fredbassett

Title : A Dangerous Delivery, Part 3 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
A/N : Some parts of this are a shameless riff off an Enid Blyton book. Tell me if you can spot which one!
Summary : When the Queen decides to visit a childhood friend in the country, the Musketeers are tasked with her safety.

“I’ve never stayed in a real haunted castle before!” Matty Fournier declared on their first morning, evident relish in his voice. “My nurse always used to claim ours was haunted, but the only noises I ever heard in the night were her falling over the chairs when she was drunk.”

“A familiar sound, and not always indicative of ghosts,” Aramis said, shooting Athos an amused look.

“Who says the castle is haunted?” Athos asked, noticing the slight movement of his friend’s hand to the ever-present rosary and cross around his neck.

“Philippe,” Matty said with relish. “He says the Comtesse hates it here, but it’s the only place that’s cool enough for her in this weather. Have you seen how big she is? Looks like she’s setting a clutch!”

Aramis winced and Porthos grinned.

The boy’s urbane manner when in the presence of the Queen and her ladies belied the vulgarity that he absorbed like a sponge from the soldiers he loved to spend time with. Even the younger sons of the nobility who made up much of the ranks of the King’s Musketeers were known to cuss up a storm at the slightest provocation.

“And what’s the Vicomte’s view of the impending arrival of another member of the household?” Aramis enquired.

“He doesn’t like her, and he doesn’t like the idea of a kid around the place. I reckon he thinks his father’s besotted enough with her.”

The Comte de Beaune was at least twice his young wife’s age, and was currently attending to matters at his large estate three days ride to the east. Athos strongly suspected that like most men, besotted or not, he found it best to put a safe distance between himself and women’s matters.

“Get close to Philippe if you can,” Athos instructed. “There’s an atmosphere about this place that would raise the hackles on a dog. I’ll arrange it so that you get more time to yourself than the other boys.”

“Haunted, eh?” Porthos said when the boy had gone.

“Stories to frighten children,” Treville snorted, looking unimpressed.

“One of us must remain with the Queen at all times.” Athos said. “There’s been one attempt on her life already and we don’t know who can be trusted here.”

“Time spent in the company of beautiful ladies is never time wasted,” Aramis declared, smiling.

“Not what you said when they kept wanting a piss,” Porthos commented.

Aramis looked pained. “Not one of my vices, my friend. Shall I take the first watch of the day?”

“Be my guest,” Athos told him. “I suggest the rest of us familiarise ourselves with the layout of this place.”

From what Athos had seen of the castle on the evening of their arrival, it was a rabbit warren of interconnecting rooms and passages, altered and extended in a haphazard fashion over the centuries of its occupation. He left Treville composing dispatches to the King and the Cardinal, and set about learning his way about around what was more like a fortress than home, but he had to admit that the thick walls did a good job of keeping the heat of the day at bay.

For all that the Château de la Lune was no more than the Comte de Beaune’s summer residence, the place was well stocked with servants and retainers, but Athos saw no one he regarded as a fighting man, although some of the stable lads looked like they’d know how to handle themselves in a scrap. Any retinue of that nature was away with the Comte, who clearly had little fear for his wife’s safety in the midst of his estate. As far as he knew, Hubert de Beaune was loyal to the King, and his family had been loyal to the reigning monarch for several hundred years. The family seemed to always have had a knack of picking the winning side in any political machinations, a rare talent that had no doubt contributed to their considerable fortune.

His wandering footsteps led eventually down to the kitchens. They were large, hot and noisy, ruled over by a termagant of a head cook who came no higher than his elbow and was almost as round as she was high. The woman made her views known on the influx of strangers, while seemingly revelling in the amount of preparation and cooking that was needed. Athos succeeded in charming a sizeable hunk of salt pork out of her, together with some old, shrivelled but exceedingly sweet, apples for the horses and a mug of rich blood-red wine for himself. His tolerance of the castle had started to considerably improve.

The stable boys had done a good job of settling the musketeers’ mounts and the various coach horses. Two of the animals had received minor injuries in the attack, but seemed quiet and contented now. He ran his hands over Roger’s flanks and legs. The big horse snickered at him and nudged Athos with his nose, seeking out the treat that he knew he’d find.

Once the apples had been distributed, Athos made his way to the castle yard where two of the younger musketeers were already engaged in a bout of sparring. Watching them, a sulky expression on his handsome face, was Philippe de Beaune. Whether Matty Fournier would succeed in getting close to the older boy would remain to be seen, but Matty was an engaging youngster when he set his mind to it, and he seemed to be enjoying the role he’d been asked to play. As Athos lounged against the wall outside the stables, watching the coachmen and the Queen’s own grooms doing their best to repair some of the damage the attackers had done to the large gilded carriage, he saw Matty approach Philippe, and relatively quickly, a more animated expression replaced the seemingly habitual glower.

The young page was giving a lively account of the attack, including the part he’d played. Together they examined the damage as Matty demonstrated quite how close some of the musket balls had come to him. Athos had felt some pangs of guilt at putting the lad in danger, but the Queen’s safety had been of paramount importance, and Matty was sworn to her service.

Athos lifted his hat in salute to the Vicomte as he passed by the coach and received a slight nod in return. The young man’s dark eyes took in the array of weapons Athos carried, clearly impressed despite the somewhat aloof air he was clearly trying to cultivate.

On impulse, Athos checked his stride and swept his hat off into a bow. “Athos of the King’s Musketeers. My thanks for your hospitality, Vicomte. Would you do me the honour of acquainting me with the castle’s defences? I presume none know them better than you.”

He half-expected Philippe de Beaune to make an excuse and decline but, to his surprise, the young man nodded. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we start at the main gate?”

The Vicomte’s tour of the Château de la Lune was both comprehensive and informative. His knowledge of the military history of his father’s lands shone through the somewhat affected air of slightly world-weary boredom and Athos began to see another side of their hostess’ stepson. Matty Fournier trotted along behind like an eager puppy, seemingly hanging on the young man’s every word, and falling easily into the part Athos had asked him to play.

By the time the tour ended, Athos had the layout of the castle and its warren of corridors firmly fixed in his mind. As they walked towards the large room where the Queen and her ladies were closeted together, Athos heard the sudden loud twang of a musical instrument, its strings stretched almost to breaking point, almost immediately followed by a piercing scream.

Athos swept his pistol out of his belt and broke into a run, Philippe de Beaune and Matty Fournier hard on his heels.

* * * * *

The door flew open, propelled by Athos’ shoulder. It struck one of the Queen’s ladies and the blow precipitated another ear-splitting scream.

The Queen was sitting by a hearth piled high with pine cones, her hands resting in her lap. If she was surprised by the dramatic entry, she gave no hint, maintaining her composure in the face of screaming women and musketeer with a pistol in one hand and a dagger in the other. Athos admired her iron-nerve even as his eyes swept the room looking for the cause of the first scream.

At the far side of the room, Aramis had sprung to his feet, no weapon in his hands, but his fingers had curled around the handle of the pistol at his side.

“Enough, Marguerite!” The Queen’s voice held the unmistakeable whip-crack of authority. She turned to Athos, saying quickly, “No harm has been done. Hélène was telling tales of the castle’s dark past and…”

“But Your Majesty, no one laid hands on the instruments!” Marguerite de Chouy was wide-eyed and trembling, and Athos wondered what on earth had possessed him to think she had any good sense at all.

“Are you suggesting a phantom walked amongst us unseen and plucked the strings?” Clearly unimpressed by her lady-in-waiting’s interruption, Queen Anne’s question held a distinct challenge and it would have taken a braver woman that Madame de Chouy to have spoken again. The Queen’s voice softened and a slight smile played on her lips as she turned to her friend. “But it was a tale well told, Hélène. I will confess to having been somewhat alarmed myself.”

After being sure that the Queen was unharmed, Athos took in the startled faces of both their hostess and the Queen’s ladies. The tales, whatever they had been, had clearly been enough to induce fright. Standing by a corner of the room away from the women, Aramis let his hand fall away from the butt of his pistol, but Athos saw the quick, surreptitious movement of his friend’s hand as he sketched the sign of the cross in the air.

Athos removed his hat and executed a well-practised bow to the Queen.

A sudden TWANG made him jerk his head up to stare in the direction of an L-shaped alcove at the end of the room. From what he could see, the walls were adorned with numerous musical instruments. Several of the women, including Hélène de Beaune, and at least one of the younger page boys, let out gasps of fright, while Marguerite de Chouy stifled a scream with her hand. Aramis whirled around, staring closely at lutes and citterns hanging on the wall behind him. He glanced back at Athos and gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

“It always starts like this,” Philippe de Beaune muttered under his breath, so quietly that Athos barely caught the words.

Athos shot him a questioning look and received back an utterly bland stare, as if the youth had not spoken at all. Quelling an almost irresistible urge – one he suspected he shared with the Queen – to dispense a few hard slaps, Athos turned to the woman whose arm the door had hit when he’d made his dramatic entrance, and bowed again.

“Madame de la Fontaine, my apologies. There is no harm done, I trust?”

The woman rubbed her elbow and gave him a somewhat tremulous smile in return. “No harm done, Monsieur Athos,” she agreed. It would bruise, and they both knew it, but the proprieties had been observed.

A rustle of fabric behind him in the corridor caught Athos’ attention and he turned to find the black-robed housekeeper behind him, wearing a face that would curdle milk.

She curtsied to the Queen then addressed her mistress. “A meal is ready for Her Majesty and your guests, Comtesse.”

“Thank you, Bouchet.” Hélène de Beaune rose slowly to her feet, using the arms of the chair to assist in her rising. Matty Fournier has been right, the woman did look like she was setting a clutch. Too many more frights and the men would need to make themselves scare while nature took its course. The Comtesse smiled warmly at the Queen and the other women. “Come, let us move to the hall. I promise there are no musical instruments there to cause a fright.”

Before Athos had an opportunity to ask Philippe what he had meant by his remark, the young man held his arm out to his stepmother with a solicitous air that wholly failed to reach his eyes. Aramis raised a quizzical eyebrow and Athos nodded in the direction of the women, indicating that he should follow them.

Alone in the room, Athos walked over to the alcove and stared at the instruments on the wall. Some he recognised from his childhood at la Fère, others he did not, but he suspected several were of Italian make. No doubt Aramis would be able to enlighten him. Athos looked closely at each one, plucking the strings experimentally, but none produced the loud, clanging twang that he had just heard.

In one corner, gathering dust, was an old-fashioned military field drum of a similar type to the one Serge used to announce meals in the garrison. Athos rapped his knuckles on the taut skin. It produced a hollow donging noise that sounded like the tensioning screws had not received any attention in a long while. He remembered spending several interesting and happy hours with one of his tutors at la Fère studying how such drums were made. He much preferred an instrument that could be hit rather than having to be coaxed. When given a stringed instrument, he was more than capable of emulating the screech of a mating cat, but always failed to produce anything that could ever be classed as music.

With the exception of a darkly-frowning portrait over the fireplace, the L-shaped room was welcoming as well as lighter and more airy than many Athos had seen in the castle, with tall windows overlooking the valley. The portrait was of the first Comte de Beaune, the current incumbent’s great-grandfather, so Philippe had informed him when they had encountered the first of the man’s many likenesses hung around the place. The long-dead Comte looked not unlike a man sucking a mouthful of sloes after his arse had just been stung by a wasp. Dark, busy eyebrows overhung a piercing gaze that seemed to follow Athos around the room, as though the Comte heartily disapproved of anyone daring to set foot in his music room.

Athos inclined his head to the portrait and left the room; as he closed the door behind him a DONG, even louder than the earlier TWANG, made him jump like a nervous horse. Cursing under his breath, Athos thrust the door open again and strode back in, wondering if one of the young pages had remained behind with mischief in mind.

“Come out now and I’ll not whip your hide,” he offered loudly.

Another even louder DONG was all that greeted his words.

Crossing the room in long strides, he stared around expecting to see a young boy grinning up at him, but the L-shaped alcove was as empty as it had been a few moments previously. Feeling more than a little foolish, Athos stretched out a hand to touch the tips of his fingers to the calfskin drum-head to see if it was still thrumming.

It was not.

His mouth set in a hard line, Athos conducted a thorough search of the room, even going as far as to stick his head up into the large fireplace, but he found no concealed hiding place, just several large spiders.

“Still lookin’ for assassins?”

Porthos’ question caught him unawares. The big musketeer could walk like a cat when he wanted to, even on polished wooden floors. Athos straightened up too quickly, banging his head hard on the stone lintel.

“I’m going to tie bells to your boots,” Athos grumbled, rubbing the top of his head.

Porthos stared around the room, his brows drawn together in a frown. “Don’t tell me the Comtesse’s stories have got you spooked too?”

“Do I look spooked?”

“Nah, but you jumped like a virgin who’d just had her tits grabbed.”

DONG!

Athos whirled around as the sound echoed around the room like a pistol shot. He had the pleasure of seeing Porthos’ hand seek out the hilt of his dagger, but whether his friend was responding to the noise or to Athos’ own reaction wasn’t clear.

“What the fuck was that?”

“The snare drum relaxing in the heat?” Athos hazarded, knowing the explanation was unconvincing, and not even knowing if such a thing was possible. His long-ago memories were hazy in that respect.

Porthos reached up and rubbed the scar bisecting one eyebrow, something he often did when he was uneasy, as if the old injury sometimes came back to haunt him with phantom pain. “The Queen’s ladies aren’t the only ones who’ve been listening to tales to frighten children. Come on, there’s food to be had in the kitchen and I’m starving.”

Athos closed the door firmly behind them, and schooled his features back into their usual mask, refusing to react in any way to a muffled DONG as they walked away. In response to Porthos’ raised eyebrow he just shrugged and kept walking.

* * * * *

“This is how it always begins…” The hatchet-faced housekeeper intoned in a low voice as Athos and Porthos walked into the enormous kitchen where several of the other musketeers were already seated at a long wooden table that ran almost the length of the room. She looked up at the sound of their boots on the flagstones and promptly fell silent.

“Don’t let us interrupt,” Athos said, taking the chair d’Artagnan held out to him. “Do I take it that musical instruments playing by themselves is not considered a good sign?”

The woman shot him a cold look. “The castle doesn’t take well to visitors.”

“The castle?” Athos injected a note of polite enquiry into his tone, and forbore to mention that the castle wasn’t the only thing that appeared not to like visitors.

“I’ll say no more.” Mme Bouchet slammed an enormous loaf of freshly-baked bread onto the table and stalked off.

“She was just getting started,” d’Artaganan said under his breath, beating Porthos to the bread and hacking off a large slice to dunk in a bowl of stew in front of him. “I don’t think she likes you, my friend.”

“Story of his life,” Porthos said, landing Athos a hefty slap on the shoulder. “Can’t all have my luck with women.”

Athos rolled his eyes, but the mood in the kitchen had been broken and after that, Madame Bouchet was at pains to stay away from them. They would have to rely on Matty Fournier obtaining information from Philippe or the servants. That the same words had been used by the two people who seemed to hold no love for the pregnant Comtesse or her visitors was too marked to be simply a coincidence.

* * * * *

“So, we have a haunted castle where musical instruments make noises of their own accord and members of the house make cryptic comments clearly intending to be overheard.” Treville sounded deeply unimpressed and Athos didn’t blame him. The captain topped up the wine in their glasses and leaned back in his chair, head resting on one hand. “You look more troubled than either occurrence would merit, Athos. Is there something I’m missing here?”

They were alone in their shared room after an uneventful afternoon and evening wholly lacking in either twangs or dongs. The captain had been occupied with reports and letters most of the day, finally dispatching one of their company back to Paris with missives for both the King and the Cardinal. Treville had subsequently toured the castle together with Athos, pronouncing himself satisfied with its defensive capabilities and less than impressed with the friendliness of its inhabitants, both sentiments entirely echoing Athos’ own opinions.

“The noises were… strange,” Athos admitted. “I was unable to replicate either of them on any of the instruments in the room, and it was hard to distinguish the point of origin of any of the sounds. Besides that, Aramis seemed oddly discomfited when I arrived.”

“Well, you had just shoulder-charged the door.”

“He’s seen me do that often enough. It doesn’t normally cause him concern. It might have been different if I’d blown the lock off.”

“Aramis is a man of religion. It’s a small step from that to belief in other phantoms.”

Religion held no appeal for the captain, as Athos well knew, although his commander was careful to observe all necessary public proprieties, as was he, but Treville’s belief in a merciful god had long since deserted him, interred with the broken bodies of all too many of his men. Athos’ own beliefs had died the day he had hanged the only woman he’d ever loved from a tree.

“Maybe by tomorrow the inestimable Mathieu will have extracted some information for us,” Athos commented.

“The boy will make a fine spymaster when he’s old enough,” Treville said, a slight smile on his face. They’d all been impressed with Matty’s performance in the Queen’s carriage, and Athos knew a fulsome report had been given of the boy’s bravery under fire.

Athos drained his wine cup and reached for the bottle, but a sudden commotion outside in the corridor propelled him to his feet with a muttered curse.

“It’s all changed!”

He recognised the voice of one of the Queen’s maids. The girl sounded on the verge of hysteria, and once again Athos contemplated the prospect of dispensing a hard slap, but the sudden and instantly recognisable sound of hand on cheek told him that someone had got there before him.

“Jehanne, be quiet! You’ll awaken Her Majesty!” The instruction was given in a forceful undertone by Françoise d’Hauteville. Athos arrived in the corridor to see her hand drawn back ready to back up her order if the wild-eyed maid continued her wailing.

“What’s amiss?” Treville demanded as Athos pushed past the gaggle of women to ascertain what had caused the girl’s fright.

Standing nearby, his hand on the hilt of his sword, stood d’Artagnan, on duty outside the Queen’s room. He shot Athos the helpless glance of a man beset by a screaming woman and simply shrugged his ignorance of what had caused the commotion.

Nothing seemed out of order in the small, wood-panelled ante-room. It contained a narrow bed, a small table, a chest and a chair. The maid, a plump, red-cheeked girl of no more than fourteen, was the one who would attend the Queen were she to awaken and require anything in the night. From the noise she’d been making, Athos had at the very least expected to find someone on the floor with their throat slit.

“It’s not the same!” The girl still sounded on the verge of hysteria.

Françoise d’Hauteville took her by the shoulders, shook her hard, and pulled her back to the door. “Raise your voice again and I’ll see you turned out of here to make your own way back to Paris! Now tell us clearly what is wrong!”

The threat was enough to counteract whatever sort of fright the maid had received. As a small crowd, now including both Porthos and Aramis, gathered, Jehanne pointed into the room and declared, “Everything has moved. When I left the room to assist the Queen in her toilette, the bed was there.” She pointed to the wall opposite the door. “And the chest was there, with the chair next to it. Now it’s all turned around!”

Athos cast a quizzical glance at d’Artagnan.

“No one has entered the room. I’ve been here since the Queen retired.”

The sound of a hand-bell being rung in the Queen’s room indicated that Françoise d’Hauteville’s best efforts to quell the disturbance had been unsuccessful. With a furious glare at the unfortunate maid, the older woman entered the Queen’s bedchamber, closing the door swiftly behind her.

“What has happened?” The latest voice to enter the mêlée belonged to Boucher, still dressed in her starched black gown, despite the lateness of the hour.

“The Queen’s maid says the furniture in her sleeping room had been altered while she was with Her Majesty,” Athos stated without preamble, watching the housekeeper closely.

The woman, who normally looked quite capable of giving a phantom a fright rather than the other way round, looked shocked and took a step backwards, away from the open door, as if she’d been the one on the receiving end of a hard slap.

“The castle is restive,” she declared. “This has happened before, but not for many a year.”

“Furniture moves around by itself?” Treville poured a wealth of scorn into his words even as Aramis made the sign of the cross.

Boucher stared at the captain through narrowed eyes. “Do not mock that which you do not understand.”

“This is not the time or the place for this discussion,” Treville snapped. “The Queen’s rest is being disturbed. My musketeers are standing guard; that should be enough for anyone’s peace of mind.”

Athos joined their captain in dispensing the type of glare that had quelled the spirits of even the most robust of recruits, and watched as the onlookers scurried off to their own chambers. Even the seemingly terrified maid appeared to think better of arousing Treville’s ire any further, and stepped back over the threshold of the room. A further hard stare encouraged her to close the door.

A few minutes later, Françoise d’Hauteville stepped back out into the corridor. “I have reassured the Queen that there is no cause for concern. Merely a silly girl who’s been listening to nonsense in the servant’s quarters.”

Treville bowed his head in agreement. “Two of my men will remain here throughout the night.”

“I will stand first watch alongside d’Artagnan,” Athos said, resigning himself to a long night with insufficient alcohol.

He was really starting to dislike the Château de la Lune.