching them along the track told him that Aramis had returned from scouting the next section of the route. His friend approached at a gentle trot, wheeled his horse in a tight circle, and fell into step beside the Queen’s carriage.
“I don’t like the look of the road ahead,” the musketeer said, with as little inflection in his voice as if he’d been remarking on the weather. “It runs through a narrow defile overlooked by a rocky precipice to the north. It’s where I’d choose for an ambush.”
“How far away?” Athos asked.
“Half a league.”
“What does Porthos think?”
“In general, he hates the countryside. In particular, he says he’s got a bad feeling but can’t put his finger on the reason. He’s waiting for us by a small stream. We can stop there to water the horses.”
“I have long since learned to trust Porthos’ instincts,” Treville said, keeping his voice too low to carry to the occupants of the Queen’s coach. “And I would set a sniper to catch a sniper. Aramis, if you think that is a place to spring a trap, then we will act on your observations. I would prefer not to take any chances where Her Majesty is concerned. Athos, how do you want to play this?”
Before answering, Athos took a moment to replay the last league of the journey in his mind. Nothing had sparked his concern. There had been birdsong, and even the sight of a hind and her young amidst the trees. No unusual silence, nothing to indicate they were under surveillance of any kind. An idea was forming in his mind, and providing there were no hostile eyes on them now, he was confident they could bring the Queen safely through the final stage of the journey. Speaking in the same undertone as the captain, he outlined his plan.
Treville heard him out and then nodded his approval. “I’ll speak to the Queen.”
* * * * *
Athos watched as Treville rode to the head of the column, his pistol drawn as he raised his voice to a parade ground shout, “Stay alert! We ride through here as fast as we can. Stop when I order you to and not before!”
“I wouldn’t want to argue with him when he sounds like that,” muttered Porthos.
“Well, maybe not to his face,” conceded Aramis.
“So why are we always being had up on charges of duelling?” D’Artagnan asked. Their newest recruit touched his heels to his horse’s side and it leaped forward, keeping pace with the Queen’s carriage.
“We’re not good at following orders when we are bored,” Athos told him, bringing his horse up to the window of the carriage. “Keep your head down, Your Majesty. This won’t take long, I can assure you…”
The sound of musket fire echoed off the pinnacle rocks that loomed over the deep, wooded defile. Splinters flew off the gilded coach and Athos felt a sharp pain in his right cheek. A second shot creased the flank of one of the coach-horses, but the coachman held the beast in check as the carriage careered along the rough track.
Unable to deploy long-range weapons from horseback, the musketeers concentrated on putting themselves between the attackers and the Queen, intent on acting as a shield, whilst holding off anyone foolish enough to launch a closer assault.
“The rocks!” shouted Treville, his voice cutting through the screams of the Queen’s ladies, the snorts of the horses, and the rattling of the carriage. “Four of you, get up there! The rest with me!”
Porthos and three of the Queen’s escort threw themselves off their horses and started to scramble up the slope.
Another volley of musket shots split the air, more splinters flew from the coach and a high pitched scream of terror, mingled with pain, came from the interior. The coachmen whipped the horses onwards, hoping to carry their precious burden out of the field of fire.
Athos stared around seeking out any threats closer than the snipers amidst the rocks, but it seemed their attackers had no intention of closing with them. A third salvo of shots hit the coach, this time knocking holes in the wood. The screaming from inside abruptly stopped and the silence was far more chilling than even the screaming had been.
Wondering how many weapons the snipers had at their disposal, Athos could do nothing more than keep pace with the coach as it bounced over the rutted track. Treville’s shouts were loud in the sudden silence and then Athos heard the sound of pistol fire. The musketeers had closed in on their quarry.
More shots and shouts added to the confusion, but the Queen’s coach and its escort held to Treville’s orders. This was not the time to stop and check for casualties. They needed to reach a place of safety before taking stock. Behind them the two carriages containing the Queen’s ladies and their attendants struggled to keep pace with the lead carriage, but Athos had no thought for them or their occupants. They were not his primary concern. At the rear of the convoy, the two baggage wagons were starting to fall behind, but no one paid them any heed.
Athos’ biggest concern was that the Queen’s coach would shed a wheel on the rough track. They’d lost anything resembling decent roads not long after leaving Fontainebleau and the current one was little more than a cart-track, baked hard by the summer sun, with the coach wheels running in deep ruts. It was only by the skill of the coachmen that the snorting carriage horses were being held to their course. Any deviation would result in a snapped axel.
After what seemed an age of reckless, headlong flight, Treville’s command brought the convoy to a halt. There had been no shots from above them in some while, and no attempt to bring the attack to close quarters. The musketeers closed around the Queen’s coach, weapons drawn, their mounts circling around as the coachmen steadied their snorting, stamping horses.
Athos jumped from the saddle and opened the door of the coach. “Your Majesty, are you injured?”
Matty Fournier, huddled on the floor behind a pile of trunks containing clothes and assorted accoutrements, grinned up at him. “What did you think of the screams?”
“Blood-curdling,” Athos said, grinning back at the boy.
Matty had played the part of a terrified woman to perfection and Athos was glad to see that apart from a shallow cut across his forehead, probably from banging against one of the boxes that had been shielding him from the musket balls, he’d taken no harm. Athos had been by no means certain of that, having heard Matty’s last, dramatic shriek abruptly choked off.
“Stay out of sight,” Athos instructed him. “I won’t be happy until we’re clear of these damned woods.” He put a hand up to his face and plucked out the splinter of wood that had embedded itself in his cheek. Another few inches higher and it would have taken out his eye.
While they waited for Porthos and the men he’d taken with him to return, Athos joined Treville in checking on the rest of their company. It seemed that the gunfire had been concentrated on the Queen’s coach, as they’d hoped and luckily, all had escaped serious injury.
The final baggage wagon trotting sedately into view as Athos reached the end of the line. The coachman’s hat was pulled low over his eyes, but as Athos approached, the hat was tipped back to reveal d’Artagnan’s wide smile.
“It worked!”
“Did you expect anything less?” Athos drawled. He threw back a corner of the cloth covering the various trunks and boxes piled high on the wagon. “Your Majesty, I would prefer it if you remained here until we are out of these woods.”
The Queen smiled up at him from amidst a bed of cloaks and cushions. She’d played her part bravely, accepting that for the ruse to work, the baggage wagon needed to look like it was the least of anyone’s concern.
Athos tipped his hat to her, covered the wagon over again, and left d’Artagnan in charge of their precious cargo.
* * * * *
The cavalcade that crested the final rise before the Château de la Lune was hot, dusty, beset by flies, and relieved to see the end of their journey in sight.
The Queen, riding in her own carriage again, had been effusive in her thanks to both her escort and her pageboy. Matty Fournier, very much the hero of the escapade, had blushed to the tips of his wide-set ears.
To Treville’s annoyance, Porthos had been unable to take any of the assassins alive. Three had been killed in the musketeer’s assault on their rocky stronghold, two others had got away. There had been nothing on the dead men to identify them, but Aramis was of the opinion that the muskets they’d seized had been of Spanish origin. The Queen had looked shocked to hear his words, but as Treville had pointed out, there was no reason to suspect a Spanish plot against her, and the weapons could just as easily have been planted to create suspicion.
Whatever the truth of the matter, Athos would simply be glad once they’d brought the Queen safely to her destination.
Below them, the Loire, wide and slow, shone in the sunlight and beyond it, on an arm of the opposite hillside, flung out towards the river, the Château de la Lune, summer home of the Comtesse de Beaune, cast an imposing shadow, even in the lingering heat of late afternoon.
From what Athos knew of the château’s history, it had originally been built some six hundred years ago by the Counts of Anjou and later enlarged by the Plantagenet King of England, Richard, famed throughout France for his fortifications. The position it occupied was reminiscent of the fortress at Château Gaillard, overlooking the Seine near Rouen, although the cliffs there were far higher. His soldier’s practised eyes made a rapid assessment of the château’s defensive capabilities and he was impressed by what he could see. Round towers with good fields of fire loomed over a perfect killing ground on the river valley below, and the approach from below led up a narrow roadway that would be the death of many an attacker. This was a castle that an enemy could throw a large force at to little good effect.
In comparison with the many flamboyant châteaux of the Loire Valley, the Château de la Lune was stark, dark and very, very defensible.
Athos shared a slight smile with Treville. Once within its walls, he might even have the opportunity to quench his aching thirst with something other than wine watered down to beggars’ piss.
* * * * *
The horses and carriages clattered into the courtyard, hooves ringing on the cobbles. A once-slender woman, now weighed down in the late stages of pregnancy, walked slowly down the steps from one of the towers, a wide smile on her face. She was no older than the Queen, with a mass of auburn ringlets artlessly piled around a naturally beautiful face free of any paint or powder.
The Queen’s own servants rushed to throw open the doors of her carriage, placing steps for her use. Anne stepped down onto the cobbles, her arms thrown wide at the site of her old friend. Hélène de Beaune attempted to sink into an off-balance curtsey, but the Queen’s hands steadied her and drew her instead into a tender embrace.
“You look radiant!” the Queen exclaimed, one slender hand stoking her friend’s cheek.
Hélène de Beaune stared in horror at the lumps gouged out of the gilded exterior of the coach. While the two women talked excitedly, Athos swung down from his horse and surrendered the reins to a nervous-looking stable lad. “Treat him well,” he ordered, adding, “but don’t approach him from behind.”
The warning did nothing to dispel the lad’s nervousness, but it was better than learning the hard way that surprising Roger was unwise in the extreme. The tall, heavy-set horse tossed his head and snorted, but allowed the boy to lead him away. Ignoring the noise and bustle in the yard, Athos and Treville flanked the Queen, leaving Aramis to check any possible vantage points that might present a threat, while Porthos and d’Artagnan concentrated on any dangers closer to the Queen.
Amongst the bustling press of servants, one stood apart: a hatched-faced woman with steel grey hair caught up under a white lace bonnet. She glared with ill-concealed and indiscriminate irritation at those around her. Catching her black gown up in her hands, she swept to the Comtesse’s side and said something in sharp undertone. Hélène de Beaune took on the aspect of a child called sharply to order by an adult, her shoulders drooping and her smile eclipsed as if a cloud had just covered the sun. The Queen’s retinue was swiftly ushered inside, away from the still-strong afternoon sun into the cool, dark of the interior.
Before following then, Athos’ eyes were drawn to a window in the tower overlooking the courtyard. Looking down on them, with a face like a thundercloud, was a dark-haired young man, staring down with no liking in his expression. His gaze fell on Athos then he moved swiftly back into the shadows.
Athos glanced around at his companions and received a nod from Aramis, signalling that he had not been the only one to note that their arrival was certainly not the cause of unalloyed celebration throughout the castle.
The suite of rooms set aside for the Queen was richly appointed, with pale green patterned paper on the walls, a large, gold-canopied bed and several chairs, embroidered in gold and green, set around a large fire place, heaped now with pine cones surrounding a bowl of dried lavender that gave off a fresh delicate scent.
Queen Anne exclaimed in delight at the view from the window that took in a wide sweep of the Loire and the fertile fields of the valley, its crops bleached by the sun. She settled down on the padded window seat with her old friend and gratefully accepted a glass of wine.
“My companions and I will require rooms close to the Queen’s,” Athos informed the black-gowned woman who had preceded them all into the chamber.
She shot him a sour look that put him in mid of a particularly irritable nurse who had forced him to eat all manner of unpalatable things in childhood. “There are rooms enough in this tower for whoever needs them. I will await your instruction.”
By the time Athos had finally reached an agreement with Françoise d’Hauteville about the accommodation, he was desperate for some respite from the demands of diplomacy. Under the guise of needing to speak to the captain, he took refuge in his own bedchamber. The room he was to share with Treville was adjacent to the one that would be occupied by his three companions in arms. Both rooms were close enough to the Queen’s suite to satisfy Athos’ need for himself and the others to be within earshot of the woman he was sworn to protect. The view over the river was as impressive as the one from the Queen’s own apartments, but Athos was more interested in the bottle of wine he’d stowed in his pack.
“Pour one for me,” Treville remarked from the doorway. “I feel like I’ve been chewing dust the entire day.” The captain pulled off his breastplate and dropped it on the floor with a look of disgust. “I hate that fucking thing.”
“Then why wear it?”
“Trying to set a good example to the rest of you.” Treville drained his glass even faster than Athos and held it out for a refill.
“You’re wasting your time. We hate them even more than you do. But I’ll admit there was a moment in that damned forest when I might have been glad of one. Some of those shots came closer than I was comfortable with.” Athos leaned against the wall by the window and drank his second glass rather more slowly. “Who was the lad glaring down at us in the courtyard when we arrived? If looks could kill, we’d all be leaving here in a cart.”
“Philippe de Beaune, son of the Comte by his first wife. His mother died in childbirth when he was ten.”
“Is it the current Comtesse he hates, or does he just have an aversion to visitors?”
“I have no idea, but I’m expecting Matty Fournier to garner all the gossip and tell us anything we need to know by tomorrow morning.”
Athos set his glass down on the window seat and helped Treville out of his thick leather jacket. “Good. Despite the Comtesse’s warm welcome, there’s a stifling atmosphere about this place that I don’t like. I’ll feel more comfortable when we have a better idea where the land lies.”
Treville nodded, his expression thoughtful, leaving Athos wondering if the Château de la Lune was quite the sanctuary he’d first thought.