fredbassett (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fredbassett) wrote2016-02-08 06:25 pm
fredbassett) wrote2016-02-08 06:25 pm
Entry tags:
Fic, A Dangerous Delivery, Part 1 of 7, The Musketeers, 15
Title : A Dangerous Delivery, Part 1 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.
A/N: With huge thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
evilmaniclaugh for all her encouragement and patience!
Athos jumped backwards, abruptly ending any pretense at not giving ground.
His opponent’s sword flashed disconcertingly close to his chest in the last of a series of increasingly vicious thrusts and ripostes. Sweat clung to his body in the stifling heat, the scorching summer making the combat even harder to endure.
A water bucket went flying and Athos barely managed to bite back a curse as his left foot slid slightly on the cobbles, throwing him off balance and allowing a low-line attack to come uncomfortably close to his balls.
“Taught the lad all he knows!” Porthos yelled in delight.
Athos just managed to bring his rapier down and deflect the blow but before he was able to draw breath for a rejoinder to Porthos, the thump of boots on the wooden steps announced Treville’s arrival in the yard.
“Enough, gentlemen. Athos, you’re to accompany me to the palace.”
Athos put his sword up and bowed deeply to d’Artagnan. If truth be told, the captain’s intervention had been timely. Their latest recruit’s skill was growing by the day. Athos had worked hard to cure him of the tendency to wildness that had been apparent in their first encounter; Porthos was steadily imparting his own brand of improvisation skills, accompanied by a vast array of dirty tricks learned in the underbelly of the city, while Aramis was teaching the precision needed to make every shot count.
As a result, the raw, untrained Gascon farm boy who had made such a dramatic and unexpected entry to their lives now made a formidable opponent, and one that not even Athos could be certain of besting on every occasion.
D’Artagnan, a wide smile on his face, saluted Athos with a wave of his sword and an equally deep bow.
Athos quickly tossed aside the padded tunic worn for training bouts, pulled on his leather jacket and allowed Aramis to drape his blue cloak over his shoulders before falling into step beside Treville as they made their way out of the garrison.
“We’re summoned to the king,” Treville informed him.
“How fortunate our behaviour this past week has been impeccable.”
Treville shot him a sideways glance. “You’ve been involved in two duels with the Red Guard to my certain knowledge.”
Faced with the fact that their captain’s sources of information would put even the most diligent of spymasters to shame, Athos commented, “Those were brawls. More than two were involved on each side, so neither occasion constituted a duel. We remained within the law.”
“I thought I’d instructed you to keep your heads down, your swords in their scabbards and your power in the pouch?”
“They impugned the honour of the Regiment,” Athos said, trotting out their standard defence like a child clinging to a favourite toy. He turned to Treville and added, “Besides, we were bored.”
“That makes it all right then, does it?” Treville rolled his eyes. “Heaven forbid that the King’s Musketeers should be bored. However, I suspect that His Majesty intends to put an end to your ennui.”
“So we’re not being summoned to answer to the cardinal for showing his men the error of their ways?”
Treville shrugged. “Actually, I haven’t the faintest idea why we’ve been summoned, but no doubt we’ll soon find out.”
* * * * *
As Athos made his bow to the King and Queen, he could see that the look the cardinal was giving him could hardly be described as friendly, but it stopped just short of the open hostility that the sight of a blue cloak normally evinced in the man.
King Louis and Queen Anne had taken refuge from the heat in the wood-panelled library, normally one of the coolest rooms in the Louvre, but now it was almost as oppressive as the rest of the palace, indeed the rest of Paris. The strongly-scented orange pomander in the queen’s lap did little to mask the ever-present reek of bodily odours, and Athos was aware that after his bout with d’Artagnan, he was no doubt contributing to the miasma. His hair clung damply to his head and his shirt felt clammy with sweat under his leather jacket.
“Captain Treville, kindly convince the cardinal that your men are quite capable of keeping me safe,” the queen said, without preamble.
“I believe they have demonstrated that on more than one occasion, Your Majesty,” Treville said, glancing at Richelieu for an explanation.
“The Queen wishes to visit the Comtesse de Beaune,” Richelieu supplied.
“But the cardinal insists that the coffers have run dry,” the King said, a petulant look on his face that reminded Athos of a small child who had been refused an expensive present.
“A royal visit is not to be undertaken lightly, Your Majesty. Even allowing for the hospitality that could no doubt be called upon en route, to field the full complement of the Queen’s entourage would be a drain on scarce resources that the treasury can ill afford at the moment.”
“Then as I have already suggested, I shall travel quietly and without an entourage. I have not seen Hélène for some years, her baby is expected within the month and I would like to be with her at that time. Besides which, the heat of Paris is entirely too oppressive and is sapping my strength by the day…” The Queen turned to her husband, her eyes meeting his beseechingly.
“What Anne wants, Anne must have, Cardinal,” the king said. “I will not have you deny my queen this. I trust Captain Treville’s men with her safety and so should you. My musketeers have never once let me down.”
Athos kept his expression strictly neutral, which was more than his captain was managing. Treville was clearly torn between his desire to see the cardinal’s wishes thwarted and his innate caution when it came to matters of personal safety for those he was sworn to protect.
“I am sure we can reach an acceptable compromise on the size of Her Majesty’s retinue and guard,” Treville said, managing to project more confidence than he was probably feeling.
The King gave a delighted laugh and clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Anne, my dear, you shall have the respite from the heat of Paris that you have been craving. That’s settled then.” He beamed indiscriminately at both Richelieu and Treville. “The Queen desires to leave within the week. Have messages sent to the Comtesse immediately.”
Athos, sensing dismissal, swept into another bow and backed from the room, followed by Treville. The cardinal lingered a moment longer, but the glacial smile on the Queen’s face when she looked at him and the indulgent expression on the King’s when he looked at her clearly did not encourage him to linger.
As the doors closed behind them, Richelieu turned to Treville and hissed, “This is madness! Less than a week to arrange a royal visit? That woman will bankrupt us all!”
Treville’s expression froze and the look he shot the other man was flint hard. “This is not a discussion for a corridor, Armand. Your office or mine?”
Richelieu’s eyes narrowed at the use of his given name. “Mine,” he responded, black robes sweeping around him as he turned without waiting for a response and strode away, looking like a carrion crow in flight.
For the second time that day, Athos fell into step beside Treville as they followed him.
* * * * *
“You can’t rely on secrecy; you know that, don’t you?” Aramis said. “Half of Paris will no doubt know that the Queen is to visit her childhood friend.” He glanced at Porthos for support.
The big man nodded. “The news will be all over both Courts by now.”
“We will not be relying on secrecy,” Treville said, placing heavy emphasis on the word we. “We will be relying on the fact that the Queen will be accompanied by the best soldiers in Paris.”
Treville leaned back in his chair looking as weary as Athos felt. The debate with the cardinal had been heated and had lasted a full two hours. By the end of it, Athos had been in possession of a stinking headache, desperate for the respite that alcohol would bring, but knowing that with the hundred and one things that needed doing, he had no prospect of that solace in his immediate future.
“The best soldier in Paris can be laid low by one well-aimed musket ball.” Aramis ran a hand through his unruly hair and looked distinctly unhappy.
“That is why you and Porthos will be riding ahead to check on any possible ambush sites,” Athos said from his position leaning against the wall of Treville’s office. “Your sniper’s instincts and his nose for trouble will be our best early warning system. The captain, d’Artagnan and I will ride with the Queen’s coach.”
The three musketeers who had not been privy to the horse-trading between Treville and Richelieu all stared at the captain in ill-disguised surprise.
“I am still capable of sitting astride a horse and wielding both sword and pistol,” Treville said dryly. “Despite my advanced age and obvious infirmity. Twenty other members of the regiment will ride with us. Athos, I will leave the choice of men in your hands. Porthos, use your connections in the Court of Miracles. If there is even the slightest rumour that might have a bearing on this visit I want to hear it. Aramis, d’Artagnan, keep your ears open in the taverns. The Red Guards are remaining in the city, but I want to know if any of them should unaccountably take leave of absence.”
Porthos’ scarred eyebrow lifted in surprise. “You suspect the cardinal of plotting against the Queen?”
“With the exception of those in this garrison, I suspect everyone. The cardinal is an opportunist, and this visit presents an opportunity.” Treville stood up. “We have to be ready to ride out in four days, gentleman.”
* * * * *
The heat hung over the gardens of the Louvre in a shimmering haze, thick enough to cut with a dagger. The scent of roses was heavy in the air and bees hovered over the flowers, whilst a riot of butterflies danced over the beds of lavender that lined the edges of the paths.
The Queen’s ladies milled around on the palace steps like a gaggle of particularly brainless geese and Athos could see that Treville was itching to start barking orders at them in a parade ground voice. Françoise d’Hauteville, the most sensible of the women in Athos’ opinion, started to flap her hands at them, shooing them in the direction of the waiting carriages while footmen stood stiffly by the open doors, pages hurried to and fro, and servants loaded baggage.
The debates on the size of the Queen’s entourage had continued well into the night on at least two occasions, but eventually even Treville and Richelieu had finally become united in the face of a common foe, namely the Queen’s First Valet de Chambre, a strutting dandy with the face of a constipated ferret and a liking for ill-matching colours that gave Athos a headache just from looking at him. Labois’ idea of an acceptable royal entourage would indeed have beggared the treasury and taken the best part of a week simply to have filed out through the palace gates, as well as bankrupting any unfortunate noble chosen to host the Queen on her journey.
Athos had heard tales of the progress through the countryside of the Queen and her entourage when she had first arrived in France. Fortunately, neither the captain nor the cardinal had been willing to countenance anything even remotely resembling that kind of excess. This was to be a private visit, not a state occasion, on that all parties – with the exception of the First Valet de Chambre – had been agreed, but Athos had rapidly come to the conclusion that the man simply refused to grasp anything that failed to measure up his own delusions of grandeur.
When the Queen emerged from the palace, Athos could see that she was pale from the heat and clearly tired before the journey had even begun. It was scarcely a month since she had lost her own baby, and he was surprised that she wished to be in proximity to another woman and her children, but the Comtesse de Beaune had been a childhood friend of the young Anne of Austria at the Spanish court, and might be able to provide the solace that the Queen had clearly failed to find in her own court.
Athos shifted uncomfortably in the saddle with remembered pain from the whipping he’d taken as a result of the cardinal’s manipulation. A long night spent diverting as much alcohol as he could into his own throat rather than the King’s had seen him return to the garrison barely able to set one foot in front of the other. Richelieu had carefully ensured that news of the Queen’s distress did not reach Treville before he’d leaped to a wholly erroneous but entirely reasonable conclusion and acted on it. The cardinal clearly had little time for a queen who was unable to bring a son and heir into the world but so far, the King’s loyalty to his wife had remained firm, and Athos had seen the genuine distress in the man’s eyes before the onslaught of wine had dulled his senses.
The Queen would do better away from the stifling midsummer heat and the petty rivalry of the court. Her attendants had been picked for their loyalty and good sense. The King had been adamant that what his Queen wanted, she was to have, and Treville had shown considerable adroitness in manoeuvring Richelieu into a corner over people and numbers. It had proved to be a small, but significant victory in that none of the cardinal’s favourites, or any of his personal guard, had had been successful in inveigling themselves into the Queen’s retinue.
After what seemed like an eternity of fussing and flapping that came dangerously close to tripping Treville’s temper from a quiet simmer into a rolling boil, Athos was finally able to touch his heels to his horse’s sides and start to move, riding just to the rear of the ornate white and gold coach that contained, on Treville’s express orders, no one other than the Queen, Françoise d’Hauteville and a page boy called Mathieu Fournier who had the face of an angel and, when provoked, a command of vulgarity that appeared to have come straight out of the worst stews of the city. The boy had a cousin in the musketeers that he idolised, one of the men remaining in the garrison tasked with the King’s safety on their absence. Athos knew that Mathieu’s fragile looks belied a sharp brain and steady nerve, whereas the other three pages that would be accompanying the Queen were younger and a good deal more delicate.
The remaining attendants had been banished to other coaches in the cavalcade. Athos was taking no chances with the Queen’s safety on this journey. He wanted no one near her as they travelled other than those who could be trusted to put her safety above their own and to follow orders to the letter. The two coachmen, Bernard and Hubert, had been chosen for their long-service and ability to handed strong, even-tempered horses that would not panic under fire. Both men were armed with pistols and daggers, and had been put through their paces by Aramis and Porthos before being pronounced sound.
The rest of the convoy knew what to expect if they came under attack. The Queen was of paramount importance and, as her personal guard, the musketeers would put her safety above all other considerations. Everyone else would have to stay out of the way and keep their heads down.
Once they passed outside the grounds of the Louvre, Athos felt the familiar knot of pre-mission tension in his guts start to dissolve. This was not the first time he had been charged with the Queen’s safety, and he fervently hoped it would not be the last. Her annual visit to the healing waters by which she set so much store was likely to be their next assignment, should this visit to the Comtesse de Beaune restore the Queen’s spirits sufficiently for her to contemplate more travel.
The journey had been planned in three stages and was intended to bring them to the Comtesse’s château by the evening of the third day on the road. The first night would be spent at the royal château of Fontainebleau, the birthplace of King Louis; the second at the Château de Bondaroy near Pithiviers. Whether Jacques de Guéribaldès would be horrified or delighted by the need to provide hospitality to the Queen and her entourage remained to be seen, but no doubt he would have the good sense to feign delight, at the very least.
Even allowing for the worsening state of the roads south of Fontainebleau, Athos remained hopeful that they would reach their destination on schedule. He had taken the precaution of insisting on a team of horses pulling an empty carriage in case the Queen’s coach suffered damage and, in addition, they had several fresh horses with the baggage train, plus the capability of carrying out their own repairs on the road.
There would no doubt be unanticipated problems on the journey, but for now, with a light breeze doing something to dispel the previously stifling heat, all Athos had to do was keep his wits about him and rely on his comrades to play their assigned parts.
And he knew he could trust them with the Queen’s life as much as he trusted them with his own.
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.
A/N: With huge thanks to
evilmaniclaugh for all her encouragement and patience!Athos jumped backwards, abruptly ending any pretense at not giving ground.
His opponent’s sword flashed disconcertingly close to his chest in the last of a series of increasingly vicious thrusts and ripostes. Sweat clung to his body in the stifling heat, the scorching summer making the combat even harder to endure.
A water bucket went flying and Athos barely managed to bite back a curse as his left foot slid slightly on the cobbles, throwing him off balance and allowing a low-line attack to come uncomfortably close to his balls.
“Taught the lad all he knows!” Porthos yelled in delight.
Athos just managed to bring his rapier down and deflect the blow but before he was able to draw breath for a rejoinder to Porthos, the thump of boots on the wooden steps announced Treville’s arrival in the yard.
“Enough, gentlemen. Athos, you’re to accompany me to the palace.”
Athos put his sword up and bowed deeply to d’Artagnan. If truth be told, the captain’s intervention had been timely. Their latest recruit’s skill was growing by the day. Athos had worked hard to cure him of the tendency to wildness that had been apparent in their first encounter; Porthos was steadily imparting his own brand of improvisation skills, accompanied by a vast array of dirty tricks learned in the underbelly of the city, while Aramis was teaching the precision needed to make every shot count.
As a result, the raw, untrained Gascon farm boy who had made such a dramatic and unexpected entry to their lives now made a formidable opponent, and one that not even Athos could be certain of besting on every occasion.
D’Artagnan, a wide smile on his face, saluted Athos with a wave of his sword and an equally deep bow.
Athos quickly tossed aside the padded tunic worn for training bouts, pulled on his leather jacket and allowed Aramis to drape his blue cloak over his shoulders before falling into step beside Treville as they made their way out of the garrison.
“We’re summoned to the king,” Treville informed him.
“How fortunate our behaviour this past week has been impeccable.”
Treville shot him a sideways glance. “You’ve been involved in two duels with the Red Guard to my certain knowledge.”
Faced with the fact that their captain’s sources of information would put even the most diligent of spymasters to shame, Athos commented, “Those were brawls. More than two were involved on each side, so neither occasion constituted a duel. We remained within the law.”
“I thought I’d instructed you to keep your heads down, your swords in their scabbards and your power in the pouch?”
“They impugned the honour of the Regiment,” Athos said, trotting out their standard defence like a child clinging to a favourite toy. He turned to Treville and added, “Besides, we were bored.”
“That makes it all right then, does it?” Treville rolled his eyes. “Heaven forbid that the King’s Musketeers should be bored. However, I suspect that His Majesty intends to put an end to your ennui.”
“So we’re not being summoned to answer to the cardinal for showing his men the error of their ways?”
Treville shrugged. “Actually, I haven’t the faintest idea why we’ve been summoned, but no doubt we’ll soon find out.”
* * * * *
As Athos made his bow to the King and Queen, he could see that the look the cardinal was giving him could hardly be described as friendly, but it stopped just short of the open hostility that the sight of a blue cloak normally evinced in the man.
King Louis and Queen Anne had taken refuge from the heat in the wood-panelled library, normally one of the coolest rooms in the Louvre, but now it was almost as oppressive as the rest of the palace, indeed the rest of Paris. The strongly-scented orange pomander in the queen’s lap did little to mask the ever-present reek of bodily odours, and Athos was aware that after his bout with d’Artagnan, he was no doubt contributing to the miasma. His hair clung damply to his head and his shirt felt clammy with sweat under his leather jacket.
“Captain Treville, kindly convince the cardinal that your men are quite capable of keeping me safe,” the queen said, without preamble.
“I believe they have demonstrated that on more than one occasion, Your Majesty,” Treville said, glancing at Richelieu for an explanation.
“The Queen wishes to visit the Comtesse de Beaune,” Richelieu supplied.
“But the cardinal insists that the coffers have run dry,” the King said, a petulant look on his face that reminded Athos of a small child who had been refused an expensive present.
“A royal visit is not to be undertaken lightly, Your Majesty. Even allowing for the hospitality that could no doubt be called upon en route, to field the full complement of the Queen’s entourage would be a drain on scarce resources that the treasury can ill afford at the moment.”
“Then as I have already suggested, I shall travel quietly and without an entourage. I have not seen Hélène for some years, her baby is expected within the month and I would like to be with her at that time. Besides which, the heat of Paris is entirely too oppressive and is sapping my strength by the day…” The Queen turned to her husband, her eyes meeting his beseechingly.
“What Anne wants, Anne must have, Cardinal,” the king said. “I will not have you deny my queen this. I trust Captain Treville’s men with her safety and so should you. My musketeers have never once let me down.”
Athos kept his expression strictly neutral, which was more than his captain was managing. Treville was clearly torn between his desire to see the cardinal’s wishes thwarted and his innate caution when it came to matters of personal safety for those he was sworn to protect.
“I am sure we can reach an acceptable compromise on the size of Her Majesty’s retinue and guard,” Treville said, managing to project more confidence than he was probably feeling.
The King gave a delighted laugh and clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Anne, my dear, you shall have the respite from the heat of Paris that you have been craving. That’s settled then.” He beamed indiscriminately at both Richelieu and Treville. “The Queen desires to leave within the week. Have messages sent to the Comtesse immediately.”
Athos, sensing dismissal, swept into another bow and backed from the room, followed by Treville. The cardinal lingered a moment longer, but the glacial smile on the Queen’s face when she looked at him and the indulgent expression on the King’s when he looked at her clearly did not encourage him to linger.
As the doors closed behind them, Richelieu turned to Treville and hissed, “This is madness! Less than a week to arrange a royal visit? That woman will bankrupt us all!”
Treville’s expression froze and the look he shot the other man was flint hard. “This is not a discussion for a corridor, Armand. Your office or mine?”
Richelieu’s eyes narrowed at the use of his given name. “Mine,” he responded, black robes sweeping around him as he turned without waiting for a response and strode away, looking like a carrion crow in flight.
For the second time that day, Athos fell into step beside Treville as they followed him.
* * * * *
“You can’t rely on secrecy; you know that, don’t you?” Aramis said. “Half of Paris will no doubt know that the Queen is to visit her childhood friend.” He glanced at Porthos for support.
The big man nodded. “The news will be all over both Courts by now.”
“We will not be relying on secrecy,” Treville said, placing heavy emphasis on the word we. “We will be relying on the fact that the Queen will be accompanied by the best soldiers in Paris.”
Treville leaned back in his chair looking as weary as Athos felt. The debate with the cardinal had been heated and had lasted a full two hours. By the end of it, Athos had been in possession of a stinking headache, desperate for the respite that alcohol would bring, but knowing that with the hundred and one things that needed doing, he had no prospect of that solace in his immediate future.
“The best soldier in Paris can be laid low by one well-aimed musket ball.” Aramis ran a hand through his unruly hair and looked distinctly unhappy.
“That is why you and Porthos will be riding ahead to check on any possible ambush sites,” Athos said from his position leaning against the wall of Treville’s office. “Your sniper’s instincts and his nose for trouble will be our best early warning system. The captain, d’Artagnan and I will ride with the Queen’s coach.”
The three musketeers who had not been privy to the horse-trading between Treville and Richelieu all stared at the captain in ill-disguised surprise.
“I am still capable of sitting astride a horse and wielding both sword and pistol,” Treville said dryly. “Despite my advanced age and obvious infirmity. Twenty other members of the regiment will ride with us. Athos, I will leave the choice of men in your hands. Porthos, use your connections in the Court of Miracles. If there is even the slightest rumour that might have a bearing on this visit I want to hear it. Aramis, d’Artagnan, keep your ears open in the taverns. The Red Guards are remaining in the city, but I want to know if any of them should unaccountably take leave of absence.”
Porthos’ scarred eyebrow lifted in surprise. “You suspect the cardinal of plotting against the Queen?”
“With the exception of those in this garrison, I suspect everyone. The cardinal is an opportunist, and this visit presents an opportunity.” Treville stood up. “We have to be ready to ride out in four days, gentleman.”
* * * * *
The heat hung over the gardens of the Louvre in a shimmering haze, thick enough to cut with a dagger. The scent of roses was heavy in the air and bees hovered over the flowers, whilst a riot of butterflies danced over the beds of lavender that lined the edges of the paths.
The Queen’s ladies milled around on the palace steps like a gaggle of particularly brainless geese and Athos could see that Treville was itching to start barking orders at them in a parade ground voice. Françoise d’Hauteville, the most sensible of the women in Athos’ opinion, started to flap her hands at them, shooing them in the direction of the waiting carriages while footmen stood stiffly by the open doors, pages hurried to and fro, and servants loaded baggage.
The debates on the size of the Queen’s entourage had continued well into the night on at least two occasions, but eventually even Treville and Richelieu had finally become united in the face of a common foe, namely the Queen’s First Valet de Chambre, a strutting dandy with the face of a constipated ferret and a liking for ill-matching colours that gave Athos a headache just from looking at him. Labois’ idea of an acceptable royal entourage would indeed have beggared the treasury and taken the best part of a week simply to have filed out through the palace gates, as well as bankrupting any unfortunate noble chosen to host the Queen on her journey.
Athos had heard tales of the progress through the countryside of the Queen and her entourage when she had first arrived in France. Fortunately, neither the captain nor the cardinal had been willing to countenance anything even remotely resembling that kind of excess. This was to be a private visit, not a state occasion, on that all parties – with the exception of the First Valet de Chambre – had been agreed, but Athos had rapidly come to the conclusion that the man simply refused to grasp anything that failed to measure up his own delusions of grandeur.
When the Queen emerged from the palace, Athos could see that she was pale from the heat and clearly tired before the journey had even begun. It was scarcely a month since she had lost her own baby, and he was surprised that she wished to be in proximity to another woman and her children, but the Comtesse de Beaune had been a childhood friend of the young Anne of Austria at the Spanish court, and might be able to provide the solace that the Queen had clearly failed to find in her own court.
Athos shifted uncomfortably in the saddle with remembered pain from the whipping he’d taken as a result of the cardinal’s manipulation. A long night spent diverting as much alcohol as he could into his own throat rather than the King’s had seen him return to the garrison barely able to set one foot in front of the other. Richelieu had carefully ensured that news of the Queen’s distress did not reach Treville before he’d leaped to a wholly erroneous but entirely reasonable conclusion and acted on it. The cardinal clearly had little time for a queen who was unable to bring a son and heir into the world but so far, the King’s loyalty to his wife had remained firm, and Athos had seen the genuine distress in the man’s eyes before the onslaught of wine had dulled his senses.
The Queen would do better away from the stifling midsummer heat and the petty rivalry of the court. Her attendants had been picked for their loyalty and good sense. The King had been adamant that what his Queen wanted, she was to have, and Treville had shown considerable adroitness in manoeuvring Richelieu into a corner over people and numbers. It had proved to be a small, but significant victory in that none of the cardinal’s favourites, or any of his personal guard, had had been successful in inveigling themselves into the Queen’s retinue.
After what seemed like an eternity of fussing and flapping that came dangerously close to tripping Treville’s temper from a quiet simmer into a rolling boil, Athos was finally able to touch his heels to his horse’s sides and start to move, riding just to the rear of the ornate white and gold coach that contained, on Treville’s express orders, no one other than the Queen, Françoise d’Hauteville and a page boy called Mathieu Fournier who had the face of an angel and, when provoked, a command of vulgarity that appeared to have come straight out of the worst stews of the city. The boy had a cousin in the musketeers that he idolised, one of the men remaining in the garrison tasked with the King’s safety on their absence. Athos knew that Mathieu’s fragile looks belied a sharp brain and steady nerve, whereas the other three pages that would be accompanying the Queen were younger and a good deal more delicate.
The remaining attendants had been banished to other coaches in the cavalcade. Athos was taking no chances with the Queen’s safety on this journey. He wanted no one near her as they travelled other than those who could be trusted to put her safety above their own and to follow orders to the letter. The two coachmen, Bernard and Hubert, had been chosen for their long-service and ability to handed strong, even-tempered horses that would not panic under fire. Both men were armed with pistols and daggers, and had been put through their paces by Aramis and Porthos before being pronounced sound.
The rest of the convoy knew what to expect if they came under attack. The Queen was of paramount importance and, as her personal guard, the musketeers would put her safety above all other considerations. Everyone else would have to stay out of the way and keep their heads down.
Once they passed outside the grounds of the Louvre, Athos felt the familiar knot of pre-mission tension in his guts start to dissolve. This was not the first time he had been charged with the Queen’s safety, and he fervently hoped it would not be the last. Her annual visit to the healing waters by which she set so much store was likely to be their next assignment, should this visit to the Comtesse de Beaune restore the Queen’s spirits sufficiently for her to contemplate more travel.
The journey had been planned in three stages and was intended to bring them to the Comtesse’s château by the evening of the third day on the road. The first night would be spent at the royal château of Fontainebleau, the birthplace of King Louis; the second at the Château de Bondaroy near Pithiviers. Whether Jacques de Guéribaldès would be horrified or delighted by the need to provide hospitality to the Queen and her entourage remained to be seen, but no doubt he would have the good sense to feign delight, at the very least.
Even allowing for the worsening state of the roads south of Fontainebleau, Athos remained hopeful that they would reach their destination on schedule. He had taken the precaution of insisting on a team of horses pulling an empty carriage in case the Queen’s coach suffered damage and, in addition, they had several fresh horses with the baggage train, plus the capability of carrying out their own repairs on the road.
There would no doubt be unanticipated problems on the journey, but for now, with a light breeze doing something to dispel the previously stifling heat, all Athos had to do was keep his wits about him and rely on his comrades to play their assigned parts.
And he knew he could trust them with the Queen’s life as much as he trusted them with his own.